Faking Life (17 page)

He watched for several minutes, his feet glued to the ground. Here was the woman he'd tucked into the folds of his memory, hoping time would blanket her so thoroughly that he'd never see her face again. But she'd escaped and was now standing in front of him, looking out the window, not at John but past him, reveling in her hideousness. For years he'd pretended it never happened, that it was all a dream. He'd been alone that night. And the bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon was still corked in his parent's liquor cabinet. But it had happened. And now he needed to know.

After a moment she stood up, went over to the window and shut the drapes. Had she seen him? John watched in a vacuum, listening to the occasional passing car shatter the air, the only sound in his otherwise sensory-deprived world. Then the door opened and she strode onto the lawn. John's breath caught in his throat.

“Help you?” she said, folding her arms across her chest. She'd left the door open behind her. The boy walked into the doorway and John stared. He observed the boy's dark skin, much darker than his or the woman's. His curly black hair resembled neither of them. He had her nose, her eye color. But nothing else. And now he knew the answer.

“Sorry?”

She spoke deliberately. “Said
can I help you
? Or do you want me to call the cops?”

“Is that your son?” John said, pointing at the boy behind her. She swiveled her head to look at the boy.

“Yes…why? What's this about?” Her eyebrows arched. John saw a flicker of recognition in her face. She looked at the boy then back at John. “Is he still stealing newspapers from the grocery store? Frannie send you to yell at him again?”

“Is he your only son?”

“Yes,” she said, hesitating.

“That's all I needed to know.”

“Listen,” she said, stepping backwards, toward the house. “If you don't tell me your business or get off my lawn this instant, I'm calling the cops.”

“No need, I'm leaving.” She nodded but didn't take her eyes off him. John began walking back toward the street, knowing every step was being watched. He took out his cell phone. Then he turned around to face her.

“And Gloria,” he said. He registered the confusion in her eyes. Her mouth opened.

“How do you…”

John smiled. “I accept your apology.”

“Who are you?”

John smiled and turned back into the wind. He pulled his jacket tighter, waited a moment then pulled the business card out of his wallet, dialed. After one ring he heard the static-choked voice.

“Stanley Jackson, transportation coordinator extraordinaire. How may I be of service?”

“Hello Mr. Jackson, uh, you just dropped me off…”

“Say no more my friend,” he said. “Give me five minutes.”

W
hen I was eleven, my parents hired a student named Gloria Rimbaud to watch me on the few occasions they decided to shake the stodgy conventions of psychiatry and paint the town red. I always considered her an attendant rather than a sitter, although that may simply have been to make myself feel better about being babysat. My sister was eighteen and rarely home, always sleeping at friend's houses for late night “cram sessions” and hanging out at dirt-speckled bowling alleys. Gloria “attended” to me for nearly three years.

Gloria was pretty. That's the way I described her to my friends. I didn't know enough about women yet to call her “hot” or a “babe”, although looking back she certainly would have been both. She was a senior psych major at CCNY. She'd written my mother a warm letter in regards to a paper in the
American Journal of Psychiatry
she'd published. They started corresponding, and soon enough I had a babysitter.

My mother was never a fan of people who used agencies to find sitters. She felt if you didn't know someone well enough to have them over for dinner. you shouldn't trust them to watch your children.

The sitters prior to Gloria never worked out. My mother never gave them an inch, driving them batty by phoning fifty times a night to make sure I was still alive, asking me to check if the jewelry drawer was still full. In Gloria, she was happy to finally have a sitter she could trust, or at least someone she could track down if her pearls went missing.

I gleefully anticipated the nights my parents went out. Gloria always let me stay up late to watch T.V. and play Nintendo when I should have been doing grammar lessons. I went to bed wishing she could stay over and talk to me some more. She was a kind older sister. I'd never felt closer to anyone.

When I was thirteen (I know this for certain), Gloria was still attending to me, but much less frequently. She'd graduated college and was seldom available, only taking jobs when she needed some extra cash and had a hole in her schedule.

One chilly night in November, the New York skyline growing darker by the day and the first sprinkle of snow falling outside, Gloria attended me while my parents went to dinner and the theater—
Cats
, I think it was. My mother roasted us a chicken for dinner. When they left, I said goodbye and quickly ran to my room to complete my work so I could be with Gloria the rest of the night. When I'd completed my social studies, I tiptoed out of my room, hoping to surprise her. Then we could chat, watch
Alf,
or
listen to music while she told me stories of wild college parties and stuffy old professors.

Nothing could have prepared me for what happened next.

Gloria was seated at our dining room table, a bottle of red wine open in front of her, two glasses set out. The label read Beringer 1986. Cabernet Sauvignon. I'll never forget that wine. I looked at her, confused. Her glass was brimming, the one next to it empty. I knew my parents had a wine cabinet, but I'd never dared touch a bottle. I only opened it to show off to friends, bragging about how one day when they weren't home we'd drink until we threw up.

I watched Gloria slide her thin fingers up and down the long stem of her glass, her eyes a little foggy, her breathing slow and harsh.

“Want to watch me play
Zelda
?” I asked. Gloria and I were under a strict 'Don't ask, don't tell' policy with my parents, so she probably wasn't worried about me ratting her out for the wine, just like I wasn't worried about her telling them I watched so much television.

“I thought you might have a drink with me,” she said, still running her fingers. I was captivated. I nodded and approached tentatively.

I sat down at the opposite end of the table, a big brown balustrade with so many stains and scrapings from years of culinary torture that even if the entire bottle spilled I doubted my parents would notice.

She said, “You can play your games later, can't you? Nintendo isn't going anywhere.” I shook my head in agreement. She took the empty glass—my glass—and filled it to the top. Then she slid it across the table.

I remember hesitating. The only time I'd ever gotten drunk was at my friend Shawn Goldstein's bar mitzvah where a bunch of us had a contest to see how many shot-sized cups of Maneschewitz we could drink. I came in fourth with eleven, and then promptly barfed in the temple basement.

I looked at Gloria for guidance.

She took a small sip and said, “You don't need to be embarrassed John, have a drink. You're old enough for that, right?” I nodded and obeyed, my hands shaking as I brought the wine to my lips. I took a huge gulp, eager to show that despite my age, I could hold my own with a college graduate. We kept this game up until half the bottle was gone and my head was spinning like an uneven top. I barely noticed when Gloria stood up and walked over to my chair. My eyes were unfocused. All I could make out were two blurry visions that looked like her. Then she took my hands, which were dead in my lap, and placed them on her breasts.

My body froze. I'd only touched a girl like that once, a fifteen second tryst with Amy Steadman in the fourth floor stairwell as we skipped English class.

“Don't be embarrassed John,” she said, laughing lightly. “I've known you for such a long time. You're like my kid brother.” I wasn't sure how that was supposed to make me feel better, but then she unbuttoned her shirt and my mind went numb. “Do you still want to play video games?”

I reacted by wobbling my head, neither a yes nor a no. I felt my stomach lurch.

I was in a haze for the rest of the encounter, as though watching myself through a frosted pane of glass. She took off her bra and eventually unbuttoned my pants. I was powerless to do anything to stop it and too drunk even if I'd wanted to.

When it was over—I remember thinking I'd done well because at one point she stopped and kissed me on the mouth—Gloria poured the rest of the wine down the drain and washed the glasses. She threw the bottle down the incinerator. My mouth tasted like bitter grapes and my breath smelled like my father's deodorant.

“You can play now if you want,” she said. I obeyed again, half-heartedly tapping the controller while my heart pumped like a thousand drums and my crotch burned.

My parents came home three hours later. They paid Gloria and sent me to bed. My mother came to sit by my bedside like she always did before bedtime and asked about my evening. Had I finished my homework? Had Gloria taken good care of me? She asked the last question with a smile. She knew Gloria always took care of me. I nodded and mumbled, my tongue like a dried piece of meat. With the lights off and my breath minty fresh from a 15-minute brushing session, she didn't notice I was drunker than a boatload of sailors. She assumed my listless responses were simply from being tired.

I tried desperately to force the night from my head. I'd always dreamed I'd lose my virginity to Cindy Crawford or a famous actress, maybe in a beautiful forest with a canopy of emerald leaves glistening above. Maybe on a sandy beach in the Caribbean with the sun shimmering off the crystal blue water like a column descended from the heavens. Nobody lost their virginity to their babysitter. I tried to shrug it off like a bad dream. But like any bad dream, it wouldn't leave me alone.

Gloria stopped attending to me. I took it as an affirmation that I was growing up. After a few months I'd forgotten about her. I started concentrating on girls and athletics and had entered the first real relationship of my life with a redhead named Caroline who loved Bon Jovi and could beat me at H.O.R.S.E.

Months later, I was eating dinner with my parents when my mother paused between bites of Caesar salad. She smiled at me and said, “You want to hear some good news?” I was excited. She'd promised me a new computer if I'd kept up my grades. I nodded eagerly and she turned to my father. “Well, remember your old sitter Gloria?” She shared a smile with my father. Whatever she was about to say, he already knew.

“Yes,” I said flatly.

“Well,” she said, pausing for dramatic effect. “Gloria, it seems, is going to have a baby. Isn't that exciting?”

My heart dropped into my shoes. I nearly choked on a tomato slice. I was smart enough to put two and two together but…

“Pregnant? Really? How long has she been…you know…pregnant?” The words felt foreign coming out of my mouth.

“Five months,” she said. I didn't need to do the math. “That's why she hasn't been back to visit; she's on maternity leave. I spoke to her this afternoon. She's so excited for us all to meet the baby.”

“I didn't know she was married,” I said meekly, hoping for some sort of explanation. I felt like a snake had wrapped itself around my esophagus and was choking the air out of my lungs.

My mother thought for a moment. “You know, I don't believe she is married. She didn't mention the father. Maybe it's a boyfriend. Oh well, she is twenty-five, the same age I was when I had your sister.” I tried to smile, but I'm pretty sure it came off as a grimace.

For the next six months I hardly slept. I barely ate. I lost fifteen pounds, which, for a thirteen year old who wasn't heavy to begin with, worried my parents to no end. Horrible thoughts ran through my head, mainly about what life would be like as a thirteen-year old father. Would Gloria expect me to help raise the child? Would I have to quit school and get a job? Plus, there was this scary word called 'alimony' I heard friends of mine who lived with single parents refer to. How was I going to pay this 'alimony' on an allowance of twenty dollars a week?

Then one night the phone rang. After my mother had hung up, she came into my room beaming and clasping her hands together, looking up at the ceiling as if thankful for a miracle.

“Gloria gave birth this morning,” she said. “A baby boy. She wants us to meet little Robert after they bring him home. Isn't that wonderful?” All I could do was nod and turn the volume up on my stereo when she left.

I didn't want to see “Little Robert”. I was afraid he would look like me, maybe have my eyes or my hair. I have a birthmark on my left shin, and it scared me that Damien might have a similar one. What if he looked exactly like me, only smaller? I didn't think I'd be able to handle it. I didn't know any thirteen year-old fathers. I didn't have anyone I could turn to.

A few weeks later my mother announced that Gloria was stopping by for lunch (“She must be exhausted!” my mother said). She told me to hold Robert tight if Gloria offered him. I didn't want to be in the same room as the baby, let alone touch the thing. Could something as small as a newborn child sense fear?

I nearly jumped out of my sneakers when the doorbell rang. I hid in my room, peeking around the corner as my mother opened the door, the taste of bitter grapes in my mouth. Then it dawned on me. I could escape.

I slammed my door shut and started to make the most realistic retching sounds I could muster. I even stuck my finger down my throat to get some phlegm out. My mother obviously heard me, and tore into my room.

“I'm not feeling well,” I said, spittle running down my chin. “I think I'm gonna throw up.” She put her hand on my head to check for a fever. I held my breath.