You don’t deserve this, I said, shoving a blue box at him. But I can’t return it. So happy fucking birthday from Ted Baker.
He guiltily accepted the box before leaning into my velvet sofa.
So this is it, he sighed.
And lucky you, I said. Got a parting gift and everything.
He reached for my hand, pulled me into his lap, and wrapped his arms around me.
I could no longer stifle the sobs.
When he kissed my neck, I automatically reciprocated: I didn’t know how to be around Amoun and not kiss him. I had no experience disliking him.
This was our first—and apparently our last—fight.
My doorbell interrupted whatever might have happened next.
I’m not answering it, I said, wiping my eyes and heading for the bathroom. When I returned, he was standing in the foyer, awkwardly holding a huge pizza box, unsure of what to do next.
Just take it, I huffed. Break-ups totally ruin my appetite. And while you’re at it—
I handed him the shirt box and opened my front door.
Outside, he turned toward me.
I took in the sight of him self-consciously balancing each box: not wanting to stack them but not daring to set them down.
As last memories go, this one struck me as just the right amount of ridiculous.
Tré, he said.
Thanks for playing, I said cheerfully and slammed the door.
I locked it and walked away in a daze.
What now?
What next?
I took a bottle of Hangar One vodka from the freezer, crawled into it, and didn’t emerge for a week.
When I did, it was to exact revenge.
I googled city law surrounding toilet-paper pranks—Amoun was a lawyer, after all—and learned it’s not illegal if nothing is stolen or vandalized and you don’t trespass on private property.
I knew Amoun would be spending his birthday weekend in Vegas, so I emailed him and asked if he would place my things in his backyard before he left?
I’ll come by on Saturday and bring your things, I wrote. It’ll be the least awkward stuff-exchange either of us has ever had.
When he replied in the affirmative, the most vital part of my plan fell neatly into place: written permission to enter private property.
Two days later, the wife of his best friend helped me load ninety-six rolls of toilet paper into the car and we headed to Santa Monica.
When we finished, Amoun’s backyard and his forty-foot avocado tree looked like something Christo had made.
Still admiring our artistry from his yard, I called my dad to share how I was spending my Saturday afternoon.
Oh, Therresa, he laughed. You didn’t.
Oh, but I did. And it was even more cathartic than I expected, I said. Who knew pranking was such good therapy?
Hey, he said. Does Amoun have a garden hose?
I don’t know, I said, looking around the patio. Wait, I see one. Why?
Well, if you can spray the stream high enough, the TP will practically turn to glue overnight.
I love that you know this, Dad.
Also, he added, the mist setting is ideal.
I climbed onto the roof of Amoun’s detached garage, aimed the mist toward the tree’s highest limbs, and worked my way down.
When I finished, I signed a note to him—loaded with private jokes—and taped it to his bathroom window.
The same window that a guy who pees sitting down was most likely to see upon his late-night return from Vegas:
(Boo-Who?)
Before you change the channel, enjoy one last paper-view!
Now stop wiping and CLEAN UP!
XOXO,
Your (Least) Favorite Tré Trimmer
Within twenty-four hours, his best friend’s wife treated me to the glorious details.
As I expected, Amoun called the police.
As I knew, he had no grounds for prosecution: no trespassing, no vandalizing, no theft.
Nothing but a big, beautiful mess to clean up.
And this is the history rushing over me when I hear his voice tonight.
Hello, he repeats again.
Just called to hear your laugh, I blurt.
What? he says, with a laugh.
Holy wow.
His laugh.
That thing I thought I needed?
Not at all what I need.
Sounds like a hollow, past-tense version of my life.
Who’s this, he asks.
Sorry, I say, faking my best English accent.
Wrong number.
* * *
This morning, I’m mortified by my drunk-dial to Amoun.
What was I thinking?
That he would pity me?
That my recent tragedy would cancel out my immaturity five years ago?
In the sobering sunlight of my parents’ backyard, I remind myself of the “teachable moment” from that break-up. If Amoun hadn’t ended our relationship over the fact I didn’t want children, I might not have evolved into the girl Alberto wanted to marry.
A dozen days after Amoun had stood on my porch for the last time, Kill Bill 2 was released. We’d watched the first installment together and on one memorable night, made love in his kitchen to its soundtrack after he showed how to shoot a BB gun.
With or without him, I was resolved to see the movie. I’d walked to the ArcLight on Sunset seeking affirmation in the form of an angry, sword-wielding Uma Thurman, but the sequel to Tarantino’s revenge film did not end the way I expected.
Yes, there was revenge. Yes, she killed Bill. But the climax of the film took me somewhere I did not want to go.
The movie ends in Mexico—at a resort that looked not unlike where Amoun and I spent New Year’s—with Uma’s character reuniting with her young daughter.
The movie ends as mother and daughter drive into the sunset together.
The movie ends with me sobbing in a dark theater.
I had come for female empowerment but I left wrestling with my motives and reasons for not wanting children.
Why don’t I want to drive into the sunset with a daughter?
Is something wrong with my wiring?
Or did I make this decision myself?
As I walked home, tears still sliding under my sunglasses, I try to retrace the trajectory.
Did it start at eighteen years old? When I found myself six weeks pregnant by a man I’d already broken up with? When I made the choice to move out of California and give my unborn daughter up for adoption?
Was it confirmed the day after I gave birth and was forced by a judge to admit that I was an “unfit mother” in order to legalize the adoption?
Was it solidified nine months later when the shock of my brother’s death sent my parents into a cloud of mourning that still hasn’t lifted?
At the corner of La Brea and Fountain, the epiphany comes in the form of a question: did those two events produce a defense mechanism within you?
At nineteen years old, had I unconsciously decided that if I didn’t have kids, I would never have to lose them?
Whoa.
This is no longer about Amoun.
It’s about me. And my fear of loss.
When I am steady enough to cross La Brea, I start discarding.
Discarding my sense of shame for being unable to care for a child at eighteen.
My belief that I am an unfit mother.
My worry that I might outlive any future children.
By the time I reach my porch, I am no longer crying.
And no longer carrying eleven years of motherhood fears.
It would be another year before I was actually grateful to Amoun. A year later, I found myself sitting on the floor of Alberto�
��s bachelor pad in New York, admitting that my last relationship ended because I didn’t want children. And that the break-up forced me to re-examine my reasoning.
And what did you conclude? Alberto had asked.
If God’s plan for my life includes motherhood, then I should be open to it. So I am.
Good for you, he said. And in case you’re curious, he paused. About where I stand on the subject of kids—
I leaned forward, holding my breath.
Do I want them? Maybe.
Do I want them now? No.
Do I believe in nannies? Hell yeah.
I exhaled.
Once again, I was falling in love.
Once again, I was having the kid conversation with someone who felt like a soulmate.
But this time, it involved neither sweeping deal-breakers nor compromises.
* * *
Back in New York on the two-month-iversary, I feel like a girl without a safety net.
Our savings is depleted and I don’t go back to work for another two weeks.
I’m broke as a joke.
The life insurance money—if it’s approved—is still months away from reality. I’m waiting on two checks for IRAs that I recently discovered, but who knows when they’ll arrive? I pace our apartment before remembering the coin-filled vase on the floor of our kitchen. When my father was here in March, he said it looked like about $400. I could use $400, so I begin transferring thirty pounds of change into my college backpack.
Dad was close: the jar amounts to $353.21.
* * *
After leaving a girlfriend’s bachelorette party tonight, I head to the roof of her building for a nightcap cigarette.
My platforms are off and I quite literally cool my heels in a puddle of rainwater.
Seventeen stories below, the street is quiet for a Saturday night—a downpour in NYC will do that—and above me, the sky has a faint pink cast. I finish the cigarette, strap on my shoes, and head toward the stairs.
But why am I rushing home?
Alberto is not texting to ask what time I’m leaving.
He’s not waiting up, not watching DVR-ed episodes of Law & Order.
I can stay on this rooftop with my feet in a puddle for as long as I want.
I step out of my shoes and have another cigarette.
* * *
If another person tells me to be strong, I’m gonna start kicking ass and taking names.
Strong is a mantra for cancer survivors.
Not freshly widowed women.
* * *
It’s two days from Memorial Weekend and I don’t know how to go to Connecticut without him.
Literally and figuratively.
Take a train? Bring a girlfriend?
Surely Nikki’s brother, Greg, doesn’t expect me to bring a case of fabulous wine like Alberto always did?
I can’t even find my stupid sunscreen.
I’ve never spent a Memorial Day in New York City, but maybe I should skip this trip?
No.
I have to go.
In lieu of him, I’ll settle for his traditions.
And tradition is Connecticut.
So I’ll buy the champagne and fresh prosciutto and make breakfast like he always did.
I’ll take Metro North and ask Mariana to join me.
I can do this.
I can pack for one while thinking of two.
* * *
In Greg’s kitchen, a recurring conversation is playing in my head. It’s the one about what sort of thank-you gift we should send Greg after hosting us for one holiday or another.
Get him an All-Clad pan from Williams-Sonoma, Alberto would say.
But Greg has tons of pans, I would reply.
None of them are non-stick, he explained.
Alberto, that’s like getting you a gift that sits in his house.
A non-stick pan, he said at least three times.
I didn’t listen.
I bought Greg upright toilet-paper dispensers and monogrammed ice buckets and stemless wine glasses.
Yeah.
Joke’s on me.
This morning, I tried to uphold Alberto’s breakfast-buffet tradition. I started with the sausage but being a fishetarian, I have no idea if they’re any good. So I moved on to dill and Muenster omelets, which stuck to the pan, burned, and refused to fold.
I called Greg’s sister, Mary, and asked if she has a non-stick pan I could borrow?
She didn’t.
By Christmas of this year, I will have ordered Greg an All-Clad pan. And when I complete the transaction, I will all but see Alberto doing his told-you-so dance.
* * *
It’s amateur night at the New York theater where Gayson takes comedy classes, so I’m here to show my support.
I should tell you, Gayson whispers after we settle into our seats, that everyone in this theater has to get on stage.
Ha, I say, except me.
Including you, he giggles.
But I’m only here to cheer you on, I argue.
I signed you up, he confesses. They’re gonna call your name any minute.
I hate you, I say, downing the remainder of my beer and looking for the exit.
He reads my body language and informs me that there’s no ins and outs during performances.
I officially hate you, I growl.
My stomach is in my throat.
This is not what I signed up for.
When the emcee calls my name, along with two others, I shoot Gayson a glare but take the stairs in four-inch heels.
Under the lights, a brown-haired girl situates herself in a heap on the stage.
I stand awkwardly next to a male stranger and stare at the girl.
It’s so weird, the guy booms, to be in L.A. on Christmas.
On Ecstasy, I add, feeling suddenly confident.
The crowd laughs.
Should we wake Margaret? the guy asks.
Not unless you have another glow stick, I say.
We continue playing off each other as the girl on the floor tosses in her sleep, moaning occasionally.
Three minutes later, the sketch is over and I’m back in my seat beside Gayson.
See, he laughs, I knew you’d be great.
I still hate you, I scoff.
It will be months before I confess to Gayson that “sketch comedy” had been on my Life To-Do List since college. And that during those three minutes, I felt a little like a glow stick myself.
I know, girl, he will say. And you’re welcome.
* * *
The HR department from my office called this afternoon, but instead of confirming that I’m all set to return in June, they ask if I’d be willing to take another month off?
My grief says yes.
My bank account says no.
Why the sudden change of date? I ask.
The new account that you’ll be leading doesn’t start until July and we’re concerned that you won’t be, um, busy enough in June.
In other words, coming back in June is asking for scrutiny.
Damn, I think.
I’ll make it work, I say.
We’ll see you on July 7, she says.
I pace the apartment before calling Fidelity and selling stock in some companies that Alberto bought when the market crashed last year.
He would not approve of this decision, but I don’t hear him suggesting alternatives.
* * *
Lately, I live in that liminal space reserved for recent college graduates or mothers experiencing empty nest syndrome: all that is familiar and comfortable is suddenly gone and you’re forced to redefine your identity.
Maybe it’s because I’m attending an ingénue fashion show tonight,
but I’m conscious of appraising glances from women as I walk down 23rd Street. The fourth time it happens—from a teenage hipster sporting the same sunglasses as me!—I look down and take stock of my outfit.
Half of what I’m wearing (skirt, vintage cardi, and purse) is all California, pre-Alberto.
The top and shoes were bought last spring and Alberto-approved.
The necklace is post-Alberto.
My God.
Does even my outfit contain the subtext of a widow grappling with both her former single California self and her former married NY self?
* * *
Today Alberto’s mother goes to Cuba for three weeks. And in Cuba, her cell phone won’t work and Internet access is something magical that happens once a day, for about an hour. I’ve talked or texted with her every day since March 15th—more often than I talk to my own mother—and even though I’m not the type to have abandonment issues, I feel like a kid whose mom is dumping her with a babysitter.
I sort through my head and pull up a root: I’m scared of something happening to Hilda in Cuba.
Or happening to Barby here.
Or happening to me.
I flash back to the year (or ten) after I lost my brother, and remember having a strong sense of everyone’s mortality.
The silver lining of loss?
A renewed appreciation for the still-living.
* * *
It’s been bike-riding weather for a week, so I make a visit to the basement, where our bicycles hang side by side from meat hooks.
I avoid his, unlock mine, and get the hell outside. My tires aren’t as low as I expected but on the first ride of the season, we always added air at the nearby gas station.
It’s what I do.
From there, I take our usual route south on Hudson River bike path. The landmines come up quick: Chelsea Brewery, the pier pilings in the river, the cherry orchard in Tribeca, heart-shaped graffiti near the seaport.
I turn up my iPod volume and pedal through it.
The longer I ride, the less I feel like crying.
* * *
Had I known the surprise birthday party I was attending tonight was actually a surprise engagement party, can’t say I’d have been as eager to put on heels and head to a downtown restaurant called The Elephant.
As soon I saw Alberto’s friend, Roberto, in a suit, pacing the sidewalk like an expectant father, I realized tonight was more than a birthday celebration.
When his girlfriend arrived, the restaurant music was replaced with a recording of Roberto’s voice: a statement of love and history and hope almost as beautiful as the handwritten poem Alberto gave me the night he proposed.
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