“I get it. The California Girl,” she said. “I knew she’d drive you to the airport; I didn’t think she’d get on the plane, too.”
“She lost her job a while back. She needed a vacation.”
“And this is it? You’re a crappy travel agent, Duck.”
“She’s never been to New Jersey.”
“And I’ve never been to the psych ward. It’s a week of firsts for the women in your life. Where is she?”
“At the beach. I need to pick her up soon, look for a better hotel,” I said, my jerkiness complete.
By now one of the patients had joined the two women: a third woman, in pajamas and white paper slippers, sat between them and joined the dipping party, the three women taking turns dunking the bread into the salsa. Amy walked over to them and said something in Spanish. Whatever it was, she was spot-on; they handed her some bread and slid the salsa across the table. Amy conversed a bit more, and then walked over to the couch, where Glenn sat with his feet on the cushions, hugging his drawn-in knees, perched like an old withered gargoyle squatting on a ledge. Amy plopped next to him, grabbed the TV remote, and started channel-surfing, jumping from station to station, never landing on a specific show.
I joined her on the couch, but she ignored me, turning toward Glenn as if they were old buddies.
“If you ever need me, I’ll be there for you—always. That’s what he said, Glenn,” Amy said. “That’s pretty special, right? Did anyone ever make a promise like that to you?”
Glenn held his stomach, as if ready to hurl.
“Of course promises are cheap if you never plan to honor them. What do you think, Glenn? It’s been twenty years. Am I being unreasonable? Does a promise become null and void when the first party replaces the second party with a younger model? Is there some kind of exclusionary clause that releases the first party when said party becomes involved with a bigger set of tits and a smaller, tighter ass?”
“Jesus, Amy!”
“Bigger tits,” Glenn mumbled, and stared at Amy’s chest.
“I believe there’s legal precedent in the Second Court of Appeals decision in Vulnerable Single Mother versus Lying Bastard of a Friend…”
“You’ve made your point,” I told her.
“Tighter ass,” Glenn said.
“Don’t worry about it, Duck,” Amy said. “If I stay here long enough the electro-shock is fifty percent off. I’ve got a Groupon. Plus, we get little cartons of orange juice for breakfast. And muffins.” She aimed the remote and hit the Off button. The screen turned black. “I hope the California Girl enjoys her vacation.”
The nurse stormed over, snatched the remote from Amy’s hand, and turned the television back on, the Food Network reappearing as the nurse tucked the remote in her side pocket.
“That was rude!” Nurse said. “You have another two minutes, Ms. Willingham, and then it’s back to your room. Say goodbye to your guest.”
She stood by the couch, hands on hips, waiting for Amy to say something, but Amy, keeping her cool, only nodded with a blank expression. Glenn grabbed a pillow and covered his chest, as if waiting for a body shot. The nurse, giving her best don’t fuck with me glare, stomped back to her seat.
“Yep, it’s a real break, Duck,” Amy said. “Maybe later I’ll hang out by the pool and catch some rays. If I stay long enough, I’ll get a free T-shirt and a VIP card for ten percent off on my next stay. Maybe they’ll throw in a script for some medical marijuana. Did you bring any Phish CDs? And Cheetos, man—gots to have some Cheetos.”
I started laughing, and soon Amy was giggling too. Glenn looked over as if we were both crazy, and it reminded me of sitting on the couch in Amy’s old living room, she and I cracking up over some private joke, the kind of thing only thirteen-year-old kids would ever find funny, her father glaring from his recliner, telling us to pipe down so he could hear the goddamn television, MacGyver or Hunter or Magnum, P.I. Sometimes we’d wind up rolling on the floor, clutching our stomachs, laughing so hard we’d be gasping for breath, not even sure anymore about what had been so funny, just laughing at ourselves for laughing—until her father would peg us with the TV Guide, or an orange peel, or whatever else he could grab without rising from his chair. At some point we would catch each other’s eyes and suddenly we’d be as close as two people could be, and yes, it was different now—we were older and had been apart for years. The living room couch was long gone. We were behind locked doors in the psych ward because Amy had tried to kill herself, yet in that moment of spontaneous laughter we landed in the warm pools of each other’s eyes, and it really didn’t matter where we were. Everything felt right, like it always had.
“What do I do? Sign a few forms?” I asked her. “I just check you out like a library book?”
“Yes, that’s it—exactly!” Amy said, and we kept laughing, even after Glenn cracked his knuckles and fled the couch; we laughed as the three women cried “loco” and started laughing, too. We laughed until the nurse stormed over, her face twisted like an angry hawk as she grabbed Amy’s arm and pulled her away from the couch.
“That’s enough out of you,” the nurse said, and Amy, like the diva exiting the stage after another bravura performance, blew me a kiss as the nurse led her down the hallway, back to her room behind locked doors for one final night.
-8-
For now the boardwalk was quiet, but soon the invasion would begin, the pilgrims from upstate hauling their pale winter asses down
