Us ((2))

After he had finally worked up the courage to call her, John asked Marta to meet him at the old hang-out. He half-expected her to ask where that was, but she didn’t. The phone conversation had been brief, pleasant, and entirely impersonal. And now he sat with movie star Marti or Marta Goudine in the diner that they used to drink root beers in, before it was torn down and rebuilt. As she talked about traffic in LA, he stared at her perfect face and wondered what the hell he was going to say next. 1

Rather, he knew what to say, but he didn’t think he had the nerve to say it. It was something he would have said a decade and a half ago, when he and Marta had been best friends. Inseparable. It was the kind of thing he had stopped saying on the day she left. Or maybe the change had come when his NF had started flaring up again, turning him from a nearly-normal kid into a middle-school sideshow. Whatever had happened, he could no longer say what he had to.2

Marta came to the end of her rant. “But look at me, talking on and on…what’s going on with you, Johhny? I can’t believe we lost touch for so long…”3

And then he opened up his mouth, and without meaning to, he said it. “Could you cut the bullshit for just a second, Mart?”4

Her eyes widened, and her lips pressed tight together. His stomach sank. He couldn’t stand upsetting her. He immediately retracted his statement, “I’m sorry, that’s not what I meant—”5

“Yes it was.” She said quietly, smiling at her chicken sandwich. “You’re right, of course. I’m being a shallow bitch.”6

“No, no, it’s not that. Well, maybe a little.” He replied. She laughed at this, and he felt his heart start beating again. “Marta, it’s just that…you’re not talking to me like we used to talk to each other. Like real people, I mean. You’re being polite and courteous and…”7

“Fake.” She finished. 8

“Well, yes. I mean, the girl I knew wouldn’t have seen me five minutes without asking about…” He gestured vaguely at his face. It was not necessary to explain further.9

At the base of his hairline on the left side of his forehead, John’s skin swelled outward, like a cartoon character that had just been hit by a frying pan. The growth pressed down so that his left eye was almost completely shut. Neurofibromatosis. An ugly name for an ugly disease was what his father had always said. The tumor threw off the whole balance of his face, so that his jaw leaned to one side and impaired his speech slightly. There was a scar on the cheek as well, continuing down his neck to his chest, but Marta had seen that back when he was little. She knew that, due to surgery to remove a tumor when he was an infant, his left arm would always lean downwards and backwards, and only moved with the greatest effort. But the tumor was new.10

She had only glanced at it with polite indifference before. But now, having his permission, she stared. “Is that the only one that’s developed since I’ve been gone?”11

He shook his head, then turned around so that she could see a small scar running through his otherwise thick hair. “I had another one to match on the back. But it was pressing against the brainstem, so they removed it.”12

“And this one isn’t affecting anything major, so they left it,” she finished for him. Marta was as familiar with his disease as he was, since she had grown up by his side and learned about it as he did. She understood that there was no reason for doctors to remove a tumor, which would probably just grow back, unless it threatened John’s life.13

For his part, John felt thirteen again. They were finally talking as if the years hadn’t separated them, as if they hadn’t become very different people over the years. He added the final bit of their friendship back into the conversation: merciless teasing. “Enough about that. So, Ms. Hollywood, where’s your flock of paparazzi? Are you no longer interesting enough for Entertainment Tonight?”14

She gave her beautiful, loud laugh, the one John had missed so much. “I’m pretty sure I ditched them at a train station in San Fran. I truly hope they don’t figure out where I am.”15

He nodded. “Yeah, sure. I know you love the attention.” He knew she was being honest, though. He was ashamed that, upon first seeing her, he was afraid some reporter would burst in after her and his picture would be taken. He should have trusted her to protect her tiny home town from publicity.16

They talked and ate. He tried to ask about her fame and her movies, all of which he had seen, but she kept steering the conversation back to the people she remembered growing up. How was his mom?, She would ask. Fine, still crazy as ever. How about Mr. Nelson, down the street? Dead. His wife runs the hardware store now. Does crazy Ben still go in there every Saturday morning? Like clockwork.17

Finally, after they had ordered dessert from a waitress who had obviously just recognized the famous Ms. Goudine, Marta folded her hands and gave John a mock-serious face. “Johnny, do you remember the last night we hung out?”18

No. No no no no no. In his head he screamed no. No, please, everything was going so well, don’t bring that up. Please, please no. He sighed deeply, and answered, “Yes.”19