Love and Other Words
Page 8
He watched me in the careful way he had. “If my mom died, holidays would be rough.”
I felt my stomach clench, my throat burn, asking, “Why?” even though I didn’t need to.
“Because she makes a big deal out of them. Isn’t that what moms do?”
I swallowed back a sob and nodded tightly.
“What would your mom do?”
“You can’t just ask stuff like that.” I flipped onto my back and stared up at the ceiling.
His apology came out in an immediate burst: “I’m sorry!”
Now I felt like the jerk. “Besides, you know I’m okay.” Even just saying it backed up the emotional eighteen-wheeler. I felt the tears retreat down my throat. “It’s been almost four years. We don’t have to talk about it.”
“But we can.”
I swallowed again and then stared at the wall, hard. “She started Christmas the same every year. She made blueberry muffins and fresh orange juice.” The words came out in a woodpecker staccato. “We would eat in front of the fireplace, opening stockings while she and Dad told me stories from their childhood until eventually we started making up crazy stories together. We would all start cooking the duck, and then open gifts. And after dinner, we would curl up in front of the fireplace and read.”
His voice was barely audible. “Sounds perfect.”
“It was,” I agreed, more softly now, lost in the memory. “Mom loved books, too. Every gift was a book, or a journal, or cool pens, or paper. And she read everything. Like, every book I saw on the tables at the bookstore, she had already read.”
“It sounds like I would really like your mom.”
“Everyone loved her,” I told him. “She didn’t have much family – her parents died when she was young, too – but I swear everyone she met claimed her as their own.”
And they all floundered like fish out of water now without her, unsure what to do for us, unsure how to navigate Dad’s quiet reserve.
“Did she work?” Elliot asked.
“She was a buyer for Books Inc.”
“Wow. Really?” He sounded impressed that she was part of such a large Bay Area retailer, but inside I knew she’d grown tired of it. She always wanted her own store. It was only when she started getting sick that she and Dad were in a position to afford it. “Is that why your dad is building this closet for you?”
I shook my head, but the idea hadn’t even occurred to me until he said it. “I don’t think so. Maybe.”
“Maybe he wanted a place you could feel close to her.”
I was still shaking my head. Dad knew I couldn’t possibly think of Mom more. And he wouldn’t try to help me think of her less, either. It wouldn’t help. Just like holding your breath doesn’t change your body’s need for oxygen.
And as if I’d said that aloud, he asked, “But do you think of her more when you’re in here?”
Of course, I thought, but I ignored him, fidgeting instead with the edge of the quilt hanging over the side of the beanbag. I think of her everywhere. She is everywhere, in every moment, and also she’s in no one moment. She misses every single one of my moments and I’m not sure who that is harder for: me surviving here without her, or her without me, existing wherever she is.
“Macy?”
“What.”
“Do you think of her in here? Is that why you love this room?”
“I love the room because I love reading.”
And because when I find that book that makes me lose myself for just one hour, maybe more, I forget.
And because my dad thinks of Mom every time he buys me a book.
And because you’re here and I feel about a thousand times less lonely with you.
“But —”
“Please stop.” I squeezed my eyes shut, feeling my palms sweat, heart race, stomach curl into a knot around itself and all the feelings that sometimes felt too big for my body.
“Do you ever cry about her?”
“Are you kidding?” I gasped, and his eyes widened but he didn’t back down.
“It’s just that it’s Christmas,” he said quietly. “And when my mom was baking cookies earlier, I realized how familiar it was. It must be weird for you, that’s all.”
“Yeah.”
He leaned in, trying to get me to look at him. “I just want you to know you can talk to me.”
“I don’t need to talk about it.”
He sat up, watching me for a few more breaths of silence, and then returned to his book.
now
wednesday, october 4
I leave the warm comfort of bed and shuffle into the kitchen, kissing the top of a head of brown tangles. Sean should know by now that we can’t be sneaky in the morning: Phoebe is always up before us anyway.
Phoebs is a dream kid. She’s six, clever and affectionate, and boisterous in a way that tells me a little bit about her mom, because her dad is all mellow containment. Who the hell knows where Ashley, her deadbeat mother, is, but it stabs something in me to see Phoebe growing up without her. At least I had ten years with Mom, and her disappearance from my life doesn’t feel like a betrayal. Phoebe only got three before Ashley went to a weekend retreat for her investment banking job and came home with a taste for cocaine that turned into a hankering for crack, which eventually led to her giving up everything for speedballs. At what point will Sean be forced to tell his perfect kid that her mom loved drugs more than she loved them?
I remember walking out of his bedroom the morning after our first tipsy hookup to find Phoebe sitting at the kitchen table eating Rice Chex, hair already in crooked pigtails, wearing mismatched socks, puppy-dog leggings, and a polka-dot sweater. In his haze of flirtation, Sean hadn’t mentioned he had a kid. I try to see it more as a testament to how great my boobs looked in that blue sweater than a huge, dickish omission on his part.
That morning, she looked up at me, eyes wide enough to easily confirm what he’d said the night before – that he hadn’t brought a woman home with him in three years – and asked if I was a new roommate.
How could I say no to puppy-dog leggings and crooked ponytails? I’ve been there every night since.
It’s not really a sacrifice. Sean is a dream in bed, easygoing, and makes a mean cup of coffee. At forty-two, he’s also financially secure, which goes a long way when you’re staring down the barrel at med school loans. And maybe it was initially the alcohol, but sex with him was only the second sex of my life that didn’t feel immediately afterward like I’d sent something priceless crashing to the floor.
“Chex?” I ask her, blindly reaching for the coffee filters above the sink.
“Yes, please.”
“Sleep good?”
She gives a small grunt of affirmation and then, after a minute, mumbles, “It was hot.”
So it wasn’t just my body’s claustrophobic response to seeing Elliot and waking up beside Sean; her dad’s been futzing with the thermostat again. That man was born for central Texas weather, not Bay Area. I move across the room, turning the heat down. “I thought you were on Daddy Heater Duty last night.”
Phoebe giggles. “He snuck away from me.”
The sound of the shower turning on drifts into the kitchen, and I feel like I’ve just been given a game-show challenge with a buzzer counting down: Get out of the house in the next two minutes!
I felt my stomach clench, my throat burn, asking, “Why?” even though I didn’t need to.
“Because she makes a big deal out of them. Isn’t that what moms do?”
I swallowed back a sob and nodded tightly.
“What would your mom do?”
“You can’t just ask stuff like that.” I flipped onto my back and stared up at the ceiling.
His apology came out in an immediate burst: “I’m sorry!”
Now I felt like the jerk. “Besides, you know I’m okay.” Even just saying it backed up the emotional eighteen-wheeler. I felt the tears retreat down my throat. “It’s been almost four years. We don’t have to talk about it.”
“But we can.”
I swallowed again and then stared at the wall, hard. “She started Christmas the same every year. She made blueberry muffins and fresh orange juice.” The words came out in a woodpecker staccato. “We would eat in front of the fireplace, opening stockings while she and Dad told me stories from their childhood until eventually we started making up crazy stories together. We would all start cooking the duck, and then open gifts. And after dinner, we would curl up in front of the fireplace and read.”
His voice was barely audible. “Sounds perfect.”
“It was,” I agreed, more softly now, lost in the memory. “Mom loved books, too. Every gift was a book, or a journal, or cool pens, or paper. And she read everything. Like, every book I saw on the tables at the bookstore, she had already read.”
“It sounds like I would really like your mom.”
“Everyone loved her,” I told him. “She didn’t have much family – her parents died when she was young, too – but I swear everyone she met claimed her as their own.”
And they all floundered like fish out of water now without her, unsure what to do for us, unsure how to navigate Dad’s quiet reserve.
“Did she work?” Elliot asked.
“She was a buyer for Books Inc.”
“Wow. Really?” He sounded impressed that she was part of such a large Bay Area retailer, but inside I knew she’d grown tired of it. She always wanted her own store. It was only when she started getting sick that she and Dad were in a position to afford it. “Is that why your dad is building this closet for you?”
I shook my head, but the idea hadn’t even occurred to me until he said it. “I don’t think so. Maybe.”
“Maybe he wanted a place you could feel close to her.”
I was still shaking my head. Dad knew I couldn’t possibly think of Mom more. And he wouldn’t try to help me think of her less, either. It wouldn’t help. Just like holding your breath doesn’t change your body’s need for oxygen.
And as if I’d said that aloud, he asked, “But do you think of her more when you’re in here?”
Of course, I thought, but I ignored him, fidgeting instead with the edge of the quilt hanging over the side of the beanbag. I think of her everywhere. She is everywhere, in every moment, and also she’s in no one moment. She misses every single one of my moments and I’m not sure who that is harder for: me surviving here without her, or her without me, existing wherever she is.
“Macy?”
“What.”
“Do you think of her in here? Is that why you love this room?”
“I love the room because I love reading.”
And because when I find that book that makes me lose myself for just one hour, maybe more, I forget.
And because my dad thinks of Mom every time he buys me a book.
And because you’re here and I feel about a thousand times less lonely with you.
“But —”
“Please stop.” I squeezed my eyes shut, feeling my palms sweat, heart race, stomach curl into a knot around itself and all the feelings that sometimes felt too big for my body.
“Do you ever cry about her?”
“Are you kidding?” I gasped, and his eyes widened but he didn’t back down.
“It’s just that it’s Christmas,” he said quietly. “And when my mom was baking cookies earlier, I realized how familiar it was. It must be weird for you, that’s all.”
“Yeah.”
He leaned in, trying to get me to look at him. “I just want you to know you can talk to me.”
“I don’t need to talk about it.”
He sat up, watching me for a few more breaths of silence, and then returned to his book.
now
wednesday, october 4
I leave the warm comfort of bed and shuffle into the kitchen, kissing the top of a head of brown tangles. Sean should know by now that we can’t be sneaky in the morning: Phoebe is always up before us anyway.
Phoebs is a dream kid. She’s six, clever and affectionate, and boisterous in a way that tells me a little bit about her mom, because her dad is all mellow containment. Who the hell knows where Ashley, her deadbeat mother, is, but it stabs something in me to see Phoebe growing up without her. At least I had ten years with Mom, and her disappearance from my life doesn’t feel like a betrayal. Phoebe only got three before Ashley went to a weekend retreat for her investment banking job and came home with a taste for cocaine that turned into a hankering for crack, which eventually led to her giving up everything for speedballs. At what point will Sean be forced to tell his perfect kid that her mom loved drugs more than she loved them?
I remember walking out of his bedroom the morning after our first tipsy hookup to find Phoebe sitting at the kitchen table eating Rice Chex, hair already in crooked pigtails, wearing mismatched socks, puppy-dog leggings, and a polka-dot sweater. In his haze of flirtation, Sean hadn’t mentioned he had a kid. I try to see it more as a testament to how great my boobs looked in that blue sweater than a huge, dickish omission on his part.
That morning, she looked up at me, eyes wide enough to easily confirm what he’d said the night before – that he hadn’t brought a woman home with him in three years – and asked if I was a new roommate.
How could I say no to puppy-dog leggings and crooked ponytails? I’ve been there every night since.
It’s not really a sacrifice. Sean is a dream in bed, easygoing, and makes a mean cup of coffee. At forty-two, he’s also financially secure, which goes a long way when you’re staring down the barrel at med school loans. And maybe it was initially the alcohol, but sex with him was only the second sex of my life that didn’t feel immediately afterward like I’d sent something priceless crashing to the floor.
“Chex?” I ask her, blindly reaching for the coffee filters above the sink.
“Yes, please.”
“Sleep good?”
She gives a small grunt of affirmation and then, after a minute, mumbles, “It was hot.”
So it wasn’t just my body’s claustrophobic response to seeing Elliot and waking up beside Sean; her dad’s been futzing with the thermostat again. That man was born for central Texas weather, not Bay Area. I move across the room, turning the heat down. “I thought you were on Daddy Heater Duty last night.”
Phoebe giggles. “He snuck away from me.”
The sound of the shower turning on drifts into the kitchen, and I feel like I’ve just been given a game-show challenge with a buzzer counting down: Get out of the house in the next two minutes!
