(NOTE: I edited the beginning since a few days ago. Read it! Pwease?)
In a metal bathroom stall, a week before my wedding, I trace the graffiti carved into the paint with my fingertip. It all makes sense—this girl loves that boy, J.L was here, and this boy died and a cluster of names misses him. And some other people took a ski trip, end of story. This boy is gone and people miss him, but what about her? She will call the boy, wish away her cracked past, wish to go back to when the book’s spine wasn’t so crooked. Please, can we write a new book? Can we give it an ending that hurts no one, is that possible?
I dial Asa’s number on my cell phone.
“This is the last time we will ever speak,” I tell him when he picks up. “I’ll be married soon. I can’t do this anymore, I never could. You have to stop calling me when you know I’m with him.”
“Ok, so you’re through with me? Right, got it. You’ve said that before,” Asa says.
“So you don’t believe me? Well, Asa, just you—”
“Do you believe you?”
I hang up. In the age-flecked mirror I swipe away guilt with another coat of lipstick, swing the door open to a roadside diner. Sunday morning’s litany: sunlight like lemon juice (but not nearly so acidic), the gum-snapping waitress (does she know she’s in every diner?), the fiancé in a plush booth (love, love and all that.)
“Eat the rest of my pancakes, I’m really full,” Fletcher says, holding a forkful to my face. A blueberry drops onto his syrupy plate.
“I’m stuffed too. Hey, you have some egg in your beard,” I laugh.
“Oh, good, just what I was going for.” He wipes it away with his fingers, “I hope it looks like snot.”
“No, no, leave it, it’s wildly attractive. In fact you should have snot all over your face for the wedding too. And forget the suit, how about something velour?”
“Ellen, I’ve got it!” he says, smacking the formica table. “What if you do the eighties bride thing? Blue eyeshadow, puffy sleeves, and hair to match. What do you think?”
I drain the rest of my orange juice and I say I think it’s time to get back on the road.
In October, Vermont glows. As Fletcher drives, I trace a timeline of fire and wish I could paint it—cadmium-yellow, ochre-red leaves with the zinc-white birches peeking through. It’s been a while since I’ve painted though. I fall asleep and wake up miles later to my phone ringing again. I slam it shut.
“Who was that?” Fletcher asks.
“No one. Are we almost there?”
“Pretty soon,” he says and spins the radio dial.
This is always me, always dropping hints into thin air, alluding to a present past. “Don’t say ‘for what it’s worth.’ It reminds me of someone.” “Don’t buy that hat. Someone I once knew had it.” “Don’t hold me like that. Someone—well, you know.”
A year ago, I found Fletcher on the Missed Connections ads on Craigslist. Or he found me for a second time, I should say. “To the girl who spilled her coffee—m4w—36 (South End): I helped you clean it up. You are beautiful, long hair and big eyes. But you seemed so sad. You said you’d had better days and I tried to make you laugh. I know it’s a long shot, and I’m a little older, but would you want to meet for some un-spilled coffee?”
When I spilled into the sugar packets I was thinking about Asa. It was autumn and he had just moved out a few days before. The afternoon at the coffee shop was the first time I had left the apartment since he had given me his key. It would take another week for me to throw away the things he had forgotten, to change the pictures on the walls, and finally, to dismantle the bridge I had built in my mind to his new place, brick by brick. I tried to forget his phone number and middle name. It took longer to forget his scent (laundry soap), the words to his favorite song, and the color of his eyes.
Every time after Asa and I fucked, I bled. It was what I woke up to—clotted blood the color of rust, small amount but no less troubling. I thought there was something wrong with me; I thought I was sick or broken. After awhile I went to the doctor. While removing the rubber gloves he said there was nothing wrong with me. It was Asa. He was too rough, a car crash on repeat. The doctor wanted to know why I never said anything to him. “Why didn’t you speak up if he was hurting you?” I told him then it wasn’t that bad. On the way home, I cried.
We miss Orchard Hill Street twice before finally turning onto it. It’s a dirt road; the car shakes. I haven’t left the city in months. This isn’t even our car; it belongs to a guy from Fletcher’s firm. Suddenly I’m hesitant. All around us, fresh air, real maple syrup, singing birds, but I can see myself drowning out here. I can see myself in that big house in wintertime when it gets dark at four and the snow buries you in. I can see myself wandering from room to empty room, waiting.
The car turns a corner. It’s like waking up to Christmas morning instead of just another December day. Outside, everything smells like sweet apples. We read in the open house listing that there is an acre of orchard in the backyard, but even in front there are a few— twisted bark and shiny dots of red peeking through. Then a porch, the wood worn with so many invisible footsteps. There are rockers set out, and on the door, a wreath made of pinecones and miniature pumpkins. Before we even open the door, Fletcher wraps his arms around me and says, “We could live here.”
Sorry for thinking about you too often. Especially now with my wedding so soon. We were done with each other a year ago, and I forgot you for a while, I did. And then I got everything I’ve ever wanted with someone who isn’t you and my fingers remembered your phone number. Sorry I still call you when he is at work and it’s a rainy afternoon and I’m feeling lonely. Sorry you’ve crossed bridges, real and otherwise, to get to Fletcher’s apartment. Often I can still smell the wind in your hair and see the hope in your eyes. “Is it over, Ellen? You’ve left him?” I say no, but kiss you to let you know “I want you too. My heart is split.” I’m sorry you kiss back.
The realtor releases us to explore on our own. From the foyer we find the kitchen.
“It’s very pioneer woman meets fifties housewife in here,” I tell Fletcher, looking at the oak floors and hanging copper pots. On the table there is a vase of crowed wildflowers, snapdragons bashing their heads against daisies.
“In a good way?”
“In a very good way. I could take some cooking classes in the city, make nice dinners?”
“Hush, I already love your mac ’n cheese,” he says and tests out the gas stove. There are times when I look at Fletcher, the old boat shoes, the cardigan, the tumble of brown curls that just kiss at his thick glasses, and I am so overwhelmed with a love that doesn’t hurt. He’s good for me. I’ve been telling myself I deserve someone who’s good for me. I once thought anger was a part of love, the way kisses are—I thought that myself in love was a little beast, sharp-clawed and wrath-tongued. I know now that, really, love is the only thing that does not hurt.
I cannot explain why Asa and I fell together in the first place. We were both art students, painters who had no idea what they wanted to really do. Our brain chemistry matched—we ate each other’s serotonin and got our fingers sticky with dopamine. It was easy and he was beautiful. We spent weekends in bed, letting apple cores turn brown, refusing parties, drinking anyway. If he was sad, I had to be sadder, and for better reasons, most of them made up. After awhile I stopped recognizing myself in mirrors and shop windows.
I had forgotten how to be happy, and I wanted to be something other than sad. So I became angry and I wanted Asa to be angry, too. I threw things: books, clocks, palette knives. Ours was a love streaming out the wrong way, sinking its teeth into any tender spots, driving its hands inside our bodies to tear out hollow spaces. Darling I will slap your face before I kiss your cheek if you’ll just shake me until my bones rattle and eyes roll. Oh, but don’t forget to hold me tight, sweetheart. Asa, baby, will you ruin me to remind me I’m alive? And he did; it took three years from our first date for me to leave him.
“I don’t know, I’ve never had a room all to myself.”
“Don’t be stubborn, this is yours. Look at this light, it’s begging to be a studio,” Fletcher says. I look out the windows at the orange leaves dotting a rolling lawn. Behind a sugar maple the sun is sinking and light falls down around us, something to wade through. “You could be the next Picasso if you wanted to be.”
“I’d rather be Frida Kahlo,” I say and try to open the window. It is painted shut.
We leave the studio, wander around the master bedroom and find ourselves in another small room with arched ceilings. When Fletcher asks me what I think, I bite my lips and try not to smile.
“The nursery?” I ask, ready to run to the car, flee to the city and hid under the covers if I’m wrong.
“What? Clearly babies are gross, Ellen.”
“Very funny, my friend. So hilarious.”
“Yes, this is the nursery. As long as we name the little one Billy Bob or Gertrude, I’m there.”
I’m sorry I keep myself from every happiness. I’m sorry we both do that to me and sorry that I always come back for more. Sorry that I can’t say, “I’ve never wanted you to be anything but happy.” It’s just not true. I’m sorry that I only want Fletcher to be happy, and is that love? Maybe my love for you has always been dirty, always tainted because I’ve wanted you to be jealous and afraid more often than I’ve wanted you to be happy. I wanted you to feel the way I did.
We leave our phone number with the realtor look around at the house once more. Most of the owner’s furniture is already gone, but I fill the house with antique cherry-wood tables, flowing linen curtains, iron beds in my mind. I want the chipped teacups, the crayon art on the fridge, pies cooling on the windowsill. At least, I always have, and it still sounds so good. Still, when I think of all the things I will miss—the possibilities that line up outside doorsteps, the voices singing somewhere, and myself on rooftops, squinting until all those lights splinter into diamonds—I’m not sure I can get rid of the thing inside of me that wants to hurt.
Last spring, right after Fletcher’s proposal, I called Asa for the first time since we split up. There was something pulling me back, small yet strong—a chain-link fence. History is a spiral, not a line: somehow I wasn’t done with him yet. He came to the empty apartment, commented on the oriental rugs and crown molding, said something about hitting the jackpot. I told him I was engaged. When I held up the diamond to prove it, my hand shook. “I’m glad for you. Good job, Ellen.” He started to cry. I touched his face his cheeks took the shape of my palms and it was so familiar.
I made rules for our affair. First, there could be no crossover effect: what existed in the darkness of the rainiest summer I’d ever seen would live nowhere else, not on our tree-lined street, not in restaurants, not even in our afterthoughts. Nothing could be left behind—no toothbrush on the sink or shoes at the door. Second, he could not kiss me hello or goodbye. Especially never goodbye. Third, I could not tell him that I wanted him to want to love me in a way I could understand—that would be unhealthy. I never told him any of the rules, not like it mattered.
In the backyard’s apple orchard I run from Fletcher like a child, buzzing in and out of the lines of trees. The rows are as perfect as telephone poles, and he catches me at every turn, a friendly monster. I’ll be twenty-four next month, and I know I’ll never give up hiding and seeking.
While running from him I trip over a tuft of meadow grass and fall flat on my stomach, cushioned by mushy apples.
“All of these apples have fallen,” I say. He sits beside me among hundreds of rotting apples. “There are more on the ground than in the trees.”
“You didn’t notice before? It’s pretty far past apple season,” he says.
The grass must have hidden most of them, I tell myself. I lift a red-green one and upon turning it over I see the other side is slick and brown. When I try to toss it my hand sticks.
“That’s why the air smells so good,” he says, crushing one with his heel until pulp squirms out.
I laugh, “Because everything is dying?”
“Oh, Frida, must you be so morose?”
Fletcher’s never had the same concern for the past that I did. I asked him everything about old lovers and girlfriends, and he told me honestly, everything I wanted to know. But still the ghosts that slid across our bedroom walls with each pass of headlights made me want to dig through his boxes and sock drawer figure him out.
Then one day I realized they were my ghosts and how upset I was that he wouldn’t pay attention to them, even when they were whispering in his ear. If there is one thing a ghost hates it’s when you ignore it. That’s when they clank on the pipes, or hide under the bed. That’s when they creep inside you, a filmy layer beneath your skin bleeding something so strong, they can smell it in the streets. You’re certain your newest lover can deceit it, too. But it seems his nose is stuffy.
In some ways, I wish Fletcher could see the haunting, add up the facts, set this ghost free. But he never does. So here I am, always at the brink of a great reveal, waiting for the violent exorcism, with all its gore—me writhing on the dirty ground of the place we once lived. Scream at me, because I deserve it. Hit me, because I deserve it. But, oh god, if you leave me, well then we’ll both be sad. But I’d be better off then Fletcher—I’d be ghostless. So I keep my mouth shut, make Asa call before he visits, wash the cotton sheets because this isn’t about me.
I don’t know if after the wedding I can stitch my heart by the ventricles, seal it up for only Fletcher. I don’t know if I can build walls and tear down bridges like I did before. I don’t know if Asa will end me like a photon flash, or if the husband who looks at me like I’m magic, the babies’ gummy mouths, and the apples on the tree always within my reach, will be a plastic bag that suffocates me stagnant. I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know.
