“I’m going to start running,” I tell Ro.
“Gia, people like us are always running.”
“I’m tired of it, aren’t you?” I say, broadening the subject.
“That’s the way it is, Gia.”
I don’t really accept that, but Ro does. She isn’t haunted like I am and doesn’t walk around with a black sheep mentality. I only realized that one Christmas when I sent her a card that showed a tree filled with birds that were all looking in one direction.
Except for one of them.
And because my brain is so buzzed I actually didn’t even notice that except on some level I guess I did because why else would I have chosen it? She looked at the card and crinkled up her nose, pointing to the odd-ball bird.
“That is so you, Gia.”
I try running with Herbie, but he prefers walking or, actually, sitting in his bed in the kitchen where he can watch my mom and get food treats, so I go by myself. But first I go online and look at all these stretchy outfits with great leggings and tops and jackets. Then I close the screen. What am I thinking? I can’t buy clothes anymore. I can’t buy anything anymore. I put on a pair of running shoes from the back of my closet and walk around my room. It feels funny to have my feet flat on the ground. I go outside and walk/run for about three blocks and realize that I am totally out of shape. I’m seventeen, not seventy, so hello, exactly what is going on with my cardiac situation?
The next day after school I go running again and the next day after that, even though I don’t tell anyone about it, because, let’s face it, no one exactly sees me as Miss Jockette, and anyway, when you want to get into something like running, suddenly everyone you know has other stuff to do.
So I take the bus up to the track around Central Park, and who do I see but Jordan the Jock, and I really don’t know why he’s so nice to me these days unless he’s relieved that he lost. He’s running too and he slows down.
“Hey, Gia. I didn’t know that you run.”
Does that make me more appealing to him? I don’t know what to say because, I mean, do I run?
“I’m starting to get into it,” I come up with and then kind of look away. He gets the message that no, I do not want to have him for my new running partner, so he sprints ahead and I’m left behind huffing and puffing, which is pathetic, and wondering whether this is worth it, you know?
But I never give up, so I keep the running thing going for heart health and relaxation or whatever and even try to convince Clive for the eightieth time to come with me, but he very politely says, “hmm, no, I don’t think so, Gia,” because I think Clive doesn’t like to sweat and doesn’t care about runner’s high and endorphins—whatever they are—and getting into the zone.
Every day I go a little farther and within two weeks I’m going about three miles a day, usually around Central Park. The rash is better even though I think it has nothing to do with the exercise and everything to do with the hydrocortisone cream because if you’re more relaxed, you should feel that way, right?
One day I’m running in the park and I decide that instead of going home, I’ll go to Clive’s and have dinner with him. So I call him up and he says, “cool, we can go out for Japanese,” and when I get there, I sit down and drink an entire bottle of water and then try to wash up and make myself look human again, and Clive is changing into another shirt, and I kind of stop dead in place and stare at him.
“Do you ever just think, fuck it, I’m not going to wear a scarf anymore?”
His face turns dark and as serious as it was when he first told me what happened, and my stomach tightens.
“No,” he says. And a moment later, “If it were you, Gia, would you just let everyone see the scar?”
That’s the kind of question I never asked myself because why would I? I don’t know what to say at first and I think about it for a few seconds. “Yes, I would because I don’t think you have any reason to hide it and you shouldn’t have to because it’s part of who you are now.”
“Hmm, maybe. I don’t know, Gia. I don’t know if I can.”
I look at him some more and get totally emotional, which I hate. “You know something, Clive?”
“What?”
“I love that scar,” I whisper, my voice cracking.
He narrows his eyes and kind of slumps a little as he looks at me like he doesn’t understand.
“The scar means that it didn’t work. You healed. You’re here now, alive, with me, Clive, and that is so, I don’t know, life affirming? It’s such a symbol of then and now.”
Then Clive gets teary-eyed too. “You’re right, Gia,” he says, nodding. “I never thought about it that way.”
Then we curl up together, and I guess Clive is in the mood to open up because he starts talking about his parents, who he never talks about.
“Ten years after I was born, my mom became pregnant,” he says. “I guess it was unexpected and it made her happy…so happy.” He pauses and looks off in the distance and then turns back to me.
“But a few weeks after birth…my baby sister died of a heart ailment. They had all these doctors come in to the hospital…from all over the world. And still…nobody, nobody could do anything.” He stares out the window and shakes his head. “My mom was nearly destroyed by that because she always, always wanted a girl. She was so depressed she was almost institutionalized.” He scratches the back of his head.
“And after that she withdrew from me and changed so much. I just couldn’t reach her anymore. I felt…I felt like my parents were blaming me for living after the baby died…Then they sold that apartment and bought this one, but that didn’t help, and so they started traveling all the time after that…trying to run away, I guess…and leaving me here with a governess while they were starting more magazines everywhere…and I felt like I was being punished.”
“Oh my God, I can imagine,” I say. That makes me feel horrible and so sorry for Clive even more because you’d think they’d hold on to him even tighter, but people don’t always act the way they’re supposed to. Then I think about my dad and mom, and even though our lives are not like anyone else’s, I know they’d both kill for me, and that means everything and keeps me grounded. I look over at Clive and think back to being in Paris with him and remember that in passing he said something about starting therapy with his parents when they got home, so maybe people can change…
“You know what you said…in Paris…about room service and fancy hotels and everything not making you happy?”
He nods.
“You were right. That’s all bullshit. It’s all staging. None of that matters.”
“Hmm, staging…I would never have thought of it that way,” he says, the corners of his mouth turning up.