“I’m not crazy. I promise I’m not crazy.” I expel the words quickly; they embarrass me.
Vera’s face melts into unassuming kindness and her hand reaches up to cup my chin. She grips it firmly, making me gaze into her eyes and not look elsewhere. But I want to look away from her so badly, because what if she does not believe me now? What if she no longer thinks of me as a daydreamer? Maybe she’ll stop calling me Ocean Eyes.
I am not insane…
“Listen to me, Ocean Eyes. I don’t believe for a second that you’re crazy. But there’s something shimmering about you, a lightness in a dark world. It surrounds you like an amber halo. It makes you different. This world snuffs out brightness and specialness, stuffs it into a cage, and puts it behind bars. Don’t let that happen to you. Don’t let evil put a barrier between your body and life.”
I open my mouth to speak, to ask her about the shimmering light that she sees, but we are no longer alone. Truman has stepped into the room quietly. I have no idea how long he’s stood there, but he is staring at Vera, unhappiness plastered across his face like an ill wish. I wonder if he heard what she said.
I wonder if he is the world, ready to snuff out my brightness. That would be more terrible than him being my personal oblivion.
Truman clears his throat and his eyes travel the small distance between Vera’s face and my own. “I was just checking on you. Everyone’s coming over around five to welcome you back.”
“Everyone?”
“The family, a few folks from my firm, the rowing team, the usual crowd.”
Sucking in a breath, I feel my legs begin to give way. But Vera is there, so close to me, and she does not let me fall. “I’m just getting out of the hospital, sweetheart.” My voice cracks on the word sweetheart, and I swallow loudly before continuing. “I hardly think it’s the best time for a party.”
“It’s not a party, Lena. Just a few people joining us for an early supper. And Dr. Lenderman said getting you back to a normalized routine and active social life was the best thing for you.”
I stare at him, wondering how I can get out of leaving the hospital. But I know there’s no hope—short of actually trying to kill myself and getting tossed in a padded room. I must go to that condo I share with the man I do not love. “I’m sure it will be nice, Truman. Thank you.”
He nods briskly. “I’ll be back after lunch.” Then, just as briskly, Truman turns around and disappears.
I sigh heavily, glad that he is gone.
Vera pats me on the arm, as if she understands. I hope that she understands. I need someone to understand. “Are you steady enough to stand without help?”
“I think so.”
Vera releases me and I immediately begin to sway dangerously. She grips my waist quickly.
“Um… maybe not.” My cheeks are flaming red. “Sorry.” We hobble together the short distance to the adjustable bed and I sit down on the edge.
Laid over a taupe chair in my hospital room is a nude body shaper and strapless seersucker dress. Out of all the items Truman could have brought for me to wear on my home-going, he brings me this. He knows I hate it, that the dress material chafes my underarms and the blue and white pattern goes poorly with my skin tone. It’s tight around my wide hips and the bodice is comically loose. When I wear the stupid thing, I feel like a piece of poorly shaped fruit, my top half too small, and my bottom half too large. At any moment while wearing it, I am convinced that I might morph into a chubby human bowling pin and be knocked down by the large tri-holed ball that is Truman.
I’d tried throwing the dress out months ago, but he hadn’t let me.
He loves this dress on me. The dress that I hate.
But I have no choice but to wear it. Someone has come in and packed all of my things away. Was it Truman? Was he here in the room as I lay drooling on the shower floor? Had he looked in and seen me?
Had he seen me against the tile, crippling beneath the weight of my world?
Had he cared?
“You look lovely, Ocean Eyes.” Vera is smiling so widely now, I almost believe her. She walks toward me and her hands reach for my neck to straighten my necklace. “There, you’re perfect now.”
The material against my body is sandpaper, though, and the “almost” belief is banished by the discomfort. Perhaps if the dress was silver, a series of sequins one atop the…
Suddenly I see visions of fish and seaweed, of golden rays of light filtering through turbulent waters. It is ethereal, breathtaking. I am swirling about in the water, part of the kaleidoscopic colors, so full of life and energy. Please make it real. Please do not let this end. The words fly through the darkness of my brain like an arrow through a ring of fire, and for a brief and blissful second I feel my prayers will be answered.
“Ocean Eyes, you’re daydreaming again.”
As quickly as I was plunged into the vision, I am released. It makes me miserable and angry; a hot geyser builds in my body like a pipe under too much pressure. I am ready to burst. But I cannot break down again. Yet I am also not recovered enough to be happy—even fake happy. So I settle on sullen, an emotional island that calls to me often.
“I hate this dress,” I grumble, channeling a petulant, ungrateful child.
“Why?”
It’s a simple question enough, but for some reason the artless nature of it annoys me.
Why? Well, why the hell not? Shouldn’t I be allowed to hate on a whim? Love after long contemplation? Run away if I very well feel like it? Shouldn’t I be allowed to do whatever pleases me without having to explain to God and the entire freaking world why?
Pushing the mental impetuousness downwards, deep into my belly where I know it will be destroyed by acidic juices, I answer with a lie. “I’m not sure why. I’ve just never found it very flattering.”
“Well, you’re wrong, Ocean Eyes.”
“I usually am.”
Vera’s eyes tighten at that, crinkling at the corners. I’ve ruined the moment now, mocked her kindness with my self-deprecation that served little purpose but to call attention to my low confidence. I hope that she does not compliment me again. I don’t deserve it.
Lunch arrives as Vera sets the television on my favorite channel. I don’t feel like eating, even though the food has gotten progressively better over the past days. Not that it’s actually getting better; I am just becoming used to the overcooked vegetables and underseasoned meats.
“You need to eat. You missed breakfast.” Vera is by my side, pushing the rolling table closer to my belly as I sit in bed. “I’ll be back in a jiff with a cup of coffee.”
This makes me smile, because my beautiful nurse walks out of the room without asking how I take my cup of joe. She herself does not even like coffee—not that she’s actually said she doesn’t, but I can tell.
I’ve never had someone make such a concerted effort to learn so much about me, like how I only like unsalted butter in my dark roast. I love the bitterness of the strong, black, steeped grounds, and it is complemented by the butter rather than hidden by flavored creams and sugar. Two days ago, she’d brought in four whole sticks and commented that she’d bring in a dozen more just to see me smile so brightly.
Even after all this time together, Truman still thinks I like french vanilla creamer and extra sugar.
That’s the way he likes his coffee.
I am not him, no matter how hard he tries to meld me into an extension of his body.
As I take a sip from the cranberry juice cup on my tray, my gaze flits quickly to the window and partially opened blinds. A plane is going by, large and mostly white with a speck of cobalt to complement the pale sky.
I wish I were on it.
Maybe because it is my release day, it feels suddenly strange to be having lunch in the hospital, dressed nicely as if I’m sitting at a fancy table at one of the five-stars Truman insists on going to every weekend. Yet here I am, my underarms already feeling raw from the boning in the dress’s corseted bodice.
Lifting the lid off of the plate to reveal the food beneath, I find myself suddenly sick. My stomach fluids roll about erratically, a marble in a child’s labyrinth toy.
Today, the slight man in blue scrubs has brought me fried flounder.
Pushing the table away with a hard shove, I swing my legs over the side of the hospital bed and I run for the bathroom. I’m not going to make it. The wave of nausea gives way to an eruption of foamy yellow bile. When I fall to my knees, my abdomen muscles contract as my insides try to exit my body.
And that’s when Truman enters.
When I am on my hands and knees, bowing before him, throwing my guts up, that’s when he comes back to me with all his dark blond hair that curls at the temple and diamond-flecked hazel eyes.
My puke looks like fresh chum on the deck of a boat; I see flecks of red within the daisy-hued liquid. Truman moves a step forward, as if to help me, but the single step is all he advances. He doesn’t like this side of relationships. The ugly side.
Sure, he talks a big game, takes care of me when eyes are watching.
But holding a woman’s hair back as she vomits, as she is at her most unattractive… Truman would need a formidable audience to motivate him for that task. I’m thinking the Pope or possibly President.
He is the only one here, though—the only one available to help me. And, God, I do not want his help. I do not want to seem any weaker in his eyes. Part of me still wants to break down, though, and beg Truman to help me, but when I look up at him, I see the obvious unease on his face, the way his lip is curling up at the corners with disgust.
“Can you please get the nurse, Tru? And maybe a ginger ale?”
He nods. “Of course.” And he bolts. My request is an offering to him, releasing him from any obligation to clean up my mess.
Vera arrives quickly. She kneels next to me and wipes my mouth with a cool cloth and offers me ice-cold ginger ale. “I’m thinking you might not want that hot coffee now.” Her words are kind and her hand moves gently, swiping the washcloth over my face twice more.
No, I do not want the coffee. I want nothing. Nothing.
Chapter 5
Homecoming
Part of me wants to leave, return to the hospital and stay there, but Truman’s hand rests against the small of my back. His fingers move in gentle circles, coaxing me forward.
A chatter dances to us, prancing across the floral notes filling the hallway air. It should be spices—cinnamon and star anise and vanilla—in this hall. I can only imagine what Truman’s mother has changed while I have been in the hospital.
The volume of noise increases the closer we get.
A small gathering. The usual crowd. It sounds like a herd of elephants waits in the kitchen. Heels click across the hand-scraped hardwoods. The murmur of voices is a buzzing that grows louder as we approach. It causes my intestines to bind, contracting into an uncomfortable ball. I need the restroom, but a pit stop is unlikely.
We’re nearly at the entry; the door is ominous, painted a deep gray that contrasts starkly with the white trim. I’d chosen the color, redoing all the doors while Truman was at a conference. I thought it was such a rebellion, but then he’d come home and hadn’t even noticed. The joke is on me, because now the door color is dark and depressing. I ardently wish I’d chosen a happy shade.
“I really wish you’d put on a touch of makeup. You look so pale.” I can feel his frown; it’s a presence all on its own—one I’ve become well used to.
“You were driving so fast, Tru. I would have ended up with mascara all over my face.”
“You could have managed a little blush. That doesn’t take a skilled hand.” He is right; I’ve never been very good at applying makeup and I’ve always liked the freckles on my face. They thicken over summer, until I am a walking connect-the-dots by autumn.
Truman’s hand is pushing the door inward and I swallow. The lump in my throat stays in place; it is the twin of the twisting knot in my belly.
And then, before I can take a last deep breath, we are among the herd, being pushed and pulled in too many directions. It is a tornado of patterned blouses and preppy polos. The colors whirl past me in quick succession and I feel my eyes begin to cross, because I am trying so hard to concentrate on everything at once. I am hugged and complimented and twirled about the room until I am nauseous. But then I am thankfully forgotten and I can escape, move to the corner of the room, and hold the half-filled wine glass against my chest like a safety blanket.
There they are, the “usual” gang. If they are so usual, why do I feel so out of place? This is Truman’s condo, my home where I should feel at ease, but I am miles away from feeling at ease. On this late afternoon, it feels as if I have stepped out of a landing craft and onto the surface of another world. And this new world is an extension of the Truman oblivion—dark and lifeless, yet somehow undulating with the shadows of sentient beings that haunt my peripheral vision.
My hand raises the cabernet to my lips and I take a small sip, as if I am a tentative robin that has recently discovered a new pool of water. Is it safe to drink? Is it clean? The thin trickle of wine slides down my throat and burns in my belly. I will it to dissolve the writhing, uncomfortable mass there. Instead, it mixes with it like a noxious gummy-worm cocktail.
The sensation is discomfiting, but also reminds me that I am alive. That I am doing exactly what Vera has told me not to. I am letting a barrier be erected between my body and the world.
Leaving the crowd and chatter behind me, I walk toward the bedroom I share with Truman. The bathroom calls to me and I go to it willingly. No signs of my episode remain now; more than likely, Truman has had our cleaning woman scrub away the pools of water and soap residue. It should have been blood I left behind, not brown sugar body wash. Crimson would have been strikingly dramatic against the crisp white towels and pale tiles.
I am not suicidal. I have no reason to be suicidal. My life is good. So many people wish for a life like mine. Mental words that I do not believe. I am honestly wondering whether I do want to die. I’m a fucking coward. And I hate that I feel the need to apologize for mentally cursing.
Sitting on the edge of the tub, I can feel the coolness of its surface through the thin material of my dress. My underarms are well and truly chafed now, and I am at that point where pain becomes a dull sensation. I am numb to it; I am numb to life.
The overhead light sends rays downward; they dance and play with the chrome fixtures around me. Before I realize what I am doing, the dress that I hate is stripped from my body and lying on the floor. I prefer it there, in a crumple of blue and white. There are hateful red lines on my torso from the dress’s boning.
Goose bumps begin to sprout along my arms and legs. Where I am sitting, in the thin nude body shaper, the cool air from the vent in the ceiling blows directly on me. Warm water would fill the bathtub quickly if I turned the faucet handles. Then I could sink into it, the chill would be gone… and then I could dunk myself fully below the water.
And be gone.
The tears are at first singular, drop by drop, and then they are suddenly pouring from me, so forceful that a thousand beavers could not have built a dam to stay them. Soon, the front of what little I am still wearing is soaked wet from crying. My fingers trail against the body shaper’s material, and when I pull them away and look at them, I see the oddest hint of bluish green shimmer.
“Lena?” It isn’t Truman’s voice calling me from the bedroom. I’ve left the bathroom door cracked open, but part of me wishes I’d shut it tightly and locked the handle. Too late now. A hand is pushing the door fully open. Peggy, perfectly polished Peggy, is standing looking at me, her eyes wide and judgmental. I can only imagine what she sees.
Disheveled auburn hair, see-through shaper, chipped nail polish, red-rimmed eyes, and a swollen face. The woman her son is going to marry is a mess. Part of me feels I should smile, but I do not care enough what this woman thinks to manage the gesture. If it were Truman
standing in the doorway… yes, there is still a morsel of me left that wants his love so much. For him, I would smile.
Peggy shakes her head slowly as she looks me up and down; her mouth is a hard line. “I’m going to say this only once, Lena. My son sees something in you—loves you, even—but you’ll never be a part of our family. My grandmother’s ring on your finger means nothing. You’re only a placeholder until he comes to his senses and finds someone suitable.”
It’s funny, because as she speaks, I feel nothing. Everything she is saying is true. I know that I will never marry Truman, even though I have just admitted to myself that part of me still wants his love. “We’ve been together since high school, Peggy. More than eight years. When are you going to get over it?” I don’t know why I speak like this. I have never stood up to her and her cruelties.
And that fact is apparent in Peggy’s face. She looks at me with surprise and disdain, all mashed together until she is ugly despite the hundreds of dollars she has spent on plastic surgery and Botox over the past decade.
“A flirtation, no matter how long and ill-advised, is still a flirtation. My son feels obligated to you, because you are an orphan, because you are a charity case. You keep in mind that when Truman first stooped to dating you, it was to lash out at me and his father. You weren’t the first act of rebellion, but you will be the last.”
I do not fight her this time. I have no words. What she says is a gut-punch. Never try to one-up a woman who has spent her life putting others down.
I’m alone in the bathroom again; Peggy did not linger after saying her piece. The voices in the kitchen are slowly dying away. I hear the condo door opening and closing. There will be a mess in the kitchen—there always is after a gathering of Truman’s friends, and Truman doesn’t clean so it will stay there the rest of the evening unless I clean it myself.
My butt is throbbing; I’ve sat on the edge of the cast iron tub for so long. Slowly I get up, rubbing my bottom to relieve the soreness. I do not feel like running a bath now; I do not wish to see if the beautiful world beneath the water will disappear. Peggy has left ugliness and bitterness in her wake, and the crests of the waves it creates are so high, I fear that it will swallow my illusory world whole if I try to summon it now.
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