Alone With You in the Ether Page 3

  And now, ladies and gentlemen, we are proud to present… Aldo Damiani’s thoughts!

  Buzz. Bees. The honeybee’s wings flapped 11,400 times per minute, which was what created the buzzing sound. Bees were known for industriousness and organization; see also, the phrase ‘worker bee.’ That, plus determination; a beeline. Aldo was similarly single-minded, even if he was many-thoughted. He floated out on an exhale, adrift and out to sea.

  He would have to try something different tomorrow, since his problem solving had not been particularly fruitful that day. He had a number of favorite places within the hive of the city, and typically bounded around between them. The top floor of the public library was an atrium called the Winter Garden, though Aldo couldn’t understand why. There was no particular season involved, but there was a pleasing vastness, a certain proximity to the heights and the heavens, and it was frequently empty. The concrete beams lofting up the glass ceiling would descend on him in hexagonal shadows, and if he positioned himself correctly beneath them, perhaps something new would occur to him. Otherwise, there was always the Lincoln Park Zoo, or the art museum. It was often quite busy, but to the right eye, it still contained places to hide.

  the narrator: Foreshadowing, baby!

  Aldo exhaled the taste of burning, the film of it coating his tongue, and then put out the smoldering end of the joint. He had as much of a buzz as he needed, and sleep felt pointless for the night.

  Aldo disliked the sensation of being asleep. It felt something very close to being dead, which was an uncomplicated and therefore troubling state of being. He wondered if bees felt that way when their wings stopped beating. Though, he wondered if they ever did. He wondered what a bee would do if it knew its life’s work was contributing to the ecosystems of fancy toasts. Would that be enough to compel it to stop?

  Doubtful.

  Aldo made his way back to his apartment and fell onto his bed, staring up at the track lighting overhead. He alternated between opening one eye, then the other. He could read, maybe. He could watch a movie. He could do anything, really, if he wanted.

  11,400 beats per minute was really something.

  He closed his eyes and let his mind wander, settling into the buzz of his thoughts.

  “So, Charlotte—”

  Regan fought the urge to flinch and ultimately managed it, opting instead to tuck one ankle behind the other and angle herself slightly away, facing the window. She itched to cross her legs—to fold in on herself entirely—but some habits couldn’t be unlearned, and her mother had taken her social cues from Queen Elizabeth: no legs crossed. Regan suspected she would have also been forced to wear pantyhose, too, if anyone had ever bothered to make it in her skin tone.

  “How are your moods lately?” the doctor asked. She was a nice enough woman; well-intentioned, at least. She had a comforting, matronly air to her and the sort of bosom Regan imagined grandchildren nesting into. “You mentioned during our last session that you sometimes feel restless.”

  Regan knew enough about the practices of clinical psychology to recognize that ‘restlessness’ in this particular space was code for ‘mania,’ which was in turn code for ‘falling into her old ways’—at least, if her mother were here to translate.

  “I’m fine,” Regan said, which wasn’t code for anything.

  In fact, she was fine. She had enjoyed her walk here from the Art Institute, passing Grant Park as she aimed herself towards Streeterville. The streets were buzzing with people, which was why she liked it. It felt very alive and full of possibility, unlike this particular room.

  Regan often opted to take a meandering path on her way to her bi-weekly appointments, passing contemplatively by all the doors she might have entered while the shops were closing and the restaurants were starting to fill. She had been thinking about what she might want to eat that evening—pasta sounded good, but then again pasta always sounded good, and either way prosecco sounded better—and whether or not she’d make it to yoga in the morning when she’d suddenly recalled that she had yet to check her phone.

  The narrator, a beloved kindergarten teacher: Regan’s consistent unreachability was once a carefully honed practice that had gradually become a habit. When Regan was younger, she had coveted the prospect of a call or a text; it meant, primarily, attention. It meant that she had filled the vacancy of someone else’s thoughts. Then, after a while, she began to understand that there was power in devaluing her worth to others. She started to place limits on herself; she wouldn’t check her phone for ten minutes. Then for twenty. Eventually she’d space hours between, making a point to direct her thoughts elsewhere. If others were forced to wait for her time, she thought, then she would not have to owe so much of herself to them. Now, Regan is so very talented at being completely unreliable that people have started to call it a weakness. She takes some pride in their misconceptions; it means people can always be fooled.

  “How are things with your boyfriend?” asked her psychiatrist.

  On Regan’s phone had been the expected dick pic from Marc; he was wearing the white Calvins that Regan had bought for him some weeks after they’d moved in together.

  the narrator: Marc Waite and Charlotte Regan met at a bar about a year and a half ago, back when Regan was planning a gallery opening with a friend. She’d selected the venue, determined the artists and the pieces, and then she’d met Marc. He’d been going down on her in the bathroom of the Hancock Signature Room—in Regan’s opinion, the best view of the city was from the women’s restroom on the 95th floor—when she received a voicemail from her father listing the ways that her subject of choice, The Fraught Lies of Beauty, was inappropriate for someone who had only narrowly avoided federal prison for white collar crime. “There’s candor, Charlotte, and then there’s hubris,” he’d ranted into her voicemail. She had not actually listened to the message until close to three days later.

  “What’s your boyfriend’s name? Marcus?”

  “Marc,” Regan said, which he preferred. “He’s fine.”

  Which he was, generally speaking. He was something-something hedge funds. He didn’t ask for very much from Regan, which was ideal, because she didn’t typically give very much. If they tired of each other, they simply didn’t speak. They were good at occupying each other’s spaces. She often thought of him as an accessory that matched with everything; some sort of magical mood ring that adapted to whatever persona she had currently filled. When she wanted silence, he was silent. When she wanted to talk, he was generally apt to listen. When she wanted sex, which she often did, he was easily persuaded. Eventually she would marry him, and then everything she was would vanish into his name. She’d attend parties as Mrs. Marcus Waite, and no one would ever have to know a thing about her. She could shrug him on like some kind of cloak of invisibility and vanish entirely from sight.

  Not that he wanted her to. If there was one thing Regan would willingly say about herself, it was that she was an ornament, a novelty, a party trick. She was the center of attention when she wished to be, quick-witted and charming and impeccably dressed, but those types of girls grew dull when there were no eccentricities or blemishes. The world loved to take a beautiful woman and exclaim at the charm of her single imperfection; Marilyn Monroe’s mole, or Audrey Hepburn’s malnutrition. It was the same reason Marc took no issue with Regan’s past. He didn’t mind that she had once required reinvention; she doubted he’d take an interest in her if he couldn’t elevate himself with her flaws.

  “You’ve been getting along lately, then?”

  “Yes,” Regan said. “We’re fine.”

  They always got along, because getting along required the least of their energy. Marc would consider a fight to be a poor use of his time. He liked to smile at Regan when she argued, preferring to let her tire herself out.

  “And your family?” the psychiatrist asked.

  Regan’s phone had contained two voicemails: one from her psychiatrist asking if she could come to her session an hour earlier (she hadn’t received it and had come at her usually scheduled time, it was fine, nobody died), and one from her sister, earlier that evening.

  “I know you won’t get this for like, a month,” Madeline said, “but Mom and Dad want you home for their anniversary party. Just let me know if you’re bringing someone, okay? Seriously, that’s all I need. Just text me back a number. One or two, but zero is not acceptable. And don’t just send me a cryptic series of gifs again, it’s not as funny as you think. Are you going to wear that wrap dress you just bought? Because I was going t- ah, hang on, Carissa wants to speak to you.” A pause. “Honey, you can’t tell me you want to speak to Auntie Charlotte and then refuse.” Another pause. “Sweetheart, please, Mommy is very tired right now and you’re going to lose your good behavior stickers. Do you want to talk to Auntie Charlotte or not?” A long pause, and then a shrill giggle. A sigh, “Okay, fine, whatever. Carissa misses you. Though, I can’t believe I have to say this, but please do not buy her more chewing gum, that peanut butter trick only does so much. God, she’s just like you as a kid, I swear. Alright, bye Char.”

  Regan thought about Carissa Easton, who was probably wearing a lace headband, perhaps with bows, and a velvet dress whose washing instructions demanded dry cleaning; not simply ‘dry clean,’ which was simply the best method, but ‘dry clean only,’ which was the exclusive method, and which was a distinction that Madeline Easton, nèe Regan, would know.

  the narrator: In reality, Carissa was not much like Regan. Her mother adored her, for one thing, and she was an only child, or at least a future oldest child. Carissa would be more like Madeline one day, which was precisely why Regan made a point to send her chewing gum.

  “They’re doing very well,” Regan said. “My parents are having an anniversary party n
ext month.”

  “Oh?” asked the psychiatrist. “How many years?”

  “Forty,” Regan said.

  “That’s very impressive. It must be very beneficial to have such a stable relationship in your life.”

  the narrator: Regan’s parents had slept in separate bedrooms since she was ten years old. In Regan’s opinion, marriage was very easy to do if you simply operated in totally separate spheres. If she were to chart her parents as a Venn diagram, the only three things in the center would be money, Madeline’s achievements, and what should be done about Regan.

  “Yes, it’s wonderful,” Regan said. “They’re made for each other.”

  “Is your sister married?”

  “Yes. To another doctor.”

  “Oh, I didn’t realize your sister was a doctor.”

  “She is. A pediatric surgeon.”

  “Oh.” It was an Oh, how impressive, as it usually was.

  “Yes, she’s very smart,” Regan said.

  Sibling rivalry was nothing new, though Regan didn’t exactly feel the need to disparage her sister. It wasn’t Madeline’s fault she’d been the more pleasing daughter.

  Regan touched her garnet earrings, thinking about what she’d say when she called her sister back. The last thing she wanted was to bring Marc home, and certainly not for this party. Her parents hated him, but not in a fun way, and certainly not from a place of concern. They hated him because they didn’t particularly like Regan, either, but also there was a very palpable sense—to Regan, anyway—that their opinion fell somewhere along the lines of: At least Marc is sufficiently rich. He wasn’t after her for her money, and that, they exhaled, was a relief.

  Madeline thought Marc abrasive, but Regan thought Madeline’s husband passive and uninteresting. He was all the worst things about doctors; all diagnosis, no bedside manner. Marc, on the other hand, was bedroom eyes and gregarious laughter, and had he ever told you about the time he lost a goat-milking competition to one of the locals in Montreux?

  So, yeah. In Regan’s experience there was always room for disagreement.

  “Anyway,” the psychiatrist said. “How is your volunteering going?”

  “It’s fine,” Regan said.

  The doctor meant the docent job, which had at least put Regan within the realm of art, even if she was no longer studying or creating it. Every now and then she looked around at the pieces and thought about picking up a brush, or possibly rushing out to buy some clay right after work. She had hands that itched to be busy, to be occupied by something or another, but it seemed every time she sat down lately, her mind simply went blank.

  “Have you thought about what you’ll do next?”

  Next. People were always thinking about what to do next. Other people were always planning their futures, moving ahead, and only Regan seemed to notice how the whole thing was just moving in circles.

  “Maybe art school,” Regan said. A safe answer.

  “That’s a thought,” the psychiatrist said approvingly. “And how are you adjusting to your new dosage?”

  Beside the fridge lived five translucent-orange pill bottles. Regan took three in the morning and three at night (the lithium she took twice). One of them, a name she would probably never remember, was relatively new, and about as difficult to swallow as certain aspects of her personality. Taken with too little food, she got incurably nauseated. Taken too late at night, her dreams were so vivid she woke without any concept of where she was. She usually grimaced at the bottle before finally conceding to open it, placing it on her tongue and swallowing with a gulp of flat champagne.

  “In my professional medical opinion, Charlotte Regan is unwell,” was the diagnosis by the psychiatrist that her lawyers (or more aptly, her father) had hired. “This is a young woman who is well-educated, intelligent, talented, and raised in a secure and loving home, and who has the capacity for great contribution to society. But it is my professional belief that her bouts of depression and mania make her easily led astray by others.”

  The pill typically went down with the chalky, bitter taste of repetition. Regan was a spontaneous person who was now tethered to the mundanity of a routine—morning and night, plus the monthly blood tests just in case the pills that made her well decided to poison her instead—though she didn’t necessarily resent the doctor for that, either. Resentment seemed a pointless task, and was, like most things, far too much effort to conjure.

  Later that night, Regan would take that pill and the rest of her pills and then wander into the bedroom she shared with Marc. The apartment was his space, full of his things and designed to his taste—he’d already owned it when she moved in and Regan hadn’t bothered purchasing anything since her arrival—but she could see why he wanted her inside it.

  the narrator: Regan believes there are two ways to manipulate a man: either to let him pursue you or to let him pursue you in a way that makes him feel he’s the pursuit. Mark is the latter, and he loves her the same way she loves art, which Regan considers a pleasing form of irony. Because even when you know everything about how a piece is made, you’re still only seeing the surface.

  “I feel much better,” Regan said, and the psychiatrist nodded, pleased.

  “Excellent,” she said, scribbling something down in her notepad. “Then I’ll see you again in two weeks.”

  Regan would go to bed before Marc returned home that evening, which was (unbeknownst to her) the occasion of her last normal day. She would pretend to be asleep when he curled naked around her. She would also leave for yoga before he woke up, and the day would proceed as it always did: with pills, water, a meager breakfast, and then to the museum. She would wander, eventually, through the variations of white-washed Jesus in the medieval corridor to the end of the European exhibition. The armory contained red walls, unlike the neutral tones of the other rooms, and featured a bodiless knight in the center, frozen in time as Regan and everything else continued around it.

  Everything would be the same in there, precisely as it always was, except for one thing.

  That day, there would be someone else inside the armory.

  for the record, Regan wasn’t the only one to speculate on the causality of it all. Aldo was a chronic wonderer, compulsive with his pondering, and therefore crises of meaning and sequence were fairly commonplace.

  But unlike Regan, whom he had not yet met, Aldo could be patient with the concept of nothing. Emptiness repulsed Regan, filling her with abject terror, but the concept of zero was something that Aldo had come to accept. In his field of expertise, resolution was difficult (if not fully impossible) to come by. Answers, if they were to arrive at all, took time, which was why Aldo’s specialty was constancy. He had a talent for persisting, which his medical records would confirm.

  The night before he met her, Aldo had resigned himself to the fact that an epiphany might never find him, or that it wouldn’t matter if it did. That was the risk with time, that knowing things or not knowing them could change from day to day.

  On that day, Aldo believed a certain set of things wholly and concretely: That two and two were four. That of the lean proteins, chicken was most accessible. That he was trapped within the constraints of a maybe-hexagonal structure of spacetime from which he might never escape. That tomorrow would look like yesterday; would look like three Fridays from now; would look like last month. That he would never be satisfied. That in two weeks, predictably unpredictable, it might rain, and therefore in changing, everything would remain the same.

  The next day he would feel differently.

  THE NARRATOR, A FUTURE VERSION OF ALDO DAMIANI THAT DOES NOT YET EXIST: When you learn a new word, you suddenly see it everywhere. The mind comforts itself by believing this to be coincidence but isn’t—it’s ignorance falling away. Your future self will always see what your present self is blind to. This is the problem with mortality, which is in fact a problem of time.