slide off my sandals. I have tan lines made from
dirt and sweat. “I think my feet are broken.”
Willem kicks off his flip-flops. I see the zigzag scar running up his left foot. “Mine
too.”
We lie on our backs as the sun throws shadows down between the clouds that are really
starting to roll in on the cooling breeze, bringing with them the electric smell of
rain. Maybe Jacques was right, after all.
“What time is it?” Willem asks.
I shut my eyes and stick my arm out for him to see. “Don’t tell me. I don’t want to
know.”
He takes my arm, checks the time. But then he doesn’t let go. He examines my wrist,
rotating it forward and back, as if it were some rare object, the first wrist he has
ever seen.
“That’s a very nice watch,” he says finally.
“Thank you,” I say dutifully.
“You don’t like it?”
“No. It’s not that. I mean, it was a really generous gift from my parents, who’d already
given me the tour, and it’s a very expensive watch.” I stop myself. It’s Willem, and
something compels me to tell him the truth. “But, no, I don’t really like it.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know. It’s heavy. It makes my wrist sweaty. And it ticks loudly, like it’s
always trying to remind me that time is passing. Like I can’t ever forget about time.”
“So why do you wear it?”
It’s such a simple question. Why do I wear a watch that I hate? Even here, thousands
of miles from home, with no one to see me wearing it, why do I still wear it? Because
my parents bought it for me with the best of intentions. Because I can’t let them
down.
I feel the gentle pressure of Willem’s fingers on my wrist again. The clasp opens,
and the watch falls away, leaving a white ghost imprint. I can feel the refreshing
breeze tickle against my birthmark.
Willem examines the watch, the Going Places engraving. “Where are you going, exactly?”
“Oh, you know. To Europe. To college. To medical school.”
“Medical school?” There’s surprise in his voice.
I nod. That’s been the plan ever since eighth grade, when I gave the Heimlich maneuver
to some guy who was choking on his lamb shank at the next table. Dad had been out
front, answering a call from the service when I’d seen the guy next to us go purple.
So I just got up and calmly put my arms around the guy’s diaphragm and pushed until
a piece of meat arced out. Mom was beyond impressed. She’d started talking about my
becoming a doctor like Dad. After a while, I started talking about it too.
“So you’ll take care of me?”
His voice has the usual teasing tone, so I get that he’s joking, but this wave comes
over me. Because who takes care of him now? I look at him, and he makes everything
seem effortless, but I remember that feeling before—a certainty—that he is alone.
“Who takes care of you now?”
At first I’m not sure I said it aloud and, if I did, that he heard me, because he
doesn’t answer for a long time. But then finally, he says, “I take care of me.”
“But what about when you can’t? When you get sick?”
“I don’t get sick.”
“Everybody gets sick. What happens when you’re on the road and you get the flu or
something?”
“I get sick. I get better,” he replies, waving the question away.
I prop myself up on my elbow. This weird chasm of feeling has opened in my chest,
making my breath come shallow and my words dance like scattered leaves. “I keep thinking
about the double happiness story. That boy was traveling alone and got sick, but someone
took care of him. Is that what happens to you when you get sick? Or are you alone
in some gross hotel room?” I try to picture Willem in a mountain village, but all
I get is an image of him in a dingy room. I think of how I get when I’m sick, that
deep sadness, that aloneness that strikes—and I have Mom to take care of me. What
about him? Does anyone bring him soup? Does anyone
dirt and sweat. “I think my feet are broken.”
Willem kicks off his flip-flops. I see the zigzag scar running up his left foot. “Mine
too.”
We lie on our backs as the sun throws shadows down between the clouds that are really
starting to roll in on the cooling breeze, bringing with them the electric smell of
rain. Maybe Jacques was right, after all.
“What time is it?” Willem asks.
I shut my eyes and stick my arm out for him to see. “Don’t tell me. I don’t want to
know.”
He takes my arm, checks the time. But then he doesn’t let go. He examines my wrist,
rotating it forward and back, as if it were some rare object, the first wrist he has
ever seen.
“That’s a very nice watch,” he says finally.
“Thank you,” I say dutifully.
“You don’t like it?”
“No. It’s not that. I mean, it was a really generous gift from my parents, who’d already
given me the tour, and it’s a very expensive watch.” I stop myself. It’s Willem, and
something compels me to tell him the truth. “But, no, I don’t really like it.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know. It’s heavy. It makes my wrist sweaty. And it ticks loudly, like it’s
always trying to remind me that time is passing. Like I can’t ever forget about time.”
“So why do you wear it?”
It’s such a simple question. Why do I wear a watch that I hate? Even here, thousands
of miles from home, with no one to see me wearing it, why do I still wear it? Because
my parents bought it for me with the best of intentions. Because I can’t let them
down.
I feel the gentle pressure of Willem’s fingers on my wrist again. The clasp opens,
and the watch falls away, leaving a white ghost imprint. I can feel the refreshing
breeze tickle against my birthmark.
Willem examines the watch, the Going Places engraving. “Where are you going, exactly?”
“Oh, you know. To Europe. To college. To medical school.”
“Medical school?” There’s surprise in his voice.
I nod. That’s been the plan ever since eighth grade, when I gave the Heimlich maneuver
to some guy who was choking on his lamb shank at the next table. Dad had been out
front, answering a call from the service when I’d seen the guy next to us go purple.
So I just got up and calmly put my arms around the guy’s diaphragm and pushed until
a piece of meat arced out. Mom was beyond impressed. She’d started talking about my
becoming a doctor like Dad. After a while, I started talking about it too.
“So you’ll take care of me?”
His voice has the usual teasing tone, so I get that he’s joking, but this wave comes
over me. Because who takes care of him now? I look at him, and he makes everything
seem effortless, but I remember that feeling before—a certainty—that he is alone.
“Who takes care of you now?”
At first I’m not sure I said it aloud and, if I did, that he heard me, because he
doesn’t answer for a long time. But then finally, he says, “I take care of me.”
“But what about when you can’t? When you get sick?”
“I don’t get sick.”
“Everybody gets sick. What happens when you’re on the road and you get the flu or
something?”
“I get sick. I get better,” he replies, waving the question away.
I prop myself up on my elbow. This weird chasm of feeling has opened in my chest,
making my breath come shallow and my words dance like scattered leaves. “I keep thinking
about the double happiness story. That boy was traveling alone and got sick, but someone
took care of him. Is that what happens to you when you get sick? Or are you alone
in some gross hotel room?” I try to picture Willem in a mountain village, but all
I get is an image of him in a dingy room. I think of how I get when I’m sick, that
deep sadness, that aloneness that strikes—and I have Mom to take care of me. What
about him? Does anyone bring him soup? Does anyone
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