Me Vs. Me. Sarah Mlynowski
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Why isn’t he answering? He’s supposed to be my fiancé. A fiancé should answer even if he’s sleeping. I try to squash my rising hysteria. Something is wrong with my brain. I’m delirious. Maybe I have a brain tumor? I hang up and dial my mother’s hotel number. And then I remember that it’s 6:30 a.m. and hang up before she answers. And then I remember that she’s in Florida and it’s therefore 8:30. Or is it 9:30? I never remember. I call again.
“The hotel has caller ID,” she says. “It’s not nice to prank call your mother.”
“Hi, Mom?” I sit on the couch and try to keep the rising hysteria out of my voice.
“Oh, God, Gabby, you’re not going to believe the day I’m having.”
“Yeah, me, too.”
“Well, me first,” she says. “I was woken up at four this morning by the fire alarm. I had to put on my bathrobe, and wait in the lobby. Naturally it was a false alarm, and a big waste of my time and energy. Anyway, you just caught me. I was on my way to work.”
“I think something is weird with me.”
“Are you throwing up? You’re not pregnant, are you?”
I lie across the couch. “Does being pregnant make you stupid?”
“A little. Are your breasts swollen?”
I examine my braless cleavage. “Not so much.”
“Morning sickness?”
“I don’t think I’m pregnant. It’s just that…Okay, I know this is going to sound weird. But I went to sleep last night at Cam’s and I woke up in my own bed.”
Silence. “Have you been smoking anything?”
“Mom, no.”
“Booze?”
“A little. But not enough to make me go crazy.”
“Moving is stressful, Gabby.”
“And to top it off, Cam proposed last night—”
“He proposed? Now? What a male thing to do. He waits until you quit your job, and then decides to propose? What is wrong with him? With all of them? Your father always tried to control me like that. You’re too young to get married anyway. You can’t get married at twenty-four—”
“Mom—”
“So what did you do?”
“I’m not sure. I thought I said no. But then I went to sleep, and when I woke up I realized I hadn’t said no. But now I’m home again. And not engaged. Is this making any sense?”
“No. You had a weird dream. You’re flying to New York today. Stress is normal. Healthy, even. Or maybe you ate something funny.”
“Maybe the potato salad was off.” But if I hadn’t gone to Alice’s, there would be no potato salad. Was going to Alice’s a dream? “Maybe I came home last night, after I left Cam’s.”
Suddenly, Lila’s door bursts open. “Gabby, it’s six-thirty in the morning here. Some of us don’t have to be up for another thirty minutes.” She’s wearing her long red silk nightgown and her matching fuzzy red slippers. Her blond hair is already tied into a neat ponytail.
“Mom, I have to go. I’ll call you later.” I hang up and turn to Lila. “Am I engaged?”
She narrows her eyes. “Are you kidding?”
I wish. “No. I’m serious.”
“You do remember what happened yesterday, don’t you?”
I remember two yesterdays. “I do, but I’m confused.”
“You turned Cam down. You’re leaving for New York. We said goodbye last night.”
I nod, slowly. Back to single Gabby. Alice’s must have been a dream. A vivid dream. More like a nightmare. I fell asleep worrying about whether or not I’d done the right thing, and I dreamed about what would happen if I had said yes. And the answer: a disaster of a brunch and a church wedding I don’t want.
She studies my face. “Are you feeling all right?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Let me get you an aspirin.”
“Okay. And then I need to get to the airport.”
I watch a movie on the plane. I’m trying not to think about my crack-up, or my new job.
Am I ready for the big time? With my mental condition, I might not even be suited for the small time.
I wonder what Heather will be like. Lila and I always did everything together. Maybe I’ll get lucky and have another roommate turned best friend. Maybe I’ll get even luckier and Heather will have the same shoe size as me. Lila has adorably small feet—her slippers barely fit onto my big toe.
I land in New York, wait twenty minutes for my oversize luggage, another twenty for a taxi line (freezing my butt off—damn it’s cold in this part of the country), have a terrifying journey into the city (both from the speed and jerkiness of the drive, and from the overwhelmingness of it all) and arrive in front of the apartment thirty minutes later. Holy shit. I’m here. I’m in New York. I’m here!
“Here you are,” the cabbie says. “Thirty-fourth and Third.” I do my best not to get run over as I struggle to pull my bags out of the trunk.
“Hi,” I say to the doorman, I take a deep breath to steady my racing heart rate. “I’m Gabby Wolf. You’re supposed to have keys for me?”
He looks behind his desk. “Nope. Nothing for you.”
Terrific. “Um. Has anyone left anything at all for apartment 15D?”
He takes another look. “Nope. But I think Heather’s in.”
“She is?” Thank God.
He picks up his phone and dials. “Heather? You have a visitor. Your name?” he asks me.
“Gabrielle.”
“It’s Gabrielle,” he says, nods and hangs up. “You can go up.”
Why did she make such a big deal about leaving me the keys if she was going to be home? Hello, drama queen.
I roll my bags into the elevator and then off at the fifteenth floor. The carpet is a mousy yellow. It looks like a grandparents’ apartment and smells like chicken soup. Whatever. I’m in New York!
I look both ways and then head to the right. A door opens and a woman is standing in the entranceway. She’s shorter than I expected, about five-two. Her bright turquoise shirt-dress shows off an hourglass figure. Wide hips, and a tiny waist held in by a tight belt. Funky outfit. Her hair is light brown, curly and down to her waist. Her eyes are small and just a bit too close together.
She looks me over. “You’re taller than I expected.”
“Sorry?” Nice to meet you, too.
“I guess you should come in.” She moves over to let me inside. She doesn’t offer to help with my bags.
On the other side of the door is a plain white living room featuring a boring beige, felty, scrawny couch, a red rug, a bookshelf filled with what looks like “How to get him to notice you” self-help books, framed posters of purple flowers and a tiny TV. The first thing I need to buy is a new TV for my room. Lila was never home, so I was allowed to monopolize the one she’d bought for our living room. But I’m not sure if Steak-Knife Heather would appreciate my constant news surfing.
“This is the common space,” she says and then leads me to a room off the hallway. “Your bedroom.”
The room is white and grungy. Tape remnants are stuck to the wall and dust bunnies litter