A Girl Becomes a Comma Like That (11 page)

“I want to go to sleep,” Rachel said.

“What?”

“For the procedure, I want to be put out.”

“Of course,” Ella said. “And it's confidential,” she repeated.

“Good,” Rachel said. “Give me whatever it is that you want me to sign.”

9.

It was Friday night, and moments earlier a woman was hit by a car in front of their apartment building. Jack told Ella that at first he thought the woman was pushing a baby in a stroller, but when the baby popped out of the stroller and landed in the bushes, yelping, he realized it was a little dog. “It's a dog,” Jack said, excited. “It flew out of there like popcorn.” The dog was blond and fluffy. He looked well taken care of, Jack told her.

On the balcony in his bathrobe, Jack watched the scene and reported it to Ella. She was sitting on the couch in her nightgown and slippers, drinking a cup of tea and reading Diane Ackerman's A
Natural History of Love.
Although she didn't mind hearing Jack's rendition of the scene outside, Ella didn't want to witness the mess first hand.

“She's not that bad” Jack said. “She's standing up. She's gesturing to the police.” Jack waved his arms around, imitating the woman.

“I want to finish this chapter on cheaters,” Ella said.

“Cheaters?”

“Adulterers.”

“Great,” he said, sarcastically.

Moments later Jack had quieted down, which made Ella feel left out; she wanted to know what was happening. She thought about getting up off the couch and joining him but decided against it. “What's going on now?” she asked.

“The woman is scratched up,” he told her. “A gash on her cheek, and her shoulder looks fucked up too.”

“Is she old?”

“At least fifty—maybe older.”

“Did you know” Ella said, “that seventy-two percent of American men say they've been unfaithful and fifty-four percent of American women?”

“Put down the book, Ella—come outside.”

“That number seems pretty high. Don't you think that's a pretty high number?”

“What do you want me to do?” he said.

“You're not alone. That's all I'm saying. Most people behave like you behave.”

“Stop it,” he said. “Come out here with me.”

“It's not exactly a romantic scene. Wait until they take the woman away and clean up the mess.”

“What mess? There's no mess. Come out here,” he said again.

“Let me finish this.”

“She's up and walking,” he said. “She's talking. They're helping her onto a stretcher.”

They lived on the second floor of a high-rise. The building was on the ocean. If Ella went down into the garage and walked out the door to her left, she'd be on the sand. People who paid more rent had balconies that faced the sea. Their balcony faced the street.

It was a busy boulevard, with cars and trucks, apartment buildings and old houses too, with palm trees and crazy black birds that flew from ledge to porch to branch. Sometimes those birds appeared out of nowhere, moving abruptly in flocks. Ella would be on the balcony writing a poem or watering the ferns, and the sound of their many wings going all at once would startle her.

In the two years they'd lived there, three women were hit by cars—not one man that they knew of or had heard about. There had been over a dozen small accidents. Once, making love, they were interrupted by the sudden sound of screeching tires and metal crashing into metal, and Jack had jumped up to look, which is something she wouldn't forget.

“The woman is gone now,” Jack said. “Listen to the sirens. They're taking her away.”

“I want to finish this chapter,” Ella said.

“They're checking to see if the driver is drunk. Don't you want to watch him try to touch his nose? It'll be fun,” Jack said.

Ella put down the book and picked up her robe. She hung the robe over her shoulders without putting it on and joined Jack on the balcony. “Did you know that the average man's ejaculate contains only five calories and is mainly protein?” she asked.

“I knew about it being protein.”

Ella wanted to be outside with Jack but didn't want to get too close. She brushed off a chair with her hand and sat down. “I always thought it had more calories than that,” she said.

“What else are you learning in that book?”

“There's two hundred million sperm in one orgasm. And a guy's come shoots out at twenty-eight miles per hour.”

Jack looked out at the street. “Just about the speed limit here,” he said. They were quiet for a moment. “Don't you want to put on your robe? It's cold,” Jack finally said.

Ella shook her head. “My teacher came to the clinic this week,” she told him.

“Which one?” Jack rested his elbow on the railing and turned to her.

“Rachel Spark.”

“The poetry teacher?”

“Yeah.”

“Did she come for herself or with someone else?”

“Herself,” she said. “She was pregnant.”

“Was?”

“Actually, she still is.”

“She's going through with it?”

“No—Dr. Wheeler tried to give her an abortion, but it didn't work. He was afraid her pregnancy might be tubal. We sent her to another clinic.”

He turned back to the street. “That must have been weird for her, seeing you there.”

“She wasn't happy.”

“Come closer, Ella. Stand up. That chair is dirty.” He motioned to it and made a face.

“I'm okay.”

“Let me help you put the robe on.”

“I'm okay,” she said again.

“I want to be near you. I want to keep you warm.”

“I know,” she said, “but I'm fine. Comfortable. I'll sit here and you tell me what's happening in the street.”

“I thought you were going to try,” he said.

“I'm out here, aren't I?”

Jack sighed. “What else does it say in that book? What about marriage?”

“The first marriages happened by capture. When a man saw a woman he wanted, he took her by force. Sometimes he got a buddy to help him.”

“The best man.”

“Do you feel captured?”

He shook his head no. “I captured you,” he said. “I might have behaved like that seventy-two percent, but that's because I was weak, not because I don't love you.”

Ella stood up and walked toward him. She let him help her into the robe and stood beside him by the railing, looking out. The streetlights were orange—the one directly in front of them blinked on and off, obviously ready to give up completely. It cast a glowing circle on the sidewalk, and then the circle disappeared. Several couples and a small group of people were gathered, watching the man try to touch his nose. A woman stood by a fire hydrant with three big dogs on leashes.

“Those dogs must outweigh her,” Jack said.

“You didn't capture me,” Ella said.

He shrugged, gave her a small smile, and they stood there a moment, looking at the man. He was walking a perfect line. “Look,” Jack said, “the guy's not drunk. He's just a bad driver.”

10.

Ella had been trying to make things work with Jack for four months when Georgia came to her with condyloma. It was April and raining, the fat drops pounding the roof of the clinic.

Earlier, driving to work, Ella almost hit a pair of schoolgirls. They were holding hands, stepping off the curb and into the street, shiny lunch pails at their sides. They were walking against the light, and Ella wondered where their mothers were, why they weren't taking these girls to school. Ella swerved and one girl dropped her lunch pail, which Ella heard crunch under her tires.

She pulled over to the curb, stopped the car and got out. The girl was crying, staring into the street at her smashed lunch pail and sandwich. Her apple had rolled into the gutter. “Here” Ella said, opening her wallet, “here's some money.” She'd planned to give the child a five but could only find a twenty, so she gave the girl that. “Buy yourself lunch,” she said. “Don't cry. Look, here's twenty dollars.”

The girl stared at her palm, at the money Ella offered her. She sniffled. She wiped her nose with the back of her hand. Her friend nudged her. “Take the money” the friend said.

So when Georgia, who'd recently been diagnosed with HPV, came into the cubicle, dripping wet, pulling off her jacket and shaking off her umbrella, Ella was in no mood. The umbrella was broken, one metal bar twisted, like an injured leg, or like the bat's wings she'd been dreaming about, Jack had been talking about, the metal bar like one of their covered fingers. “Your umbrella's broken,” Ella said.

“It's a windy fucking day,” Georgia said.

“Sit down.”

“My jacket is soaked. Can you hang it up somewhere?” She held the dripping jacket in the air between them.

Ella noticed that Georgia had filled out a bit. Her face was fuller. “You look good,” she said.

Georgia mumbled something under her breath. She dropped the jacket in Ella's lap, leaving a wet stain on her lab coat.

“Damn it, Georgia.”

“Sorry,” she said.

Ella stood and put the jacket over her arm. She walked down the hall to the closet, huffing so that Georgia could hear. When she sat back down, she stared hard at the girl and shook her head.

“I'm up to one-twenty. Are you happy now?” Georgia said.

“The question is, are
you
happy?”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

And Ella did what she'd been trained not to do: she raised her voice. “How does a girl like you
begin
, Georgia? I mean, how does it start? What were you like at twelve or thirteen?”

“A girl like me?”

“Yes, how does it begin for you. That's what I want to know.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Can't you find yourself one boy? And be safe with him?” Ella said. “Or how about keeping your legs closed? There's an idea.”

Georgia leaned back on the stool. She shook her head. “I could get you fired for that,” she said.

“Go ahead,” Ella said.

Georgia glared at her.

“Go tell my boss I'm a horrible counselor. I'm certainly horrible with you—haven't made one bit of difference in your life, your behavior,” Ella said.

“My behavior”
she said.

“It's useless, the time we spend together. You're never going to stop.”

“It's not your
job
to stop me. Just do your
job,”
the girl said.

“I obviously can't,” Ella said.

Georgia looked at her. She leaned forward and spoke. “You think finding
one boy
is the big answer? You think marriage is some great thing? I wouldn't want one boy if that
one boy
was Jack Bloom.”

“Stop it,” Ella said.

“I'm just saying—”

“I know what you're saying, Georgia, and you're sixteen years old. Don't talk to me about my life.”

“I know how old I am.”

“I don't think you do. You don't know what it means to be sixteen—how many times you should, should …”

“Should what?”

“Should be saying no, Georgia—you should tell those damn boys no.”

“Something's wrong with you,” Georgia said.

“Look,” Ella said, “right now, this minute, something's wrong with
you.
Your health. Condyloma needs to be watched. You've got to take care of yourself.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Georgia said, flippantly.

“It's not enough to just look at a boy—you can't see condyloma, at least not in the dark,” Ella continued, knowing her words were futile. “It's difficult to spot, that's what I'm saying. You've got to be more careful.”

Georgia nodded.

Ella told her that the virus, HPV, could be dangerous. She told her that if it went to her cervix, it could cause cancer. There could be changes in her Pap results. Abnormalities.

Georgia leaned forward. “Hey,” she said, “what's it doing now?”

Ella looked at her.

“Do I have cancer
now?”

Ella had the girl's test results right there in her lap, and though she'd already read them and knew that Georgia was okay, she opened the folder for dramatic effect and pretended to be reading from it. She slapped the folder closed and said nothing.