Freedom. Jonathan Franzen
it later. OK?”
“OK.”
This new transfusion poured straight into the hemorrhage without circulating even once through Patty’s body. For the sake of her teammates, she stayed in the game, but she reverted to her old habit of being selfless, of following plays instead of leading them, of passing instead of shooting, and then to her even older habit of lingering around the perimeter and taking long jumpers, some of which might have fallen on another night, but not that night. How hard it is to hide on a basketball court! Patty got beaten on defense again and again, and each defeat seemed to make the next one more likely. What she was feeling became a lot more familiar to her later in her life, when she made the acquaintance of serious depression, but on that February night it was a hideous novelty to feel the game swirling around her, totally out of her control, and to intuit that the significance of everything that happened, every approach and retreat of the ball, every heavy thud of her feet on the floor, every new moment of trying to guard a fully focused and determined Bruin, every teammate’s hearty halftime whap on the shoulder, was her own badness and the emptiness of her future and the futility of struggle.
Coach finally sat her down for good midway through the second half, with the Gophers trailing by 25. She revived a little as soon as she was safely benched. She found her voice and exhorted her teammates and high-fived them like an eager rookie, reveling in the abasement of being reduced to a cheerleader in a game she should have starred in, embracing the shame of being too-delicately consoled by her pitying teammates. She felt she fully deserved to be abased and shamed like this, after how she’d stunk. Wallowing in this shit was the best she’d felt all day.
Afterward, in the locker room, she endured Coach’s sermon with closed ears and then sat on a bench and sobbed for half an hour. Her friends were considerate enough to let her just do this.
In her down parka and her Gophers stocking cap, she went to Northrop Auditorium, hoping the Blackmun lecture might somehow still be going on there, but the building was dark and locked. She thought of returning to her hall and calling Walter, but she realized that what she really wanted now was to break training and get trashed on wine. She walked through snowy streets to Eliza’s apartment, and here she realized that what she really wanted was to scream abusive things at her friend.
Eliza, on the intercom, objected that it was late and she was tired.
“No, you have to let me up,” Patty said. “This is non-optional.”
Eliza let her in and then lay down on her sofa. She was wearing pajamas and listening to some kind of throbbing jazz. The air was thick with lethargy and old smoke. Patty stood by the sofa, bundled in her parka, snow melting off her sneakers, and watched how slowly Eliza was breathing and how long it took for the impulse to speak to be effectuated—various random facial muscle movements gradually becoming a little less random and finally gathering into a murmured question: “How was your game.”
Patty didn’t answer. After a while, it became apparent that Eliza had forgotten about her.
There didn’t seem to be much point in screaming abusive things at her right now, so Patty ransacked the apartment instead. The drug stuff came to light immediately, right on the floor at the head of the sofa—Eliza had simply dropped a throw pillow over it. At the bottom of a nest of poetry journals and music magazines on Eliza’s desk was the blue three-ring binder. As far as Patty could tell, nothing had been added to it since the summer. She sifted through Eliza’s papers and bills, looking for something medical, but didn’t find anything. The jazz record was playing on repeat. Patty turned it off and sat down on the coffee table with the scrapbook and the drug stuff on the floor in front of her. “Wake up,” she said.
Eliza squeezed her eyes shut tighter.
Patty shoved her leg. “Wake up.”
“I need a cigarette. The chemo really knocked me out.”
Patty pulled her upright by the shoulder.
“Hey,” Eliza said, with a murky smile. “Nice to see you.”
“I don’t want to be your friend anymore,” Patty said. “I don’t want to see you anymore.”
“Why not?”
“I just don’t.”
Eliza closed her eyes and shook her head. “I need you to help me,” she said. “I’ve been taking drugs because of the pain. Because of the cancer. I wanted to tell you. But I was too embarrassed.” She tilted sideways and lay back down.
“You don’t have cancer,” Patty said. “That’s just a lie you made up because you have some crazy idea about me.”
“No, I have leukemia. I definitely have leukemia.”
“I came over to tell you in person, as a courtesy. But now I’m going to leave.”
“No. You have to stay. I have a drug problem you have to help me with.”
“I can’t help you. You’ll have to go to your parents.”
There was a long silence. “Get me a cigarette,” Eliza said.
“I hate your cigarettes.”
“I thought you understood about parents,” Eliza said. “About not being the person they wanted.”
“I don’t understand anything about you.”
There was another silence. Then Eliza said, “You know what’s going to happen if you leave, don’t you? I’m going to kill myself.”
“Oh, that’s a great reason to stay and be friends,” Patty said. “That sounds like a lot of fun for both of us.”
“I’m just saying that’s probably what I’ll do. You’re the only thing I have that’s beautiful and real.”
“I’m not a thing,” Patty said righteously.
“Have you ever seen somebody shoot up? I’ve gotten pretty good at it.”
Patty took the syringe and the drugs and put them in the pocket of her parka. “What’s your parents’ telephone number?”
“Don’t call them.”
“I’m going to call them. It’s non-optional.”
“Will you stay with me? Will you come visit me?”
“Yes,” Patty lied. “Just tell me their number.”
“They ask about you all the time. They think you’re a good influence on my life. Will you stay with me?”
“Yes,” Patty lied again. “What’s their number?”
When the parents arrived, after midnight, they wore the grim looks of people interrupted in their enjoyment of a long respite from dealing with exactly this sort of thing. Patty was fascinated to finally meet them, but this feeling was evidently not reciprocated. The father had a full beard and deep-set dark eyes, the mother was petite and wearing high-heeled leather boots, and together they gave off a strong sexual vibe that reminded Patty of French movies and of Eliza’s comments about their being the love of each other’s life. Patty wouldn’t have minded receiving a few words of apology for unleashing their disturbed daughter on unsuspecting third parties such as herself, or a few words of gratitude for taking their daughter off their hands these past two years, or a few words of acknowledgment of whose money had subsidized the latest crisis. But as soon as the little nuclear family was together in the living room, there unfolded a weird diagnostic drama in which there seemed to be no role at all for Patty.
“So which drugs,” the father said.
“Um, smack,” Eliza said.
“Smack, cigarettes, booze. What else? Anything else?”
“A little coke sometimes. Not so much now.”
“Anything else?”
“No, that’s all.”