as decided to teach me to cook. All the kitchen counters and cabinets
are too high for him in his wheelchair. We sit at the kitchen table, surrounded by
bowls and knives and cans of tomato sauce. Henry pushes the cutting board and
knife across the table to me, and I stand up and awkwardly dice the onion. Henry
watches patiently. "Okay, great. Now, green peppers: you run the knife around
here, then pull out the stem..."
We make marinara sauce, pesto, lasagna. Another day it's chocolate chip
cookies, brownies, creme brulee. Alba is in heaven. "More dessert," she begs. We
poach eggs and salmon, make pizza from scratch. I have to admit that it's kind of
fun. But I'm terrified the first night I cook dinner by myself. I'm standing in the
kitchen surrounded by pots and pans, the asparagus is overcooked and I burn
myself taking the monkfish out of the oven. I put everything on plates and bring
it into the dining room where Henry and Alba are sitting at their places. Henry
smiles, encouragingly. I sit down; Henry raises his glass of milk in the air: "To
the new cook!" Alba clinks her cup against his, and we begin to eat. I sneak
glances at Henry, eating. And as I'm eating, I realize that everything tastes fine.
"It's good, Mama!" Alba says, and Henry nods. "It's terrific, Clare," Henry says,
and we stare at each other and I think, Don't leave me.
WHAT GOES AROUND COMES AROUND
Monday, December 18, 2006/Sunday, January 2, 1994 (Henry is 43)
Henry: I wake up in the middle of the night with a thousand razor-toothed
insects gnawing on my legs and before I can even shake a Vicodin out of the
bottle I am falling. I double up, I am on the floor but it's not our floor, it's some
other floor, some other night. Where am I? Pain makes everything seem
shimmery, but it's dark and there's something about the smell, what does it
remind me of? Bleach. Sweat. Perfume, so familiar-but it couldn't be-
Footsteps walking up stairs, voices, a key unlocking several locks (where can I
hide?) the door opens, I'm crawling across the floor as the light snaps on and
explodes in my head like a flashbulb and a woman whispers, "Oh my god." I'm
thinking No, this just can't be happening, and the door shuts and I hear Ingrid say,
"Celia, you've got to go" and Celia protests, and as they stand on the other side
of the door arguing about it I look around desperately but there's no way out.
This must be Ingrid's apartment on Clark Street where I have never been but here
is all her stuff, overwhelming me, the Eames chair, the kidney-shaped marble
coffee table loaded with fashion magazines, the ugly orange couch we used to-I
cast around wildly for something to wear, but the only textile in this minimal
room is a purple and yellow afghan that's clashing with the couch, so I grab it
and wind it around myself, hoist myself onto the couch and Ingrid opens the
door again. She stands quietly for a long moment and looks at me and I look at
her and all I can think is oh, Ing, why did you do this to yourself?
The Ingrid who lives in my memory is the incandescent blond angel of cool I
met at Jimbo's Fourth of July party in 1988; Ingrid Carmichel was devastating and
untouchable, encased in gleaming armor made of wealth, beauty, and ennui. The
Ingrid who stands looking at me now is gaunt and hard and tired; she stands
with her head tilted to one side and looks at me with wonder and contempt.
Neither of us seems to know what to say. Finally she takes off her coat, tosses it
on the chair, and perches at the other end of the couch. She's wearing leather
pants. They squeak a little as she sits down.
"Henry."
"Ingrid."
"What are you doing here?"
"I don't know. I'm sorry. I just-well, you know." I shrug. My legs hurt so much
that I almost don't care where I am.
"You look like shit."
"I'm in a lot of pain,"
"That's funny. So am I."
"I mean physical pain."
"Why?" For all Ingrid cares I could be spontaneously combusting right in
front of her. I pull back the afghan and reveal my stumps.
She doesn't recoil and she doesn't gasp. She doesn't look away, and when she
does she looks me in the eyes and I see that Ingrid, of all people, understands
perfectly. By entirely separate processes we have arrived at the same condition.
She gets up and goes into another room, and when she comes back she has her
old sewing kit in her hand. I feel a surge of hope, and my hope is justified: Ingrid
sits down and opens the lid and it's just like the good old days, there's a
complete pharmacy in there with the pin cushions and thimbles.
"What do you want?" Ingrid asks.
"Opiates." She picks through a baggie full of pills and offers me an
assortment; I spot Ultram and take two. After I swallow them dry she gets me a
glass of water and I drink it down.
"Well." Ingrid runs her long red fingernails through her long blond hair.
"When are you coming from?"
"December, 2006. What's the date here?"
Ingrid looks at her watch. "It was New Year's Day, but now it's January 2.
1994."
Oh, no. Please no. "What's wrong?" Ingrid says.
"Nothing." Today is the day Ingrid will commit suicide. What can I say to her?
Can I stop her? What if I call someone? "Listen, Ing, I just want to say...." I
hesitate. What can I tell her without spooking her? Does it matter now? Now that
she's dead? Even though she's sitting right here?
"What?"
I'm sweating. "Just...be nice to yourself. Don't...I mean, I know you aren't very
happy-"
"Well, whose fault is that?" Her bright red lipsticked mouth is set in a frown. I
don't answer. Is it my fault? I don't really know. Ingrid is staring at me as though
she expects an answer. I look away from her. I look at the Maholy-Nagy poster on
the opposite wall. "Henry?" Ingrid says. "Why were you so mean to me?"
I drag my eyes back to her. "Was I? I didn't want to be."
Ingrid shakes her head. "You didn't care if I lived or died."
Oh, Ingrid. "I do care. I don't want you to die."
"You didn't care. You left me, and you never came to the hospital." Ingrid
speaks as though the words choke her.
"Your family didn't want me to come. Your mom told me to stay away."
"You should have come."
I sigh. "Ingrid, your doctor told me I couldn't visit you."
"I asked and they said you never called."
"I called. I was told you didn't want to talk to me, and not to call anymore."
The painkiller is kicking in. The prickling pain in my legs dulls. I slide my hands
under the afghan and place my palms against the skin of my left stump, and then
my right.
"I almost died and you never spoke to me again."
"I thought you didn't want to talk to me. How was I supposed to know?"
"You got married and you never called me and you invited Celia to the
wedding to spite me."
I laugh, I can't help it. "Ingrid, Clare invited Celia. They're friends; I've never
figured out why. Opposites attract, I guess. But anyway, it had nothing to do
with you."
Ingrid says nothing. She's pale under her makeup. She digs in her coat pocket
and brings out a pack of English Ovals and a lighter.
"Since when do you smoke?" I ask her. Ingrid hated smoking. Ingrid liked
coke and crystal meth and drinks with poetic names. She extracts a cigarette from
the pack between two long nails, and lights it. Her hands are shaking. She drags
on the cigarette and smoke curls from her lips.
"So how's life without feet?" Ingrid asks me. "How'd that happen, anyway?"
"Frostbite. I passed out in Grant Park in January."
"So how do you get around?"
"Wheelchair, mostly."
"Oh. That sucks."
"Yeah," I say. "It does." We sit in silence for a moment.
Ingrid asks, "Are you still married?"
"Yeah."
"Kids?"
"One. A girl."
"Oh." Ingrid leans back, drags on her cigarette, blows a thin stream of smoke
from her nostrils. "I wish I had kids."
"You never wanted kids, Ing."
She looks at me, but I can't read the look. "I always wanted kids. I didn't think
you wanted kids, so I never said anything."
"You could still have kids."
Ingrid laughs. "Could I? Do I have kids, Henry? In 2006 do I have a husband
and a house in Winnetka and 2.5 kids?"
"Not exactly." I shift my position on the couch. The pain has receded but
what's left is the shell of the pain, an empty space where there should be pain but
instead there is the expectation of pain.
"Not exactly,'" Ingrid mimics. "How not exactly? Like, as in, 'Not exactly,
Ingrid, really you're a bag lady?'"
"You're not a bag lady."
"So I'm not a bag lady. Okay, great." Ingrid stubs out her cigarette and crosses
her legs. I always loved Ingrid's legs. She's wearing boots with high heels. She
and Celia must have been to a party. Ingrid says, "We've eliminated the
extremes: I'm not a suburban matron and I'm not homeless. Come on, Henry, give
me some more hints."
I am silent. I don't want to play this game.
"Okay, let's make it multiple choice. Let's see... A) I'm a stripper in a real
sleazy club on Rush Street. Um, B) I'm in prison for ax-murdering Celia and
feeding her to Malcolm. Heh. Yeah, ah, C) I'm living on the Rio del Sol with an
investment banker. How 'bout it Henry? Do any of those sound good to you?"
"Who's Malcolm?"
"Celia's Doberman." Figures.
Ingrid plays with her lighter, flicking it on and off. "How about D) I'm dead?"
I flinch. "Does that appeal to you at all?"
"No. It doesn't."
"Really? I like that one best." Ingrid smiles. It's not a pretty smile. It's more
like a grimace. "I like that one so much that it's given me an idea." She gets up
and strides across the room and down the hall. I can hear her opening and
shutting a drawer. When she reappears she has one hand behind her back. Ingrid
stands in front of me, and says, "Surprise!" and she's pointing a gun at me.
It's not a very big gun. It's slim and black and shiny. Ingrid holds it close to her
waist, casually, as though she's at a cocktail party. I stare at the gun. Ingrid says,
"I could shoot you."
"Yes. You could," I say.
"Then I could s