Marnix lopes in. People are always saying how much we look alike. We have the same shade of copper hair and the same brown eyes. I think he’s attractive, but he doesn’t stand out. Average height, average build. He sits down across from me all casual like we do this every day. But I can’t help being nervous. We were never close growing up. We just never had much to say to each other. The only thing we really ever had in common was that we both couldn’t wait to leave for college.
“Have I ever told you how much I appreciate air-conditioning?” he says. Marnix hates the hot, humid summers here. He used to refuse to walk more than two blocks at a time if it was over 90 degrees. Maybe that’s why he picked this place to get together. Bosie is only a few blocks from home. “It is disgusting out. How did I ever survive summers here?”
“I like how empty it is in August. We have the whole neighborhood to ourselves.”
“Yeah, if ‘ourselves’ include the hordes of tourists.”
My instinct is to keep defending my city until he gives in. Even a little. But I don’t press him. There is obviously a lot going on with Marnix. He enjoys complaining, but at least he’s here and he can complain.
“What the—” Marnix is staring out the window. An old lady is dragging an animal carrier down the sidewalk, scuffing along at the slowest pace ever. She is wearing white orthopedic shoes, baggy stonewashed jeans, and a chunky gray cable-knit sweater. In August. The animal carrier doesn’t have wheels. But she’s dragging it along as if it does. We can see a cat hunched down inside. I can’t believe her cat is tolerating this kooky mode of transportation.
“Only in New York,” I say.
“Classic.”
“Don’t you miss it here?” Marnix doesn’t appreciate the local weirdos. But one thing I love about New York is how it embraces weirdos of all kinds. This city is all about live and let live.
“Not really,” Marnix says. “We’re not all in love with New York like you are. You and New York are inseparable.”
“That. Is so true.” Maybe Marnix knows me better than I thought he did.
A waitress comes over to our table. I order an almond cookie rooibos tea. Marnix orders a regular coffee.
“So.” Marnix leans back in his chair. He stretches his arms over his head. “How are those Sunday family dinners working for you?”
“Not as well as they are for you.” The second the words leave my mouth, I want to cram them back in. I don’t want to say the wrong thing to Marnix. Hopefully he knows I’m joking.
He looks at me evenly, not mad at all. “Yeah, I haven’t exactly been the easiest person to get along with. Sorry about that.”
“No, it’s . . . I know you’re dealing with a lot.”
“There’s some stuff I never told you. Stuff you should know.”
“Like what?”
“Do you remember why you were on the subway that day with Mom? When she was pushed?”
Memories of the day Mom lost our little sister are always percolating, ready to froth to a rapid boil at the slightest provocation. So it’s odd that I don’t remember where we were going.
“No,” I say.
“Well, I do. I was supposed to be on the subway with her. Not you.”
“What do you mean?”
“Mom asked me to go see Carla with her. I told her I didn’t want to go. I mean, I never wanted to go, but I was being a brat that day and refused. So she took you instead.”
Carla was an older lady Mom worked with at the W Hotel. After Carla developed a bunch of health issues, she had to quit her job. She was homebound after a while. Mom used to visit her up in Harlem. Carla baked chocolate chip cookies for Marnix and me when we were little. Mom said that Carla always cheered up when she saw us. So every time Mom went to visit her, she would take one or both of us along, depending on whether Dad was home.
“You weren’t supposed to be on the subway with Mom,” Marnix says. “I was.”
A pot of tea and a cup are placed in front of me. A mug of coffee is placed in front of Marnix. Cream and sugar are put on the table. In a fog, I thank the waitress as the reason Marnix is telling me this sharpens into focus.
“There was nothing you could have done,” I tell him.
“I might have been able to stop him.”
“You were nine.”
“Or I could have calmed him down.”
“You were nine.” Even as I’m saying this, I can totally relate. I was only seven and I still regret that I didn’t make Mom sit down. Someone got up to give her their seat, but she told me to sit instead. We only had two more stops to go. If I had made her sit instead of me, I would have been the one standing. I would have been the one who got shoved. And our sister would be alive.
“That didn’t register at the time,” Marnix says. “When Dad took me to the hospital and I saw Mom lying there hooked up to machines, sobbing so hard the whole bed was shaking . . . all I could think about was that I should have been there. I was supposed to be there. The more I thought about it, the angrier I got. And after a while . . . I blamed myself for our sister never being born.”
“It wasn’t your fault.”
“I know that now. Logically, anyway. But it still feels like my fault.”
The sugary aroma of almond cookie rooibos tea wafts over us. My eyes sting with a surge of tears. I concentrate on smoothing my paper napkin against the rustic wooden table in slow strokes until my eyes dry up.
All these years, Marnix has been blaming himself for not being there.
All these years, I have been blaming myself for letting it happen.
We have both been blaming ourselves for something that was not our fault. For over ten years. And I had no freaking clue.
Now I understand why Marnix wanted to leave for college so badly. He was trying to run away and not look back. Just like I was. He had his own nightmares haunting him.
Marnix stirs a packet of raw sugar into his coffee. “The anger and regret kept getting worse,” he says. “At first it was just about her. Our sister we never knew.”
Tears sting my eyes again. I smooth out my napkin some more.
“But then it snowballed into this crazy shit I couldn’t control. By the time I was twelve or thirteen, I was regretting every single thing I should have said or should have done. I would replay the day in my room after school and imagine everything I wished had turned out differently. Stupid stuff I shouldn’t have said to my friends. Giving the wrong answer in class. Missing an easy catch in gym. Just everything. My shrink thinks I could have benefited from meds. He says it sounds like I already had depression and anxiety issues, and that Mom’s accident just made them worse. It was like a trigger that set everything off.”
Like a trigger. That’s exactly how I think about situations that make my bubbling anger boil over. I thought getting together with Marnix was going to be all about him, about what he needs and how I can help him recover. The last thing I expected was to discover more about myself.
“I couldn’t stand to be alive,” Marnix says.
This is horrible. Marnix was suffering for years and I didn’t even know it. I don’t think our parents knew it, either. They assumed he was an angry teenager. As if teens are angry for no reason just because they’re teens. Adults can be so dense sometimes. Now I realize that our mom was afraid to find out the truth and our dad got sick of the yelling matches. I suspect they were relieved when he left for college.
“The thing is,” Marnix says, lifting his coffee mug and propping both elbows on the table, “no one can help you if you don’t let them know you need help. Lashing out was my way of trying to get attention. I shut everyone out when I should have let you guys in. All those times I yelled at you and slammed my door in your face or pretended you didn’t exist were to protect you from the truth. But I was stupid. I’m sorry I treated you that way. You deserved a brother who treated you better.”
I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about the secret pain that exists within each one of us. The hurt
that lurks behind every wall and window of this city has potential to connect us in profound ways. But we have to know where and what it is before we can help ease that pain. The secret pain Marnix has been carrying around with him is almost the same as mine. We have more in common than I ever knew.
Every single one of us has to fight against the darkness. I think we all have damaged parts of ourselves that we want to hide from the world. Some of us have to fight harder than others. But we all have to fight on. Positive energy is our best protection. My choice to create a positive lifestyle wasn’t only a choice I made to counteract the negative. It was a choice that saved my life.
I will keep the promise I made last night with Rosanna and Darcy. I will become the truly optimistic person I want to be. I have the power to chase away the darkness lurking beneath my light. Of course I will encounter more hard times. There will always be challenges to overcome. That’s just life. The important thing is how you choose to handle those challenges.
When I think about who my sister might have been, I want to have only warm feelings in my heart. No more anger. No more sadness.
“It’s okay,” I reassure my brother. “I should have made more of an effort to reach out to you.”
“You did. I still have all your warm fuzzies.”
“You do?”
“I keep them in my desk drawer. Every time I read them, I feel better.”
I love that he kept the warm fuzzies I made for him in high school. I assumed he threw them out. Or ripped them up. It makes me happy knowing he still has them and that they are helping him a little.
Marnix tells me about college. I pepper him with questions about college life. He has lots of good advice. The more we talk, the more I realize he’s not scary underneath his armor of anger. He is the Marnix I’ve always known on some level, the familiar brother I grew up with.
Marnix talks about therapy. His road to recovery will be a difficult journey, but he wants to love and accept himself. He wants to show the world who he truly is. And he wants to have a better relationship with me. With all of us. Family is who saved him . . . and who might save him again. He wants to be strong enough in case he ever has to save us.
After his coffee mug and my tea cup are empty, after the almond croissants we ordered later are gone, we sit at this window table in the neighborhood that will always belong to us and remember the good times from when we were little. Walking down Gay Street with Mom and running into a cluster of SantaCon participants all dressed in Christmas gear. Sneaking into Rocco’s for butter cookies after school. Passing David Duchovny on the street enough times for him to feel like our neighbor instead of a famous actor. I could sit like this with Marnix for hours sharing our history.
Marnix gets serious again. “I want to be the brother I should have been all along,” he says. “Can you ever forgive me?”
I meet his steady look so he knows I am equally serious.
“I already have,” I say.
I like the new Marnix and Sadie. On the other side. Where the possibilities are endless.
CHAPTER 29
DARCY
BIG BUBBLE GUY HAS TAKEN over Jude’s spot.
This is the first time I’ve ever seen him, but I could not have given him a more perfect name. He’s an older dude rocking cargo shorts, an ancient ribbed tank, and sneakers with white athletic socks halfway up his calves who’s showing people how to make big bubbles. Right here in Washington Square Park where Jude used to perform. Buckets of soapy water are placed around him in a semicircle. Several sets of big bubble apparatus are lying on the ground. Each has two long sticks with some rope tied to the ends in a wide loop. Big Bubble Guy is showing everyone gathered around him how to dunk the rope end of the sticks in a bucket, then carefully lift the sticks up and slowly walk forward or backward to create enormous bubbles.
“It’s weird seeing someone else in Jude’s spot,” I say.
Sadie and Rosanna nod. We only made our pact two nights ago, but I can tell they are already eager for some good news about me and Jude getting back together.
We watch Big Bubble Guy choose a little boy from the crowd as a volunteer. He helps the boy dunk the sticks in soapy water and hold them up. They take a few steps together, watching as a bubble forms. The bubble gets pretty big before it pops. This little kid should be proud. Instead he looks like he’s going to cry over his popped bubble. So BBG tells him they are going to do something special. He positions the boy and tells him not to move. Then he identifies the boy’s mother and tells her she might want to take a picture of this. BBG dips a set of sticks in a bucket, stands behind the boy facing away from him, then smoothly glides backward up to the boy and around him while holding the sticks out wide on either side of the boy. A massive bubble forms with the boy standing right in the middle. His mom takes pictures. The crowd cheers until the bubble bursts. Soap suds glide straight down like rain running down a window on either side of the boy, not touching him at all. Now the boy is laughing and clapping, his original popped bubble forgotten.
Jude makes little kids happy like that when he performs. It’s like everything comes back to him.
“What time does the movie start?” I ask.
“Nine forty-five,” Rosanna says. If you ever want to know what time something starts, Rosanna is your girl. “We have over an hour.”
Big Bubble Guy motions for us to join the fun. He doesn’t have to ask me twice. I go over and pick up the only free set of sticks.
“Who wants to go first?” I hold them up for my girls, popping my hip like a game show hostess displaying a prize.
“You,” Sadie says.
BBG is all excited as he coaches me on the best techniques to generate the largest bubbles. He reminds me of Jude again. They both love making other people happy by sharing what they are good at.
Sadie and Rosanna whoop at my first attempt, which is a big bubble that floats in the air for a few seconds. I do a few more before handing the sticks off to Sadie. A little girl’s dad finishes with their sticks, putting them on the ground. Rosanna goes over to snag them. I suddenly get emotional watching Sadie and Rosanna making bubbles. I’m so thankful they are in my life. They have both come a long way this summer. We all have.
Big Bubble Guy isn’t the only creative type in the park tonight. There’s a boy around our age sitting right in the middle of the walkway sketching the Washington Square arch. The arch looks ethereal in its spotlights, stark white against the night sky. A group of eight people ranging from young to old is practicing meditation on the grass. A band of two guys, one playing bagpipes and the other on drums, is jamming near the fountain. See, this is why I love it here. Where else can you find psychedelic Celtic rock on the street?
Mental note: Never leave New York. Except for vacays. If I can ever afford to take any. Which I will when I am a super successful publicist.
“Oh!” Sadie yells. I look over in time to see a gigantic bubble suspended between her sticks. Rosanna and I cheer until the bubble breaks free and floats up in the air.
After our fun with big bubbles, we sit on the edge of the fountain. I remember when I sat here at the beginning of the summer, all pissed over Logan dumping me right before I left California. Then I sat here with Logan after he supposedly came to win me back. Now I’m sitting here with my best friends. Water spraying upward dances in the lights that illuminate the fountain from below. That now familiar New York street smell of hot dogs and coffee is in the air. The park is packed with friends and lovers taking advantage of this warm summer night. I immerse myself in the Now, absorbing the enormity of this full-circle moment.
“I have something for both of you,” Sadie says. She reaches into her small cotton bag printed with red and pink poppies.
“Pretty bag,” I say approvingly.
“Thanks. It’s new. I shoved all my ginormous bags in the way back of my closet. Walking around with a small bag feels so much better.”
“How do guys get away with not carrying a bag?”
Rosanna wonders. “Do they just not take any stuff with them?”
“Girls have more stuff,” I say.
“Why is that?”
“We put more effort into appearances.”
“Only compared to boys who don’t care how they look,” Sadie points out. “There are plenty of boys who look way more fabulous than I ever will.”
“Maybe. But girls are prepared for at least twenty-five types of minor emergencies at any given time.”
“And some girls are prepared to distribute warm fuzzies.” Sadie gives each of us warm fuzzies she made out of colored cardstock. I get a glittery gold star that says Shine on, rock star. Rosanna gets a red balloon that says Go confidently in the direction of your dreams.
“I love this!” Rosanna gushes. “Thank you!”
“How are you so awesome?” I ask Sadie.
“If by ‘awesome’ you mean ‘dorky,’ it just comes naturally.”
“Warm fuzzies aren’t dorky,” Rosanna says. “They make the world a better place. You make the world a better place.”
Sadie smiles her cutest aw-shucks grin. “We’re all helping,” she says.
I think again about how far we’ve come this summer. We have grown closer to one another in two months than most of my friends and I ever did back in Santa Monica. Any day now we’re supposed to hear from UNY if we can stay in our apartment for freshman year or if we will be transferred to other housing around campus. I really hope we get to stay together. Sadie and Rosanna have become my compass.
Across the fountain, the Celtic band finishes a song and tells us they are Scottish Octopus. People give them loud applause. No one can dispute that those guys rock. They roll into another song with lots of bagpipe trills and heavy drum action.