July 30th
God, this is hard to write, feels like I might pass out or throw up. I just got off the phone with Dad. He has cancer. How fucking unlucky.
Cancer, like Mom. The pancreatic cancer just swarmed her body and killed her barely six months after her diagnosis. He has prostate, which he told me is more common and treatable in men his age. I want to believe him, I do. But I think of him up there, sick and alone in that old house, and it kills me. I feel like the worst daughter in the world. Honestly, I wish he’d waited until after my show to tell me. And I know how messed up and selfish that sounds.
How can I stay excited for this show? Now I’ll be looking for not one but two empty seats in that gallery, and it just makes me want to crawl into a hole and not come out of it. If my dad dies, when he dies, I’ll be all alone. His only brother died in a car accident as a teenager, my mom was an only child. No cousins, nothing. I have no family. It’s terrifying.
Dad sounded genuinely disappointed about missing my show. And I promised to head north to Hob’s Valley and visit once all the craziness dies down. I even told him about Hugh a little, and he just kept chuckling and saying that he must be pretty great to have turned my head.
Anyways, enough about that, since I don’t want to sit here crying my eyes out, worrying that I’ll be an orphan soon.
In good news, I finished the final painting. I’ve decided to call it “States of Being.” I’m feeling really prepared. Hugh is such a pro with stuff like this, and he’s really been there for me every step of the way. I’m so grateful. I’ve decided once the show is over to give him the painting. I put all my excitement, all my nervous energy, all my passion for Hugh into it after all. I think it may be the best painting I’ve ever done.
Gina is back to the semi-silent treatment. I wanted to tell her about Dad, have a shoulder to cry on. But I’m still mad at her. I don’t have the time or energy to make her like my boyfriend. That looks weird there on the page. Is he my boyfriend?! I was never much of a romantic, not really, not before this. But now? I didn’t know I was incomplete until Hugh came. He’s been such a constant, and he has been so sweet about my dad. I’m lucky to have someone like him looking out for me.
August 5th
Show is five days away and I’m excited, but in some ways I’ll be more excited when it’s over and done with. That sounds terrible. I guess I’m just scared to put myself out there. What if no one likes my work? What if it’s poorly reviewed? I’ve always painted for myself, because I needed to. But now? It sounds pathetic and embarrassing, but, now I’m finding myself doing it for Hugh. I want him to be proud of me, I want his gamble on a nobody to pay off.
With my dad stuff, and Gina stuff, I have just wanted to be with him all the time. He makes me feel better, happier. When we’re apart, even a few hours, it’s like my skin breaks out in hives. When did I develop an obsessive personality? I’ve had boyfriends, some I genuinely thought I loved, but it’s nothing compared to this yearning for Hugh. It’s like I’m addicted.
I won’t lie, though. I hate the bites. They hurt and they’re ugly and the longer I’m away from him the more they ache, the slower they seem to heal. Everything else about our relationship is perfect, like romance-novel perfect. Being with him makes me realize that with every other guy it was just fucking. But this is different. Real. I’m head over heels in love.
I’m going to try to get some rest now. Been having a hard time sleeping, and the stress is getting to me about everything.
August 11th
I have arrived!
The gallery opening last night was a rousing success! I was so afraid no one would show up, or people would hate my work, or that Hugh would be upset with something. So many possible pitfalls! I made sure to drag every friend, colleague, and former professor in to stack the deck. Cool music, crisp champagne, wedges of cheese, the whole nine. In total, fifteen of my paintings were on display, with “States of Being” as the focus. The show was titled “Reflections in Time and Space.”
At the time I came up with it, I thought it was brilliant and poetic, looking back it sounds a bit cheesy. But I digress. Even Kyle and Gina were cordial to me at the event, avoiding Hugh like the plague.
In the end, I sold nine and that totals almost five thousand bucks! I can’t believe it. My bank account is trilling in anticipation. I’m going to pay down my credit card for once. If I never have another gallery show I’ll be able to die happy. I did it, I succeeded!!! I had a well-received show of my own work, in an exclusive gallery in Chelsea!! I have a small stack of business cards and interested buyers. It’s fucking amazing!
And through all of this, Hugh’s been fantastic. The last few days I’ve been sleeping at his place more than my own. Granted, it’s also much nicer than my place, and I don’t have to deal with the roaches. Or Gina and Kyle. It’s been really nice playing house with him—it’s not hard for me to picture us living together down the line. I’ve been on cloud nine with him and the show.
But, even as I beamed and shook hands last night and received more praise than ever in my life, I was missing my folks. I don’t believe in heaven, or ghosts really, but I like to think Mom was there, watching and proud. I dedicated the show to her. I’d never be the person I am now if not for her and her uncompromising belief in my talent.
And now it’s done. The show will stay on view for the next month, but I won’t have to be there, and if I’m lucky, more paintings will sell. What I want to do more than anything else now is just rest and sleep and regroup. I’m so tired lately, like I’m just dragging along, going through the motions.
The only thing I want to do now is snuggle up with Hugh someplace and be left alone. He understands how much this show took out of me. To celebrate, we’re going away for the weekend, out of the city, to a small B & B someplace where no one can find us. It’ll be perfect.
August 15th
We just got back from the weekend away. The B & B was lovely, a small old Victorian owned by a sweet elderly couple. I know I promised Dad a visit, but I knew it would be a sad visit. And I wanted to do something fun, a reward for all my hard work. The downside is that I was sick all weekend.
Hugh and I took it easy, walking the woodland trails, swimming in the local creek, picnicking. It was hard to keep my spirits up, though, feeling as lousy as I did. I thought the country air, the feeling of liberation and accomplishment, all of that would relax me, revitalize me. But that doesn’t seem to be the case. I was really sick all three mornings, and weak throughout the day. Hugh was concerned, and kept giving me vitamins and trying to feed me, even when my stomach was upset.
He was very understanding, but I know he was disappointed. Hell, I was disappointed, who wants to be sick on a romantic getaway?
August 19th
Hugh had to leave town for a few days, so we’ve been apart. I’m feeling a little better, but still sick in the mornings, and I’ve been unbelievably tired. When Hugh first left I was beside myself, which is crazy considering we’ve been dating for such a short time. But as the days passed something else has weaseled its way into my brain. Anger about the bites. They are really gross-looking. And between the bites and the fatigue, I’m thinking about going to a doctor.
Hugh’s so wonderful in every other way. But it’s summer, which means tank tops, miniskirts, and shorts, and it’s hot in my apartment. I don’t want anyone to see my body. He’s supposed to call me tonight. I’m going to try and get my courage together and confront him about it. I have to.
August 24th
I’m not getting better, vomiting in the morning, dizzy, pale. I lost a few more pounds, fast. I tried to talk to Hugh about it the other night on the phone, and he just . . . brushed it off. It made me angry, really angry, actually. I’ve never felt this way about him since we’ve been together, but the distance, his voice tinny down the line of a phone, it made me see him a bit clearer. I told him the bites need to stop and he said sure, but he thought I liked them. Thought I was into it.
He accused me of being deceptive, of letting him think things were fine, while secretly feeling this way. Said it hurt his feelings. WHAT? I don’t think my request was too much. I cried. He said he’d be home in a few days and he’d take care of me. He said he loved me. First time for that. I just wish it hadn’t been over the phone while I was crying and angry. Much less romantic.
August 27th
Hugh dropped a bomb on me when he got back: he wants me to move in with him. It’s a bit rushed, no? We’ve been dating for barely two months.
He’s been a good nurse, forcing lots of rest and fluids. He even made me eat liver the other day, which was disgusting and I nearly threw up immediately. He’s worried about my health, and I love him for it. But I can’t help finding his doctor aversion strange. As soon as I’m away from him I start to question his intentions. What am I doing? I’m obviously sick. I need a doctor. Hugh keeps talking me out of going, reminding me I have no insurance, and that most medicine is bullshit anyway.
What’s making me feel crazy is that he keeps insisting I’m fine, that I just need more iron, that I need more rest. He wants me to move in with him, and that way he can care for me. It feels too soon. I think I need to get better before I make any hasty decisions. I’m resting plenty. I just work at the restaurant two days a week now. Even that’s wearing me out though, dragging my bones around, feeling like I creak when I move. I know he thinks I’m fine, but I know my body and I’ve never felt like this before.
I need time to think about all of this, and get some space. Is it weird that I find it hard to think clearly when Hugh is around? Maybe I just feel crowded because I don’t feel well. Either way, I’m going to my apartment for a few days.
August 29th
Gina’s taking me to the Planned Parenthood clinic. Even she’s worried about me, and she doesn’t care about much of anything. I must look like total shit to get on her radar.
The past few weeks have changed her attitude considerably. She didn’t like Hugh initially, but now she thinks he’s bad for me, that he’s making me sick! I told her she’s crazy, that she doesn’t know him. That yes, it’s a coincidence that I’ve gotten ill so fast but there are other reasons besides Hugh. Dad has fucking cancer after all, plus there was the stress of the big show. Deep inside I want to believe that Hugh loves me, that I love him, that he doesn’t want to hurt me. So I’m going to the doctor and he doesn’t need to know. I’ll tell him if there’s anything to tell. I’m a grown woman, I know my body, and my body is saying go to the damn doctor.
I don’t want Hugh to worry over nothing.
August 30th
Fuck. I just got back from the doctor and all I can get myself to write is FUCK.
Not only do I have severe anemia, I’m also apparently pregnant. Pregnant! It hasn’t sunk in yet. I’m just going to bury it a little further and focus on the other revelations of the checkup for now. The anemia is treatable, so that’s something, but the doctor was suspicious of why I was suddenly so severely anemic. I thought about lying, blaming my period, blaming my diet, but as she looked at my skin, at the bites, she got more concerned.
She poked at a particularly deep bite on my inner arm. It was just about healed, the skin pink and shiny. I pulled away from her fingers, pressing my arm tight to my side. I was too embarrassed to face her, staring instead at the giant reproductive chart. It’s funny how much a woman’s uterus resembles a bull skull. I wonder if Georgia O’Keefe was deliberately painting women’s genitals in her western paintings but not, as she vehemently asserted, in her lily paintings. Strange the things you think about when your brain is about to shut down.
I tried to change the subject, tried to direct the doctor to a different line of questioning, but she was having none of it. She asked me point blank if I was being abused. I was horrified, defensive. I explained that my boyfriend enjoyed biting but it was no big deal. She was suspicious and explained at length how germy the human mouth was, and how prone to infection those bites could be. She was doubtful that I could be losing so much blood through this practice but suggested I stop. I just nodded dumbly.
I could practically read her mind: she thought I was irresponsible, reckless, and more importantly, she thought I was in an abusive relationship.
The more I said I wasn’t, the more defensive I sounded, so I gave up. Instead I just sat there, numb, my arms wrapped around my belly. I imagined my insides, past the ropes of intestines, the bags of gasses and acids, to the tiny life that was sprouting. It was horrific and euphoric at the same time. I didn’t know how to feel about anything. Sure I’d thought about being a mother “someday,” in that way people say things they have no concept of how to plan for. It was just something for the future. But now? I’ve been dating Hugh for only a few months, I’m barely employed, and I have a sick father up north and no other family. I can’t have a fucking baby. Can I?
I should just get rid of it. It would be better if I put the “someday” back on the shelf—now is not the time for a baby. The doctor gave me some information on abortion, and tried again to get me to talk about the bites. I was like a fortress though, giving her nothing and trying to keep from going ballistic.
Finally, she handed over the prescription for heavy-duty iron pills and an antibiotic. I met Gina in the waiting room, but I knew if I stopped to talk I’d start crying, so I just walked out, Gina running after me. Once we were a few buildings down, I leaned against a wall, thankful for the support, and then burst into tears. I slid down to the dirty sidewalk, crying because I was fucking pregnant, crying because I was weak. Crying because I was scared. Gina wrapped her arms around me, rocking back and forth. And although I didn’t want to admit it, I knew Hugh was to blame for everything.
September 1st
Today didn’t go the way I planned. I have to decode this cluster-fuck my life has turned into. I feel like I’m trapped on this terrible carnival ride that I don’t remember stepping onto.
After a day of crying and feeling sorry for myself, I finally resigned myself to go talk to Hugh about the pregnancy. I’d been 99.9% sure that I was going to get an abortion, unless he was so persuasive and excited to be a father that he could change my mind. So I took the train straight to Hugh’s gallery. I walked right up to the door and my nerve dried up. I circled the block, bought a peppermint tea at the fancy coffee shop on the corner, and sat sipping it on someone’s stoop, building my resolve.
Closing my eyes, I could feel the sun on my face, the warmth, and just breathed. I rubbed my stomach trying to think about the future. Let’s say I keep the baby. In this crazy scenario, let’s even say that Hugh is happy about it, or at least supportive. I move into his lovely townhouse, maybe he even proposes to make his traditional father happy, and so my sick old dad doesn’t think his only daughter is irresponsible. I move in, we turn the home office into a nursery, I paint a mural for the baby on the wall. Something from A.A. Milne’s Pooh stories maybe. Make the place beautiful. Hugh and I run the gallery together—I paint, he works, and we’re fantastic parents. When people ask about our lives we laugh, we say it wasn’t exactly how we planned it, and the baby came sooner than we were expecting, but it was okay because we loved each other. And everything worked out in the end.
But I couldn’t live in my fantasy. I needed to face Hugh. I got my courage together and I went back to the gallery. I rapped on the door until he came out from the back smiling and waving. I stepped in, the space much darker and cooler than outside, the sweat on my skin drying instantly.
I had to tell him. I had to tell him everything. The fear squeezed at my chest so I was almost hyperventilating. I swayed, reached out and steadied myself against the wall. I eased into a chair at Hugh’s desk and asked for water. My shaking hands were so sweaty they could barely grip the glass. I thought we’d have so much more time before life intervened in our romantic fairy tale. My mind circled back to the doctor then, how concerned she was about his bites. And suddenly, it all made sense. Everything he cooked for me
was iron rich; the lentils, the vegetables, the liver. He knew. He’d always known.
And if he knew, it was because he’d done it before. I wanted to scream, to attack him, to throw up. He knew he was making me sick.
Time stretched out and my vision tunneled. Finally, I blurted out that I went to the doctor, and before I told Hugh anything more, he had the gall to actually look angry. I told him I was anemic. He was angrier than I’d ever seen. Claimed I betrayed him, seriously. He stayed on the other side of his desk, stone-faced, black eyes shining, and for the first time I understood why Gina thought he was creepy. It hurt me that the man I was so in love with could look at me this way.
I asked him why. Why did he bite me, why do it? He didn’t answer, his lips a slim line. Frustrated, I told him I was pregnant. Any color in his already pale face drained and he asked if I was sure it was his. Seriously! I would laugh if it wasn’t so terrible. Then he started pacing, all upset, hand over his mouth, looking at me over and over again. Like it was his life that was ruined. And then he asked how soon we could get rid of it.
Get rid of it. Get rid of it. How many women have heard those words from men who claimed to love them?
In that moment, something in me cracked. I guess it was the automatic assumption that the baby would be aborted, that we wouldn’t even discuss it. I didn’t even want the damn thing, but at that moment, I put my hand on my stomach, as if to muffle his voice, keep the baby from hearing. And I connected with it then. It was more than an inconvenience.
Hugh took in my body language and froze. Then he rushed toward me and I flinched, pulling away from him. There was something in his eyes, something cold and cruel and I didn’t know how I could have loved this man with such mindless abandon. God, I’m an idiot.
I asked why, why was he so against having the baby? Was it his reputation? Was it about money? Was it me? He said no to all of that, tried to remind me how young I was still, how talented I was. How we were still so new as a couple. All of it, about how a baby would make it impossible to paint, of how we were still learning how to love one another. And I know that he’s right, that’s the crazy thing. I agree with him on all those things. I’ve been saying it in my head over and over for so long. And yet . . .
Parasite Life Page 9