acknowledged that I knew what she meant and that I’d heard it, I’d have to admit she was right.
chapter 17.
JONATHAN
I ran far away. Far enough to be out of Monica’s earshot and then some. I made it to the crowded part of the beach and trotted to the street, trying to shake a feeling that if Monica went to New York, things would get disorganized and neglected.
I’d had a mitt when I was about eleven. It was a Rawlings Gold. The best. And I wore it in just the way I liked it. One spring afternoon, I was dicking around with my cousins in the yard, tossing the ball around and trying out new curse words. We went inside to play video games, and I left my glove in the grass as I’d done dozens of times.
It never rains in Los Angeles, unless you leave your glove out. Then it pours, and the leather hardens. Stupid negligence can turn into disaster. I got another glove, but it was never the same. My hand grew before I could wear it in right, and I always felt an acute loss I couldn’t explain.
I didn’t want to treat Monica like a baseball glove. I didn’t want it to rain on her while my back was turned.
“Quentin?” I said when I got through to my friend. A dozen seagulls screamed at me when I interrupted them on a bench.
Quentin Marshall answered in his Aussie clip. He was a rock star specializing in charity work, and I’d written his foundation a few checks over the years. “Drazen! How are you doing? I heard about the heart, mate. That’s tough stuff.”
“It keeps life interesting.”
“Bet it does.”
He paused, and I heard a siren in the distance and the belch of a city bus. Typical New York ambient noise.
“So what can I do for you?” he asked.
“You invited my wife to sing with you for something?”
“Yeah, I hope that’s all right? She’s got a great set of pipes. And the cause could use your help as well. There are kids dying of dehydration every day.”
“You can always count on my help. But if Monica decides to go, I want you to do something for me.”
“Just say it, and you got it.”
How was I supposed to phrase this without sounding like a sicko stalker? I meant no harm by it, of course, and it wasn’t as though she hadn’t traveled before, but I felt differently than I did months ago, even weeks ago. “If there’s anything she needs, or if there’s something special you think she might need, even if she doesn’t know what it is—can you make sure she gets it? I want her taken care of.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
“Mate, I will treat her like a precious flower. On my honor.”
“Thank you.”
“My pleasure.”
We hung up. The ocean pounded the edges of the rocks into smooth stones, a millennias-long process I witnessed for a few minutes before I got up and continued my run.
chapter 18.
MONICA
I ’d been away from post-surgery Jonathan before. I’d flown to places I’d never been to and experienced them through hollow eyes and a worn-down heart. I couldn’t say my trip to New York was any different. I was still worn out; I was still dragged home by tight-twisted strands. I was still worried. But something had changed. The worry wasn’t colored a dark grey, and my thoughts of Jonathan weren’t painful. I didn’t feel guilty. I felt alive, vibrating, humming with potential, and I missed him. I missed his company, his laugh, his touch. I missed his enfolding presence beside me. The guilt left a vacuum in its absence, and nature, in its abhorrence, filled it with hope.
I flew commercial. I wanted to be surrounded by people. I wanted to feel the hum of life in the comings and goings of people: the babies crying; the pilots and stewardesses in their neat little packs, rolling suitcases whirring behind; the bright colors of the snack stand in the artificial lights; and the carpets worn where people walked.
I didn’t make up a story when I told Jonathan I didn’t need his plane. Instead of saying something facile about scheduling, I tried to
chapter 17.
JONATHAN
I ran far away. Far enough to be out of Monica’s earshot and then some. I made it to the crowded part of the beach and trotted to the street, trying to shake a feeling that if Monica went to New York, things would get disorganized and neglected.
I’d had a mitt when I was about eleven. It was a Rawlings Gold. The best. And I wore it in just the way I liked it. One spring afternoon, I was dicking around with my cousins in the yard, tossing the ball around and trying out new curse words. We went inside to play video games, and I left my glove in the grass as I’d done dozens of times.
It never rains in Los Angeles, unless you leave your glove out. Then it pours, and the leather hardens. Stupid negligence can turn into disaster. I got another glove, but it was never the same. My hand grew before I could wear it in right, and I always felt an acute loss I couldn’t explain.
I didn’t want to treat Monica like a baseball glove. I didn’t want it to rain on her while my back was turned.
“Quentin?” I said when I got through to my friend. A dozen seagulls screamed at me when I interrupted them on a bench.
Quentin Marshall answered in his Aussie clip. He was a rock star specializing in charity work, and I’d written his foundation a few checks over the years. “Drazen! How are you doing? I heard about the heart, mate. That’s tough stuff.”
“It keeps life interesting.”
“Bet it does.”
He paused, and I heard a siren in the distance and the belch of a city bus. Typical New York ambient noise.
“So what can I do for you?” he asked.
“You invited my wife to sing with you for something?”
“Yeah, I hope that’s all right? She’s got a great set of pipes. And the cause could use your help as well. There are kids dying of dehydration every day.”
“You can always count on my help. But if Monica decides to go, I want you to do something for me.”
“Just say it, and you got it.”
How was I supposed to phrase this without sounding like a sicko stalker? I meant no harm by it, of course, and it wasn’t as though she hadn’t traveled before, but I felt differently than I did months ago, even weeks ago. “If there’s anything she needs, or if there’s something special you think she might need, even if she doesn’t know what it is—can you make sure she gets it? I want her taken care of.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
“Mate, I will treat her like a precious flower. On my honor.”
“Thank you.”
“My pleasure.”
We hung up. The ocean pounded the edges of the rocks into smooth stones, a millennias-long process I witnessed for a few minutes before I got up and continued my run.
chapter 18.
MONICA
I ’d been away from post-surgery Jonathan before. I’d flown to places I’d never been to and experienced them through hollow eyes and a worn-down heart. I couldn’t say my trip to New York was any different. I was still worn out; I was still dragged home by tight-twisted strands. I was still worried. But something had changed. The worry wasn’t colored a dark grey, and my thoughts of Jonathan weren’t painful. I didn’t feel guilty. I felt alive, vibrating, humming with potential, and I missed him. I missed his company, his laugh, his touch. I missed his enfolding presence beside me. The guilt left a vacuum in its absence, and nature, in its abhorrence, filled it with hope.
I flew commercial. I wanted to be surrounded by people. I wanted to feel the hum of life in the comings and goings of people: the babies crying; the pilots and stewardesses in their neat little packs, rolling suitcases whirring behind; the bright colors of the snack stand in the artificial lights; and the carpets worn where people walked.
I didn’t make up a story when I told Jonathan I didn’t need his plane. Instead of saying something facile about scheduling, I tried to
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