Falling Under

by Danielle Younge-Ullman

  I went to see a therapist.

  “Ego problem,” he said.

  “What?”

  “You think the world revolves around you, that you’ve been singled out for something special by God.”

  “But—”

  “Polluted animus,” he said. “You need to come twice a week, and I’ll try to clear you.”

  “Sorry?”

  “We’ll regress you and then do separation therapy.”

  “Um...”

  “I sense resistance, I sense confusion. Believe me, that’s the animus,” he said.

  Right.

  “Polluted,” he said.

  Huh.

  My giant ego, polluted animus and I went home and never came back.

  ***

  Bernadette rings my doorbell at precisely 5:30. I open the door and she comes in and looks hard at me. She often looks at me like this, presumably making sure I haven’t flaked out, started drinking, lost my mind, etc.

  “Have I grown an extra set of ears?”

  “Funny,” she says. “How are you?”

  “Fine.”

  “Good,” she says, and then breezes past me into the front room. “We’re going out.”

  Out. I haven’t been anywhere except to Erik’s in over two weeks. He should not be my only reason for contact with the outside world. It will be good for me to go out. That’s what I tell myself, anyway.

  I grimace at Bernadette, which she correctly interprets as a “yes.”

  “Get dressed,” she says.

  “I am dressed.”

  She gives my outfit a disparaging once-over.

  “Right, I forgot, you’re Banana Republic’s answer to Goth.”

  “You’re looking lovely,” I say.

  Bernadette is looking lovely, actually, if you discount the bright green furry vest thing she has on. It looks like a psychedelic rat has landed on her chest and died there. Her wavy red bob has been tortured straight, and the rest of her ensemble—lace-up boots, tights, and a short dress—are all in a shade of periwinkle that makes her dark blue eyes seem purple.

  Dress, make-up, and knee-high combat boots...uh oh.

  “Bee?” I raise an eyebrow.

  “I’m over it,” she says.

  “That’s what I was afraid of.”

  “Can’t pine forever.”

  “I hope not,” I say. “It only lasted three weeks.”

  “It was an intense three weeks,” she says.

  “Sure. So what’s the plan?”

  “We need to stop by the Struggles for Justice and Dignity fundraiser and then—”

  “Oh no!” I say. “That sounds a lot like the Peace, Justice and Vegetables group.”

  “No, no. This is Struggles for Justice and Dignity—no peace, no vegetables, totally different gang.”

  “But...”

  “This group is nice.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “And nobody will chuck tomatoes at you,” she says.

  “Promise?” I ask. I rub my collarbone and recall being whacked by a juicy beefsteak.

  “You should never have admitted to eating that hamburger,” Bernadette says, and starts to giggle. “You were really asking for it.”

  “Hey, I thought those people were about tolerance.”

  Bee snorts with laughter.

  “Thanks for the support!” I say.

  “Any time.” she says. “Oh, can you sign something?”

  She whips a petition out of her purse and hands it to me. I peruse the page, making sure I agree with the cause, and am not committing myself to painting banners for the Left-Wing Used Book Sale or jogging for European Mobility Week like I did last year. Support the Toronto Humane Society, it says.

  “Hard to argue with that,” I say, and sign my name.

  Bernadette’s activism is an inspiration, but sometimes I wish she’d narrow her focus. I sign petitions, write letters to my member of parliament, and donate as much money as I can afford, but some of these organizations are seriously whacked. On top of that, my tolerance for rallies, fundraisers, and the singing of folk songs is nonexistent.

  Bernadette is saving the world.

  I can barely save myself.

  “I promise we won’t stay long,” she says. She knows I dislike crowds. She doesn’t know they make me want to crawl out of my skin. “You can even stay in the car while I pop in.”

  In the car alone or stuck in a crowd. Great options.

  “I promise I’ll be, like, two seconds.”

  I breathe. “Okay.” I’ll be fine. I’ll be with Bernadette.

  “And then I’m buying you dinner, and don’t tell me you’ve eaten, because you never do.”

  “I do so.”

  “Whatever you say, Bones.”

  I wince. I hate that nickname. It’s not my fault I’ve always been skinny, and it’s been years since I was that skinny.

  In the bathroom, I pull my long, black hair into a ponytail, do a quick check to make sure I don’t have paint on my face and consider myself ready.

  I find Bernadette in the studio, looking at my finished painting.

  “What?” I say. “You don’t like it?”

  “It’s fine,” she says. “It’s good.”

  I shrug. “As long as Sal likes it.”

  “And what if he doesn’t?” she says. “You get cut off?”

  “Of course not, we have a deal.”

  “What if I wanted to buy a piece from you?”

  “You’d have to buy it from him. You know that.”

  “Humph,” she says. “I don’t like it, the guy owns you.”

  “Not me, just the work.”

  She shakes her head and walks out of the studio.

  “Forget it,” she says. “Let’s get going.”

  “Okay.”

  We get our shoes on and leave the house.

  “Ready?” Bernadette says when she sees me standing at the door, not moving.

  I give myself a shake and reach for the doorknob. “Ready.”

  “Where are we having dinner?” I ask in the driveway.

  “I thought we’d start with a cocktail at G-spot, go for dinner at Byzantium, and then see.”

  I groan. “That’s not dinner, that’s bar hopping.”

  “Don’t worry, it’ll be fun.”

  I sigh. Just what I need, another tour of the bars of Toronto in search of a soul mate for Bernadette.

  Chapter 4

  “Quick! Flirt with me!” Bernadette hisses in my ear.

  “What? Why?” As if I don’t know. Some ex-girlfriend or other must by nearby. Being a decoy-slash-stand-in love interest is one of the dubious honors of hanging out with Bernadette.

  “Come on!” she says.

  “Flirt? Are you sure?” I say. “What for?”

  I like to play dumb just to bug her.

  “It’s Janet!” she says, and bats her eyelashes at me while simultaneously stepping on my foot. “Please?”

  I don’t know Janet, but I have infinite patience for the foibles of my best-and-only friend. I smile down at her and move closer, which is the extent of my ability to flirt—with men or women.

  “Thank you,” she says.

  I spot a vaguely familiar woman over Bernadette’s shoulder—blonde hair, close-set hazel eyes, and the tightest white T-shirt-without-a-bra I’ve ever seen.

  She approaches.

  I know my job. I move in closer and start talking to Bernadette as if I don’t see the braless wonder sidling up to her.

  “So, Bee, I’m thinking you should quit your corporate job and dedicate your time to your causes.”

  Braless taps Bernadette’s shoulder.

  “Hi,” she says.

  “Just a sec,” Bernadette says, and turns to the woman. “Hi.”

  “I saw you at Pope Joan a few weeks ago,” Janet says.

  “Right, right.” Bernadette says, and smiles. They start in with the small talk.

  Janet, Janet...I’m trying to remember
the scoop. Ah ha! Janet was the one with the double life, the husband and kids in Oakville and the girlfriends downtown on the weekends. She lied to Bernadette for four months before the truth, ahem, came out. That break-up was bad, and now that I remember, I’m motivated.

  “I love your vest,” Perfidious Janet is saying when I tune back in.

  “Thanks,” Bernadette says. “Feel appeal, you know?”

  Janet reaches her treacherous hand out towards the vest. This is definitely my cue.

  “Excuse me,” I say. “That feel appeal is for my benefit, not yours.”

  “Mara!” Bernadette says, and looks at me like she’s shocked.

  I put my arm around her waist.

  “What?” I say. “I don’t want some woman touching you.” Possessive I can do.

  “I’m sorry about this,” Bernadette says to Janet, and tries to push me away. “We’re having a misunderstanding here.”

  “Hey,” Janet says. “It’s okay, I’ll leave you two alone.” And she walks off.

  Ha. Mission accomplished.

  I grin at Bernadette. “How was that?”

  “Awful!”

  “Hunh?”

  “We’ve seen her in three bars so far tonight!”

  “And?”

  “And she finally gets up the nerve to approach me and you drive her off!”

  “But isn’t Janet the one with the husband?”

  She frowns, then starts laughing.

  “What?”

  “You would make a terrible lesbian,” she says.

  “No, I wouldn’t,” I say. “Why would I?”

  “You can hardly distinguish one woman from another.”

  “Oh. Uh oh. That wasn’t Janet?”

  “No. Janet already walked by.”

  “Oh.”

  “And that,” she says, and looks in the direction of the retreating woman, “was supposed to be the love of my life.”

  Oops. “You better go after her.”

  Bernadette bites her lip and looks over her shoulder. “Are you sure?”

  “Of course,” I say. “Go.”

  “You’ll be all right? Just for a minute?”

  “I’m fine. I’ll sit right here at the bar.”

  She beams. “Thanks!” she says, and starts off into the crowd.

  I sit on a stool and order a diet soda, then swirl the ice cubes around in the glass and take small sips. In my peripheral vision, I notice someone hovering. A large woman with hockey hair is staring at me like she either wants to kill me or fuck me. Considering the locale, I’m guessing it’s the latter.

  I make the mistake of meeting her eyes, and she winks. I smile, but shake my head. Not my type of lesbian. That is, if I had a type of lesbian.

  She lifts her eyebrows, You sure?

  I nod. She shrugs and ambles off.

  I try not to stare at Bernadette, who is now on the other side of the bar. Hopefully she’ll work her mojo fast—get a phone number, make a date—so we can get out of here.

  “Hello,” says a deep voice to my left.

  Uh oh. “Yes?” I say, and turn to look.

  “Hi,” he says.

  It looks like a he, but around here you can never be sure.

  “Hi,” I say.

  “How’s it going?”

  “Um...”

  “Hey, I’m not trying to—”

  “It’s okay.”

  “—hit on you or anything.” he says.

  Definitely a he, which is good news, all things considered.

  “That’s fine,” I say.

  “You looked kind of bored,” he says. “And I’m kind of bored, so I thought—”

  “We could bore each other?”

  He laughs. “Just figured we could pass the time with some conversation,” he says.

  Relax. Gay village equals gay man.

  “All right. What are you passing time for?” I say.

  “I had to get out of my apartment. You?”

  “My friend is chasing down the woman of her dreams.”

  “Important task.”

  “Maybe, maybe not,” I say. “Regardless, I’m left holding down the bar.”

  “My name’s Hugo,” he says, and holds out his hand.

  I shake it. “Mara.”

  “Hello.”

  Hugo is not your typical gay boy with the spiked hair, fake tan, and tight shirt over buff abs. He’s got regular skin tone, slouchy preppy-guy clothes, ear-length corkscrew curls, and lovely big eyes. He’s rather cute, actually.

  “So,” I say, “how come you’re hiding from your apartment?”

  “Oh, I’m not hiding, it’s just that I have a new puppy and I’m trying to train him.”

  “Train him?”

  “To be alone for a couple of hours without chewing the furniture, peeing on the floor, howling nonstop, that kind of thing,” Hugo says. “You see, he has separation anxiety.”

  “Oh no.”

  “He’s a rescue and he’s had a rough time.”

  “Aww. What’s his name?”

  “Pollock.”

  I laugh. “You’re kidding. Like the artist?”

  Hugo nods.

  “Why?”

  “His coat. It has this crazy speckled pattern. I brought him home and I was sitting there trying to think of a name, and I’d just seen Pollock the movie, so...”

  “So it was in your mind.”

  “Yeah. I said the name out loud and he stopped, looked at me and cocked his head. I said it again and he gave just one woof, and that was it.”

  “It’s a good name.”

  “Thanks.”

  Hugo and I sip our drinks and continue to talk. I’m not great at talking about myself, so I ask him questions. I discover that he is a vet but started out in insurance, and that he moved to Toronto two years ago to open a practice.

  “Why the change?” I ask.

  “I hated the industry I was in, didn’t like the people I worked with, started not liking myself.”

  “Ah.”

  “And I always wanted to be a vet.”

  “It’s funny, you seem like a people person.”

  “I am. I’m a people person and an animal person.”

  “Hmm.”

  “My turn,” Hugo says. “You are...let me guess...a stockbroker.”

  I snort.

  “Okay, wait, don’t tell me. I swear, I’m really good at this.”

  “Sure you are.”

  His eyes scan my face and then slide down and back up my body.

  Something happens in my belly: a zing, a jolt.

  Whoa.

  He looks at my face again and his eyes narrow.

  “A painter?” he says.

  “What?”

  “Are you a painter? An artist?”

  “Yes! How did you...?”

  “I’m right?”

  “Yeah, but how...”

  “Ha!” He raises a victory fist. “I told you, I’m a people person.”

  “Come on.”

  “And you lit up when we were talking about Jackson Pollock.”

  “Okay.”

  “Plus, you have paint on your thumb.”

  “Ah. Crafty. I’m impressed.”

  He grins. “And I’m naturally lucky.”

  “Lucky you.”

  “So, Mara-the-painter,” he says, “what do you paint?”

  He’s flirting. I swear he’s flirting. Not gay then. Bi? If so, I can direct him to the bisexual support group I gave money to last month, but I don’t want to sleep with him.

  Who said anything about sleeping with him!

  No one. Right. Whew, close call.

  Bernadette materializes at my side.

  “You all right?” she asks, and darts her eyes toward Hugo.

  “Sure,” I say. “Fine.”

  “I could use a few minutes more,” she says.

  “No problem,” I say, and she leaves.

  “Your friend?” Hugo asks.

  “Yeah.”


  “Not your girlfriend?”

  “Nope.”

  Uh oh, I like him. I may be a hermit, but I know chemistry when I feel it.

  Hugo, looking at me.

  Me, looking back.

  “I like you,” he says.

  “Thanks,” I say.

  “No really, I like you.”

  “You just met me.”

  “Sure, but I trust my instincts,” he says. “Tell me you’re not gay.”

  “Nope.”

  “Nope, you won’t tell me you’re not, or nope, you’re not?”

  “Not.”

  “Me neither,” he says.

  “Really,” I say. “Why are you here then?”

  “I live nearby, and I have no issues with the neighborhood.”

  “Okay.”

  “And the bartender makes a great Bloody Mary.”

  “Fair enough.”

  The air between us is suddenly thick. I understand nothing about love, but I know what to do about lust.

  “Let’s go then,” I say.

  “What?”

  “Your place. Let’s go.”

  His eyes widen. “You’re kidding,” he says.

  “No.”

  “I was thinking more along the lines of your e-mail address and then maybe dinner.”

  “No.”

  “Hmm,” he says, an odd smile on his face. He sips his Bloody Mary and studies me. I become conscious of every limb and every breath.

  “So what you’re saying is that you’ll fuck me, but you won’t have dinner with me?” he says.

  “Essentially.”

  “Interesting.”

  “And I wouldn’t mind meeting Pollock.”

  “No deal.”

  “Why not?”

  “I try not to expose him to people who aren’t going to stick around.”

  “You mean...”

  “Because of the separation anxiety.”

  “Why don’t you think I’ll stick around?”

  “‘I’ll fuck you, but I won’t have dinner with you?’” he says.

  “Oh, that.”

  “Yeah, that.” He waits a moment, and then says, “Oh come on, just give me your e-mail address.”

  “I can’t.”

  “You have a boyfriend?”

  “No.”

  “So, what’s the problem?”

  Problem? Like one problem?

  Love always starts out well. There’s the chemistry, the lust, that gushy, dizzy, cuddly, brunch-eating phase, the wonder, the miracle of togetherness. And then familiarity creeps in, followed by disappointment, disillusionment, fear. Inevitably there is silence, screaming, betrayal, the wrenching, ugly truth when you look at each other and know that your love has turned to disgust, despair, boredom, hate. All happiness gone, all rotten, all rotting.