The Ruining

by Anna Collomore

  Libby brought her coffee mug over to the kitchen table and scooted her chair over by me. She reached out and placed her palm gently on my forearm. “Did he break up with you?” she asked softly. I felt myself responding physically to her concern: relaxing a little, leaning toward her.

  “No,” I said. “Not yet, at least. He’s moving.”

  “Moving? Moving where?”

  “Durham. What I can’t figure out,” I said, sniffling, “is why he would have started a relationship with me if this was a possibility all along.”

  “Well,” Libby said in a maternal tone, “I know you’ll be okay. You had to have known he wasn’t going to live with his parents forever.” Maybe I should have known it, but it honestly hadn’t occurred to me. I hadn’t quite gotten there yet. I had just been enjoying the feeling, hoping it lasted. “It’s obvious what you have to do, of course,” Libby said then.

  “What?”

  She raised her eyebrows, like she was shocked I’d even have to ask. “Break up with him. It’s a no-brainer.”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe we could make it work.” I’d been holding out hope; after all, isn’t that what people were supposed to do when they found someone special? Make it work against all odds?

  Libby leaned back in her chair, looking irritated. “Nanny,” she said. “You absolutely have to break up with him. There are a myriad of reasons. First of all, you’ll never be able to see him. Not with work and school. There’s just no way. And long-distance relationships flat out don’t work, unless there’s a light at the end of the tunnel. But what are the odds that he’ll move back onto Belvedere Island? None. Zero. Not unless he becomes insanely wealthy.” I nodded in agreement, though I was a little surprised by the reference to her own wealth.

  What she was saying, though, was what I’d already been thinking anyway. Although it would have been nice to hear her say she’d support me taking time off once in a while. But you came out here to work, the voice in my head said. You can’t blame her. Weekend visits to the boyfriend weren’t in the job description.

  “But also,” Libby continued, “you need to take control of the situation. You need to take a stand, to take the reins. It’s the only thing that really works. Trust me. I’ve dated my fair share of men. I learned how to do it well. How do you think I wound up with Walker? I know how to manage men, and I know how to manage my own feelings. If he breaks up with you, it will take you months to get over it. Maybe longer. Because you’ll feel like you weren’t ready. But if you break up with him, you’ll feel as though you had a say in what was happening. The end result is breaking up; it’s going to happen anyway. Why wouldn’t you want to do it on your own terms?”

  I nodded. It all made sense. But the thought of actually doing it—ending things with him—made me sick to my stomach. I wasn’t sure I could. Not without trying first.

  “Annie, you have to,” Libby said. “It’s the right thing to do. And you need to get it over with right away. The longer you wait, the more it’ll hurt.”

  “Okay,” I said. “I just want to take a day to process it, think it over a little.”

  Libby pushed her chair out from the table abruptly. “Do it how you want,” she snapped. “It’s not my business, just as long as you don’t cry in bed all day when you’re supposed to be watching my children.”

  “I didn’t mean—”

  “Never mind,” she interrupted. “Really. I shouldn’t have spoken up.” It was obvious from her tone that I’d offended her by rejecting her advice. But I just didn’t know if I was ready to do what she was suggesting.

  As the day dragged on and I didn’t hear from him—not one word, not even a text—I thought that maybe she had a point. The feeling of waiting was terrible. It was worse than I’d imagined. I compulsively checked my phone; I couldn’t think about anything else. At least if I told him not to talk to me, I’d know what to expect. I’d have an active role in everything. I just needed to forget about the way he looked at me; the way he said my name, his voice soft and deep; the way I felt wrapped in his arms, like the tiniest, most delicate thing. Until I met Owen, I’d never in my life felt like I’d been taken care of.

  I decided to do it that night, after the kids were in bed. I sent him a text: “Meet by mailboxes 2nite @ 11? I have 2 talk 2 u.” Less than a minute later, I got his response: “K.” Just, “K.” Nothing else.

  I’d be brave, braver than I’d ever been. And then I would tell Libby in the morning, and she would be happy. I owed everything to Libby, I really did. Breaking up with Owen would bring us closer. It would show her that I trusted her advice. It would help repair some of the damage I’d caused with the small mistakes I seemed to make every day. And ultimately, it would be the best thing for me. I really believed that.

  CHAPTER

  NINETEEN

  BY TEN FIFTY, I was getting anxious. Everyone was in bed, but I really didn’t want to wake up Libby and Walker. I didn’t want them wondering what I was doing out there so late at night. I would have waited, except I didn’t know how long it would be before I’d have a chance to talk to Owen again. Besides, I wanted to beat him to the punch, like Libby said.

  His figure blended into the darkness so much that I could barely make him out against the backdrop of trees and garbage cans. He was wearing a gray hoodie, and his back was facing me. He turned as he heard me approach; I couldn’t read his expression.

  “Hey,” he said.

  “Hey.” We stood there awkwardly for a minute, neither of us sure what to do with our hands. I folded mine across my chest, he shoved his deep in his pockets.

  “There’s something we need to talk about,” I said finally.

  “Yeah. I figured there was a reason for this late-night rendezvous, but I was kind of hoping I was wrong.”

  “Listen,” I started, fighting to keep my voice steady. “I really care about you. You know that. But I’m really hurt by what’s happening.”

  “With my move, you mean.”

  “Yeah.” I bit my lip, waiting.

  “Truthfully,” he told me, “I think you’re overreacting. I think this shouldn’t be such a big deal, I think we could work it out. And I think you’re being a little self-involved for making it such an issue, when really it could be something to celebrate.”

  “I’m being self-involved?” His words were like multiple punches that left me breathless. I felt dizzy, like my body was no longer an adequate support system for my emotions.

  “Yeah,” he said. “I didn’t want to say it, but you are. And you know what? I’m not sure how I feel about that.”

  “Well, let me save you the trouble of figuring it out,” I hissed. “I can’t do it. I don’t want any part of it. So you can go on and have your awesome, charmed life, in Durham, without me. Since you clearly know exactly what you want, and I clearly don’t factor into it enough for it to make a difference.”

  “What are you talking about?” He raised his voice to nearly a yell. “Do you understand how delusional you sound? And also, we’ve only known each other for, what, two months? Did it occur to you that me confiding in you about it the second I found out shows exactly how much I care?”

  When he finished, we were both shaking in anger. The words delusional and only two months played on a continuous, ever-more-rapid loop until it all blended together in an amalgamation of hurt and anger. I couldn’t hear anything else he was saying, just that.

  “It doesn’t matter,” I said finally, mainly to fill the silence. “It really doesn’t matter anymore. Because I can’t do this.” And then I walked away.

  I spent the rest of the night in my room, crying. But no amount of crying made it any better. The pain was deep and aching, worse than anything I’d ever felt. Worse than any amount of physical pain I could imagine. I felt sick inside, and incredibly alone. I wanted Libby’s arms around me, hugging me, telling me it would be okay, that in a little while I’d have someone like Walker, and none of this would matter at all.


  • • •

  IT WAS NEARLY FOUR O’CLOCK in the morning when I woke up, my eyes caked with sleep and tears. The light was off, but I had no memory of turning it off. I was asleep on top of my covers with my clothes on. I sat up in bed, blinking the sleep from my eyes. I felt disoriented and confused. I could have sworn I’d shut down my laptop before I’d gone to meet Owen, but there it was, shedding a dim blue glow over the room. I felt my pulse begin to race; it was clear that someone had been on the computer recently enough for the monitor to have roused from standby.

  “Hello?” I whispered, every hair on my spine rising in fear. I wrapped my arms around my waist, feeling chilled by my nerves and the air that seeped in through the crack in my window, pre-winter air that gusted around the room and wound its way up my ankles and thighs like it was trying to consume me.

  The window. Had I left it open? Had I cracked it as I sometimes did on warm nights? Then all my senses were on high alert. I stood frozen, eyes darting across the room, conducting an investigation as if independent from the rest of me. There was my journal, resting atop my bedside table. There was the clock, ticking away. And all the drawers to my bureau were closed tightly.

  But had that painting been on my wall yesterday? The yellow wallpaper whirled around, highlighting it, forming a sort of spotlight for it. For a second I saw faces in the wallpaper. Grinning, crying, mocking me. All of a sudden I couldn’t remember at all about the painting. It was just a generic sketch of a fishing boat docked to a wooden pier, choppy waters cresting in the background. It was entirely possible it had been there the night before, and the day before that; it looked like a painting I’d seen a million times. But something about it felt unfamiliar in the changing light of early dawn. And was the cabinet holding my jewelry, books, and TV just slightly ajar?

  The computer monitor fell asleep, casting the room back into a murky gray darkness. I walked to the window and looked outside. The sun was beginning to rise over the water in the distance, and as I stared at the oranges that reflected out over the water, I began to feel safer. Calmer. It began to seem possible that I’d left my computer on, that my footsteps had jolted the table and the computer atop it, which had flashed to life. Nothing, after all, was on the screen. I checked the history, and the last entry was my e-mail account at five after ten the previous night. I must have cracked the window in the half-asleep state I’d been experiencing regularly since I started the exhausting task of babysitting Zoe. I decided to do one thing, just one thing to confirm that my room hadn’t been tampered with.

  I padded down the stairs and gently opened the door to Walker and Libby’s wing. They had their own long hallway with several rooms branching off. I’d only been back there twice: the time Libby had given me her old clothing and the first day I’d arrived. On that first day, Libby had shown me around quickly before closing the door and informing me that there’d be virtually no reason to return to this end of the house. Zoe wasn’t allowed; it was her parents’ private space, their oasis from their married-with-children lives.

  The hallway was carpeted, so I was able to slip noiselessly in. I just had to confirm that Libby was sleeping, that she hadn’t woken up and snooped in my room. I knew I was taking a risk. There was no reason for her to snoop. But I was forgetting so many things lately, and my nerves were beginning to fray. I’d begun to feel anxious and high-strung. I had to know the extent of what was happening to me.

  Libby’s door was ajar. I peered in, my eyes adjusting slowly to the darkness of her room, which was more extreme than that of the hallway. All of her blinds were drawn. A strange, vinegary smell permeated my nostrils. I took a step toward the massive bed, a king-sized, sleigh-style bed that rested in the center of the room as if on stage. It wasn’t backed up against the wall; but then, the room was big enough for such an extravagant use of space. I could hear Libby’s breathing, deep and slow. I moved closer. I felt compelled to see her. To prove to my brain that it was her in the bed, her sound asleep, her in the way that it could be no one else.

  I stumbled into a pile of clothing. The smell grew worse as it shifted around, as if it had been burying something foul. Slowly, as my eyes adjusted more and more, I noticed similar mounds all around the room. Piles of clothes, plastic and paper wrappers balled up and discarded, makeup spilled on the vanity. There was the sour odor mixed with something rank and musty, like body odor. She was slovenly here, in the privacy of her own quarters, a space she believed no one else could see. When there’s privacy, that’s when you let your true self emerge.

  Through it all, Libby breathed deeply, reassuring me that she’d been asleep the whole time. She wouldn’t have had the chance to be in my room and get back here and fall into such a deep sleep otherwise. And why would she? She was my ally. Libby was all I had. She was everything to me.

  Nevertheless, the knowledge wasn’t enough. I crept closer to her bed until I was standing right above her sleeping form. I could see everything: the curve of her lashes, the rise and fall of her chest. The curly quality of her hair, let loose from its normal bun and falling into unkempt waves around her shoulders. I felt a kind of reverence overcome me as I did it. I imagined myself there, in her bed—not with her, not like that—but me there instead of her. For a second I saw my own sleeping form in that bed. I saw myself as Libby. With her life. Her husband. Her children.

  I stared at Libby. I wasn’t sure what compelled me to do it. But I stared at her in the darkness for a very long time before I went back to my bed.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY

  IT WAS SUNDAY. My official day off. If ever I deserved a real day off, it was now. The sun shone through my delicate gauze draperies, casting a friendly pattern on the floor. The night—everything that had happened after Owen—seemed like something I’d imagined.

  What happened with Owen was different. Owen was raw and red and gaping and swollen. He was a wound that looked dubious, one that maybe would heal with care and time, or maybe would fester and worsen. I knew that in order for the former to come true, I had to drag myself out of bed. I had to take care of my wound, make it better before it worsened.

  I was surprised to find that my clock read eleven o’clock. It was the first time I’d slept that late without someone coming in to wake me up. I wondered why they’d left me alone, if Libby had somehow intuited what had happened with Owen.

  Every time I thought of him, I had to steady myself.

  I pushed back my curtains and gazed into the backyard. My room overlooked the pool, the grass, and, beyond that, the water and the city. It was lovely. The island spread out on either side of the house like an unexplored wilderness. And Zoe and Walker and Libby and Jackson were all playing in the pool, which was now heated bathtub-warm so they could use it even in these pre-winter months. I watched Walker push little Jackson around in his baby inner tube, Zoe splashing in floaties nearby. Libby pulled herself out of the water and lay down on a lounge chair atop a towel, apparently content to let the sun absorb the moisture on her body. From afar, they were ever the picture of happiness. I badly wanted to go down and talk to Libby about what had happened the previous night with Owen. I felt like she deserved some of the credit for encouraging me to take that leap. And now, of all times, I needed her support. But all together, they looked like a unit. I would be an intrusion.

  Even so, I had all kinds of pent up energy and emotions to expel. What had I done before, when I was upset about something? I had run. I used to run all the time. Anywhere, everywhere, all around Detroit, even through the bad areas, which just pushed me to run faster. But I’d been so constantly exhausted since I’d come to California that I hadn’t thought about running even once. It had been such a big part of my life in Detroit that I was shocked I hadn’t thought of it again until now. I grabbed my phone and looked at my text messages out of habit. Then I clicked over to the Internet before I could feel sorry for myself. In the Google search engine, I typed, “Belvedere Island hiking trails,” and a list of results po
pped up. It looked like the closest hike was in the Muir Woods, seven miles away. Looking at photos of the woods made me extra-excited. There were gorgeous flowers in San Francisco—the California poppy, bright orange and welcoming; the crimson columbine, which looked like an upside-down star with a tiny blossom in the middle; the star lily, which looked like a cluster of snowflakes from afar; dozens of others in bright orange and purple hues that I couldn’t name. Lissa had loved flowers, and these exotic species would have thrilled her.

  I threw on my Lycra jogging pants and a tank top and sweatshirt, residual from my Detroit wardrobe, and ran down the steps. The hike was four and a half miles. It should take me just a little over two hours, if I kept it brisk. I dashed out the sliding door to the pool terrace just as Libby was about to step into the kitchen; we nearly collided.

  “Oh!” I said, startled. “I’m sorry!”

  Libby pressed a hand to her chest. “My god, Nanny. Be more careful next time, will you? Where are you going in such a rush? I’m glad you’ve come down, though. I thought you probably needed a good rest, but I could use a little help preparing lunch. What?” she asked, noticing my disappointed look. “Don’t tell me you’re meeting Owen.”

  “No.” I shook my head. “We broke up. I broke up with him,” I clarified. “Last night after I put Zoe to bed.” I swallowed hard; it was really difficult to acknowledge it as reality and to believe that I had made the right choice.

  “Oh, Annie,” Libby said. “I’m so proud of you.” She hugged me, then pulled back, gripping my shoulders and staring into my eyes. Her fingers were tight and talon-like on my shoulders. Her fingernails pressed hard into my skin, hard enough to leave bruises. “This was the right decision,” she told me. “You’ll find someone else in no time. You know, there was something I didn’t like about him from the start. He always seemed a little cagey, like he had something he was hiding. . . .” As she rambled on, I erected an invisible shield all around me so the words would flow above and beyond, but never penetrate. I just couldn’t handle it right then.