Jen and I hang out and eat sushi while we watch a new film about a rock group. She has an amazing apartment on Park Avenue with a den that they turned into a screening room with couches with footrests.
“I’m glad you came over,” she says, turning to me after the movie ends.
“Me too. We haven’t done this in so long. I’ve been so busy with mentoring and my own work that I don’t have a life.”
“You hang out so much with Blondie now that we never do fun stuff anymore.”
Blondie, Jen’s new name for Amber. She doesn’t like to say Amber’s name because it means acknowledging her existence.
“I have to mentor her.”
“Forever?”
“Until she passes the tests, at least.” I put on my coat and stand outside her door waiting for the elevator.
“Maybe we can have a sleepover next week,” Jen says.
Only next weekend I’m supposed to see Katrina. “Definitely, but the weekend after is probably better,” I say as I step into the elevator.
“You’re so busy,” she says as the doors close between us.
It’s almost six when I get home from Jen’s. I didn’t tell her about Mel. It sounds stupid, but on some level I felt like I’d be betraying a trust. This is something Mel, Katrina, and I were going through. Jen isn’t part of it.
I lift the phone at six thirty to check for a dial tone because it’s been totally dead. Not even a market research company calling to do a survey. Katrina’s also sitting by her phone.
“Did she call you?”
“No.”
“I’m going to call her.”
“Do you think you’ll be bothering her?” Katrina says. “She’s probably sleeping.”
“So her mom will answer.”
It rings three times and no one answers. I call again. Still no answer, then the message. I hang up.
Where could she possibly be? I call Katrina. I need to vent.
“You don’t not come home unless something is wrong,” I start after her hello. “You remember the article about the girl in New Jersey who died?” It was a story that ran in Katrina’s local paper.
“Ugh, yeah.”
“I mean, it doesn’t happen often. The chances are miniscule, but sometimes …” I don’t tell her about Mel’s call. Did she sense something? Was that why she was afraid?
“Nothing’s wrong,” Katrina says. “Everything gets delayed.”
“Nothing’s wrong,” I repeat like a mantra. “It can’t be. It can’t be. It can’t.”
“Mel’s healthy, and she has a great doctor,” Katrina says like she’s weary. “He works on celebrities and models. Famous people who are on television,” she says, like that proves something.
“Yeah, his patients have surgery over and over. That’s why they look like they do. They don’t die. Bad things don’t happen to them. I’m being stupid,” I say. “I have to stop inventing stuff. Stop assuming the worst.”
“Don’t even acknowledge that something bad could happen because you’re putting it out there,” Katrina says.
We hang up, and six becomes seven.
A long, concerned look from my mom across the dinner table. “What’s wrong?” The textbook-sized rectangle of lasagna in front of me is almost untouched. It repulses me. I push it away. This has never happened.
I shrug. “I’m not hungry.”
I’m glad I never told her that Mel was having surgery this morning. My parents are the last ones I can talk to about what I’m feeling now because they’d immediately lapse into “I told you so” mode. And if something bad did happen, forget surgery for me.
I go into my room. The world is suddenly in slow motion. Maybe something is going on that I don’t know about, and that’s behind why she didn’t call. Maybe the phones are out in Connecticut because of a fire. Storms. Traffic.
Eight.
Eight thirty.
I turn on the TV and lie back in bed. A long, boring report about the expanding waistlines of Americans. I must have drifted off to sleep, because my body jerks when the phone rings and my chest lunges to life with kettledrum heartbeats.
“Allie?”
A weak voice that sounds like it’s coming from the bottom of a well. “Mel?”
“Yeah.” It’s a sleepy, drugged Mel on speaker sounding like she has the worst cold in the universe. “Everything went fine.”
“Great!” I shout. “I want to see you.”
“No, you don’t. Ugh, blood.” She spits.
“What?”
“It drips out,” she says. “That’s normal, they said.” She spits again. I hear her working hard to draw in a breath through her mouth. “I am definitely not ready for my close-up.”
“But you will be!” My attempt to be reassuring.
“I’ll have to remember that.”
“Do you hurt?”
“Sore,” she says, “but not pain pain.”
“I’m just so happy to hear you’re okay. Katrina and I were literally out of our minds.”
“Thanks, Allie,” she says, yawning. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”
I speed-dial Katrina. “Not to worry. She’s totally fine. She just called me.”
“I knew she’d be,” Katrina says.
“So did I. Piece o’cake.”