Love's Illusions: A Novel

by Cazzola, Jolene

  I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t stop crying. I wanted to leave, but he said he’d be back – I couldn’t leave and take the chance of missing him when he rang the buzzer. I walked around the apartment aimlessly – I tried picking things up, collected the laundry, but was afraid to go to the basement to the washing machines for fear of missing him. I cleaned the kitchen. I sat staring at nothing. I wished for oblivion – I wanted, no I needed to get stoned. I pulled the water pipe from the shelf telling myself there was no reason not to get fucked up – I’d lost Michael already, and since I didn’t want this pregnancy, what difference would it make – then his face flashed through my mind again and I put it back. My body started to quiver again, my stomach churned. I felt a rage that began at the pit of my being, welled up like a fireball inside me, and exploded in a painful, chilling scream. I couldn’t stop myself – it was finally happening – my head was exploding, and nothing I could do would stop it. I snatched the coffee mugs from the table, threw them across the room – one pulverized against the wall with a popping sound like a baseball bat striking a ball; the other hit the front window shattering it with a sharp piercing noise, mimicking my screams, sending shards of glass flying across the room.

  It was beautiful – it was fuckin’ beautiful! As the glass and ceramic pieces settled to the floor, my tremors subsided, and the pieces of my brain found their way into their proper place… My skull was almost whole – all I had to do was collect the fallen pieces, and glue them back into place. But not now – now I needed to sleep. I lay down on the leather couch and could feel the tension drain out of me. My breathing slowed; I closed my eyes. The whirlwind that had engulfed me dissipated into a gentle fall breeze. I felt my feet relax, then my legs, my pelvis and my torso. My heartbeat felt steadier, like it had reached some kind of plateau and was now looking out over a vast open space. Moments later a woefulness appeared in the distance and I slept.

  ~~~~~~~~

  When I woke up I was surrounded by darkness. For the briefest of moments I thought I was dead – I had no feelings in my body, and my mind was blank. As my eyes opened and adjusted to the lightless room, I heard a car blow its horn from the street below, and I realized I was in my own living room. I shivered as a breeze blew across my body and glanced toward the front window. Oh shit, I broke the fuckin’ window. What a Goddamn mess – I have to call the maintenance guy, I thought sitting up. I turned on the lamp next to me. Damn it! I broke my two favorite coffee mugs – you’re an asshole Jackie – a fucking asshole! Get a grip and clean things up.

  There was glass everywhere. I picked up the big pieces, then swept and vacuumed, all the time looking at the front window wondering what the hell I was going to do about it for the evening. I would call the maintenance guy in the morning, but it was chilly, and I needed a way to stop the wind from coming in tonight. I finally decided to duct tape a piece of cardboard over the opening. I cursed at myself while I emptied a box full of leftover fabrics from my time in fashion design from the closet; if I hadn’t thrown a temper tantrum like a spoiled child, if I had controlled my emotions, I wouldn’t have to be doing this now. I felt like an idiot. I dragged the empty box over by the window, fished a roll of duct tape and a box cutter from my tool drawer in the kitchen, and proceeded to calculate how best to fit the cardboard over the hole. Some of the glass that hadn’t fallen to the floor was loose, so I pried it out of the rim making sure I didn’t cut myself on any of the sharp edges. Then suddenly, a piece I was tugging on gave way, my hand slipped downward, my wrist jabbed on a shard that was still attached to the bottom frame, and blood cascaded down my arm.

  Within a split second a multitude of thoughts bolted through my brain. Oh my God… I’ve sliced my wrist… maybe I should let it bleed… a quick movement could slice the other one… it would be so easy… no more problems… just do it – NO, NO, NO! Not this way. I dashed to the kitchen, wrapped a towel around my wrist and pulled it tight. I felt faint, sat down on the nearest chair, clinched my arm up to my chest, and rocked back and forth – do not pass out, do not pass out, do not pass out. As the light-headedness faded away – I took a deep breath, and lowered my arm into my lap; the kitchen towel was soaked through with blood, I had no idea what to do. Should I unwrap it and look? Has it stopped bleeding? The sight of blood made me queasy – shit, I had ruined a perfectly good towel - the blood stains would never come out!

  I tried to think. Should I get myself to an emergency room? I wasn’t even dressed – I had stayed in my pajamas all day. What if I went there and they thought I did this on purpose? How the hell was I going to explain it? Should I call someone? I wanted Michael, but I didn’t know where he was – didn’t know where to call.

  I decided I needed to see just how bad it was; maybe it was nothing to worry about. The blood on the towel hadn’t spread much more, so maybe it stopped. I stood up and went into the bathroom, got out a bottle of hydrogen peroxide, took the top off, got some cotton balls, sat down on the toilet, and unwrapped the towel holding my arm over the sink next to me. Shit, it was still bleeding, but not as much; it didn’t look too bad, but it was hard to tell, the whole lower part of my arm was red. I splashed the hydrogen peroxide over myself to wash away the blood. My hands had started to shake – I was right handed, the cut was on my right wrist, and my left hand did not want to hold the bottle, so I put it down before I spilled it all over. The wound was bubbling, a tiny white foam formed; it sounded like a steak sizzling on a grill. I tried to dab at it with the cotton balls so I could see it better. There were two cuts; the one towards the center of my wrist was small, like a puncture wound; the second, under the base of my thumb was only about an inch or two long, looked deeper like it needed stitches, but at least I hadn’t sliced across the whole thing.

  It was still bleeding, and by this time it had started to hurt, throb – I had to get help.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  It Was an Accident

  I dumped more hydrogen peroxide over my arm, piled cotton balls on it then wrapped it with another dish towel, went into the bedroom, and tried to put on my jeans. The towel kept coming loose, so I fastened it with duct tape. I was about to call The Canteen to see if Michael might be there when the front door of the apartment opened. It was him. I put the phone receiver down, “I was just trying to find you – I need help.” I said.

  As he moved further inside the door, his eyes darted from my duct taped arm, around the room to the broken window, the trail of blood on the floor and the blood soaked towel hanging from the side of the bathroom sink. “What happened…? You didn’t… Are you alright!?!” he demanded.

  “I’ll be fine, but I think I might need a couple stitches, could you take me to the emergency room?” I replied. I hadn’t moved since the door opened. I was searching his face trying to see if he hated me – I couldn’t tell, he looked even more shocked and pained then when he had left.

  “Oh, babe, what did you do? Let me see,” he said sounding panicked as he crossed the room to my side, and lifted my towel-wrapped arm. Okay, he called me babe, maybe he’ll help me get to the hospital before he splits, I thought.

  “It was an accident,” I said looking him in the eyes. “I broke the window, and I was going to tape that cardboard over it for the night, but my hand slipped and it cut me.” I hesitated, then repeated, “Michael, it was an accident, I swear it was! I’ll tell you everything, but it hurts, and it was still bleeding when I wrapped it, so could we go please? St. Joseph’s is the closest ER – only a few blocks away.”

  ~~~~~~~~

  By the time we got back from the emergency room it was well past midnight. The ER doc was suspicious about my story, saying he should hold me for a 72 hour psychiatric observation, but Michael backed me up saying he was there and had seen the whole thing. “It was an accident Dr. Lintel, nothing more. There’s nothing to observe – accidents happen,” he stated in a voice that left no room for doubt. They stitched me up, gave me a prescription for antibiotics, one that wouldn’t h
arm the baby – Michael made sure the doctor knew I was pregnant – and let me go home.

  Neither one of us had mentioned the pregnancy since Michael walked in the door, except for him telling the doctor. He helped me tape the cardboard over the broken window, and pick up the remaining evidence of my bloody fiasco. When I first told him what happened, I think he had doubts about my story himself, but as he had me repeat it over and over with more and more detail, I was 99% sure he believed it was an accident. I told him everything, except about the split second when the thought crossed my mind to cut the other wrist – there was no need to voice that I decided. I had made the right decision; I was here, I didn’t do it, so expressing those random thoughts could serve no purpose.

  But now, alone again, with the emergency over, the pregnancy loomed like a storm cloud between us. We were standing in the middle of the living room, trying not to look at each other – shy, almost embarrassed, each of us averting our gaze, immediately glancing away whenever we caught the other looking. Neither of us knew what to say; neither of us wanted to argue. We both started to speak at the same time, then smiling at each other, he deferred to me. I took a few steps towards him, pressed my lips together and replied, “I want to thank you. Thank you for coming back, and thank you for believing me.”

  He reached out, took my hand, pulled me closer. Closing his arms around me in a tight hug, he kissed my forehead and cheek, murmuring, “I’m just glad you’re okay.” We stood there, embracing, our bodies saying that we both wanted to find a way back to each other.

  “Jackie, I know you’re tired, but could we talk some before you go to sleep? Keith is leaving in the morning – I have to go home tonight, but I need to talk to you… please?”

  “Of course,” I nodded, “but can we do it lying down?”

  “Hmph, you’re right,” he was chuckling as he spoke, “we do do our best talking that way.”

  Michael’s voice was serious; I could hear the pain and confusion even though he tried hard to disguise it. He had spent the day wandering around the city, finally getting on his bike, and heading north trying to find some open road to ride letting the wind help him think. He’d been shocked when I told him. He told me he was hurt by my going to Mary Beth first. He was confused because he wanted kids, but knew how difficult it would be to have one now… He understood that it would change both our lives forever. He said he loved me, and asked that I not do anything until we both had a chance to think things through – to talk more. Not argue – talk. I agreed.

  As he got up to leave something I had been wondering about popped back into my mind. “Michael, where did you get the key? You let yourself in when you came back… I’ve never given you a key…”

  “Yeah, I know. Don’t be mad – I had it made back before Christmas when we were arguing, and I took your keys to go get food. Tonight… well, tonight was the first time it felt right to use it. Do you want me to give it back to you?”

  “No,” I said choking back tears, “I should’ve given you one a long time ago.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Endings

  Planned Parenthood gave me a referral to a clinic in Rochester, New York that could do the procedure any time before the 12 week point. I was now eight weeks along. Kent was still trying to help find someone in Chicago, but didn’t have a name yet. My stitches had been removed and my wrist was healing well. I was still finding the occasional odd piece of glass in some far off corner of the floor, but the front window had been replaced, the bloody towels were washed, and other than being pregnant, generally life was back to normal.

  Keith was gone so I didn’t have to deal with his bullshit – at least for the moment. In a strange way, Michael and I were growing closer. Maybe it was me relaxing some as I realized I wouldn’t have to go through this alone – Michael made it clear that he wasn’t going to bolt; he was staying with me. In fact, he was being very attentive, very loving, always asking me how I felt or if I needed anything. It was sweet, but also annoying as hell.

  We had talked, then talked some more, but were currently at an impasse; he thought he wanted this baby – I didn’t. I went over and over all the logical reasons why having this kid was a shitty idea. He said we could make it work; I told him I didn’t want to ‘make anything work’. I wanted it to be right from the beginning – not an accident. Every day we went around in circles, over the same territory again and again. Ultimately though, he understood: I held the deciding vote.

  It turned out that his initial adamancy about not getting an abortion was directed towards doing it illegally – he was afraid for my safety. He calmed down once he understood that I intended to go to New York if a safe alternative couldn’t be found here. Somewhere deep inside himself he knew I was right, knew we weren’t ready, knew having this child would be a mistake – but he was also infatuated with the ‘idea’ of it. He was hoping time would alter my thinking; likewise, I was hoping it would alter his. Until it was settled, I made him promise me he would not tell anyone, especially not his mother or anyone at The Canteen – I didn’t think I could withstand pressure from the whole world. In return, I promised not to smoke or drink, take Valium or get fucked up on any kind of substance whatsoever, no matter how much I wanted to, just in case I changed my mind. I was always exhausted, so I was 99% sure I could fall asleep easily on my own – I even took naps.

  ~~~~~~~~

  “Hey Jackie, it’s John. Well we’ve finally got a court date; it’s Wednesday, October 18th.”

  “That’s great! That’s less than two weeks away. I assume you still haven’t had any kind of response from Stephen?” I asked.

  “No, nothing, the deadline passed a long time ago anyhow. But we’ve complied with all the legal requirements, so that won’t be an issue,” he replied. “I’ll be getting in touch with Bernie and Mary Beth. We need them there as witnesses, in case the judge wants to ask any questions, but I’m almost positive I won’t need to call them – just you.”

  “Okay, both of them said they would do it before, so I’m sure it won’t be a problem. I’ll call them later too. So how is your dissertation coming John?”

  “Pretty good – I’m on schedule at least. I want to thank you for talking to me. I learn so much from people like you,” he replied.

  “No, actually, I think it was you that helped me. Talking about it all… well it helped me to sort through the whole thing myself. I was wondering, would it be possible to get copies of the tapes? They give a pretty good account of how I was feeling at the time, and who knows, maybe later… Well, maybe they could help… if I ever decided to listen to them.”

  “Of course, I’ll make copies for you, and bring them when we meet. What’s your schedule like for the rest of the week? You will have to testify so I want to go over everything with you ahead of time. Do you have time this Thursday?” John asked.

  ~~~~~~~~

  Twenty-one years old, divorced and now pregnant – I seemed to be doing everything backwards, at least according to the rules I had been taught as a little girl. I was now 10 weeks along, and my divorce was final as of today. For the past two weeks I had been stressing about going to court; even during Michael’s 24th birthday celebration the week before. Michael was happy though – pretty much considered the divorce his birthday present. I wanted it to be over, but was very, very nervous, even though John had assured me that court was only a formality at this point.

  We had gone over my testimony. There was nothing complicated – name, address, date we were married, date we separated, verify we had no children, verify we had no property, state grounds for divorce, settle the outstanding medical bills, and ask for use of my maiden name back. Since there was no response from Stephen, no opposing attorney, no nothing on the other side, John would be able to lead me through it. He was right – it took all of ten minutes from start to finish. He did not have to call either Mary Beth or Bernie to testify, the judge just said “granted,” and that was that. When it was over, both Mary Beth and B
ernie left with the same question in their minds as I had, ‘Was that judge even listening?’ John laughed at all three of us then headed off with Bernie to some Bar Association luncheon, saying he’d mail me the paperwork when it came, but in the meantime I should call if I needed anything.

  Mary Beth and I decided to duck into one of the restaurants close to the courthouse for lunch too before heading home. I ordered a cheeseburger, French fries, and a diet Coke – I was starving, of course I was always starving lately. I had only experienced three signs of early pregnancy so far: 1) I was always tired, 2) I was always hungry and, 3) my nipples were pink and my boobs were sensitive. I had not experienced any morning sickness – the thought of being nauseous every day was very unsettling.

  As we sat down and took off our coats, Mary Beth asked me, “Where the hell did you get that dress Jackie? It looks like one of my mother’s table cloths.”

  I grinned, “Yep, that’s why I bought it. John told me I should wear a conservative dress to court, so I went to the second hand store on the corner and found this – it was cheap, and I thought it made me look respectable, right?” The dress was a simple, empire waist style in a blue and white hound’s-tooth pattern, with long sleeves, buttons up the front and a white lacy collar and cuffs. “You know how people save wedding dresses, and pass them on generation after generation… well I was thinking about saving my divorce dress and passing it on,” I said.

  Smiling back and laughing she replied, “That’s fucked up.”

  “Well then think of it this way – the long sleeves and these damn white cuffs hide my wrist. It’s healing, but I’m going to have a scar, and it’s still red and ugly – I didn’t want John to see it.” I pulled back the edge of the cuff so she could look.