Together at Midnight Page 5

  A waitress comes over. “Coffee,” says Max. I nod at him. “Make that two.” When she leaves, he leans toward me, his eyes so wide and round. I forgot that he has these baby-calf eyes; they’re hard to avoid looking at. “It’s disgusting coffee, but I like the vibe. My grandmother’s been taking me here since I was a kid. I mean, she did. She died last spring.”

  I’m about to say the expected “I’m sorry” when the waitress comes back with a pitcher of coffee, pours us each a cup. I put my hands on it and even though it’s only lukewarm, it still feels good.

  “Her name was Luna,” I blurt out.

  “You heard that too?” We don’t need any context here, which is cool and heartbreaking. “I thought that’s what he said. I wasn’t sure, but you were closer than I was.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Max’s eyes go even wider, if that’s possible, and he shakes his head. “Nothing! Only that you could hear better. Not that . . . you should have . . .”

  “Right,” I say. “Sorry.”

  I’ve just given away how guilty I feel. But this is surprising: I don’t mind. It’s a relief, actually. Max opens his mouth like he wants to say something, then stops himself. I take a sip of my coffee, and he’s right, it’s total crap. Definitely not good enough to fill another awkward silence, so I do it myself.

  “My brother’s boyfriend is trying to find out what happened to her. You know, where they took her. How she is. If she is, you know.”

  Max puts down his coffee cup and slides his hands toward me on the table. Not exactly reaching out, but wanting to. His hands are giant, the fingernails bitten down to stubs. I get a flash of those hands on either side of my face as we kissed last summer. Block that out. Block block block.

  “Will you let me know if you hear anything?” he asks, then swallows hard. “I’ll give you my number.”

  He fishes a pen out of his coat pocket and writes on a corner of the paper place mat, tears it off and hands it to me. I nod and stuff it into my purse.

  Silence again, and it’s excruciating. Knives in your ears or a hand on your throat would be nothing compared to this, I’m sure.

  But the crazy thing is, I don’t want to leave.

  Max

  DID I REALLY JUST GIVE KENDALL MY NUMBER?

  I guess when something like Luna happens, rules of engagement go out the window. Yeah, from now on, this is how I’m going to refer to last night. Better than “That Thing” or simply “It.” Which would be dumb. And cowardly. Saying her name, even if it’s only in my head, gives her a tiny fraction of what I didn’t give her on the street corner.

  Also, if Kendall’s going to date Jamie, we’re going to have to figure out a way to deal with each other. Maybe, eventually, we’ll talk about what happened in the minivan. Maybe we’ll be friends.

  “Maybe we can be friends,” I blurt out.

  Kendall wrinkles her nose, distorting the pattern of freckles on it. Then, she laughs. “We should totally be friends.”

  “Can we start right now?” I ask. Like I said: rules of engagement, totally gone.

  She laughs again, smiling, and starts twirling a strand of her auburn hair around one finger. I take that as a yes. All this time, I’ve been trying really hard not to look at her lips. Because I’ve kissed them. I’d had too much to drink and it was an epically weird day, but if I told you I didn’t remember what they tasted like, I’d be lying. I do remember. Everything about those minutes with her, I remember.

  Maybe someday, I’ll be able to think about it without the image of Eliza’s face staring at me through the car window. Will there ever be a time when I don’t think about Eliza’s face? The angry one? Or any of her faces? (She had a lot.)

  The waitress comes back and we both order the Two-Egg Special. Kendall adds a third creamer to her coffee. I’ve been counting. My grandmother always took four. I’m really curious to see if Kendall will match that.

  “I keep running through those last few seconds in my head,” I say.

  She nods. Then tears well up in her eyes. (Green eyes, bright, even in a dark minivan in a hotel parking lot.) She closes them and says, simply, “Me, too.”

  “I could have done something. Should have done something.”

  Kendall nods again, eyes still closed. “Ditto.”

  “I was searching around online last night,” I add. “There’s something called Bystander Syndrome. The more people watching something bad happen, the less likely any one person is to act.”

  Her eyes pop open. “That’s fucked up.”

  “They’ve done studies. Each person thinks someone else is going to step in. I thought the guy with the guitar was on top of it.”

  Her face drops. She takes a sip of her coffee, then puts it down. Reaches for that fourth creamer as she says, “And I thought that older lady was going to give them both a piece of her mind. . . . It feels a little better, knowing there’s a name for what we did. Or didn’t do.”

  I think about that. I’m not sure it makes me feel better, but it does make me feel human.

  I stare out the window. The movement of the cars and people on the street syncs up with music playing on speakers in the coffee shop. I could live in New York City if it were always like this. Like one eternal movie montage.

  “I’d give anything for a redo,” says Kendall, and takes a sip of her coffee. The waitress arrives with our breakfast. It smells like everything you ever dreamed about breakfast. I realize I’m ravenous.

  “A redo would be awesome,” I say, thinking about not just Luna, not just the minivan, but the last four months.

  “Maybe we can make one,” suggests Kendall, fresh energy in her voice. “Do what we should have done last night, but for someone else.”

  “That was a pretty unique situation. You want to go on patrol, looking for couples fighting?”

  “I guess you’re right,” she says, then turns to stare out the window. “I guess I’m looking for a way to feel less guilty. Watch me give money to every homeless person I see today.”

  My grandmother used to do that. A crisp five-dollar bill to anyone who’d ask, and many who didn’t. But only when Big E wasn’t with us. He disapproved of handouts. If he was there, and they’d pass someone panhandling on the street, they’d walk on by without a second glance.

  “Giving change to strangers isn’t really the same thing as stopping a person from getting hit by a bus,” I say, then realize I sound like a jerk.

  “I know,” says Kendall. She visibly deflates. “I guess I want to help someone. Be kind. Nobody does enough of that.”

  “Speak for yourself. I help people all the time.” She raises an eyebrow at me, so I continue. “My grandfather, for instance. I’m sort of taking care of him, until we can hire a new home aide.” And I put off college for Eliza, I want to add. Also: I was helping you that night in the van, listening to you weep about Jamie.

  “That’s great,” says Kendall, “but that’s different from reaching out to a stranger. Doing something unexpected, in the moment.”

  “Random acts of kindness.”

  “It’s corny, I know.” She shrugs.

  I repeat it to myself. Random acts of kindness. “What are we talking here? Buying someone a coffee or paying their subway fare?”

  Kendall thinks about that, then shakes her head. “Money’s the easy way. It’s not real kindness.”

  “Real kindness is easy, too.”

  “You think?”

  “You just have to do it.”

  “You make it sound so simple,” she says with a laugh.

  “It is.”

  Now Kendall shakes her head. “I disagree.”

  “So do I,” says a voice. We both glance up. The waitress has been clearing the table next to us. Eavesdropping. She steps over to us, her arms filled with dirty dishes. “Kindness is surprisingly hard. Take it from someone who serves a hundred strangers a day.”

  “See?” says Kendall.

  I look at the waitress
again. Her name tag says ERICA. She’s in her forties, with very short, almost spiky, dark hair. Her glasses have black frames with white polka dots on them. Her round dangly earrings are made to look like green Christmas tree ornaments.

  “I’d love to prove you wrong,” I say. Hoping that sounds respectful, but dismissive.

  “I’d love that, too,” says Erica. There’s a sudden glint in her eye. She puts the dishes down on our table, rests her hands on her hips. Confident, but calm about it. “Know what? Kids are into dares, right?”

  Kendall and I exchange a look. Are we?

  “Sure,” says Kendall.

  “Okay, I’m going to give you a dare. I dare you to perform random acts of kindness toward strangers today and let me know how that goes.”

  “No problem,” I say. “How many do you want?”

  Erica shrugs, but Kendall reaches into her bag and pulls out a little notebook. Her doodles are actually really good. Intricate. Lovely. She grabs the pen I left on the table and starts writing.

  Mom with stroller.

  Older couple.

  Woman with briefcase.

  Guy with guitar.

  Max.

  Me.

  I see all those frozen faces again. I feel my own. That air of anticipation, each of us wondering who was going to step in. Who was going to be the one.

  Kendall pushes the paper toward me. “There were seven of us standing there.” Now she looks at Erica.

  “Okay, then,” says Erica. “I dare you to do seven acts of kindness.” The spark in her eyes is really blazing now.

  “In one day?” asks Kendall.

  Erica thinks for a moment. “How about, by the end of the year? Midnight on New Year’s Eve. That gives you four days.”

  “No money involved?” Kendall seems to actually be taking this seriously.

  “No money.”

  “Not a problem. I have none anyway.”

  “What do we get if we’re able to do it?” I ask Erica.

  She considers the question, then breaks into a grin. “You kids come back here on January first with proof, and our cook will make you our best off-the-menu breakfast. I can also make sure you get on the wall.” She points with her chin to the wall of framed photos. Regulars and celebrities from over the years. My grandmother wanted so badly to be on that wall. When the owner heard about her cancer, she finally made it. I imagine my photo next to hers, forever in this place we loved together. For a reason she’d be really proud of.

  “Okay,” I hear myself saying. “It’s on.”

  Kendall takes a sip of her coffee, then slams the cup down. She’s being dramatic. Funny. “I’m in, too.”

  “Smackdown,” I add.

  “Rumble in the jungle.”

  Erica laughs. “You kids just made my day, and it’s still the breakfast shift.”

  “So how do we handle the, you know, scorekeeping?” asks Kendall.

  “You tell me,” says Erica.

  “I guess there will have to be an honor system involved. But how about we get some kind of evidence each time,” Kendall offers. “Like, a photo. Tangible stuff we can text each other with.”

  “Figure it out,” Erica says as she pulls a check from her apron pocket, slaps it on the table. Then she gathers the dishes back up and walks away.

  “Did we actually agree to something?” asks Kendall.

  I shrug. “We’ll never see her again, so not really. Not if we didn’t want to.”

  “You were just being polite?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “I think she was only teasing us.” I grab the check and pull it toward me. “Let me get this.”

  “Thanks,” Kendall says.

  Painful silence again.

  “I should probably go,” she adds, and starts wriggling out of her side of the booth. “I’m supposed to meet up with my brother. . . . Thank you for breakfast. It helped. Not the food, I mean, but . . .”

  “I know what you mean.”

  Kendall nods, and I see her swallow hard. Then she puts on her coat, bright red wool with those black peg buttons. It should clash with her auburn hair, but somehow it doesn’t. She pulls on her knitted hat and takes a long time wrapping her scarf around her neck—I count three full loops—and pulls on mismatched gloves. One looks much too big, like it’s a guy’s.

  “Catch you later,” she says, and leaves the coffee shop. Through the window, I watch her cross in the middle of the street and get lost in the crowd on the other side.

  She barely touched her food.

  I slide the plate toward me and grab my fork.

  Luna

  THERE’S A LOT OF LIGHT.

  Not bright exactly. Just, a fucking lot of it. It’s everywhere.

  Like behind my eyeballs.

  Luna, the light says. Maybe it’s not the light saying that. Because that would be stupid, light saying my name. And anyway, it sounds like a dude. I’ve never thought about it until this second, but I know light would not have a dude voice.

  The dude says my name like I’m in trouble. Which I definitely am.

  I know that, too.

  Trouble.

  Wrong.

  Yeah, no question about that.

  Because I can’t move my head or my arms.

  “Luna,” the dude says again. The next time, my name goes high at the end like a question. “Luna?”

  Urrrrr, I say. It’s the first thing that comes to mind. Also, the only sound I can make.

  “Luna, can you hear me? My name is Dr. Effron. You’re in the hospital.”

  Urrrrrmmmm. That’s an improvement.

  “You were in an accident. Can you open your eyes for me?”

  Can I open my eyes? WTF, they’re already open. They’re open and I’m in a white room where a thousand colors flash against the walls. It’s sort of cool.

  But then I remember. Rooms have doors, right? There’s a tugging feeling somewhere at the base of me. I should open the door. It’s suddenly super-important that I open the door. This doctor is waiting on the other side and he really, really wants to see me.

  I feel around for a doorknob. There’s got to be one somewhere. I run my hand against the flat cold of the wall, then the next, then the next, and the next. Four walls make a room. Why the fuck is there no knob?

  So I just push. Suddenly, the wall gives way, like I found the exact spot where there’s a hole in it. The hole expands as I push my hand farther through.

  Now I’m ripping the wall.

  Now there really is light everywhere. Way, way, way too much light. And pain.

  So. Much. Pain. This was a bad idea.

  “Luna,” says the doctor again. He looks happy.

  Okay, so I’m here.

  Give me a reason to stay.

  Kendall

  THE WIND WHIPS DOWN LEXINGTON AVENUE, MAKING the traffic light cables jiggle. I pull down my hat and yank my scarf up over my nose and think about the bad, hot coffee in the cozy, warm booth across from Max. I wish I could have stayed longer and that wishing takes me by surprise, because it was a wacko situation, sitting there with him. But now out here on my own again, I miss it. Can something be difficult and comforting at the same time?

  I take the subway to meet Emerson in the housewares department at Macy’s. (No buses for me, for a while, or ever again.)

  When I find my brother, he’s holding a French press that Sullivan gave him and Andrew for Christmas. He’s returning it because, duh, they already have two.

  “Hey, do you practice Random Acts of Kindness?” I ask instead of saying hello.

  “I’m a teacher,” he says with a little snort. “Of course I practice Random Acts of Kindness. For instance, not smacking a student when he or she really needs to be smacked.”

  Emerson freezes, then looks furtively around us.

  “I guess I shouldn’t make these kinds of jokes in public.”

  “I’m being serious,” I say. “What do you think of the whole idea? Someone just dared me to commit random acts of
kindness to strangers, saying it’s harder than it sounds.”

  “Have to say, I agree with that,” says Emerson. “The term looks great on a bumper sticker, but what does it really mean? Kindness isn’t objective, you know. One person’s kindness is another person’s . . .”

  Emerson pauses. His eyes catch a fancy ceramic casserole dish. He reaches out to run his finger along the ridges, which must not feel quite right because he abruptly pulls his finger away and walks on.

  “Intrusion,” he finally continues.

  “But isn’t that the kind of thinking that results in people standing by, letting bad things happen?” I ask.

  “Maybe. But how can you even tell when someone needs your kindness? If you don’t know someone personally, it’s really hard to identify these things.”

  He’s right, of course. I look around the crowded store. Everyone seems pretty frazzled.

  “We’re all so used to keeping our shit together,” continues my brother. “We don’t show our weaknesses.”

  “That’s true.”

  “Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle.”

  I grab Emerson’s arm and he turns to look at me.

  “What?” I ask.

  “It’s a poster in our school counselor’s office,” says Emerson with a shrug. His face softens. “I quote it to the kids a lot, when they need to show some compassion.”

  I get this instant, overwhelming feeling that Emerson is a great teacher and that his students love him a lot.

  “I have to remind myself of that all the time,” he adds. “All. The. Time.”

  He moves off, leaving me to ponder the saying. Everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle. Yes, I can believe it. I sit on one of the miniature made-up beds that I used to think were for the elves who lived in department stores and only came out at night.

  A few minutes later, Emerson appears with a huge pillow and motions for me to follow him to the register.

  “You’re exchanging a coffee press for a pillow?” I ask him.

  “It’s a really, really nice one.”

  “Way to live on the edge, Em.” Although this seems so adult to me; you know you’re finally grown-up when you have to purchase your own bedding.