This was a week or so before the holidays. You said you hoped the package would find its way to me in time. I pictured you driving to the highway at the outskirts of your city and flinging the present out your car window in my general direction, wishing it Godspeed, safe journey on its way to me through ice and snow and traffic.
It never made it, thus joining the ranks of all the other things you said you’d send me that never arrived.
Kate and Michelle and I joked about this.
We said, The road to hell. Good intentions. Paved with. Dot dot dot.
We said, In this case, the road to hell is paved with wayward Christmas presents, unmailed postcards, allegedly sent e-mails, and unmade phone calls.
Not to mention that cellphone you never bought (or never called me from if you did buy it) and all those loving thoughts you said you had been sending me by telepathy.
It is July. Where is my present?
I am thinking about how many things there are that if a writer puts them in a story with the right words, the right tone, and the right timing, they are very funny. But in real life, those very same things were devastating.
In the story, these things can make even the writer herself laugh, especially at her own foolishness and gullibility. But in real life, those very same things occasioned excessive tears, obsessive soul-searching, protracted loss of appetite, even more insomniac nights than usual, and an extended case of writer’s block. Not to mention high dudgeon, high anxiety, high horses, too much coffee, and too much smoking.
The day after Christmas I wrote and said, Our festive season here has had its ups and downs so far.
I told you that my friend Michelle’s partner, Adam, had to be rushed to the hospital by ambulance on Christmas morning because he’d suffered a stroke at the breakfast table. It turned out to have been a small one and he was back home now, but it was a stroke nonetheless, and we were all very worried about him.
I told you that two days before Christmas, my friend Lorraine’s little dog had accidentally eaten ant poison and had to be rushed to the vet to have her stomach pumped out. They kept her overnight for observation but now she’s fine.
I told you I’d nearly been rear-ended in a snowstorm on my way to Kate’s house for Christmas dinner. I said, It was a close call!
I said, I do hope the rest of the season will pass without any more unforeseen calamities.
I didn’t mention the Christmas present from you, which I hadn’t yet received. I assumed it would come in a day or two, if not before New Year’s, then shortly after.
You said, Thank you so much for your letter! It was so great to receive!
You made no mention of Michelle or Adam or Lorraine’s little dog, no mention of strokes or poison or close calls.
You made no mention of the present either.
Every day I waited for the mailman. Every day he did not bring me a present.
A month later I said, You told me you were going to send me a Christmas present, but it still hasn’t arrived. I wonder if it’s been lost in the mail?
You did not reply.
It occurs to me now that, while trying to make sense of what I took to be signs engendered in teeny-tiny black-and-white plastic cows, recalcitrant crossword puzzle clues, mislaid playing cards, newspaper horoscopes, fortune cookie sayings, a fox crossing the road, pigeons cooing thirty years ago, I missed all the real signs that were there all along.
What was I thinking?
Stupid stupid stupid.
What is wrong with me that I could so consistently take every little crumb you tossed my way and turn it into a full-fledged cake (a three-tiered wedding cake no less, with butter-cream icing sculpted into curlicues and rosebuds, and a pair of kissing porcelain figurines on the top that looked just like you and me)?
What is wrong with me that every time you gave me an inch, I would take a mile?
What is wrong with me that I could keep believing we would end up together someday despite all mounting evidence to the contrary?
What is wrong with me that the harder you tried to get away from me, the harder I tried to hang on to you?
What is wrong with me that I could allow myself to be so pathetically blinded by love…not by your obviously dwindling love for me, but by my increasingly desperate love for you?
What is wrong with me that I could mistake any of this for love in the first place?
Kate and Michelle are always telling me not to beat myself up over this whole fiasco. They remind me that every single person in the world has been stupid in the name of love at one time or another.
I say, Some of us more than others.
They hug me.
I cry.
They say, Let she who is without stupidity cast the first stone!
They remind me that if love is not exactly blind, then certainly it is a master of magical thinking, a wizard at seeing only what it wants to see, a virtuoso at hearing only what it wants to hear, and an unrivaled genius at revising reality to suit itself.
They hug me again.
I cry some more.
I said, I want and need to know exactly what is going on with you. True to form, I will now ask you some questions and then you, also true to form, probably will not answer them.
True to form, you did not.
I said, I am so tired of being ignored.
You did not reply.
I said, I am so tired of being stonewalled.
You did not reply.
I said, I am so tired of trying to make myself heard and understood in these long anguished letters to which you so seldom reply. What was once a meaningful dialogue has now become a tortured monologue.
You did not reply.
I said, I am so tired of being humiliated by your silence.
You did not reply.
I said, Do you want me to love you or not?
You did not reply.
I am thinking about how here I was in my city, always explaining myself, always examining myself and my feelings and you and your feelings in such excruciating and extended (or should I say “distended”?) detail that Kate and Michelle referred to this as me “getting out my dental tools.”
I am thinking about how here I was in my city, always seeking answers, clarity, certainty, truth. And there you were in your city, always being vague and evasive, slippery and ambiguous, always dodging, deflecting, and dissembling, always equivocating, hedging, and beating around the bush.
In retrospect, I see now that, while here I was in my city being true to my nature, there you were in your city being true to yours.
Long after my patience had rather obviously run out, still you were always thanking me for it.
You said, I thank you so much for your patience, which you have always been so gracious in giving.
(It occurs to me now that perhaps you were being sarcastic. But at the time, I didn’t read it that way, sarcasm being so much more my bailiwick than yours.)
At the time, I said, Thank you. I may not be as patient as you think I am. I’ve never thought of myself as a patient person…but thank you anyway. Now I say: I am not patient. I am not gracious. I have nothing more to give.
I didn’t send you any of the newspaper horoscopes that were the most helpful to me. Instead, I cut them out, taped them into my Day-Timer, and kept them to myself.
MINE: Some people seem to be under the impression that you are easily manipulated, and you must go out of your way to prove them wrong. Don’t worry if you go a bit over the top today—better that than not doing anything at all. Yours is a cardinal sign, which means you should be the one giving the orders.
MINE: Don’t be surprised if someone whose support you thought you could count on disappoints you today. You may be shocked, but the signs have been there for quite some time—you missed them because your relationship blinded you to reality. At least now you know their true colors.
MINE: Fate has a way of bringing the right experience at the right time. If you bear this thought in min
d, you are more likely to make recent events work in your favor. While others are wailing that life is unfair, you will be quietly going about your business in a state of calm, even joyful, acceptance.
MINE: Things are looking up for you. You just need to hang in there a little while longer to ride out the storm that has been brewing. Friends are a continued source of support. Soon you will make the breakthrough in understanding that will transform your life and help you make the most of your potential.
I am thinking about how when someone treats you badly, it makes you feel badly about yourself. Especially if that someone happens to be someone you love, someone who professes to love you too. It makes you doubt yourself. It makes you wonder if maybe somehow you deserve it, or maybe it’s all your fault that things have gone wrong. It makes you obsess about all your own failings and inadequacies, and how you can change yourself to make things right again. It makes you think that if only you could turn yourself into a better person, then he would have to love you the way you love him, and then…eventually…then…finally…then…in the end…you would both be happy.
I am thinking about how often I hated myself for loving you.
I am thinking about how it proved to be a very short leap from thinking, I am crazy about you, to thinking, I am just plain crazy.
Write about something that was stolen.
Write about something that has yet to happen.
Write about something you would do differently.
Write about something you want but cannot have.
Write about something that belongs to someone else.
Write about something you have never done and never will now.
Write about something you have done and are ashamed of.
Every time I ranted and raved at you by e-mail, I’d end up writing back again before you had a chance to reply, writing back again in half an hour, an hour, two, or three, apologizing for my previous e-mail, which, I said, I knew had been overwrought and overly emotional and over the top. Every time, I ended up apologizing for whining, for complaining, for being so cranky, so demanding, so damned difficult.
Then I’d have to write back again a third time to apologize for apologizing.
I said, I wish there was a Take Back button on my computer that was as easy to click on as the Send button. But…alas…there is not.
I said, Perhaps I should have written a light and breezy note instead of admitting that I’m feeling so upset and hurt.
I said, I’m so sorry. My brain is addled…by love, lack of sleep, blocked sinuses, a difficult weekend here, by feeling that you are a million miles away. Plus, when I’m not writing, I do get more than a little squirrelly!
I said, I’m so sorry. Please forgive me for adding to the pressures you are under.
I said, I’m so sorry. I know I was being more than a little self-absorbed.
I said, I’m so sorry. I hope you weren’t offended by what I said.
I said, I’m so sorry. I’m trying so hard, but I’m frustrated.
You said, I could never be offended by anything you say…and I can certainly understand your frustration. Please do not hold back from saying anything to me or communicating as often as you wish. I always welcome your thoughts and your insights. I miss them so much…when there are these reoccur-ring gaps.
You said, Our story has multiple layers and the chapters are still unfolding. You said it was okay for me to be angry. You said I could say anything…absolutely anything…to you, and it would be all right.
You said, In our situation, there is no guidebook to follow, no instruction manual to study.
You said, It is a work-in-progress.
I did not say, Too much work, too little progress.
I said, I am sorry. About everything.
I said, I am so emotional, also obsessive, neurotic, anxious, overly sensitive, easily hurt, easily upset, sometimes nasty and bitchy, and, at the moment, very depressed. I am now trying another kind of medication which I hope will work better than the last one.
I said, We are so different. How can we possibly be soul mates?
Two weeks went by. Two long, sad, infuriating weeks in which you did not reply.
Finally, you did.
Finally, you said, I was just now able to open your last letter.
Finally, you said, Please don’t be so hard on yourself.
You said, We will be okay if we keep our expectations in perspective.
I said, Then tell me exactly what you expect from me.
You did not reply.
I said, What do you want from me now?
You did not reply.
I said, I think in many ways we have both been indulging in an excess of self-delusion.
You said, Work here has been interesting and intense…
I said, Over the past year and a half, there have been so many things I’ve had to accept about this situation, whether I liked it or not. But the one thing I cannot accept is feeling that you aren’t being straight with me, that you’re withholding your feelings, your honest emotions, your own true self.
I said, I can only know what you tell me.
You said I should not expect you to be forthcoming about anything that was going on there.
Once you said you didn’t like the idea of me talking about you to my friends. All men say this. All women do it.
As time went on, some of my friends got tired of this topic. They stopped asking about you, and they implied that I was wallowing in my own misery. They were understandably impatient with me. They suggested a new man, a new project, a new hobby, a new haircut. They suggested therapy.
But, wallowing or not, Kate and Michelle stuck with me no matter how long or how often I went on and on about you. They were always supportive and they never seemed to grow tired of my interminable obsession with dissecting the disintegration of our relationship. I apologized to both of them for my single-minded preoccupation. I said I knew I was a one-trick pony these days. They laughed and agreed, and then we talked about you some more.
The more questions you did not answer, the more hours I logged on the phone with them, the three of us trying to answer the questions ourselves. It was relationship by committee. It was all speculation, and we could do it for hours and hours.
This took so much longer than it would have if only you had just answered the questions yourself.
We are all three of us big phone talkers. We are all three of us writers and very fond of words. We were all three of us frustrated and fit to be tied. We could not for the life of us follow this approach/avoidance dance you were performing. We took to punctuating our lengthy discussions about you with the words “dot dot dot,” invariably followed by outraged uproarious laughter.
We called you “The Artful Dodger” and we were collectively mad at you most of the time.
In the early days, Kate often said, Keep steadily on.
I thought this was a wise and lyrical piece of advice, so I took it as my new mantra. Each night when I went to bed alone, I chanted this phrase to myself in a concerted effort to erase and replace those other phrases that usually circled through my head in an endless loop: “I love you…I miss you…I am so afraid…”
I liked Kate’s phrase so much that I shared it with you.
You said, Yes, that is a perfect phrase! Beautiful…brilliant!
But then you never could get it straight. Every time you tried to say it to me, it came out wrong.
You said, Remember, we must keep moving steadily forward…
You said, Yes, we must keep going onward…
You said, No matter what happens, we must push on.
For a while, Kate was more patient with you than I was. She advised me to bide my time. She said, It will all come clear in the end. It will all work out sooner or later. Just remember: you’re a “sooner” kind of girl and he’s a “later” kind of guy.
Frequently, Michelle said, For FUCK’S sake!!!!!!!!
Her profane vigor was contagious. Soon enough we wer
e all swearing at you.
Later: Michelle said, I think he’s a fucking psychopath!
By this time, not only was I talking to Michelle and Kate about you for hours on the phone, but I’d also started reading your e-mails aloud to both of them. Sometimes I just forwarded your messages to them directly, and then, in true writerly fashion, we would deconstruct them word by word later on.
If it bothered you to think I was talking to them about you, I could just imagine how upset you’d be if you knew I was sending them your e-mails too. It gave me great pleasure to contemplate your distress.
Equally, if not more, pleasurable was our three-way elaboration of my revenge fantasy of traveling to your city and appearing unannounced in your office. I would wear my tightest skirt and a skimpy top and my fancy-dancy high-heeled boots.
Michelle suggested this would be better executed while naked.
Kate said, Naked, yes, but keep the boots.
I would tiptoe through the maze of gray cubicles until I found you.
I imagined that you would be sitting at your computer with your back to me and I would stand there silently until you felt my eyes boring into the back of your head and then you would turn around and there I’d be in all my splendor with a grin on my face, one hand on my hip, and the other brandishing a sheaf of unanswered e-mails.
Kate said, A fistful of condoms.
Michelle said, A hand grenade.
Kate suggested it might be more fun to stage my arrival when you were in yet another important meeting surrounded by your colleagues, your clients, and your boss.
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