What I'm Really Trying To Say

There was something mysterious about you, a curiosity that blossomed into more of a concern when you showed me the Glock under your pillow and the roll of six thousand dollars in your dresser drawer. Then there was that time you explained how you kept blank paper from every year, in case you needed to backdate a document and said document would be verified by a court. That we were both enrolled in law school, taking the same ethics class, was totally lost on you. And yet I fell in love. It was a delightful pairing, one others commented about. But after a few months, you announced you were leaving me for your ex-girlfriend. I was crushed, listening to Inconsolable on repeat and subsisting on iced tea. But for as tragic as the experience was, I’m thankful you passed through my life “It all works out for the best,” you said as I sobbed in the passenger seat. Those simple words have gotten me through many a dark moment.


Sitting in your freshman English class, I always felt silly smart. Everything I wrote received high praise and glowing remarks. My confidence grew and eventually I started writing short stories for fun. I’d sit at my desk, the soft glow of a lamp illuminating the keyboard, pecking away as my roommate slept. When the semester drew to a close, I excitedly announced my intention of becoming a writer. “You can’t be a writer. You have to be a writer that teaches. Otherwise you’ll starve,” you explained. I immediately sidelined my writing aspirations, and for that I’m thankful. Because if you hadn’t discouraged me, I would have never had the chance to spend the last decade working side by side with my father. And more importantly, I’m certain I would have never become the writer I am today.


As a kid, I tormented you to tears. I’d say your classmate was prettier. I’d back my ass into your doorway, fart, and then dance around singing that I wasn’t in your room. How you agreed to share a bed with me on family trips is a wonder. But as we got older, a close friendship developed. You showed me that six-month old pasta is still edible as long as the Tupperware seal is tight and you taught me the trick to giving a great blow-job. Mom and dad would be so proud. You cheer me on from the sidelines and you pick me up when I stumble. I am not always easy to deal with but you stick around. You make me laugh until my sides ache and you provide some of the most profound comments one can make about the Real Housewives of (insert city here). I’m thankful for everything you’ve given me, including a hefty serving of that disgusting green bean casserole you served two Thanksgivings ago. Just promise me you aren’t serving that this year.


You have given me a forum, a presence, in a community of strangers. Sometimes you have shunned me, my honesty and my opinions making me vulnerable and open for attack. Other times you have brought me comfort and warmth when I felt nothing more than conflicted and alone. Earlier this year I walked away from you. But when life hit the skids I came crawling back. You welcomed me with open arms, no questions asked. I write because I have something to say, but I strive to write better because of you. As I said to Crist last week, one of these days I’m going to win the lottery. And when I do, I’m taking a grand tour to visit each and every one of my readers. That way I can properly say thank you.


Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!

Awakening

When parking the car, leave enough room on the passenger side so he can place one foot on the roadway. Too close and he teeters on the uneven edge of the curb. It’s difficult enough with his uncertain balance. When setting the table, give him a salad fork. His wrist is stiff, his shoulder tight, and angling both is a challenge. Larger tines of a dinner fork guarantee that at least half of the meal will land on his lap. Oh, and if possible, cut his meat in the kitchen before serving him. He’ll never ask you to do it but he’ll always appreciate the effort.

“I’ll go around,” I say after trying the door closest to the handicap space and learning it’s locked from the outside, the force of my tug rattling metal against metal. A guy at the soda machine looks up, sees me through the window, and goes back to filling his cup.

I break into a trot and skip down the sidewalk. My father adjusts his walker, places one foot on the curb. His other leg locks straight, the toe of his shoe tapping the arc of the cement until he wills his knee to bend. My mother stands behind him with one hand on his back, the other on the hood of the car.

“I could’ve gotten the door,” a woman says as I pass her table.

I glance at her half-eaten salad, wisps of frisee and blue cheese crumbles glistening with dressing. A small pile of discarded pecans sits off to the side. I smile. “Eh, it’s okay. Thanks though.”

For an hour, we sit together picking at our food. We discuss the details of Christmas in Sarasota. We talk about books we’ve read, movies we want to see. We list the ways Panera could improve upon the texture and taste of their chicken.

“Is your tea sweetened?” My dad asks with his eyes focused on the lip of the plastic cup in front of me.

“With a Splenda. But Mom said you didn’t want anything to drink.”

“I don’t. But I have some medicine to take.” He reaches into his shirt pocket, presents colorful capsules that look like confetti. “I only want a sip,” he continues. “You can have the rest.”

“It isn’t about the sip.” I shift in my seat, study the lines that slice across my palm. The nail of my index finger rides along the deepest ridge. “Dad, what if your condition is a virus?”

My mom turns her head, observes my face, and then shifts her gaze to my father and awaits his response.

“They know it isn’t a virus,” he calmly argues.

“They don’t know shit. There are what, six hundred people with PLS? Not to sound negative but no one’s funding research. So, as of today, some random doctor in Minnesota ruled out a virus. He also said it wasn’t hereditary but there are two brothers with it.”

I push the cup further away, collapse against my seat back. My shoulders roll forward, my chin drops lower. Because, though the words came from my mouth, it feels like I am hearing them for the first time. Everyone is still, the restaurant suddenly quiet. For one solid second, it feels as if someone hit the pause button.

I am looking into a void but can feel my mom rest her hand on my forearm. My lips part and I expel a deep breath, blowing out until my lungs are empty. My father places a pill on his tongue and reaches for the tea. I stand up, stack our dirty bowls and drop them at the designated counter. When I return, my mom helps him to his feet, leads him to the exit. And when my father isn’t looking, I take the half-filled cup of tea he left sitting on the table and toss it in the trash.

Look But Don't Touch

Reserved tables dot the perimeter of the dance floor, thin slats of polished wood. Everything is foreign: the song, the club, the city. Even the man I am with is unfamiliar. I observe the way he leans on the bar when he orders our drinks. I study his fingers (lean), his posture (straight). When he speaks, I listen for hints to his accent, a hybrid of inflection and tone. I rule out South Africa but keep Brasil on the list.

We sway to the music, the song an unending traffic jam of synthesized notes. Sometimes I look down, close my eyes. Other times I look up, offer a wry smile. As the tables fill, the crowd clutters the dance floor. The air thickens and warms.

“Let’s head out,” he says with a nod toward the door, flashing lights illuminating the path.

Standing in his kitchen, my hips resting against the cold granite counter, I lift a goblet to my lips and take a sip. After loading a disc, pressing play, he walks toward me. His movement is slow. Slow motion, I think, as he lowers his head closer. His breath warms my skin. His touch stutters my pulse. The music fades to the background.

He laces his fingers with mine and leads me to his bedroom. I neatly fold my clothes and place them atop my purse, my presence limited to the footprint of a messenger bag. He hangs his pants, returns them to the closet. The tall door swings smoothly on the hinge. He offers a toothbrush, a bottle of water, a t-shirt and boxers. The gentlemanly gestures remind me of a concerned concierge.

He lifts the folded edge of the pressed sheet, as if holding open a door. The bed seems to go on forever. No matter how far I stretch my leg, I can’t reach the edge. That’s when I realize I am making snow angels.

“Come here,” he says, with a playful laugh.

“Okay,” I purr, crawling closer.

I straddle him at the waist. Our chests press together. Our legs tangle. We fall into a rhythm. His hand runs along my leg, glides up my thigh. Then he tugs at the waist of my panties.

“I can’t,” I mumble into his mouth. “I can’t sleep with you.” As a writer, I am disappointed at the simplicity of my word choice. Efficient, but lifeless and limited.

I roll off him, fall onto my back. My gaze is ahead but I feel like I am looking behind me, glancing in a rear-view mirror. I rub my temples, tighten my jaw. I yearn for a distraction, like a ticking second hand, so I can quietly lull myself back to center.

“It’s okay,” he says as he runs his fingers through my hair, pulls me closer.

“I’m sorry. It’s complicated.” Actually it isn’t.

“Paige.” He presses his lips to my forehead. “You’re amazing.”

I don’t feel amazing. I feel uncertain and scared, hesitant and awkward. I turn away from him, curl onto my side. Light from a streetlamp passes through the windowpanes. I study the shapes and shadows that fall across the floor, over the bed. If I flex my ankle, a square became a trapezoid.

When I know he is asleep, I roll over. My head propped in my hand, I watch his chest rise and fall. The pace is soft and even. My eyes trace the heart shape of his parted lips. With one hand extended, I reach to brush the back of my fingers against his cheek, to rest my open palm on his arm. But before I touch him, I retreat.

My weight shifts as I tuck my hand tight under my side, pinch it between my hip and the mattress. He stirs, moving his arm, adjusting his leg. But he won’t wake, not until the alarm chirps. I can tell by the limpness of his limbs, the evenness of his breaths.

I know I won’t sleep. The bed is comfortable, the sheets soft, but my head swirls. Thoughts collide, fight for attention. Eventually I close my eyes and make my world dark. I count backwards from a hundred. Then I do it again.