The Opposite of Love

by Julie Buxbaum

  “Listen, I need to tell you something,” he says, after we haven’t said anything for a while, and I wonder if he has been practicing in his head. He elaborately clears his throat.

  “I already know, Dad. About Grandpa Jack.” I save him the effort of having to say it out loud. I want to make this easier. For both of us.

  “Oh.”

  “Dad?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

  “I don’t know. I guess I didn’t want to hurt you. You and my dad have always been so close.” He pauses. “I know he has been more like a father to you, and you’ve already lost one parent. It didn’t seem fair.”

  “Yeah,” I say, realizing that we both suffer from some perverse form of politeness. It seems futile to keep trying to protect each other from the truth.

  “I didn’t want it to be real.” He rubs his face with his fingers. He looks down at his hand afterward, as if he is unused to the sensation, as if the stubble comes as a surprise. “It’s enough already.”

  “I guess.” We sit without talking for a little bit and let the car radio fill up the silence, our mouths moving to the words from habit. There is only empty highway in front of us, a corridor between the barren trees. We are the only two people left on the road.

  “But still,” I say.

  “I know,” he says. “I’m sorry.”

  “Dad?”

  “Yeah?”

  “It’s okay, though. It’s time, this time. He’s ready.”

  “You think?”

  “Yeah, I do. I’m ready too,” I say.

  “You are?”

  “I think so. I’m trying to be.”

  “It isn’t easy, though, is it? You know, your mom would be very proud of you. She’d be pissed as hell at me for not being around the way I should. I know that. But she would be very proud of you.”

  “Really? You think?”

  “Of course. Though it was kind of dumb of you to break up with Andrew. And some other time we need to talk about what you are doing about that career of yours.” My dad keeps looking straight ahead, but the right side of his mouth lifts, just a little. “I have my sources.”

  “I was meaning to tell you. I just didn’t, I don’t know.”

  He waves me away, as if to say don’t worry about it. But his voice grows serious again.

  “Em, I don’t know how to do this, to be a family, without Jack. I’ll try, I promise. But I don’t know how. I need your help. It—this—us—doesn’t come naturally to me.”

  “Me neither.”

  “But we can try, right?”

  “Of course we can try, Dad. I’m not sure we have a choice.”

  My father reaches across the seat and squeezes my hand. His gesture is both tender and awkward.

  When we get to Riverdale, Grandpa Jack is sitting in bed and watching an old episode of The Young and the Restless that someone must have taped for him. It’s a wedding scene, and the minister asks the crowd of beautiful people if there are any objections to the union.

  “Hey, Pop,” my dad says, and gives my grandfather a hug. My dad never hugs. He shakes hands. This is progress.

  “Merry Christmas, Grandpa,” I say, and give him a peck on the cheek. My grandfather reaches for the remote control and presses pause. The screen freezes on a goateed man standing up, a finger raised in objection.

  “It’s about time you two showed up,” Grandpa Jack says, but he’s smiling.

  “How are you feeling, Pop?” my dad asks, though the answer is obvious. My grandfather is a miniature figurine of his old self. His eyes, only his yellow eyes, look huge and heavy, out of proportion to his shrunken face. Where did he go? I wonder. He can’t weigh more than ninety pounds. Where did it all go? Is he in the air? Am I breathing him in right now?

  “All right,” Grandpa Jack says, and confirms that we Haxbys can’t help but lie to one another. But would it be better if he told the truth, if he said, My guts are rotting and this dying thing hurts like hell?

  “I’m glad,” my dad says, and nods, like he is going to jot the answer down on a medical chart. Grandpa Jack looks small enough to pick up. Maybe I could stuff him in my purse and smuggle him home with me. Carry him around like a teacup Yorkie, safely tucked under my armpit.

  Although I know how the game is played, I am not sure if I can keep this up. I feel like I may implode from this smile on my face. Grandpa Jack is going to die. I know it. He knows it. My dad knows it. We don’t need to pretend.

  “Grandpa Jack?”

  “Yes, Emily.” I wonder if that is the last time I will hear him say my name. Remember this, I tell myself. Remember how it sounds. This is important.

  “I’m going to miss you like hell,” I say. Water gathers on my lids and the tears fall one at a time, one and then the next. My father looks away, out the window at the parking lot. He wants no part of this moment.

  “I’m going to miss you too, kid,” Grandpa Jack says, his voice like charred paper. “Come sit with me. I want you right here.”

  I take his hand and sit down next to him. My dad crosses the room and faces away from us. But then he changes his mind, turns around, and joins us on the bed. I am on the right side, my father the left, and we both stretch our legs out. There is plenty of room, because Grandpa Jack does not take up any of the space between us.

  Someone presses play on the remote control, and we end up spending the rest of Christmas like this. Three generations of Haxbys—Grandpa Jack, my father, and me—lying in one bed.

  The three of us watching old episodes of The Young and the Restless.

  The television volume turned up as high as it will go.

  Thirty-seven

  My first thought when I show up at Andrew’s apartment door at six a.m. the next day is maybe I should have called first. Showing up unannounced at the crack of dawn the day after Christmas is not the best way to prove my sanity or my love. I don’t know if he is home and, if he is, if he’s alone. Maybe he’s inside with another woman, just ten feet away, blissfully humping away to a Christmas song, a gross one, like “Santa Baby.” Or worse, maybe they are fast asleep, his mouth resting on her shoulder, his body snaked around her limbs.

  I bet she’s blonde and has recently paid a Russian woman to give her a Brazilian wax.

  Maybe I should turn around and go home. Send an e-mail or a card or pick up the phone. Maybe I should turn around and go home and give him up for good. Accept that I had my shot, that I blew it, and move on. But I can’t. I won’t. I am fighting for us. Building up from empty.

  Still, I am paralyzed in this spot, standing on his Welcome! doormat, unable to press the button and unable to walk away.

  I am not sure how long I have been standing here, but it’s long enough that my legs are tired and that I now know that the paint on his door frame is cracking in exactly one hundred thirty-two places. I have done the “on the count of three” thing fifteen times. I have read the front page of his New York Times twice. I have tried yoga breathing.

  I have gotten nowhere.

  I spend some time thinking about what I might say, if I am ever able to ring the doorbell, and if he is home, two gigantic ifs that give me a clinical distance from the reality of what I am trying to do. If X and Y, then Z. I am not overcome with the love mania you see on television, where you have to tell the person immediately how you feel. Instead, I feel nothing but terror, knowing that at some point in the near future I will have to speak directly to Andrew. That I will have to talk. That I will have to explain my behavior over the last few months. That I will have to apologize.

  That I will have to say stuff that can’t be unsaid and undo stuff that seems like it can’t be undone.

  I will ask for a restart. A game over, try again. The odds are against me. I will much more likely lose than win.

  I feel nauseated and consider the possibility that if I stand here for much longer, I may throw up on his doorstep. My organs feel like they are pressing up again
st one another, like there isn’t enough room in my body for all the pieces that go inside. Like I am the game Operation, and the tweezers keep touching my edges, sending electric currents straight through my core. When the sensation becomes too much to take, I take my finger and press the doorbell. I put my whole body into it, so it sings loudly and for a long time.

  And then I wait. I don’t hear anything at all on the other side of the door. I ring again; it’s easier the second time. And then I wait some more.

  Eventually, I hear shuffling inside.

  “Who is it?” Andrew asks.

  “It’s me,” I say, and then realize that I am no longer in the “it’s me” inner circle. “It’s Emily.”

  “What the fuck?” I hear him say, and then a loud banging noise, followed by another “Fuck.” And then, “Damn it. Motherfucker.”

  “It’s Emily,” I say again, though I’m sure he heard me the first time. “You have one hundred and thirty-two cracks in your paint.”

  “What?” he says, and then the door opens and Andrew is standing in front of me. He wears the green polka-dot boxers I bought for him on sale at the Gap and no shirt. His eyes are half closed, squinting at the assault of morning. His right hand is massaging his left elbow. His funny bone. But he is not laughing. He looks at me but doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t welcome me inside and doesn’t tell me to leave. He just stands there squinting and rubbing his elbow.

  “Hi,” I say.

  “Emily?” he says, like he is just noticing me. It feels good to hear him say my name, even though his tone is not friendly.

  “Hi,” I say again. “Merry Christmas.” Andrew tilts his head to the side and stares at me.

  “Can I come in?” He opens the door wider and I follow him inside. I am not sure if I should sit down or keep standing. Andrew doesn’t sit, so I don’t either. I can do this standing up. I had pictured us having this conversation on his couch, but I can improvise. I can do this.

  “I know it’s early, and I’m sorry for waking you up. I wanted to talk to you, even though I know you don’t want to talk to me.” I take a breath and look around his apartment. I haven’t been in here since before Labor Day. It looks exactly the same, still just like an Ikea showroom—beige pullout couch, loopy brown carpet, pre-framed black-and-white photographs on the walls. This gives me encouragement, somehow. Like his furniture has been staying in place, waiting for me to return.

  “Is this a bad time?”

  “It’s a little late for that question, don’t you think?”

  “Yeah.” I look down at the floor. I notice a stray potato chip, and I’m tempted to pick it up and put it in his garbage can. I don’t, though, because it feels presumptuous. “Are you here alone? I mean, I need to talk to you, but I need to talk to you alone.”

  I can tell I have said the wrong thing, because Andrew looks angry, like he is about to start yelling at me.

  “No, it’s just me. No one else.” He is screaming without screaming. “It’s the crack of dawn. What do you want?”

  “Just to talk. Can we sit down?” My legs are wobbling. I sit without waiting for an answer. He follows me and perches on the end of his couch, as far away from me as he can go.

  “You know I am not very good at this.” I pause, hoping he will rescue me, but Andrew looks down and waits me out. He would get nowhere in therapy; he has no fear of awkward silence. “I have a lot of stuff I need to say to you, and I hope you’ll listen. I don’t deserve it, really, but I hope you will anyway.

  “I know I should have called as opposed to just showing up. I know it looks weird, and not in a charming way. So, sorry about that. Sorry about everything. I clearly don’t know how to do this right.”

  “Em, it is not a crime to break up with someone. I am over it,” Andrew says, and shrugs like it was no big deal. He no longer looks angry, just apathetic. Which now, I realize, is much, much worse.

  “I screwed up,” I say. “I mean, I don’t regret breaking up with you.”

  “Okay.” He shakes his head, as if to say Then what the fuck are you doing here?

  “I had to.”

  “Okay.”

  “Because I wasn’t ready for you. I mean, I was a mess, and I didn’t know it. You see?”

  “No.”

  “I was pretending that everything was all right, but it wasn’t. I was wearing a life preserver around my heart. You get it?”

  “No.”

  “I was running on empty, you know what I mean?”

  “No.”

  Must stop asking rhetorical questions.

  “But now I’m different. It’s like I woke up. I have a kidney to give.” I’m not making any sense.

  “But I don’t need a kidney.”

  “But if you did, I would give you one of mine,” I say. “In a heartbeat.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Anytime. Seriously.”

  “Okay.” Andrew stands up, a signal that the conversation is over. “Well, thanks for the potential kidney.”

  “Andrew.” I look him in the eye for the first time this morning.

  “Andrew,” I say again. “Please, just wait.”

  I take another deep breath to calm myself, but it has the opposite effect, and I start to cry. Big, ugly, gulping tears, hysterical tears, the kind that signal he should run away, or possibly rubberneck, but under no circumstances get involved. To his credit, Andrew sits back down on the couch and doesn’t watch me. He stays perfectly still.

  After a few minutes, Andrew gets up and comes back with a glass of water and a box of tissues. He puts them both on the coffee table in front of me.

  “I’ll stop soon, I promise,” I say. “It’ll pass.”

  “I know. I’ll wait.”

  There is something about hearing Andrew’s voice that breaks through, and my pulse slows, my tears stop. I blot my eyes with the tissue and blow my nose. I walk to the bathroom and throw cold water on my face. When I look in the mirror, a swollen, distorted version of me stares back. What are you doing, Emily? Make this right. Enough is enough.

  I come back to the couch, sit down, and turn to face Andrew. I can do this. I am ready.

  “Okay. Sorry about that. I’m back now.”

  Andrew nods, but he looks exhausted. And tired of me.

  “I know I screwed everything up. But I love you, Andrew. And I did that time in the movies when I didn’t say it back, when you said it first. And I loved you when I broke up with you on Labor Day. I wish I could explain it all to you, tell you why I ran away from the best thing that ever happened to me, and I’ll try. But it’s complicated. I needed to learn about me first. I wasn’t ready to give anything to you back then. I wasn’t ready for an Andrew.

  “But now? Now I am. I am no longer numb, you know? And I wish it were all simpler, and I could explain it like ‘Well, Andrew, I broke up with you because I was afraid of loving you and losing you and having to go through all that,’ which would be true, but that’s not the whole story. It’s not that simple.” Andrew shifts his body to face mine. The move is subtle, but enough that I take it as a sign to keep talking. He is listening.

  “I guess what I am trying to say is, I screwed everything up, but I think I did it for a reason. You wouldn’t have wanted to be with the person I was a few months ago. I was unhappy and empty and didn’t know it. And now, well, now I am better, I think. At least I am working on it.”

  “Okay, I’m glad things are better for you. Really, I am,” he says. “But, Emily, I don’t know what you want from me. You left me, remember?” He looks down now and starts drawing circles on the couch with his fingers. Around and around and around.

  “I know I can’t undo the past couple of months. I think of it as breaking us. I broke us, and I take full responsibility for that. But I would love, love, love if we could try again. If I could have a do-over. If I could try to put us back together again. Unbreak us. Or reglue us, or something.”

  I take a breath and wait. This is it. Neither of us m
oves or breathes, and I wonder if we could float away on this nothingness. This absence of sound. It doesn’t hurt, really. It’s like the cessation of feeling. I almost don’t want the moment to end, because then I will know. Maybe that’s why I have stayed mute for so long. Maybe, after all, it’s easier not to know. Then, at least, you have hope.

  “Emily,” Andrew says, and then stops. “Emily.”

  “Yeah,” I say, and look down. He has not taken me into his arms. He has not kissed me. It’s over. Game over.

  “It’s okay, you don’t have to say anything. I get it.” I wonder if you can see a broken heart. Can Andrew see it, right now, on the floor, smashed into a hundred little pieces, scattered among the potato chip crumbs?

  “No, no, you don’t get it,” he says, and his voice is low. Barely noise. I hold my breath.

  “I love you, and I don’t know what the fuck to do about it. I didn’t stop feeling that way on Labor Day, when you ruined everything, though God knows I wanted to. Wanting to be with you, worrying about you, caring about you doesn’t feel good, though, or at least it hasn’t these last few months. You’re like a fucking curse. Why do you think I asked you to leave me alone?” Andrew stands up and starts pacing in front of the couch, and with each word, each step, his voice gets louder.

  “A fucking disease,” he says. “You’re like the fucking flesh-eating virus.

  “But now you’re here, and I don’t know. There is so much we haven’t said to each other, and that’s not all your fault. I know that.” He points at me, like it’s an accusation. “Don’t think I don’t know that. I should have pushed you or not let you get away with just not dealing. But I did. I thought…I don’t know, that you would eventually just get what we had. Wake up already. But then you didn’t and then you broke us. That’s the right expression. Funny that you found exactly the right words for it.

  “You broke us,” he says, and points at me again with his index finger.

  “I broke us,” I say.

  “And now you are trying to fix us? Fuck, I don’t know. I just don’t know.” He stops in front of me and bends down, so he is on both knees and we are at eye level. There is nothing left to say, except for everything, and I realize it’s time to go for it. I can’t hold it back anymore. It’s not fair to either of us.