Элисон Скотч - The Theory of Opposites

I shield my face with my hand as Owen’s mom makes her way into my sight line, then kneels down and offers me some GORP.

I wave her off. “I’m okay.”

“Are you sure? You don’t look so great.”

I nod, so she stands and takes in the view, which I’d like to appreciate if I weren’t in such agony.

“Well, this gives you perspective,” she says, exhaling. Then she adds, “I’m sorry Owen has such a smart mouth.”

“No worries.”

She hands me some Wet-Naps, as if this is an apology for her nine-year-old’s rebellion, and zips up her fanny pack.

“You know how kids are,” she says, starting on her way.

Why does everyone keep saying that? Like I should know how kids are?

“Sure,” I say because that’s what you reply to statements like this.

I don’t know how kids are! I know how Nicky is, I guess. But he never really had a chance at normal. So I only know how he is, which is decidedly screwed because that’s what happens when your dad is obliterated into dust in a terrorist attack while you’re still gestating in the safety of your mother’s womb.

I stretch my neck to the side and wonder if maybe all of my negative pregnancy tests were actually the universe’s way of telling me that my husband was going to leave me, and that being a parent (now? ever?) really wasn’t the best idea in the world. Maybe this was God’s plan, the Master Universe Way. I close my eyes and wish that I had the muscle strength to catch up to Vanessa who would tell me that I’m an idiot for thinking this.

I check my phone again, but it’s working no better than it was thirty seconds earlier, so I tuck it into my back pocket and chew on some almonds and yogurt-covered raisins, which have partially melted and aren’t as good as I anticipated. I spit one out and think about Nicky. I wonder how he is staying busy with Shawn, hoping that Shawn has some downtime to nurture him, though I know that for all of Shawn’s faults, his loyalty toward his nephew should never be questioned. And then I realize that I’ve never really thought of Shawn’s faults. That until recently — with his stupid leather jacket and his rediscovered use of mousse and his oppressive need to “find himself” — I never found much fault in him at all. He was loving (if recently distant), he was sexy (though lately has been too tired for sex), he was cerebral (if bordering on snobby).

I slip my phone back into my palm and start typing:

SHAWN’S FAULTS:

1. Bedroom could use spicing up.

2. Not spontaneous. (See: eggs every Sunday.)

3. Loves coding more than he loves humans.

4. Newly-discovered sense of terrible fashion. (Leather jacket???)

It wasn’t much, but it was something. A slow chip into Shilla. He was a good man, my husband — this short list of faults was proof. Most wives could offer a list of twenty things that annoyed them about their husbands. But I had only four. Five if you counted the mousse. Six if you counted his new use of “dude.”

My back starts to ache from sitting on the boulder, so I ease to the ground, which really doesn’t help. I pull off my sneaker, then my sock, and examine the gargantuan blister that appears to have eaten the entirety of my big toe. A metaphor, I think, though I know I’m being dramatic. One minute your toe is perfectly fine, the next, it’s drowning in anguish. All because of a little friction. Shawn and I never had friction. Obvious case in point: I’d never even considered his list of faults until stranded on the middle of Mount Rainier with my best friend and ex-boyfriend two miles ahead of me, with only Wet-Naps and GORP for survival.

Raina once told me that she thought there was something seriously wrong with us because Shawn and I never argued.

“You’re avoiding something,” she said over sushi one night two years ago. “Healthy couples disagree on things.”

“Says your therapist?” I reached over and took one of her spicy tuna rolls.

“Well….yes! Says my therapist. But that doesn’t make it less true. And PS, I don’t think it’s the worst idea in the world if you make an appointment too.”

I lean forward and try to pop the blister with my fingernail. It just puffs up like a balloon and then throbs more painfully to let me know that it’s angry. I rest my head back against the boulder, the sun charring my cheeks. I should have worn a hat. I should have remembered sunscreen. I should have invested in better sneakers. I should have joined the Girl Scouts. I should have told Vanessa that no good can come from climbing a stupid mountain. I should have fought harder for Shawn. Or Theo.

This last thought startles me. But before I can consider it, he’s there, standing above me.

I see his shadow first, then squint upward.

“That kid told us we’d find you here. You okay?”

He offers a hand to help me up.

“I’m okay,” I say, remaining planted to the ground.

I hear Vanessa before I see her:

“So you quit? You didn’t even try to make it to the top?”

“I tried. I just didn’t.”

“Uh-huh,” she says.

Theodore’s hand is still outstretched. He wiggles it and says softly, “Come on.”

So I reach for it and feel the weight of him pull me up.

He steps toward me and folds his body over mine into an embrace. Theo was always a good hugger, never afraid to lean in, let you feel it. I linger for a beat, then place my palms on his chest, pushing him away.

“So were you trying to kill me?” I turn to Vanessa.

“No,” she says. “Don’t be overdramatic. That would make it a pretty short book.”

Missed Calls: 17

Voicemails: 3

Voicemail from Raina Chandler-Farley

Willa? Where are you? I’ve been calling you for the past hour! Do you not check your phone now? Is this part of your thing? Listen, call me. There’s been a…setback.

Voicemail from Raina Chandler-Farley

Seriously, Willa, where are you? It’s imperative that I reach you. I realize that you are off, like, finding yourself or whatever, but we’ve run into a situation here, and I need to know what to do. If you get this, call my cell. Um, or…shit. If I don’t answer, try Jeremy. He’ll be able to reach me.

Voicemail from Raina Chandler-Farley

Well, I don’t know where the fuck you are, but your brother has been indicted. I hope that you are off enjoying yourself in la-la land or wherever you are because God forbid you leave me with an itinerary, but whatever. So, I’ve been calling you because the FBI arrested Oliver this morning, and they took him from your apartment. (Big sigh.) And maybe you’re too busy at, like, a day spa, but when they came in, he was smoking pot (did you know that he planned to smoke pot in your apartment?), which means they also seized your apartment because our genius idiot brother had moved three pot plants into your closet. Evidently, this is the purest form of marijuana, so it is all he smokes. You know. Because that sort of shit is important when you’re Oliver Chandler and a cosmic guru.

So if you would please take a goddamn moment to call me back, I would like very much to know what you want me to do now. (Big sigh.) Oh, PS, I have tried to reach your husband, but his assistant — no, I’m sorry, his “tech lady in waiting” because that is evidently what those losers are told to call themselves — said that he was scaling a rock wall and couldn’t be reached. Jesus Christ.

Page Six: iPhone Breaking News Alert!

Yogi-to-the-stars Oliver Chandler was arrested today on counts of money fraud. Chandler is alleged to have participated in a Ponzi scheme that raised over $1 million for the famous Kalumdrali Retreat in Mumbai. Celebrities such as Jennifer Aniston, Lady Gaga, Demi Moore and Halle Berry are said to worship at the ashram that promises “peaceful inner Zen to light and caress your very best and karmic soul.” We at Page Six think a cool million bucks will sure help.