by Liz Phair
“Sure.” I take the artificial leg from him, pitching forward slightly under its weight.
“When I saw you I thought, man, that’s a lucky break!” We’re finally moving, filing out of the airplane one at a time through the galley and onto the Jetway. “It’s kind of awkward asking a stranger to help,” he calls over his shoulder. He’s taking long, loping strides on his crutches, and I have to hustle to keep up.
“You still living in Chicago?” He keeps his eyes trained forward, navigating the mass of moving bodies inside the terminal.
“Yeah, um…” I scurry around the outside of his wake. “I live over in Bucktown. Do you know that area?”
“Not really.” He stops to read the overhead signs so he knows which direction to head. “Okay, we’re going this way!”
He’s coming from Prague. He makes the Czech capital sound so romantic, all Gothic spires and medieval vaults. He says it was the only city in Europe that escaped destruction during World War II—that you can trace a thousand years of history in its architecture. For some reason, I keep picturing vampires sitting in coffee shops along meandering cobblestone streets. I’m doing my best to pay attention to his anecdotes, but I’m distracted by the giant plastic appendage I’m carrying. The first issue I have to grapple with is the sheer size of the thing. I’m only five feet two, and Jake is well over six feet, most of it below the waist. That means that his artificial limb is almost two-thirds my height if you stand it upright. It isn’t heavy, exactly, but it sure isn’t light.
I try different conveyance methods as we make our way rapidly through the terminal. There’s the soldier-marching-with-a-musket approach whereby I grip the lower shin and rest the thigh in the groove of my shoulder. Every time I turn my head, though, my cheek presses against the hard-baked, flesh-colored plastic. The horizontal-two-handed-log tote is unworkable in a crowded environment. I’m too narrow, and the leg is too wide. With harried air travelers rushing past me, I have to continuously swivel my body left and right like a turnstile, apologizing profusely.
The best solution, ultimately, is to hold it like a jousting lance. I can switch arms when one of them gets tired, and guide the prosthesis through oncoming traffic with only minor course corrections. At first I point the toes out in front, thinking that will streamline the effort. But the fulcrum turns out to be farther back on the leg than I realized, so I flip it around and aim the socket forward, letting the foot stick out behind me. The only drawback to this position is being downwind of the contact zone. I have no doubt it’s clean, but Jake is an athlete.
By the time we reach his gate, I’ve worked up a sweat and am out of breath and frazzled. “Thanks a lot,” Jake says, taking his leg back. “It’s great to see you. Have a good trip! I’ll check out one of your shows. You should come watch me play tennis sometime! We have games every weekend when we’re not on the road.” Since his hands are full, he can’t wave, but he flicks his chin in the air as a farewell gesture before slipping through the other passengers waiting to board—moving right up to the front of the line. “Excuse me, sorry, look out, coming through.”
I watch him for a second longer, then wander off, somewhat dazed and feeling like I’ve just been through a car wash. I make it onto my next flight without incident, taking a seat in business class and preparing for the long haul back to Chicago. As we are taking off, I realize that neither of us even mentioned the fact that he’d lost his leg, even though I hadn’t seen him in years. He correctly assumed that, being from the same hometown, I already knew. I’ve heard his story multiple times: how he tried to cross the street in Boston but misjudged the speed of an oncoming trolley car. He’s famous, and he accepts it.
I have a long time to think about that—why I feel like a victim, a captive to my celebrity in need of velvet ropes and special treatment. Sometimes I look at my friends and family and think, You just don’t get it. You don’t understand what I have to deal with. But there’s no way I have it worse than Jake does. I begin to wonder if it’s all an excuse, a way of blaming my loneliness and antisocial tendencies on the scapegoat of fame. While I’ve been folding myself up into a pity-party picnic basket, Jake has willed himself to be more capable, less careful, less isolated. Maybe all I need to do is stop thinking about myself for five minutes.
In the darkness and privacy of my cubicle, midway over the Atlantic Ocean, I even shed a few tears about it. I’ve done all the polite rituals—brushing my teeth, putting in earplugs, pulling on the thin, dark socks they give you in your overnight kit—before curling up beneath my not-clean blanket on my mostly flat reclining seat, listening to the loud thrum of the jet engines through the upholstery.
At some point in the journey, the flight attendants bring me a drink, and as I sip it, I can feel my resolve to be less self-centered weakening. I like being in the comfort of these premium digs. I like feeling pampered and catered to and cosseted. I enjoy complaining about my problems to people I can see are impressed and envious. Hell, give me twenty years and I might turn into another hard-drinking dame at the country club, demanding that you make the same choices as me. It’s easier to believe in limitations than it is to take responsibility for your fate.
By the time they’re serving us breakfast, I’m over it, ready to get home and be done with this promotional trip. One by one the passengers sit up, raising their window shades to let the strong morning sun stream in, golden and blinding. I smile at the man next to me, who’s brought along a second dress shirt, still in the dry cleaner’s bag, so he’ll look crisp and fresh when we land. My experience with Jake will become a funny story I’ll tell my future boyfriends that will make me seem unaffected and compassionate. But a small kernel of self-awareness has taken root in my brain, and I can’t pretend that it hasn’t. I know exactly what’s wrong with me, I just don’t want to do anything about it.
They say radiation dissipates at an exponential rate the farther away from the source you move, but if you focus those waves into a beam, it can travel with integrity an almost infinite distance. That’s what Jake’s example will become for me: a tightly compressed, enduring insight. It won’t stop me from making a gazillion more mistakes, but it continues to be a guiding principle that changes my mentality in barely perceptible increments. If Jake can see himself the way he does, I can choose to look at myself differently, too. It’s up to me.
The pilots begin our final approach into O’Hare. Everybody fills out their disembarkation cards and packs up their belongings. I’m proud to be among these good-looking Americans. We are the elite, the educated, the sophisticated upper class, back from our international business trips. We are the first ones off the plane, given priority over the regular fare customers.
As I step onto the Jetway, the men walking ahead of me pick up speed. I do, too, thinking there must be a logical reason for it. As I round the corner and enter the hallway marked “Arrivals,” several men in gabardine suits push past me and start running.
A strange thing happens when people around you panic. There’s a primal instinct to stay with the rest of the pack. It must be some ancient survival strategy. Nonetheless, I find myself racing down an airport corridor behind a group of grown men in suits, jostling and elbowing each other out of the way to be first in line at customs and immigration. That’s all they’re fighting over: who gets to proceed directly to the first available passport agent, and who has to wait his turn. I witness their silent, desperate grappling as they round a corner, their shoulders bumping into each other, their dress shoes slipping and sliding over the polished floor. It’s white-collar blood sport. I’m surprised they don’t hit one another over the head with their briefcases.
It isn’t civilized, it isn’t generous, and it isn’t normal. These professionals are just a bunch of savages. They’re not winners; they’re ridiculous. There’s no level to which I can aspire that will guarantee safety and kindness, or even authenticity.
So,
in the end, what’s it all for? Here I was feeling like a star, and being treated like a star, but what’s important in real life is doing the decent thing. It’s like Camus says in The Plague, that there’s an absurdity to the universe, and you can either do nothing or continue to push to do the best you can. And the best you can do is just do the decent thing. There’s no payoff. The good people of the world are those who, in spite of there being no payoff, do the decent thing anyway. That’s what being human is. That’s the example of a human, being.
“I know it feels good, Kelly,” I say into the phone. “Like, really good.” I dump a box of spaghetti into a pot of boiling water. “But, trust me, it’s heroin. It will destroy your life.”
I’m not talking about drugs. I’m trying to stop my friend from cheating on her husband. She’s having strong feelings for her son’s twenty-five-year-old karate instructor, and she’s trying to convince me she’s found her soul mate.
“I hear you, but this is different.” She struggles to characterize it. “I feel like myself for the first time in ages. Like a part of me has been dead inside, and he makes me feel alive again. I think this could actually be good for my marriage. Brian and I had sex the other night, and we really connected, you know? Like, more authentically than we have in a really long time. Being with Mateo makes me able to be more present with my husband.”
“Except Brian doesn’t know,” I point out. “It’s not like you have an open marriage and he gets to sleep with other women. You’re making the choice for him.”
“Hmmmmm.” It sounds like she’s shutting down emotionally. I think she might be offended. She didn’t call to hear a lecture. She called because she knows I had an affair at the end of my marriage, and she wants to talk to somebody who “gets it.” Nothing I say will make a difference anyway. She’s had her first intoxicating hit of infidelity and she can’t believe how intense it is.
“Kelly, you’ve got two kids and no way to support yourself.” I cradle the phone receiver against my shoulder, trying to be there for my friend while also fixing dinner. “I’m not saying you have to stay with Brian, but you need to be honest with him. Tell him what you’re feeling. Even if he gets mad, you’ll have a chance to work things out in the future. If you go behind his back, there’s no way to repair it. And, believe me, it’s hard to be a single mother. You don’t want to end up like me. Promise me you won’t do it.”
She reluctantly agrees, but I can tell she’s lying. When she describes sneaking out of the house at all hours to call this guy and how she feels a rush of adrenaline every time she hears his voice, I know her soul mate theory doesn’t hold water. Those are the actions of an addict. I need to get off the telephone. She’s reminding me of my own mind-set when I was willing to jeopardize everything and lie to the people I loved just to get another hit of that mind-blowing buzz.
We hang up, and I walk upstairs to tell my son it’s time to eat. He’s lying on his stomach pushing his Lego spaceships across the living room floor. I pause in the hallway, listening to him make softly spluttering rocket-engine noises. I look up at the wooden milagro cross affixed to the archway above our heads. I’d almost forgotten it was there. My eyes drift over to the small silver cross I hung above the mantelpiece. The tightness in my chest eases. We’re protected.
It’s just the two of us here in this quiet house by the sea. I don’t entertain much anymore. The families we know all want to spend their Saturdays at bigger homes, with pools and backyards. They used to stop by in the beginning, to encourage me to find another husband and rejoin their ranks, but I never found the right fit. Or I didn’t think I deserved it. I sit down at the dining table next to Nick and watch as he twirls too much spaghetti on his fork. My son, for his part, didn’t deserve any of this.
* * *
—
The demon is scuttling back and forth, manifestly ravenous. It wants to kill me, but it’s being restrained by another entity in the room. I can’t see this second presence, but I can sense its powerful energy. It’s hovering somewhere outside my peripheral vision, alert to any movement. I’m lying immobile in the bed, deep in an REM state. I watch as the demon races up and down the windowsill, waiting for the opportunity to tear me to shreds. I’m experiencing sleep paralysis, a common sleep disorder that produces hallucinations during the transition between sleep and wakefulness. I struggle against the lethargy engulfing my limbs. I want to sit up, but I can’t move. I can’t breathe. Something heavy is pressing down on my chest. Where is my husband? Why doesn’t anybody help me? Can’t they see I’m trapped here? I feel as though I’ve come to in the middle of surgery and the doctors haven’t noticed it yet.
I can read the thoughts of my tormentors. The shrouded figure is only defending me from the demon because it wants to torture me in worse ways later, extracting prolonged agony, causing drawn-out ill health. I’m terrified by its fixation on me. The demon is merely an opportunist. The evil entity lives here. They see me as a resource to be consumed, a carcass ripening on the savannah, and themselves as the keen-eyed predators, circling.
The Lord’s Prayer is on the tip of my tongue, but when I try to recite the words, I lose my breath in the superheated atmosphere. This is a purgatory of my own making, a trap I set for myself. Why didn’t I go to church more? I’m responsible for this hell-spawn coming. They’re here because of actions I have taken that cannot be undone.
Will they do this to my baby next? I arch my back and cry out silently at the thought—sharp as a knife, piercing my breast. Will they travel down the hall after I’m dead and torture and terrify him, too? My regret is as deep as the ocean.
I sob in my sleep, my chest heaving. What kind of life have I led? Was I selfish? Did I help the people who needed me? Did I ignore the pain I caused others? It’s too late to adjust my balance sheet. I am truly sorry for being hardened to God, for rejecting his love.
The demon moves in quickly, swooping down for a side strike. As it lunges, I see its shape as a fluttering ball of negative space, the outline of a creature that exists in another dimension. The unseen entity deflects the assault. It studies my limbs with malevolent intent, twitching impatiently. I can feel its claws extending and retracting—can imagine its razor-sharp teeth puncturing my skin, its rough tongue lapping up the blood.
I jerk involuntarily, and my eyeballs roll forward again. I feel myself waking up. My beloved cat, Shasta, is rubbing his head against my chin, purring like a motorboat as he kneads me with his paws. I’m so relieved to be lying safely in our bedroom that tears run down my cheeks. I smooth my hand over Shasta’s head, marveling at the beauty of his jade eyes, glinting in the sun. My arms and legs feel like jelly. I’m exhausted from wrestling with my guilt.
My marriage is not working. A void has opened up between my husband and me. I don’t care who started what. We’re drifting apart. I’m lonely, and it hurts. I wanted this life so badly. I wanted us to start a family. I was in love. But looking back, I realize that I didn’t know what marriage was. We didn’t discuss long-term expectations, or parenting. We had fun. Our weekends were romantic. We got married before our relationship had truly been tested, and that was my fault. I pressured him. He was wary of making a commitment, but he didn’t want to lose me, and I seemed so certain of myself.
I should have noted the significance of his working forty-five days straight before our wedding instead of enjoying himself or helping me with the plans. He’d been married before; I hadn’t. I figured, everybody does it. How hard can it be? I didn’t realize that marriage isn’t just about you and your partner. Marriage comes with its own semitruck of baggage, including the expectations of your family, your community, and society. Even the traditions of the institution itself start rattling around in your head. Your psyche gets pretty crowded pretty quickly after saying “I do.”
My love for my son is unclouded, powerful, and all-consuming. Instead of dealing with the problems between
my husband and me, I focus on loving him. This is a lapse in judgment. This, more than anything, dooms our union. It’s too easy to get along when we rally around the one thing we can totally and utterly agree on: that our kid is wonderful. We coast through many months just making life enjoyable for our baby. Meanwhile, our lives are diverging.
I can remember a time when we’d stay in bed all day having sex, then throw on jeans and T-shirts and meet our friends for dinner. Now when we go out on “date night” (an awful term), I’m anxious the whole time that our son is missing me, that he doesn’t like the babysitter, that he’s crying for any one of a hundred possible reasons and can’t convey his needs well enough yet. Jim is frustrated, but he doesn’t criticize me. It’s a relief when we come home early.
My husband and I have less and less to say to each other. He’s working so hard, while I spend my time going to the zoo, the park, and Mommy and Me classes. Instead of relating to each other, it feels like we’re reporting back from two different sectors of the front, and nobody’s clear anymore why we’re waging this campaign to begin with.
We’re not the white-picket-fence type, but we find ourselves marching in lockstep with all the other new parents, getting herded toward the suburbs. You hear the drumbeat everywhere: people discussing property values, school districts, frightening crime statistics in the city, pollution, tax credits, traditional versus liberal styles of child-rearing. We cope with our disorientation and loneliness in our own way. None of this upheaval is visible on the surface, which makes it even harder to fix. Who wants to get into a heavy discussion when you haven’t slept, you don’t have a lot of time for yourself, and you’re hoping tonight you might get lucky?
Should we have our son baptized? Neither of us goes to church, but we’re at the stage when everybody is affiliating themselves with multiple organizations. It feels like a game of musical chairs. We have to worry about getting Nick into preschool. We fill out applications. We might be too late. There are sailing clubs, country clubs, private athletic organizations. It feels like everything we do or don’t do will have a determinative effect on his future happiness. He’s only two years old.