“But I’m not doing anything. Just hanging out with him.”
“He’s never really had people to hang out with.”
Teddy gently brushed a strand of hair off Jane’s face.
“Yeah. I can see it’s been hard for him. And you.”
“No, it’s not so hard for me.”
“Are you serious?” Teddy asked, incredulous.
“I have no right to feel sorry for myself, not compared to what John deals with on a daily basis.”
“It doesn’t have to be about feeling sorry for yourself. It can just be acknowledging that it’s been hard on you and your family.”
Jane pensively twisted that errant lock of hair.
“Yes, obviously. Look at my mom, stewing all the time, lashing out—it’s not pretty.”
“Sure, but do you think she ever imagined changing the diaper of her adult son?” Teddy gently asked.
“Of course not. Sometimes I think—and I hate myself for thinking like this, but—I feel all this pressure to succeed somehow, as if to compensate, but I’m not sure how and I never got a lot of encouragement.”
“That’s what I’m here for.” Teddy took her in his arms. “I know this can all be heavy, Jane, but John is a pretty happy guy, and I mean, it’s kind of wonderful to see that.”
“From a distance. We can get on a plane and be thousands of miles away.”
“They’re your family, Jane. You’ll never be able to get away from them.”
“God, you are such a buzzkill.”
He laughed, then gave her a lingering kiss on her cheek. His stubble tickled her. It felt wonderful.
“I’m going to be responsible for him someday.” Jane had never said this out loud.
“You don’t know that.”
“Yes I do, unless...”
“I think you would be great for each other.”
“I’m not sure I could do it.” It felt like a confession.
“I know you could, Jane. I think you could do just about anything.” He wrapped his arms around her, and she fell into them, feeling safe and loved.
These memories unspooled remarkably vividly, like a movie projected in her head. Maybe her heart, massaged by the mescaline, was cracking open a bit, or perhaps it was just a function of time and distance. Now she was able to see more clearly how sad and angry her mother was and how detached and cerebral her father was. How stoic and innocent her brother was. And how sweet and perceptive Teddy was.
Did she usually feel outside looking in, even back then? She did. She was an observer, a bystander, not a participant. But Teddy was fully present, and Jane was envious of how he could justbe, finding pockets of delight in a miasma of bitterness and dysfunction. He was so good at opening his heart. She had been nagged by this memory, but now it had moved to the center of her consciousness. It felt monumental.
More time passed. Jane nibbled on the “yummy foods” and felt anchored again. She was more than ready to go home, but there was a closing ceremony about to take place. Once again, the stick was passed around the circle. The mourner said she had communed with her recently deceased father, who told her he lovedher. Sex Addict said he decided love is love, whatever the hell that meant. Questioning Sexuality said he was pretty sure he was going all in on gayness. And Patchouli Dude had not found God but had enjoyed a meaningful discussion with Archangel Michael.
When it was Jane’s turn, she said, “I think I’ve been hate-watching my own life.”
Two days post–San Pedro and Jane was still experiencing a novel mental mistiness. Was the feeling evidence of a paradigm shift or a hangover? Did it matter?
It was Monday morning, and she had a job to do. As Jane backed into a tight parking space, she spotted Esmé leaning against a car a few spaces ahead. Esmé, her coworker for the day, was half French Canadian, half Chinese American, and all pain in the ass. The best thing that could be said for Esmé was that she made Jane appreciate Lindsey. However, Jane was here to stop hate-watching her own life and to open her heart to everything. Even, god help her, to Esmé.
Esmé was almost the exact opposite of Lindsey. Whereas Lindsey was consistently slovenly, once even showing up for a job in shorts and a tank top, Esmé had appropriated her fashion sensibility from Steve Jobs via Elizabeth Holmes: she always wore jeans with a dark mock turtleneck—usually black, occasionally navy or burgundy if she was feeling especially whimsical—with her glossy black hair pulled into a tight ponytail that jutted aggressively from the back of her head. She wore no visible makeup; her only frill was pearl earrings, which Jane had to grudgingly concede lent her a kind of elegance in the way they drew attention to the line of her long, graceful neck.
