Magnetism Read online

  As I drive back to my desk for the afternoon some of the thick gloom I’ve been feeling since I last saw Chip on Highway 64 starts to disperse. I might never fall in love again, or be loved again, but it doesn’t mean that I can’t have friends. Friends are the cornerstones of our lives, the family we create for ourselves, the people who we encounter who make our lives meaningful. Life is for the living. KBEZ on the car radio chimes in; ‘A rut is a grave with the ends kicked out.’

  Anyway, Nathan is cute. I can rely upon him to be presentable and even if someone thinks I’m his mom there are worse things that could happen. I wouldn’t be embarrassed to be his mother. His mother should be proud of him. And, we can still have fun. I haven’t been out to the movies for months.

  The first thing he says when he arrives is, ‘Gee, my mom would have loved to live in a place like this.’

  And I say, ‘Where does she live?’

  ‘I don’t know, now,’ he says. ‘I think she’s still alive. I grew up in Osage County. Mom left my dad when I was thirteen. Hey, this is a great apartment.’

  ‘Must be hard if you don’t know where your mom is.’

  ‘I still miss her, but not as much as I did when I was a kid. That was tough.’

  By the time we reach the concession stand at the movie theatre I have abandoned any diet I might have started, but I don’t want to be a complete pig. A medium popcorn will be fine for the two of us. Nathan hasn’t eaten dinner so he buys some candy as well. When you’re young you can eat whatever you want.

  Nathan tells me that he’s an only child and that his dad now lives over an hour away. I realise that over the months that we’ve been saying hi he’s managed to learn a great deal about me but I know hardly anything about him. He was always making conversation and asking questions, and he was kind to me when Chip left and I turned up there three nights in a row at one o’clock in the morning unable to sleep and looking a total wreck. I’m embarrassed to acknowledge that I’ve never given any thought to him as a person, what his life might be like.

  As we walk into the movie theatre, he takes my free hand and this is sweet. He asks me to choose where we should sit, then he steps back and follows me along the row of seats. He talks during the film only at just the right times and, even though I know he must be hungry, he doesn’t hog the popcorn.

  By the time it’s over, Life Stinks has made me feel sad. Mel Brooks wasn’t very funny. It wasn’t what I’d expected and I’m glad I didn’t watch it on my own. I’m relieved when Nathan says let’s go get coffee at an IHOP for a bit of reality. ‘It’s like you can read my mind.’

  To get there we have to get back onto the I44 and go past the Broken Arrow expressway. He’s a steady driver and he concentrates, but he still has a gentle smile on his face. Memorial Drive is not the best place to stop at eleven o’clock at night but Nathan knows the place, and the head cook, and finally he has a proper meal. He says since he worked nights for such a long time his body clock hasn’t properly adjusted. ‘You know how you used to turn up all hours in the night when – ’ he pauses delicately ‘ – you know, back when you split up … ? Well, it’s like that. I can’t sleep when I’m supposed to and I get real hungry at the stupidest times.’

  He doesn’t talk with his mouth full and doesn’t eat with his mouth open. He’s made an effort this evening, swapped his khaki-coloured shirt and slacks for some smart jeans and a clean, pressed button-down shirt. His hair curls slightly on his shirt collar. When we walk back to the car for him to drive me home under the moonlight I realise that it’s the exact colour of caramel popcorn.

  ‘You’re really nice,’ I tell him at the door to my apartment. I won’t invite him in. It’s late and it would ruin the evening. I just want it to finish now.

  He bends down and kisses me on the cheek. ‘I’ll call you,’ he says, then he grins and waves before he bounces down the hall to the stairs and back to his car.

  His teeth are white and even and his breath smelt warm and clean against my face.

  The next day I get a horrendous migraine. It begins at five o’clock in the morning. Mom phones me at seven, my time. She’s going over to Vegas for a few days. I explain that I’m sick. I can’t go to work and that I need some meds so I’ve got to see a doctor. She says that my migraine is probably caused by guilt. ‘What did you do last night?’

  ‘I had a date with a boy.’

  ‘A boy?’

  ‘He’s twenty-five, maybe twenty-four. I didn’t ask.’

  ‘Did you make out?’

  ‘Nobody “makes out”, Mom.’

  ‘You want to be careful not to get pregnant. Younger men have super-potent sperm.’

  ‘Oh, yeah! I’m hanging up. So, have a good time. Be good.’ Only when I get off the phone do I realise she’s not said if she’s going alone, or who she’s going with. I realise I’ve no idea what she’s up to lately.

  My primary physician, Slovackney, doesn’t insist that I schlep down to his office to let him have a look himself first. He sets up for me to see a neurologist. It’s now ten o’clock and, once the migraine is over, the flashing lights in my head and the pain like a drill boring its way into my skull have left nothing but a dull ache, and a peculiar feeling of vulnerability. I feel like crap. I take more aspirin and lie in the dark until the afternoon, when the neurologist’s secretary phones and says they’ve got an opening at five, if I want to take it.

  ‘I’ll be there.’

  The drive to this new guy’s office isn’t complicated but my head still feels blurry from the headache. I wonder if the analgesics are just masking a continuing migraine or something. There’s no wait in the waiting room which is just as well because, though I can’t consider reading as the glare from the pages would remind me of the visual aura and bother my head, it’s easy to see that the magazines are boring. Why does nobody realise that Good Housekeeping is a terrible name for a magazine?

  The nurse takes me through and weighs and measures me, takes my temperature and my blood pressure. She is silent, but smiles relentlessly without actually looking at me.

  There are bits of my biography at doctors’ offices all over. And none of them makes a whole. Just a catch-me-right-now, take-a-peek today, this hour, this second, this moment. Pieces of me. Parts.

  I undress to my bra and panties and put on the openbacked gown she hands me, and then all there is to do is wait in the cold examining room to meet the doctor.

  Dr Finegold has a firm handshake and the sort of fatherly manner that makes for a good doctor. He grasps my shoulder as he looks with a light into my eyes, waving it around, telling me to follow it. He asks me to track his finger as he moves it across my view.

  Dad would have liked him, I think. Finegold looks like a golfer. If they lived in the same city they might play at the same club. Then I remember that Dad is dead, that they probably wouldn’t be friends even if they had ever met, and that I am here because I’ve had a scary migraine. ‘You know, I’m not sure it’s over,’ I say to him. ‘It began twelve hours ago but I don’t feel myself.’

  He begins to ask me hundreds of questions. I explain that Dr Slovackney said that I had to see a neurologist before he would put through another prescription. I’ve had ones this bad before, I tell him, just not for a long time.

  ‘And you say it began with fireworks in your head?’

  ‘Not fireworks. Fire crackers. Nothing pretty like fireworks. Just crack crack.’

  ‘There was a sound?’

  ‘No, not sound, I don’t think. Just flash flash flash. Maybe like gunfire? Silent gunfire?’

  ‘Silent gunfire,’ he says, as he writes something down. ‘Do you get any other aura?’

  ‘Sometimes, I get olfactory hallucinations – like bubble-gum or Juicy Fruit gum, or maybe spearmint.’

  ‘Always gum?’

  ‘No, not always. Other things that aren’t there I can smell sometimes. Strong, but they don’t last long.’

  ‘When was your last EEG?’

>   ‘I’ve never had one.’

  He says I should have this done; he explains that he wants to rule out temporal lobe epilepsy, but he does not – he emphasises this – think that I have that. It’s a precaution. He’ll set it up.

  We get to the medication questions. I tell him I’m on an antidepressant and a very low-dose pill. It helps to regulate my periods. I haven’t had children and won’t. I can’t. But it seems to help a bit with PMS. He says he’s not convinced that I should stay on it. I only get to leave after he’s listened to my heart, palpated my abdomen and checked my reflexes with his miniature hammer and given me a prescription for a drug I’ve not had for years as well as a foolscap, single-spaced migraine prevention diet, which seems to have doubled in content since the last time I got one, and strict instructions to stop taking the pill immediately. Even though until now I haven’t had a migraine for six months, I have to keep a diary of what I eat and drink, how tired and stressed I get, and I have to see him again in six weeks. ‘Migraines can last days,’ he says. ‘Take it easy until you feel yourself.’

  I wonder how safe I am on the drive home.

  Nathan calls me later. I tell him that no, I’m not at work so I can talk but that I’m off work because I had a bad headache and had to see a neurologist. His concern is alarming. I end up trying to reassure him, and me at the same time. ‘I get them infrequently, really. He said I’ve got to avoid some foods and come off the pill. He gave me some meds for if it happens again. I think I’m going to stay at home tomorrow too, just try to relax a bit, you know.’

  ‘So you’ve got to come off the pill.’

  ‘Yeah, it’s no big deal.’

  ‘Well, it’s something,’ he says and, although this is the chance to tell him that it is not ever going to happen between us and I am not going to get pregnant even if we did, I say exactly nothing. Then he says he’ll phone tomorrow to check on me. He tells me to get some rest and he says goodnight. ‘I’ll be thinking of you,’ he says quietly, right before he hangs up.

  ‘Oh, shit,’ I say aloud after putting down the phone.

  Nathan and I should not get involved. It would be really dumb. However, despite the fact that I know this and I know I need to make things clear to this poor guy, every other part of me, without exception, is telling me something different. For a change, I feel excited and hopeful and good. Distraction might be a good thing; where’s the harm in that?

  The Lorelei Haddon Program is scheduled for an event in eight weeks and I ask for the week off. I don’t want to be involved. The idea of being surrounded by hordes of pregnant teenagers is bad enough, but a number will be bringing along the products of earlier pregnancies. We are expected to provide a crèche while the mothers-to-be listen to advice on childbirth and attend a fashion show of modest born-again maternity wear.

  Here in Tulsa my views are in the very small minority. I believe a woman should have the right to choose when she has a baby, and that teenage pregnancies should always be discouraged. This goo-goo event is ridiculous because it enables irresponsible behaviour.

  But when I ask my supervisor, Eleanor, she says they need everyone here to help out. I leave work feeling frustrated as well as disappointed. And later, at home, when Nathan calls unexpectedly, I end up griping about it. ‘Why is it that I can’t take time off when I want? Every year they come and do this stupid thing. It’s not even a convention, it’s a free-for-all, the most stupid, chaotic and stressful event you can imagine. We always have to call an ambulance for something. One of the thirteen-year-olds will go into labour – because they always do; a fourteen-year-old will lose her baby at the last minute and end up bleeding all over the mezzanine floor and crying for her momma – because they always do. It should take place in a hospital.’

  ‘I know about that programme.’ Nathan sounds a bit sheepish. ‘My church raises money for it.’

  ‘Your church? You belong to a church?’ But, of course, this makes sense. How could I have not realised that he was religious. Nathan has never been at work on a Sunday, he doesn’t cuss like other people, he talks to everyone, he’s nice, and despite four dates he has not tried to lay a hand on me. ‘Oh, my God! When were you going to tell me?’

  ‘Tell you what?’

  ‘About your religion.’

  ‘I told you I went to ORU.’

  ‘You did?’

  ‘I did go to Oral Roberts University, and I did tell you that I did.’

  I have no recollection of this vital piece of information. For a couple of moments I try to review every conversation we’ve had, and I realise that I knew he went to college, but we talked about this when he’d been asking a lot of questions and I wasn’t paying attention.

  ‘I’m sorry, I just didn’t take it in,’ I say. ‘I didn’t realise.’

  As he says it really doesn’t change anything, his voice down the phone sounds sad.

  ‘Well, yes, it kind of does, doesn’t it? Because I’m not. I’m not going to ever be.’

  ‘Give me a break.’

  ‘Don’t even think of trying to convert me.’

  ‘I’ll see you tomorrow at ten,’ he says referring to our plans to go to the zoo.

  As I’m falling asleep I think about this again. Sometimes when you have one small piece of information everything changes. Things shift. Nothing can be understood in isolation. Everything is interdependent. Nuances might well mean something else now. Nothing is certain. How often do I do this? How could I have missed this fact? I’m sure he did tell me. But I didn’t listen. He hasn’t pretended otherwise, hasn’t disguised anything, or been deceitful. Anyone who goes to ORU has got to be born again. Those sixty-foot praying hands and that crazy prayer tower where the big man himself takes requests for his direct line to God are the architectural proof that they’re all crackpots. And Nathan is one of them.

  When he arrives in the morning I’ve thrown out six different outfits and I’m wearing a below-the-knee skirt with a high-necked blouse. When I stub my toe on the bookcase before we leave the apartment. I find myself saying, ‘Gosh darn it.’

  Once we’re in the car and he’s heading towards the highway, I remember that I’ve forgotten to switch the bedroom alarm off. It’s still on snooze. At some point within the next hour it will begin an ever-increasing shriek-eek-eeek-eeeek, which will irritate the happy young couple upstairs – and mess up my chance to be a good neighbour.

  Suddenly I am cussing aloud: ‘Fuck it, fuck it, fuck it.’

  And he starts laughing. ‘What’s up?’

  When I tell him the problem he offers to turn the car around and go back. His response is irritating. I am trapped in this tidy, no doubt well-maintained car with Pollyanna. I’d bet money that if I popped the trunk there would be a first aid kit and a ‘what to do if your vehicle breaks down on the highway’ emergency box in the trunk. My life has never been like this. This is not who I am and, whatever this is, it’s not what I need to be doing at this point in my life.

  I tell him that the alarm will eventually wear itself out, so don’t turn around – I don’t want him doing me any favours – just get us there. ‘Try and drive like you mean it, for a change,’ I say, and he doesn’t even take offence.

  All through the drive I oscillate between self-loathing and him-loathing. As we arrive and I spot a sign advertising Tulsa’s amazing ape house, I say, ‘I bet you don’t even believe in evolution.’

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t think about it too much.’

  ‘You must have a view on it.’

  He stops the car in the middle of the road and twists around to look at me. He’s upset, and angry. ‘I guess I don’t, then. If I have to have a view on it, I don’t. It might be a correct theory, but it also equally might not.’ Then he falters. He says, ‘If God created … ’ His face changes. He’s cornered and nervous – as if he’s just been asked to do a speech at a funeral or something because the guy that was supposed to do it has dropped dead himself. In fact, he looks ten years old and I’
m bullying him and he’s always been such a nice guy to me. I am a total bitch.

  ‘Forget it. Sorry.’ I take his hand. It must be really embarrassing. He can’t help it. It’s nearly impossible not to be a Christian here, maybe. He lost his mother, he grew up in this place. His father probably relied upon church to help out. I don’t know. ‘It’s not important,’ I say. ‘Don’t sweat it. I’m sorry. I’ll stop it. I’m sorry.’

  For the rest of the morning I try not to think about it and just enjoy his company. I’m being silly, I should just appreciate him for what he is: a friend. He’s kind and considerate. Then when we stop for lunch and I’m waiting at the table for him to bring the meal over I watch an exchange between Nathan and the girl behind the till. Though I know it’s part of his ready, friendly charm and that it means nothing when he starts talking to her, I feel irrationally jealous. I can’t hear what he’s saying but I can hear her voice when she replies, ‘Yeah, but standing is better than sitting for this.’ She turns slightly to invite him to admire the view of her very pert-looking ass.

  Nathan averts his gaze, and decides to wave at me. He makes it clear he’s not buying whatever she’s selling. It is at that moment that I experience a significant shift of something I thought impossible: this man’s loyalty and decency is attractive. It’s a mighty mess of attraction, flattery and admiration that produces a definite buzz. So, when he puts his hand over mine and says that he’s really enjoyed the day but that he’s got to take me home, from all the excitement I am feeling in my body you’d have thought he’d sworn his undying love, not that he’s got to get back because he’s got bible study that night.