by Pamela Ribon
I watched Ian grab Mitzi and lead her to the dance floor. And as I watched her drape herself over Ian, I suddenly felt calm. I wasn’t jealous of Mitzi. I didn’t yearn for what she had. She idolized me so much that she decided to get my boyfriend. She had read my love letters and then went for the boy. She read the Ian manual and then acted accordingly. She was in the same room as the inspiration for her relationship, but she had no idea. The reality was she wanted to be me. She wanted what I had. Ian was just a prize.
I imagined kidnapping her, taking her somewhere dark and scary, and then telling her off. “I hope you’re happy living in my shadow,” I’d say. “I hope you enjoy living in my past.”
Dale plopped down beside me.
“You look scary,” he said to me.
“I’m imagining telling off Ian’s new girlfriend.”
“The one you set him up with?”
“Yes.” I plopped my head into my hands.
“Careful!” he shouted. “That wig’s not going to last much longer if you keep flinging yourself around.”
“Everyone in my life got exactly what they wanted from me and then left. But the bitch of it is—I think I wanted it that way. I pushed them just far enough away that they could leave without a shred of guilt.”
“The martyr look doesn’t become you, Anna. This is such bullshit.”
“I must have wanted to be alone.”
He turned my face so I looked at him. “Answer me three questions,” he said.
I exhaled. “Okay.”
“One. Do you miss Ian?”
Easy enough. “No.”
Dale nodded. “Right. Because you don’t love him anymore. You haven’t for a while. You’ve been angry with him. And that’s fine. Being angry is normal. You got your heart broken a while ago and it makes people angry. That doesn’t mean you want to still be with him.”
I looked up and saw Ian dancing with Mitzi. He dipped her and kissed her under her chin. I felt nothing.
“Okay, question two. Do you love Kurt?”
That wasn’t as easy to answer. I didn’t know what I felt about him. “It doesn’t matter anymore.”
I told him about Heather. When I finished, Dale said, “He’s practically begging you to stop him from getting back together with her.”
“Maybe. But I don’t think he really knows me,” I said.
“Yes, he does. You like to think that you and Anna K are these gigantically different people. You’re not. You’re just not used to seeing yourself the way Kurt sees you,” Dale said. “You’ve never had someone love you like that.”
“Like what?” I asked.
“With romance and love notes and all that icky yearning stuff he’s doing.”
“You like him.”
“I don’t know him. But you do, and I like the way you talk about him. Are you going to forget him?”
“Is this one of the questions?” I asked.
“No. It’s a side question.”
The music stopped as if the entire room was waiting for my answer. “I think I should just wait for a sign.”
The DJ changed songs and “All Out of Love” started up. Dale clapped his hands and cheered. The crowd, thinking Dale was shouting for the DJ, cheered back. “Isn’t that your song?” He bounced in his seat.
I felt the grin rise from deep inside of me. “Yes,” I said, blushing. “It’s the song I picked for us.”
“Well, that settles it,” Dale said, sitting back in his seat. He ran his hands through his brown hair and then raised his fists in celebration. “Anna’s got a new man!”
“Wasn’t there a third question?” I asked, blushing.
“Oh, right,” Dale said. He leaned forward and touched the ends of my wig. “Do you enjoy looking like Carol Channing?”
000076.
My body was aching when I got home. The champagne pounded in my head and my heart felt like it had gone through a decathlon. An envelope sat on my front steps. Ian’s keys were inside. I kicked it into the house with each step. I didn’t even want to touch it.
I picked up the phone and called Kurt. A woman’s voice answered the phone. I hung up.
I sat at my computer and checked my e-mail.
Subject: Hi!!
Hi, Anna K!
My name is Morgan. I’m nineteen years old and I just found your Web site. One of my friends told me about it. I think you’re so funny and cool. When did you decide to start keeping a journal? I’m thinking of starting one myself, but I’m a little worried about my family finding it. I can’t tell them everything!
Anyway, I was hoping you would write back because I think we could be really good friends. We have lots in common and if we ever met you would see just how alike we really are.
Any tips for starting up a Web journal? I don’t think I’ll be as cool as you right away, but it never hurts to try, right?
Thanks so much!!!!!!!!!
Morgan
-----
The last thing I needed in my life right now was Tess 2.0. Why did so many people, especially girls, glamorize this journal life? What made Tess decide to use me for my journal, to gain popularity through people she’d never meet, who read a webpage on the Internet? It was all so absurd. All of this confusion and heartbreak was because of binary code. I hadn’t done anything spectacular. I wasn’t even a real writer. I was just some girl in Texas making up a few stories, wondering what would happen if I pretended to be someone better than I was. Did this happen to people who write newspaper columns or books? Did real writers get letters of advice, telling them whom to date? Everything I did seemed to bring drama with it. I just wanted some quiet.
I opened the software program I used to post my entries. I looked over the directory listing. I saw the hundreds of stories I’d told over the year—the words I had written that made people interested in who I was, the words that made Kurt think he loved me.
Flipping through my entries—stories about my childhood, concerns about love, my feelings for Ian, the way I didn’t think about my father until it was too late—too much of me was up on that webpage, plastered like a billboard. The good, the bad, and even the lies were all a part of who I was, just as Dale had said. Tess might think it was just a game to me, but those words had become my reality. It was my life even when I pretended it wasn’t. I had become Anna K, and now anybody could wander in and absorb me in one shot without giving anything in return. He or she could just sit down, click a few links, and decide in ten minutes if I’m the kind of person he or she would like to meet. He could fall in love with me and I’d never know. She could think I’m a selfish bitch and I’d never get the chance to defend myself. She could decide to steal my boyfriend. He could find out where I lived. I was blindfolded, up for auction.
I pushed a button, deleting one folder. September. The entire month of September was gone. Just like that. It was still on my hard drive, but no longer online. Nobody could find out what I did in September. They’d never hear those stories. They’d have to ask me in person. Meet me in the flesh. They’d have to earn my stories. Share their own. Talk to me.
I deleted October next. It was so easy, just clicking a button and becoming free. I felt lighter. I was gaining myself back. I was reclaiming parts of me. Taking it away from the world. I wasn’t going to stand exposed any longer.
November and December. No longer could people send e-mail telling me how to live my life. No more judging. No more stalking. No more surprises from people in my life who had been reading all along.
January. No more fan mail. No more gifts sent to my house or young girls telling me I’m their idol. No more published stories. No more claiming I’m a writer. No more possibilities of meeting someone like Kurt. No more escape from my daily life. That feeling I had of accomplishing something, that feeling of power when I sat and wrote, that feeling I got when someone sent a compliment on my writing—it was all going to be over.
I stopped deleting.
I went to bed.
000
077.
I was buying a cup of coffee three days later when the girl behind the counter asked, “Are you Anna K?”
She was pointing at my driver’s license. My wallet was hanging open as I searched to hand her a five-dollar bill. I must have looked shocked because she said, “I’m sorry I was snooping. I could see it from here and I had to ask.”
“Yes, I’m Anna K,” I answered.
“I read you all the time,” she said. “I love your website.”
“Thank you,” I said.
She went back to grab my coffee and the older man behind me in line leaned forward. I could smell his cologne, fresh from a recent application, swirling between us. His hair was still wet and he was filled with the early morning scent of a businessman. With my hair gone, I was aware of the people near me more than I used to be. I could sense the kinds of people they were. This man had an air of friendliness around him as he said, “Can I ask why you’re famous?”
“Oh,” I laughed. “I’m not really famous. I just have this website that some people read.”
My coffee was free.
I was happy to have the compliment as I was on my way to the gynecologist’s office for my annual. I would need something for my thoughts to focus on while I was flat on my back in the stirrups. I’ve always wondered if I could bring a book or a magazine in there, if the doctor would think it was rude if I read my horoscope instead of paying attention to the little tugs and twists going on inside of my body for five minutes.
I was seeing a new gynecologist. My last one got married and moved to Iowa. She had referred me to Dr. Sanji, whom she knew in med school and said she thinks the world of. I’m not one to get attached to doctors, but when your gynecologist is leaving, you want someone you don’t have to worry about. In college I once had a gynecologist with a lazy eye. She’d hunker between my legs and call out like she was looking for cattle, “C’mon, cervix! Miss Cervix! Lemme see ya!”
Since then I’ve been slightly pickier when searching for that special doctor I see once a year for Paps and pills.
Dr. Sanji’s office was small but had the right collection of magazines. I checked in and settled down with a Bust until the nurse called me into the office. She weighed me, took my blood pressure, and handed me a crisp, tightly folded paper outfit. She left the room and I took off my clothes, piling them on a chair near the examination table. I pushed myself up onto the table and draped my paper skirt over my legs. It cracked and crinkled as I opened the folds. I tried smoothing the pink corners out over my legs. It felt like I was gift-wrapping myself. I slid the green paper vest on, pulling the open sides over my breasts, wishing for a fastener. The paper hung there limply, allowing all of the drafts in the room to tickle at my thighs, the small of my back, and the curves of my breasts. I sat in silence and waited for what seemed to be forever. I wished I had brought the magazine in with me from the waiting room. I wished I still had my coffee from earlier. Mostly I wished I didn’t have to be there at all.
I was going to have to answer questions. It was my first visit, so I was going to have to tell her about myself, about my sexual history, and about my family. She was going to ask what diseases I was likely to die from. She was going to ask what had killed my father. I took a few breaths to prepare myself.
Dr. Sanji walked in and apologized for my wait. She was tiny, with sleek black hair piled on top of her head. It was fastened with a pearl clip. Her eyes were lined in jet-black coal, and they were a beautiful warm brown. Her lipstick was almost the same shade of brown, and she lined her lips with a color slightly darker. She walked over to my chart, resting on the counter, and took a seat on the stool placed in front of me.
“Okay, Anna. I’m going to ask a few questions, and then we’ll get started.” Her voice was soft and low, like a purr.
“Okay.” My voice sounded as thin as my paper vest.
“Are you allergic to any medicines?”
“No.”
“Do you have any sexually transmitted diseases?”
“No.”
“Do you smoke?”
I paused. I hadn’t had a cigarette since the night before. Today, so far, I wasn’t a smoker. Could I get away with that? I decided I couldn’t.
“Yes, I smoke.”
“That’s very bad.” She stood and handed me some pamphlets. “You should stop smoking.”
“I know.”
“I’m sure you do.” She was standing closer to me now, and I could see how smooth and perfect her skin was. She smiled warmly. “I’m trying to quit drinking so much coffee, so I know how hard it is to give up something that you love.”
She patted my naked knee as she sat back down on her stool. It creaked underneath her.
“Any history of heart disease?”
Here it was. I’d never had to say this to a perfect stranger before. I’d never had to speak these words out loud. “My father died of heart disease. A leak from a murmur, I think.” I reminded myself to have Mom tell me more specifically what had happened to Dad. I sounded like a distant child, like I didn’t give a shit about my father enough to know what killed him.
“You don’t know?” Dr. Sanji asked.
“No, I know. I just don’t…it happened pretty recently. At Thanksgiving.”
Dr. Sanji’s entire face changed its position, her forehead raised until her eyebrows almost met her hairline. “Oh, I’m so sorry,” she said. “Just this past Thanksgiving?”
My throat felt tight. I couldn’t speak. I nodded my head.
“Awful,” she said, and clicked her teeth a few times. She put her hand on my naked knee again. “You poor girl. It’s so sad when we lose our daddies.”
It was the kindness in her voice, the sympathy in her eyes that did it. It felt like Dr. Sanji was already inside of me, ripping things apart. My stomach doubled up as tears welled in my eyes. She saw what was happening to me, and she moved in closer. She pulled my head to her shoulder as I began to pant. She patted my back, the paper vest the only sound in the room until the sobs took over my body. Her hands ran to the prickly hairs on the back of my neck, and she cradled my head like a newborn baby. I felt my breasts press against her doctor coat. The coarse cotton fibers rubbed against my nipples. Dr. Sanji rocked me back and forth as I cried, naked in paper, this tiny woman trying to pull all of the sadness out of me.
I missed my father. I missed him so much.
It had been months since he’d died, but nobody had wanted to talk about it. I hadn’t spoken to anyone about how sad it was to not have a father anymore. It was more than just a part of me was missing. It felt like my future had been erased. Any thoughts I might have had, any notions I’d entertained about what would happen to me were now negated. It couldn’t happen that way anymore because my father wasn’t going to be around to see it happen.
Dr. Sanji smelled like curry powder and sandalwood. She pulled my head back and wiped my face with a tissue. “Okay, now,” she said. “You lean back.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, my voice catching in my breath.
“No saying sorry. It’s sad when our daddies die. Makes us one less person inside.”
Nobody had talked to me about Dad like this, with this quiet sympathy and warm embrace. I wanted to keep doing it. I was on my back, so I couldn’t see Dr. Sanji anymore as she went to work. I wiped my face with a balled-up tissue and tried to breathe normally again.
I wanted to call Dad and make small talk for fifteen minutes. I missed having that in my life. I missed having him ask me questions that no longer pertained to my life. I missed him checking on the status of my car. How will I remember to get an oil change now? Who will sit and discuss the changing of the seasons with me? Who can I call when I want to ask a question about a Roth IRA?
He always kept a distance from me, but it was a safe distance. He was the person I tried to please. I wanted Dad’s silent approval. Who will give that to me now? Without Dad around, will I still date boys just like him? Boys like Ian? I had celebrated any s
ign of love from Ian as if it was directly from God. I dated men who kept themselves cut off from me emotionally, except for my overly emotional gay male friend. Dale was never going to be a relationship option, and ironically he was the closest man in my life. He was my best friend even when I had a boyfriend.
I was dealing with Dad’s death the same way I’d dealt with Ian. I just didn’t think about it, wouldn’t admit it for months and months until someone made me come right out and say what went wrong. I was pretending I was still at a time in my life where this sadness hadn’t happened yet. I wanted a future with my father just like I wanted a future with Ian. I just wanted the knowledge that everybody was going to be okay.
But everyone was very much not okay.
I waited too long to fully mourn my breakup with Ian. It kept my life on hold, my heart trapped inside. I was shaking with fear that someone else would hurt me like they did, like Ian not wanting me anymore and Dad leaving before we got to have a real relationship. I wanted Ian to stay since my father couldn’t. But I couldn’t keep anyone near me. There were no promises.
So I put off dealing with it. I never wanted to feel like it was over, that they weren’t going to be a part of my life anymore. And now, having to admit to this tiny Indian woman that my father was no longer alive, I felt it all crash in front of me. It was over. The desire to reach out for attention from anyone because I didn’t get enough from the people who loved me—that was baby stuff. It was childish to demand constant male attention. My father was dead; my youth was over. You couldn’t be a girl if you didn’t have a daddy.
With Kurt, I wasn’t searching for approval. He approached me, already fascinated with me. He approved of everything I said and did, encouraging me to share even more. Was this why I didn’t trust him? Was I so used to unavailability that the slightest showing of emotion convinced me it couldn’t possibly be for real?
My head felt heavy against the paper-coated pillow. I was sad for myself, sad for my father, and sad that it took so long for my brain to connect all of the dots.