If You Could See What I See

by Cathy Lamb

  “Yes. You welcome, fat lady. That you name now?” Kalani clapped her hands together. Whooee!

  “No, that is not her name, Kalani,” I snapped. That was enough. “Call her Lacey.”

  “Don’t call me fat lady unless you want me to call you skinny crow,” Lacey said, jaw tight. “I don’t need to hear that.”

  Kalani’s face fell into sadness. Cultural mishaps, that’s what these are, but she heard the tone. “Ah. Ya. Okay. This bad.”

  I could see she was tearing up.

  “Kalani.” I tried to distract her. “Tell us more about being psychic.”

  The tears flooded her eyes. “Ya. That new American word for me. I see typhoon in my dream three days before, then it come with pink dragon.” The tears rolled down her cheeks. “I go now. Bye-bye, seeesters. I love you. I love you.”

  She de-Skyped us.

  “Shoot,” I breathed. “If I were psychic I could have seen that coming.”

  “This fat lady real mad now,” Lacey said, shoving her chair back. “Real mad. Ya.”

  On Tuesday night, with Pop Pop bouncing beside me, grinning, in trouble because he’d had another fight at doggy day care and was on probation again, I came home to a hamster home complete with colorful tubes and a hamster running on a wheel. A bag full of hamster stuff like food and shavings for the cage sat beside it.

  Regan had written a note: “This is a nice girl hamster. My friend Seth is allergic to it, so his parents are making him give her up. Her name is Ham the Hamster. I think you’ll like her because she’s a good listener and curious. I’ll come and visit. Seth wants to come, too.”

  I bent down and peered into the cage. Ham the Hamster was running with all her might on a wheel. I don’t know why. “You’re going to tire yourself out,” I told her. She took no notice.

  I carried her in and put her by Mrs. Friendly, the lizard. Mrs. Friendly stuck his tongue out.

  Pop Pop darted in and went to play with Jeepers. Jeepers didn’t want to play. I could hear him hissing.

  I had a hissy cat, a weird dog on probation, a bored lizard, and a hamster that ran for no reason. I did not have a police chief. I walked outside my house, leaned over my deck, stared up at Blake’s house, and hurt. That’s how pathetic I am: I watch his house. I reminded myself of Tory.

  I drank a beer on my deck, then ate a slice of chocolate cake from Cassidy, then a piece of chicken dipped in salsa and peaches mixed together.

  I went to bed at two. I tried to sleep. I couldn’t. First the red and black scene assailed me, then I had to curl up around my pillow and pretend I was hugging Blake.

  The pillow wasn’t Blake. That’s why I couldn’t sleep.

  “Hello, Meggie.”

  I stopped sprinting down the street. It was dark, it was pouring down rain, and I was chasing Pop Pop. That pesky dog had squiggled around me when I’d opened the door for Jeepers to come back in. I shoved my feet into running shoes and cursed that grinning canine as he took off. I knew he was laughing at me.

  It had been a rip-roaring day at work. A huge order was lost, then found; another order ended up in Seattle instead of Tampa; and Lacey had to leave work in the middle of a meeting with our accountant, who had grim news, to go to school and relieve Regan of an abandoned kitten he’d found and snuck into his coat.

  “Hi, Blake.” I stopped and pushed my wet hair out of my eyes. I was sweating. I had on sweatpants and a holey sweatshirt. I was panting, too. Dang. I needed to exercise more.

  “Out for a run?”

  Blake had clearly been out for a run. He was in an army T-shirt and shorts. He was soaked, too. “No. I’m chasing Pop Pop.”

  “Ah, okay. Where is he?”

  “He ran . . .” I panted again, feeling like an old woman. “He ran off. He’s a bad dog. He has a strange grin, he fights with other dogs, he barks at me as if we’re having a conversation, and he teases Jeepers.” I wiped sweat off my forehead. “I have to go and find him.”

  “I’ll help you.”

  “You will?”

  “Yes. Of course.”

  And that was that.

  The glow from the street light illuminated his face. He didn’t seem angry, the way he had been the last time I saw him. In fact, he seemed . . . tired.

  Tired and sad.

  “Are you okay, Blake?”

  He didn’t answer for a second. He turned his head to the right, then back at me and smiled . . . slightly. “I think I’m about to get better.”

  “Ah.” I was still panting and I willed myself to stop. Unfortunately, looking at Blake made me pant, too. “I’m glad to hear it.”

  Those gray-blue eyes traveled over my face; over my hair; for a mini-millisecond dropped to my chest, which I was thrilled to see; then focused on my eyes. “Good to see you, Meggie.”

  “Good to see you, too.”

  “Okay, let’s go find Pop Pop.” Blake has a low voice, seductive and gravelly, and it sailed right on through my body. I loved his voice. It sounded so . . . trustworthy.

  I could trust him. I wouldn’t, but I could.

  A half hour later Pop Pop, who had obeyed Blake’s command to “come,” but not mine, was snoring slightly while Blake and I were at my kitchen table eating spaghetti next to the trunk of my maple tree.

  “I love spaghetti,” I said. I felt . . . happy. Relieved. I was with Blake! “I could eat it every day. Sometimes I do.” I did not add that whenever I have spaghetti I also eat corn flakes cereal at the same time.

  “I love steak. But I have to tell you that your spaghetti is now at the top of my list.”

  “Thank you. I’ll give credit to the jar of sauce I bought. Not surprised you love steak.”

  Blake leaned back and crossed his arms, smiling. He had run home to shower and was now in jeans and a blue shirt. He had a huge chest and a commanding sort of body. The man made me tingle.

  I had jumped into the shower, too, and pulled on jeans and a pink blouse, then squished my curls with mousse and put on lipstick. I wished I had a delicate, lacy bra. Maybe I would bring Grandma’s box home....

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “It is not surprising to me that a man like you likes steak. I would not assume that you would like eating quiche or tiny pink cupcakes.”

  He winked. “Got me. I don’t like quiche and I can’t imagine eating a tiny pink cupcake.”

  Jeepers hissed at him.

  Blake hissed back at the cat, which I found so funny, as I did the same, then he said to me, “How is Tay?”

  Oh, he was smart. Get me in a squishy, happy mood, then ask a pointed question. “I would hate to be across a table from you being cross-examined.”

  “Did you go home with him?”

  I let that question hang in the air, heavy and insulting. “I’m surprised you have to ask. Didn’t you look out your window to see my car that night?”

  “You didn’t take your car with you. Your sister drove you to the bar. I asked her because I wanted to make sure you weren’t driving home and to make sure she looked out for you. And no, I wouldn’t have checked anyhow. That’s too stalkerish for me. I would actually have to walk down to the bottom of my driveway and look for your car, and I wouldn’t allow myself to do that.” His jaw was pretty tight. “So, did you?”

  I bristled. “It’s not your business, is it, Blake?”

  He leaned forward, elbows on the table, arms muscled out. “No, it’s not, but I’m asking anyhow. Did you go home with him?”

  I leaned forward, too. “I’m not telling you either way.” Damn. I was going head-to-head with Blake again. I didn’t want that, but neither did I want some man thinking he could pry into my personal life—yet another control issue for me.

  “Why not?”

  “Because you don’t have the right to ask the question.” My voice was trembling.

  “Are you dating him?”

  “Now you’re switching things around. Same question.”

  “It’s not the same ques
tion. You may or may not have gone home with him. You may or may not be dating him. I’m asking.”

  I wanted to tell him, no, I wasn’t, but Blake’s questioning was bringing up a whole lot of memories of Aaron questioning me: “Where were you, Meggie? With who? Who else was there? Who did you talk to? What did you do after that? You’re hiding something from me, aren’t you? You’re having an affair. I know it. I can tell. Give me your phone. I want to check your calls again. I’m checking your e-mail, too. Don’t fight me on this. What the hell is going on, Meggie? Damn it, tell me!” Then he’d often fling my phone against a wall and shatter it.

  Following that, there would be the silent treatment and withholding of sex, which I didn’t want to have with him anyhow, but I didn’t want it held over my head like a sword ready to strike when he felt like having it, either.

  “My life is not your business other than what I want to tell you,” I said.

  To my utter astonishment, Blake sat back. “Okay.”

  “Okay?”

  “Yes, okay.” He abruptly stood up and stared out the windows of my tree house into the dark while I tried to simmer down, my anger boiling, but even in my boiling anger I was saddened beyond belief. I did not want this with Blake.

  He turned back toward me. “I wish that our relationship were different. You won’t let me in, will you? It’s almost instinctive, isn’t it? Will you tell me about your marriage?”

  That question pissed me off, too. “No. I already told you I don’t want to talk about it. Remember?” I stood up, jerkily, and gathered up the dishes.

  He grabbed the rest of the dishes as I slammed the ones I had on the counter. One slipped and shattered, and I said a bad word as I bent to pick it up.

  “I’ll get it, Meggie,” Blake said, his voice kind as he bent down.

  I bent down, too, and he grabbed both of my hands and pulled me back up. “Meggie. I’ll get it. Let me do it. Go sit down.”

  Tears filled my eyes and I didn’t want him to see them, so I stomped back out to the table, though I did not like being told what to do. I waited for a few seconds, bit down on my lip, and tried to get control before I returned to the kitchen.

  I slammed a dish into the dishwasher. Blake put an arm around my waist, stood in front of me, and said, “Meggie, I told you to let me do this.”

  “No.” I was triggering to the past. Triggering to a man who had a rat face and claws and blood, a man who was messed up and messed me up. I was triggering to a tiny baby who died in my arms.

  “Yes. Go and sit down. Please.”

  “No. I can do my own dishes. This isn’t your house, Blake. You can’t tell me what to do. In fact, you can never tell me what to do.”

  “I’m not telling you what to do, Meggie. I’m trying to make your life easier.”

  “I don’t want it easier! If I want to pick up my broken dish, I will! I don’t need easy. I don’t need you to do anything to my life. I don’t need you to try to change it or me.”

  “I’m not trying to change you at all, honey.”

  Honey.

  He called me honey. That was too close, too intimate.

  Now I was mad and sad and the tears were coming. I blinked hard. It didn’t help. They spilled over onto my cheeks. I wiped them away. “I don’t need your honey-talk. I am not your honey.”

  Blake was watching me carefully, his eyes tired and hurt.

  “I don’t need you to ask questions about Tay, or Aaron, or personal questions about me or my past, and I don’t need you prying.”

  “I’m sorry about the prying. Meggie, I like you. I want to know you better. It’s that simple. When I saw you with Tay, especially when I could tell you had had too much to drink, I didn’t like it. In fact, I thought about putting him in a choke hold, or punching him.”

  “Whom I choose to be with is not for you to dislike or like, Blake. My life is not for you to have an opinion on or for you to control.” Whew. Trigger, trigger. “I don’t need to know what you think of me.”

  “You’re right.” He held up his hands. “It’s not. We’re not together. We’re not dating, we’re not married. You don’t even want to be friends. I’m sorry.”

  “Good. You should be.” My voice cracked. “Don’t ever drill me again with your questions. Don’t be suspicious. Don’t try to make me feel that what I’m doing is wrong. Don’t try to talk to me with some disapproving, angry tone like you did at the bar. If I want to date Tay, I will. If I want to sleep with him, I will. If I want to date a whole bunch of superficial, shallow men who don’t want any more of a hold on me than I want on them, I’ll do it. If I want a different man on Mondays, I’ll have him. If you find out about it and you don’t like it, tough luck.”

  I brushed my hand across my eyes, feeling my heart pumping, hard and anguished. A rush of memories, all negative, some terrorizing, mind twisting, assailed me.

  Blake waited me out, then he did something unexpected. He said, “Meggie,” so soft, like warm satin, as the tears sprung to my eyes again, and pulled me close. I didn’t hug him. He pulled me closer. I buried my head in my hands and my hands on his chest, his chin on top of my head, as he held me, my shoulders shaking.

  It took me a long time to put my arms around his waist and lean on him.

  “Josephine dying was your fault, Meggie, your fault!” Aaron yelled at me, those black curls flying as he punched a fist into the wall in that bleak Los Angeles apartment. Josephine had been dead for two weeks.

  “You were a shitty mother. You never controlled that temper of yours, you were always angry at me, and that anger killed my baby. . . . You had an unhealthy body. You didn’t take care of yourself. I watched you, I watched you all the time!”

  I flew into a rage, even though my own guilt was shredding me. “You told me not to go to the doctors when I had contractions, Aaron, that they were normal, and I was stupid enough to believe you were right.”

  I had let Aaron think for me, make decisions for me, though I knew he was irrational and unreasonable, and I would never forgive myself.

  Had I gone to the doctors when I started having contractions if I hadn’t let Aaron’s anger and condescension control me, Josephine might have lived. That I get to live with forever. “You with your mood swings, your depression, your pot and your pills, and your constant focus on you, you, you is exhausting! You know what you are, Aaron? You’re a project. You’re not a husband. You’re a project who always has to have the attention on you, all these women that flock around you—”

  “I have never touched Becky, Char, or Talia—”

  “And I’m sure it’s been hard for you to resist.” We’d had this argument before. Aaron liked to flirt. He liked women fawning. He liked the ego stroking.

  “Not hard at all. I’m married, so I’ve been faithful to you, Meggie, even when you ignore and neglect me.”

  “I have never ignored and neglected you—”

  “I show you love every day. I put up with you working all the time.”

  “Someone has to work here, Aaron.”

  “Oh, there ya go.” He slammed his fist into the wall again. “I knew that would come up. You think you’re more successful than I am.”

  I didn’t say anything as my frustration, my guilt, and my fury about blew my brain. Aaron had recently crashed on our latest film project and had refused to work. He stayed home and watched video games, smoked pot, swallowed his painkillers, and drank beer all day. He was barely holding on, his depression, which had come on this time like a bullet train, almost totally consuming him. I tried to get him on his meds, he refused. I tried to get him on a schedule to manage himself, he refused. I tried to get him back to his counselor and doctors, he refused.

  “Do you know what, Meggie? Your films have the feel of a fast-food restaurant. In and out. Cheap. No emotions. No depth. Nothing. You worked so hard, always on your feet, always telling everyone what to do, always in charge of your fast-food films, and you forgot you had a baby in you. My baby, Meggie,
mine! Mine! You wore out. You wore the baby out. She suffocated in you.”

  I swore at him, my voice cracking, my stomach aching, right where Josephine should have been. I bent over double, holding myself, his words she suffocated in you ringing in my head, killing me.

  He pounded the table, both fists, the chains around his neck clanking. I used to think it was so rebellious of him, so individualistic of him, to wear the chains. Now I thought he looked like he was trying to be rebellious and individualistic. He looked stupid.

  “Where are you going?” Aaron demanded, as I turned to the closet to get my suitcases.

  “I’m leaving.”

  “You sure as hell are not.”

  “Yes, I am.” I was done.

  “You stay here and work this out. You owe me an apology for Josephine!”

  “I can’t stand this anymore.”

  “You can’t stand what? The honest truth? You can’t stand that Josephine is dead because of you?”

  “No, I can’t stand you.” And I couldn’t stand that Josephine was dead, either.

  There it was. I can’t stand you.

  “You can’t stand me? I can’t stand you, either, Meggie.” He pushed that black feather off his shoulder.

  I knew he was lying and so did he. His face flushed, his shoulders slumped, he leaned against the wall, then collapsed. He started crying, in and out, gasping, broken, horrible sobs, rocking back and forth.

  I dropped my purse and covered my face.

  This was our cycle.

  We fought, we both said knife-edged things, he fell apart like a bunch of puzzle pieces scattering across the floor, and I went to rescue him. I took back what I said, I comforted, I built him back up, soothed his ego.

  He started ranting, getting hysterical, crying. “I miss Josephine. I miss her.”

  I ended up holding him. We went to bed and cried. We had awkward sex. At least, it was awkward for me. He liked it, shuddering and panting above me, his hot breath on my cheek, his sweaty chest on mine, then he rolled off.

  He went to sleep, clinging to me like a snake that had bit me and was sucking my life into its body.