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I Would Go Out of my Way to Step on that Crunchy-Looking Leaf
by
Yael Wiesenfeld
When I first heard the question I thought it was rather ridiculous. “Would you
go out of your way to step on a crunchy-looking leaf?” It seemed so… strange.
Really, who but a child would? Of course I replied in the negative and received
a look from the man in return that was somewhere midway between pity and
disappointment. I don’t see what made me deserve that response; how does he know
that I’m just not a leaf-crunching kind of person? Maybe the sound of
leaf-crunching is my pet peeve. It isn’t, but that’s not the point. Apparently I
can’t possibly enjoy life without stepping on crunchy leaves. I suppose I
wouldn’t know, but that man doesn’t seem too experienced in life-enjoyment
either, as he always acts as though he’s got a stick up his ass.
I was probably destined to be miserable and non-leaf-crunching since birth. To
start, my name is Epiné, which means “thorn” in French. Of course, my mom didn’t
mean to name me thorn; she just heard the word somewhere or another and thought
it sounded pretty. It was fine until high school, but then everyone started to
learn French and they thought my name was quite comical. Immature if you ask me,
but then I was the one they were picking on. My mother’s name is Vivian, but she
likes to spell it Vivienne, like Vivienne Westwood. She thinks it’s wonderfully
mysterious. My dad is nonexistent, as far as I know. They’ve been divorced since
the beginning of time, and he is even less interested in me than I am in him.
Vivienne is not fond of talking about it and I am not fond of talking about
anything with her, so I know very little about my father.
So it’s not like he would care that I’m here, penned in at New York City
Hospital. When my stay here is done, I expect Vivienne and I will have even less
to talk about. She does not like confronting issues or, in fact, anything more
complicated than why I left my boots next to the couch instead of putting them
in the closet. So there was little chance that we’d be discussing things like my
little “accident”. I don’t have a problem with this- I’m sick and tired of
discussing it anyway.
My accident was “accidentally” swallowing a bunch of pills when I was home alone
a week or so ago. Unfortunately, my suicide attempt (if you haven’t figured out
what it was by now) didn’t work; I just got sick and ended up here. So now I’m
stuck here seeing five psychiatrists a day until they decide I’m normal enough
to go home.
Anyway, so after the stupid shrink appointment, I dropped a heavy book in the
room next to mine and slipped out of the mental patients’ ward while the lady at
the front desk ran to make sure nothing had happened. I will have to think up a
new way to do that because they are bound to figure it out soon. Technically,
I’m not allowed to leave without an escort. I think they don’t want me to be in
close proximity to any sharp objects. It’s pointless though- I wouldn’t try
again, especially not in here. I’d rather not prolong my stay.
I was walking down the hall towards the grimy old neon exit sign when some guy
about my age whistled at me. I’m pretty used to that; last time I punched the
guy in the face, but I decided that was not the best idea in my present
situation. I often appeal to the less Ivy-League kind of boys, if you know what
I mean. I’m attractive, but not in a blond-hair-pink-miniskirt way like the
“popular” girls. I have really weird grey eyes, which I consider to be my best
feature, and short, pin-straight, jet black hair. There was probably someone
Asian on my dad’s side of the family or something. My chosen wardrobe is rather
attention-getting as well. It usually consists of jeans, a white tank top that
Vivienne deems provocative, and black combat boots. I’m also a fan of the grungy
eyeliner look, but I prefer silver or blue over black.
I pretended to ignore the boy as I walked past him but I knew he’d be checking
me out as I walked away, so I put my hand behind my back and gave him the
finger. I was expecting him to jeer at me, but he was silent. I almost turned
around but made a conscious decision not to. No use encouraging him.
When I got out of the hospital, I just walked around the city for a while. The
warm summer breeze enveloped me as I breathed in the antiseptic-free air. I
bought a necklace with a long chain and a miniature silver dagger on it from a
pawn shop. They’d probably explode if I wore that in the psycho ward. I stayed
out until eleven so I would be tired enough not to stay awake for hours doing
nothing when I got back.
They were kind of angry at me when I returned. “Why, Epiné? We were so worried
about you!” The nurse said. Yeah right. Worried about legal prosecution if I had
killed myself while I was gone, more like. “We’re going to have to lock you in
your room from now on, I’m afraid…”
“What if nobody knows that I left? I mean, I didn’t hurt anyone, did I?” I said
tentatively. “It can be our little secret.” I smiled when I saw the look in the
old nurse’s eyes.
“You mean… you won’t tell your mother?"
“If you don’t, I won’t.”
“Okay. But you have to keep your end of the bargain.”
“Absolutely.” I grinned. Obviously, I got the better half of that deal
(especially since I wouldn’t have told Vivienne anyway), but my escape trick
wouldn’t work anymore.
My friend Thomas is only a year older than I am but he looks about twenty-four,
so I asked him to bail me out for a few hours the next day. We had coffee and
talked about my issues and his new boyfriend. Then he went to hang out somewhere
nearby and I was out on my own.
I went to a local music store and bought a new copy of Abbey Road (the old one
cracked in my suitcase on the way to psychoville) and a Nine Inch Nails CD. The
Beatles is my favorite band. People automatically assume that I like “emo music”
because of my appearance. It is ironic what “emo” has come to mean in slang,
apart from the music genre, but I guess I basically fit the current “emo”
description: black nail polish, cynical disposition, suicide attempt. But
honestly, I’m not as abnormal as people think I am. I’m just a teenager who
likes clothes and jewelry (albeit not what other teenagers may wear) and music
and hanging out with friends. Maybe I’m not “happy,” but I don’t think any
teenager is.
Anyway, after I paid the Mohawk-and-eyebrow-piercing-clad guy at the counter, I
left the music store and sat down in Starbucks to listen to my walkman and read
a random French novel while sipping an iced black coffee. It was awhile before I
realized that someone had sat down across from me. I looked up quizzically to
meet the eyes of the guy who whistled at me in the hallway.
“What do you think you’re doing?” I asked.
“Nothing. I saw you in the record store.”
“So you followed me? Stalker. I’m not going to start making out with you, so
fuck off.”
He didn’t move. “Sorry for whistling at you. My name’s Caleb James, by the way.”
At least he didn’t attempt to put over the whistling as a compliment. I’ve heard
that one before. “Epiné.” I noticed a smirk as he recognized my name. “Apology
not accepted… but we’ll see.”
“Good enough for me. So…” There was a long pause. It seemed like he hadn’t yet
thought through what he wanted to say to me after introducing himself. I
wondered what he was doing at the hospital; it isn’t exactly the hottest place
to hang out. However, that was certainly a touchy subject for me and I wasn’t
going to be the one to bring it up. Finally he broke the silence. “What’d you
buy?” he asked, gesturing toward the CD store bag on my left. I pulled out the
albums and pushed them in his direction, looking back down at my book. He
smiled.
“I love the Beatles,” he said, tracing the outline of the yellow VW bug on the
cover with his index finger. “Did you know that this album has some of the most
obvious Paul-is-dead clues?”
I raised my eyebrows. “You believe that shit?” I asked, testing him.
“No,” he replied, “but I do believe that they were planted there as jokes and
they’re fun to search for.” I let my gaze soften a bit.
“I’ve got to go,” I said, gazing at my watch.
“Same time tomorrow?”
“Maybe.”
I met Thomas at the hospital entrance and he escorted me in as if he’d been with
me all day.
I took a day off from the whole escape artist act to up my image as a good
mental patient, but the following day I slipped out the back door (after taking
the keys off Mrs. Front Desk’s tabletop while she was dealing with another
patient) and left a note reminding them of our agreement.
There was Caleb at the same table at Starbucks, waiting. I sat down. “You know
this makes you look really desperate.”
“Hey- you came back, didn’t you?” He had a point. He looked down at my stubborn
plastic hospital bracelet (you know- the kind you need scissors to get off) and
then back up at me . “Why—” he began. I tugged down the sleeve of my leather
jacket and looked at him. He seemed to get the message.
“Want to see a movie?” he said.
“I hate movies. They all suck nowadays.”
“I know just the place.”
He showed me to an ornate but decrepit movie theater that showed old movies and
we saw Casablanca twice. The theater was empty except for an old woman in the
back row who looked as though she might have been sitting there and watching for
years without moving. We sat in the middle and basked in the feeling of our own
little theater. I would never have admitted it, but I laid my head on Caleb’s
shoulder and felt happier than I had in a long time.
I kept sneaking out to see Caleb. After I was presented with about a dozen
opportunities to kill myself and didn’t, the nurses realized that I was okay and
started letting me out without excuses. They seemed to pretend not to notice my
absence.
Caleb and I returned to the little theater very often after that. We listened to
the Beatles in Starbucks and shared our other CDs and we went to the little
bookstore on Prince Street and read the same books. I also saw him in the
hospital sometimes, as he paid frequent visits to his grandfather in the cancer
ward. That was one of the few topics he never discussed, probably for my sake as
much as his own. But after a while, he seemed to get tired of waiting.
“So, why were you in the hospital?” he asked me one day, “also visiting?”
I decided to be honest. After all, he’d already seen the bracelet. “No. I’m a
patient- in the psychiatric ward. I attempted suicide.” His reaction to this
news was rather unexpected.
“Oh,” he said calmly, “why?” His unfazed response gave me courage. I told him
about my lack of a father, the financial trouble that my family (if you can call
it that) was going through… everything. Finally, when I was finished, he spoke.
“Would you try it again?”
“I- I guess I don’t know.”
“Don’t. I know this is clichéd, but life is precious. And the way you live your
life is up to you. You can be your own person and choose to live the life you
want even if the people around you or-” he hesitated, “even a part of yourself
isn’t cooperating”. I wondered what that last bit meant, but decided to leave
it. It wasn’t important enough to press, and he looked unsure of himself while
saying it.
From then on, we took little random trips every day. We tried the lottery for
Broadway tickets and ended up seeing Beauty and the Beast. We went to the park
and fed pigeons and sparrows. We ate cotton candy and snow cones at a street
fair. But mostly we just talked. We had fun, but we also had serious
conversations. That’s what made Caleb really different from my other friends.
Caleb: “It’s the little things in life that count. That way, if the big things
aren’t so great, it’s still worth it.”
Caleb: “Let me be your guardian angel. You are my gem in the rough- a gift that
some people don’t understand because it’s not polished and cut.”
I got a pair of tiny wings tattooed inside my wrist. “This is you,” I said.
Caleb got a circle: my gem, uncut and unpolished.
I left the hospital. I think Caleb made me normal enough to leave.
We held hands in the street and hugged our goodbyes. We spent nights together in
a motel room. But we were never more than friends. Neither of us needed a lover.
Our relationship was not that complicated.
Sometimes we didn’t meet for a long time. We didn’t mention these periods; we
just saw each other later and our lives flowed together as though we had never
been apart.
We rode the subway for an entire day and swung around the poles, changing trains
whenever it got too crowded. We went to a carnival. I won a giant stuffed dog
for Caleb and he won a giant stuffed snake for me.
Our lives were blurs of excitement and, well… life. For the first time, I had a
best friend- more than that. Almost a brother, but with no sibling rivalry. For
the first time, I felt like I was living.
My mom took me to shrink appointments twice a week until they decided I was “not
a danger to myself or regular acquaintances”. I didn’t have to go anymore. I
wanted to tell Caleb.
I hadn’t seen him for a few days and I wondered if he could be visiting his
grandfather. I went to the counter at the cancer ward, hoping that his
grandfather’s last name was the same as his.
“Is 206 Mr. James’s room?” I ventured, naming the room I had so often seen Caleb
outside.
“Yes, my dear,” said the kind-looking middle-aged nurse in a pitying way, “may I
ask your connection with the patient?”
“Distant cousin,” I lied.
She led me to the room and knocked. An unfamiliar voice answered softly and she
opened the door. I couldn’t believe my eyes.
Caleb lay on the white hospital bed, tubes leading from his body into various
machines. A dark-haired man and woman- his parents- stood by the bed. They
stared at me, confused. Caleb turned his head from his parents to the doorway in
which I stood.
“Epiné…” he said weakly. I stood in shock while he began to explain. “I’m the
cancer patient, not my grandfather,” he began, “my grandfather died of the rare
stomach cancer I have, but he passed away years ago.
“I’ve been in the hospital for my own treatment, not to visit anyone. But it’s
getting worse. Epiné… I’m dying. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you…” he trailed off. I
dropped into an armchair next to the door, shocked. Nobody said anything.
Caleb’s parents looked from me to their son. They seemed to recognize my name as
one they had heard before, as opposed to the meaning that people usually
recognize.
“I didn’t want to tell you the truth because I hate the way people treat me like
a delicate piece of glass when they know. Besides, it’s not what matters. I
wanted to find you, though. I didn’t want you to look for me and discover that I
was… gone.” He closed his eyes, looking so different from the Caleb I knew; so
lifeless. I knelt by the bed and held both his hands in mine, watching his
labored breathing. After a few minutes it struck me that I should leave him with
his parents and I began to get up.
“No,” his father said suddenly, “he told us about you- you can stay if you want
to.” I knelt again and laid my head on the bed until I could no longer feel his
hot breath in my face.
I didn’t cry, not even during the funeral. Afterwards, I hid on the other side
of the cemetery until I saw Mr. and Mrs. James drive away. I walked to the fresh
mound of earth and stood in front of it and the tears finally came. I dropped
down and cried, sitting alone in the dirt. Finally, I picked up a handful of
white pebbles from the path and began to place them carefully over the grave. In
stones, bright against the chocolate colored earth, I wrote a simple message:
YOU SAVED MY LIFE
I understood what Caleb said in the hospital. It wasn’t his illness or his death
that mattered. It was his life.
The cool fall wind blew my hair off my face as I left the cemetery. Across the
street, I spotted a golden-red pile of freshly raked leaves. Staring at the
pile, I stepped across the road and started walking towards it.
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