by Renee Ahdieh
I don’t know what you did, but I’d bet meals for a month that he still loves you. So do I.
Yours, (until I start thinking straight)
Anne
From: Cris Pereira <[email protected]>
Reply-To: [email protected]
To: Anne Abramson
Date: Thurs, February 25, 2010 at 11:47 PM
Subject: Re: ?
Anne,
I’m so very sorry. I hurt your brother irreparably, and I’m a coward.
He deserves everything wonderful that life gives him. I wish him the best with all my heart.
Love,
Cristina
His eyes are destroying me.
These words were seared on my vision as though Fate had devised a way to brand the evidence of my inadequacy onto everything I saw . . . making it impossible to forget, even for a moment. And man, did I try to forget. Those five words haunted my days.
And the memory of Tom’s mother uttering this to me in her kitchen blistered my dreams: “Please don’t break his heart . . . I’m becoming quite certain that he won’t be able to get over it.”
The recollection of this request became a rather strange precursor to my nightmare’s ignominious return.
The first night it recurred was after a huge fight I had with Hana. For a week she pretended as though she understood why I walked out on my fiancé. Each time I called her, she listened with the ears of a friend who loved me unconditionally. I cried into the phone and blubbered through long-winded explanations and convoluted justifications. In turn, she murmured compassionate phrases meant to soothe my suffering and ease my nerves. But her heart wasn’t in it.
On the seventh day, God meant to create patience. Instead, he went on vacation.
“I can’t take it anymore!” she exploded that fateful night.
“Huh?” I sniffed.
“I’ve listened to this crap for a week now! I’ve lied to you for an entire week! Before this, I’ve never lied to you, and I can’t deal with it anymore!”
“You lied to me?”
“I lied to you, I lied to Gita, and I lied to myself.”
“What are you talking about?” I asked.
“YOU’RE AN IDIOT!”
“Huh?” The tears welled in my eyes again.
“YOU. ARE. AN. IDIOT. Just call him! You made a mistake. Tell him you’re sorry, and then tell him how much you love him and want him back.”
“Well, since you put it that way . . .” I spat.
“Table the sarcasm. Right now, you don’t have the intellectual wherewithal to pull it off.”
“Ouch. Tell me what you really think,” I retorted. My melancholy overshadowed the beginning pangs of anger.
“You know what? I believe I will. So what if you were harassed by the paparazzi! So what if people kept calling your phone! So what if Tom is mad about Ryan! SO WHAT!”
The anger flared. “You have no idea what you’re talking about! You think that all of this drama is fabulous and entertaining. You read your blogs and your People magazine, and you think this world is like the adult version of Disneyland! Newsflash: it isn’t!” I shouted.
“This is exactly why you just fucked up your life, Cristina Pereira! You think that all of this has to do with Tom or Tom’s profession. Here’s a newsflash FOR YOU: it has nothing to do with Tom! This is all you! You’re terrified of trusting someone enough to believe in a future. Your mind needed to create some nonsensical reason for destroying a good thing before it progressed beyond your control!”
“Go to hell!” I cried.
“I’ll take the seat right next to you! Only, my hell won’t be one of my own making! Just call a spade a spade and admit that you dumped him before he could dump you, like some hormonal teenager with acne and insecurities!”
“HOW CAN YOU SAY THIS TO ME?” I screamed.
“Tell you what! I’ll answer that question when you tell me why you bled internally for months after Ryan left, and then proceeded to inflict the same wound on someone else!”
“GOODBYE!” I yelled. I burst into tears and threw my phone on the bed.
I had never fought like that with Hana. We had our moments of mutual crankiness, but they were short-lived and laughed away. Most of the time, I loved her ability to see the root of a problem and figure out a solution that combined her acerbic wit and strong sense of compassion. She was usually so sympathetic . . . such a wonderful shoulder to cry on.
She was never like this.
That night, right before going to bed, a fresh onslaught of tears snaked down my swollen cheeks at the gnawing playback of Hana’s accusations combined with the memory of Grace Abramson’s request.
Yet another failure. I broke his heart.
His eyes are destroying me.
I hiccupped my way into a restless sleep, and my chiaroscuro nightmare returned with a vengeance. Just like before, Ryan walked out on me through the front door. I was left in cold darkness and sank to the floor with a practiced motion full of antagonistic grace.
I froze in my heap to clasp the strands of itchy carpet and braced myself for the pain . . . that didn’t come. The long-familiar rush of anguish was strangely absent from this fourth-dimensional retelling.
My gaze shifted from the pilings before me towards the direction of the door. I was . . . waiting. Waiting for the light and the warmth to radiate from the space Ryan had just vacated. I knew it was coming, and I waited for its hope and its promise.
And waited.
And waited.
It never came. The cold darkness was all that remained. Then the missing anguish slammed into me with startling ferocity .
I awoke with a gasp.
Coward.
“So, do you want to get dinner tonight?” Ryan asked me a week after my fight with Hana.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I said into the phone.
“How about tomorrow night? Aren’t you tired of being cooped up at home in your self-imposed exile?”
I sighed quietly. Gita would be loath to hear it, but she had made the same point to me just that afternoon. Since I was not on speaking terms with Hana, she had been forced to deal with my misery a great deal more than usual this past week. Her only request was that I not force her to get involved in the spat. When contrasted with Hana, she had taken a decidedly different approach to my return to the world of Singledom.
“I have nothing to add. I told you everything on my mind whenever you first said you were engaged. My opinion remains the same. I’m here if you need me, but I won’t lie and tell you what you want to hear,” she intoned carefully. I knew what that meant: proceed at your own risk.
In short, we completely avoided speaking about Tom or Hana. I didn’t want to lose the ear of another person dear to me by pressing the issue on either front. I was desperately thankful to have someone to talk to.
My mother tried hard not to burden me with her own disappointment, but I knew her well enough to be cognizant of it at all times. We were two silly women who lived together, cried ourselves to sleep, and pretended as though neither knew of that rather obvious fact. It was an excruciating farce to maintain.
Since one of my best friends was ignoring me, my other best friend desired painfully censored conversations, and my mother was trying her damnedest to win an Academy Award, I was forced to seriously consider having dinner with Ryan Sullivan. Ugh.
What a karmic twist of fate.
Anyway, there was something I had been meaning to give him for a while, and this seemed as good a time as any.
“I’ll meet you for dinner tomorrow night, but there are several conditions. I want to go to Wendy’s, and I’m paying for my own food. This is not a date, and the second that you even imply that it’s anything more, I’m out the door in a heartbeat,” I replied stiffly. How had it come to this?
The following evening, I met Ryan at Wendy’s in sweatpants and a T-shirt. I would never admit it aloud, but it was nice to be eating with
a person not peering intently at me over her glasses with a permafrown of concern. Poor Mami.
As I toyed with my chicken nuggets, I studied Ryan from across the table. He was oddly merry, as though he were satirizing himself.
“You don’t have to try so hard. You suck at being cheerful,” I said flatly and stabbed another fry into the pool of ketchup congealing on a napkin in front of me.
His nose flared and his eyes narrowed circumspectly. “Okay. You look like hell.”
“Nice. Can you water it down a bit?” I demanded.
“You just asked me to be myself.”
“No, I just asked you to stop being Mary Sunshine,” I muttered.
“Fine. Are you sleeping at night? There are circles under your eyes.”
“Now he cares about the circles under my eyes! Where the hell were you two years ago?” I sneered.
“Look, simmer down. I know you’re going through a lot, but don’t unload everything onto the first person willing to be honest with you.”
“You’re not the first person willing to be honest with me,” I replied.
“And how well did you handle their honesty?”
The involuntary sadness that passed through my features was all the response he needed.
We exchanged mindless chatter about work as we made our way through the meal. After wiping the grease off my hands, I reached into my purse and pulled out a small velvet bag.
“I should have given this back to you two years ago. I don’t want it anymore, and it really belongs to you,” I said quietly as I placed it on the table between us.
He reached over with curiosity and pried apart the drawstrings on the small bag. After peering inside, he pulled the strings shut with a firm tug and put it back on the table.
“I gave that to you.”
“It lost its meaning.”
“No, it didn’t. Not for me. Keep it. I’m going to try hard to make you believe the meaning behind it never left,” he said with gentle eyes.
“I don’t want the ring,” I whispered. He had no idea how much that little piece of jewelry tormented me.
“You don’t want it now, but you will one day. Keep it on you. There will be a moment when you believe in us again, and I want you to have it with you whenever you do.”
“I don’t think that’s going to happen,” I stated firmly.
“Nevertheless, give it at least six months. If you still don’t want it in six months, I’ll take it back. I promise.”
“No. Please take it back now.”
He shook his head with firm obstinacy, and I frowned with frustration.
It sat between us until we both rose to leave the restaurant. When he pulled on his jacket and walked quickly towards the door without retrieving it, I sighed and put it back into the zippered compartment of my purse. I didn’t have the strength to argue about anything else.
He waited for me by the door.
“I had fun tonight,” he said with a wry grin.
“Right.”
He snorted with a sarcastic air that was sadly familiar to me. “I’m not lying. I love being with you . . . in fact, I belong with you.”
“That’s my cue to leave,” I announced as I turned towards my car.
“Cris.” He shifted into my path. “I’m not going to give up. Even when you look like hell, you’re still beautiful to me. I know you’re really confused right now, but when the dust settles I’ll be here. We make sense, and deep down, you know it.”
Wordlessly, I sidestepped him. “Thanks for grabbing dinner with me,” I muttered as I rushed past him.
I cranked the engine of my car and leaned my forehead into the steering wheel to hide my tears from the world.
All you need to get the attention of a man . . . is another man. Hah, why didn’t I think of that before?
Life most certainly goes on.
I went to work each day, and the predictable pattern of my existence slowly re-established itself, as though my time falling in love with a movie star had merely been an extended dream of epic proportions. I returned to the haze of before with penitent resignation.
I missed Tom so much it crushed down onto my chest with the weight of a million unspoken words. Weak and feeling alone in a hell of my own making (thanks again, Hana), I had lunch twice with Ryan the week following our dinner at Wendy’s. After much prodding, I also went with him to see a documentary on evolutionary psychology at a nearby arthouse theatre. He tried hard to make me laugh, and I pretended that it worked so I wouldn’t have to deal with worrying about his feelings on top of everything else.
That Friday, I went to the grocery store with the intention of buying frozen yogurt and renting a chick-flick from Redbox in the fashion of a normal girl who recently broke up with her boyfriend. In line with my yogurt, I saw a picture on the cover of Star magazine that made me drop my little carton and flee with deranged urgency.
Thomas Abramson had been caught exiting a bar in London. The magazine insinuated that he left with a beautiful blonde in tow.
I didn’t even process the blurry picture of the accompanying woman.
His eyes are destroying me.
I went to bed early that night, curled in a ball of my own misery. The image of his haunted, grey green eyes . . .
My nightmare was harshly devoid of any warmth for the third time in a row. The next morning I decided something had to change. I couldn’t continue living in this vacuum. As soon as I brushed my teeth, I pressed viciously onto the keys of my cell phone.
Me (9:32 am): I miss u so much it hurts.
I waited with bated breath for a response.
Hana (9:33 am): u woke me up
I exhaled with relief.
Me (9:33 am): My bad. Can u ever forgive me?
Hana (9:33 am): conditionally
Me (9:33 am): ?
Hana (9:33 am): only if u forgive me too J
For the first time in weeks, I smiled in earnest.
Life most certainly goes on.
Chapter Twenty-Two
I sat patiently outside of the hospital room holding a large covered dish in a towel on my lap. Next to me was a brown paper bag filled with drinks, fruit, and paper products. The smell of antiseptic filled my nostrils, and the glare of the fluorescent lighting triggered the beginning sensations of a headache. Nurses and orderlies blurred past me with their rubber-soled shoes squeaking against the white tile.
I hated hospitals. Come to think of it, I was certain this sentiment was one I shared with the vast majority of the population. The last time I had been in this hospital had been the morning my father died. I probably should have thought of that fact prior to volunteering for this task. Oh well. Good deeds are less powerful when they are driven by thoughts of convenience.
This afternoon, my co-worker Jennifer had mentioned a friend of hers who volunteered for Wake County Human Services every holiday season. Her name was Claire. Claire had been a student working on her Master’s Degree in Elementary Education when she began to complain about frequent, fierce migraines and distorted vision. Soon afterward, she was diagnosed with brain cancer. Her family had struggled to come up with the funds to pay for Claire’s treatment—she didn’t have health insurance. Two weeks ago, the doctors announced the disease had metastasized, and now she floated in and out of consciousness. There was little hope that she would make it.
Jennifer brought up Claire’s sad turn of events because it was her turn to bring dinner to Claire’s family at the hospital. Unfortunately, Jennifer’s son had been taken out of school that day with a bad stomach virus, and she was not certain she would have the time to prepare a meal to take to the hospital while nursing a sick child at home.
Moved by the situation, I had quickly volunteered to go in her stead. After leaving the office early at four o’clock, I put together some vegetable lasagna and drove over to the hospital to wait for Claire’s parents to arrive from work. How sad that they couldn’t sit by her side every second of every day . . . I felt fortuna
te that my father’s illness had not burdened us with the insurmountable debt that it had Claire’s family. We could afford at least one of us being there with him at all times.
Now, inundated by the sounds and smells that brought back the memory of a difficult time in my life, all I wanted was to give them the food and get the hell out of there. I closed my eyes and let the sadness wash through me in a moment of pithy self-indulgence. I could still conjure up the image of that morning with almost perfect attention to detail.
The opening of the door nearby startled me from my reverie.
“You know, you can go in there. Greg is waiting with her,” the nurse said to me.
“Greg?”
“We call him ‘The Barnacle’ because he won’t leave. He’s Claire’s fiancé. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind your company.”
“Uh, okay,” I stammered as I collected my things.
“Have you never been here before?”
I shook my head. “No, I came because Jennifer’s son is sick.”
“Oh. Well, brace yourself. This one’s a real tearjerker,” she replied solemnly.
Isn’t cancer usually a tearjerker? Puzzled by her statement, I merely smiled politely, pushed the door open, and walked into Claire’s hospital room. The sight before me nearly made me drop the lasagna.
Strings that spanned from floor to ceiling swayed lazily in the breeze emitting from the air ducts and machinery in the room. Suspended on these strings were what appeared to be countless bits of colorful folded paper—some kind of origami. As I peered more closely at these strange decorations, I saw that they were cranes.