A Hundred Hours of Night Page 5

  The same thing happened to my laptop once. I opened a new screen and, without me doing anything, the computer started opening screens too, all by itself. Dozens, hundreds of screens, appearing faster than I could click them shut, until my whole laptop was jammed and my dad had to take it back to the store.

  Jim, Seth, and Abby stare at me in amazement, but no one takes me back to the store. My fingers are tingling and there’s sweat on my forehead. I know it’s all gone disastrously wrong, and I’m terrified of what’s going to happen next. Of how I’m going to feel. And what I’ll be thinking. In a few minutes’ time, I’m going to be sure I’m dying.

  • • •

  I don’t mean “dying” in a manner of speaking. Not in the sense of: “Whew! I’ve been running so fast, I think I’m going to die.” I mean literally. I’ll think I’m dying.

  • • •

  “What’s wrong with her?” I hear Abby ask in the distance.

  “She’s losing it.” Jim sounds calm. “You can see that, can’t you?”

  My chest hurts. My lungs are gasping for air.

  This is the end.

  “We have to do something,” Abby cries. “She’s really not okay.”

  And then everything goes black.

  “Jesus,” says Jim. “I’m going to call an ambulance.”

  I’m never going to see my mom and dad again. I’m sure of it. I’m dying. And then, in the midst of all that blackness, I feel a calm arm around my shoulders.

  “Come sit down.” Seth’s voice sounds very far away.

  I don’t want to sit down, because I’m dying and there are hairs and crumbs and dead flies on the floor. But he pulls me down anyway. In the darkness I feel his hand on my back.

  And then he starts talking to me. My lungs are hurting and my throat is burning and my mouth is dry and everything in my body is thumping and racing and rasping and I know for sure that it’s going to break. That I’m going to break.

  But still I can hear him.

  “You’re having a panic attack,” he says in a flat voice. “But it’ll soon be over. You’re coming to stay with us, remember? My mom’s bed isn’t stuffed with woolly mammoth hair. And we have furniture, like normal people. A table with chairs, three bookshelves, and a couch … ”

  All I can hear is the sound of my own breathing. And his voice.

  “We have a washing machine too. You can wash all your clothes at our place. And we can make breakfast for you. How do you like bagels with scrambled eggs?”

  I can’t answer. But I want him to go on talking. And to stay beside me. So at least there’s someone with me when I break. I don’t want to die with no one noticing.

  “Slowly … ” he says. “You have more than enough air.”

  I cup my hands and hold them over my mouth.

  “That’s right,” he says, and his voice is still flat and calm. Like he’s talking to an alien from outer space who’s just landed here. “You see? It’s getting better … ”

  Gradually, my lungs calm down. My heart’s stopped pounding as if someone’s in pursuit. The short circuit is over.

  • • •

  I look down at the floor. I can see the others again, but I wish I couldn’t. I wipe my cheeks. Then, shakily, I get to my feet and start picking up my clothes. I need to get out of here as quickly as possible.

  I am sitting in a silver subway train and racing along beneath skyscrapers and parks. My long line of seats is staring straight at the row of people on the other side of the aisle, so I look down at my lap.

  Reality once again consists of more than a pile of clothes on the floor. The microscope has vanished. I can see everything again, and now I’m as embarrassed as hell. I always am, after it’s happened. I’m not crazy. But I know how it looks to other people. I understand why Jim said I was losing it.

  That doesn’t mean I understand Jim, though. What possessed the idiot to open up my suitcase like that? I don’t care if he looks like Brad Pitt at seventeen. He needs to keep his nine dirty, sticky fingers off of other people’s belongings.

  • • •

  I still haven’t said thank you to Seth.

  As we walked out of the off-white building, I could tell he was expecting me to say thanks or something. But I couldn’t do it. All I could do was act like nothing had happened. It turned out that Seth was pretty good at that too.

  They let me shower for as long as I wanted, but after twenty-three minutes, food became more important than getting clean. The bagel with scrambled eggs that Seth made for me was fantastic, but I didn’t even thank him for that. Because then it would have felt like I was thanking him for the other thing.

  “And now I’m going to give you a tour of New York,” Abby called out just as I was swallowing my last bite.

  Seth shook his head, though, and said she was grounded. Because of the chain and the padlock and the key she’d thrown away.

  “But we can’t just let Emilia go wandering all over the city by herself!” Abby said indignantly. “She might almost die again.”

  “I’m sure she’ll be fine,” said Seth. “And if anything does go wrong, there’ll be someone who knows what to do.”

  “How exactly did you know what to do?” asked Abby.

  “A girl in my class gets panic attacks,” he said. “She has to be brought back to life almost every day.”

  During this conversation I was standing right next to them in the green-and-white kitchen, apparently invisible.

  And all that time I was in their home—while Seth fetched a clean towel for me and made scrambled eggs and showed me how to use the washing machine—he didn’t look at me once. And his dirty hand didn’t come anywhere near my back again for even a second.

  • • •

  I get out at Seventy-Seventh Street, and as I come back up aboveground, it feels as if I’m in a different city. I look around, excited. Here on the Upper East Side is where the multimillionaires live. You can tell because of the buildings with the green canopies and uniformed doormen, and the blacked-out limos and the women with no wrinkles. A dog walker comes by with seven different kinds of dogs on seven tangled leashes, and everywhere I look there are babies in fancy strollers being pushed by women chattering in a flurry of foreign languages.

  I look at the nannies’ faces. I listen to their accents. And as I cut across to Central Park, I think about three years ago.

  When I came home from school one sunny day in September, my mom was lying on the floor of her studio among the brushes and turpentine. She couldn’t remember how to paint, she said. She just couldn’t do it. Her head was empty.

  I instantly knew that it was my fault. And my dad’s. He’d recently been made school principal and I’d been at the school for just three weeks. We’d been too busy with our own stuff. And that wasn’t the agreement.

  It’s crazy. I wasn’t there when the agreement was made. No one ever told me about it—but I’ve always known how our life works. For my mom, her paintings come first. And she comes first for me and my dad.

  The three of us stumbled on for a month. My mom lay on the floor of her studio. My dad had migraines and had to cancel meeting after meeting. I skipped classes so I could go home and shower in the middle of the day.

  And then we found Klara on the Internet. She lived in Germany and wanted to come to Amsterdam for a year before starting a degree in art history. I was twelve and thought I was too old for a nanny, but Klara wasn’t there just for me. She came for all of us, and she made sure our life didn’t fall apart. She taught me how to whistle with two fingers and how to make apple strudel; she explained how kissing works and played German rock music.

  And she got my mom to stand up again.

  • • •

  The Metropolitan Museum of Art lies gleaming at the edge of the park. It’s just about the biggest museum in the world, and it looks like a temple. It’s white and vast, with columns and wide steps full of tourists. I listen carefully as I walk through the crowd. Before I can enter
the temple, there’s one thing I need to do.

  I stop beside a noisy family of Germans. I sit down about a meter away from them and take out my cell phone. My hands immediately start shaking. I’d rather lick an ice cream cone that Jim’s already licked. But if I don’t call my dad at this point, he’s going to contact the police.

  He answers almost instantly. “Emilia!”

  I hold my cell phone so that he can hear the Germans talking in the background.

  “How are you?” He sounds nervous. “Was the train journey okay? Did Klara come fetch you from the station?”

  “Alles ist wunderbar,” I say in German. “Fantastisch.”

  It hurts to hate him. But I can’t help it.

  “We need to talk,” he says. “I know you don’t want to hear about it, but I have to explain what happened. It’s absolutely essential that you listen to me.”

  “Das ist absolut notwendig,” I say, quickly translating his last sentence into German. I don’t want to have to think.

  “Stop being silly,” he yells.

  “Silly? Christ!” I yell back at him. A few tourists look at me. “Why should I listen to you? Why should I listen to anything you say? Twitter and Facebook have been spouting crap about us for days. I’ve already heard way more than enough.”

  “But that’s not the real story—you know that, don’t you? It’s all lies! You need to hear my side.”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Emilia, you’re fifteen! You can’t just disappear to another country. We’re worried about you. And we miss you.”

  That swamp dweller just doesn’t get it. He thinks he can still play the loving father.

  “Well, boohoo,” I shout. “But maybe you should have started worrying sooner. Before you destroyed my life, for example. Then half the Netherlands wouldn’t be wishing we were dead. And then I could have stayed at school.”

  He’s silent for, like, three eons.

  “I resigned yesterday,” he says. “Did you know that?”

  No, I didn’t know that. I immediately put up a fence around it.

  “I’ve got to go,” I say. “We’re about to eat.”

  “I want to speak to Klara!”

  “She’s in the shower. I haven’t told her what you did. I wanted to be someplace no one knows about it.”

  “Emilia … ”

  I cut my dad off and sit there on the cold steps for thirteen minutes, without moving. And then I head into the temple.

  The museum feels like an oasis. The floors are spotless and there’s not a trace of mold on the walls. It smells faintly of art, and the building is so huge that even when half the world is in here looking at the paintings, there are still some quiet galleries.

  I wander past medieval altarpieces, faded tapestries, and Egyptian sphinxes. I’d hoped to be able to forget the real world here, just for a little while—but it doesn’t work.

  I see a statue of a Greek god and it reminds me of Jim. I see a silver globe and I know that my dad would think it was “magnificent.” Every painting makes me think of my mom, of course. And I keep thinking about what I said to Abby: that men are dirty.

  I basically grew up in museums and art galleries, so I’ve seen a lot of things. But wow, there’s a lot of naked skin on display here. Grown-ups act all mature and as if it doesn’t count—because, of course, it’s art—but the walls of this place are actually covered with porn.

  It makes me pretty mad.

  Nearly all the artists in the olden days were men. Did they really have to paint so many naked women? Are breasts really the most important parts of a person?

  As I walk around the silent galleries, I realize I’m clenching my fists.

  Stupid men. Dumb men. Sleazy, horny perverts.

  Sorry.

  But that’s the only conclusion I can reach. This is the abbreviated history of men: First they painted museums full of naked women. Then they invented the computer. And then they filled the Internet with porn.

  I stare at the painting in front of me.

  I don’t notice at first. But as soon as I see it, I turn around and walk away. Out of the gallery. And through another gallery. I can still see her in front of me, though. A young woman in pastel colors, looking back over her shoulder as she steps into the bath. Her blond hair ripples down her bare back and you can just catch a glimpse of one perfect breast.

  I don’t know about the breast. But her smile is exactly the same as Juno’s.

  • • •

  The great glassed-in courtyard in the American Wing finally makes me forget everything for a few minutes. The white space has a wall of windows three stories high, and all those windows look out onto the fall colors of Central Park. The sun’s broken through the clouds, just for a moment, and the yellow and red and orange of the trees glows more brightly than paint ever could. The white hall sparkles.

  I feel a bit nauseated, so I buy a bottle of Diet Coke at the museum café. The tourists at the tables around me sigh deeply as they study the map of the immense museum. I drink my Coke and try not to think about my dad not having a job anymore.

  At the table next to mine are two American women who obviously don’t come from New York. They have Southern drawls and each of them is the size of three wide-screen TVs stacked together.

  “I’m sure glad we didn’t go for that hotel downtown,” says the platinum blonde in a loud voice. “There’s no way it’s gonna flood where we are.”

  “You think the subway will still be workin’?” asks the woman with red hair. “You heard anything about that?”

  The blonde shakes her head and sighs dramatically. “Would you believe it? The one time we go to New York—and there’s a hurricane on the way!”

  My glass of Coke stops in midair.

  I look straight at the blonde woman. “A hurricane?”

  “Didn’t you hear?” she exclaims. “It’s all they’re talkin’ about on TV.”

  The redhead nods. “Hurricane Sandy’s on her way, darlin’. Half of Jamaica’s already lost power, somethin’ like fifty people have died in floods in Haiti, and Sandy caused havoc in the Bahamas yesterday.”

  “And the day after tomorrow she’ll be in New York,” says the blonde. She stands and picks up her tray from the table. “Good luck, honey. Make sure you’ve got enough food at home!”

  I sit there, frozen, at my table. I don’t panic, because I don’t believe a word of it. I watched ten whole seasons of Friends last year, when I was sick for weeks. And in all those old episodes there was never, ever one single hurricane in New York.

  Calmly, I take out my phone. The museum has free Wi-Fi.

  I Google “hurricane sandy.”

  I read a few articles.

  And then I start giggling. I can’t stop. I’m having an actual, genuine fit of the giggles. Because Hurricane Sandy exists. And she’s coming. There’s some uncertainty about her path. It’s possible that she’ll race past New York on Monday, instead of plowing right through the middle of the city.

  But it’s true. There are hundreds and thousands of cities in the world. And I chose to run away to the city that’s going to be hit by a hurricane in two days’ time.

  Of course, the giggling fit stops far too soon, and I can’t just stay sitting there in the museum. I can’t avoid reality any longer. I need to get to Seth and Abby. We have to prepare for a hurricane.

  Come to the horse in the middle of Union Square. Tonight we’re eating the best burritos in town!!!

  Abby’s text message arrives as I’m walking from the museum to the subway. I take a look at the map. If I get off three stops earlier, I’ll be right at Union Square.

  On vacations, my dad always retains absolute power over the map; every summer, I go running after him like a little sheep. But it turns out that I can actually do it myself. I can find my way from one place to another. I can explore a city all on my own.

  • • •

  Union Square is an island of trees and benches in a sea of traffic. Abb
y’s “horse” is a statue of George Washington—granted, on a horse. I stand beside it and quickly take out my cell phone to make myself look busy. When I’m holding my phone in my hand, it feels okay to look around.

  I soon see them coming: Abby in her pink rain boots, Seth with a striped knit cap on his head. They both have intense brown eyes and determined expressions. The difference is that Abby looks like she’s off to save the world while Seth looks as if he’s preparing to face a long jail sentence.

  “You’re never going to believe this,” I call out. “There’s a hurricane on the way!”

  “Oh yeah. We know,” Abby calls back.

  I stare at them. “Really? And you didn’t think to mention it?”

  Seth shrugs. “It won’t be that bad. We have hundreds of TV channels here, so they have to exaggerate everything to make sure they have enough news. There was a hurricane last year too. The whole city prepared for a disaster and then hardly anything happened. Everyone was pretty disappointed.” He sighs. “Come on, let’s go.”

  I don’t understand why he has to sigh so deeply and why he has to look like he’s locked in a cage. He’s out for a walk with his little sister and a girl he called “pretty” yesterday. And going out for a burrito on a Saturday evening can’t be so bad, right?

  Soon, I find out the answer to that question myself.

  If you don’t have much money but you’re really hungry, then on a cloudy Saturday evening there’s truly nothing better than eating a burrito at Dos Toros on Fourth Avenue.

  Really. When I’m ninety and I’m in a retirement home, I’ll still remember that meal.

  It’s warm inside the little restaurant. You have to pick up the food yourself; there’s a long line of hipster students waiting. The interior is extremely simple. Almost minimal. Wooden benches, wooden tables. No art on the wall, just a story about two brothers who came to New York and couldn’t find a good burrito anywhere. So they went into the burrito business themselves.

  I don’t know if it’s the language or the city or my jet lag. At home I find restaurants’ stories about sustainability and local products and little in-jokes irritating and totally phony. But here it works. I really do believe that those two brothers are doing their utmost to make sure I get the very best of burritos.