by Jessica Fox
He hung up the phone.
I called back, and back and back.
Chapter 42
“It is easy to go down into Hell; night and day, the gates of dark Death stand wide; but to climb back again, to retrace one’s steps to the upper air – there’s the rub, the task.” – Virgil, AENEID, BOOK VI LINE 126: Classics section, up the stairs on right, third bookshelf.
In the movies, this part of the story would have a charming montage sequence. I would jog, get into shape, transform my life and premiere my animation, all to a fabulous soundtrack. I would forget about Euan, whether he was coming or not, and get my own life together. Once everything was perfectly in place, and I felt whole in myself, Euan would come, just as he promised, and reveal some gross misunderstanding that made all of his actions look noble in hindsight.
The truth was a lot less romantic.
Later that evening, at my parents’ house, I locked myself in my room. I had run out of couches to surf and landed, beached and weary, back on my childhood bed. I could hear my mom watching TV downstairs, and the clinking of dishes as my father washed up from dinner.
My stomach flipped. I thought I’d be sick, and braced myself, looking around the room for something to throw up in. All I managed to grab was my niece’s toy pail with a small red shovel clinking inside. Shpilkus, as if buried but not forgotten these past months, suddenly flooded my body, as painful as if I were actually sitting on pins. I didn’t know what to do with myself. My mind was stuck on one uncomfortable loop: Euan had been seeing other people. He had forgotten about me and I had made it happen.
That afternoon, during my production meeting with Will, I had been in another world. There was nothing I could do about the impending car crash of my life and my mind had disengaged. Will had introduced me to a new intern who had volunteered to work on the animation, and though I had smiled, all I had wanted to do was sleep. While I had been heartbroken, living in my parents’ house, my life had been on a constant pause button and I had patiently waited in emotional purgatory for Euan to make up his mind. Now, it had become clear that Euan, instead of pining after me, had been living it up, happy and single, and I no longer felt as if I was waiting for anything. I was no longer on pause.
It started with me throwing my computer off my bed, which landed with a satisfying crack on the floor. The sound made me feel better, awake and alive. I took a jar of marbles and dumped them over the wooden floorboards, exalting in the roar as they bounced in chaotic directions. I was thirsty for more release, so I began to break things.
My parents stood outside my room, facing “Jessica’s Parking” sign immobile with worry, calling gently through the door. I was outside my body, watching myself act like a mini-tornado, throwing precious objects off shelves and chucking toys, the innocent bystanders to this scene, across the room. I could feel my insides ripping in two; it was painful but liberating too. How did I let myself get into such a state? I had been such a strong, together woman. How had my whole life suddenly become a mess, and over a man? As I caught sight of myself in the mirror, sobbing onto my childhood bedroom floor, the words of Robert McKee, the screenplay doctor, came to mind: I hit the negation of the negation. Rock-bottom.
Once the wave of Kali-inspired chaos subsided, I crawled into bed, empty, purged. Though I had destroyed the room, at least I was affecting the world around me again; I was making things happen. Feelings, I told myself, were as unique as snowflakes. I had glimpsed the bleakness of self-imposed annihilation in the break-up from Grant, and I had comforted myself that I would never have to, nor be able to have that exact same experience twice. I had got that type of sorrow out of the way and, though this was painful, it was different. I no longer felt like disappearing, nor dying from heartache. I felt raw, shaken and hurt, but also alive – as if I had been in a trance and suddenly woken up. Antonio Porchia, an Italian poet, once said that you mourn the loss of a thing until you lose it altogether. Perhaps that’s why, with one great outburst, I no longer felt in despair.
It was then that I noticed the sweet, concerned voices of my parents leaking into the room. Shame rose as high as my cheeks, turning them red.
“Are you all right honey?” My mom tapped on the door.
My father’s voice was louder, more anxious. “Jessica, are you okay? Open the door.”
“I’m fine. I’m fine.”
“Are you sure?” my father asked, not moving an inch.
“Yes, I’m absolutely peachy. Now please leave me alone.”
As my parents’ footsteps obediently disappeared down the hall, I could only imagine what they were thinking. I was acting like a fourteen-year-old – worse, in fact, than I had at that age – but the truth was, a tiny part of me had begun to feel fabulous again.
Chapter 43
“A woman who thinks that only women can be worthy is like a bird with a broken wing.” – Sarah Grand, THE HEAVENLY TWINS: Fiction section, front room in paperbacks.
Mending is a satisfying activity. On the days that followed, I cleaned my room, piecing together the wreckage so that, by the time I was done, little remained of the prior emotional chaos. This time I had not only looked into but fallen into the depths of my emotional abyss and come out, if not with my hair ruffled and tempest tossed, stronger for the descent. I had hit the bottom and was now inching my way back out, fearless.
Two days before Euan was supposed to arrive on my doorstep, instead of wallowing in despair, I felt elated. I spent time with my parents, assuring them of my wellbeing. I even travelled out to see my sister and her family, something I had been too depressed to do before. I tried to go to coffee shops like I used to do in Los Angeles, giving myself time to dream and write. Slowly, I felt energy pouring back in, and like a sponge, I thirstily soaked up the chance to feel fuller, more myself again.
On the evening before Euan was supposed to arrive, I called. It was time to end this ridiculous experiment.
“So any chance you have your ticket?” I said.
“No.”
There was silence on the phone. So that was that. The long wait and the muddy indecision were over. I would be staying in Boston. My heart heaved, hurting, and I watched it closely. Where it once would have broken, it remained intact, stretched but untorn.
I exhaled deeply and could feel my breath streaming out of my lips. I surprised myself by how quickly I adjusted to the idea of not seeing Euan again. I was calm. “You’re not coming, then. That’s okay.”
Euan sighed. “I still don’t know.”
“How can you not know? You have to be at the airport in less than 24 hours.”
“I know, I know. I just… don’t know.” His dithering had reached surreal proportions. I hung up the phone.
*
Some psychologists would say that sleep is like a mini-death. Delving into the unconscious blackness, each night we fall asleep and not only do our minds reboot but our cells die and are reborn. On waking, like the sun at dawn, we are resurrected. We do this phoenix cycle every day, every 24 hours, and each time is a ritual, fuelling the potential for transformation. Or, as Anne of Green Gables’ teacher Mrs. Stacy said, “Tomorrow is always fresh, with no mistakes in it.”
In the morning light, I stretched on my bed, feeling rested, refreshed and light. I was warm under my childhood blankets, as Kate Winslet looked down at me from the poster on the wall. She was phenomenally brilliant. Only a couple of years younger than she, I’d look at that poster as if it were a carrot before a horse, Kate’s expression asking me, “All right, director, what amazing thing are you going to make?”
Even as my mind became more alert and conscious of the previous day’s events, I found the sense of levity continued. This was a new beginning, and as I slid out of bed, I was oddly energetic. Even if I was sad and heartbroken, being in control of my own destiny was far more liberating. I was surprised by my sense of relief. There was a bold world of possibilities out there.
My phone rang. I stumbled over to the corner of t
he room where it lay in a pile of clothes. I looked at the number and my heart sank. It was Euan.
“Hi,” I said, my morning voice scratchy and quiet.
He laughed. “Did I wake you up?”
“No, I was just on my way to becoming vertical.”
“Well, Fox” – Euan laughed again, this time nervously – “What I wanted to know was, does it still count if I’m a day late?”
“No, it doesn’t,” I said and hung up the phone.
Chapter 44
“All over the sky a sacred voice is calling your name.” – John G. Neihardt, BLACK ELK SPEAKS: Biography section, across from the fireplace.
Standing outside my parents’ house, I stretched my limbs. I had just finished a run and stood, sweat streaming down my brow, with my back to the sun. Spring was in full swell around me, and I looked at the green trees and manicured lawns, wondering what Wigtown would be like now. I imagined the mountains to be green and lush, and flowers blooming in the hanging baskets outside the Bookshop. There would be more people in the streets, the town would be buzzing like the bees which flew from flower to flower in the square. I wondered if any of them asked about me, or noticed I had gone.
Perhaps I had been audacious on the phone with Euan but I had meant what I said. A promise was a promise and if he wasn’t so much of a ditherer, he would have made it to my doorstep on time. That was the whole point. I let the stream of feelings wash over me as I soaked in the day’s warmth like a cat on a hot rock, lazily arching my back as I relaxed.
A bright-yellow cab pulled onto the street and my heart fluttered. This wasn’t happening. Euan had tricked me, the monkey, and he had actually kept his word. My heart thudded in my ears but I watched in disappointment as the cab passed by and disappeared down the road.
My head shook and fell into my heads. I was hopeless. Why, after all that I had been through, did I still think it would be Euan, arriving at my doorstep? The singer Feist, whose album The Reminder had been like an anthem album for me in Los Angeles, has a song about a woman walking through the park and thinking she has seen her lover: “It’s not him coming across the seas to surprise you/Not him who would know where in London to find you…”
I felt the truth of that sink in. Like Feist’s lyrics, I wasn’t sure Euan even knew where in Lexington my parents lived. The final lines of the song chimed in my ears and I felt sad, defeated: “…what makes you think your boy could become/The man who would make you sure he was the one.”
The energy from the day’s run was wearing off and I could no longer feel the endorphins pumping through my veins. Love intertwined with optimism is a powerful union, almost religious in its tenacity, and difficult to separate. We don’t let go easily of hope, but the time had come for me to do so. What was done was done, and Euan, my knight, was not coming. Now the princess had to get down from her ivory tower and get her life together.
As I headed up the stairs back to the house, I focused on the plans for that afternoon: looking at two apartments in Boston. With each step I tried to get excited, and a little murmur of anticipation fluttered in my heart, but nothing more. It didn’t matter.
Suddenly, a blur of yellow caught my eye. I turned around to see the cab reversing back down the road and it stopped suddenly, right where I had been standing. Perhaps the people inside were lost or needed directions, I thought gloomily, so I climbed back down the stairs. As I came closer, one of the passenger doors opened, and a tall, ginger-haired man dressed in corduroys, a jacket and glasses stepped out and stood looking at me on my parents’ driveway.
Chapter 45
“No more secrets, no more mysteries, no more adventure. And this, above all else, becomes the real curse of living happily ever after.” – Maria Tatar, BLUEBEARD: Children’s section, bottom shelf under children’s literature.
In the hotel room, Euan and I faced each other.
We were in one of the most expensive hotels in Boston, filled with travelling businessmen in designer suits and equally upmarket furniture; the ambience was a bit over the top for our first reunion but it was all I could find last minute. It didn’t matter. He was here. With time zones on his side, Euan had gained five hours flying over the Atlantic and made it on the day he had promised, on time.
I stood there awkwardly. “I can’t believe you came.”
“I can’t believe you said a day late wouldn’t count.”
“I can’t believe how much you dither.” I smiled weakly. We kissed and I felt my heart expand. I quickly pulled away, unable to give myself into the feeling. “If we are really going to try this again you are never, ever to dither about me again. Ever.”
“Okay, okay, I get it.” He flopped on to the immaculate bed, covered in a plethora of silk pillows.
Watching him lie there, I felt guilty. I couldn’t imagine what time he would have had to get up in order to make it for the early flight. The airport was hours away from Wigtown, along mainly one-track roads through the mountains. It would have been dark, and cold.
Long ago, when Euan and I had started living together, his lack of verbal affection had unnerved me. There had been a tightness to his language that was in direct contrast to his relaxed state of being, his warm, playful manner and his informal, often paint-covered, attire. His had been the art of teasing, not the art of compliments, and on one particular evening, I had had enough: “I would really like more positive verbal reinforcement,” I had said, trying to be clear and unemotional.
Euan had burst out laughing.
“What? What did I say?”
“Positive Verbal Reinforcement? Jessy, who says that?” Euan had come over and wrapped me in his arms affectionately. “You know I think you’re beautiful. You don’t need me to say it.”
“Yes, I do.” I knew he had been right, but suspected it was laziness, rather than an intimate knowledge of my psyche, that had led him to that conclusion. “Compliments are important, I compliment you all the time.”
“I know,” he said, sighing. “It’s not very British.”
Now, in this bizarre businessmen’s hotel room, I felt the lack of exuberance like a void in the air between us. Having been apart for nearly two months, I felt out of practice in his company, and my sea legs were getting used to his manner again.
“You’re happy to see me, aren’t you?” I said and curled up next to him. I knew I was fishing for an implied truth but at that moment I needed to hear some Positive Verbal Reinforcement.
“Of course. I’m more than happy, in fact.” He eyed me curiously. “Are you happy to see me?”
“Yes, of course I am,” I said, unsure. Euan being there meant that things were less straightforward; and my feelings too were muddled ag ain – where before I had felt calm, now I was a little scared.
*
I stayed awake long after Euan had fallen into a deep, jet-lagged sleep. I wondered if he had noticed my weight loss, or, on seeing me, whether he was regretting everything and was questioning whether the whole ordeal had been worth it. My attention should have been on my own feelings, which were flip-flopping like a politician. If I followed a feeling, it only led to another contrasting feeling, like a massive, well-knotted ball of string.
I heard Euan’s deep voice next to me. “Uh oh, I know that Fox look.” I turned to find him awake, and looking at me with intense interest. “There’s steam coming out of your ears and I can see the gears grinding away.” His finger circled my temple.
I batted his hand away.
Euan propped his head up in his hand. “Come on, out with it, Jessy. And don’t tell me there is nothing wrong, I know you.”
This irritated me. He did know me. It was dawn outside and the room was still dark. “I am happy to see you, Euan,” I said. “But, I guess I’m just a bit confused.”
“Might we say you’re dithering?” Euan sounded almost pleased.
“Well yes, actually.”
“Jessy, I don’t want you to feel any pressure to come back with me because I’m here.”
Euan was showing me more wisdom and patience than I had to him, and I felt ashamed. “I would have come to see you either way,” he continued. “You are the love of my life, Jessy. You take all the time to decide what you want.”
Somewhere, deep inside me, a fortress of feelings relaxed. The constant chatter of my thoughts drained away and for the first time I heard Euan with perfect clarity. I felt free and strong and loved. Suddenly, there was nothing to decide.
*
Euan had given himself five days off from the Bookshop and we toured the city, doing things I never would have done as a resident. Boston is an unexpected treat if you’re a tourist. We went on the Boston Duck, a refurbished aquatic vehicle dating from World War II which now housed not troops but tourists, taking them easily from road to water and guiding them through the city’s history. After touring the streets, we plunged into the Charles River, boating between Boston and Cambridge.
Euan was thrilled to go to Cheers where a half-drunk Bostonian asked why, if he was Scottish, he didn’t speak like Braveheart. I was mortified, having worked so hard to prove that Americans were more culturally savvy than their reputation, but Euan shrugged it off, enjoying his pint of Sam Adams.
We then visited the site of the Boston Tea Party and had a liberty tour, during which Euan kept on referring to the American War of Independence as a “skirmish”. He’d studied American history at school, but seemed unfamiliar with our version of events on this side of the Atlantic. He feigned shock when the tour guide told the story of the night tea had been thrown overboard in Boston harbour.
Euan whispered in my ear, “It explains why you lot are crazy.”
“Taxation without representation.” I retorted, looking at him indignantly.
“It better not have been Lady Grey tea.”