What I Want Read online

  “You know we have a boat, right?” her father asked. “We can go on it if you want.” And the next thing I knew, I was on the Trent-Severn Waterway, riding on my first lift lock.

  In the winter, Bizzy and I went skating on the canal, and her parents brought her to Princeton several times since she was considering going to graduate school at Curtis Institute of Music in Philadelphia, which wasn’t too far away. When they visited me, we went to orchards and wineries, and one day I took them to Mercer Lake, hoping that we’d get to catch some rowing.

  As it turned out, we did more than just “catch some rowing.” An instructor was just finishing up an introductory class as we arrived and she stopped to pet Star (something that happened a lot when we were out). We talked with the instructor for a little while and – before we knew it – we were in boat, having a free, impromptu lesson. Star sat in front of the instructor, calmly keeping her eye on things as the four of us tried our hands at sculling and Bizzy was amazed by all of it (but mostly by the fact that she had never before realized that when you’re rowing, you’re facing backward).

  By the time I started my senior year, I was ready to ask Bizzy to marry me. I figured we’d be engaged for our last year at school and then get married in the summer before graduate school started.

  Bizzy wasn’t cooperating a whole lot with my plans, however. I was still planning on entering the field of retinal neuroprosthetics and had decided to go to Australia to study at the University of Melbourne. They were teamed with a major vision prosthetics group that was leading the way in research and clinical trials, and I really wanted to be a part of it all. I’d been hinting around to Bizzy for a long time that she needed to consider going to graduate school in Australia too, but she didn’t seem to be taking any of my suggestions too seriously. Once I got officially accepted into their graduate program, however, I did more than drop little hints. I flat-out asked her why she hadn’t applied.

  “I can’t go with you to Australia,” she said, sounding surprised that I didn’t already know this.

  “Why not?”

  “Because I’m going to go to Curtis.”

  “Why are you moving fifty minutes away from Princeton now?” I cried. “Why didn’t you transfer three years ago?”

  “Because I’ve always wanted to get my bachelor’s degree from Montreal and I want to go to graduate school at Curtis.”

  “Haven’t you ever wanted to be near me?”

  “Well of course I have,” she said gently, “and I do. But right now this is something that I need to do.”

  “But Melbourne’s got a great graduate program in music,” I argued.

  “Is it the one I’ve been dreaming of going to since I was fifteen?” she asked.

  “Well, no, but–”

  “Marco,” she interrupted quietly. “I’m not going to Australia.”

  I looked at her for a long moment.

  “But we’re going to be so far apart,” I said unhappily.

  “We’ve been apart for a long time,” she reminded me, “and we’ve been doing fine.”

  “I don’t like being apart.”

  “We’ll be fine.”

  I also hinted around that we should get engaged, but Bizzy never jumped on the idea the way I needed her to, and just like I was too insecure in high school to ask her where things stood between the two of us, I was too scared now to find out whether or not she wanted to be my wife.

  ~ ~ ~

  IN AUSTRALIA, EVERYTHING is upside down. The water swirls clockwise when it goes down drains, Christmas is in the summer, and everybody drives on the wrong side of the road. Another thing that’s different is that universities start their school year in February and end in October. Fortunately, however, the program I was entering allowed me to start at the beginning of their second semester in late July – after I graduated from Princeton in May.

  Dad did some research on housing and decided that he wanted to purchase a place for me to live while I was in Melbourne, insisting that it would be a good investment as long as I got a roommate to help cover the bills. Before I left, I advertised for a roommate (which, incidentally, I learned is actually called a flatmate) and found someone who was interested – a guy named Peter who was halfway through his master’s degree in urban horticulture. He said that he played cricket and the guitar and enjoyed surfing, and I told him that I’d see him in July.

  I arrived in Australia and moved what few things I’d brought with me into the modest house that Dad had found. It had two little bedrooms with a small bath between them, a tiny front yard and an even tinier backyard. I bought a little table and two chairs for the kitchen, a bed, a dresser, nightstand, and lamp for my bedroom, and a futon, coffee table, and television for the living room. Then I splurged on two nice wrought-iron patio chairs for the front porch. (I noticed that the sun set right in front of the house, and I decided that I wanted to be able to sit and watch it.)

  I went to a thrift store and purchased some pots, pans, dishes, silverware, a coffeemaker, and a toaster for the kitchen. I didn’t really plan on using the kitchen much, but I had promised Peter that everything would be furnished except for what he wanted for his bedroom, and I kind of felt that the cupboards shouldn’t be bare. Last I bought a small used car that promised excellent gas mileage and a decent resale value. Then I went and checked out the university.

  Princeton had been small and quaint, but Melbourne was huge and almost overwhelming. I liked it a lot though, and I couldn’t wait to get started in my program. I introduced myself to my academic advisor and was taken on a tour of the research facility. After that I filled out some paperwork, got a parking pass, and had lunch at a crowded café on campus. Finally, I got back in my car and headed for St. Kilda.

  I’d read about St. Kilda before moving and had made up my mind that I was going to check it out as soon as I could.

  I wound up liking it as much as I liked the university.

  There were shops and rides, and it was crowded and funky and eclectic, and the beach was beautiful, with gentle waves that lapped softly at the shore. I went for a walk along one of the paths and then settled onto the sandy beach for a while to take everything in.

  All around me were people walking, talking, laughing. Two young men played Frisbee and I watched them for a long time, beginning to feel lonelier and lonelier as time went on. I wished my brother or my dad were here with me, and I started to really look forward to Peter arriving the next day, hoping that the two of us were going to get along really well so that I would have someone to do something with.

  Then a young couple walked past me, holding hands.

  I missed Bizzy.

  On the way home from the beach, I saw an advertisement for an animal sanctuary, so the next morning, I decided to go pay it a visit. Peter had told me he wasn’t going to move in until late afternoon, and I was hoping I would get to see a koala or a platypus or something. As it turned out, the sanctuary was really just a retirement home for kangaroos who couldn’t make it in the wild, but I’d never seen a kangaroo before either, so I made a donation at the door, grabbed an informational brochure, and went on in.

  The sanctuary had several areas, but the main attraction was a huge, fenced-in enclosure with a large, grassy yard. I entered cautiously to find myself in the company of dozens of kangaroos, and I put some money in a little food dispenser to get a handful of pellets before I took a look around.

  There were a few kangaroos ambling across the grass, but most of them were dozing lazily in the sun. I knelt beside a sleeping animal who was not even interested enough in me or my food to bother lifting its head. I reached out to pet it, gently scratching behind its ears.

  As I did, I thought about how much Bizzy loved animals, and I imagined that her face would light up with that smile of hers if she was with me now. Ever since I fell in love with Bizzy over eight years earlier, I had always tried to see things through her eyes (or lack thereof). Every time I did something new, I found myself imagining how
Bizzy might experience it . . . how it would feel to her, or sound, or smell.

  So now, as I ran my hands down the kangaroo’s body and stroked its soft fur, I closed my eyes and imagined how it would feel to Bizzy. I rubbed its belly and – as I did – I realized that I was petting a female. I could tell because I could feel the opening to her pouch.

  I opened my eyes to look at her and then I dumped my handful of food onto the grass in front of her nose. She stretched her head out far enough to take a sniff, but then she went back to ignoring it. Meanwhile, I rubbed her belly with both hands. I was no kangaroo expert, but after a minute I was pretty sure she didn’t have a joey.

  What did the inside of a kangaroo’s pouch feel like?

  Could I actually stick my hand in there and find out?

  I glanced around.

  Would that be a weird thing to do?

  Would she would kick me unconscious if I did?

  Finally I decided that it really shouldn’t be much different than rubbing a dog’s belly, and I made up my mind to go for it. I glanced around one more time to make sure no one was watching, and then I closed my eyes again, tentatively slid my hand into her pouch and hoped for the best.

  The kangaroo acted even less interested with the fact that I had my hand inside her pouch than she did with the pile of food I’d put in front of her nose. It wasn’t furry inside like I’d expected, but it was very warm and soft – like a flannel blanket.

  I knew for sure that if Bizzy was with me, she would definitely be smiling.

  That afternoon I received a text from Peter telling me that he had lost his scholarship and wasn’t going to be rooming with me after all.

  Sorry, mate.

  Sorry, mate?

  I called my dad and broke the news to him. He sighed.

  “Try to find another roommate,” he said.

  “Flatmate, Dad,” I corrected him. “They’re called flatmates.”

  “I don’t care what they’re called,” he said. “Just try to find one.”

  “I’m not going to be able to find anyone now,” I protested. “It’s the middle of the school year here – I was lucky to find Peter in the first place! Everybody’s already got a place to live.”

  “Just try,” he insisted. “If you can’t find someone then I’ll cover it, but you’ve got to at least try.”

  “I’ll try,” I promised, but I had a feeling it was going to be a complete and total waste of time.

  Because I had promised, I placed an ad with a couple of “flatmate finder” services, and then I went to the student union and learned that I could advertise on one of several notice boards available, as long as I had the ad approved before I posted it. I printed up a small ad and showed it to the work-study student on duty so that she could approve it. She looked it over, stamped it, and then handed it back for me to post on a board.

  “You should also advertise online,” she suggested as I took it from her. That’s when she noticed my hands.

  “I did,” I said. “Thanks.”

  I ignored the look on her face – a cross between shock and revulsion – and I headed off toward the nearest notice board.

  Once there I perused the board, looking for a good spot, and I discovered that there were no other advertisements for roommates (and none for flatmates either). This was probably because everybody already had a place to live (just like I’d already told Dad), but I posted my ad anyhow and headed away.

  I had only made it about twenty feet or so before someone rushed up behind me.

  “Excuse me?”

  I turned to find a woman about my age with an anxious look on her face.

  “I, um, I’m sorry,” she said, holding up in front of me the very ad that I had just posted. “I know it says you’re looking for a male housemate, but . . .”

  I looked at her in surprise.

  “My name’s Josette,” she said hastily, sticking out her hand.

  I put my hand in hers and shook it . . .

  She didn’t even flinch.

  “I really need a place to stay,” she went on, indicating my ad again. “I know it says ‘Male’, but since it’s two bedrooms I thought that maybe . . .”

  Her voice trailed off as she looked at me helplessly.

  “You’ll hardly even know I’m there,” she finished quietly. “I really need a place to stay.”

  I studied her for a moment. She didn’t just look anxious, she looked . . . desperate. There was something about her . . .

  Something sad.

  Something needful.

  I thought for a moment.

  Mom and Dad had spent their whole lives teaching me that we’re supposed to do whatever we can to help other people . . . and this girl really seemed to need help. Plus, Dad hadn’t specified exactly what kind of a roommate to get, had he? And he didn’t want to pay the whole mortgage by himself, did he?

  “Sure,” I finally shrugged. “Why not?”

  I had really liked how she hadn’t even flinched when she’d touched my hand.

  ~ ~ ~

  JOSETTE HADN’T BEEN kidding when she’d said that I would hardly even know she was there – she was like the Invisible Roommate.

  I had given her a key the day we met, and when I came home from the university the next day she was apparently all moved in. After that, it seemed that she was gone all day, every day – even on Sundays – but it was hard to tell for sure because she kept her door closed whether she was there or not. When she was home, she only came out long enough to dart into the bathroom from time to time, shutting her bedroom door tightly behind her whenever she did.

  Occasionally she would arrive home from wherever she spent her days while I was in the living room or the kitchen, but she would invariably give me a brief wave and a nod, muttering something that sounded like “Hello” before ducking quickly into her bedroom for the rest of the evening.

  I never saw her using the kitchen, although sometimes I would come home and catch a faint, telltale whiff of something having been cooked while I was gone. Aside from a few ramen noodle wrappers in the trash, however, she left no evidence that she had ever even been there.

  Although I was pretty lonely and wouldn’t have minded having some company in the evenings or on the weekends, having Josette for a roommate wasn’t so bad. I found that I never had to clean the bathroom (it always seemed spotless) and the few times I left a dirty bowl or plate in the sink, it would get mysteriously washed, dried, and put away while I was at school. Things could definitely have been worse.

  I loved my classes and my research. Most of the guys I did research with were married and had lives of their own, but everyone was pretty nice, and the sophistication of what we were working on was like a dream come true. Compared to cochlear implants and other prosthetic devices, there was still a long way to go, but I was right there on the cutting edge – one of the ones who was making it happen.

  I couldn’t have been happier.

  Well, that’s not true. I could have had a roommate who liked to play Frisbee or cards or something like that. I could have had friends at school who wanted to go out to dinner or who wanted to see a movie from time to time. I could have had a girlfriend who was going to graduate school with me in Australia.

  So, yeah . . . I could have been happier, but overall, things were pretty good.

  Not long after Josette moved in, I pulled out of my driveway and drove to the end of the block, where I found her standing on the corner. I pulled up beside her and rolled down my window.

  “You need a ride?” I asked.

  She seemed startled to see me.

  “Oh, no,” she said, shaking her head. “I’m just waiting for the bus.”

  “I don’t mind giving you a ride,” I insisted. “Where are you going?”

  “Work,” she said hesitantly, “but I’ll just take the bus.”

  “I don’t mind,” I said again.

  She shook her head a second time.

  “It’s coming now,” she expla
ined, pointing down the street.

  I looked in my rearview mirror, saw the bus, and got out of the way so that it could pick her up.

  The public transportation system in Melbourne was quite good and a lot of people who lived there didn’t even bother owning a car, but I still felt kind of funny whenever I saw Josette waiting for the bus because I could have easily given her a ride wherever she was going. After getting turned down a few more times, however, I quit asking. I just gave her a little wave whenever I passed by and went on my way.

  I usually picked up some takeout food or cooked something simple for myself in the evenings, and I ate at the coffee table while I watched TV. Before long I was trying to sit down in front of the television around seven o’clock so that I could watch a game show I’d discovered called Chances Are.

  The show was hosted by a man named Wally Fletcher and was played in a series of rounds. The first question they asked was always real easy: What character wanted a heart in The Wizard of Oz? (The Tin Man.)

  Whoever buzzed in first and answered correctly then had the option of progressing further with more questions built upon the theme introduced with the first question.

  What was the name of the original actor slated to play the Tin Man? (Buddy Ebsen.)

  What substance caused him to relinquish his role due to an allergic reaction? (Aluminum dust.)

  In what comedy series did Ebsen star from 1962 to 1971? (The Beverly Hillbillies.)

  In what drama series did Ebsen play the title character from 1973 to 1980? (Barnaby Jones.)

  And so on and so on, until the questions finally got so hard that they were pretty much unanswerable: What was Ebsen’s given name? (Christian.)