The Valeditztorian (19 page)

“What I’d really like to
know,” says Helen, “is when you’re going to get rid of him for good?”

I glance down at the empty box
of sushi and back up at Helen. The answer to her question is obvious.

“Right now.”

Before Helen has time to look doubtful, I leap up from my seat. While I still have momentum, I race out the door. One minute later, which is the time it takes me to sprint down two flights of stairs, I knock on Thomas’s door.

“Emma, I wasn’t expecting
you,” he says, opening the door. Seeing the look on my face, he asks immediately, “What’s wrong?”

I’m terrible at hiding my emotions.

“Sorry, I just need to catch my breath,” I say.

For a
moment I lean against the doorframe, hyperventilating.

“What’s up
? Did someone chase you down here?”

“
No one chased me, but we have a problem.”

“Oh?” he asks casually
.

Despite his light tone, I notice the co
lor draining from his face. Thomas slinks into one of his kitchen chairs, eyeing my abdomen suspiciously.

“You’re not…
pregnant…are you?”

“Don’t be ridiculous
,” I say, following him inside.

“Phew,” he says, looking relieved, sitting up a little straighter
. “Then what’s the problem?”

“Remember when you said that I deserve someone better than you?”

“Uh, yeah,” he says, comprehension dawning.

“You were right
. Look, Thomas. You’re an incredible person. Without question you’re the hottest man I’ve ever known, and that’s part of the issue. I’m so attracted to you that I can’t think straight whenever we’re near each other.”

Thomas stands to embrac
e me, but I press my palm against his chest, forcing him back into the chair.

“That’s ex
actly what I’m talking about—no touching. Just stay where you are,” you treacherous, sexy man.

“If you really want me to stay, you could tie me up
.”

He smiles wickedly
. Some enticing images of the two of us role playing come to mind, but I quickly eject them from my thoughts.

“This is no joke, Thomas
. For the last few months, I’ve been trying to tell you how I feel. And now I’m going to do it.”

“Out with it
, girl,” he says, smirking.

Obviously, he’s
not taking me seriously.

“You treat me like
dirt, Thomas, and I’m tired of it. I’m done feeling unloved and belittled.”

“I see
. Well, if you’ve been feeling this way for so long, why didn’t you say something previously?”

“I didn’t say anything earlier because all the sex kept g
etting in the way. Now keep quiet, so I can finish. On some level, I think you love me, and I certainly love you. But you make me feel like I’m living in an emotional vacuum, and it’s sucking the life out of me.”

“Perhaps you should see my shrink.”

“Your sarcasm isn’t funny, which leads directly to my next point. You’re like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde—completely unpredictable. Sometimes you’re fun, romantic even, but most of the time you’re morose. Dating you is giving me emotional whiplash.”

“So what are you trying to say here, Emma
? I think I recently tried to tell you how much I care for you.”

“Really
? When was that?”

“When I asked you to move to Michigan with me.”

“You asked me in a very open-ended, nonspecific sort of way. How was that supposed to make me feel loved?”

“Let me be more specific
.”

Thomas stands, taking one step in my direction, and I’m frozen
. Trying to block out his physicality, I close my eyes, as though I’m saying the Sh’ma.

“I’ve been giving this a lot of thought,” he says
. “At some point in a relationship, you have to decide whether you’re in it for the long haul. And Emma, I’ve decided. I want us to stay together.”

Like a near-
death experience, a flood of images pours through my mind. Fortunately, they share the common theme of Thomas mistreating me, flowing together to give me the strength I need to resist this pseudo-romance.

“I’m sorry, Thomas,” I say, opening my eyes
. “I will always love you, but I cannot stay with you. We’re done. And I mean it—we’re finished, forever, goodbye.”

Thomas stare
s at me, I think in disbelief. Then I dart out the door.

Instead of returning home,
I forge ahead, not thinking of a particular destination, letting my feet carry me where they will. As I walk along, the New York City streets are a blur of cars, people, and dogs. Eventually I find myself in Central Park, where I settle down onto a grassy slope overlooking the lake near 72
nd
Street. Since it’s the off season, no boats are out on the water. Aside from ripples made by the occasional duck in transit, the black water is perfectly still. In summertime, the Barefoot Man sometimes plays his guitar here, and I imagine he’s standing before me now, crooning Bob Dylan’s “Don’t Think Twice” near the rushes. Taking in my surroundings, signs of spring are everywhere. Inch-long daffodil stalks have popped up along the hill where I’m resting, trees are budding, and the first purple crocuses of the season have begun sprouting up near the banks of the lake. New life is blossoming all around me, and I’m thankful to be starting over as well, freed from a bad relationship that could’ve permanently entrapped me. Contemplating my future with optimism, I stand up, brush the dirt off my backside, and head home to resume my life without Thomas.

Chapter Twelve

Thorny Relationships

On Saturday morning I approach a building on 74
th
Street between Park and Madison. Flanking both sides of the entryway is a sculpted stone facade depicting an intricate pattern of leaves and flowers. After entering and stating my destination, the doorman gives me a cordial nod. Dim and unassuming, the lobby is less pretentious than I’d expected. When the elevator bell dings on the fourth floor, I’m surprised to find only one apartment in the hallway. A gold, metallic plate reading “Santos” hangs on the dark green door. Just for fun, instead of ringing the bell, I try the matching gold knocker positioned below the nameplate. When no one answers my first two knocks, I try again, banging much more loudly the third time.

“Cohmeeng,” shouts a female voice with a
heavy Spanish accent.

A harried-
looking, middle-aged woman with long, midnight hair swept up into a loose ponytail answers the door. After tucking back some flyaway strands, she leans on a mop and gives me a puzzled look.

“Umm,” I say, “
are you Mrs. Santos?”

“No, senorita
. Meesus Santos no home now.”

“I see
. Well, I spoke to her on the phone. I have an appointment with Aimee.”

“Ah, si,” says the woman
. “My name ees Maria. Meesus Santos mention you cohmeeng.”

Maria gestures for me to enter
.

“Cohm inside
. I take you Aimee.”

Inside the foyer
, the décor is understated elegance. As Maria leads me down the hallway, my sneakers squeak a bit on the black and white, square-tiled floor. Soon we pass a massive, wooden grandfather clock standing sentry at the end of the foyer. After rounding the entryway, I’m swallowed up by the most expansive living room that I’ve ever seen in a Manhattan apartment. By city standards, the space is huge, at least quadruple the size of my bedroom. Lavish furnishings, including a red velvet divan, brown leather couches, and finely woven rugs—Turkish, I think—fill this exquisite room.

With Maria hurrying me forward there’s
no time to absorb small details. Soon we stop outside a plain white door.

Maria smiles
and says, “Mees Aimee’s room.”

Gesturing for me to enter, Maria turns back toward the living room
. Rather than barging in, I try knocking, but receive no response.

“Hi, there, Aimee,” I ca
ll through the door. “My name’s Emma. I’m a tutor from Advantage. Did your mom mention I’d be stopping by?”

Still nothing
. I open the door a crack and peek inside. Adjacent the bedroom’s far wall is a child-shaped lump sticking up underneath a rose-colored blanket. Intermittently a light flashes from beneath the covers.

“May I come in?”
I ask.

Since Aimee
remains mute, I take this as a “yes.”

Entering the room,
I nearly trip over a bunch of books and clothing scattered across the floor.

In contrast to the perfect living room, Aimee’s bedroom is slovenly maintained
. The mirror on an otherwise elegant vanity is covered with fingerprints and streaks of a dry, white substance resembling old toothpaste. An off-white dresser matching the vanity is similarly disarrayed. Several drawers hang open, allowing colorful shirts, underwear, pants, and bathing suits to spill out at all levels. The lid of a large toy box leans open against the light pink bedroom wall, revealing sparkling ballerina costumes, dolls, balls, and various expensive-looking stuffed animals. Since the toys are overflowing onto the hardwood floor, I’ll need to watch my step to avoid….

“Shi…I mean ouch,” I shout, trippi
ng over a tennis ball, crash landing painfully onto my right knee.

For a moment I hunker down on the
floor, nursing my injured patella. That’s when I notice a small face peering out from under the comforter. After blinking once, the eyes promptly disappear under the blanket.

“Aimee?” I ask
.

No response
.

“Earth to Aimee?”

“Aimee’s not on Earth,” says a muffled, little-girl voice. “She’s on Mars.”

“Well, can you send Mars a message
? Aimee’s new tutor is here and ready to get started.”

“Aimee’s busy reading.”

The kid clearly likes to talk about herself in the third person, and I run with it.

“What is
Aimee reading?”

“
The Lord of the Rings
series.”

“O
oh. I loved that series.”

“Aimee has a
lready finished reading the whole thing. This is her second time going through it.”

Now I’m intrigued
. Why would such an avid reader be having trouble with her schoolwork?

“Wow
. Twice already…that’s impressive. Aimee must be an excellent reader.”

“She is.”

“Would Aimee like to show Emma which chapter she’s on?”

Aimee’s head pops out again from under the blanket
. Though the shape of her face is round like a baby’s, her skin is more porcelain than pink, similar in shade to a china doll. As she stares at me with a pair of intelligent hazel eyes, I notice her finely chiseled chin, upturned nose, and slightly pointed ears. Two thick braids of light brown hair, currently mussed with errant blonde strands escaping in all directions, run down either side of her elfin face.

While I’m g
azing at this child, a dim light flickers somewhere in my subconscious memory. She looks familiar, but I can’t place her face.

Aimee lithely hops down from the bed, holding t
he paperback book tightly to her side. For a fourth grader she seems quite petite, short and slight of build.

“She’s reading the part where Gollum bites off Frodo’s finger
.”

Aimee makes a chomping noise for effect.

I wonder where I’ve seen her before. Was she a patient I encountered on the wards during my pediatrics rotation? No…too healthy. Did I meet her during my last well-child clinic? Not likely, since her parents probably make too much money to attend a public clinic. The summer before med school, I worked at a ritzy sleep-away camp. Maybe she was one of the campers? Or maybe not. Somewhere in my brain I sense a connection that I’m missing, a lost piece of data that has shifted beyond easy recollection.

As Aimee mov
es closer, I discern several scratch marks on her forearms. Though superficial in nature, they appear to be self-inflicted, similar to the deeper cutting marks that I observed on the arms of depressed teenage girls during my psychiatry rotation.

“Would Aimee like to take a break
from reading and do some schoolwork?” I ask.

“No
, thank you,” she says.

“Well, Aimee’s mother hired a tutor,
Emma...I mean me, to help her—you—get some homework done.”

“Aimee’s too busy
reading to do homework right now.”

The child then dives back under her comforter, clicking on the flashlight.

Hmm. I look around the room for inspiration. Nestled in the corner of the vanity is a glossy photograph depicting a slightly younger Aimee, flanked by two adults, who presumably are her parents. The father is tall, dark skinned, and muscular, perhaps Italian; while the mother is average height, dark haired, olive toned, and similarly fit. In the picture, both adults hold tennis rackets over their shoulders, while a noticeably paler Aimee grasps a bright yellow ball between them. All three are smiling, apparently happy. The weather in the photograph looks mild and sunny.

“Does Aimee like to play tennis?” I ask, lifting up toys and clothing from
the floor, searching for school books.

“She used to.”

“What do you mean ‘used to’?”

Partially
hidden under the corner of Aimee’s bed is a battered-looking LL Bean backpack.

“Aimee’s m
om is too busy to play with her now.”

“That’s too bad,” I say, emptying the conten
ts of the backpack onto a cream-colored desk matching the vanity and dresser.

My efforts are rewarded with the discovery of a spelling notebook, math problems, and several dated reading assignments.

As Aimee reads quietly under her blanket, apparently forgetting all about me, I study the homework. The math problems require knowledge of long division and multiplication, including the use of decimal places, which seems a bit advanced for fourth grade. The reading homework, on the other hand, consists of a simple daily log and a number of corresponding questions.

“Attention…
may I have your attention, please,” I say. “This is mission control, calling all kids on Mars. Homework has been located. I repeat, homework is a go.”

Some giggles escape from under the blanket
.

As
no movement follows, I yank off the covers, yelling, “Boo!”

“Hey, i
t’s not Halloween,” says Aimee, when her head emerges, “and you’re no ghost!”

“No, I’m not
a ghost,” I say, “but I’d like to finish this homework before I become one.”

“Oh, all right,”
Aimee sighs dramatically. Swinging her legs over the side of the bed, she adds, “But first, Aimee is going to tell your fortune.”

“My fortune?
” I ask. “Can you see the future?”

“
Yes,” she replies. “Predicting the future is one of Aimee’s specialties.”

For a brief
moment, a look of sadness crosses her face.

“Give me your hand,” she says.

“Here you go,” I say, offering her my palm.

“Where do you live?” she asks.

“Four hundred twenty, East Seventieth Street.”

“Which apartment?”

“Number twenty-five B.”

“Hmm
. This is a tricky one,” she says, lightly tracing her fingers over the lines on my palm.

Similar to
mine, her fingers are slender and delicate. From this close vantage point, I’ve got a great view of her forearms, both of which are marred by a ladder of horizontal, erythematous scratch marks. Now I’m convinced these wounds were self-inflicted.

“Oh, I see something
!” she says excitedly.

“What is it
?” I ask.

“You’re going to live
to be seventy-years-old, but before you die, you’ll have twenty-five children.”

Then she starts laughing
hysterically.

Twenty-five
children? Oh, my. The child has just predicted my worst nightmare.

“
That was a very funny joke, Aimee, but now it’s time to do some homework.”

Aimee frowns, crossing her arms
over her chest.

“Enough procrastinating,
” I say. “Off you go.”

After stomping
petulantly to her desk, Aimee slouches into her wooden chair. Like an older person having a bad migraine, she presses her fists to her temples, resting her elbows on the desktop.

“Let’s try this one first,
” I say, laying the math worksheet in front of her.

“Why don’t you try it?”
she says, with her eyes half-closed.

“Because yo
u’re the one with the homework.”

“But this stuff is so
boring
!” 

She shouts the last word so loudly that I reflexively cover my ears.

“Why do you think it’s boring?” I ask quietly.

“Because it’s easy.”

“If it’s so easy, why haven’t you turned in any homework for the last three weeks?”

“Humph!” says Aimee, crossing her arms in a pout
y way that reminds me of a guy I once dated, up until recently.

“Since you haven’t been doing your
schoolwork, I’m going to assume that you don’t understand it. Of course, you could do a few problems, just to show me that you get it.”

“This is stupid,” she responds, not taking my bait
.

When
Aimee stands and marches out of her room, I quickly follow her.

“I’m hungry,” she says.

Chasing after my pupil, I arrive in a spacious kitchen with oversized, granite countertops and a huge, stainless-steel refrigerator. Aimee is already rifling through some cabinets, presumably trying to locate a desirable snack.

“Ugh
! There’s never anything good to eat around here,” she whines, slamming a box of raisins onto the counter.

I decide to se
e whether she’s right by checking inside the refrigerator. Despite the large size, the fridge is mostly empty, aside from some fresh-looking fruits and vegetables, Greek yogurt, bottled water, and a few packages of luncheon meat.