True Love

by Sarah Gerard

  Women recline in the back hallway, beneath fleece. We avoid eye contact. I ask the nurse whether fetuses can feel what’s happening to them. “If you’re not sure, don’t do it,” she responds.

  We take the prescription she gives me to the Walgreens across the street, then eat at a sidewalk café. I swallow the first two pills with ice water. I feel relief as I imagine them halting the growth in my womb. We are children, but we could have been more childish; we made an adult decision. Aaron says, “We’ll have kids when we’re ready.” I smile.

  I carry my dead fetus through the following workday and let the rest of the pills dissolve in my cheeks when I get home. What follows is agonizing. Aaron holds me in the bathtub. Blood disappears in the water like light diffusing. The burning comes in waves. I wake in the darkness hours later with a heating pad tied around my waist. I am sodden with my own blood.

  IN THE BATHROOM across the hall from the analyst’s office, I pass a clump of tissue the size of my thumb. It comes out as I’m wiping. I hold it in my palm and feel its weight. It’s dense and gray, like the dirt of Odessa’s grandma’s yard when we were kids. I call up a memory of walking with Odessa to the city park from her grandma’s house one day. By the lake we found a mother duck on a nest of eggs. We fought her off with a stick to steal two of them. We tried to hatch them in her bedroom, carried them in our underwear and experimented with different ways of keeping them warm: our armpits, wrapped in blankets, hidden under her pillows. Then we grew impatient. We took them outside as it was starting to rain. We counted to three before swinging dumbly at the trunk of a palm tree. The eggs broke in our hands. There were baby ducks inside them, fully formed, sleeping, slick with goo and blood; then the screen door opened and Odessa’s grandma scolded us back into the house. We watched through the windows as she buried them.

  I consider wrapping the clump in a cloth. I could take it home and hide it somewhere, perhaps in a wooden box on the shelf above our bed. It would decompose and smell. Aaron would discover it and make me throw it away. I remember hearing a story about a girl who was arrested in the Herald Square Victoria’s Secret when security noticed a smell emanating from her large handbag. They found her dead newborn inside it, wrapped in plastic bags stashed below stolen bras and underwear. She’d delivered him the day before in her friend’s bathtub. Her friend was at Victoria’s Secret with her. “You don’t understand life until you have a child,” the mother told a Vice reporter. “You don’t understand love.” She was seventeen and had two other children. One couldn’t be located. One visited her on Rikers Island on the weekends.

  I fold the clump in a tissue. I close it in my hand and hold it up to my lips and breathe in the smell, warm and smoky, sweet with a yeasty afternote. I stand from the toilet, drop it into the bowl, and flush.

  “I dreamt I was visiting the Grand Canyon with Aaron’s family,” I tell the analyst. This is our last session. I can’t afford him anymore. Without insurance his base rate is $250, nonnegotiable. “We were standing in two lines approaching the precipice,” I say. “One red line and one blue line. You had to choose a line but I didn’t know what for. I had the feeling that I was missing something. I knew I wouldn’t get to see what I’d gone there to see.”

  “What did you go to see?” he asks me.

  “We reached the front and Aaron’s mother was standing there. She was granting people passage and she held a long staff. At the top of the staff was a fishbowl with a baby inside it,” I say. “And ribbons streaming down.”

  “What color were they?”

  “White,” I say. “Yellow.”

  I email him later. We want you to know how grateful we are for all that you’ve taught us, I say. I don’t want to leave him. I want him to help me process my grief. I want him to read through these lines, to see the searing, silent begging beneath them. You’ve helped us immeasurably, both together and independently. Our lives and our partnership have only benefited from our relationship with you. We know you’ve made allowances for our financial and temporal limitations, and we want you to know your generosity has not gone unnoticed or unappreciated. We hope that, when our schedules settle, and our finances permit, we can find a way to reinitiate our sessions with you. Until then, we wish you health, happiness, and success. With all our love and gratitude, Nina & Aaron. He doesn’t respond.

  A week later, I Google him. I find his Facebook, but it’s private. I find his LinkedIn, but it’s sanitized. I wrap his name in quotes and find an article he wrote for an ultraconservative libertarian website.

  The title is “Diagnosed with Liberalism.” He’s taken as the basis for his authority his experience as a psychoanalyst.

  The loss of the American family unit is the single most destructive force to befall us in the modern era. When the father is not present in the home to set the structure of the family unit, a sense of anxiety takes hold and leads to externally directed hostility. Soon the patient is looking to the outside world to show her what her limits are. She acts out in hopes society will control her. Her desire for paternal law becomes pathologized.

  PC violations, their narcissistic injury, their petulance—which is itself fear-driven—become dangerous when one’s ideology comprises one’s identity. It’s as though, when that happens, rationality and socialization dissolve. The ideologically identified patient can often become wildly reckless. She seeks the obscuring of accountability by means of increased pathos.

  “POLITICAL CORRECTNESS IS killing us,” says Aaron’s father. I observe Aaron’s brother disassociate. He bends down over his lasagna, shrinking into himself until he can once again escape into the attic to hand-solder equipment for Aaron’s eventual movie set. “The fact is, the shooter was a radical Islamist,” says his father.

  “That’s not what he said, actually,” I say. “He said ‘Islamic terrorist’ and called Islam a ‘hateful foreign ideology.’”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “And therein lies the problem.”

  “See? How can I have a conversation with people like you?”

  “Like me?”

  “I’m a registered Democrat, but far-left liberals today are another species.”

  “The point is that Trump is a racist.”

  “I agree with you, but the left today is a circular firing squad.”

  “Okay, I’ve had enough of this conversation,” says Aaron’s mother, reaching for more bread. Aaron promised he wouldn’t tell his parents about my abortion, but his mother hasn’t looked at me since we arrived.

  “Is there a problem?” I say.

  She butters her bread.

  “Cathy?”

  “I’m not feeling well,” she says.

  “Oh no,” says Aaron. “Are you sick?” He leans over and places his hand on her shoulder, then smooths her hair. He lays his other hand on her forehead. “Mom?”

  “I’m fine,” she says, setting down her bread and knife. She places her hand on her stomach. “Just a little nauseous.”

  “Let me get you a Tums.”

  He escapes down the hallway.

  “My mother’s girlfriend lost a friend in the shooting,” I say.

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” says his father.

  “My dad’s company is pitching Trump’s campaign,” says Aaron’s brother, suddenly laughing.

  “It’s not my company,” says Aaron’s father. “I’m a consultant, and it’s a one-year contract to help a video startup pitch advertising.”

  “But you’re pitching the Trump campaign?” I say.

  “It’s business,” he says. “We’re also pitching Bernie.”

  Nineteen

  I go to the corner dive bar to enlist the aid of the outside world in my self-abuse. Aaron is at his parents’ house for the next three days while his mother recovers from gallbladder surgery. I should be with him, but I pretended to be unable to cover my shifts at the bookstore. The bar’s backyard is decorated with string lights, and I’m drinking a neat, peaty Scotch and light
ing a cigarette when I see Daniel sitting by himself at one of the picnic tables. At first I’m disappointed. I’d wanted to be alone, just not isolated, to gaze at those in my midst as though through a milky scrim. Daniel is discreetly watching the family at the next table. Their baby sleeps in a sling. I see no way around saying hi.

  “Cute baby,” I say. “Where’s Heidi?”

  “At her mom’s for a few days.”

  His chin is covered in stubble. His eyes are glassy.

  “So is Aaron,” I say. “His mom had gallbladder surgery.”

  “Sounds serious.”

  “The surgeon estimated four hundred gallstones. It was completely septic.”

  “Gross.”

  He turns his can of beer in a circle, looking at it.

  “How have you been?” I say.

  “Can you keep this between us?”

  I nod.

  “We lost one of the twins.”

  I recognize his decision to sit near the baby as self-destructive. She’s oblivious to the ways time is already closing off possibilities, how her ever-expanding experience will be inversely limited by perspective, biology, anatomy, circumstance, other people. She will never be the best at what she does. She will suffer.

  “It’s not uncommon,” he says. “It happens in one in three multiple pregnancies.”

  “Do you find that comforting?”

  He shrugs.

  “I had an abortion two weeks ago and I’m still bleeding,” I say.

  “Is that normal?”

  “I’m trying to think of it as a loving act. My parents should never have had me.”

  “I went through it with my ex. It was difficult.”

  We sit in silence. I finish my Scotch and offer Daniel a cigarette. Beside us the baby shits and her dad takes her to the bathroom. I feel badly for Daniel, watching her leave. I want to do him a favor. I decide to let him take care of me.

  “Do you have a Xanax?”

  “I’M NOT USED to being alone.” We’re sitting on the fire escape of his building, curled against the brick in our socks. “But inside I’m kind of a lone wolf.” I pass the blunt back to him. The night is cool and fresh. We’re three floors above the street. Below us the bodega light is blinking. “I haven’t had this feeling of isolation since I first got out of rehab. It’s not a feeling I’ve ever been able to cope with. I got into a really stupid relationship right away just to escape it. Maybe that makes me codependent.”

  “Maybe everyone’s codependent,” he says.

  “When I was a teenager, I’d come home to an empty house and eat cheese quesadillas from the microwave because I didn’t know how to cook anything. Nobody taught me. Even before my mother left, she never cooked. We ate TV dinners. That’s what that feeling reminds me of. By high school, I wouldn’t see my dad until ten o’clock, and then he would just watch TV until he went to bed. He wouldn’t even notice that I was drunk. I would be sitting next to him on the couch, but we never interacted, he never got close enough to smell me.”

  He passes me the blunt.

  “Would you say you’re a lonely person?” I say.

  “I lost most of my friends when I started touring. I was fucked up a lot of the time. I got a whole new set of friends, but then I alienated them acting like an asshole. A lot of people won’t work with me, not that I care. I’m still trying to figure out what I want to do with my music, if I even want to make music anymore. I’m kind of sick of it.”

  “That’s how I felt when I left school. Nobody even tried to find me. Only Aaron.”

  “I’m sorry I didn’t reach out.”

  “I didn’t expect you to.”

  We look at each other. I move my hand to his elbow and cradle it. I hit the blunt, and he reaches for it, but I hold it away from him.

  “Shotgun,” I say.

  I lean into him. I place my mouth lightly over his. He hesitates, but I exhale. Smoke falls from his mouth.

  THE SUN IS a bright ball. I reach for my phone on Daniel’s nightstand and find eleven missed calls from Aaron. Hey, sweetie, he says from my voicemail, I guess you’re still sleeping, but my mom is feeling pretty good, actually, so I’m coming home this morning, and she’s just gonna call me if she needs anything. I’m excited to see you, I missed you last night. Leaving here soon. Okay, I love you.

  Hey, cutest, it’s nine o’clock, wow, this is late for you, but I’m glad you’re sleeping ’cause I bet you were up late writing. I know you have a hard time sleeping when you’re alone. Okay, I’m coming over the bridge, so I should be seeing you in, like, half an hour if the traffic’s not too bad. I love you so much, you’re perfect and beautiful, okay, bye.

  Hey, um, I just got back to our apartment. You’re not here. I’m a little worried. Did I forget that you’re working this morning? I thought you were on the schedule for this afternoon? Are you at the supermarket or something? Please call me.

  Nina, where are you? I’ve been sitting here for an hour and I called the bookstore and they told me you’re not even on the schedule today. I’m extremely worried. I hope nothing has happened to you. I’m ready to call the police. Please call me.

  There are no more voicemails, just unanswered calls and an onslaught of texts that grow increasingly irate. It’s eleven thirty. My blood is glacial as I think of any possible way to not go home. I consider calling Daniel to my defense. He could tell Aaron that I called him because I was distraught, that I was having a panic attack and had to sleep on his couch.

  I shake Daniel.

  “Hey,” I say. “I have to go. Can we please keep this between us?” He looks anemic. “Please just keep this between us, okay?”

  I call Aaron on the sidewalk. “Sweetie, I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize you were calling me. I had my phone in my backpack. I walked all the way to the Brooklyn Bridge just now. I’ve been walking for three hours.” My heart is racing. “Aaron? I didn’t stop to look at my phone, sweetie, I’m so sorry you were worried.”

  “You didn’t stop to look at your phone even one time in three hours?” he says.

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “You didn’t stop to use the bathroom somewhere, or stop to buy anything and take your phone out of your backpack out of habit?”

  “Aaron, no. I really didn’t. I’m so sorry.” I begin speed-walking toward our apartment. The sidewalk is a crush of children and dogs. “Are you there?”

  “It just seems unlike you to walk all the way to the Brooklyn Bridge for no reason.”

  “You’re out of town,” I say. “I couldn’t sleep at all. I was wide-awake at six o’clock and I don’t want to sit around the house by myself.”

  “You said you were working today.”

  “I’m sorry. I just needed alone time.”

  “My mother had surgery.”

  “I know. I’m sorry.”

  He’s silent. I begin running.

  “You just got up first thing in the morning and had nothing else to do, and felt inspired to go on a three-hour walk?”

  “Aaron, yes.”

  I listen to dead air, a sound like wind rushing past.

  “Where are you?” he says.

  “Are you in the car right now?”

  “Yeah, I can come pick you up. Where are you?”

  “I’m ten minutes away. I just got to the bottom of Prospect Park. There’s a horse-drawn carriage here. We should ride one sometime. I’ve always wanted to do that.”

  There’s a long silence.

  “Just tell me what street you’re on.”

  “I don’t see a street sign, Aaron. Hang on.”

  I sprint for several seconds. When I can’t anymore, I stop and look at the map on my iPhone and pick a spot several blocks away that I think I can get to by the time he reaches it.

  I SIT AGAINST a stone wall, panting and sweating, and watch a colony of ants descend on a dying monarch writhing at my feet. They approach it, climb onto it, then retreat to tell their friends about its weakness. They return with an
army to eat it alive. The butterfly is too sick to fight them. It moves its legs, tries to walk away, tries to fly, stumbles and falls. I lift it by a wing and blow the ants away. I spit on the ground to give them food and my viscous saliva lands on a clump, drowning them. I crush the trapped ones with my toe to put them out of their misery. Their friends come to eat them. I watch the monarch open and close its wings in my palm, blameless.

  Aaron pulls up with his window open. “Hey,” I say. “Look what I found.” I climb into the passenger seat and cup the butterfly against the wind, demonstrating how gentle I can be. “I’ll euthanize it in the freezer when we get home.”

  He pulls away from the curb.

  “I’M NOT LYING,” I say.

  Aaron’s sitting on top of his desk. Leaning against it is his red secondhand Telecaster, on which he’s currently teaching himself to play the following selections from Blood Sugar Sex Magik: “The Power of Equality,” “If You Have to Ask,” “Breaking the Girl,” “I Could Have Lied,” “The Righteous and the Wicked,” “Give It Away,” “Naked in the Rain,” and “Sir Psycho Sexy.”

  “What streets did you take?” he says.

  “I went through the park to Grand Army Plaza and Fort Greene to the Brooklyn waterfront.”

  “And you didn’t take any pictures of the waterfront?”

  “I was enjoying not looking at my phone.”

  “Then why bring it?”

  “In case of an emergency.”

  He turns back to the window. It’s open only a sliver at the bottom, though the room is a hundred degrees. His cigarette nauseates me, but if I ask him to put it out or open the window further, I’ll seem passive-aggressive. We’ve tried to brighten the desk with lilies he bought me with my debit card, which I had given him to buy cigarettes, since he’s unable to buy his own, since he owes Wells Fargo a hundred dollars and refuses to pay it back on principle because “Wells Fargo has stolen billions of dollars from the American people.”

  “Then why did you have me pick you up at Stratford and Church? It doesn’t make sense that you would be over there if you went through the park.”