Defective

by Susan Sofayov

  "Good Afternoon, the Harper Agency, Dori Hovis speaking."

  "Hi, Aunt Dori, it's me, Maggie."

  "Hi, Maggie. How are you? I really missed seeing you at Thanksgiving, but we're coming for Christmas," she said, using her chipper work voice.

  "I know, Steph told me. It should be fun. She said she's bringing Tom."

  "I'm so excited and nervous, Maggie. I didn't have the opportunity to say much to him at your party. This will be our first official meeting."

  "Aunt Dori, you will love Tom, trust me," I said.

  "Okay, I'm going to hold you to that prediction. So, Maggie, what can I do for you today?" she asked.

  "Aunt Dori, do you remember the last time Justin came home for Thanksgiving?"

  "How could I forget? He drives me nuts, Maggie. Sometimes, I'm glad he lives far away. I know I'm a bad mother, but--"

  I interrupted her. "You are not a bad mother."

  "I never really had the chance to apologize to you for the awful things he said. I am so sorry and, please, ignore him."

  Before she could continue, I broke in again. "Wait, stop, Aunt Dori. I'm not calling about Justin. I'm calling about our conversation. The one we had before dinner, while we were setting the table. You were telling me about life with Uncle Roy. Do you remember?"

  "Of course, I remember the conversation."

  "Aunt Dori, there was one more question I never got the opportunity to ask. But I need to ask it now. Please?"

  "What's the question?" she asked in a voice laden with hesitancy.

  "Knowing what you know today, would you still marry Uncle Roy?"

  "Ah, Maggie, you scared me. I thought it was going to be some horrible question. Of course, I'd marry him. He's part of me. I can't even imagine my life without him. Ups, downs, it doesn't matter when the person you love is next to you. At times, I'll admit, he's been challenging to live with, but I wouldn't have wanted to live without him. Does that answer your question?"

  "Yeah, Aunt Dori, it answers my question," I said and let the relief rush through me. "Thank you."

  "Sure, Maggie. Any other questions today?" she asked, her voice back to normal.

  "Actually, I do have one. At Christmas, I was hoping to take the family to see Ella's new stone, would you and Uncle Roy be willing to come?"

  "Of course, we'll come. Why would you even have to ask? I'll order a beautiful wreath to sit beside the new tombstone. Maggie, sorry to be rude, but my other line is ringing, and I have to get it. See you at Christmas."

  "Bye, Aunt Dori. Tell Uncle Roy I said, 'Hi.'"

  As I exited the Fort Pitt tunnel, the Pittsburgh skyline burst into view. On this side of the tunnel, white fluffy flakes floated down from the sky. Such a difference a mountain could make.

  Amy was right. I had been episode free for over a year. I knew the evil woman still lived inside my head, but the pills sewed her lips together--she no longer had a voice. Every day, I woke with a clear mind, and my moods fluctuated based on what was happening in my life, not because of a chemical misfiring in my brain. I cried when I was sad, laughed when I was happy, and felt empty because I was lonely.

  I parked my car and zipped into the lobby. I waved to the crowd of seniors sitting on the lobby couches waiting for their monthly schmooze and booze party to begin. Once inside my apartment, I popped a frozen pizza into the oven and pulled out the office work that was due Monday and attempted to finish it.

  The beautiful moonlight and the falling snow distracted me from my spreadsheet. I pulled out my laptop and I started typing.

  Dear Sam,

  I know that I am the last person you expect to hear from, but I'm writing because there is something that I absolutely need to tell you. It's not something I want to email or discuss on the phone. Would you be willing to meet me for lunch this week? You pick the day and the place. I'll buy. You must know that if this wasn't really important to me, I wouldn't be sending this note. Please say 'yes.' -- Maggie.

  I fought off an antsy feeling for the next couple of hours, hoping for a reply. It finally arrived in my inbox at 10:15 p.m.

  Dear Maggie,

  Against my better judgment, I will meet you for lunch on Tuesday, which is the best day for me this week. I'll meet you at the Chinese restaurant on Smithfield Street at noon. Maggie, I don't know if you know this, but I'm engaged to Michelle now. Please consider this before confirming the above date and time. -- Sam

  I wrote back that I knew about Michelle, and that I still wanted to see him. Then I did a little dance in my chair as I hit the Send button. The Tuesday date was set.

  Monday evening, I found a hair salon that took walk-ins. The beautician kept suggesting highlights. I said, "No," but agreed to let her wax my eyebrows. At home, I sifted through every outfit in my closet to find one that was appropriate for work, yet a little sexy. I settled on a black suit with a cream blouse, realizing that sexy was not a term anyone would use to describe my wardrobe. Once everything was laid out, I began rehearsing my speech, the gist of which involved me calmly presenting his new life options, not desperately throwing myself at him.

  I always dreaded my morning ritual of face washing and tooth brushing because it required me to stand in front of a mirror. This morning, I stood in front of my mirror focused on figuring out how to use the flat iron the beautician talked me into buying. Surprisingly, I got the hang of it pretty quickly. As I slid the hot metal down the strips of my brown hair, I looked at my face. Stopping, I set the hot iron down next to the sink and leaned closer to the mirror. Minutes passed and I just stood there, staring at my face. After a while, I became conscious of my heartbeat and felt emotional rumblings throughout my body. The first emotion I identified was shock, then confusion, and finally, an incredible sensation of lightness, because, in my tiny bathroom on the morning of my date with Sam, for the first time in my entire life, the face staring back at me wasn't ugly.

  I turned my head from side to side checking out my profile. For most of my life, I felt faceless. So faceless that sometimes I would walk past a mirror in a department store or a shop window along Forbes Avenue and not recognize my own reflection. If asked to describe my face, I couldn't. Somewhere deep inside, I believed that once I walked away from the mirror, my face disappeared. In high school, I applied tons of makeup to every square inch of my face. More than wanting to cover it, I imagined the make-up made me less hideous by giving me features. Looking back, I think I convinced myself that I was faceless because the face I saw in the mirror disgusted me.

  Today, the eyes staring back at me were light brown with some gold flecks and wide set. My nose actually appeared to be pretty straight and thin, no major bumps. I reached over and unplugged the flat iron. My brown hair shined under the bathroom lights and the hair on the left side of my head that waved was much nicer than the fake straight hair on the right. For a few more moments, I just stared at my reflection trying to internalize the fact that my face really wasn't repulsive.

  Shaking off my shock, I realized that if I didn't move fast, I would be late for work. I wet the piece of flattened hair to get it to look like the rest of my head and bolted to the bedroom, dressed in my suit, slipped on my shoes and swallowed the last drop of coffee in my mug, thankful none dribbled down the front of my blouse. My stomach continued churning, and the words of my speech played like a loop tape in my head as I gathered my work from the kitchen table and stuffed it into my leather brief case/shoulder bag. Right before I was about to step across the threshold of my front door, I turned, ran back to the bathroom, grabbing two pill bottles out of the medicine cabinet, and dropped them into my purse. Evidence.

  I couldn't focus and or accomplish anything at work. Just sitting in at my desk was brutal, so I pretended to be deep in thought and paced around the office hallways. In the copy room, one of the secretaries noticed my jitters and joked, "Maggie, if it wasn't the dead of winter, I would swear that you have Spring Fever."

  I forced a laughed. "Me? No way, just happy Christma
s will be here soon."

  She gave me a look that said, "I don't believe you," and walked back toward her desk.

  At ten minutes to 12:00, I logged off my computer, grabbed my bag, and bolted for the elevator. I wanted to get to the restaurant first, just for the joy of watching him walk in.

  I was relieved to find Sam hadn't arrived. I asked the waiter for the most private booth. He seated me, poured my tea, and left the small pot on the table. I opened the bright red, leather-bound menu and pretended to read. Each time the waiter passed by the table, I flashed an "Is he here yet?" look.

  He repeatedly, shook his head, "No."

  At twelve-fifteen, I lost hope and turned around to remove my purse from the back of the chair. When I turned back around, I saw Sam walking toward me.

  "Hi," he said, sliding into the other side of the booth.

  As he sat down, his eyes quickly scanned the restaurant as if searching for someone. I watched his body relax as he realized the person he was seeking wasn't anywhere in the restaurant. He opened the menu. I could feel vibrations emanating from my pounding heart. I waited for a, "Nice to see you," or a, "You look great, Maggie." But he sat silently.

  Finally, I picked up the tea pot and said, "Tea?"

  He just shook his head. The waiter came over and asked if we were ready to order. Sam barely let the waiter finish describing the specials before barking out his order. I asked the waiter a few questions and Sam started tapping his spoon on the table. It annoyed me when he did that. Once the waiter was out of earshot, he spoke. "Okay, tell me what you want to tell me."

  Not the reaction that I hoped for. "What happened to, 'How are you, Maggie?' or 'How's the job?'" I asked.

  "Maggie, this is really awkward for me. I almost didn't come. Michelle doesn't know about this, and I feel like shit doing something behind her back. But I'm here, so let's get on with it."

  My voice came out hoarse, forcing me to make one of those stupid, disgusting voice clearing sounds. "Sam, the reason I asked you to come is because you deserve to know why I did and said all of those awful things to you." I reached into my bag, pulled out the two pill bottles, and put them on the table. "It's not that I can't control my emotions, or that I lack self-confidence. I'm bipolar and because of these pills, I've been episode free for over a year. The doctor said if I could go for a full year without symptoms that the medicine was effective and would probably continue to be effective. The episodes are gone."

  He sat there, face flat. "I'm happy for you, Maggie. That's great news."

  "I know, Sam," I said in a voice that may have sounded a bit too enthusiastic. "My life is totally different. I'm in control, every day."

  "Great," he replied.

  I sat there for what felt like a month, but was probably no more than five seconds before I realized he had no idea whatsoever what I was saying. I didn't want to have to be blunt. In my imagined meeting, he came to the right conclusion on his own. I didn't practice a speech for this scenario. "Sam, you're not hearing what I'm saying. You said you would always love me, but you can't live with me. Because of these pills, you'll be able to now."

  He did the room scan thing again and then leaned back into his chair. "Maggie, part of me will always love you. You were my obsession for years, and I do care about you. But I'm not in love with you. I'm in love with Michelle."

  "But I thought--" I started to say before he interrupted me mid-sentence.

  "Maggie, pills or no pills, you have a problem. I'm genuinely happy it has a name now, and it can be treated. But what if we got back together, and you decided to stop taking the drugs? I've heard about mentally ill people who stop taking their drugs."

  "I would never. These pills saved my life. It would be terrifying to stop taking them."

  "What if they stop working and Scary Maggie comes back? No, I can't handle the thought of that happening. If you could guarantee that Beautiful Maggie would wake up next to me, that would be different, but you can't."

  "Sam, please," I said, hoping he would let me talk.

  "I wanted a Maggie who pulled me out of bed at six a.m. on some frozen February morning to drive to the Pymatuning Spillway because she wanted to know what happened to all of those disgusting carp in the winter. I loved the Maggie who cleaned all day, cooked an amazing dinner, and begged to go out dancing at night. But most of the time, I got a Maggie who hated herself and shut me out of our bedroom."

  My frustration level increased, and my body tensed. This was not supposed to be a repeat of our break-up. "Sam, that Maggie is part of the disease, too. It's called hypomania and it hasn't happened in a year, either. I am stable. The 'me' that you see in front of you now is 'me' all the time."

  I inhaled when the waiter approached our table carrying our lunch orders. Exhaling, great, I thought. A moment to regroup and think of a way to change the direction of the conversation, but Sam continued talking. "Maggie, I don't know much about being bipolar, but I do know it's not curable. I love Michelle. No, she's not you. But she's sweet, kind, and stable. I know what I am getting. We match each other."

  Every ounce of my strength focused on remaining in control--no outburst, no drama--not one move which would provide ammunition for his argument. I needed to make him understand that it was not curable, but it was controllable.

  With each second of silence, I could read the growing anger in his eyes. Frustration got the best of me, and the words burst from my mouth. "Nick, please, listen to me. I love you. I've always loved you. I know--"

  "Maggie, you called me 'Nick,'" Sam interrupted. "Who is Nick? You used to say his name in your sleep. I didn't ask about him because you never mentioned anyone named Nick while you were awake." His hands clasped into fists. "Who is he?"

  Time slowed down a bit, and I used it as an opportunity to look at him and his blond hair and blue eyes. For a moment, he was the fifteen-year-old boy who sat beside me in tenth grade math class. I didn't have a crush on him, and it wasn't because he was out of my league. I was already obsessed with Nick. I didn't care about Sam in school because I was too busy fantasizing about kissing Nick.

  "Did I really say his name in my sleep?" I asked.

  "Yes, you did." He unclenched his fist and his face softened. "A lot. I thought it was the name of a relative or maybe the name of a dog you had as a kid."

  I leaned back into the hard wood of the chair and picked up my fork. Before taking a bite out of my Kung Pao chicken, I asked him the obvious next question. "But you never felt the need to ask me about him? If you were saying another girl's name in your sleep, I would have asked."

  "That's because you have no self-confidence," he shot back.

  "Or maybe you were just afraid to ask," I said.

  From the look in his eyes, he did not like my reply. "Yeah, right, Maggie. Look, let's drop it and get back to discussing your moods," he said condescendingly.

  Before I realized what was happening, I became aware of an unexpected sensation that began like a spring of bubbles rising up behind my nose.

  As inappropriate as it seemed in the midst of what had turned into a melodramatic scene, a burst of uninhibited laughter spurted out of my mouth. The feeling of joy, pure radiant joy, convulsed my stomach. Stephanie was right. It had always been Nick. Sam was a rebound from Nick that got out of control and served as a poultice to cover my horrible self-image of being the high school loser.

  It finally made sense. Nick, I love Nick. I love every square inch of his beautiful brain, body, and soul. I reached around, grabbed my purse and threw a fifty-dollar bill on the table.

  "Have great marriage. I've seen her. She's beautiful. Invite me to the wedding. I have to go right now."

  Then, I rushed out the door. Glancing through the plate-glass window, I caught a glimpse of him sitting alone in the booth.

  CHAPTER 25

  Chasing Mr. Right

  I ran back to the office, with all of my emotions focused on finding Nick. I logged on to Facebook to see if he was there. No such luck.
I typed my message: I LOVE YOU, And hit the Send button.

  Then it occurred to me. What if I'm too late? What if he found someone else? What if I hurt him so badly he can't forgive me? I fell forward on my desk and cried. What did I do? I threw away Nick. Perfect, wonderful, beautiful Nick. An aching emptiness crushed down on me as I sat up and stared at my computer screen.

  The room got smaller as the walls closed in on me. Breathing became difficult and the word "escape" pounded inside my brain. I needed fresh air and space. My body wanted to run out the door. The only thing stopping me was a boss who preferred I remain at my desk until at least five o'clock. Besides, I couldn't walk into his office and announce that I screwed up my life and would like to leave early to try to fix it. I walked out of my cubicle and glanced out the window--an idea hit me and, yes, I would stoop that low.

  I slowly dragged myself into my boss's office. Saying nothing, I flopped into the leather chair in front of his desk. Leaning back, I closed my eyes, exhaled, and sat with the most pathetic look I could muster splayed across my face. It worked. He shooed me out the door. "Go home, you don't look well, and whatever it is, I don't want it."

  I continued the sick act as I packed up my things. Once out of the building, the air moved into my lungs a bit better. I headed toward the bus stop in front of Macy's. The windows were decked out with lights and ornaments, and the song "Walking in a Winter Wonderland" poured through the outdoor speakers. A huge sign with silver letters mocked me. A Season of Peace -- A Season of Love. Where was that damn bus?

  I had no idea where I was running to. Not home, because Nick wasn't waiting patiently in my living room, thrilled that I finally came to my senses. I couldn't run to him because I didn't know his real address. I clenched my fist and fought the urge to bounce up and down. I had no plan, and that pissed me off.