True Story

by Kate Reed Petty

  On Tuesday, woke up early. Knew I had to move. Was seized by energy. Realized I would sink if I didn’t move. Up and dressed and walking out. Q just waking up. Let me make you eggs, he said. But I had a call from the temp agency and I wanted to go. I’ll grab something on the way, I said, I have to go get clothes from my apartment, you didn’t bring me any work clothes. Kissed him and left. Wore pajama pants on the subway home. Stepped into the apartment and the smell of chemicals. Q had scrubbed the floor for me, taken out the trash with the paper bag and my ruined clothes. Moved quickly, trying not to think about Khloé. Packed up a duffel bag’s worth of proper clothes and went to shred boxes of paper for a law firm.

  In the break room, someone suggested I just get a new cat. Something inside me burst, and an essay poured out. I stayed up late writing. An old idea, rolling around between “Bluebeard” and Le Bonheur and The Mist, stories that say women are interchangeable. Coined a new phrase for it: the Rebecca Trope. Fuck the trolls, I thought. You’re going to hate this. Finished the piece at midnight. Next morning my editor wrote back: This is great. No edits. Hit Publish, and the piece spread. Felt like my first real success.

  But you’re not interchangeable, Q said. There’s no one for me but you.

  There was a palpable change in my work after that piece. I did a couple of podcasts. Was quoted in a local paper. I started going to a coffee shop every evening to write until late, suddenly editors were responding to my pitches. Without Khloé to feed, I worked long hours, ran on bursts of adrenaline fueled by the frenetic panic that I would miss this window of opportunity. I wrote until I was exhausted and then dragged myself to Q’s apartment. Basically lived there; went back to my apartment only to leave a rent check downstairs or grab things I needed. Walked through the rooms quickly, holding my breath against the lingering smell of cleaning supplies, focusing my eyes away from memories of Khloé. The rest of the time I lay on Q’s couch and let him rub my feet and fell asleep, dragged myself into bed, then got up early and watched the sun rise, writing at his kitchen table until it was time to go somewhere and temp. Q was so supportive. Wanted me to work less, to take better care of myself, but was happy that I was at his place most nights. So happy that you love me, he said, all the time.

  Don’t remember the first time I got sick. Once, I stayed home with a stomach flu. Once with food poisoning. Later, left a movie halfway through to vomit but felt better after. At first it seemed like a string of bad luck. Then it seemed like I was getting sick a lot. Then I was sick. Wrote down everything I ate, looking for patterns. Gave up gluten, then dairy, then sugar, then all three. Started going back to the apartment one or two nights a week to give Q a break. Was afraid of leaning on him too hard and scaring him away. Stayed home from work three days in a row. Low fever, aching body. Q found out on the second day. Skipped his classes and came to take care of me. Brought me back to his apartment on the third day. Made myself go to work on the fourth, but was tired, unfocused. Left early, got to my apartment, found Q there on the couch waiting for me. You look awful, he said, leaping up to take my bag, handing me a cup of tea.

  A strange bad dream started around then. That Q’s skin was sticky. Not sticky like honey or sweat but like cling wrap. Or like that plastic film that comes on a brand-new computer screen. The kind you have to get a fingernail under the corner to peel up. Waking up in the middle of the night, my face on his chest and my arm across his stomach and my leg across his legs, I was stuck to him like that plastic, I had to peel myself off, starting with a fingertip. Felt awake the whole time. And it was hard to get back to sleep after. I looked online until I found “sleep paralysis” and it seemed close enough, decided that was it. A manifestation of my fear of commitment. Decided I would get over it. Which is to say that I decided it was a problem with me.

  I slowed down with the writing. A month went by without anything published but I told myself that was all right. Saw Q more. The heart grew fonder. Went to dinner when we could, saw movies we’d been meaning to see for years, drank bottles of wine and spent Saturday mornings in bed. Drove upstate on a fall Sunday for a hike. Felt that this was it: An adult relationship. A partner. Steady and reliable but also sexy and thrilling. The thing that would allow me to stop putting so much effort into dating and finally focus on what I was writing, my career, the things I cared about. Felt lucky that it had happened just when I needed it most. Felt like I was on the cusp of a real career. And not a moment too soon. I remember the week The New Yorker ran a short preview of your first film, Haley, and I was terrified that no matter what I did, it wouldn’t be enough—that you would outgrow me, not least because I had refused (again) to tell my story as part of your film. Was so glad my career was taking off (despite the current dry spell, which I thought was temporary). Or maybe it was the other way around; maybe my writing was taking off because Q had made the space for it to happen.

  Then one day my fever was 102 and my health insurance was shitty. I’d had the flu before. Didn’t think I needed the emergency room. Just thought I needed to sleep it off. Haley, you had something you wanted to talk to me about, and I rescheduled dinner twice. You were so understanding. But go to a fucking doctor!!!! you wrote.

  Q took me. He hypothesized that I was just overworked. The doctor wasn’t so sure, wanted to do a bunch of tests. Somehow a fight started. I was delirious, couldn’t follow what was happening. We were leaving. Q told me he would take me to NYU for a better doctor the next day. The next day I felt a little better, and my health insurance was still shitty. I worried about the bill we’d already run up. They never told you what you were going to have to pay until two months later. We decided it was a passing flu. Still not well enough to go to work. Turned down temp work so often they stopped calling. Seven days late on a piece I’d promised an editor, then eight. I called to explain. Found that I couldn’t. Q thinks it could be chronic fatigue, I said, lamely. Because I worked too hard. Don’t worry about it, the editor said. I didn’t know what to do, was upset and scared. I started crying, hung up the phone. Was so embarrassed. I’ll spend this time writing, I thought. I’ll write something so good it will make up for it being late.

  I couldn’t believe Q was staying with me even as I turned into a puddle of sleepy drool wearing an old sweatshirt on his couch. I’ll understand if you leave me, I told him. Shh, I love you, he said.

  I kept trying to write and failing. It was too hard. I would sit on the couch with a cup of tea and a blank Word document and I would feel my mind go fuzzy; I’d start looking at the internet; then hours would pass. Kept saving blank Word documents marked with new dates. Didn’t want to give up on that piece. Went to a couple more doctors, but they never seemed to have answers, just ideas for expensive tests. And I never got worse. And the couple of tests I did, early on, were inconclusive. Seemed like a waste of money. Tried fish oil. Tried acupuncture. Mostly slept.

  The first time my parents came to visit they were worried. My mom had made doctors’ appointments, friends of people she knew, and she was ready to pay. My dad had brought three weeks’ worth of casseroles he’d had deep-frozen. I insisted that I was fine. It was the stress of my writing career, I said, I just needed to rest. They looked at Q, hoping against hope. He met their expectations: told them it was a pleasure taking care of me. Plus, I needed to stay in New York so I could keep writing, I said. This was in the second or third month, when I was still trying to write.

  Haley, I know you tried to visit, too. And that Q turned you away. That you sent me emails—Q read them to me, and I dictated a response. But now I wonder: What did he actually write you? Why did you stop writing back?

  I was so grateful to Q. He took care of my apartment. Went over and got the things I needed, packed up everything else. Paid for storage. Put the apartment on the internet and found a subletter. Suddenly, without my having to do anything, we lived together. Realized this on a Thursday evening after he had gone to pick up the subletter’s check. I sign
ed the check over to him. My half of the rent, I said, and then, This means we live together. Wanted to celebrate. Wanted to buy a bottle of champagne. Instead, he got a can of ginger ale out of the fridge, brought it back in two matching wineglasses. To us, I said. To us, he said.

  My parents came again. They were more insistent this time. But so was Q. They liked him. They had never liked anyone I dated. Q was rich and intelligent. Nearing a PhD. Attentive and kind and brought me everything I needed, they watched it happen. I just need to build my strength back up slowly, I said. They really wanted me to come home with them, just for a little while. To give Q a break. Looking back, that was my last chance to get away. Q could not have fended off my mother. I was the one who did it. Told her I did not want to leave. The truth is that I felt that if I left New York I would be failing. Convinced myself that I would recover. Sent my parents away. Promised to recover quickly. Bargained for one more month. If I’m still sick this time next month, I promised, I will come home for a while.

  Maybe there was also a part of me that always wanted to give up. Be cared for. Lie on the couch, disappear, be loved.

  A little less than a month later, Q finished the last of his coursework and TA responsibilities. Time to write his thesis. I can be home with you more now, he said. Late afternoon, drifting up from a nap, smiled at him, told him how proud I was. We need to move, he said, I need more space, if I’m going to write at home. The apartment had only two rooms, not counting the tiny bathroom. He’d found a bigger space in Park Slope, a beautiful renovated condo on a top floor overlooking the park, with an office space and a big bay window. We moved the same day he told me. I remember the movers arrived while I was still asking questions. Q took me to a hotel, so the fuss wouldn’t disturb me. Bundled me up and drove me there. Ordered room service. Sat in bed together. Talked about his fears about his thesis, about his ambitions and what he would write. Dozed off and on. Had quiet sex. That night he asked me to marry him. Gave me a big, beautiful ring.

  I never told you we were engaged, Haley. I never told anyone. It never seemed like the right time. And I was so tired.

  The new apartment had nice light, a nice cream color on the walls, a nice view of the park. No windows that opened (we were on the seventh floor, I think) or internet (so that Q could write without distraction). A parking spot in the basement close to the elevator. Q promised to drive me to the library when I needed to get online. I accepted, even though I knew that I would never go to the library. Hadn’t even touched my laptop in two months by then. Didn’t even know where it had been packed during the move. Q brought me mystery novels to read, we watched movies. I had nothing to write. Nothing to say. The days passed.

  On our first night in the new place I dreamed that he was drawing my blood. How did you learn that? I asked him, not seeing anything wrong with him drawing my blood, just amazed at the hidden skill. I’ve been drawing your blood for months, he said, for your tests, and he put a Band-Aid over the cotton on the blood spot. Had that dream for months and months. And another one: Getting up for the bathroom and he followed me, for a urine sample. For your tests, he said. I sat, shaky, on the toilet, and lay my arms around his neck and my head on his shoulder and peed into the cup he was holding. Every morning, I woke up to him bringing me a cup of tea. There was no Band-Aid on my arm and I had to pee, same as always. I’m going crazy, I said. Shh, Q said, I love you.

  Adored that apartment in the morning. Drank tea and curled up in the seat by the window and looked down at the park, where people were moving slowly. Like looking out the window of an airplane. Felt very much like I was in an airplane most of the time, a peaceful state. Patient. Floating. Began to recognize the same people in the park. Couldn’t see their faces, recognized them by the color of their coats and strollers, or the way they walked. Or recognized them by their habitual configurations. Two cautious hunched people linking arms (elderly couple), or the person pushing the wheelchair (home health aide and patient), or the fast-moving large stroller (jogging mother). Was myself the curled-up thing in the window, barely moving, napping in the sun, like a cat.

  Q’s writing was going well. He sat in the office for steady hours, plowing away. Stacked books on his desk and taped notes to the wall in front of him. Came out every three hours on the dot, woke me up if I had fallen asleep, made me something to eat or drink. I’m sorry you have to take care of me, I said. You’re taking care of me, he said, you’re making sure I don’t grow moss sitting at my desk. After a full day, nine hours and three breaks, he stopped and sat with me on the couch, rubbing my feet, while we watched movies and ate takeout.

  Some impossibly large chunk of time passed. The elderly couple disappeared, perhaps died. The jogging mother bundled her stroller up in something white and puffy, like a cloud. The trees lost their leaves, I watched snow and rain. New couples appeared. The trees fuzzed over in new green buds. I hadn’t spoken to you, or anyone, since summer. I hadn’t been on the internet or spoken on the phone. Was amazed at how the time had passed. If you’re sick for a day, it feels like a year. If you’re sick for a year, it feels like a day. Every morning, I woke up telling myself I would call my mother. Kept planning to call you, too, Haley. Every afternoon I was too tired to follow through. Then I decided it had been too long. Knew that you were angry, that my mother was angry, that everyone was angry with me. Knew I had betrayed everyone. Knew I had lost your love by denying your help. It was easier just to wait another day. At least I had Q, told myself.

  Can’t pinpoint the moment when I understood. It was around the time the sticky dream returned. Occasional at first, then more frequent. Waking up with my skin stuck to his. Got stickier and stickier. By the time the trees were fully green again, it wasn’t stickiness anymore, it was tiny burs, hooks like Velcro, and as I sat up peeling first my fingers, then my hand, then my arm from his chest, I watched a million tiny pinpricks of blood appear, in an even grid pattern. Next I would have to peel off my face. I did it fast, a burning streak like hot wax on my cheek. Then he stirred in his sleep and sighed and rolled over, spooning me, and I felt the million burs plunge into my back and shoulder. I fell asleep like fainting, heavy theater curtains. Woke up to him sitting on the side of the bed with my breakfast. I’m going crazy, I would say to him. Shh, I love you, he would say back.

  In the evenings he would read to me from a page he had written, his thesis. I sat up on the couch with the gray wool blanket pulled around my chin and tried to follow. My thoughts were slow, tired. What he wrote always sounded good. His main point was that an idea is neither good nor bad inherently. An idea is like a word, accruing meaning through application. My focus drifted. He was sitting next to me, holding the pages with his left hand. His right arm was across the back of the couch, his thumb stroking the back of my neck. Remembered the way he had rubbed my hand during our first shared coffee, and I thought—not for the first time—how lucky I was to have such a devoted and caring man to be with during this strange, long flu. Listened to him reading. Tried to stay awake. Head so heavy. Leaned to the side, rested my head on his arm. And then I noticed that there was no longer any hair on his arm. It was totally smooth. But when I tried to lift my head, I felt the friction and then the tug of the million tiny burs. It was the first time I had the sticky dream while I was for sure awake. My face was stuck to his arm. I ripped myself away and felt my cheek sting, touched it and my fingertips came away bloody. I looked at him and saw that he had no eyebrows, no hair on his arms. Alice, what’s wrong, you look crazy, he said. He had no hair at all, it made his eyes look wide, his bald head huge. Let me get you something, he said. He got up and turned the corner into the kitchen, and I sat and watched the place where he had been. Realized that he had been the only one helping me, the only person I had seen for six months.

  And maybe—the next idea occurred in a slow fog. Like a conductor on a train had announced my station when I was not paying attention. Searching for what my subconscious had heard a
nd stored away for me to hear later—maybe he was not actually helping.

  And why was I there if he wasn’t helping? But I really was sick. So what was wrong with me, if this wasn’t help? Didn’t even know what was wrong. Again, the train conductor announced something but I missed it. Closed my eyes. Breathed. Heard him come into the room. Took a deep breath and opened again. Looked at him. Had eyebrows and hair. Was not a monster. Was carrying a cup of tea and a plate of buttered toast. Relax a bit, he said. I’m going crazy, I said. Shh, I love you, he said.

  I didn’t touch the tea or toast. Aren’t you hungry? he asked, and then said, You need to relax. Pretended I didn’t hear him. Pretended to fall asleep. He sat beside me, stroked my hip with his thumb. For hours we sat like that. Pretending to be asleep. Watching me pretend.

  It was so strange not to be asleep. Was easy to pretend, didn’t get bored, because I was so amazed at the feeling of being awake. How long had it been since I had been awake for more than a couple of hours? Then at some point, in the dark, he said, I know you’re not asleep. Didn’t open my eyes. I’m nauseous, I said, I just don’t want to move. The word is “nauseated,” he said, if you’re nauseous, you cause nausea. Didn’t say anything else. Continued to sit and watch me.

  Sat like that all night. Didn’t move. Didn’t move. Head cleared, felt myself able to think again. Had not had any of the tea or toast he brought me—maybe, the train conductor said, you are allergic to toast or tea. Later, as the morning opened up, a horrible headache knocked suddenly between my eyes and then rushed around my brain, and it hurt like hell. It was nauseous, I thought. It made me nauseated. Repeated those words like a mantra for what felt like a year, but was maybe only a minute. Was nauseous; made me nauseated. Kept my eyes closed and tried to bear it. Q didn’t speak.