Home Is Burning

by Dan Marshall

  A couple of weeks after Jessica’s wedding, Abby began to distance herself from me even more than she had over the past months. But I stuck with it. She was, in many ways, all I had going for me. I would often think, while feeding my dad through his gastrointestinal tube or cleaning shit out of his commode, At least I have Abby.

  I loved my trips out to Berkeley to visit her. When I was there, I was still stressed and consumed by family stuff, but at least we were together and not talking over the phone. Now I can look back and say that if I could do those visits over, I would make them more fun and try my best to not bring up my family. But at the time, it just felt impossible not to talk about what was going on at home. It was the only thing going on in my life, and it was the most intense thing to ever happen to my spoiled fat ass.

  In April, I called Abby one Saturday night when she was out with friends, and she didn’t answer. I called a couple more times. No answer. She didn’t call me back for a few days. I figured that she was having doubts about our relationship, and that her friends—who never liked me much and vice versa—were egging her on to break up with me.

  Eventually she called.

  She was crying. It was hard for her. She knew what bad timing all this was, but she also knew that she couldn’t remain in a relationship that wasn’t full of fun, but rather full of tragedy. She said, through her tears, that she needed some space—that I had gotten too depressing to be around. I told her that I was in Utah, and asked her how much fucking space she needed. She said that she needed more. No visits or phone calls for a while, until she figured things out and determined what she wanted.

  So our slow and painful breakup began.

  The agreement was that we’d take a “break.” I didn’t know what that meant, so I instantly reacted by fucking a few girls I had met through mutual friends. I think that’s the first thing most people do in such circumstances: they fuck the lowest-hanging fruit. I’m sure she did the same.

  This fucking of other people didn’t help, but instead made me much, much lonelier. It didn’t give me solace or closure. It just gave me shame—and fears of having contracted chlamydia (tested negative three times—no big deal). I missed Abby and wanted her back even more. You can’t fuck away the feelings you have for someone else.

  After a couple of weeks, Abby and I started talking again, and there was still some hope that we’d get back together, at least on my end. I tried to be funny and full of life during our phone calls. I tried not to talk about death and my parents and my little sister marrying a Mormon. I figured that maybe if I focused on the positive, she’d remember what an awesome person I was.

  I’d then hang up the phone, slump back into my depressed self, and go sit next to my dad. My dad felt bad I was going through this breakup. He would look at me with pained eyes, wanting me to feel better.

  “I’m sorry about all this, DJ,” he said. “Abby is a really great girl.”

  “Yeah, well, she’s not being so great now,” I said.

  “It’ll work out if it’s meant to be,” he said. He’d shake his head and look up at the ceiling. “This fucking disease.”

  He couldn’t help but feel that the whole mess was his fault. He felt guilty about everything—me, my mom acting crazy, Jessica—and I felt guilty that he felt guilty. It seemed like a turning point in the way he thought about his disease. Now it was clear how ALS was affecting all our lives.

  My mom was a little more blunt about the situation. She liked Abby and had hopes that I’d marry her, but instantly turned on her when the breakup began. “You tell that little bitch to stop being a piece of shit,” she said. “Do you want me to call her?” My mom would occasionally text or call Abby when she was out of her mind on Fentanyl.

  “No, Mom, stay out of this one. It’s none of your business,” I pleaded.

  “You’re my Danny Boy. It is my business,” she said. “I’ll go out to Berkeley and shove that laser, or whatever the fuck she works on, right up her skinny little ass.”

  Even Stana decided to weigh in. “Danny, this girl, she is no good for you.”

  “I don’t know, Stana. I think she’s pretty good for me,” I said.

  “No, Danny. You have big heart, she have small heart. No big heart with small heart. Is no good match.”

  My dad and I both started to really focus on each other, trying our best to cheer each other up. Regina was around, but my dad needed as much help as he could get, so I continued to put everything I had into him for a while—hoping that it would take my mind off Abby—and he put everything he could give right back into me. The snow was finally starting to melt, so we’d go for long walks. We had a favorite route through our neighborhood. My dad even learned how to use his little remaining arm strength to steer the electric wheelchair himself. We’d talk about some of the best Jazz games we ever went to, or our favorite family vacations. Mine was when he took Greg and me to the 1992 NBA All-Star Game in Orlando—the one where Magic Johnson came back from HIV to win the MVP. We got to our Disney-themed hotel late at night, and the pool was closed. But my dad helped Greg and me break in. I remember thinking it was cool as shit that I had a dad who would break us into swimming pools. My dad’s favorite vacation was when we drove our boat up to Camano to spend time with his mom and go crabbing. He really loved it up there.

  But my unhappiness was apparent. When Tiffany, my mom, and I were unloading my dad from our van for a walk up at Red Butte Garden, I lost my shit. His chair had caught on a seat belt. I tried to unhook it, but couldn’t, so I started tugging on the seat belt and screaming, “Motherfuckers!” as loud as I could. I followed up the “Motherfuckers!” with a string of expletives that would make the devil cringe. I think I actually flipped off the seat belt at one point and punched the floor of the van. I started to cry and melted to the ground. I was losing it.

  Other garden-goers—who were undoubtedly expecting a pleasant break from the day-to-day bullshit—were horrified. I’m sure they thought, Should that unstable fat-ass really be caring for that dying man? I probably shouldn’t have been. But what the fuck else was I supposed to do? I had a full-blown case of caregiver fatigue, combined with a splash of heartbreak.

  Depression was consuming me. I was drinking alone in the basement while playing pinball, about a bottle of wine a night. On the plus side, I was getting pretty great at pinball.

  I was darker and a little more morbid than usual. One afternoon, I was picking Chelsea up from school.

  “How was your stupid day?” I asked Chelsea.

  “Good,” she said. “How was your stupid day?”

  “It was shit. Everything is shit. Nothing matters anymore and everything turns to shit,” I explained.

  “Oh, okay.” She nervously giggled. “Can we stop at 7-Eleven and get a Slurpee?”

  “I don’t see the point, but sure.” So we got pointless Slurpees. I was too depressed to drink mine, so I dumped it in the sink.

  I knew I’d officially lost it when I bare-knuckle-punched the respirator when it wouldn’t stop beeping. After that, my dad suggested I go see their shrink, Robin. I did. Initially I didn’t like her because I thought I was smarter than she was. But eventually she started to offer up some good advice.

  “Why would you want to be with someone who doesn’t give you support and love when you need it the most?” she asked.

  “Because she’s adorable. God, I miss her,” I wanted to say, but instead said, “No, you’re right. That’s how I need to start to think about it. But I miss her.”

  “You sound depressed,” she said.

  “No shit, Sherlock,” I wanted to say.

  “Yeah, I know. Nothing a bunch of alcohol can’t cure though, right?” I really said.

  “Alcohol is actually a depressant. How much are you drinking?” she asked.

  “Not that much. Maybe like a bottle of wine and a few beers a night,” I said.

  “That’s over forty drinks a week,” she said.

  “Is that too many or too few
?” I asked.

  “Too many. Way too many.” She prescribed me some Wellbutrin for the depression and advised I not mix it with alcohol.

  I eventually decided that I could save my relationship with Abby if I really focused on it. I didn’t want to lose the person I truly loved over this whole mess. I’m not the type who is built to fall out of love easily. I couldn’t handle a full breakup right now. I asked Abby if I could come visit her in Berkeley so we could sort some stuff out face-to-face. I was tired of our relationship existing in this mysterious state. She agreed.

  I booked a flight and planned our weekend. My goal was to win her back and get her to fall in love with me again. I made us reservations for Friday at a spa in San Francisco called the Nob Hill Spa. Here’s what its Web site said about it:

  Retreat to an alluring sanctuary of indulgence and pampering at The Huntington Hotel—renowned among the best San Francisco spa hotels. Treat yourself to personalized service, rejuvenating massages and treatments, and captivating skyline views at our Nob Hill Spa. Follow a therapeutic steam or sauna with a refreshing swim in the mesmerizing infinity pool. Unwind in the fireside lounge, ideal for personal reflection. Select from a stellar complement of services … including massages, facials, body treatments, and manicures and pedicures. Let go of your stress and worry—and discover an incomparable oasis named by the San Francisco Chronicle as “one of the most luxurious spaces in the city.”

  It seemed like the sort of place that could help you win a girl back who didn’t want to be with you anymore, or at least that’s what I thought.

  As the trip got closer and closer, I could tell Abby really didn’t want me to come, but I didn’t care. I had to see her. I remember telling everyone that I felt like I was flying off to my own execution—that I was setting myself up for something very painful and awful to happen. If this had been a slasher movie, you’d be going, “No, no. Don’t do that. Don’t go in there.”

  I still went. I landed in Oakland.

  We had agreed that she would pick me up, so I was expecting her there at Oakland’s awful airport in her shitty Volvo, but she was a no-show. She left me standing curbside with my sad little bags. I figured that I shouldn’t go to her house, since she clearly didn’t want to see me, so I called a few friends. They agreed that I could stay with them in San Francisco. I took BART into the city.

  I called Abby a few times, but she didn’t answer. I got drunk and went to bed around 9 p.m. And by “went to bed,” I mean I passed out from too much alcohol.

  The next morning, I awoke hungover, feeling like my soul and spirit were completely broken—I had hit a genuine rock bottom. I actually wanted to be back home with my dad. He was dying, but he still had a way of making me feel like everything was going to be all right. Instead, I was off in the Bay Area getting my heart all sorts of broken.

  Abby was still not answering her phone. It was clear she didn’t want to be reasonable or humane about this whole breaking-my-heart thing. She was off cowering in Berkeley, probably scared that I’d show up at her place. So what did I do? I decided to go out to Berkeley and show up at her place. Might as well make this painful for both of us. It wasn’t fair that she got the easy way out.

  Plus, I had this magical spa day planned. Remember? Today was the big day.

  I started to justify my stupid behavior. Maybe her phone wasn’t working. Maybe she couldn’t find her charger. Maybe she had forgotten when my flight was landing. Maybe she loved me so much that she had planned an “I love you so much, Dan” surprise parade and party out in Berkeley, I thought.

  I popped a Wellbutrin and headed to Berkeley. I got off the Berkeley BART only to realize that no “I love you so much, Dan” surprise parade was planned. I went to Abby’s house. God, I felt like a stalker, or some sort of criminal. I felt dirty and trashy, like a loser. But I didn’t know what to do or how to get some answers or conversation out of Abby, since she was clearly handling the breakup by just ignoring me.

  I knocked on her door. She wasn’t home. I called her, and she finally answered. She had been at the gym. I told her that surprise! I was in the neighborhood; that I wanted to talk to her. She agreed. We ran into each other on the street while still on the phone with each other. She was in her workout clothes. At least she hadn’t lied about that.

  The first thing she said to me was “You smell like booze.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “Oh, and thanks for picking me up from the airport.”

  “Sorry, I had homework…” she said, avoiding eye contact.

  I started to picture her side of the story as she sniffed the leftover booze on me. “So Dan just showed up, out of nowhere. He had clearly been drinking. Isn’t he a weirdo stalker fuck?”

  As we walked back to her place, Abby started yammering on and on and on about how she had gotten a B in one of her classes even though she had worked really, really, really hard. I wanted to tell her that I really didn’t give a fuck about her B grade. I wanted to tell her to get a real problem, like the dying of a father or something. I tried to empathize with her and talk about how horrible it was that some evil professor would do that to her, but I was too distracted to not sound sarcastic and callous. I wanted to figure out what the fuck was up.

  I pictured her side of the story, again. “I told Dan about my B—which I was really upset about—and he didn’t even seem to care. He’s such a selfish fuck.”

  We got back to her house. I honestly didn’t know what to expect. She was still going on and on about her grade. She was clearly just delaying because she didn’t want to have the hard and awkward breakup conversation.

  We got into her room. I sat on her bed, half expecting sex. I finally interrupted her and asked, “So what’s going on here?”

  “With my B?” she asked.

  “No, with us. I mean, I know you’re upset about your grade, but can we talk about us for a minute? I flew out here because I thought we were going to figure this all out.”

  “Yeah, but I don’t think there’s anything for us to figure out. I’m not your girlfriend. We should date other people,” she said, finally being blunt.

  Boom. There it was. Until now, I had been holding out hope that we’d fix things and go back to the good life we had together. But it was official. We were done. The “break” had made way to the actual breakup.

  Even though the logical part of me knew it was coming, everything hit all at once. Life was awful. Life was shit. I didn’t know what to do or say, so I did something pretty awful. I turned into a crazy maniac. I grabbed her by the shoulders and pushed her onto the bed and held her there for a second. I then got up and thought about breaking her computer, but didn’t.

  I snapped out of it, thankfully.

  I was instantly ashamed. I had lost control. To this day, I wish I could have that moment back. I didn’t hurt her. It was just one of those moments when you want to grab someone who’s not acting like themselves and shake them in hopes that they’ll snap out of it and return to being who you knew them to be. But you just imagine doing that. I actually did it.

  She was instantly terrified. I pictured her side of the story again. “Dan barged into my room and threw me around after I broke up with him. He’s a violent and abusive motherfucker.”

  I had officially scared the shit out of her. She started to overreact. She was now crying and talking about calling the police. I imagined the police coming and me explaining what was happening from my perspective. “Well, Officer, first let me mention that my dad’s dying back home in Utah. Abby and I had been dating for five years. She suddenly wanted space. We agreed on that. But she stopped answering my questions and never gave any sort of explanation as to what the status of our relationship was, to use a Facebook term. So I flew out here after she agreed to talk to me, and then she didn’t pick me up at the airport, and I finally got here, and then she went on and on about some stupid-ass grade, then I asked her what was up with us, and she officially broke it off with me, so I sort of lost my shit f
or a half second and gently pushed her onto the bed.”

  “You’re arrested, you crazy fuck,” I imagined the police officer saying as he drew his gun.

  I instantly apologized for scaring her and told her that I was just frustrated because I had flown all the way out here for information she could have given me over the phone. I was tired of being dicked around like this after a five-year relationship. I felt I deserved better. I was sorry. My pushing her remains a very shameful low point in my life.

  I sat on her bed, still half expecting sex. She continued to cry and told me to get away from her. I did, but I still wanted to talk. She suggested that we go for a walk so we could be in public where I couldn’t push her down on a bed.

  We walked around Berkeley, our old stomping grounds—the location where we fell in love. I was absolutely devastated. I was in shock. We didn’t really talk. When we did, I just tried to make her feel guilty and awful, which is a really great way to win a girl back.

  Abby’s father was really into Buddhism, and was one of the best people I’ve ever met—the type who would never do anything to deliberately hurt someone. I often used his perfect soul against Abby.

  “So, what does your dad think about you dumping me while my dad’s dying? Pretty disappointed in you?” I asked.

  “Yep, really disappointed,” Abby said, playing along.

  “Yeah, I bet. He’s a good person, so I bet he’d be disappointed by his own daughter doing something so heartless and shitty,” I said, digging myself deeper and deeper.

  “Yep, I’m a horrible person. I have no soul,” she replied sarcastically.

  I started to get emotional, almost crying. “Can’t we just wait until my dad dies and then deal with this?” I pleaded. “The son of a bitch probably has like two more months. Can’t you manage two more months of me being a miserable fuck?”