The Elegant Out

by Elizabeth Bartasius

  “I think I might be sick. Really sick,” I said finally.

  Over the years, I learned that the innate being-ness of humans is one of love and joy. I have felt that highest part of me many times, too many times to ignore. I have seen humans ripped to shreds by a tragedy and still break what little bread they have and laugh. I now know that when I’m gripped by irrational thoughts of “why bother” or “so-and-so won’t like it” that those are valuable clues, meant to be cherished, appreciated, and followed to find the source.

  At that time, I didn’t know to follow the source. I didn’t know what to do. I did the best I could, but I cried because I couldn’t imagine going another ten years, let alone thirty or forty, without the taste of full authentic expression. For as much as I turned my back on self-expression, I also couldn’t bear the thought of turning my back on self-expression. Each time I turned toward my truth, peeked out of the hole, I would scurry back in; a crab in the sand. I cried for fear that even with a friend like Maureen, I’d never find my way out.

  “Have you tried sticky notes?” Maureen asked.

  “Huh?”

  “My life coach gave me this exercise. Write out what you want on sticky notes. Only one thing per sticky note. Then read it before you go to bed at night. And imagine what it feels like to have what you want.” She paused. “You could try it.”

  I carried Maureen’s sticky note idea with me to Pet Smart with Gabe on a routine errand. We stood, set in our ways, in the checkout line, watching the giddy girl behind the counter swipe the discount card for the thirty-pound bag of dog food.

  “Three dollars off!” she exclaimed. The wrinkles in her forehead rippled upward, then straightened. She looked star-crazed. “What do you do for a living?” She only had eyes for Gabe.

  “Uh, well. . . .” He stumbled, not sure if he ought to answer. Maybe we should call the cops.

  “Are you a hockey player?” she asked, nodding her head, willing it to be so.

  For that brief moment, I watched as the whole world landed in her eyes and she was certain she knew who he was, even if he wouldn’t tell. A dream had walked through her ordinary line; it had to be.

  And, in the moment her magical idea collided with my static world. I saw him through her eyes and wondered about the hockey player whose arm wrapped around mine.

  “No. I’m afraid not,” he said at last. “Like my son says, I just work at the computer all day and talk on the phone.”

  “Oh. You look like a hockey player.” Then she turned and smiled at the next customer.

  For me, the change in perspective was another hit of mint on my tongue. Did it really only take the simple alteration of one idea to reinterpret a truth? Could a simple sticky note—with a fresh idea spoken over and over again until I believed it—change everything?

  As I look back on “baby wanting years” with distance, space, and some wisdom, I can see the only thing missing was a possibility. I’d gotten so caught up in the day-to-day that I forgot to invent. I no longer questioned the mantras, assumed truths, or even my own desires. Quite simply, I hadn’t created a future that I wanted to live into.

  Chapter 23

  Fountain of Youth

  Every life transition begins with a haircut. I never know how, when, or why they come about, but I woke up with a strong urge to cut my hair.

  “So what do you want today?” Jessica, my hairdresser, escorted me to the barber chair. She pumped the foot lever, and the chair rose a few inches, lifting me with it: a middle-aged woman’s amusement park ride. Jack lived for roller coasters; he wouldn’t be very impressed.

  “Just a trim. Maybe a couple inches. Same thing you did last time.” I wanted fresh, not too daring. I wasn’t looking for a cliff dive, just a small shift to tune my heart.

  She led me to the beadboard room and shampooed me like a wet dog, all the while gabbing with another hairdresser shampooing another middle-aged woman like me. I couldn’t hear what they were saying with the water spigot roaring around my ears like helicopter blades.

  Jessica finally shut the water off. “There you go.” I sat up on cue as she wrapped a white towel around my head and pointed to the barber chair, where I plopped easily. I watched in the large wall mirror in front of me as she velcroed the cape over my shoulders.

  “God, I hate my forehead.” I didn’t mean to say it out loud.

  “There’s nothing wrong with your forehead,” she said and bopped across the room to get a fresh pair of scissors. I kept looking at myself in the mirror while she snipped away at my brown, graying hair.

  “I’m getting older.” I didn’t like losing the feeling of having my whole life ahead of me, plenty of life left to make a writer of me.

  “What makes you say that?”

  “I don’t know. Something’s changed. Something’s different. I look at my face and it doesn’t look the same anymore. My skin isn’t perky anymore. I’ve just been noticing it this last week. My mom always said this would happen. I never believed her.”

  “How old are you?” She grabbed a clump of hair on either side of my face, compared the lengths in the mirror, then let go and started cutting again.

  “Thirty-six,” I said on a big exhale.

  “Really? You look so young for your age.”

  She was twenty-something. What did she know? Snip, snip. More hair landed on the floor.

  Jessica rambled on. “My fountain of youth is denial and Botox. I’ve already started lying about my age.”

  “You’re kidding?” I asked. She was so young; why would she lie?

  Jessica tilted my head down to trim the back ends. “Don’t move.” Snip. Snip. “I’m serious; every couple of years, I take back another year,” she continued her rationale. “That way it won’t be so obvious as I get older. When I’m thirty-five, I’ll have a thirty-year birthday party.”

  I stared at her in the mirror. I watched as she swished from one side of my head to the other, pulling tight strands of hair, chopping the ends, scissors mashing. She was quick, a product of youth. She said something else, but I couldn’t hear.

  “I said, it also works in reverse,” she repeated herself. “I’ll tell people I’m sixty when I’m only fifty, so they’ll say, ‘Wow, you look great for your age.’”

  “That’s quite a plan.” I thought she was crazy.

  “I think it’s genius,” she said. Snip, snip. Snip, snip.

  “Yes, indeed.” I wondered if I could pull off this kind of scheme. Would I even want to? “I think it’s too late for me. So, what are you reading right now?” I always asked her this.

  “Life of Pi. I read this book every summer. I have seasons of reading. Summers are fun and entertaining. Winters are for more intense reads.”

  Maybe it was not my season to write. Maybe I needed to wait until winter. Waiting seemed like the thing I did best: waiting until I graduated high school. Waiting until I graduated college. Waiting until I moved into a new house. Waiting until after Jack was born. Waiting until I got home from work. Waiting until I could leave my marriage. Waiting until Gabe and I were more comfortable with each other. Waiting until the dog was no longer a puppy. Waiting for the right time that never came.

  Jessica talked like any self-respecting Southern hairdresser: continuously. “I’d love to be able to write, but I don’t think I have any ideas. All I ever think about is hair.” Clip, snip, clip. “I could write a book called Clippers.” She laughed.

  “I can see it now. The next big Broadway musical.”

  “Like Hairspray.”

  “Yes, exactly.” I smiled too, feeling lighter with each strand she cut.

  A woman poked her head in the back door just then and blurted out, “Jessica, sweetie, let Miss Bea know those vines outside are choking her air conditioning unit.” The Southern drawl was thick with a hint of New Orleans proper.

  “Sure thing, Miss Mary. Hey, how is your sweet boy doing?”

  “Bless his soul, we’re taking him up to Old Miss soon. It’s going
to be an empty nest. . . .”

  I stopped listening. In the space of their dialogue, I got an idea for a scene in the novel and felt my own excitement build. I wished I had a piece of paper; I scanned the room to see what I could use instead and caught my eyes in the mirror. They looked brighter somehow.

  When Miss Mary left, and Jessica turned her attention to me, I said, “If you want to write, just write. Don’t worry about how it comes out. Just write.”

  “It’s my fountain of youth,” I added; I was done feeling like an old sticky note that kept falling off the fridge to the ground, warped from humidity and barely sticky. I was ready for my future.

  I couldn’t help but imagine the little girl in my novel and vines growing, tangling, choking the letters of the word b-o-y. As soon as I got to the car, hair primped, I wrote the beginning of a paragraph that wouldn’t leave me alone:

  She became steel. Johnny refused to feel even a cap full of crush. Instead, she imagined the letters that made up the word ‘boy.’ She saw the letters turn into vines and the tail of the “y” grew and grew until it choked the letter ‘b’ and covered the ‘o’ and left nothing but the tangle of thorny, viney weeds where just a moment ago stood an eleven-year-old. Nothing good would come of liking a boy.

  I looked out the car window, wondering who would drive by. Someone you know is always driving by in a small town. They then tell someone else, who tells someone else, who then eventually tells the boss. My lunch hour was over.

  I felt so happy that I felt guilty. I was afraid of getting caught, shoplifting minutes, writing in secret on the back of bank slips in a parked car. I was getting away with more than a long lunch break. I was getting away with joy. Purpose. Alignment. Was it wrong to feel so ecstatic? Was it wrong to roam with the word, to be let loose with my voice, when others continued on with forgotten dreams and shelved art? Would someone choke it out of me?

  Even as I questioned myself, I understood I needed to roam with the word. Just like I needed natural sunlight, an unfixed schedule, a twist of lime. Just like I needed a bike with a basket in front to carry my daisies and fresh vegetables from the farmer’s market. I needed a laptop to carry-on and a rubber band on my wrist for last minute ponytails. I absolutely needed to get my hair cut, to schedule an overdue appointment with the dermatologist (Granny would be proud). And I needed to make the time to write, no matter what.

  In the back of the car, late for work, scribbling ideas, I felt this life of moles, zigzags, hairdressers, hands, doubts, and ballpoint pens weaving together to release the chokehold and carry me forward.

  Chapter 24

  Washing Machine

  As I tucked Jack into bed, he read me a story he’d been writing at school about Mr. Edward who likes to eat and always wears a hat. When he finished, he turned to me.

  “Mom, why don’t you finish your novel and then you can publish it like that one author?” he asked, referring to Elizabeth Gilbert, whose book Committed rested on my nightstand.

  “I would like to,” I said.

  “Well, I’m going to write a chapter a night. And when I’m done, do you think I can publish it?” he asked.

  My heart went gooey like hot caramel. “Of course,” I said, believing in him, but still unsure about my own publishing potential. What kept me wanting to hide when something brewed inside, something that wanted to be set free?

  I watched him a moment, then leaned over and kissed his forehead. “Psst. I think I want to visit the moon. Wanna go?”

  “No way!” he said without a flicker. “I’m too scared. I’ll stay with my dad when you go to the moon.”

  In Jack’s fear, I instantly recognized my own. As his mother, I would have to show him how to be brave. I could only do that by modeling bravery myself.

  Jack, without meaning to, had saved me over and over again. I was once scared to leave his father; it was wanting a brighter future for Jack that gave me the courage to leave. And now, I was scared to write; yet Jack showed me that I must, so that he too could learn how to follow his own heart and truth.

  With all the bravery talk, a faint recognizable feeling gripped me. I turned off Jack’s bedroom lights and found my way into my own room to snuggle under the comforter in safety while I waited for Gabe to finish brushing his teeth.

  “I talked to Ferdie today. Guess what?” he asked as he walked into our bedroom and stepped into his pajama pants.

  I yawned without looking up from the page. “What?”

  “Ferdie and Josie are getting married.”

  The sheets fell to my lap; I sat straight up. “Getting married?” Ferdie said he would never get married again. “Really? Getting married?” I asked again. How could the jokester Ferdie have agreed to “I do” when my man was still holding onto his deflatable mattress?

  “Yes, and they are trying for a baby,” Gabe added.

  Why, with all the happy words and hair I’d gotten out of my system, did I still care about making babies?

  “Sweetie, what’s wrong?” Gabe grabbed my hand, pulled me toward him. He wanted to hug me, comfort me. I wanted to fight. I wrangled free, terrified I’d go back to being breakable.

  “Come on,” he pleaded, almost forcing me to turn around.

  “Tom, stop!” I didn’t realize I’d yelled my ex-husband’s name until Gabe walked out of the room, shrunken.

  I don’t know why I called out Tom’s name except that it’s the name I’d called out for so many years when I felt beaten, scared, angry, unloved, not enough. Maybe, calling out his name meant that Gabe wasn’t the one I thought he was. Just like Tom hadn’t been the one. Maybe Gabe didn’t love me enough. Maybe I should say goodbye now.

  “Yeah right.” That now-familiar muse voice snarked. “There ain’t no way that Tom and Gabe are alike. Think again, lady.” He was right, of course. One man choked me, the other loved me. That I would respond in the same way to them both caught me off guard. As I ticked through the footage of my past, I found the phrase “not enough” in hidden alcoves of past relationships: in a high school crush with a dark renegade and his lusting hands, in a college love affair with Mr. Super Nice who killed with his forehand, in my first marriage with the bully, and now in the relaxed Euro-stride of the ever-loving Gabe. The men were the variables.

  Before I could think it, the smart-ass muse in my head slapped me with iron truth: “It’s you who is acting like the same woman.”

  I remembered telling my mother once when I was six years old that I wanted to win Wimbledon. I don’t remember her exact response, but what my young, un-evolved brain heard her say was, “You’ll never win Wimbledon.” I was devastated to learn that I wouldn’t win no matter what I did, and the haunting feeling that nothing I ever did would make any difference stayed with me. Therefore, I’d lived my life from the story that no matter how much I practiced tennis or writing or anything else for that matter, I would only get so far. The rest was unattainable, and I remained forever not good enough.

  Not good enough for Adam, or, ahem, Michael (or whoever that was).

  Not good enough for Gabe to marry me.

  Not good enough for Gabe to want to have babies.

  Not good enough to be a published author.

  Not good enough for myself.

  All at once, I felt proud of the insight and cramped by its ugliness. I didn’t want to admit to a soul what I’d discovered, but I knew that if I didn’t throw a wrench in the tango, I would repeat this dance card over and over and over.

  If I could accept Gabe for who he is, everything he wanted and didn’t want, then maybe I could accept me for who I was and everything I wanted and didn’t want, even the teetering between opposing desires. For it was up to me to take those hands off my throat.

  Whether it was my own self-loathing that enticed Tom’s hands on my neck or his didn’t much matter as I felt those hands ever at-the-ready to suffocate the life force they held.

  In his grasp, I didn’t write; I was afraid.

  In his grasp, I
didn’t speak my mind; I was afraid.

  I wish I hadn’t given him so much power for so many years.

  I wish I had seen that the moment he put his hands around my neck, the imprint had stayed for ten years, an invisible noose choking an already vanishing voice.

  It wasn’t until I saw the fear in Jack that I saw his father’s hand still gripped me.

  And not just Tom’s hands, but all the metaphorical hands of those who came before to squelch out life, dreams, ideas, and will. Even those who meant well in their guidance and advice to “get good grades” and “be a good girl” became reminders not to tug too hard or the noose would tighten. They were the multitude of hands that led me to fear my life and the living of it. Tom’s hands were simply the physical representation of all the moments before and after that felt like the choking of my self-expression.

  It’s hard to love when you are so damn angry.

  It’s hard to love when you are so damn afraid.

  But I wanted love.

  Yes, I was willing to send love to the man who put his hands on my throat.

  Love doesn’t mean surrender.

  Love doesn’t mean fall apart.

  Love doesn’t mean to let guards down and disappear behind someone else’s veil.

  Love doesn’t mean I call once a week, or even once a year.