Like Normal People Page 2

  “I look fine,” said Shelley, brushing some lint off her tank top.

  Ella removed a small brush from her purse. “Fine for sitting on the lawn,” she said, “but not for a fire.” Gently, Ella began to brush Shelley’s hair. The girl arched up, like a cat, into the brush strokes. The aides, glistening in their white nylon uniforms, were clearing the residents. They did this tenderly, like angels separating clouds. Shelley and Ella sat and waited for someone to claim them.

  Mrs. Lowenstein was coming toward them with Lena. They were walking arm in arm, like a celebrity with her escort, down the fuzzy, fluorescent hall.

  Shelley jumped up. Ella had hoped that Shelley would walk beside her, in a dignified fashion, but the girl shot ahead. Ella fumbled with her dress and then rose and followed Shelley, her heels clicking on the linoleum.

  And here was her daughter, coming toward her with such breathless force that she broke free of Mrs. Lowenstein; it was Lena all alone, hurrying toward Shelley. She was wearing a new peach-colored cotton housecoat, covered with daisies, that came from Lane Bryant. Ella could see the price tag poking out of a sleeve. Her cherry-red sneakers didn’t quite match the housecoat. Her fine short hair, glinting with rusty gold, looked pretty in the light. She was running her fingers down her hair, a gesture Ella recognized as an attempt to brush it.

  Mrs. Lowenstein stepped into a doorway and began talking in Spanish to an aide. When Ella reached Shelley and Lena, she saw how happy they looked; they were touching fingertips and talking excitedly.

  “I made a fire!” Lena exclaimed. “It smelled bad.” Her arms were powdery with ash.

  “Shhh!” said Ella, glancing at Mrs. Lowenstein. “Don’t say that.” Lena’s palms were grimy, and she was making a mess out of Shelley, too. Ella dug a Kleenex out of her purse and began to wipe Lena’s palms; getting her cleaned up was the first order of business. Lena reeked of fire and Thrifty’s Intimate perfume.

  “It was an accident,” whispered Ella, hoping. “It was an accident, and thank God you’re all right.” She carefully wiped her daughter’s fingers. They did not appear to grow old with the rest of her; they were chubby and pink and seemed to promise a great future. “Now, what happened? Tell me—”

  With her free hand, Lena brought one of Shelley’s palms to her face and kissed it noisily. “You don’t come to see me anymore.”

  “I wanted to,” Shelley began. “But they—”

  “You’re here,” Lena said. She patted Shelley’s hair as though it were a towel she was using to dry wet hands. “Today is a special day.”

  “Fine,” said Ella. “Now what—”

  “You can’t say it’s not!” Lena shrieked.

  “All right!” said Ella. She tucked the dirty tissue into her purse. “Honey, you can’t go around saying you set a fire. It’s not going to make you lots of friends—”

  Shelley stepped up to her grandmother with the demeanor of an irate lawyer. “I would like to take my aunt out for coffee,” she announced.

  “Coffee?” asked Ella. “Twelve-year-olds don’t drink coffee.”

  Shelley tried to stand taller, as though that would help. “Doughnuts,” she amended. “Just down the block.”

  It was a ridiculous request, but Lena and Shelley were urgent in their desire to be taken seriously. Ella noticed Mrs. Lowenstein turn toward her. “All right,” she said quickly, “Go. Whatever. But come right back.” They ran down the hallway, urgent as two salesmen on an important mission. They went around a corner and were gone.

  Mrs. Lowenstein, a heavy woman in her forties, seemed to have been born in a boxy navy suit; Ella thought her appearance too official for her role in Panorama Village. Every time Ella saw Mrs. Lowenstein, she wondered whether the woman had some secret job—perhaps selling insurance. This thought helped Ella maintain a healthy skepticism toward anything the director said about Lena, especially anything she didn’t want to hear.

  “Mrs. Lowenstein,” said Ella, standing up and holding out the candy box, “I’ve brought you a present. I was surprised to hear what you said this morning and—”

  “Ella, you didn’t need to do that,” Mrs. Lowenstein said, somewhat sharply.

  Ella continued to offer the box. “I know you like nougat. I asked them to put extra in.”

  “Okay, okay,” said Mrs. Lowenstein. “Thank you.” She took the box and led Ella into a small room, where she seated herself on a couch and indicated that Ella do the same.

  “Now,” said Mrs. Lowenstein, “we need to talk.”

  “Yes,” said Ella. “Certainly.”

  “I just called Vivien. Let’s wait to discuss everything when she arrives.”

  Ella was startled. “Vivien? I’m sure she has plenty of other things to do.” She tried to laugh. “I would be happy to talk about it now.”

  Ella knew exactly how to fix Lena’s life; it was what she had done for forty-eight years. Vivien was busy with her husband, her children, her work. She would be included in the discussion about Lena when Ella found it necessary. Mrs. Lowenstein, apparently, had broken that unspoken rule.

  Mrs. Lowenstein glanced at her fingernails, which were polished a clear flesh color. It seemed to Ella that if Mrs. Lowenstein wanted to polish her fingernails that plain color, she should not polish them at all.

  “Why don’t we wait?” said Mrs. Lowenstein. “Why don’t you take a look at Lena’s room?”

  She got up and walked quickly into the lobby. Ella remained on the couch. What had she done wrong? Why didn’t Mrs. Lowenstein want to speak to her alone? Ella wanted to make clear that Vivien was to be called only at her request. The sun flushed fiery against the windows. Outside, in the garden, the pink gardenias and birds of paradise looked brutally healthy, reaching up into the morning light.

  Ella watched as the director placed her hand on a resident’s shoulder. It was a gesture of sickening delicacy. Clearly, Mrs. Lowenstein had a grudge against Lena or against the retarded; perhaps she had had bad experiences with fire. Ella wanted to rush up and accuse her of prejudice. Instead, she headed down the long hall to Lena’s room.

  The hallway was so familiar to her she felt as though she were not walking down it of her own accord but was being carried down its length. The doors on either side were marked with large gold numbers. Some of the doors were ajar, and Ella saw rooms filled with shadows. Each one had a TV turned up high, with a game show host shouting into the room. Ella caught glimpses of faded flower arrangements, stuffed animals with wide grins, a bouquet of metallic red balloons lilting in the air conditioner’s low whir. The rooms were festive in a shabby, hopeful way.

  Ella paused before Room 129, where Lena and Bob had lived. She had been here hundreds of times over the past twelve years, bringing Kleenex, Q-tips, Chap Sticks, Hershey bars, new bedspreads, posters, plastic bowls, aftershave, toilet paper, various brands of shampoo. She’d brought combs, plastic sunglasses, toothpaste, toothbrushes, Nivea, Tic Tacs, Sucrets, Band-Aids, suntan lotion, and sunburn cream. For twelve years, Ella had walked down the hallway carrying her white plastic bags from Thrifty’s and Sav-on. Each time she approached this door, she could feel herself become a useful person. Each time, she could feel them waiting for her.

  Two

  A SIDE DOOR opened at Panorama Village, and Lena and Shelley gingerly stepped outside. They soared through the alley, which was gray with the morning’s shadows; raw tendrils were about to unfurl themselves from the moist brick wall.

  Shelley had never run this way before—with all of herself and toward nowhere. Her legs stretched out, loose, before her. Lena ran with the fury of a toddler, flat-footed, straight-kneed. She followed Shelley in crooked arcs from one side of the road to the other, her arms ape-loose, her palms slapping parked cars.

  The stores flashed by in a blur: the stern plaster genie atop Carpeteria, arms folded, surveying the boulevard; the Toyota dealership with its rows of glittering cars. To Shelley, streaking by, it was all jeweled, magnificent.

  They sl
owed, and Shelley listened to the gentle, curving sound of their breath. Lena was gasping, hands on her hips. “Where are we going?”

  Shelley had no idea. “Farther than one block.”

  “I want to play the game,” said Lena. “Start now.”

  A large, beaten-up RTD bus turned the corner. The air rose raw and cool in Shelley’s throat. The bus stopped, and the doors opened. A merry expression flickered across Lena’s face.

  “I dare you,” Lena said, and hopped on the bus.

  In all the times Shelley had played the game with Bob and Lena, they had never reached another place. They had walked a couple of blocks one way or the other, but they’d never gone far. Now, Shelley watched her aunt get on the bus and give the driver her fare. It was an action both startling and natural, as though Shelley were observing someone else’s curious dream. She’d never in her life seen her aunt get on a bus. It occurred to her that Lena should not ride the bus alone.

  She leaped on to the stair, dropped some coins in the fare box. The bus grunted and roared down the street. Lena hurried to the back, and Shelley sat beside her. The seats were a dull silver vinyl, patched with rubbery black tape.

  Lena surveyed the passengers. There were seven of them. She sat very straight, looking around proudly. Then her face melted with concern.

  “Where are we going?” she whispered.

  “You’re the one who got on.”

  “Oh.” Lena picked at her lip. “I think I left something in my room.” She scrubbed her dress back and forth over her knees and glanced around the bus, her scrubbing becoming more frenzied. “Shelley!”

  The bus rolled up the ramp toward the freeway.

  Lena bit her lip. “I forgot something,” she said, and gently touched the seat.

  Shelley had fallen in love with Lena and Bob when she was ten years old. It began in her parents’ garage. That was where, every night, she sat on the concrete floor by the silent cars and jugs of detergent, holding the phone on her lap and listening to the voices leap toward her, hushed, eager in the dim light.

  Apparently there wasn’t much to do in Panorama Village after dinner, so Lena and Bob would call Shelley’s parents two or three times a night. Her mother always took the first call, carrying the phone under one arm as she set the table or made scrambled meat on the stove. Shelley wondered what Lena said to her mother, for Vivien listened to Lena’s day fully, with all of herself. It was different from the way her mother listened to anyone else.

  Half an hour later, the phone would ring again. “Hi, Lena. What’s new?” her mother would ask. This time, she might set the receiver in the fruit bowl while she fumbled in the refrigerator, letting Lena talk for a few minutes to the apples and pears.

  Lena’s third call often followed by less than a minute. Now Shelley’s aunt was picking up steam. Her mother’s goodbyes became peppy, enthusiastic. “Hi, honey! Got to make dinner now! Bye!”

  One night, there was a fourth call and then a fifth, and that was when her mother decided to hand the phone to Shelley. “Here, Aunt Lena wants to speak to you,” she said.

  “Me?”

  “She asked especially for you.”

  Shelley was flattered that Lena had asked for her. She wanted to talk in private, so she carefully took the phone into the garage. It was just off the kitchen, but the watery brown light made it seem far from everyone else. Sitting, chin to knees, on the cool floor, she looked into the receiver.

  “Hello?” Shelley said.

  A confused silence crackled between them. She knew, instantly, that Lena and Bob had not asked for her. Their breath, thick, anxious, floated over the line.

  “Hello. I had a good dinner,” said Lena. “Meatloaf, mashed potatoes, green beans.”

  “I had the same,” said Bob.

  “We had to sit by the window. That man, Harvey, took Bob’s favorite seat,” said Lena.

  “I wanted to punch him,” said Bob, “but he’s ninety-five.”

  “You always want to punch people,” Lena said, “but they’re always too old to punch.”

  Their voices were a little quick, tumbling over each other, as though they wanted to impress Shelley, even if they had not asked for her. This made Shelley lean into the phone, trying to give them something in return. “I had lunch with Wendy today,” she offered, “but she switched to sit with Marjorie halfway through.”

  “Why?” Lena asked.

  “She didn’t say why.” Shelley had tried not to look at the girls all through the lunch period, but when she did glance up, she saw them sweetly conversing, their foreheads almost touching. It was awful to see.

  “Well, I hate her,” Lena said decisively.

  “Me, too,” said Bob.

  “She should sit with you. You’re the best lunch person!” Lena proclaimed.

  Shelley was surprised. “Why?” she asked.

  “You just are,” Lena said.

  Shelley opened and closed her mouth, unable to think of an answer. Her heart felt like a pitcher of cream, brimming, all the cream about to pour out.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  From then on, she regularly took Lena and Bob’s second call. Sitting on the cool cement floor of the garage she would listen to them talk.

  They had many complaints that they wanted to air. Sometimes Harvey took Bob’s favorite seat, or Warren did; sometimes Jessica, a neighbor, wanted to borrow too many cigarettes. Sometimes the vending machine was out of Lifesavers, or the bingo game looked rigged. Other times, they reported their accomplishments. “I won a purple soap shaped like a rose because I was a good trash picker-upper,” said Lena. “It smells very nice.”

  It took a while for Shelley to learn how to listen to them. Both Bob and Lena spoke quickly, and their voices swerved, unsteady with excitement. Occasionally, she offered solutions to their problems, which they seemed to appreciate. “What about just giving Jessica two cigarettes and telling her no more?”

  “Oh,” Lena said solemnly. “Okay.”

  The calls took only ten, fifteen minutes. Each moment was like a raindrop, glittering and full. Shelley tried to picture Lena and Bob sitting in their bedroom as they talked. Her mother had brought them souvenir snowdomes from the family vacations to Lake Tahoe, the Grand Canyon, places Lena and Bob’s would never go. The snowdomes were arranged on Lena’s dresser in a carefully prescribed order: snow scenes in back, beach scenes in front. As they talked, the twenty snowdomes would be luminous; the unmade bed would be sinking under Bob’s and Lena’s weight. Their three voices floated, strong, disembodied, through the darkness. Every night, Lena and Bob asked for her.

  Shelley’s voice grew larger when she talked to them, as though the words that revealed her true self were unfurling in an enormous place. When she hung up, she would sit in the garage for a moment, feeling a hard strength in herself. It was not what she experienced in her regular life.

  This was the year she had stopped. She had done so with great suddenness and mystery, and she did not understand why. Around this time, her mother and father had begun to speak to her in a sort of code. Sometimes their discussions felt unfinished, their words half-breath and unformed.

  Her father was the rabbi at Temple Beth-Em, a Reform synagogue. He was a tall man, always bursting with energy out of his faded suede jackets as he walked around the temple grounds, saying hello to people. He had an eye for troubled people, new perspectives on God, and clever ways to raise money. The synagogue always needed money. Her father would walk with her through the building, pointing out the places that needed repairs: the worn carpet on the bima, a security system for the windows after a burglar broke in. He was always full of plans to fix everything that was wrong. There were fairs and talent shows, and debates with other rabbis and pastors from neighboring churches. Her father would ask Shelley to help at the fund-raising events. “You’re the first child of the temple,” he said. “You’re going to help bring in the dough.”

  She loved it when he called her the first child; it
set off a tiny explosion of light in her chest. As they walked around, talking of ways to improve the place, she would slow down, forcing her father to set his loping pace to hers, so that she could make the moment last a long time.

  She had jobs at the temple fairs. One involved selling tickets. Each time she sold a ticket, she would tell a joke to the customer, hoping that would make people buy more tickets. She believed she was successful when they laughed, though it could not be a fake laugh. After the fair was over, she would sit with her father, adding the receipts. “Four hundred and sixty-seven dollars!” he might announce; she would see the pleasure in his face and wonder whether her jokes had helped.

  But that year, at the Purim Fair, she did something new and reckless. She and a couple of boys from Hebrew school had come up with a secret deal for their tickets. The boys were named Jason and Danny, and their lips were so red, it seemed as if they were wearing lipstick. They had strong brown hands, and their T-shirts smelled of detergent and sweat. Sometimes they played tag during a break, and she loved the thrill of the air between them as they ran after each other.

  Their plan was simple: each boy would buy a ticket and she would slip in a third for free. Stooping by the box to tear off a couple of the salmon-pink slips, she realized that the tickets were worth whatever she deemed them to be. It was a thought that made the sky seem ready to burst open. When the boys leaned forward and took the tickets, the three of them giggled. “Thanks,” Jason and Danny said, but she did not look at them, for her action bound her to them in a private new world.

  When she had finished selling tickets, she wanted to get away from the table; her hands felt tingly, as if she’d been holding fire in her palms. Jason and Danny had disappeared, which was all right. She had given away a free ticket, and she wanted to run and run. She banged into a group of kids from the after-school program. Often she entertained them by doing a series of flips on the steel gymnastic bars. Today, she was so pumped up, she said she’d do fifty for them. “Everybody count,” she told them, and their sweet young voices rose in the air.