the Wait is upon me, this time with a Weight, as heavy as an anvil on my chest, like lead beads lining my shoes and not unlike a wet wool sweater that wants off but can't make it over my head.
I couldn't have anticipated this, not in a million years. A decade ago I sat on the carpet in the bedroom of a rented condo that I shared with my sister, a corded phone attached to my ear with my hand over the mouthpiece to muffle my sobs, wanting to beg for more time, for the dozenth time to make good what seemed impossible but I stayed silent and I let go, weeping, I hung up the receiver and turned my back on what I believed to be irreparable and I walked away. It would be the first heartbreak I'd ever feel, an ache I had never experienced and I spent a good year wishing it away, pushing it to the back of my mind and stuffing it into a closet of oh-wells that would never be revisited. A major depression followed, a fog of time I buffered with job-hopping and mediocre dates with men who would never really know me, relationships that, in retrospect, were doomed for failure and I touched on that deep ache in tiny fractions that added up to the Biggest One until it became, finally, the Past.
I didn't know where you'd gone or with whom; there were rumors of sightings, speculations of your endings-up, angry jokes made at your expense that were supposed to make me feel better but left me feeling, still, as if even these minor humors were betrayals of what I'd thought to be The Only Chance I'd Ever Know, the Only One Who'd Ever Really Loved Me. Finally, blissfully, I stopped wondering and hoping and looking; Google became a thing and I typed your name, your full name, once only to come up empty-screened and I never did it again, I was sure I had no reason to wonder anymore: You were gone, it was over and past and done and what lesson I'd learned I had to make up for myself because I really hadn't learned one, at all, I only knew that the pain was almost out the door and then it was.
And so I met a man, another one with whom I'd set another house on fire and we made a baby, another one, this one to be born and while I occasionally had to reflect, during internal exams and questions asked by midwives and doctors, about any previous pregnancies, full-term or not, it was on this one I focused, this baby-to-be and the new Fire Starter and you were dormant, you were quiet and no more than a memory I barely remembered. This was peaceful, at the time, this is what I'd suffered for, to forget you and assign you your rightful place as Behind Me Somewhere and Where I Don't Know.
And first there was the ex-girlfriend, who recognized me through photos I didn't know you still had, approaching me during a rare adult moment when the Boy was off on a sleep over with my mother being fed with bottles of breast milk I'd pumped for such an occasion...the ex-girlfriend, with the pale skin and the shaking hands and the curly, reddish hair, with the current boyfriend with whom my husband had shared secrets and then some, it was a surreal evening for the both of us but the Husband was unfazed, seemingly, he drank his draught beer and reminisced with the Boyfriend while I heard sad stories, one-sided, of her survival of You and your stormy relationship and she begged for commiseration and I had none for her, I nodded and uh-huh'd and agreed to an online relationship with her but only in politeness, I really had no interest. I didn't want to share my story, our story, I couldn't tell her the intimate things that were woven so expertly into the fabric of who I'd become and the trivial stuff I've never had time for...I was glad that she stopped trying, eventually, and while I was slightly sad for her that she'd had less-than-good memories of your time together, I was more jealous that she'd had your time at all and I was apathetic and she gave up. And away you went again, it was easier that time, I still didn't know where you were or what you were doing and I had a home and a child and a job and a husband, you remained a relevant memory but you'd faded -- I had no photos to remind me or to share with the Husband, I had nothing but a red ball cap with a single white star on it that I wore to conceal my matted hair on trips to the grocery when I was too tired to do more than put a lid on it.
And there I was, in my space, in the smoky loud bar that was My Own Place with My Own Friends and I confess that when I saw your face at table 15, the one just to the left of the door, my heart leapt to my throat and I hurried to the side of my closest friend, the Bartender, the only one to whom I'd told about you and said, "it's Him, He's here, I don't know if I can do this," and he told me that I could do it, that I had it in me and that I was safe and that all I had to do was to be courteous and not show any emotion stronger than the false sense of friendliness I would show to anyone who was putting a dent in my mortgage payment. I could have asked one of my coworkers to take over the table, I nearly did, I was affronted by a drop in blood pressure and a ringing in my ears that distracted me and threw off my rhythm but then I remembered that I was not only alive but pretty happy, right then, I had a beautiful child sleeping at home and I was protected not only by my best friends, my coworkers, but by my perseverance and sticktoitiveness that had gotten me to a place of not-caring-much-at-all-anymore, so I did it. I couldn't tell you what you ate, I remember your date asked for a water refill and I don't remember if you drank beer or coke or both (but I think it was coke); what I do remember is that I was inclined to NOT hook you up in any way, that I felt, consciously, in no way obligated to you to give you a thing: I had felt abandoned by you, I had felt shut out by you and I clung to that feeling during your stay so that I could keep my wits about me, and I dropped your check just as soon as you responded, "no, thanks," when I asked if you'd like anything else. And I felt guilty, in spite of myself, for not at least buying you a beer in place of the hug and the kiss and the cheek-press that I'd really, in my heart, wanted to give you. And so you left, and I had a shot or two to calm myself, to cut the electricity that was surging up and down and all through me in a way that both confused me and frustrated me.
And the next day I typed out our story, from first sight to last word and every ugly and beautiful moment in between, and I let myself remember for as long as it took me to write it and reread it several times until I printed it out, set it on fire in an old coffee can and deleted the file. I intended to put it to rest for good, to not revisit the details deliberately as long as I had control of it.
And there was this time, at the Waverly Library, where I took the Boy from time to time, when I found myself on a play mat with a man I swore was You, so sure of it that I asked a friend to watch the Boy while I made a frantic call to my sister, telling her that you were right there, with your boy child, in the library with me and that no matter what kind of eye contact I made or small talk I attempted you were ignorant of my identity and I couldn't imagine how you couldn't know it was me, your ignorance was surely willful, and she implored me to breathe and stay calm and to remember that the door was open and that I could walk out of it if I needed to -- I did not have to stay, I had nothing to prove. I went back inside and the man whom I'd thought was You was kind enough to roll up his sleeves, revealing bare skin that had never been tattooed and I nearly wept with relief: I was heartbroken, for a moment, that you could forget me or worse, that you could willfully ignore me. And so it was not the case, just a very bizarre instance of mistaken identity.
And then there was tragedy, and the medicines I used to numb the pain of that trauma, the trauma itself being enough to erase a good bit of my memory for what I was afraid would be permanent but I didn't care, the trauma was too big and what had occurred before it seemed so small and I had current responsibilities that were tremendous and left no room for nostalgia or what-if, and the medicines led to more trauma and sadness and did nothing more than to push me into another kind of regret hole that was surmountable, finally, by the cessation of the medicines and a change in geography. And then it was just the Boy and Me and a tiny space in which we'd creatively cram our many possessions and there was adjustment, sure, and there were a few bed-warmers to distract me during times of great pain and emptiness.
Only once during the Adjustment did I see your face, once in a photo that I did not possess but that was in the album of an uncle's wedding we'd attended, early in our courtship, during which my mother had attempted to shame us for our shameless display of earnest affection -- that heady, early time when hands were nearly always on and lips were inseparable, no matter how untoward it appeared in settings both formal and not; I was thin then as I am now, in a pink dress with a single tattoo, you were looking at me with half a smile and your hand on your chin and you wore a tie, the only time I'd ever see you in one, and I know without seeing it that we both wished we were elsewhere. I stared at that photo for a long time, looking for a sign of bad to come but there was no sadness then, not yet, we were still perfect.
And then you found me, again, on that ubiquitous social networking site where most everyone and their grandparents are present and you asked for my "friendship" and I admit that I granted it, briefly, if only to see you again and to know where you were and if you were "in a relationship," I got the information I needed, I saw what I wanted to see but I was too afraid to let you back in, I had felt that electricity that night in the bar and I didn't want to risk it, it seemed dangerous and my trauma was in my lap and I was a mess, I couldn't let you in so I canceled it and this time: I shut You out in the way I'd perceived you'd done for me all those years before. Pathetic victory, it was.
And then, a year or so later when the Boy claimed the red ball cap with the single white star as his favorite and realized its purpose as a sun visor and asked, "is this your hat?" and I told him that no, it had belonged to an old friend with whom I no longer spoke and, as any dutiful 7-year-old would, he continued to ask and I found myself telling an abbreviated version of Us, the one without the sadness and the contempt and the regret, and he begged an answer to, "so where is he and why isn't he here? Is it okay for me to wear the hat?" and I told him I insisted, I wanted to see it on him and I spent many nights lying awake wondering if I should open that door again, just to see, and the answer did not come easily to me and frankly, I don't know right now if it was the right one.
And I opened a real door and through it You walked, taller than I'd remembered but almost identical, with the same smile and the voice I couldn't forget if I'd wanted to and an embrace, a sincere embrace that emanated and radiated the exact energy that had instigated all that inappropriate PDA and hasty commitments to Forever and I was terrified and thrilled and thought, "you're home, you're finally home," and we took a long walk through fractured sunlight shone down on railroad tracks, through a dank tunnel and talked over each other, almost manically and our rhythm felt exactly the same and the only difference I felt, amidst all the mania and the nervousness and the excitement, was the maturity that only comes with age and the realization that we'd never truly been adults together. And we were frank and apologetic, in ways that needed to be said for our own consciences but, at least for me, required no audible explanation because I could feel your regret in your steps and your calmness and I felt as if I'd just won the best prize I'd never imagined and I'd neglected to read the small print.
And we walked on to the abandoned building devoid of all but rubble and LSD-fueled graffiti, the building that had once housed people with the same disease that I have but for whom, in their days, there was no hope or home to return to or a stalwart past-lover to walk ahead with a proverbial flashlight and say, finally, "watch your step, follow close," and I felt at once heartbroken for my fellows who'd died sick and alone, and safe in the knowledge that I would never know that fate. And I believed then that You would be the one who would keep me from that fate: That we would finally know our In-Sickness-And-In-Health, all these years later. And later that evening, while we sat chastely tangled on the small sofa for so many hours into the early morning before finally giving in to comforting affection, we agreed to Try, I realized that I'd never wanted something so strongly in my life and the Wait, in that moment and for several days following, seemed as if it might not be so bad.
And so I realized that, in fact, it is so hard, it is so excruciating and painful and heavy, on my chest and in my shoes and behind my eyes and even in my hands, that I feel, every other minute, as if I cannot do it, it is impossible and masochistic and not even a certainty.
And every other minute, it feels as if it isn't a choice at all, that it is another test of endurance and strength that is my duty to fulfill and g-d help me if these aren't the moments that hook me.
And so I wait.
I couldn't have anticipated this, not in a million years. A decade ago I sat on the carpet in the bedroom of a rented condo that I shared with my sister, a corded phone attached to my ear with my hand over the mouthpiece to muffle my sobs, wanting to beg for more time, for the dozenth time to make good what seemed impossible but I stayed silent and I let go, weeping, I hung up the receiver and turned my back on what I believed to be irreparable and I walked away. It would be the first heartbreak I'd ever feel, an ache I had never experienced and I spent a good year wishing it away, pushing it to the back of my mind and stuffing it into a closet of oh-wells that would never be revisited. A major depression followed, a fog of time I buffered with job-hopping and mediocre dates with men who would never really know me, relationships that, in retrospect, were doomed for failure and I touched on that deep ache in tiny fractions that added up to the Biggest One until it became, finally, the Past.
I didn't know where you'd gone or with whom; there were rumors of sightings, speculations of your endings-up, angry jokes made at your expense that were supposed to make me feel better but left me feeling, still, as if even these minor humors were betrayals of what I'd thought to be The Only Chance I'd Ever Know, the Only One Who'd Ever Really Loved Me. Finally, blissfully, I stopped wondering and hoping and looking; Google became a thing and I typed your name, your full name, once only to come up empty-screened and I never did it again, I was sure I had no reason to wonder anymore: You were gone, it was over and past and done and what lesson I'd learned I had to make up for myself because I really hadn't learned one, at all, I only knew that the pain was almost out the door and then it was.
And so I met a man, another one with whom I'd set another house on fire and we made a baby, another one, this one to be born and while I occasionally had to reflect, during internal exams and questions asked by midwives and doctors, about any previous pregnancies, full-term or not, it was on this one I focused, this baby-to-be and the new Fire Starter and you were dormant, you were quiet and no more than a memory I barely remembered. This was peaceful, at the time, this is what I'd suffered for, to forget you and assign you your rightful place as Behind Me Somewhere and Where I Don't Know.
And first there was the ex-girlfriend, who recognized me through photos I didn't know you still had, approaching me during a rare adult moment when the Boy was off on a sleep over with my mother being fed with bottles of breast milk I'd pumped for such an occasion...the ex-girlfriend, with the pale skin and the shaking hands and the curly, reddish hair, with the current boyfriend with whom my husband had shared secrets and then some, it was a surreal evening for the both of us but the Husband was unfazed, seemingly, he drank his draught beer and reminisced with the Boyfriend while I heard sad stories, one-sided, of her survival of You and your stormy relationship and she begged for commiseration and I had none for her, I nodded and uh-huh'd and agreed to an online relationship with her but only in politeness, I really had no interest. I didn't want to share my story, our story, I couldn't tell her the intimate things that were woven so expertly into the fabric of who I'd become and the trivial stuff I've never had time for...I was glad that she stopped trying, eventually, and while I was slightly sad for her that she'd had less-than-good memories of your time together, I was more jealous that she'd had your time at all and I was apathetic and she gave up. And away you went again, it was easier that time, I still didn't know where you were or what you were doing and I had a home and a child and a job and a husband, you remained a relevant memory but you'd faded -- I had no photos to remind me or to share with the Husband, I had nothing but a red ball cap with a single white star on it that I wore to conceal my matted hair on trips to the grocery when I was too tired to do more than put a lid on it.
And there I was, in my space, in the smoky loud bar that was My Own Place with My Own Friends and I confess that when I saw your face at table 15, the one just to the left of the door, my heart leapt to my throat and I hurried to the side of my closest friend, the Bartender, the only one to whom I'd told about you and said, "it's Him, He's here, I don't know if I can do this," and he told me that I could do it, that I had it in me and that I was safe and that all I had to do was to be courteous and not show any emotion stronger than the false sense of friendliness I would show to anyone who was putting a dent in my mortgage payment. I could have asked one of my coworkers to take over the table, I nearly did, I was affronted by a drop in blood pressure and a ringing in my ears that distracted me and threw off my rhythm but then I remembered that I was not only alive but pretty happy, right then, I had a beautiful child sleeping at home and I was protected not only by my best friends, my coworkers, but by my perseverance and sticktoitiveness that had gotten me to a place of not-caring-much-at-all-anymore, so I did it. I couldn't tell you what you ate, I remember your date asked for a water refill and I don't remember if you drank beer or coke or both (but I think it was coke); what I do remember is that I was inclined to NOT hook you up in any way, that I felt, consciously, in no way obligated to you to give you a thing: I had felt abandoned by you, I had felt shut out by you and I clung to that feeling during your stay so that I could keep my wits about me, and I dropped your check just as soon as you responded, "no, thanks," when I asked if you'd like anything else. And I felt guilty, in spite of myself, for not at least buying you a beer in place of the hug and the kiss and the cheek-press that I'd really, in my heart, wanted to give you. And so you left, and I had a shot or two to calm myself, to cut the electricity that was surging up and down and all through me in a way that both confused me and frustrated me.
And the next day I typed out our story, from first sight to last word and every ugly and beautiful moment in between, and I let myself remember for as long as it took me to write it and reread it several times until I printed it out, set it on fire in an old coffee can and deleted the file. I intended to put it to rest for good, to not revisit the details deliberately as long as I had control of it.
And there was this time, at the Waverly Library, where I took the Boy from time to time, when I found myself on a play mat with a man I swore was You, so sure of it that I asked a friend to watch the Boy while I made a frantic call to my sister, telling her that you were right there, with your boy child, in the library with me and that no matter what kind of eye contact I made or small talk I attempted you were ignorant of my identity and I couldn't imagine how you couldn't know it was me, your ignorance was surely willful, and she implored me to breathe and stay calm and to remember that the door was open and that I could walk out of it if I needed to -- I did not have to stay, I had nothing to prove. I went back inside and the man whom I'd thought was You was kind enough to roll up his sleeves, revealing bare skin that had never been tattooed and I nearly wept with relief: I was heartbroken, for a moment, that you could forget me or worse, that you could willfully ignore me. And so it was not the case, just a very bizarre instance of mistaken identity.
And then there was tragedy, and the medicines I used to numb the pain of that trauma, the trauma itself being enough to erase a good bit of my memory for what I was afraid would be permanent but I didn't care, the trauma was too big and what had occurred before it seemed so small and I had current responsibilities that were tremendous and left no room for nostalgia or what-if, and the medicines led to more trauma and sadness and did nothing more than to push me into another kind of regret hole that was surmountable, finally, by the cessation of the medicines and a change in geography. And then it was just the Boy and Me and a tiny space in which we'd creatively cram our many possessions and there was adjustment, sure, and there were a few bed-warmers to distract me during times of great pain and emptiness.
Only once during the Adjustment did I see your face, once in a photo that I did not possess but that was in the album of an uncle's wedding we'd attended, early in our courtship, during which my mother had attempted to shame us for our shameless display of earnest affection -- that heady, early time when hands were nearly always on and lips were inseparable, no matter how untoward it appeared in settings both formal and not; I was thin then as I am now, in a pink dress with a single tattoo, you were looking at me with half a smile and your hand on your chin and you wore a tie, the only time I'd ever see you in one, and I know without seeing it that we both wished we were elsewhere. I stared at that photo for a long time, looking for a sign of bad to come but there was no sadness then, not yet, we were still perfect.
And then you found me, again, on that ubiquitous social networking site where most everyone and their grandparents are present and you asked for my "friendship" and I admit that I granted it, briefly, if only to see you again and to know where you were and if you were "in a relationship," I got the information I needed, I saw what I wanted to see but I was too afraid to let you back in, I had felt that electricity that night in the bar and I didn't want to risk it, it seemed dangerous and my trauma was in my lap and I was a mess, I couldn't let you in so I canceled it and this time: I shut You out in the way I'd perceived you'd done for me all those years before. Pathetic victory, it was.
And then, a year or so later when the Boy claimed the red ball cap with the single white star as his favorite and realized its purpose as a sun visor and asked, "is this your hat?" and I told him that no, it had belonged to an old friend with whom I no longer spoke and, as any dutiful 7-year-old would, he continued to ask and I found myself telling an abbreviated version of Us, the one without the sadness and the contempt and the regret, and he begged an answer to, "so where is he and why isn't he here? Is it okay for me to wear the hat?" and I told him I insisted, I wanted to see it on him and I spent many nights lying awake wondering if I should open that door again, just to see, and the answer did not come easily to me and frankly, I don't know right now if it was the right one.
And I opened a real door and through it You walked, taller than I'd remembered but almost identical, with the same smile and the voice I couldn't forget if I'd wanted to and an embrace, a sincere embrace that emanated and radiated the exact energy that had instigated all that inappropriate PDA and hasty commitments to Forever and I was terrified and thrilled and thought, "you're home, you're finally home," and we took a long walk through fractured sunlight shone down on railroad tracks, through a dank tunnel and talked over each other, almost manically and our rhythm felt exactly the same and the only difference I felt, amidst all the mania and the nervousness and the excitement, was the maturity that only comes with age and the realization that we'd never truly been adults together. And we were frank and apologetic, in ways that needed to be said for our own consciences but, at least for me, required no audible explanation because I could feel your regret in your steps and your calmness and I felt as if I'd just won the best prize I'd never imagined and I'd neglected to read the small print.
And we walked on to the abandoned building devoid of all but rubble and LSD-fueled graffiti, the building that had once housed people with the same disease that I have but for whom, in their days, there was no hope or home to return to or a stalwart past-lover to walk ahead with a proverbial flashlight and say, finally, "watch your step, follow close," and I felt at once heartbroken for my fellows who'd died sick and alone, and safe in the knowledge that I would never know that fate. And I believed then that You would be the one who would keep me from that fate: That we would finally know our In-Sickness-And-In-Health, all these years later. And later that evening, while we sat chastely tangled on the small sofa for so many hours into the early morning before finally giving in to comforting affection, we agreed to Try, I realized that I'd never wanted something so strongly in my life and the Wait, in that moment and for several days following, seemed as if it might not be so bad.
And so I realized that, in fact, it is so hard, it is so excruciating and painful and heavy, on my chest and in my shoes and behind my eyes and even in my hands, that I feel, every other minute, as if I cannot do it, it is impossible and masochistic and not even a certainty.
And every other minute, it feels as if it isn't a choice at all, that it is another test of endurance and strength that is my duty to fulfill and g-d help me if these aren't the moments that hook me.
And so I wait.
No comments:
Post a Comment