The Theory of Opposites (28 page)

“It’s fucking hard.” My tears mount without warning like they do nearly all the time now. “My life! It’s fucking hard! Why don’t you get that?”

“You’re life’s not so hard,” she says simply before she exits to her bedroom. “But until
you
get that, it always will be.”

—

I let myself out of Vanessa’s and jog back to Raina’s apartment, though it’s foolish in the suffocating late-July air. But I need to indulge my urge to flee, to race as far away from whatever wreckage I have made, and on to whatever new wreckage awaits.

Maybe that’s my master plan
, I think, as I turn north up Fifth Avenue, my feet pounding, my thighs on fire, a cramp needling my belly. Maybe these tables of contents, these self-help books filled with ideas and advice and what-have-you can’t do anything to throw me off course. (Which would mean my dad was right.) Maybe I’m just a tornado moving from one disaster site to the next. Wreckage. My life’s plan is wreckage.

I’m drenched all over again by the time I throw myself into Raina’s elevator. The fabric of my top sticks to my skin, my hair is matted with sweat, my cheeks are the color of a fire engine. Frankie, the doorman, just points at my taupe ribbon and says:

“You tell your brother that the government can’t bring him down! Rise up!” He pumps his fist like Halle Berry did.

“Rise up,” I say weakly and move both hands to my heart in prayer.

Theo is sitting in the kitchen reading something on his iPad. I hesitate in the flicker of a moment and debate running the other way, making a getaway before he even realizes that I’m there, but instead, I exhale and steel my nerve. And then I say:

“Do you plan to just randomly show up when I’m looking my worst? Though to be fair, I managed almost four miles. And it
is
94 degrees out. So I’m sort of kicking ass.”

He glances up and gives me a tight grin and says:

“Hey. I didn’t think you’d be here. Sorry. I’ll go.” He stands abruptly.

“You don’t have to go.”

“I’m not here for you, in case you were worried. Raina’s on her way, Ollie’s in the shower. Gloria let me in.”

I say: “It’s really not a problem.” (It seems to be some sort of problem!)

He says: “I heard Shawn’s back in town. I mean, I figured because you didn’t answer my texts.”

I say: “Oh.” Then: “He is.” Then: “I don’t know.”

Theo’s phone vibrates in his pocket, and he snaps it to his ear and wanders into the living room, discussing deal points and strategy and angles and persuasiveness. I eavesdrop for a minute and hope that he’ll return, but then I hear Ollie’s voice somewhere else in the apartment and a door closes, and then it’s just me.

I tilt my torso ninety degrees and rest my head on the cool granite counter and look at everything from a new perspective. Life looks different from down here. The lights force you into a squint, the angles are more jarring. This is what everything looks like as a kid, I suppose. But this is also a little bit how the world still looks to me. Some people never get over their childhood. I think of Nicky and say a quiet prayer that he’s not one of them. Why can’t I wish that very same thing for myself?

I right myself and listen for Theo’s footsteps, in case he comes back to me, but there’s just Gloria’s voice filling the air, calling to the boys to get into the shower.

It hurts more than I expected. Theo’s distance. His detachment. Though who can blame him? I haven’t exactly proven my devotion. I’ve doled it out in dribbles — the flirty evening in Seattle, the phone call and sex a few weeks back. If I really considered it, I’m not so different from my dad — giving love, taking it away, expecting it to be there when I’m ready. And Shawn isn’t any different from me: working through his own bullshit on my psychological dime.

I never even accepted Theo’s friend request. I couldn’t even do that.

But Theo’s not like me. We both know that. He’s always aimed high, and he’s never stooped low. He draws his lines firmly, and mine — with him, with Shawn, with my dad — are always blurry.

I flatten my head back onto the cold counter, and it’s like a balm for my soul.

Even Vanessa can’t dare me to do whatever comes next.

—

Text from: Willa Chandler-Golden

To: Vanessa Pines

Ok. I’m in. My eyes r open & I’m aiming high. I think I have the guts. Let’s fly. (I don’t mean that literally if u talk to the producers.)

—

Later, Nicky and I lay in bed together watching
Iron Man 2
and eating popcorn. Ollie strolls in, falls at the foot of the bed and says,

“Oh, I love this movie. I used to train Robbie. He’s very spiritual.” Then to me: “You look horrible. No offense.”

“I never sleep. And I just agreed to go back to Seattle on Thursday.”

“Seattle?” Nicky angles his head up at me. “Can I come?”

“Probably not, buddy. Uncle Shawn will hang with you. Text him. He’s gonna plan some fun stuff.” I burp up some of my dinner and know that it’s my nerves.

“Uncle Shawn works too much. And I like hanging with you. But whatever. I know I’m a drag to have along.”

“You’re not a drag to have along! You’ve actually grown on me.”

“Ha ha,” he says. “Well, my mom never takes me anywhere.”

I pause the movie and sit up straighter.

“Well, okay, this is sort of confidential but…I can’t take you because…I’m going on…drumroll please…
Dare You!
.
”
I can’t help it; I squeal. “I don’t think you’re eligible at twelve.”

“Shut the front door!” Ollie jolts upright.

“Shut the fuck up!” Nicky knocks over the popcorn bowl.

“It’s my last dare of the book. They’ve been holding the spot as a ‘surprise.’” I make stupid air quotes though I immediately regret it. (They’re an epidemic.) “Also, another contestant got malaria and had to back out.”

“Jesus!” Ollie says.

“No, he didn’t get malaria on the show,” I reply, scooping up popcorn kernels from the sheets, dropping them back in the bowl. “Bad coincidence.”

“You
have
to let me come,” Nicky begs. “Remember that episode, with the ten-year-old who had to choose between poisonous and non-poisonous berries?”

“Vaguely,” I say. Then it comes back to me. “Oh yeah, but he was a prodigy. He’d memorized every possible variation of berry in the world.”

“Are you implying that I’m not a prodigy?”

“In your own special way,” I laugh.

“Pleeeeeease?” Nicky bows in front of me, his hands folded in prayer.

“I’ll ask,” I concede. “And you’ll need to speak with your mom. You’ve forgotten I’m not actually responsible for you.”

“Yessssssssss!!!!!”

“Well, I’m shocked that you have this in you,” Ollie says to me. Then adds: “You know that Dad might kill you.”

“What the hell,” I grin back and say in my very best imitation of my father: “Everyone dies sometime.”

He laughs so hard he falls off the bed.

—

Nicky falls asleep under my duvet, so I let him be. Ollie dims the light and settles into his nightly reading:
How the Gift of Daily Prayer Raised Me Up from The Ashes! (One Ex-NBA Star’s Story from Heroin to Heroism!),
and I just watch Nicky breathe. I want to trace the freckles that run from one cheek to the other, tuck his wayward hair behind his ears, wrap my arms around him and tell him that it will never be as bad as it was for him once. But I know that I can’t promise this, that I can’t ward off disaster any more than his father could, any more than his own mom could, so instead, I just perch on my elbow and watch his chest rise and fall.

It’s amazing what the human spirit can endure. And maybe that’s something on which my father and I can agree.

Shit happens,
he would say. Your husband might decide one June afternoon that he wants a break from his life with you, or you might ask your girlfriend to move across the country with you, and she might say no. Or your dad might go to work one day and four planes may fall from the sky and two buildings may come tumbling down, and he might never come home.

Shit happens.
Your wife leaves you for a woman. Your mentor sets you up as the fall guy when the Feds come calling. The question isn’t, did this all happen for a reason? Because maybe that doesn’t even matter. Maybe my dad is asking the wrong question, pinning his career on the wrong answers.

It occurs to me now, with Nicky’s breath and spirit and ferocity as my guide, the questions, after all of this shit happens, are actually these:

So what? What’s next? What now?

32

Dare You! Psychological Questionnaire

(To Be Filled Out Only By The Contestant)

1. Have You Ever Been Treated by a Licensed Therapist?

No. But I’m starting to think that wouldn’t be the worst idea in the world. If you have a referral, I’m all ears.

2. What would you describe as your greatest strength?

That I am a work in progress.

3. What would you describe as your greatest weakness?

That I am a work in progress. (Also: I am not very good at being alone. Or making decisions on my own. Or making decisions at all. But back to the work in progress: I’m trying.)

4. What would you describe as your biggest fear?

Confrontation. Being alone. Confronting the fact that I may be alone because I’ve made the wrong decisions. (See above.) (Also, I really hate mountains. Something to do with my childhood.)

5. How do you cope with stress?

Usually by vomiting. Also, less disgusting: I suffer from acute emotional paralysis when stressed. Inertia is a great placator — no sudden movements, nothing too jarring, so you can pretend like nothing has happened, nothing will ever change. (But I’m also trying.)

6. How would you describe your life’s philosophy?

Right now, I’d go with: So what? What now? What’s next?

7. If you could be any animal, what would it be?

Oh God, really? Is this question actually the real psychological test? Like, if I answer a “bird,” will you all roll your eyes? Or if I say a “butterfly,” will you be like: that’s such a cliché! I don’t know. A bird would be nice, and a butterfly would, too. But sometimes, I think it might be nice to be a turtle. Slow, steady, always safe in your shell. I know I should say a hawk, and maybe one day, I’ll be ready to…but wouldn’t it be nice to walk around with that armor, unable to be cracked?

8. Do you understand that certain “dares” are extremely dangerous, and if so, how to you feel about risking your life for a television show?

I understand. Everybody dies sometime.

9. Do you believe that your response to question number nine is normal?

What’s normal? I was a girl named William born to a famous (slightly insane) father who didn’t believe in free will. If you’re looking for normal, you’re probably not looking for me. Be what you already are. That’s me.

33

Daring Yourself to a Better Life!

By Vanessa Pines and Willa Chandler

PART FIVE: SET YOURSELF FREE

SUMMARY:

So here we are; we’ve nearly come to the end. You’ve pushed yourself into uncomfortable places, you’ve defied your own expectations, you’ve jumped when you wanted to keep your feet firmly on the ground. What is now left to do?
Reward yourself
. Stop thinking too much or agonizing too much or living in the shadow of those same new expectations. Be happy. You’ve tunneled through so much, why not see the light through the darkness, poke your head out and feel the sun, strong on your cheeks, and be grateful for all that you’ve accomplished, for your new life, for your new self. Then leap again and again and again. Go fly. Be free.

—

Shawn picks me up at Raina’s on Monday night. I’m nervous, but maybe less nervous than I should be, given the weight of what this date means, given where it may propel us. Back to Shilla. Back to where we once were, who we once were. I dab my eyes with shadow and think about the Jumbotron and of that kiss at the stadium, and I consider how perhaps going back to who Shawn and I once were isn’t exactly what I’ve aimed for, even if it’s what I thought I wanted all along.

Shawn greets me with roses, which he used to buy me on important occasions, and I smile and say they are lovely. They are. Though they are
roses,
which aren’t exactly the
Dare You!
equivalent of flowers. They aren’t gardenias. But still, I press them up to my nose and inhale and appreciate their beauty, appreciate them for what they are: a gesture, a symbol of what we were.

Shawn’s made reservations at this tiny Korean barbecue place in Koreatown that we went to all the time when we first got married. They greet us warmly and whisk us to a table in the corner, which has a circular grill in the middle, but also more roses and candles, which strike me as a fire hazard so close to the barbeque, but Shawn grins and says:

“I called ahead and asked them for the most romantic spot possible.”

“That’s really sweet.”

“Remember how we got totally addicted and came back for the beef eight days in a row?”

I laugh because I do remember, and also, eight days of Korean beef now seems really gross, and further, because it feels like so very, very long ago.

Shawn clears his throat.

“I really screwed up. I’m sorry. I want to say that first, get it out of the way. I thought I needed something different. It was my early mid-life crisis, but it turns out, I’m not that guy. I don’t need anything different. I like things exactly as they were.”

And I consider this for a beat, and then I bob my head because what he’s saying makes sense. It
adds up,
as Theo might say. The comfort in the familiar. The numbness this familiarity breeds. I can’t blame him. Before all of this, I wasn’t any different.

So I say: “Apology accepted.”

The waiter brings over a plate of beef, along with some raw vegetables, dumplings, noodles, soups and crispy rice.