by Brea Brown
Six years ago, I was riding in the backseat of a car. My dad was driving. My mom was in the front passenger seat. It was snowing as we drove down the highway, but the road wasn’t covered yet. One or two inches stood in the grass of the median and the shoulders. The fall semester of my senior year at Loyola had just ended, and my parents had come to the school to pick me up and bring me home for Christmas break. I was bored with the college experience, in general and with Loyola specifically. I had already registered for my spring classes, but what I really wanted to do was study abroad for that semester, then take an extra semester to finish any requirements that had been pushed aside for my semester abroad. My parents were trying to talk me out of it. I kept telling them that I didn’t feel like I was getting the most out of my college years, stuck at a private Midwestern university that hardly seemed any different, socially, from my high school. The whole point of my discipline of study was to learn about other cultures, yet I had never been further than 200 miles away from my hometown. Everything I knew was from books, not from real-life experience. Over-protective, Mom and Dad told me I could always travel after graduation.
The closer we got to home, the more intensely we argued. I felt like I had to get them to agree before we pulled into the driveway or I’d never get them to agree at all. I unbuckled my seatbelt and sat in the middle of the backseat, leaning forward between the two of them. They both told me to put a seatbelt on, but I ignored them, too focused on the next part of my argument to listen to what they were telling me.
When I kept talking, Dad half-turned, taking his eyes off the road for a second, if that, to see if I was buckled in, like he had asked. The semi next to us fish-tailed. Dad overcorrected, and we skidded off the deceptively slick highway into the median. I remember turning upside down at least twice, but I obviously lost count, because the Highway Patrol report later said the car flipped four or five times, based on eyewitness accounts. Every window in the car shattered. Not wearing a seatbelt, I was thrown through the back window. Then it was black.
I don’t know how long it was before I woke up, but when I did, I was lying on my side, face down in the frozen grass, and it was just… silent… all around me. I felt nothing. I couldn’t even think clearly enough to process what I was doing or where my parents were. It wasn’t until I was being loaded into the back of an ambulance that I saw the white sheets on the ground, almost camouflaged by the snow.
With no adult family members (besides me) to take him in, Hank (who had been at a sleepover at a friend’s house), was put in a foster home until I could heal up, graduate, get a job, and support both of us. I wanted to quit school and get a job right away, but my academic advisor convinced me my parents would want me to finish.
First, though, I had to undergo several surgeries over the next few months. But as soon as I was healed, physically, I completed my degree. A week after graduation, I got the job that I still currently hold, and Hank and I moved into a two-bedroom walk-up close to our old house, so he wouldn’t have to change schools. When Hank graduated from high school and took off for the University of Florida, I moved to a completely different part of the city, where I live now. I’m in charge of my parents’ estate, which is probably the only thing that keeps Hank and me in touch with each other. He insists it’s not true, but I think he blames me for their deaths. I know I do.
I’m sorry for not telling you this sooner. My therapist, Dr. Marsh, has been urging me to tell you for months. But it’s something I never talk about, not even with Hank. I also want you to forgive me for reacting the way I did when you didn’t respond to my original revelation the way I imagined you would. It’s nothing you did or said, really. I’m hopelessly damaged, and it all happened way before we ever met.
Now I add, my fingers flying over the keyboard:
Soon an ocean will separate us, and maybe then things will get easier.
I wish you the best.
Thank you. For everything. You were a bright spot in an otherwise-bleak life.
Love,
Libby
I print it, fold it, stuff the pages into an envelope, and seal it before I can think better of it. It’s going to be close, I realize as I look at the clock on the microwave, but I think I can get to his place, slide it under the door, and get out of there before he gets home from work.
When I arrive, I’m relieved to see his parking space is empty. I park on the street around the corner, shove a quarter into the meter, and slip-slide up the slushy sidewalk and the front steps of his building.
I buzz the landlord, Mr. Feingold, who knows me and lets me in, saying, “It’s been a while since I seen you around here, pretty lady. Thought maybe you finally wised up and found yourself a nice American guy, maybe even a White Sox fan. I have a grandson, you know.” He says all this with a wink, keeping alive our friendly ongoing disagreement about hometown baseball teams.
Smiling easily, playing the part of the young, carefree ex-girlfriend, I say, “Nah, I’ve been schtupping another Cubby-lover. Just wanted to drop off something for Jude before he leaves for England.”
“Yeah, how do you like that?” Mr. Feingold asks. “Now I gotta find a new tenant in the middle of winter. Not an easy thing to do. But whaddya expect from a foreigner? I wish I could legally refuse to rent to ’em.”
I pretend to believe he’s kidding and edge up the stairs. “I won’t be long,” I promise him. “I’m just going to slide something under his door.”
“Take your time, honey,” he says, waving. “He’d be an even bigger idiot than I think he is if he just lets you drop that and run.”
I run up the last flight, taking the steps two at a time. My mission is to drop off the letter and get back to my own apartment, preferably before the snow covers the streets and everyone starts acting like they’ve never seen the white stuff before.
Unfortunately, the letter is a little fatter than the opening under his door. After two false starts, I take the envelope and try to flatten it against my thigh.
The door swings open, revealing a wet-headed Jude in a pair of baggy workout shorts and, fittingly, the Loyola sweatshirt he thought I would appreciate him buying but that I made him promise (without explanation, of course) never to wear around me.
“I thought you were Mr. Feingold… again,” he says, while at the same time I say, “I thought you weren’t home.”
Both of us chuckle nervously. Then he steps aside to invite me in.
“Oh,” I say. “No. Thank you. I… uh…” I hold up the envelope. “Was just bringing you this.”
“You’re a few weeks late for a Dear John letter,” he cracks helpfully.
I play along. “Yeah, the U.S. Postal Service isn’t what it used to be now that everyone uses email.”
Warily, he takes the envelope. He slides his finger under the flap, but before he can tear it open, I say, “Please. Wait until I’m gone.”
After a tiny hesitation, he agrees. “Are you sure you won’t come in, just for a minute, to warm up?”
I look past him, and I’m surprised to see his furniture and no boxes.
“You don’t look like someone who’s moving,” I comment, not making any moves to go inside.
He runs a hand through his hair. “Yeah. The movers are coming next week. They’ll do all the packing.”
“Where’s your car?” I ask suddenly, then explain when he gives me a puzzled look, “It’s just… I thought you weren’t home, because it wasn’t parked down there.”
“Ah. That. I sold it. Can’t very well drive it across the pond.”
I don’t know why, but I take it personally that he sold “our” car.
“Who’d you sell it to?”
He starts to answer, then says, “Really. If we’re going to have a conversation, can we do it inside? It’s brass monkey cold out here.”
My curiosity is strangely stronger than my flight instinct at the moment, so I edge past him and stand just inside the door when he closes it.
“Well?
” I prod.
“Well what?”
I sigh. “Who bought your car?”
“What does it matter?”
Realizing it’s kind of odd for me to care, I blush. “I don’t know. I’m just curious.”
“Bloke from my rugby team.”
I try to imagine someone else driving his car, and it almost chokes me up. So I change the subject. “What’re you doing home so early, anyway?”
He laughs. “You should have been a reporter. Or a copper.”
Leaving me in the entryway, he steps into the kitchen. I hear him running water. “Can I get you a cup of tea?”
“No, thanks,” I reply. I really just want him to answer my questions, then I can go. “Did you enjoy your going-away party?” I inquire lightly, as if it’s completely normal for me to be here, asking all this stuff.
From the other side of the wall, he calls back, “Not really. Although thanks for the chocolate cake. They made me take the leftovers home. Fancy some?”
I am kind of hungry. I inch into the kitchen doorway. “I guess. It’d be a shame for it to go to waste.”
He cuts two slices and slides the plate with the exponentially larger piece toward me. Without asking, he pours me a glass of milk and sets it next to the plate.
“Thanks,” I say shyly as we begin to eat standing up. After a few bites, I proclaim, “This is really good.”
He smiles slightly, his piece already gone. “Yep. Too bad you missed the party,” he says pointedly.
“Vacation day, not a ‘sickie,’” I say, to make the distinction.
“Yeah, Wanda told me. Said you’d had it planned for a while.” Pointing to the envelope he’s tossed on the counter, he asks, “What’s this about?”
I shrug, keeping my eyes on my fork as I collect some crumbs from along the edge of the plate. “Just something I promised you a long time ago.”
“But I can’t read it now?”
“Nope.” This cake sure is interesting to look at.
I can feel him watching me. Eventually, he says, “What if I have questions when I’ve finished reading it?”
Draining my glass of milk buys me some time. I don’t want to sound cold, but this letter is supposed to be the last word on our relationship, my “secret,”… everything. “Sorry. No follow-ups.” When he cocks an eyebrow at me, I say, “I’m pretty sure I covered everything. About what happened.”
“You think so, eh?”
“Sure.” I push the plate away, a quarter of the slice remaining. He takes up the fork and finishes it.
After thinking about it for a few minutes, while he washes our dishes and puts them away, he concedes, “Right. If you say so.”
“I do.” I wipe the corners of my mouth with my fingers, making sure I don’t have any chocolate icing or crumbs loitering there. “Well, thanks for the cake.” It sounds so trite and inadequate. I’m glad I wrote a more meaningful thank-you in my letter.
“Leaving already?” he asks, coming around the kitchen island.
I back into the entryway and bump into the wall when I run out of space. “Uh… yeah. I should. Before the weather gets worse. And my meter runs out.”
He looks just as determined to keep me here as I say I am to leave. Towering over me, he rests his hands lightly on my upper arms. “Are you sure?”
I nod but don’t move. His body’s so warm up against mine.
“Because I’m not going to lie. I still want you.”
I gulp. “Oh. Okay,” I reply stupidly.
He doesn’t seem interested in conversation, anyway, thankfully, so my insufficient grasp of the English language isn’t a problem. The kiss he plants on my lips sends an immediate signal to my brain to get every intimate part of my body humming. His tongue does more than fill my mouth; it fills a space inside me that’s been empty and cold for more than a month.
As he unbuttons my coat and slides it off my shoulders, I stay with the kiss. There’s no harm in a little goodbye kiss, right? Nothing more, just a kiss. I press my hands against the wall behind me, reasoning that if I don’t get any more engaged than with my mouth, it’s still legal. It’s not making out if hands aren’t involved. It’s just a kiss. A really good, intense kiss. But still a kiss.
I’m somewhat aware that we’re moving down the hallway by millimeters. My suspicions are confirmed when I open my eyes to see we’ve arrived in the living room, still attached by the lips. My coat fell off somewhere along the way. I should be concerned that I’m losing articles of clothing. But I’m still in control. Still just kissing. My hands are only on his shoulders for balance now. Honestly.
But the living room doesn’t seem to be the ultimate destination for this train. Jude keeps his mouth on mine and his eyes behind me as he walks me backwards toward his bedroom. Kissing in the bedroom is nice, I suppose. More comfortable, anyway. He’s just being a good host. A little food, a little drink, a little conversation, a little affection, and a big…
“Oh!” I finally pry my lips away from his, just before he pushes me down onto the bed. I fall backwards with a squeak and immediately scramble back up.
He reaches for me and grasps my wrist. “Please, don’t be skittish,” he begs, tugging on me.
While I plant my feet on the wooden floor, the tread of my sneakers sticking nicely, I avoid looking him in the eye, but that means my gaze falls on the bulge in his shorts. That’s been inside Leslie, I remind myself (crassly and unnecessarily, I might add).
“Oh, God!” I say out loud, frenetically tucking my hair behind my ears, straightening my bra, and biting my swollen lips.
“What?” he asks, sitting up. “What’s wrong?”
I look disbelievingly at him. “This!” I cry, twisting my wrist and yanking my arm away from him. “This is wrong!”
He shakes his head and reaches for me again. “No, it’s not. Please don’t run away again.”
“Can I walk?” I ask pathetically. “This was… You weren’t supposed to be home! Chocolate is an aphrodisiac! I have to go!”
I stumble through the bedroom door and the living room, which would be a lot easier to navigate if his furniture was gone, like I’d imagined. I snatch my coat from the floor, but I don’t put it on. I don’t need it.
“Bloody hell, Libby!” he says, following me. “I don’t understand you!”
“You started it!” I defend myself. “It was supposed to be a goodbye kiss, that’s all.”
“When you showed up, I had no intention of this being ‘goodbye,’” he states.
One hand on the door, I say, “It has to be, okay? There are things that we can’t fix. I can’t change who I am or what I’ve done. And neither can you.”
“Tell me what you think is the biggest problem, and I’ll find a way to fix it,” he promises. “Please.”
When I remain silent, then open the door, he lets loose a frustrated, anguished sound somewhere between a groan and a scream.
“I’m sorry, Jude. I really am. I didn’t mean for this to happen today.” There’s nothing more for me to say. I walk—not run—down the stairs and out to my car. When I get home, I stand in the shower long after I run out of hot water, but I can’t seem to wash the smell of him from my skin.
26
The oddest thing happens. Monday I go to work, and everyone in the world seems to be acting like it’s just another day. Two people honk at me and one flips me off during my commute (although I have to admit, I probably deserved all three). The people in the elevator face forward on the ride up to the tenth floor and look like they don’t have a care in the world other than that it’s another Monday. Some of them even talk about their weekends and who they’re going to root for in the Super Bowl next weekend, since the Bears aren’t one of the teams involved. In the office, coffee is brewing, the phones are ringing, and I’m pretty sure—yes, there it is—I hear people laughing. And I think, How can anyone laugh when that office over there is dark and empty?
As melodramatic and teenage-angsty as it so
unds, I can actually feel Jude’s absence from the city. He’s not here anymore. Not even in the same country. He might as well be on a different planet. And I’m grieving over it.
I remember when I started to forget what my parents looked like. The first time I realized it was happening, I had a panic attack. Never ones for photography, they didn’t keep pictures of themselves around the house. We never even had a family portrait made. My mom seemed to be afraid of people pointing cameras at her, even though she was a moderately attractive woman (I think… again, her face has grown fuzzy in my memory over the years). There were pictures of me as a baby, and a few less of Hank, but my parents didn’t bother taking out the camera for special occasions. Come to think of it, I don’t know that they even owned one. I guess they had to have, but I don’t remember seeing one around the house.
Anyway, my parents’ faces becoming less and less crisp in my memory has been traumatic. But I might welcome forgetting what Jude looks like. And what he smells like. And tastes like. And feels like. And sounds like. I wish I could forget every sense related to him. But my memory seems to be holding onto every detail as if my life depends on it. I can’t erase him.
I get through Monday. And Tuesday. By Wednesday, I’m feeling like I might not have to quit my job. Heath has taken over Jude’s position as Lead Architectural Designer, and he’s slowly settling into that office, which he’s rearranged to suit his preferences. I’m getting used to turning around and seeing a profile that features a beer gut and a big nose. It’s actually comforting. I hope he never closes his blinds so I’ll always know that Jude’s not a few steps away.
I make it all the way to Friday without having a nervous breakdown, without any messy scenes. I come to work, I do my job, I go home, I sleep. Repeat process four times. Somewhere in there, I feed the cat. At least he always seems to have food, so unless he’s learned to serve himself, I’m still managing to fulfill some of my responsibilities. But I’m doing it all on autopilot.