imogene

“He said he might stay here awhile,” I insist, even though Monique has long dissolved into laughter on the other side of the phone.

“Darling, you have got to be kidding me,” she gasps.

“There’s nothing wrong with – ” I don’t even know how to complete the sentence, which only makes her laugh harder. I thank God once again that she can’t see my flush, and shift my phone to the other shoulder as I dig inside my messenger bag for my notebook. I’m sitting cross-legged on my bed with the covers pulled to my chin, unable to resist telling my best friend all about this recent encounter. It’s silent except for the faraway echoes of a train; the whole complex must be asleep.

“Immy, you’re too much.” Another giggle escapes before she finally calms enough to form a coherent sentence. “You’ve seen this guy how many times? And suddenly you’re head-over-heels?”

“It’s not like that,” I tell her. “I just want to get to know him. I mean... he was really cute.”

“What type?”

“Type? We’re talking types now? Oh... I don’t know!”

“A bit flustered, aren’t we.” Now she’s smug. “Something tells me you’re not really experienced in this area, are you?”

“Not as much as you, that’s for sure.”

“I’ll take that. What did he look like?”

“Skinny,” I admit. “Gorgeous smile, though. He looked like an angel. An awkward angel.”

“Awkward angel?” Monique asks incredulously. “You’re one hell of a poet, Im.”

“Don’t tell me you’ve never made sappy analogies!” I cover my face with my duvet, forgetting again that she can’t see me. This makes her laugh again, but now it’s softer, like a marshmallow dissolving in hot chocolate.

“I’m happy for you, really,” she says. “You’ve got to introduce us sometime so I can see this ‘angel’ for myself.”

“Will do.”

“But don’t get too involved right now.” I hear the click and sigh of a door being opened, and then rustling. “Getting into these things too quickly is never good.”

The conversation strays, and I lose the thread of it until Monique takes her leave for the evening to call her boyfriend. I finally find the notebook I dropped earlier peeking out from between cramped binders and folders, and pull it out. My notes are still surprisingly legible, even on the pages that landed in the mud. On the side, one of my ‘b’s has been smudged to look like a heart.

I stretch out on the bed. I feel distracted, restless. I want to rush outside and find adventures on the smoky boulevards of the city, or take the stars one at a time like stepping-stones to the moon. The night feels like a beginning rather than an end, for some reason, despite the fact that I’m usually asleep by now, I’m wide-awake.

Suddenly energetic, I pick up my phone again and start dialing a number I could recite in my sleep. It’s a call I’ve been meaning to make for months, yet keep putting off just as I reach for the phone. My heart pounds as I dial; I don’t know what’s driving me to do it. Maybe it’s the need to hear him once more, although I still don’t know whether it’s because I’ve forgiven him or because I haven’t. The line rings twice before connecting (and before I can back out), and the warm voice of my father fills my ear.

“Hello?”

“Dad?”

“Hey, Genie!” He sounds so pleased that it pierces me. “I haven’t heard from you in a while.”

“Sorry, I’ve been so busy,” I say, not altogether truthfully. “How have you been?”

“Great! We’ve decided to get a puppy sometime soon, so we’d love to have you over to see her.”

‘We,’ of course, refers to him and his new partner, Dale – the one he began seeing while my mother was busy attending to her flourishing business and ailing sister. Even though it shouldn’t, his happiness feels like an offense compared to my mother’s obvious heartache; his attempts at reconciliation feel downright insensitive. I know my mother’s misery is none of his business now, but it doesn’t stop me from feeling resentful. The bitterness bubbles to the surface, and I mask it with exaggerated cheerfulness.

“That’s wonderful,” I gush. “Does she have a name?”

“Not yet – we have to see her, first.” His excitement is almost childlike, and I experience a stab of loneliness for no reason at all.

“Sure. Maybe I’ll visit sometime.” I pray for the contrary.

“Come on over! Any time is a good time.” Another voice begins in the background; not one that I’ve heard often, but that I can pick out immediately. I switch ears and close my eyes, beginning to regret this phone call. I can’t stand to hear them right now, not when it should be my mother calling him ‘dear’ and ‘darling.’ I cut him short just as he begins on the topic of their new apartment.

“Sounds awesome!” I say. “Anyway, I just wanted to say hi, you know. I should be getting to bed and all, so I’ll call you sometime earlier during the day, okay?” I’m careful to leave out the specifics.

“Alright, Genie,” he replies, sounding defeated. “Take good care of yourself.”

“You too, Dad.”

“Don’t forget to have some fun.”

“I know.”

“You are alright, aren’t you?” he asks anxiously, as an afterthought. “You’re holding up okay?”

“Of course I am,” I reassure him. I know I’m being sulky, that my moroseness is unjustified, but I can’t help feeling hurt that he hasn’t yet asked me how I am, what I’m doing, when I’ll see him. I want him to ask even though I wouldn’t answer anyway.

“My little Genie,” he says fondly, and he’s brightened again.

“Good night, Dad.”

“Good night, honey.”

I’m alone once more. I know I shouldn’t have made that call, yet I did it anyway. My stomach clenches at the thought of meeting Dad and his new significant other, at this other man who’s intruded in my life. I can’t help being sickened as I throw down my phone and clamber off my bed, heading towards the one window on the other side of the room to collect my thoughts. The light outside suffuses the city with a quiet warmth unlike anything I’ve ever seen, like gossamer-spun webs that trace their delicate paths around the rooms of every grown-up and child. They look like dreams.

I climb into my bed again reluctantly, but this time I feel like I could fall asleep right away. The patterns of the moon dance on my ceiling in a comforting ballet; I bask in their soothing luminescence and feel my eyes close. But when sleep washes over me, it’s not the gentleness of a nostalgic dream that envelops me, but the distorted illusion of a nightmare.

In my dream, I’m walking along the shore of an impressionistic sea, dotted with all the colors of the rainbow. There is someone next to me, holding my hand, but I don’t turn to look at him. I know I love him, but I also know I’m afraid. His footsteps are parallel to mine as we create a trail around the edges of the water. I imagine a giant gingerbread cutout and squeeze the hand in mine.

Imogene, says the figure next to me, I have to tell you something.

What is it? I ask.

I’m not who you think I am, the figure tells me. There is sadness in his voice as he turns to face me; I keep my eyes lowered, concentrating instead on the sand between my toes.

I know, I say, but it’s only Dream-Me who knows. I’m a confused spectator watching the scene from inside my own body.

Listen, Immy, the figure says, I’ve hidden it from you all this time because I thought you couldn’t possibly love me if you found out.

I turn as well and find him on his knees. What? What do you mean?

I can’t hide it any longer.

I don’t understand, I say, my panic rising.

Look at me. The figure clasps both my hands in his, and I slowly lift my eyes to his. They are very nearly golden, as if backlit by the dying tide as well as the sun in the distance. His smile is sincere, but self-conscious, and he looks for all the world like he is saying goodbye.

What is it? I repeat, my heart pounding. What do you want to tell me?

I’m not like you, he says urgently. There’s something you have to understand – I can’t explain it – I haven’t been completely honest with you...

I begin to back away in spite of myself. Please, just tell me! I cry, but he ignores me.

...I’m different, you see – no, I’m the same – I’m the same in every way but one – because I love you...

My hands fly to my ears, but the voice is even in my head. It’s repeating itself like broken clockwork, a crackling gramophone that nevertheless has me at its whims.

...don’t you see – I can’t – won’t you come back – I love you! I love you! I love you!

Stop it! I shout. Shut up! Just shut up! I don’t know you!

There is nothing but silence and the crashing of tides. I begin to think he’s disappeared for good, and let my arms drop to my sides. Cautiously, I look to my left and see his beseeching expression.

When I look again, it’s a girl’s face that I see staring back.