Cures for Heartbreak by Margo Rabb Page A

Florence Nightingale-esque gestures and an assured knowledge of the afterlife: I’ve seen death too. Don’t worry. It didn’t look all that bad, really. After a while I almost believed we’d had this connection, that I’d helped him. I wanted to help him, I told myself. Secretly, though, I was nervous every time I stepped out of the elevatorand walked toward my father’s room, afraid to see an empty bed, to find out that the cancer guy had died. I was relieved when, the next day, my father was transferred to another room.
    My father and I packed our suitcases. I used a flowered one that my mother had bought but never used; I clipped the Bloomingdale’s tags off it.
    â€œAlex is on the phone!” my father shouted just before we left. We phoned her in Ithaca every day; usually she was out. She’d sent us a postcard that said Ithaca Is Gorges. She seemed to be having a grand old time without us.
    â€œWhat’s up?” she asked me.
    â€œNothing. I’m a little nervous.”
    â€œI know—a vacation with just you and Daddy. Sort of weird.”
    â€œAlso, on long drives you’re at risk for deep vein thrombosis, which could lead to pulmonary embolism and you could die. The only symptom is an achy calf—and sometimes there are no symptoms at all.”
    â€œHuh?”
    â€œDeep—”
    â€œYou’re insane. Stop reading Mommy and Daddy’s disease books. I have to go,” she said. “Have a good trip.”
    â€œDo you miss us?” I missed her—the house felt too empty without her sulky presence in it. We were soldiers in thecombat field of our disintegrating family, and I wanted to be the one who’d deserted, not the one who’d been left behind. Sometimes I would go into her room and just look around; I’d pick up the stuffed animals she hadn’t taken with her, examine the earrings left in her jewelry box. I caught my father in there once too, sitting on her bed, staring at her old sneakers.
    â€œYeah. Everyone’s leaving for breakfast—gotta run, see you!”
    We loaded up our blue Zephyr. My mother used to criticize my father’s driving—he drove too fast, too close to trucks, he passed too much on the BQE—and now he seemed to drive more cautiously, out of a sudden regretful respect. He also seemed curious about me in a new way, as if I was an odd foreign being. “Who are these musicians?” he asked when I popped in my Go-Go’s tape as we drove over the Verrazano Bridge. I told him their names.
    â€œBelinda.” He nodded. “She has a nice voice.”
    He glanced at the Beauty and the Beat tape case resting on the dashboard. “What the hell’s all that paint on their faces?”
    â€œIt’s not paint! It’s a mud masque!” I shook my head. “Haven’t you ever noticed me in mud masques? I’ve been using them since I was twelve!”
    â€œI’m sorry,” he said.
    I watched New York Harbor go by in a blur. I didn’t want him to like my music—it felt as if he was peeking in my journal. A few minutes later he belted out, “Everybody get onyour feet, we got it!” in his gravelly, off-key voice.
    I pressed the stop button.
    â€œDon’t turn it off,” he said.
    â€œNo more Go-Go’s. But we’re not listening to any country.”
    I picked up Depeche Mode, but after imagining him crooning All I ever wanted, All I ever needed, I put on Judy Collins instead. My mother had been crazy about Judy Collins; she had all her records. I liked her voice—it was strong and sort of soothing and reminded me of my mother.
    We cruised past Staten Island. My father said, “When Greta and I were courting”—Courting? I pictured a horse and carriage bouncing down a country lane, my mother in a hoop skirt—“I gave your mother a Judy Collins record. I forget which one it was. Golden Apples ? I