“Yeah, the beginning of being alone,” I mutter. When my parents don’t respond, I realize how terrible I am for complaining to them, considering we were at a funeral just twelve hours ago. So I take a deep breath and say, “Anyway, that’s all I needed to tell you.”
Dad asks, “You sure you don’t want to talk more about him tonight?”
I look at him like he’s crazy. “Dad, I don’t want to talk about him ever again !”
“Okay,” Dad says. “That’s fine.”
After another silence Mom smiles. “We’ll have a nice birthday for you tomorrow.”
I nod. “Dad, I want to go fishing in the morning.”
“You do?” His eyes gleam.
“Yeah. I want to catch buckets full, and then I want them for dinner.”
“Well, there are plenty of fish in the sea,” Mom says buoyantly.
I look at her disgustedly. How can she joke at a time like this? I slam their door behind me and don’t say good night. I hear Mom get out of bed and Dad say to her, “No. Let her alone for a while.”
: p.m.
My knuckles hurt. I rub them on my way to the kitchen, where I search the cabinets for a big black garbage bag. Mom’s right. I’ve got to cancel and move on.
Back in my room I stuff the bag with all my framed photographs of us, including the engraved one I was going to give him for Christmas. Why do people even take photographs, anyway? They’re just reminders of what once was, of what you’ll never get back. It’s so masochistic.
Next to go are the vegetarian cookbooks and four issues of Runner’s World, which I used to toss around my room before he’d come over so he’d be impressed by the common interests I pretended we had. Then I throw out the manila envelope I used to hold ticket stubs of movies we went to together but didn’t really watch because we were making out in the back row.
After laying down the bag I stare at my computer screen. Every word he wrote me this past year I used
to think was so priceless. Now they’re all meaningless, not even worth the RAM they occupy. I click on the “Wes” folder, where I stored all our old e-mails, JPEGs, and transcripts of IM chats, and drag it to the trash. I block his screen name on Instant Messenger, delete all my bookmarked Web sites having to do with him, and cancel his name from my online address book. Then I erase his number and old text messages from my cell phone. I wish I didn’t know his number by heart. I wonder how long it will take me to forget it…or if I ever will.
I shut down my computer and slide open my closet. I take my prom dress and hang it inside an opaque garment bag. A bunch of Wes’s dead skin cells probably still cling to the green silk, and I don’t ever want to lay eyes on it or be reminded of that night. Then I bundle together my prom shoes and purse and place them out of sight on the highest shelf, which is where I come across the pressed yellow and red rose corsage. I hold it over the garbage bag and crumple the crusty petals with my fingers until they’re nothing but dust.
Next I open my top dresser drawer and pull out the track singlet I was going to give Wes for his birthday. I wrapped it so beautifully. He would have liked it so much. He would have looked so fucking hot in it. I bet he didn’t even think to get me a birthday present, or a Christmas present. He wouldn’t have wanted to encourage our sham of a relationship with gifts. I shove the singlet in the trash.
I stand up in the middle of my room and scan for any remaining traces of him. My Princess Bride DVD
on the bookshelf catches my eye, and I throw it in the bag immediately. There’s no way I can ever enjoy watching it again, with the hero’s name being Westley. A perfectly good movie ruined.
Then I spot the holiday card on my desk, already sealed and stamped, that I was going to mail to Wes’s parents tomorrow. As I drop it into the garbage, it hits me that I didn’t just break up with Wes, I broke up with his family! Despite the son they spawned, I really like Mr. and Mrs. Gershwin. I hope they’ll miss me too. Or maybe they just won’t care.
Last, I deposit the mood ring into the bulging bag. Calvin was right at the track that day—it is a cheap piece of shit.
I forcibly yank on the drawstrings and tie them in a triple knot. I want to drop-kick the whole thing into the Dumpster downstairs, and I actually open my window and peer down to the ground, calculating where it would land.
Damn it. I can’t get rid of this stuff. Not yet.
I hoist up the bag and shove it in my bathroom linen closet behind a pile of towels.
: p.m.
On the middle shelf of the linen closet I see my maxi pads, which remind me of the condoms and lube tucked away in the storage box underneath my bed. As I reopen the trash bag and throw away these graphic reminders, I suddenly feel hollow, empty, dried up. Wes will never be inside of me again, ever, even though I’ll have to live with the memory of what I’m missing forever. How is it that mankind can engineer condoms to prevent pregnancy and STDs and not be able to invent some sort of emotional safeguard? Is it even possible to abstain from falling in love?
I go back to my desk, flip open my cell, and stare at the keypad. I want to hear his voice so badly, to be connected to him, to ask him why and how and what I can do to make it better. But you can’t force someone to love you.
I hate being this powerless. I hate no longer having license to kiss him. I hate feeling grief while he’s probably just feeling relief.
: p.m.
“Hello? Dom?”
“Hey,” I choke out. “I know it’s late, sorry.”
“It’s okay.”
“I’m…in such utter disbelief right now…. It hurts so much. I can’t believe this is happening to me.”
“I’m really sorry, Dom…but it’s a normal reaction to someone dying.”
“No! This isn’t about my grandma!”
“Well, wha—?”
“Amy—” I start crying and curl up on the bed. “Wes just dumped me.”
A pause. “Oh shit! Oh, Dom. Dom, I am so sorry.”
“Just an hour ago I had a boyfriend…and now I don’t and probably never will again. And we broke up over IM! IM!!”
“Oh my God! Okay, that’s majorly sucky on his part. Ugh! You know, my roommate told me that in Malaysia, a man can legally divorce his wife over a text message.”
I sniffle. “Um, if you’re trying to make me feel better, it’s not working.”
“Sorry, I’m sorry. So Gersh just sprang this on you now?”
“Well, I knew he’d been acting sorta distant lately, and he hadn’t really said the l-word since before Thanksgiving…but I kept justifying his behavior. You know, in mourning for the dog and stressed out from school.”
“Well, yeah. Plus, Gersh was never the demonstrative type.”
“Exactly, and I assumed that when we saw each other again it’d be fine. But, Amy…I think I knew it wouldn’t be fine. Deep down. I just didn’t want to admit it to myself.”
“So what did he say?”
“Just that his feelings changed, but there has to be more to it, right? Maybe I wasn’t as smart or interesting as his New York friends…. Oh my God, do you think it was my freshman fifteen?” I think back to our Thanksgiving hookup. I must have looked like such a cow while I was going down on him.
“At the risk of sounding like my mom, a few extra pounds do not make or break a healthy relationship.”
“Ames, we had all these plans! He was going to come down for Mardi Gras and meet all my friends.
What am I going to tell them now? They’ll think I’m such a loser! Oh no, I’m going to have to change my status to ‘single’ on MySpace now. What if I wind up like my parents, desperate enough to answer personal ads?”
“Okay, calm down. Relationships end. People understand that.” She hesitates for a second. “I mean, isn’t it better to end by a breakup now rather than a divorce later, or death? My dad’s still reeling from divorcing Mom, and that was years ago.”
“Honestly, I think I’d feel better if Wes were dead.”
“You don’t really mean that.”
“I do. I still love him so much, Ames,” I gurgle. “And I feel so worthless because he doesn’t love me anymore.”
“Listen, do you want to talk to my mom? She hasn’t gone to bed yet, and she dissects relationships for a living.”
My stomach rumbles.
“Dom?”
“No, I…I actually feel sick. I need to go—”
“Dom, you’re going to be fine. Dom?”
: p.m.
I race to the bathroom and take a massive shit, expelling so much so quickly my whole abdomen cramps up. I hug both knees into my chest, but that only makes the pain worse, like my intestines are trying to strangle me from the inside out. Then I go some more.
After flushing, I kneel over the tub and cry the hardest I ever have. I have to run the bathwater to drown out the wails—the last thing I want is Mom busting in with Kleenex. Soon the entire bottom half of my face is covered with snot, and the grotesque contortions of my sniveling mouth and cheeks strain my throat muscles and make it hard to swallow.
: p.m.
I feel like I’ve cried to the point of severe dehydration, and my body is trembling all over, so I slog to my bed and lie down. I clutch my cell phone, hold my breath, and count down the seconds to my birthday—our birthdays. Maybe if I hope hard enough, want it badly enough, he’ll call.
At midnight my lungs are screaming for air, but I keep holding it in. Then it rings.
I gasp as I tighten my grip, causing the phone to slip out of my sweaty hands. I fumble it like a hot potato for three rings before regaining my hold.
Amy’s name flashes on the display. I hurl the cell across the room. It lands on the exact spot on the carpet where Wes kissed me for the first time. Then I remember the Dave Matthew’s “Crash” MP that
accompanied our first kiss. Ten seconds later it’s erased from my hard drive.
: a.m.
I’m on my terrace gazing down at the parking lot, six stories below. If I jumped headfirst, I’d probably die on impact, and Wes would blame himself…or would he? He’d definitely feel bad, but he’d probably also think I was completely unstable, which would just make him more relieved we didn’t end up together. He must already think I’m some psycho bitch after the horrible things I said on IM, not that he didn’t deserve it.
No, I’d never kill myself…but it surprises me how easy it is to think about. I wonder…if I just approach suicide, not going all the way but far enough to look death in the face, maybe that one terrifying moment will put Wes into perspective and make me grateful just to be alive.
I grasp the handrails with straightened arms and bend my knees so that the railing is supporting my entire body weight. I lean forward a few degrees. Then a few more. When I look down, my elbows start shaking and I get a quick rush of fright prompting me to push away from the bar and jump back on my legs.
I don’t feel any better. Just more pathetic.
: a.m.
I return to my bedroom and boot up my computer. I unblock his name on my buddy list to see if he’s on. He is. I wait for a couple minutes to see if he hails me. He doesn’t. I block him again.
I bet he’s chatting now with his NYU friends about how crazy I acted. Or maybe I’m not coming up in conversation at all. Or what if he’s telling them about the first time I tried to give him a blow job and didn’t get further than that ugly, awkward hunch over his dick? How inane I must have looked. How pitiful he must think I am. That’s probably the most lasting image he’ll carry of our relationship—me crouching over his dick, not sucking it…or me lumbering, mud-covered, to a Porta Potti. Suddenly my esophagus becomes a geyser and I rush to the bathroom again.
: a.m.
My head is still dangling over the toilet, now filled with an acid and enzyme puree of the night’s takeout veggie burger dinner. This is the first time I’ve thrown up in almost a year, since the day I met Wes at the EFM football game, and I forgot how disgusting it feels. I hate my body for being so weak and frail, for mirroring my emotions rather than rising above them. Soon the dry heaving takes over.
: a.m.
My back is sore from my barfing spasms. My throat’s raw from all the puke. With my stomach knotted from shitting and my neck strained from crying, I no longer have enough range of motion to extract my limp body from my vomit-and mucus-encrusted black polyester funeral dress. Too worn out to cry anymore, I crawl on all fours from the bathroom to my bed. At some point in the middle of the night I fall into a still sleep and don’t dream.
At half past nine I wake up with my usual thoughts of Wes. I feel calm and excited for our birthdays until my memory floods back. Yesterday really happened. My lower back is sore. My throat is dry. My right hand is lifeless without the mood ring. But other than that, I feel…okay. I’m eighteen. I’m eighteen today.
I stretch my arms up and look out of the window over my headboard. It’s beautiful outside. I cling desperately to the hope it brings. I really need to pee, but instead of rushing to the bathroom I dive onto the floor to retrieve my cell phone. It’s chipped on the right side and the display is cracked, but it’s still working. No calls. I race to my computer and check my e-mail.
My heart literally rattles in my chest when I spot Wes’s name couched between two birthday e-cards sent by Tulane friends. There’s no subject line, and it’s only one kilobyte. Please, please make this say what I want it to say! I click open the message.
Subject:
Date: Sunday, December , : a.m.
Dom, I’m really sorry how things turned out. Please don’t hate me. W
After rereading it a few times, I clickREPLY .
Dear Wes (a.k.a. Fucking Bastard),
Please don’t hate you??!! I hate that I love you. Loving you made me waste a year of my life. Loving you made me be passionate about nothing but you. Loving you made me take risks I never would have otherwise. Loving you made me give it up to you. Loving you made me neglect my parents and Amy.
Loving you made me not care that my grandma just died. Loving you made me turn out bitter and hopeless like her. Loving you made me hate myself for being dumped by you. Loving you made me deluded, irrational, inconsiderate, and a liar. And because I love you, you’re always going to haunt me.
I’ll never be able to have another birthday without wondering how you’re celebrating yours. I’ll never be able to think another guy is more handsome, talented, intelligent, or worth loving than you, despite all your faults (and there are many). I’ll never be able to check my e-mail without praying I’ll find a message from you with the subject line I love you, Dom—please come back to me. Meanwhile, every corner of this city is laced with memories of us together, and I’ll never be able to leave the house without hoping and dreading that I’ll run into you. You stole Fort Myers from me, and I lived here first, you fucking thief.
You actually may be one of my last thoughts when I die.
It’s really no surprise you suck at relationships. As an English major and a trackie, you devote yourself to activities that require no real teamwork. You don’t know the first thing about what it takes to play off of each other and achieve a common goal. You were on the bench the whole time, leaving me with all the
exhausting work of keeping our relationship going until you just called “game over.”
So fuck you. Have a happy fucking birthday.
Dom
P.S. Remember the night before Thanksgiving? I faked it!
Before deleting the e-mail, I print it out and stuff it in the Wes trash bag in my bathroom, I guess in a symbolic attempt to throw away my feelings for him.
Suddenly I wonder if Wes’s dumping me is some sort of karmic retribution for my rejecting Calvin so callously. Then I think how a true scientist would never be so superstitious. I immediately grab my Operation board game and also shove it in the trash, not because it reminds me of him, but because it reminds me of how pathetic I am.
Finally, I park on the toilet and le
t myself pee for the first time this morning, and I can feel myself fall into despair, deeper than ever. I’m still in my black dress, and I smell.
After stripping I trudge to the shower. I try to shave my legs, but my hands shake so much I keep cutting myself. I watch the blood trickle down my shins. Even this reminds me of Wes, of the day he pulled me from the mud. My knees still have scars from that fall. I’m always going to have them.
I increase the temperature of the shower until it’s scalding, and I force myself to stand still under the stream. I want to be cleansed, reborn, exorcized, revirginized, something. All I get is overheated.
“Happy birthday to our now legally adult girl!” Dad exclaims when I plod into the dining room.
Mom’s bustling around the table, affixing balloons and streamers to the wall. She comes down from the stepladder and walks over to hug me. I raise my arms in stiff reciprocation. I can tell from her puffy eyes she’s been crying about Grandma, but she manages a weak smile as she asks, “How does it feel to be eighteen?”
So far, it sucks, I want to scream in her face.
“Whatever. Same as always.”
“You all right, Dom?” Dad asks from his place at the head of the table. “Sure you don’t want to talk about—”
“Yes, Dad,” I grumble through gritted teeth.
“You’re still up for fishing, I hope? It’ll get your mind off things.”
“Yeah, maybe.” I take my usual seat and pour myself some ice water even though I have zero thirst.
Mom carries in a colorful assorted fruit platter. As she’s serving me she says, “Be sure to sit up straight, honey.”
I almost drop the pitcher out of shock. I thought that whole posture business died with Grandma.
Instead, it’s been passed on. And Mom’s not giving me a break, today of all days! I know I should take the high road and fake being happy, but when she asks a minute later what I’m planning to do for the rest of the break, I lose it.
Anatomy of a Boyfriend Page 17