Love, Carry My Bags

by Everett, C. R.

  “It was just bad timing,” Glenn said, denying his own disappointment.

  CHAPTER 25

  “The human heart dares not stay away too long from that which hurt it most. There is a return journey to anguish that few of us are released from making.”

  —Lillian Smith

  Dear Camryn,

  Bet you didn’t expect to hear from me. How have you been? I hope well. I have always considered you one of the most influential people in my life and I wanted you to know how much that has meant to me. I wanted you to know what has been going through my mind all these years.

  I’ve been living with my father in Harvard since 1992. He asked me to come home from college because he needed help. I didn’t want to, but felt I had no choice since I was the only one left. Ryan passed away from Lou Gehrig’s disease in 1991. It was hard on all of us, but especially my dad. He never recovered from the divorce and then Ryan’s death really sent him over the edge, drinking to oblivion, nearly killing himself. I thought I was coming here just for the summer, so I left school and came back to help. When I arrived, I found out that Dad was losing the house. His credit was shot and I had to stay and sign for an apartment. I’ve been stuck ever since. I feel like I have wasted ten years of my life. He has not done anything to make his life better. He can’t even hold a job. Dad just sits around complaining about how bad his life is.

  I haven’t been doing much. Eat, breathe, sleep. I’ve been depressed and let myself go—eighty pounds overweight. I work on an assembly line in Rockford. It sucks, but it pays the bills. They want me to move up into management, finish my degree.

  I wanted so much to get in touch with you after I got out of the Air Force, but I was messed up. My parents’ divorce and Ryan’s diagnosis of ALS really did a number on my head. No one knows how bad it was. My life was going nowhere but down and I didn’t want to take you with me. I wanted only the best for you and I was afraid I would interfere in that. Please don’t think it was anything you said or did or that I didn’t care. It was all my fault. I wouldn’t blame you if you never spoke to me again. I let the most important person in my life slip away and I have regretted that decision ever since. It took a very long time before I ever got close to anyone again and I find that I always compare them to you, and in most ways they don’t compare. They never seem to work out. I try to be kind and generous, but I always seem to get dumped. There’s more, but I didn’t write to burden you with my problems.

  I heard that you had a baby. I hope that you are happy and have a husband who thinks you are as wonderful as I always have. I wish you only the best.

  Do you ever think of me? I think of you often—only good thoughts. I want you to know that I will always love you and the times we shared. Those were wonderful times for me. I hope to hear from you soon.

  Love ya,

  Reese

  P.S. Have you been on HighSchool.com? There are a lot of people you know. You should check it out.

  After receiving the e-mail, I sat, paralyzed, at my desk. Time wasn’t the only thing that stood still. It was the detonation of an emotional A-bomb; I was living in the surreal moment, experiencing the slow motion, re-run blast. A mushroom cloud of suppressed unfinished business rose to the stratosphere and began to spread, creating fallout and residual baggage for years to come: the half-life of which was too erratic to determine. My vision pulsed with every beat of my heart. Dysfunction took over my cubicle. I could do no productive work that afternoon. My heart did not know whether to leap with joy or weep countless tears. It did both.

  “Camryn, can you get me the month-end status?” my boss asked for the second time while standing behind my zombified self.

  “What?” I said softly. He repeated the question. “Sure,” I whispered, trying to pretend nothing was amiss.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah.” The lie started running down my face.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked, concerned.

  “I can’t talk about it.” The words barely came. All I wanted to do was talk about it, but such a delicate matter was only safe in skilled ears—ones that could really listen, and care. I excused myself, then took the scenic route to the restroom in a building a quarter of a mile away, nearly getting run over by a mailbot that was autonomously delivering mail at HQ. If the fresh air did me any good, I didn’t notice. I stared myself down in the bathroom mirror, wondering who I was looking at and how I got there. I don’t mean there as in standing in front of a mirror in a bathroom that I never use, there. I mean how I got to this unexamined place in my life, there. I’d taken off on a journey with no map and no plan. I wasn’t sure I liked where I had ended up. I was forced upon a new journey, this one retracing my steps, examining every right twist and wrong turn I had made along the way.

  I returned to my desk. The first step was an e-mail to Megan.

  Dear Megan,

  You are not going to believe this. I can hardly believe it myself. Reese sent me an e-mail. A few days ago, Kurt asked me if it was okay for him to give Reese my e-mail address, not knowing my preference. I’ve been anxiously awaiting word from Reese ever since and now it has come. I’m so shaken, I can hardly type this. It’s like a whole sleeping part of me has woken up and I don’t know what to do with it. Anyway, Reese apologized for our break up, which wasn’t really a break up, but a fading away. He said it was all his fault and that he will always love me and the times we shared. He knows I have a child, so he’s been talking to someone about me. He wishes me the best and hopes my husband thinks as much of me as he always did. I know Glenn thinks a lot of me, but he just doesn’t show it or act it. Reese would be so sad if he knew how Glenn treats me half the time. Reese lost his brother to ALS and has been taking care of his father, amongst other difficulties. He said he let me go because he was afraid he’d drag me into his problems and didn’t want to burden me with that. Can you believe it?

  This is so unreal. This doesn’t happen. Stuff like this just doesn’t happen, let alone to me. It’s like a fairy tale. It’s wonderful and terrible all at the same time. I’ve been yanked back in a time machine. All these feelings and memories that I thought were long gone and forgotten are all coming back. I loved him so much and I still do. He’s the one who got away.

  I feel like the rug has been pulled out from under my life. Something way outside of me has happened and I am totally confused. I don’t know what to do. Any advice you have would be greatly appreciated. I wish you were here to talk. I need to talk.

  Love, Camryn

  Send.

  I prepared the report my boss asked for, while I nervously awaited Megan’s reply, double-checking the figures three times for accuracy. I had presence of mind enough to know that I was out of my mind. A return e-mail popped onto my screen. Just the fact that Megan had read my message and heard my plea eased the burden.

  Dear Camryn,

  I’m so sorry to hear about your situation, but I’m not the person you intended this message for. Best of luck to you. I hope you find peace.

  Crap. I didn’t normally e-mail Megan from work. Given my dire emotional circumstances, I guessed her address wrong, transposing the first and last name, exposing my heart to a stranger. Her ears appeared to be safe too. I was grateful that she embarrassed the shit out of me, letting me know my error. I re-mailed, this time to my intended confidante.

  * * *

  The only thing I can clearly recall about the drive between work and daycare that night is tuning the radio to a station I never listened to. “You’re the Inspiration” played over its airwaves, our song, that I had not heard or thought about for years. This cosmic alignment would have been a clear sign that Reese and I were meant for each other, had I not been married. As it was, my entire inventory of emotions came along for the ride, taking turns in the front seat in no particular order. Sadness with tears, guilt, forgiveness, confusion, happiness, doubt, elation, worry, and love, amongst myriad others, presented themselves. Some lingered solo for a time, others pop
ped up in a fast rotation, almost all at once. During the calm of happiness, I literally felt Reese’s loving touch, a tingle on my side. Anguish then pushed its way in, dissolving into heartache.

  Music spoke to me. In a healthier state of mind, music was just something I enjoyed, but hurting, every love song filled the empty space, infusing the holes left from the blast.

  Composure reluctantly rose to the occasion, compulsory service, putting on a sane face to pick up Sydney.

  “Mommy!” she yelled with excitement when I entered the room. My face lit up.

  “How are you?” I asked with my usual enthusiasm, upbeat and interested. “How was your day?”

  “Good. We played puppets today. Mommy, why is your face red?” I ignored her rapid change of subject.

  “What kind of puppets?”

  “The kind that look nice, but they really bite you.”

  “Oh,” I said in three syllables as she demonstrated gnawing my arm with a fox.

  Sydney chattered all the way home. None of it registered. Autopilot drove us, my mind otherwise engaged. I was certain I could not tell Glenn what had happened that day. I didn’t even know what had happened. What was I supposed to say? That my ex-boyfriend e-mailed me today out of the ether saying that he’s had a hard way to go, regrets letting me, the most important person in his life, get away, that he still loves me to no end—and that I might just feel the same way? That would fly like a feathered birdman.

  “Hi, how was your day?” I asked Glenn, with less enthusiasm than Sydney received.

  “Just fine.” He seemed happy enough—oblivious to the fact that today was the eighth anniversary of our engagement. We hugged. He smelled of cigars. Inside, I frowned. We gave each other a peck on the lips. I carried on, best I could, like normal.

  We had dinner at six.

  “Sydney, eat your hot dog,” Glenn barked, interrupting her, halfway through her green beans.

  “But Daddy, I’m eating my beans first.”

  “I said eat your hot dog. Now,” Glenn barked louder, pointing to the tabletop, instructing Sydney to put her fork down immediately.

  “What’s the big deal if she eats her beans first or her hot dog?” I asked Glenn.

  “Because I said so.” Glenn fumed at me. “And don’t cross me in front of the kids,” he said, crucifying me with his eyes.

  Sydney reluctantly lifted her hot dog, biting just bun.

  “A bigger bite,” Glenn yelled at her.

  “Please . . .” I said to him, not able to take it any longer.

  “You’re too easy on her,” he then yelled at me.

  “And you’re too hard,” I said, picking at my dinner, scooting it around with a fork. If it had been pen and paper, there would have been mindless doodles all over it. I picked up an apple. It smelled like Edwards’ apple barn. It reminded me of Reese bringing me cider donuts. I smelled it again, nearly taking a bite, then set it back down.

  “Aren’t you hungry?” he asked.

  “No.” I answered in a stifled whine which turned into a sob.

  “What’s wrong?” Glenn asked, somewhat concerned. I reeled-in the breakdown.

  “Just stressed.” I dabbed my eyes with a napkin, breakdown contained. It was a truthful answer. Perhaps incomplete, but truthful.

  Glenn cleared the table that night, something he did about once a year under exceptional circumstances, then parked himself in front of the television, a nightly ritual. “Why don’t you sit down?” Glenn asked in an attempt to relieve my stress.

  “I have to wash the dishes, and give Sydney a bath.”

  “Mommy, here’s my homework paper,” Sydney said, adding to my to-do list. “I have to find things that begin with ‘D’ and put them in this bag for school.” Sydney looked at me with inquisitive eyes, eager for assistance with this important work.

  “Sydney, leave mommy alone. She’s stressed,” Glenn yelled from the couch.

  “But Daddy, I need help with my homework.”

  “You can do it yourself. Don’t bug mommy.”

  “Glenn, no she can’t. She doesn’t know. She needs help.”

  “Fine.” Glenn ended the conversation with a disconcerted tone that rang of personal rejection. Sydney and I loaded a stuffed dog, plastic donut, a toy door, and a container of dirt into her bag—from under her bed, the bathtub, under the couch, and from the back yard respectively. I wished Glenn was small enough to fit into the bag too, not for ‘Dad,’ but for ‘dick.’ I kept the thought safely to myself.

  “Mommy, will you read me a bedtime story?” Sydney asked after her bath and before brushing teeth.

  “Sure.” I answered knowing she needed to be read to, but thinking of her lunch for tomorrow that still needed to be made.

  “Are you going to sit down now?” Glenn asked after I tucked Sydney in.

  “I can’t. Sydney needs a lunch.” I leaned over the counter, my forehead in my hands, just wanting to drop.

  “Are you okay?” Glenn asked again.

  “No. I’m just so . . . tired.”

  “I’ll make her lunch. Sit.” I sat in the recliner watching TV yet had no idea what was on.

  “Where’s the peanut butter?” Glenn yelled, peering into the refrigerator.

  “In the cupboard to the left above the sink.”

  Glenn checked.

  “I can’t find it.” I pulled myself out of the chair, moved a box of cake mix half an inch and pulled it out. My look said how hard was that? I went back to my chair. “What else should I fix her?”

  “Carrots. Peel some carrots.” I closed my eyes, heard some rummaging.

  “Where’s the peeler?”

  “It’s probably in the dishwasher.” I heard more noises, the jingle of silverware.

  “I can’t find it,” Glenn said.

  Ugh! I got up, again. I scanned the silverware holder in the dishwasher, noting that it wasn’t where I thought it was, then glanced next to a dirty cookie sheet on the counter, spied the peeler, and handed it to him. “Here it is.”

  “Could you wash that for me?”

  “What?” I was miffed. How hard could it be to wash a peeler?

  “You said you were washing the dishes tonight.”

  “I also said I was tired.” I put the vegetable peeler down, heading for a hot Jacuzzi bath.

  “Are you mad?” Glenn yelled as I walked away.

  “Will you leave me alone, please?”

  I drew the hot water, undressed, and soaked. When the water got too hot, I propped my feet up on the tub edge. I noticed a settling crack in the ceiling that I hadn’t noticed before. My lower legs got cold again and I pulled them back under to re-heat. My chest then overheated, so I sat up, reclined. Glenn walked in, no knock first, as was the norm.

  “Nice titties!” I rolled my eyes, submerged myself again from clear view. “Why don’t you ever get excited when I say that? It’s like you never want anything to do with me unless it’s the right time of the month. You could at least say thank you.”

  “You could at least talk to me like you cared about me rather than like you’re gawking at a dancer in a strip club.”

  “Oh, come on!” He got red in the face. “We’re married, for Christ’s sake. Can’t I even admire my wife?”

  “Not if that’s what you call admiring. You really know how to turn a girl on, don’t you?” Calgon wasn’t doing a very good job, I was still there. I didn’t want this conversation, the same one we’d had more times than I could count. Glenn created my monster of speaking up, yet was offended, taken aback, and outraged when I spoke up to him.

  “Why does it always have to be your way? I can’t touch you right. I can’t talk to you right. It’s Camryn’s rules. And nothing else,” he said, his words electrocuting me. He made it sound like I was the insensitive, selfish, and inconsiderate one. And sometimes I wondered if he was right.

  “Please.” It was half a cry and half a whimper. “I can’t handle this. I told you . . .”

  “You�
�re stressed-out.” He finished my sentence, the only sentence Glenn was able to finish for me, and even that took ten years. “You’re always stressed-out.” I wanted to say I wonder why, but in the interest of self-preservation—what self I had left to preserve—I decided against it. Glenn hadn’t noticed me taking an extra dose of anxiety; he wasn’t certain where the first dose had come from. “See you in bed,” Glenn said, storming out of the room. My bath water was getting cold, not helping my chilled spirit. I toweled off, wondering if Reese would ever have spoken to me like that. I was sure he would not.

  My side of the bed was perfectly made, and cold. There may as well have been a fence down the middle. I crawled in, heart pounding, head pounding, not sure if I’d ever be able to settle down to sleep. My head ached, my heart ached. My eyes puffed up four times the size of normal, the tear reservoir unable to spill them fast enough.

  “No goodnight kiss?” he asked. I lay there a moment. Do I have to do this? I thought, my god, we just had a fight! A bad one too. “You’re really not making me feel any better,” he said, not standing the pause. I’m supposed to make him feel better? Wasn’t he the complete asshole? I crawled over to his side of the bed and kissed him on the cheek. I didn’t know if it meant anything to him. It meant nothing to me. He turned over, ran his hand up my thigh and over my crotch. “Was that romantic?” he asked.

  “No.”

  Glenn exhaled loudly, then slapped me on the ass. “Let me know when you want some.” His snores came shortly thereafter.

  The reservoir let loose and wet my pillow, adding fresh embellishments on the ticking, a dried-tearstain mosaic which I saw whenever I changed pillowcases. I was resigned—Glenn would always stroke my fur the wrong way. Quitting the marriage was a solution that easily popped into mind, danced around, tormented. Then cooler thoughts prevailed. Downright cold thoughts like you can’t screw up Sydney’s life just because you got yourself into this mess. Reese’s letter played over and over again. I’ll always love you . . . it wasn’t because I didn’t care . . . my father’s credit was shot . . . Ryan’s ALS . . . I wasted ten years of my life . . . I hope your husband thinks as much of you as I always have . . . I wanted the best for you. I felt like I was also to blame. How could we have let this happen? How could I have let this happen?