I’d learned to hold my tongue because all I wanted was for others to like me, to be okay with who you saw on the outside.
Ingrid asked if I’d do it again.
I answered, “Probably. If Peter wants to.”
She paused and got really quiet. “Did it feel good?” she asked, as if she’d never experienced sex before. As if, somehow, it might be different with someone different.
I wanted to say no, but I couldn’t. That sex was just sex unless love was involved. I wanted to be a better role model for her. And really, it wasn’t the sex that felt good; it was what he had done afterward. Peter had lain there with me and held our naked bodies together until I stopped shivering.
Later that year, I left for Brown and left Ingrid in the wake of chaos, alone, to fend for herself until Christmas. We talked every day.
She tried to find her path, and I tried to find mine. The problem was, we were both searching for these things outwardly and not looking inwardly.
Ingrid never told me what those times were like, and I didn’t ask. I didn’t want to know, and for a long time, I felt guilty for that. I just wanted to escape the madness just for a while.
It wasn’t until she left for Stanford the next fall that I finally felt like I could breathe more deeply again. Though Mother was still at home. At times, I felt more mad at her for staying, but it was her choice, her bed, and she just had to lie in it.
But I thought, over time, we began to build up this wall of acceptance.
That it wasn’t that bad.
That the abuse, both physically against Mother and emotionally for us all three, and the manipulation, we learned that it was acceptable. After all, Father gave us beautiful, beautiful things. Why wouldn’t we be happy?
Then, the guilt would pile in like an old, well-worn top, and I would hear Father’s voice.
“I work seventy-five hours a week so that you can have private school.”
“I’ve built an empire for you.”
“I work seventy-five hours a week. I don’t need to go to your dance recitals to know you dance well.”
“I’ve run through hell and back to give you what you want.”
“I work seventy-five hours a week so that you can attend your summer camps.”
“You should be happy, but instead, you focus on complaining that I’m gone all the time, you ungrateful twits.”
But what had started the whole litany of rapid fire was a simple comment made by Ingrid when she was seven years old: “Daddy, why don’t you come to my dance recitals?”
I was eight. I should have warned her, but that never stopped Ingrid from speaking her mind, even at the young age of seven, when her heart lay there broken on the kitchen floor that day.
Something had broken in her.
Something had broken in me.
And somewhere in all of this, Mother had taken full responsibility.
After Ingrid and I were out of the house, we still called in and checked with Mother each day. I could always tell by the sound of her hello whether it had been a good day, a bad day, or a rough night the night before. They continued to throw dinner parties and act like puppets, but with Ingrid and me gone, that gave Father more opportunities to push Mother just a bit more.
I thought it was the call from the emergency room in Beverly Hills that snapped me. Mother had dropped red wine on the carpet in the living room at a dinner party one night.
Father lit into her.
Drove her to the emergency room, dropped her off, and left her to hobble inside with a broken nose and two black eyes, four busted ribs, and a fractured cheekbone.
That was when I came home, and Father left.
When we returned home the next day, I spoke to the Dean of Admissions at Brown, my professors, explained that my mother had taken a fall and she needed my care. That I’d return to the university in ten days.
Father returned home on day nine of Mother’s recovery. When I left, Ingrid would come home to care for Mother. I didn’t want Ingrid to see the shape Mother was in. It was my duty as the older sister to protect her from the really bad. When I had shown up at the hospital, Mother had looked awful and helpless. But that wasn’t the worst of it. It was her spirit that had broken my heart.
It’s a funny and peculiar thing—love. Love is the only thing that can fuck you up and tell you everything is completely normal. That it is the way things should be. That it could always be worse because when Father returned on day nine, Mother opened the door and allowed him back in while I stood and listened to him talk to her in the sunroom.
Her black eyes almost gone.
Her nose still red but bruised.
But her spirit, just as broken as the day he’d left her at the hospital.
Father cried.
Mother dried his tears.
Explained pieces of his childhood, something I’d never heard him talk about. How his father—my grandfather—had left him on the side of the road in Florida on a family vacation. Made him walk to their next stop, which was seven miles, in the sweltering, balmy summer heat. How good Christmases were few and far between. Some years, Santa Claus had come, and many years, he hadn’t. It wasn’t because they didn’t have the money; it was because Grandfather, Father explained, had felt it necessary to show them what it was like to go without. Food, depending on Grandfather’s mood, could also be scarce.
Father cried again.
It explained why Father made sure we had all the best clothes, that Christmases were overboard, giving us both what we wanted and needed. Food was always plentiful.
I also understood Father was sick.
His explanation wasn’t good enough. The way he treated Mother, there was no excuse for it. He knew it. I knew it. Ingrid knew it. And most importantly, Mother knew it.
But love, again, is the only thing that can fuck you up and feel completely normal.
And for Mother, this was the only love she knew.
A few things happened that day:
1. Ingrid didn’t come home.
2. Father moved back.
3. Mother gave him another chance.
4. Father agreed to get help.
I understood. I loved Father with all my heart, and all I wanted was for him to be well. To get help, like he promised. I believe that most people have good intentions, that they don’t set out to hurt people. Maybe some do. There’s a big, fat line between wanting to do better and taking the steps to do better. It’s called action. That willingness without action is fantasy after all.
I believe Father wanted to do better, but he never took the right steps to get there.
—Catherine
The morning sun pours in the tent, radiating the nylon, making my body come alive.
My ear is against his chest, and I panic, only at first.
What happened last night? I ask myself. Nothing. Absolutely nothing.
When I slept with two through nine, I’d never fallen asleep, so the guilt and shame of what I’d done did terrorize me in the morning. This is new territory for me.
I listen to Luke’s heart.
Ba-bump.
Ba-bump.
Ba-bump.
Ba-bump.
Slow and steady, a restful heartbeat. Relaxed. I like the way it sounds. I like the feeling the rhythm, this muscle, gives.
Our hands still intertwined, I wonder if I will wake him if I move.
With only some padding from the sleeping bag between our bodies and the hard ground beneath us, my body rouses, pushing me to move.
Careful not to wake him, I move my hand from his. Even though I want to go back to the place of his heartbeat, I need to brush my teeth. When I get up, Luke rolls on his side, and I quietly slip out of the tent, grab my overnight bag from the car, and walk to the bathroom.
I look down at my watch. It’s still early, just past seven. There are two women in the shower, conversing through a wall of plastic that defines the shower wall.
As I put toothpaste on my brush, I li
sten.
“I heard that Louise isn’t doing so well. That Paul called in hospice,” Woman One says.
“Salt of the earth, that woman. Her husband, too,” Woman Two says.
“When we get home, I’m going to cook them a meal. Take it over to Paul,” says Woman One.
The showers run.
Woman Two breaks the silence. “Hey, what are we doing for the volunteer firefighters this year?”
“Haven’t thought about it.”
Again, silence.
I brush silently and wait for the small-town conversation to continue. I welcome it, pray for it.
One shower shuts off while the other one is just a few seconds behind.
Quickly, I brush my long, dark hair and throw a little mascara on. When I look at my reflection, I realize just how much I look like Mother.
When the curtain opens, I disappear out of the bathroom and go grab two coffees from the convenience store—also known as the office.
It’s a new person working. Not Valerie. Oddly, I liked Valerie. Odd only because she’s completely different from me—interesting, unique.
Now, the person working the front counter is completely opposite of Valerie.
“Gooooood morning.” Temple, her name tag reads. “And how was your stay last night?” Her pep is too much for the morning. Like Temple escaped from summer camp that ingrained a good-morning routine. She rings up the coffees.
“Where’s Valerie?” I ask.
I suppose there’s a reason they have a night-shift person and a daytime person. Though I prefer Valerie.
“She’s night shift. That will be one dollar and sixty-seven cents, please.” Her perfect white smile lays plastically against her face.
But this is a genuine smile. I feel it because I know what genuine feels like. I pull two dollars from my wallet and hand it to her.
She hands me the change.
“Thanks,” I say.
“Thank you for coming in!” Temple waves as I open the door and enter the Texas summer.
The tent has been taken down, and all that remains is Luke, sitting at the table. He smiles when he sees me, and I smile back as my cheeks turn warm.
“Black coffee,” I say as I hand him his.
“Thank you.” He takes the coffee and the first sip.
He didn’t see us when we woke up, my head on his chest. My hand in his.
“We should get on the road,” Luke says.
“Which direction are we headed today?” I ask as we both slip into the car, my clothes feeling like silk against the leather. It barely makes a sound.
“Abilene.” Luke starts the car but not before giving me a longing look. Like I’ve somehow disrupted his life and he can’t rectify what happened or when it happened, but something’s shifted. His lips are the color of ripened strawberries.
You have been tasked to do a job, Catherine. Get it done. I set my coffee in the cupholder, look away, and put on my seat belt.
I still feel his eyes on me.
“Construction is what you said you did when you first got to LA. What’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever built with your hands?” I ask as he starts the car.
James Taylor comes over the radio again.
What I want to ask is if he feels like, somehow, we were supposed to meet. That, somehow, we were meant to cross each other’s paths because in this moment right here, I feel with one hundred percent certainty that this is fate. It isn’t the moment that gives me this feeling; it’s the song.
“Fading Away.”
My body breaks into chills.
The hum of the car as we leave.
The music.
Us.
“I wish I could have built a box around you, made of materials that could withstand heartbreak and memories and sadness. I wish I could have built you a box to climb into when the world got to be too much. I wish I could have built you a box that saved you from yourself.”
“Fading Away” plays, and my heart is tender as I pick up pieces of my memories and push the tainted feelings away of the abuse.
I understand what Luke is saying.
My eyes begin to burn and fill with feeling, feelings I’d rather not feel.
Luke’s face comes into my mind. The feeling of his heart against my ear. These are moments filled with hope and love and everything right.
I swallow the thump in my throat, and when I’m ready, when I know the tears won’t fall, I say, “Me, too.”
I focus on the broken white line that runs the course of the road in front of us. “Do you write your own songs?”
“Yeah.”
“Can I hear one?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I haven’t sung in years.”
“Why not?”
I notice Luke’s hand tighten against the wheel as we get on the freeway.
He doesn’t answer, and I don’t ask again.
I decide I could never live in Texas as I stare out at the barren land. It’s dry and hot, and the land looks needy, as if starved for attention or water or something. The land seems lonely, like it’s endured its time and pain and all that’s left is skin and bones.
“That’s not the truth,” he whispers, pensive.
“What?”
“That I haven’t sung in years. Well, I guess that’s part of it. I just haven’t felt inspired, you know?”
“What does inspiration look like to you?” I ask, wondering if I’ve seen glimpses of inspiration, hoping I’ve somehow played a small part in the inspiration like he has for me. I can’t help but feel like I’m a better person when I’m around him. This also makes me feel comfortably uncomfortable.
He smiles, and the half-smirk reaches across his face. He looks at me hard and long. “Like seeing multiple shades of one color, and every shade fits together perfectly, creating a picture in your mind of what life should really look like.” He pauses. “Like a Sunday morning when love is made and there’s not a single thing to do, except make more of it.” Luke’s eyes narrow on mine.
Chills ripple down my spine.
“When you finish a project and you know there’s something special about it, real special, and you sit on it, knowing it was made by you, and all you want to do is keep it a secret.” He looks back to the road. “Feels like fire in your veins. It’s like … it’s like falling in love. That’s what inspiration on the best day looks like. To me.”
His words soak into my skin, my mind, and I wonder how I ever lived a day without hearing Luke’s voice. His thoughts. His hand around mine. Not in a sexual way, but in a basic-needs way. We’ve spent a few days in his car together, and it feels like I’ve known him my whole life.
You have one job, Cat. That’s it. Get the job done.
But what if the job, the story, isn’t in the mundane questions that I have? Maybe the story is in this trip. A story I am supposed to observe, supposed to feel, and supposed to tell but not in the interview/interviewee way.
What if, from now on, I live more on inspiration and less on what I’m told to do or get paid to do?
What if the story is us and our quest for life? I breathe in this thought, let it sink in.
“Have you made love on a Sunday with nothing else to do?” The words escape my mouth. I blush, wishing like hell I could pull them back into my mouth, eat them, swallow them, and never allow them to see the light of day again.
“Yes, but not with someone I was in love with.”
Curiosity of what sex feels like with someone you’re in love with unravels my mind.
I loved Michael.
I loved Peter.
But I didn’t have a clear picture of what love looked like, growing up. Also, I suppose, some serve as starter loves. The relationships that teach us how to love maybe. I think they also teach us what we want and don’t want. But in Mother’s case, I believe she loved Father, was in love with him, even at his worst, and she kept going back because that is the sacrifice we pay for being in
love.
“How about you?” Luke asks. “Have you made love on a Sunday with nothing else to do?”
The truth is, I don’t know. I’m not sure which days of the week I had sex with men and paid no mind to it. But maybe that’s the difference. If I had made love, I would have known what day of the week it was.
“I’m not sure.”
Luke smiles. I feel his smile everywhere, and I don’t like that I do. “You’re not sure if it was Sunday or that you made love?”
“If it was Sunday,” I simply say. “Because I don’t think I’ve ever made love.” I shake my head, wondering why the hell we are talking about this, and we’ve only known each other for a few days. I’m embarrassed that I started this whole thing with my mouth, my question. “I-I didn’t mean to start all this.”
“Don’t apologize, Catherine.” Luke’s eyes are on the road, but I see his wheels turning with both good thoughts and bad thoughts. He bites his lip before he says, “Do you want to know what it’s like to make love on a Sunday?” He drops his head in my direction.
Badly. “Yes.” It isn’t the act of sex I’m curious about, but I want to know what being in love feels like. “I want to know what it feels like to be in love and what sex feels like while in love. And not the kind of love I knew, growing up.”
“What was that like?” Luke doesn’t look away from me, still driving the car.
“Violence, manipulation, and chaos.” I twist my fingers in my lap and then look back at Luke.
With a jerk of the wheel, Luke pulls off the road and turns off the car.
Without saying a word, he gently slips his hand around my neck and pulls my head to his chest, so I can hear the pounding of his heart. “This,” he whispers. “This is what love feels like when someone you care about says something like that. It hurts them, too.”
Tha-thump. Tha-thump. Tha-thump. Tha-thump. Tha-thump.
“For selfish reasons, Catherine, when I saw you, I wanted you on this trip with me. And not for reasons you might think,” he says, but I barely hear him because I’ve closed my eyes, placed my hand on top of his, as if this somehow allows me to hear the beat of his heart more and better.
Tha-thump. Tha-thump. Tha-thump. Tha-thump. Tha-thump.
My heart doesn’t need to try to sync with Luke’s; it just does.
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