I’d agreed to drive Amy to her outpatient appointment that afternoon, so I picked her up at the Mall and headed for the hospital. As expected, the ride was a bumper to bumper Jersey classic, every other light turning red the moment we approached; the cars in front of us slamming on brakes, the cars behind us pounding irate horns, the unofficial flag of New Jersey—the raised middle finger—jutting out from rolled-down windows, drive, you fuckin’ moron, yeah, I’m talkin’ to you!
The familiar comfort of Amy’s presence steadied my mood. I turned toward her as we waited for the light.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“Just looking at you.”
“It’s free, I suppose.”
She unzipped her purse and started digging for her hairbrush.
“God, you’re pretty,” I blurted, not meaning to say it aloud, still upside down from those madman thoughts. Amy faced me, smiling, brushing the bangs from her forehead.
“Thanks, I think.”
“After all these years, it’s still you and me, isn’t it?”
“Is that some country song you’re writing?” She looked at her brush and plucked out a wayward grey strand. “I don’t like it, Donnie—stick with pizza. We sound like a couple in a commercial for reverse mortgages.”
Instinctively, as if in that moment no other action were possible, I leaned over the driveshaft and kissed her neck, the locks of her hair soft against my cheek, the avocado-lime scent of her shampoo giving me a jolt, a desire for more.
“What are you doing?” she said, not pulling back. She patted my shoulder, her hand staying long enough for it to mean something. The light turned green and we rolled forward, the traffic finally easing as we hit a four-lane stretch and picked up speed. Amy looked out the window, the big “H” sign looming at the intersection, pointing toward the hospital.
“I can’t afford it, but I’m thinking of taking Jill to Europe this summer,” she said. “Don’t tell her please, because God knows where I’m finding the cash, but I think we need a break from this town. I’m sick of the ocean, and the tourists, and that stupid goddamn boardwalk. I don’t want to be here anymore. I’m sure I’ll come back, at least until Jill graduates, but a change of scenery…I really need it.” She examined her nails, and bit off a cuticle. “What do you know about Estonia?”
“Nothing at all.”
“Sounds perfect.”
I pulled into the hospital lot and found a spot in the second row, squeezing the Honda between two oversized pick-ups. Amy zipped up her purse and opened the door.
“Thanks for the ride. It should be around forty-five minutes. Are you waiting?”
“I’ll walk in with you. There’s a cafeteria, right?”
I killed the engine and locked the doors. We stepped across the asphalt lot, side by side, a man in a wheelchair being pushed by his wife a few steps ahead.
“If you need money, for that trip to Estonia, or wherever, maybe I can help.”
“I can’t take your cash,” she said. “When did I become a GoFundMe page? Of course, if you came with us, to Estonia, I might let you treat now and then.”
“I’ll get my passport and start packing.”
She stopped, grabbing my arm and pulling me back, moving us from the walkway as a pregnant woman passed.
“Okay, what are we doing here?” Amy said. “Is this our normal B.S., or is this something different? I can’t tell anymore—you’re dealing with a mental patient, remember? I know we’re not going to Estonia, but… where are we going?”
The wheelchair couple disappeared through the door as Amy’s hand dropped from my arm.
“I might be staying,” I told her. “I don’t really know. Kelly sent my play to George. I doubt anything will come of it, but I might be around for a while.”
“Kelly, too?”
I didn’t know what to say. Insert the moment into a film and you’d have a two-shot of Amy and me facing each other in a hospital parking lot, the script directions clear.
His love for her is obvious and deep, part of his bones. The weight of the moment isn’t lost on her, either—she is hesitant, perhaps anxious, but eager, too. Something they’ve both wanted for a long time may finally be happening.
But when the camera pulls back in a wide-shot, panning left, we see Kelly seated on a wooden bench petting one of her cats, and he’s shocked by how glad he is to see her again, the urge to scoop her into his arms nearly as strong as his desire to hold onto Amy and never let go.
“It’s complicated,” I said.
“Let’s hope your new play has better dialogue than that.” She headed for the entrance. “Of course it’s complicated. It’s called being an adult.”
. . . . .
After her appointment we met by the elevator, Amy looking calm and upbeat as she reapplied her lip gloss, sliding the tube over her lips and then smacking them together in a plucky air kiss.
“Marvelous Moxie,” she said, showing me the tube. “What do you think?”
“Sei molto bella,” I said, laying on the accent.
“Is that some new dish at the Jaybird?”
“You’re the new dish.”
“Jesus,” she groaned. “If people could hear you, they’d club us to death.”
We walked side by side, just like our years at West Ocean High, but Amy’s comment about my not being “adult” had hit a nerve.
“So what do you talk about during these appointments?” I asked. “I know it’s confidential…”
“But you want to know anyway.”
“Just curious. I’ve been to some counseling myself over the years.”
“I remember.” She dropped the lipstick into her bag. “I expected to hate this whole therapy deal, but it’s worth the co-pay. Among other topics, we talk about you. Don’t worry—most of it’s positive. Let’s just say you never would have found those drawings if Sheri hadn’t encouraged me to tell you. I’ve been meaning to ‘discuss this’ for years.”
“If I’d known …”
She stopped, then punched my arm, hard.
“What did I
