• I actually think that fight was a really good fight for us, as a couple.
• I am never going to hurt you like that again.
• I love you.
• I love you too.
These Are
Facts
West fucked his foot up real bad his first day on the beach. God fucking damn it, and of course this would happen, and what a way to start the fucking week.
It’s not even as if he was doing anything really; he was just fucking standing there, just chilling knee-deep in the water and trying to take it easy like a real honest-to-God person on vacation would. He was just starting to get comfortable, for like maybe the first time in his whole fucking life, when a rogue wave poured some rocks and shells and probably even some broken glass right onto his foot and scraped it up something ridiculous, covering it in all sorts of bruises and bumps so that it looked like a topographical map of God knows what, each gash and cut representing a river or a tributary or a mountain range or whatever the fuck they’ve got on topographical maps these days.
This was Friday, or, as they called it in Puerto Vallarta, “Friday,” because everyone at the resort spoke English. West didn’t even attempt to pull out any of his eight-years-rusty high school Spanish, although sometimes after the bartender gave him una cerveza, he would say, “Merci beaucoup,” because that was his idea of a real funny joke. It was funny because the bartenders all spoke English anyway and—you know what, if he has to explain it to you, it’s not even worth it.
The good news was that even with a fucked-up foot, West could still do what he really wanted to do, which was sit on the beach and drink beers all day and look at the water. In fact, the foot was a blessing in disguise, because it meant he didn’t have to do anything he didn’t want to. His father or his father’s current wife would say, “Hey, you want to go into town?” or “You want to look at some ruins?” or “You want to go on a boat?” And West would wince and say, “Yeah, I’d really love to, but…the foot.”
It was a conversation piece really; good-looking American chicas could come up to him and say, “Hey, what happened to your foot?” And he could respond, “Better question: What happened to our society to make it so we view damaged things as somehow incomplete? On the contrary, I, for one, believe it is our damage that makes us whole.” And then he could have sex with them.
Of course that never actually happened, not while you were there, but as West told you repeatedly, that’s just because you were there. “No girl’s going to come up and talk to me when I’ve got another girl sitting right next to me. I mean, that’s just common sense.” You would ask him if he wanted you to leave, and West would shrug and say, “It’s a free country,” and then, remembering he was in Mexico, he would add, “Wait. It is, right?”
* * *
—
You didn’t get to the resort until Saturday. You told your parents you couldn’t fly out with them on Friday because Friday was Meaghan Doherty’s graduation party, but in fact, you didn’t go to Meaghan’s party. You stayed home. You drew a bath for yourself, which at the time felt so sophisticated and adult. As a child, you often took baths, but this time you drew a bath, a bath was drawn, and as if that weren’t enough, you lit a candle (a candle!) and you pulled your parents’ turntable into the bathroom and played a Joni Mitchell record (which one, it doesn’t matter—it was Blue—it doesn’t matter), and you laugh about it now, but at the time it all felt so significant. You were done with high school forever, and soon they would ship you off to college in Boston, where you would forget about all the friends and enemies you had in high school, all the things that were so important, all the inside jokes.
Every seven years, the cells in our bodies completely replace themselves and we become entirely different people. Sitting in the bath, listening to “California,” you thought about your temporary cells and you thought about how one day you would change; you would wake up one morning and all of a sudden everything would be different and all the things that used to make you cry would make you roll your eyes and all the things that used to make you roll your eyes would make you cry. But, of course, that would all be many, many years from now.
Incidentally, that thing about the new cells every seven years? This was a FACT, and if you looked you could find it somewhere in your private book of facts you shared with no one—a spiral-bound blue notebook upon whose first page you wrote in shaky calligraphy, “These Are Facts,” and between whose covers hid hundreds of secrets as mundane and true as “FACT: Killer whales aren’t really whales; they’re dolphins.”
Your half brother volunteered to meet you at the airport on Saturday. Your mom thought the whole family should go, but your father convinced her that you kids could use some catching up time. After all, how long had it been? After all, wasn’t that the whole point? West scrawled HEATHER in big block letters on a yellow legal pad and held the sign up at baggage claim, where he waited for your arrival. It was eighty percent as a joke, the sign, but twenty percent because he was actually a little worried he wouldn’t recognize you, it had been so long.
After collecting your luggage and going through customs, you saw him: a very hairy hodgepodge of a person, in cargo shorts and aviator sunglasses and an inexplicably long-sleeved T-shirt, as if it weren’t about a hundred degrees outside. Limping back and forth and picking at his beard, this mysterious other progeny of your father’s looked somehow both older and younger than his own twenty-six years. FACT: He kind of looked like a homeless person.
“Look at you,” West said.
And you said, “Look at you.”
And West said, “No. Look at you, man. Just fucking look at you.”
* * *
—
Flying West out to Puerto Vallarta was your mother’s idea. You had heard your parents arguing about it through the bedroom wall.
“This is supposed to be a vacation,” your father said. “I love West, but you know he’s going to be a pain in the ass all week.”
“I want Heather to know her brother.”
And here he was, this scrawny swizzle stick of a dude, carrying your luggage from the elevator to the room. It was almost too much, to see him again after all these years. Just the smell of him, it was almost too much.
“I took the bed by the bathroom; I hope that’s okay. I figured you might want to sleep by the window.”
“Some view,” you said. Your room looked out over a construction site. The Crown Imperial was expanding. A crane was lifting a girder, moving it from one pile of girders to another pile of girders. One day, all this would be resort.
West frowned and shifted his weight uncomfortably. “This room’s pretty bougie; it stresses me out. You want to get down to the beach, get a drink? Oh, shit, you probably want to see your parents, huh?”
You shrugged. “I see them all the time. This is supposed to be a vacation, right?”
West thought that was hilarious.
* * *
—
You found a pair of deck chairs in the sand under a big wooden umbrella and threw a towel over one of them. Your sort-of brother grabbed a roaming hotel waiter and ordered two beers and a banana daiquiri. “They really try to sell you on the pineapple drinks,” he said, “but I figured out that they make the pineapple drinks from like a sludge and the banana drinks use real bananas.”
“Oh, I don’t drink,” you blurted out, as if he had asked you, as if anybody cared.
“Oh, good,” West said a little too loudly. He winked at you (why?), then said to the waiter, “A virgin daiquiri for the lady,” grinning warmly, like it was some private joke the two of them shared.
“You probably don’t remember me at all,” West said, lighting a cigarette. “What were you, like six?”
You nodded. You didn’t remember him, not really, and what you did remember you weren’t sure if you act
ually remembered it or if you’d just invented it, cobbled together a brother from the elliptical stories your parents told and the worried glances they’d share whenever his name came up.
“Shouting,” you said. “I remember a lot of shouting.”
“Yeah,” he laughed. “Me too.”
You squinted at the sun bouncing off the water. “You want to go in the ocean?”
“Nah, you go ahead,” he said, between drags of his cigarette. “I’ll watch.”
And you did.
And he did.
* * *
—
You met your parents for dinner at the hotel restaurant.
“It looks like you already got some sun, Heather,” your dad said. “I hope you were wearing sunscreen…”
“How’s your foot?” your mom asked.
And West answered, “Well, it’s fucked, June.”
Your dad crossed his arms and said, “Should we ask the front desk to call a doctor?”
And West said, “No, Dad, I’ll be fine, but your display of paternal compassion has been noted by all.”
Your mother frowned sympathetically. “Well, hopefully it doesn’t ruin the whole trip for you.”
After dinner, you walked your mom back to her room. She held your hand and smiled at you warmly, and you privately wondered how many times in the next few months before you left for college she would hold your hand and smile at you warmly.
“You don’t mind sharing a room with West, do you?”
And you said, “No, Mom,” like it was nothing. Like why would she even have to ask?
You washed your face and got into bed. You pulled a book out of your bag.
“What are you reading?” West asked.
“Oh, it’s just this dumb book about these high school girls in New York.”
“Is it any good?”
You blushed. “No, but I want to know what happens.”
“Well, I’m bored,” he said. “I’m going to go downstairs, get a drink. You want to come?”
At the resort bar, West regaled you with tales of adventure: the time he found a whole room’s worth of furniture just lying by the side of the road; the party he crashed where he had sex with that guitar player’s girlfriend; the time he got bedbugs somehow. When he felt the bar was getting “really bougie all of a sudden,” he took you out for a limp along the beach.
“So, bring me up to the present. You got a boyfriend?”
You shook your head.
“Why not? You’re a good-looking girl.”
“I don’t know,” you said. “I feel like there were guys who wanted me to be their girlfriend. I just never met a guy who I thought was worth it.”
“Worth what?” West asked, and you shrugged.
“I don’t know. It. All of it.”
“I actually think that’s the right idea,” he said. “Take your time. A lot of teens these days are too eager to grow up.”
You laughed. “Oh yeah? Is that a true fact about teens?”
He smiled self-consciously. “I don’t know; you’re the teen, you tell me.”
“I guess you’re right,” you said. “But I don’t think that like being in relationships and having sex is necessarily the same thing as growing up, you know? Like ‘growing up’ can mean a lot of things.”
“See, now that’s an astute observation—and it also tells me why you never had a boyfriend.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You’re too smart for high school boys. You must have gotten your smarts from your mom’s side.”
“Must have,” you said. “Definitely didn’t get it from my dad, the clinical psychologist.”
“Naw, don’t be fooled by his fancy job, Heather; I promise you that asshole’s as dumb as they come.”
For a moment, you debated whether to poke at this open sore, and then you wondered if your desire to poke at open sores was something you got from your dad, the clinical psychologist.
Then West said, “What the fuck is that thing?”
You looked up. About ten yards down the beach was a dog, some sort of terrier mutt, flinching and panting in the sand. West raced ahead to get a better look.
“Oh shit.”
“Is he okay?”
“Hey, are you all right, guy?”
The dog whimpered.
“Shit. This dog is super-fucked-up. I think it’s like having a seizure or some shit.”
“Well, don’t touch it,” you said as West scooped the dog up into his arms and started limping back toward the resort. “Be careful,” you shouted. “That dog could have rabies or something!”
You followed your brother through the lobby of the Crown Imperial.
“Sir, you can’t bring that animal in here. Sir? Please!”
West dumped the dog on the front desk. “We found this guy on the beach; I think he’s really hurt,” he said. “You gotta do something.”
The dog had stopped shaking and was now just lying on the counter, whimpering and drooling. And the concierge said, “Sir? Sir!”
And West said, “Don’t fucking ‘sir’ me. This dog needs medical fucking attention.”
And the man asked, “Is this your dog?”
West threw his arms up and paced an angry little circle. “No, it’s not my dog. I told you. Does anyone here speak fucking English?”
People were starting to stare. A group of fratty-looking college guys. An older couple. A man with his kid.
You said, “Calm down, West,” and the concierge looked at you and said, “Can you please tell him to calm down?” as if you hadn’t just done exactly that.
“Is there like a dog doctor you can call? Does Mexico have fucking animal doctors or what?”
The concierge was trying to stay calm himself: “Sir, the hotel has a policy—”
West shouted, “Can you give him some fucking water or something at least? Jesus Christ.”
Now the man with the kid was yelling, “Hey, why don’t you watch your language, huh?”
“Watch my language? This dog is going to fucking die!” Then immediately: “I’m sorry. You’re right. I’m sorry about the language.”
By now, the concierge’s boss had come out and he said, “Sir, we have called animal services. They are on their way. Would you like to wait for them with the animal?”
West exhaled. “Yeah. Thanks a lot, I really appreciate it.”
“Okay, but he can’t stay in here. We’ll move him out front, okay?”
“Yeah. Hey, look, I’m sorry about before, when I said does anyone here speak English.”
“It’s okay.”
“Everyone speaks English great here. But you shouldn’t have to; it’s your country. But everyone speaks English great. I was being a dick, in the heat of the moment, you know?”
The man shook his head. “I understand you are upset. It’s not a problem, sir.”
West looked at his name tag. “Jorge? You’re a fucking stand-up guy; don’t let anyone tell you any different.”
Jorge nodded. “Okay, sir.”
Two hotel employees carefully wrapped the dog in a Crown Imperial towel and carried him toward the front entrance. You followed them out and passed the man with the kid.
“Hey, listen,” the man said. “I know you’re really upset about the dog, but this is a family resort. You think you could do me a favor and go easy on the cuss words?”
“Yeah, I know,” West said. “Sorry. I’m just—fuck! Sorry. I’m sorry.”
The two bellhops laid the dog out on the steps in front of the building. West sat next to it and scratched its stomach.
“Hang in there, buddy,” he said. He looked at you. “Are you cold?”
You shook your head. You weren’t, not really.
A
cab pulled up and a couple flailed out, drunk. “Oh my God, is that your dog?” the woman asked, and her husband said, “Come on, Amy, keep walking.”
West shook his head.
“Is he okay?” Amy asked.
West said, “He’s just tired.”
Amy’s husband ushered her into the Crown Imperial, and as they walked inside, you could hear Amy giggle, “I was like, why does that guy have a dog?”
West fiddled with an unlit cigarette.
“Hell of a first night,” you said. He looked at you and you offered him a sad smile, but he didn’t smile back.
“This is the worst,” he said, his eyes all red. “This is the fucking worst.”
* * *
—
FACT: On Sunday, West started drinking early. You spent the whole day with him, pretty much, just sitting on the beach, staring at the water.
At one point, your mom came by and asked if she could join you, and West said, “Yeah, I don’t know, June, it’s pretty crowded over here. You might have better luck by the pool.”
And she said, “Okay, I can take a hint,” and walked away, smiling tightly.
West looked at you and winced. “You must think I’m a real asshole.”
And you did, kind of, but also: “No, I get it.”
“It’s not even her really. It’s him that pisses me off.”
“Sure, that makes sense,” you lied. It did not make sense. FACT: Your father was the kindest, most conflict-averse person you knew, and it was hard to imagine him pissing anybody off. Sometimes, when he got overcharged at a restaurant, he’d pay the full bill, just because he’d rather spend the money than have to get into an argument.
“I mean, what Dad did to me and my mom…you can’t just paper over that shit with a free trip to Mexico.”
“What did he do?”
“He was an asshole, is what he did.”
“No, but specifically…”
“People outgrow me,” he said, in the same blasé tone one might say, “That is a tall building.” He picked up a stick and chucked it into the water. “Everyone who ever loves me one day outgrows me.”
Someone Who Will Love You in All Your Damaged Glory Page 7