My memory flicks back to just before I went to the ju-jitsu school, when my mother told me that I needed a fighter because she was proof of what happened when you married someone who wasn’t, someone like my dad. I see now that maybe he did try, but it just wasn’t enough of the right kind of fight. They confused passion and zest with anger and frustration, intertwined and contorted until they couldn’t tell them apart. But then it makes me wonder: if my dad wasn’t so lazy after all, if in fact he did fight and my mother just never could see it, then what would that mean for me? If she was loved by my dad and fought for but was impossible to please, then what hope did I have of finding someone who would stick around? I had to hold on to the sliver of hope that maybe my dad wasn’t telling me the truth. I knew that what he said made sense to some part of me, deep down, but I wasn’t quite ready to acknowledge it because its consequences would be too great.
‘She fought so hard all the time but love is supposed to be effortless. Life is hard enough. I don’t want to see you end up like her.’
All of a sudden I realize that’s why he told me to tell Heralda to go away all those years ago: he knew first hand the effects of someone who couldn’t make herself happy, who wore you down. He thought Heralda was doing to me what my mother did to him. Yet no matter how much I understand it now, I’m still so angry he told me to tell her to leave me.
My dad picks up a glass to start making the drinks, and stares for a moment at it in the light, inspecting it for fingerprints and marks he might have missed, something he should have done with his wife when he was married before the relationship became too dirtied with fault and blame.
‘Sometimes love just isn’t enough,’ he concludes, ending the discussion.
The light flickers above us, casting an intermittent orange glow in an otherwise dimly lit cave. It’s a place where people go to pretend to be other people, a place they go to hide. When he smiles, the lines around his eyes pronounce themselves and for a moment he looks happy. We all do in certain light.
‘Will you come in again?’ my dad asks. ‘So we can get to know each other? Or I can meet you somewhere, anywhere you want.’
‘You can’t just repair twenty years with a drink,’ I say, grasping for a line that measures up against my frustration, but I can’t. I don’t want to know if he has another family. I don’t want to know how happy he is and how much energy his new wife gives him, but he is still my father. ‘I’ll think about it.’ I am not even sure I mean it. In fact, I probably don’t. I just hate the idea of leaving things without hope. That’s the worst thing I could do to a person.
He walks to the other end of the bar to place the gin and tonics down for the waitress to collect. I turn to leave but stop mid-way.
I can’t take thinking my mother had hoped in vain all this time. It makes me want to fight for her even more, to vehemently prove she wasn’t impossible.
‘By the way,’ I yell out to my dad. ‘Someone is going to buy me flowers one day. I still believe in the fight.’
I walk out the door and head straight to the car in silence as Mary, Milk and Randall spot me from the shop next door and follow a few steps behind. I shut the car door as hard as I can as if it cements the closing of a moment. I don’t understand why Milk cares about me seeing my dad. He never asked about how I felt about it. If I’d recovered.
‘Why did you tell the principal that I was your mom?’ I ask Mary, turning around to look at her in the face.
‘Because you’re more fun.’
‘Do I exhaust you?’
‘What’s that mean?’
I sigh and turn around, folding into the crevasses of the seat. ‘That’s why I love you, Mary. Because you get it and you don’t even know what it means. Why did you bring me to him?’ I ask Milk.
‘Because I’ve lost my dad, and you still have yours.’
The two of us just look at each other in silence. The layers of Milk began to show themselves, not for lack of being there but because I had just missed them all this time.
‘And because you’re like your mom,’ Randall says. ‘Milk told me he doesn’t want you to be exhausted, either.’
‘History repeats itself,’ Mary adds. ‘Like mother, like daughter.’
‘Who are you guys?’ I say. ‘Where do you learn this stuff?’
Milk stares out the window quietly, fidgeting, again not knowing where to put his hands. I can’t figure out why he’s so restless but I’m too confused and tired to try. I understand why he took me here, why he thought it was so important I find out the other side of the story. I guess I never wanted to even entertain the thought that my mother’s solitude, her depression, her gaps, might be from her own doing. If my dad left my mom because of who she was, and I am like her because that’s who I am, then I, too, will one day be left.
Maybe Milk was right . . . I need to change my tactics. I am pushing too hard, I need to relax but I can’t give up now. There is that saying that when you’re not looking for it, it shows up. I somehow have to keep trying but, at the same time, not look for it. This is all just too complicated, it’s making me sleepy.
As we drive off and out of the valley, towards the hills, the mountains, I see how it could have been depleting for both my parents. Of course it looked like she was exhausting because they were so mismatched. Trying to be people they weren’t, on both sides, was probably what made it so difficult to endure. The difference was that my mother was making the same mistake over and over again, while my dad knew when to call it quits. Despite what I learned today, I cling to the belief that with the right person, you don’t end up hassling the other because it just works. You’re just you, and you’re not a nag because you never even had to ask in the first place.
The Librarian
Seeing my dad really threw me. I’ve been crying for the past hour in the bathroom, sitting on the top of the toilet, begging for a sign I’m on the right track. I wish I could cry harder but I can’t so I just hold my hands together and pray. And when I pray, I pray angry. I’m pissed. Infuriated. Confused. Come on, I say to the sky like those kids do, looking for answers in the blue. I’m ready. I’m trying. Please, please. I’m sort of punching the sky now, looking like I’m practicing some tribal dance. A dance to worship the sun. I’m going to have to start imagining what life is going to look like alone, but then a bird flies into the window and scares the self-pity out of me, reminding me of how pathetic it all sounds. I wash my face and give myself a pep talk in the mirror as I dry every bead of water, one by one, telling myself I’m still a lion even though I feel like a fucking house cat.
Then I tell myself to cut it out. Grow some balls. I do know something’s definitely shifted in me, though, because I don’t even want to listen to Jeremy Irons. It’s gotten that bad! I’m walking around doing a little baby tantrum, stomping the ground and growling, furious that it’s come to this, but also looking around to make sure no one can see me doing it because I know how ridiculous I’m being. I hate that I’m so aware of myself! My anger fuels something inside, energizing me in a delirious, manic way – like when I have too much coffee. And then I shake my mood off, bored with myself, knowing I probably just need to get out of the house and hang out with Mary and I’ll feel better.
‘What are we going to do today?’ she asks me when I get to her place. She’s wild, clearly having been up for hours and it’s only 8:00 in the morning. Both of us wired: dangerous combo.
‘I’m thinking we should be clever and go to the library,’ I reply.
‘Is that because you have a boyfriend there?’
‘No, it’s because I’m trying to educate you. Show you the ways of the world.’
Mary rolls her eyes.
I came across a quote the other day when I was reading up about ‘being a genius’ and this quote from Einstein blew me out of the water: ‘There are only two ways to live your life. One is as though nothing is a miracle. The other is as though everything is a miracle.’ The best thing about this quote i
s that it made me realize that if Einstein thought this, and I already live like this (for the most part, disregarding my current state. Although Mary’s almost snapped me out of it), it means I’m a genius. Very exciting news, although there are questions I often have that I haven’t been able to answer, like why people don’t say bless you to strangers and why anorexics don’t get the same belly bloat that the starving Ethiopian children get when I see them in the ads. Faced with all these unwanted questions, I figure taking Mary and myself on a date to the Santa Monica library is a great idea.
When we walk in, I am surprised to see so many homeless people. Who knew homeless people were so literate!
‘It smells in here,’ Mary says.
‘Keep your voice down,’ I say. ‘You have no idea who is and who isn’t a prophet.’ Sometimes I slip a ring on my ring finger so I feel like I’m married to my dream man. I’m wearing a gold band now with a costume piece (cubic zirconia) as the engagement ring. It twinkles as I walk, and I periodically look down, move my fingers like I’m playing air piano, just to see how it looks. This is what it will feel like one day, when I’m married and taking my kid to the library. I’m getting really good at visualizing my affirmations.
‘Okay,’ she says, nodding but not entirely understanding.
We walk together up and down the aisles of books. Every now and then I stop to peer through the gaps in case my dream man is waiting for me on the other aisle, like in the movies.
‘What are you doing?’ Mary asks.
‘These gaps in the books are like openings to love,’ I explain. ‘You could look through one and at the same time the man you’ve been waiting for could also be peering back from the other side, waiting for you.’
Mary starts to look through some of the holes, reaching up onto her tippy toes to get a straight angle.
‘Can I help you find something?’ we hear someone say and we both turn around to find a very cute, eligible bachelor. He’s wearing a Hawaiian shirt.
‘That’s a terrible shirt,’ I say, delicately and covertly slipping my rings off my finger and onto my right hand. ‘But I like that you have the balls to wear it.’
‘She doesn’t mean that,’ Mary adds. ‘I like it.’
‘Well, thank you, miss,’ he says to her.
Mary looks over to me and then back to the librarian. ‘My mom is looking for books to make her more smart.’
I can’t believe it but she’s role-playing. I’ve never felt so proud. She knows she’s good too, based on her grin.
He’s still staring at me so I say, ‘What’s your name?’
‘Hans,’ he says.
‘Oh, great, I’m Solo, too!’ As it comes out of my mouth, I cringe at my awkwardness. It’s apparently impossible for me to communicate naturally. I mean, how would you even respond to that?
‘Something classic then? Or current?’ he says, moving on.
‘I’m not sure,’ I say, wondering if this is a pickup line. ‘What do you recommend?’
He takes us through to another section under the header, ‘Historical Fiction.’ Mary asks what it means and we both attempt to explain it to her, settling on, ‘Based on true events.’
‘Like your life!’ she screams. I look over, blushing, to Hans and he smiles through closed lips.
‘Historical fiction isn’t my favorite,’ I say, eventually. ‘I prefer surreal, fantasy, and of course, the odd romantic comedy. I don’t think my stomach can handle tragedy or anything resembling an outcome less than savory. I mean, that’s why we read, right?’
‘Unless you escape in your own life,’ Hans estimates.
‘Is he a pro-pheet?’ Mary says, trying to recall the word I used earlier. ‘A homeless pro-pheet?’
‘Well, I’m not homeless,’ he says. Hans has short blond hair with curls that twirl around his ears and down the back of his neck. I can spot some scraggly bits trying to make their escape from his Hawaiian shirt and find myself quite transfixed by them. A desperate plea for help; although, I must admit, I abhor a shaved chest on a man. I want wild and unruly. Grizzly-bear style, so I feel more like a woman.
Mary kicks my leg to awaken me from my chest hair trance and I see Hans staring at me. At once, as if coordinated, we both smile. A rush of emotion floods through my body; swarms of bubbling, vivacious energy itching to jump out of my skin, all because of this guy with the smile and the Hawaiian shirt. I’ve never felt this way before but I can only imagine it’s a good thing.
We wander together down the aisles and I learn, through carefully executed interrogation, that he lives in Venice Beach. ‘Speedway,’ to be specific.
‘I can see that,’ I say. ‘I bet you ride your skateboard to work, too?’
He nods and I have visions of me on his back while he rides his board. The sun’s halo dancing around our figures, crossing through our faces, blocking out our noses but it doesn’t matter because we’re free and happy as we glide along the bike path; the ocean breaking just to our left. It’s around sunset time, and the surfers are backlit. All I see when I look at the ocean spread are bobbing black wetsuits, submerging and re-emerging, sparkling. It feels good to be alive again. I wonder, as I’m standing at the library in front of him, if that vision was imagined or if it came to me from my future . . . a gift from historical fiction.
I look around and see people passing by our row and secretly want them to think we are all together: Mary our little girl; we’ve been in love for years; we met in a library. He led me to the Historical Fiction aisle but really he led me through Fantasy into Memoir and Autobiography. I try to imagine what we look like from someone else’s point of view. I think we look cute. I think we look fucking adorable.
I’m trying not to be too forward because I’ve been told that’s not the best way to get a man, but I can feel my eyes are too big as I’m looking at him, taking him in, gobbling him up. They open too wide and they show too much of me. You can’t be the alpha female if you want the alpha man, but then I’ve grown up thinking I needed to be a lion. All these lessons, they’re so confusing! Let him be a male, my grandma says. ‘Let a man be a man; stop controlling the whole goddamn thing.’ So here I am, waiting. I’m waiting for Hans to look at the three of us and see the future I see. After a few awkward moments, wherein I pretend to rummage through things in my bag to look busy, a sinking feeling dissolves my stomach and begins to convince me that maybe the dude in the Hawaiian shirt is never going to ask me out. Why would I ever think this beefcake would want to go out with me, anyway?
Feelings of self-consciousness swarm through my insides like ducks over scraps of bread and there’s no way to thwart their mission. I keep telling myself that it’s never going to happen, then the optimist in me counters with: it’s going to happen. I am loving. I am loved, I tell myself. I am worthy of a date with this librarian. I feel hot, as in sweaty and sticky. Uncomfortable with this mixed bag of emotions, this influx of juxtaposing thoughts. That’s it, I think. I’m done with romance. I’m done being a hopeless romantic because look where it gets me. I’m going to freeze my eggs and run away to the Amazon where I will be devoid of human contact and all that plagues me so.
I look down, mid-fake-rifle, and see exactly where it’s gotten me: appearing not so fit in ugly brown corduroy pants I should have thrown away last summer that, despite their comfort, really just look awful. I’m over putting myself out there only to be humiliated when it turns out everyone was right: I’m unlovable. In college, I lived with a Spanish guy who’d always ask me to imagine the worst-case scenario. Really imagine it, get comfortable with it, sit in it. Once you know how it feels, it’s not so scary. Once the fear is taken away, there’s nothing to worry about. This all worked well when I was trying to date the magician I met freshman year, but now, faced with years of disappointment, this is a whole different story. What’s the worst that could happen, I ask myself, if I never find love? I’d die a million deaths, that’s what would happen. I have so much love in me to give, so many scenes out of
romantic comedies to live out in real life. What an absolute shame it would be to never dance in the rain with the one you love.
‘When’s your birthday?’ I say eventually, determined not to give up. Because I can’t, I’m too romantic.
‘The end of July,’ he says.
‘A Leo! Oh that’s perfect.’
‘Ha,’ he says, laughing but confused. ‘Perfect for what?’
Oh fucking shit, I’ve done it again. Let the cat out of this suitcase-sized bag and ruined it. Now he’s going to know I’m into astrological sign matching, which apparently scares men off. They think it’s a sign for crazy. One of his co-workers walks by us and stops.
‘Oh, is this your girlfriend?’ she asks.
Hans laughs it off and adds, ‘Well not yet. We’ve only just met. Give us a second.’ He winks at me and at once, my faith is restored. This flip-flopping is so exhausting; I don’t know how my mother has done it for so long.
‘Suzy,’ he says. ‘This is . . . wait, what’s your name?’
‘Tabitha,’ I say. ‘And this is Mary.’
‘Hi,’ Mary says. We all cross hands in a shake meant for two people that somehow gets much more complicated with three hands.
There’s a moment of silence until Mary says, ‘Are we going now? I’m hungry.’
‘It was nice to meet you, Tabitha and Mary,’ Hans says as Suzy waddles off. His stare lingers a moment too long and I wonder if I’m doing what I always do and take everything as a sign or if, in fact, it is a sign. But if we didn’t have chemistry, then why would Suzy think I was his girlfriend?
‘Let me know if you need anything else,’ he says in his closing credits. ‘See you around.’
And that’s the end of it. I knew I should have never worn these stupid corduroy pants and I’m set to light them on fire the minute I get home and burn every last trace of my old self. Mindful not to rush out of there too quickly as it would look suspicious if I didn’t flick through some other books, I take Mary’s hand and lead us to the poetry section where one experimental section grabs my eye. There’s a book that looks like it was just recently skimmed through as it’s not been re-shelved properly. Its binding is worn with marks of ink on the spine. It reads: When I Was You by Marie Kulip. I pick it up. It looks like it’s not supposed to be in a library. It looks self-published.
The Optimist Page 22