Thirteen

You don’t tell someone you love that you tried committing suicide and expect them to let it slide. I learned that the hard way. Despite her tears and support, Jen still wanted to know what the hell I was thinking, though she asked with much more tact.

“Help me understand what you were going through,” she asked.

“It’s complicated,” I said.

“I would hope so.”

I wanted not to have this conversation, but as we were driving 80 miles an hour down the Interstate, I didn’t have much choice.

“My parents don’t know.”

“Ok.”

“They can’t know,” I said. “Especially mom.”

Jen leaned over and put her hand on my leg. “I won’t say anything.”

Out of the corner of my eye I could see her staring at me, eyes pleading for an answer.

“It won’t make sense to you.”

“It doesn’t have to.”

Now I looked at her. She saw the disbelief in my cocked eyebrow.

“Really, it doesn’t.”

It was too pretty of a day to have this conversation, I thought. Blue skies, golden plains and suicide tales: one of these things is not like the other ones.

“I was tired,” I said.

Her silence goaded me on.

“And I didn’t want to do it anymore.”

She just rubbed my leg.

“I know, pretty fucking pathetic.”

“You’re not pathetic,” she said.

“Maybe not now.” Her empathy was making me uncomfortable. Or maybe it was my own embarrassment that was the issue.

“When I was in grade school,” I continued, “the teachers would always ask if we were going to be better off, as well off or worse off than our parents.”

“That’s a tad deep for grade school,” Jen said. “What kind of kid is going to say worse off?”      

“I know,” I replied. “So the conditioning starts there and between teachers telling me I’ll be better off and my mom telling me I can do anything I want, I don’t know any better than to buy into it.”

Jen sits up and leans against the passenger door.

“I mean I’m sold on the deal. Will I be better off than my parents?  Fuck yeah, because I’m capable of anything.” I pause to take a drink of water. “You go through life daydreaming of the person you could be and then one day you wake up and realize it was all a scam. Your mom and your teachers didn’t know what the fuck they were talking about and now it’s up to you to deal with the unrealized expectations.”

“You know what I hate,” I ask. “Mediocrity.”

“Mediocrity,” says Jen.

“Yeah, being average.”

“Why?”

“Because everyone is average.”

“And?”

“And I slowly woke up to the fact that all I’ll ever be is fucking average.”

“So you decided to…”

“Yep,” I said, interrupting her before she could say it.

“I’m glad you didn’t.”

Her sincerity caught me off guard. I guess I was used to Liz.

“Me too.” I smiled, kind of.

“You know what I wanted to be?”

“What,” I asked. 

“A mailman.”

“Very glamorous.”

She laughed. ”I know, can you believe that?”

“I wanted to be a helicopter pilot.”

“So why didn’t you?”

“My eyes,” I said, “if I would have been born ten years later I could’ve had LASIK.”

“I suppose. But then you wouldn’t have me.”

“Yeah?”

“As a rule I don’t do anyone born after 1988.”

The thought of her with another guy silenced me, momentarily draining the humor from the moment. But I could only tolerate so much seriousness. I needed levity ASAP.

“Then you’re missing out,” I replied. ”1990 produced some hotties.”

“‘91 was better,” she said, a sly grin barely covering her sarcasm.

From there the conversation drifted into the expected observations of the younger generation and their gilded, spoiled upbringings and confusing tastes in crappy music and clothing. The emo thing was discussed at length. Guys in girl pants, manscara, rich kids spending daddy’s money to look poor. Fucking idiots.

My mind drifted. Jen was asleep, head back, mouth open, the familiar and humorous pose of the weary traveller.

I was tired.

What kind of excuse was that? Were unmet expectations really so bad? Did not getting my way warrant such severe actions? What kind of selfish prick was I to take my own life when there were so many who didn’t have the luxury of choice? My mom, she wants nothing more than to live. To experience the evolution of her family’s lives. To watch her sons grow into the men she expects them to be, to find women who make them happy and to raise families. She wants to be a grandmother. She wants to grow old with her husband. There are more birthdays to celebrate. More milestones to be marked.

She wants to participate.

She wants to participate and all I want to do is watch my life pass me by, a voyeur of my own life.

She wants to live, but she probably won’t.

I wanted to die, but I didn’t.

I wonder what she’d do if she ever found out. How far could I push her maternal love?

When I told Jen about Mom’s cancer she cried. She didn’t even know the woman. I’ve known her my whole life, yet my eyes are dry.

I’ve convinced myself that I’m not as horrible as I think I am.

I tell myself that I don’t want her to die. That there are so many things I want her to do, so many things she deserves to see. To dance with me at my wedding. To meet her grand-kids. To watch her children suffer the indignity of aging. I think about how much the woman loves life and all its simple pleasures. I think of the fear she must have, the uncertainty she faces. I think of this massive injustice that has befallen the most up-beat, optimistic and kind woman I have ever known and I curse myself for not living up to her example.

I tell myself I will no longer be a spectator.

Twelve

The great thing about being in love is that it makes even the shittiest of circumstances tolerable. I mean here I am, my career is fucked, my mom is probably dying and I’m soon-to-be-homeless. But just because I happen to be disgustingly in love with a woman who actually loves me back, I’m happy. (If you’re reading this Liz, that’s a big fuck you).

You know that feeling you get when you look at a picture of yourself from ninth grade? How you cringe with embarrassment and disbelief at your own dorkness? How you wish you could go back and take it all back? That’s how I feel about Liz. I can’t. For my fucking life. Believe I ever thought she was the one. Additionally, should I ever refer to anyone as the one again, I promise to place my open mouth on a curb and let homeless people kick me in the back of the head.

I’m pretty sure Jen is the one.

“We should visit your folks over Labor Day,” said the one.

It was a beautiful August day so we felt compelled to picnic. Since falling in love, we had become that couple, now we were laying on a red and white checkered blanket on the bank of a hidden little lake out in the middle of nowhere. The only thing missing was an apple tree. But we made do with an aspen. We even went skinny dipping and had afternoon delight. It was very Abercrombie, except not gay.

“Why would you want to do that,” I asked.

“Hmm…let me think.”

I tussled her hair. “Ha ha, smartass.”

“Don’t call me a smartass,” she said, smiling.

I playfully smacked her butt. “I mean sweetass.”

“Don’t you want me to meet your parents?”

“I do.”

She said something in reply, but I was lost in my thoughts. I did want her to meet my folks. I just knew that a trip home meant telling Jen all of the truth, not just some of it. And I knew that to do that, I’d have to acknowledge my mom’s illness. Truthfully, I didn’t want to do that.

“Will?”

I snapped out of it. “Sorry, what was the question?”

“Don’t you want your parents to meet me,” she asked again, this time sounding a little hurt.

“For sure I do.”

“Then why not over Labor Day?

I started scratching her head. Procrastinating.

“I’m not sure I’ll be able to get off work.”

She just rolled her eyes. “I’m serious.”

Fuck it. “You really want to go?”

“Of course I do.”

We looked at each other, I could see a suppressed grin fighting its way to a full on smile. How could I say no to that?

“Only if you promise to give me road head.”

She started laughing. “How ’bout I drive and you give me road head?”

“Ok.” I relented. “I’ll call them tonight.”

“Really,” she asked, barely able to contain her excitement.

“Really,” I replied, feeling good that I made her so happy.

“Do you think they’ll like me?”

“Of course they will. What’s not to like?”

“I know, it’s just that sometimes moms are…you know…protective.”

“Yeah, that sounds like Mom.”

“Really?”

“But you have nothing to worry about.”

The rest of the picnic was pretty boring, just more skinny dipping and sex and napping. I forgot to put on suntan lotion.

* * *

Mom was ecstatic to hear that I was coming home. The next day she e-mailed me a list of all the stuff she wanted me to do. I e-mailed back and said I didn’t want to spend my short vacation cleaning the gutters and going through bins of my high school memorabilia. I said I’d prefer to hang out and enjoy each others company. She agreed that that was a better idea. Then she asked if Liz was coming too.

“About that…” I typed.

She called two seconds later. Protective mother getting the best of her.

“You and Liz broke up, when?”

“A while ago.”

“Ohhh, dudely, I’m so sorry. Are you okay? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I’m fine ma. Better than fine actually. I met someone new.”

I heard the disappointment and insinuation in her voice. “Will?”

“I didn’t cheat. It was the other way around.”

“What!”

“I know. But we were pretty much done anyway. Besides, Jen makes Liz seem like a troll.”

“Jen?”

“The new girl.”

“Oh,” she said, then added, “That’s not saying much.”

“I know.”

“I never liked that girl.”

“Yeah well, neither did I.”

 

“So, is she excited to hear we’re coming to visit,” Jen asked as soon as I hung up.

“She can’t wait to meet you.”

“I’m sooo excited.”

“Babe,” I said, looking up from the couch, “you gotta stop that.” I didn’t know what made me happier, that she was going to meet my folks or that she apparently loved me that much.

“Stop what?”

“Being so happy. It’s making me horny.”

“Then you’re gonna have quite the problem,” she said, hopping on my lap. “‘Cause I can’t help it when I’m around you.”

We looked at each other like the smiling, punch-drunk idiots we were. No hints of self-consciousness or embarrassment getting in the way of love, however sudden it was.

“Doesn’t this blow you away,” I said.

“I know,” she agreed. “I never thought I’d be so in love.” She leaned in and kissed me. I responded by wrecking the moment.

“Aren’t you scared we’re moving too fast?”

She sat back and looked at me, confused, slightly hurt.

“Too fast?”

“Yeah, I mean, what if it’s not the real thing?”

Nothing.

“What if you wake up one day and think, ‘what the hell did I see in him?’”

“Don’t be dumb,” she said. “Of course that won’t happen.”

“But what if it does?”

By now she’d climbed off of me and was sitting on the other end of the couch.

“Where’s this coming from?”

Now I was silent.

“Are you feeling that way,” she asked. “Are you thinking you might wake up and realize you don’t love me?”

“No.”

“You don’t sound too convinced.”

The awkwardness came in waves.

“You love me, right,” I asked.

“Of course I do,” she replied, irritation snaking into her voice.

“No matter what?”

I was confusing her almost as much as I was confusing myself.

“Why are you asking me this?”

What the fuck was I doing?

“You remember when I was sick that time?”

“Yeah,” she said.

“I wasn’t sick.” I paused, working up the courage, realizing that once the words left my lips they could never be taken back. I was staring at her, searching her face for the compassion I knew was there, hoping it wouldn’t turn to revulsion with the admission I was about to make.

“I tried killing myself,” I said to the floor, my tone more matter-of-fact than I expected.

A weight I never knew I carried, was released from my chest. Though instantly I was overcome with the fear that the woman I wanted to love more than anyone would run out the door. I felt the couch springs release as she stood up and my heart collapsed with the realization that I’d just lost her. That I’d read her wrong. That, despite my hopes, she wasn’t the woman I needed her to be.

But then I felt her sit next to me.

I felt her warm hand take mine.

I felt tears streak down my face.

And in that instant, I realized I would never love someone as much as I loved her.