Knitting Under the Influence (21 page)

“No,” he said. “Don't. You were planning on staying for dinner. Stay and have dinner with me.”

She knew she shouldn't. But he stood there, begging her, a handsome guy who had just been beaten up inside. And they both knew she had the evening free.

He was smart enough—or was it calculating enough? She couldn't decide—to tread carefully at dinner, to keep the conversation on things Sari could talk about freely, to sense that she had glimpsed enough of his personal unhappiness to feel sympathetic to him, but that any more would scare her off. So, over sushi and sake—they had decided they would get food faster if they went out than if they ordered in—he asked her about the work she did and about autism in general. His interest pleased her and between the warmth of his regard and the warmth of the sake, she felt herself expand and relax.

“I can see that what you're doing works,” he said after they'd been talking for a while. “I’m a total believer. But what I don't get is
why?
I mean, if it's really a question of neurological damage, then why do kids get better just from playing games and talking? It seems like they should need operations or a pill or something that would actually
fix
the damage. Not just, you know … M&M’s and encouragement.”

“Neural plasticity,” Sari said, speaking the syllables very carefully. She had had quite a few cups of sake. They were small and it wasn't that strong a drink, but she had lost track of the number and suspected they were starting to add up. She should stop, she thought, as she lifted the tiny cup to her lips.

“Neural plasticity,” Jason repeated. And then, “I have no idea what that means.”

“I like using the term, because it sounds so scientific, but it basically just means that the brain's flexible.” She put her cup down. “People get brain damage from things like strokes and car accidents and since the brain can't heal, you'd think that whatever function they lose would stay lost, right? But a lot of the time, they get it back. Like if they can't talk right after a stroke, but they do a lot of speech therapy, they'll usually be able to learn to talk again.”

“True for my grandmother. She had a stroke and couldn't talk and then talked again. Happy ending. Until she had another stroke and died.”

“I’m sorry,” Sari said.

“Actually, she was an awful grandmother,” he said. “Really mean. She scared the hell out of me when I was little—every time I saw her, she would tell me I should be ashamed of myself, but she would never tell me
why.
Maybe she just figured adolescent boys always had something to be ashamed of.” He made a comical face. “Not that she was wrong about that.”

“Well, anyway, she's a perfect example—her brain didn't
heal
exactly, it's just that other parts of her brain stepped in and took over for the injured part.”

“I believe the term you're looking for is neural plasticity,” he said.

“You catch on fast. So we think—it's still just a theory, but I believe it—that it works the same way for kids with autism. They start off with some real neurological damage, but with enough therapy their brains lay down new pathways, and the undamaged part takes over at least some of what the damaged part was supposed to do.”

“Now that's just cool.”

“I know,” Sari said. “It really is. Here's to the human brain.” They both raised their sake cups and drank.

“Makes you wonder whether it could work for the rest of us,” Jason said as he placed his cup back on the table. “I mean, maybe if I can find a therapist to just keep telling my dad that I’m not the loser he thinks I am, he'd lay down some new pathways and start seeing me in a whole new way. What do you think?”

“I think you'll need forty hours a week to start,” she said. “It won't be cheap.”

“Too bad I really
am
the loser he thinks I am,” Jason said. “Or I’d be able to afford it.”

“But then you wouldn't need it.”

“I know. It's all so confusing.”

The waitress came and asked if they wanted more sake. They had finished their food a while ago. “I guess we're done,” Jason said. “Unless you want some coffee?” He looked at Sari hopefully.

She hesitated. Then she said, “It's getting late.”

She had left her car at the house, so Jason drove them both back.

“Want to come in?” Jason asked as they got out of the car. “Zack's probably in bed, but you could see how cute he looks when he's asleep.” When she didn't answer right away, he said, “He's like world-class adorable.”

She closed the car door. “I believe you. But I should go.”

“Do you have to?”

She just nodded and headed down the driveway to the street where her car was parked. He followed close behind.

At her car, she said, “Good night. Thanks for—”

He cut her off with an abrupt hand gesture. “So, I’m wondering … how are you going to be when I see you tomorrow? Like this? Friendly and maybe a little interested? Or are you going to be the other Sari? The one who looks at me like I’m some kind of scary nut for just smiling at her?”

“I’ve never looked at you like that,” she said.

“Yeah, you have.” He reached for her hand and she let him take it. He held it lightly, his thumb brushing against the back of her fingers. “I’m not usually the kind of guy who slams his head against a wall over and over again,” he said. “But I was married for a while and I haven't dated anyone in all that time, so maybe the rules are different now. I like you, Sari. A lot. And sometimes it seems like you like me back. But sometimes—”

“I do like you,” she said, trying to sound calm. She didn't feel calm. He was standing too close for her to feel calm, and the way his fingers were playing with hers wasn't helping. “But I think it should stop here.”

“Is there a clinic rule I don't know about? Is this kind of thing frowned on?”

“It's not that,” she said.

“What is it, then?”

“Charlie,” she said.

He dropped her hand. “Who the hell is Charlie? Your boyfriend?”

Sari opened her mouth and heard a strange choking sound that she realized was a laugh. Her laugh. But it seemed wrong to be laughing when Jason was being serious, so she tried to stop, and the effort to suppress it made her shake. She put her hand to her mouth to try to push the laughter back in.

And she realized it wasn't amusement. It was hysteria.

“What's so funny?” he said.

She shook her head, gasping a little. “Nothing.”

“Who's Charlie?” he asked again. Impatient now. Getting annoyed. “Is he your boyfriend?”

“No,” she said, and dropped her hand from her mouth, the hysteria gone as suddenly as it had come. “I don't have a boyfriend.”

“Husband?”

“No.”

“Lesbian lover?”\

She shook her head.

“Now we're getting somewhere,” Jason said and drew closer. “No rules, no other man, no other woman… Is there any good reason I shouldn't do what I want to do? What I’ve been dreaming about doing for weeks?”

The little Lucy devil on her shoulder said, “Lead him on and break him apart.” The responsibly dressed Ellen angel said, “Get out of there while you're still okay, Sari.” And the girl in between them just wanted to feel Jason's mouth on hers and his hands on her body, so she didn't say or do anything, just waited in the cool dark of the night, her face turned up to him.

She had answered his question with her silence and her willingness. He smiled and his arms came around her.

His mouth tasted a little like alcohol, but it didn't change how good it felt. She closed her eyes and let him pull her close, like she had always wanted him to.

His whole body pressed into hers. Sari pressed back, shivering. He was Jason Smith and she had wanted him since she was fifteen years old. She could get lost in him—
was
getting lost in him—in his strong chest and broad shoulders, in the feel of his hands on her back, pinning her against him so she could feel the length of his body and how he was already hard for her. She was going to get lost in it, she wanted to get lost in it, she was ready to get lost in it…

If this had all happened in a dark, private room, that probably would have been that, and she would have fallen into bed with him and postponed all regrets and confusion to the next day's tab. But they were outside, and the sudden headlights of a car driving by made them both start and pull back and look around, their pupils dilated from more than just the dark.

“Come inside,” he said, tugging on her arm.

But she shook her head. She had been given a chance to stop and think about what she was doing. She would be an idiot not to take it. “I’d better not. It's better to take this slowly.”

“You sure about that?” Jason said, his voice not sounding like itself.

“Yeah.”

“I don't want to scare you off. But—” He took a deep breath, then said, “ ‘Slowly’ isn't another way of saying you're going to pretend you've never seen me before when I walk into the clinic tomorrow, is it?”

She shook her head again. “I’m not that good an actress.”

“Good,” he said. “So you meant all that?”

“Yeah,” she whispered, not quite able to look at him. “But I still have to go.”

His fingers stroked her arm. “Really? You have to?”

She found she was leaning in toward him again. She righted herself with an effort. “I just think it's a good idea.”

“I can think of better ideas,” he said. “I’ve been thinking of better ideas for you and me for a long time, Sari.”

“You
do
have stalker potential.”

“No,” he said. “All things considered, I think I’ve been pretty restrained.”

“You deserve a medal.”

“A medal isn't what I want.”

Her mouth curved in a smile and they were kissing again—she was pretty certain she started it this time, although it was hard to tell. It went on for a while.

But still somehow, eventually, she managed to stop touching him and get herself into her car. She shut the door, but then he tapped on the window, and she rolled it down. “What?” she said.

“You never told me who Charlie was.”

Euphoria fled. “My brother,” she said flatly, and, as she drove away, she wondered if Jason had any idea what a huge mistake it had been for him to bring up Charlie when, for once, she hadn't already been thinking about him.

Driving home in the dark, Sari suddenly remembered something she hadn't thought of in years—some graffiti in a girls’ bathroom stall in high school. It had stayed up there for months, maybe even years, and the image had eventually seared itself into her brain, to come back now in an abrupt flash.

First someone had written in dark purple marker, “I want to be raped by Jason Smith.”

Underneath that, someone else had written in orange, “Rape is an act of violence not sex you fucking idiot.”

And underneath that, in pink letters: “Even an act of violence by Jason Smith would be sexy.” The
i
in “violence” was dotted with a heart.

Even back then, Sari had known that there was no use trying to be politically correct at her school, no use trying to save the other girls from their sick wet dreams and perverted sense of romance. You can't save people who don't want to be saved.

But where did that leave her?

She didn't sleep much that night. The bed was empty and cold without him, and as she tossed and shivered, unable to sleep, tortured by confusion and lust, she wondered if he ever felt the same way, like the bed was too big for him without Sari curled up at his side.

Not Jason, of course.

Charlie.

II

K
athleen and Kevin spent Saturday night at the San Ysidro ranch in Santa Barbara and didn't want to rush back, so the girls moved their Sunday knitting circle to the evening, which meant that Sari could serve wine and guacamole instead of bagels and coffee.

As she poured herself a second glass of wine, Kathleen pointed out that it was almost Thanksgiving.

“You doing the whole family thing?” Sari asked her.

“I’m splitting it down the middle,” Kathleen said. She settled back in her seat. “Kevin invited me to come home with him—”

“Whoa,” Sari said. “That's a big deal.” She was flipping through a new knitting magazine. She had finished the baby blanket and was ready for her next project but was having trouble deciding what to do. Since Friday night, she hadn't been able to focus on much of anything.

“You don't bring a girl home for Thanksgiving dinner unless you're pretty serious about her,” Lucy said, looking up from her knitting.

Kathleen grimaced. “Put a little pressure on me, why don't you? Anyway, I said yes, but then Mom started leaving me messages telling me that I’m always too busy for them these days, and it's the holiday season, and don't I care about my family, and so on and so on. So I’ve got to at least swing by there at some point. Maybe even with Kevin, if he'll come.”

“Has he met the twins yet?” Sari asked.

“Once. We had dinner at the McMansion a couple of weeks ago.

“What'dhe think of them?”

“He said they seemed nice. And that I’m prettier than they are.

“Has he had his eyesight checked recently?” Lucy asked.

“Shut up.”

“Mom, Kathleen's telling me to shut up again,” Lucy said. “Punish her.”

“Does that make me ‘Mom’?” Sari looked up, her finger stuck in a page. “Because I don't think I’m emotionally ready to parent two grown women.”

“I knew you'd reject us one day,” Kathleen said. She dipped her finger in the wine and ran it along the edge of the wineglass. “So what are you guys doing for Thanksgiving? You going home, Luce?”

Lucy shook her head. “Too far.”

“What do you mean too far?” Kathleen wiped her finger on her shirt and picked up her knitting. “You grew up right around here.”

“Yes, and my parents moved to Arizona three years ago—which I’ve told you a million times.”

“You'll probably have to tell me again. I’ve already forgotten it. It's the way you drone on about things—I’m so bored I can't stay focused.”

“Mom,” Lucy said. “Kathleen's being a jerk.”

“If you two don't stop fighting, I’m sending you both to your rooms,” Sari said. She turned another page of her magazine. “There, are you satisfied?”

“Not really,” Kathleen said. “She started it.”

“I don't care who started it. Let Mommy get shit-faced in peace.” Sari took a sip of wine. “What about James, Luce? What's he doing?”

“Going to his uncle's in Long Beach. He offered to bring me, but it doesn't sound like much fun—too many old relatives.”

Sari said, “Any way I could talk you into coming with me to my parents’ house?”

“I actually don't mind being alone,” Lucy said. “I figured I’d go see a couple of movies, let myself eat as much popcorn as I want for once—”

“Sounds kind of wonderful,” Sari said. “Believe me, I’m not asking you for your sake. I’m asking you for mine. The last time I went home, it was a pretty bad scene. I had to leave after like ten minutes. But my mom's always liked you, and if you're there, she'll be on her best behavior and maybe we won't get into our usual fight.”

Kathleen said, “You're not exactly selling it, Sari.”

“Okay, wait—let me try this again,” Sari said. She plastered on a fake smile. “It'll be lots of fun! And don't forget about the delicious home-cooked meal!”

“Your mom once made me a bologna and mayonnaise sandwich,” Lucy said. “I almost threw up.”

“Yeah, okay, she's a shitty cook,” Sari said. “But please, Lucy, I’m begging you. For real. I don't want to go home alone. Please. Please please please please please.”

“Oh, fine,” Lucy said. “But this is depressing. I finally get out of having to go to
my
home for Thanksgiving, and I’m stuck going to yours. You owe me big for this one, Sari.”

“Name it,” Sari said. “It's yours. You want my firstborn son?”

“Kids are too messy,” Lucy said. “I’d take a puppy, though.”

“Yeah, because, dogs aren't messy,” Kathleen said. She swiped a chip through the guacamole. “They
never
shit on the floor.” She stuck the entire chip in her mouth.

Sari tossed the magazine onto the table with a sigh. “Maybe I had too much wine,” she said. “Everything looks ugly and wrong in there. It all seems like too much work for no good reason.”

“Wine usually makes things look better,” Kathleen said. “You sound more depressed than drunk.”

“Yeah,” Lucy said. “You okay, Sari?”

Sari just shrugged. The other two exchanged a look.

“What ever happened with Cute Asshole Guy?” Kathleen asked casually. “Last we heard, you were kissing him.”

“I don't know,” Sari said. Then, in a rush: “Things just keep getting weirder and weirder. I’m actually thinking maybe I should stop working with his kid.”

“Really?”

“I just can't deal with the situation anymore.”

“Well, maybe it's for the best then,” Lucy said.

“It's not for the best,” Sari said with sudden vehemence. “I like Zack a lot. And he's doing great. So it's
not
for the best, Lucy—it's all fucked up.”

“Then keep working with him,” Lucy said.

“I can't,” Sari said. “It's not a healthy situation. Not with his dad trying to—” She stopped.

“Just tell him to back off so you can keep seeing his kid,” Kathleen said.

“That won't work,” Sari said. “Because of
me.”
She put her hands up in the air and then let them drop. “I can't seem to just ignore him. It's like … seeing him made my life that much more interesting.” She stared miserably at the rug. “I don't know whether I like him or hate him, but not knowing kept things from being boring—and I like everything about him except that I hate him.”

“You need a
real
boyfriend,” Lucy said. “Someone decent who keeps your life interesting because he's kind and attentive and not because he used to shove poor old Charlie around.”

“Brilliant,” Sari said. “Know anyone like that?”

“Thousands,” Lucy said. “I’m just holding out on you.”