The Road Taken (29 page)

“Then when we graduate we can become a research team and get the Nobel Prize. Remember all our plans?”

“Of course I remember,” Ginger said. But I’d rather not, she thought. It seemed I was the one making the plans and you were the one getting out of them. “I think I’m going to like Boston,” she said. “It’s beautiful.”

“Wait for the beautiful treacherous snow.”

“You’re still alive and well.”

“Always,” he said. He looked her over carefully, nodding as if assessing her. “I can’t believe we haven’t actually seen each other in such a long time. How can we have done that? People should live in the same city with their best friend.”

“I know.”

“So you came here with the uncle?” They always referred to Hugh as “the” uncle because of the way he had first introduced himself. It still made them laugh.

“Yes. ‘The’ uncle and the uncle’s roommate.”

“What a family you have.”

“I love them.”

“So do I, and I don’t even know them.”

Something about the champagne and being in his presence at last made Ginger feel all the barriers she had put up the past three years to survive in medical school start melting away. She was down to the core of her real self, and she was safe. “Chris, you are the most special person,” she said. “You have no idea how wonderful you are.”

“That’s what I like to hear.” He was playing with her fingers. “I want us both to have happy lives, Ginger. You know that, don’t you?”

“Well, I guess so. We’ll do our best.”

“If you decide to come here for your internship and residency I’ll help you in any way I can. It’s hard to start in a new place.”

“I’m not afraid.”

“You won’t have to be.”

I was right to make this decision, she thought. She felt peaceful and happy. “Can we start at nine o’clock tomorrow morning?”

“No problem.”

“I’m sorry you’re not free to have dinner with us tonight,” she said, although they had already discussed that. Now that she was face-o-face with him she felt even more strongly than ever that she didn’t want to let him out of her sight. Oh, I could so easily get obsessed with love and ruin my whole career, she thought, and sighed.

“What is that big sigh?”

“Nothing. I’m unwinding.”

He sighed too. Then he let go of her hand. “I do have another piece of news,” he said. “I thought I’d save it until you got here so I could tell you in person.”

“I’m here, so tell me.”

“It’s a big piece of news.”

“What?”

“I just got engaged.”

Ginger started to tremble and couldn’t stop. “What do you mean?”

“Engaged to be married,” Christopher said.

“I know what engaged means.”

“She’s someone I’ve known for quite a while, and then it turned into something more. I mean, one day we just looked at each other and then we started dating. I proposed on the second date.”

Am I to be spared nothing? Ginger thought.

“She’s quite wonderful, you’ll like her,” Chris went on. “Her name is Susan. People call her Sue Sue. She’s a happy person, always up. That’s good for me because I tend to be moody and get discouraged.”

“I know what you’re like,” Ginger snapped. Her eyes were filling with tears. Chris was engaged to be married. Her life with him, which hadn’t really started, was over. “Do you love her?” she asked.

“Yes, I do.”

If I hold on to this chair as hard as I can and take deep breaths maybe I can stop shaking, she thought. She knew no medical intervention for a broken heart, so perhaps she should just think of her condition as shock.

“You look terrible,” he said.

“I do?”

“You look like I did something unforgivable to you. I mean, you knew we were always best friends, the best in the world, and you’ll always be important in my life, but . . .”

“No, I . . . ,” Ginger stammered. “What does she do?”

“She’s a travel agent. Well, an assistant. She’ll work while I finish getting my MD, and then . . .”

“Of course she will,” Ginger said. “She’ll put you through school. Then she’ll quit and have kids.”

He nodded. “Unfortunately my parents don’t have as much money as yours.”

“Is this about
money
?” Ginger said. For an instant she hated him.

“No, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that to sound like a criticism, but it’s a fact.”

“I thought I knew you,” Ginger said.

“You do. Please wish me well.”

“I wish you well.”

They looked into each other’s eyes, a long, angry, guilty, complicitous look. She knew what he was thinking:
Ginger, did I ever propose to you? Did we ever discuss marriage? No.
Unfortunately he also knew what she was thinking, even though there was no basis for it:
You lied.

“We’re getting married the day before Thanksgiving,” he said. “I’ve already arranged to get the day off. Will you come to the wedding? Her mother is sending you an invitation.”

She didn’t answer. She didn’t know what to say and she was afraid if she tried to speak she would burst into tears.

“It’s a very small wedding,” he went on. “I don’t have that many friends. You’re very special to me, Ginger. It would mean a great deal if you came. If you were a guy I’d make you be my best man.”

“Well, I’m not a guy.”

“I’ve noticed that.”

“I have to leave,” Ginger said.

“Well, wait a minute. Sue Sue is coming to get me. I wanted the two of you to meet.”

I would never go to your wedding, Ginger thought. Never, never, Sue Sue. It would kill me. “All right,” she said pleasantly. “Just for a bit.”

He doesn’t want a partner, she thought. He wants a civilian, he wants a little wife.

“I know you so well,” Chris said. “I know what you’re thinking all the time.”

“No, you don’t.”

“I’m happy to say you’re more confident than you used to be.”

“In what way?”

“You didn’t ask me if she could walk.”

“Can she?”

“Yes,” he said. “Yes, she’s a totally ambulatory person.”

“I don’t
care,
” Ginger said.

I know more about love now, she thought. It could be about money and normal working legs and a sunny disposition, or it could be about honesty and sex and closeness, or it could be none of those things. Love makes no sense at all. And that’s all I know about it.

She couldn’t think of anything to say to him, but that was all right because he was talking a blue streak about medical school to cover up the awkward silence. Then Susan arrived, tall and slim and sexy with wild reddish curls and green eyes and definitely walking, no, striding, and gave Chris a kiss and Ginger a firm handshake, and said she was double-parked and thank goodness for the handicapped sticker, and then when Chris had paid the check she took hold of the handles on his wheelchair and wheeled him away with the determination of a dominatrix. “Come to the wedding!” she cried cheerfully. “We’ll see you there!”

“I’ll pick you up here in the lobby at nine sharp tomorrow morning,” Chris called.

“Good-bye,” Ginger murmured, but he had no idea what she meant.

That night there was room service again because Ginger couldn’t stop sobbing and Hugh and Teddy couldn’t comfort her. There was another bottle of champagne, which she was grateful for, and then she threw up. The next morning at seven she insisted they leave and drive home. She didn’t even leave a note or a message for Christopher. The concierge would tell him they had checked out. She was reminded of a novel she had read some years ago called
Marjorie Morningstar,
about a girl who was in love with a man who was not what he pretended to be, who followed that man to Paris and realized he didn’t love her. So Marjorie Morningstar had left Paris immediately without even seeing it. At the time Ginger had thought she was a fool. I would at least have waited to see Paris, she had thought those years ago, as long as I was already there. City of Lights.

But Boston was not Paris. Marjorie had been too devastated to see Paris, and Ginger, equally devastated, had no reason anymore to be curious about Boston. No, she was going to become a doctor in New York. Boston was not Paris and Christopher Riley was not Noel Airman, but driving home Ginger knew one thing: She had more in common with Marjorie Morningstar, a fictional heroine she had giggled at, than she would ever have believed possible.

Chapter Thirty-Six

The strangeness, as Celia thought of the events that were happening to her, started slowly. She would telephone her friend Violet, or her friend Dorothy, and they would sound surprised, abrupt. “Yes?” they’d ask, not unpleasantly, but as if they had no time for her.

“Well I thought I’d call you,” Celia would say, puzzled at the response she was getting from such dear old friends.

“But we talked twice this morning and you just called me five minutes ago,” they would answer. “Didn’t we speak?”

“Oh, well . . . ,” Celia would answer, flustered. “Did we?”

“Am I forgetful or are you?”

“Who knows, at our age,” Celia would laugh, and then cover for herself. “I actually dialed the wrong number.”

It frightened her that she could forget something like that. She had been talking to her friends for years and years. In fact, she remembered very well when the telephone had been invented and nobody wanted one. Why, they asked, amused, would we need such a thing? We send notes, we pay calls. We run down the street to see our friends if anything seems urgent. If we had telephones, they would just be another difficult modern thing to get used to. Of course, now Celia didn’t know how she had ever existed without one.

So as not to embarrass herself and annoy her friends, now she copied each friend’s name from her address book when she made the first call in the morning, in her neat little penmanship, the kind you didn’t see anymore, and as soon as she had gotten through with the call she checked it off. Then if later, five minutes later or an hour or so, she thought of telephoning that person, she would look at her list to see if she already had. She kept the lists for several days so she wouldn’t turn into a pest. After the first few days she realized she had to put the date on top of the page too, and she kept her calendar open on her desk with each day checked off. She knew what day it was because she had the
New York Times
delivered and it told you on top.

The grocery had become part of the strangeness too, although it didn’t really bother her. Unless she brought a shopping list she always ended up duplicating things she had bought only yesterday. Well, then I’ll have a backup supply, Celia told herself. It wasn’t a tragedy.

She remembered certain things so well: The sound of a hammer hitting steel in the clear morning air when she had first come to New York and everything was in the process of being built. The excitement that sound created in her spirit. The motes of dust that flew around her head when she was at the blackboard in the First Grade. She must have been writing her alphabet, or perhaps her sums, but naturally she couldn’t remember that.

Her mind was awash with memories; she would wake up in the morning and lie in bed and just let them arrive. Alfred, of course, dearest Alfred, her little boy, and the smell of warm sand when they went to the beach. What itchy woolen bathing suits they wore then, on those hot days! It was a wonder a person didn’t drown in them. And Celia remembered those lemon cookies she used to make, and still could, which everyone loved. Yes, she had given lemon cookies to every child who came into the bake shop, including the ones who later became her stepchildren.

She remembered bits and pieces of her life in Bristol, so long ago. How easy Daisy was, growing up, and how much trouble Harriette gave her later. But was that in Bristol? Yes, Celia thought it was. She remembered Rose, as a flapper, in her short dress, which, when you thought about it, wasn’t so short after all, and the beaded Indian headband Rose wore around her forehead. These pictures and memories floated in and out of her mind, usually giving her pleasure. There were other memories of incidents in her long life, not so friendly, but Celia chose to push them away.

She could not remember the names of her great-grandchildren, but there were so many, how could anyone be expected to?

Sometimes, for a few years now, Celia would walk into a room in her apartment and did not have the faintest idea why she was there. She knew she’d come after something, but what? Her mind was a total blank. She would retrace her steps, but to no avail, and then, perhaps an hour later, it would come back to her. But these days, since the strange things had started happening, it never came back. All her life she had heard that old people were forgetful. She was seventy-eight, which was far older an age than she had ever expected to live to see, but she didn’t want anyone to know she wasn’t just as she always had been. She didn’t want anyone to feel sorry for her or think she could not cope.

Then one morning something really disturbing happened. She sat on the toilet to urinate and realized when it was too late that she had forgotten to pull her underpants down. They were soaked and Celia was horrified. She pulled them off and threw them into the washing machine. She was certainly compos mentis enough, she told herself, to know how a washing machine worked. She remembered how glad she’d been to get one, when they first came out, even though they were so clumsy with the big wringer. Of course now she had the newest model. She had always been proud to be modern. And today she was wetting herself, like a baby. She swore to herself she would never let it happen again.

It did happen again, and the worst part was she remembered it was not the first time. Celia stopped wearing underpants. She could pee through the opening in her girdle, no one would know. That was probably why it was there in the first place.

Her dog, Spunky, was dead, long dead, but sometimes she thought she saw him, running to her, his ball in his mouth, ready to play. Why had she decided not to get another dog, when she had loved that one so much? She remembered now, finally; it was because she had wanted to be free. And she had been free, hadn’t she, and had adventures? Sometimes Celia had to look through her photo album just to be sure things had really happened to her. Her trips, for example, which she knew she had enjoyed, although she did not have the faintest idea of the identity of those people in the pictures with her, who seemed from their happy expressions to like being in her company.

“Don’t get old,” she admonished Ginger, “it’s no fun,” and Ginger had laughed. Of course, that was before the really strange things started happening.

One day Celia found herself on the streets of New York, carrying a bag of groceries, and had absolutely no idea where she lived. It was like a bad dream, and at first she thought it was. But she didn’t wake up, and after wandering around for quite a while she realized she was truly lost. Where had she come from? Where was she going? Suddenly, she was very frightened. There was a policeman on the corner, and Celia knew who she was in case he asked, but he wouldn’t know how to help her. She had no address on her person, only her name on her medical card in case she had to be taken to the hospital. She didn’t want to go to a hospital, she wanted to go home. She knew why lost children wept and screamed when they found themselves deserted. But for whom should she weep and scream?

Now she was terrified. Walking, walking, looking for something she might recognize, she found herself on a tree-lined street of brownstone houses. She knew one. She had been there before, several times. She went up the stairs and rang the bell.

“Celia!” Rose said with pleasure and surprise, opening the door. “Come in.”

“Oh . . . ,” Celia said softly, and it was all she could do not to fling her arms around this reassuring and familiar figure.

“Come on,” Rose said, taking her groceries. “Would you like some coffee?”

Celia looked at her watch. It was still morning. “Yes,” she said, “that would be nice. I was just in the neighborhood and I thought I’d say hello.”

“The neighborhood?” Rose said. “But you’ve been to Gristedes, that’s really far away.”

“I took a cab,” Celia lied.

“You don’t need an excuse to visit us,” Rose said. She was peering at Celia as if she knew there was something wrong. “Your face, your blouse, you’re soaked,” she said.

“It’s not raining.”

“I know. You must have been running.”

“I’d like to sit down.”

When she had sat in the drawing room and had coffee, and reassured herself twice that Rose had put the milk she had bought into the refrigerator, Celia began to wonder if she should tell. I was lost, she could say, I forgot where I’ve lived for years. She waited for the memory of her home to come back. My own house, she begged her mind. Tell me where it is.

“Celia, you look so distraught,” Rose said.

“I do?”

“Yes.” Rose waited expectantly. “I hope it isn’t bad news.”

You have no idea how bad, Celia thought. She didn’t answer. They’ll make me go to a doctor, she thought, and he’ll tell me I’m going senile. They’ll get me a paid keeper, or worse, put me away. I’d rather be dead.

Rose looked at her watch. “I don’t want to rush you,” she said, “but I have an appointment at ten-thirty. I’m having some hats made. Would you like to come?”

“If you’re taking a taxi you could drop me off at home,” Celia said, feeling crafty. “I’m a little tired.”

“Of course,” Rose said. “Are you sure you’re feeling well? I won’t go if you’re sick.”

“I’m fine.”

“All right then.”

When the taxi stopped at Celia’s house she knew she was safe. It was familiar . . . why, she had lived there for ages! And it was so close. What a bizarre and terrible experience this morning had been. She hoped it would never happen again.

“What are you doing this evening?” Rose asked, by way of farewell.

This evening? Celia did not have the faintest idea. “Perhaps have a friend in for dinner,” she lied. “I bought all this food.”

“Call me later,” Rose said.

“I will.”

Celia forgot to call, of course, so Rose, the caretaker, called her. “How was your dinner party?” Rose asked.

Dinner party? Celia knew she had not been out to dinner. “The usual,” she lied, sounding cheerful.

“You’re amazing,” Rose said. “You have more energy than any of us.”

Celia chuckled. When they had said good night and hung up she went into her bathroom and looked into the mirror. Yes, she was an old woman now, her skin hung in folds, her eyes were very small, her roots were pure white. But she still had her spirit, her strength. That was all she had left. This terrible thing that was happening would stay her secret for as long as she could keep it. She couldn’t tell Rose she was losing her mind to cobwebs. She couldn’t tell any of them. They all had such a high opinion of her.