Aren't You Forgetting Someone?

by Kari Lizer

  And then there are the final goodbyes coming in such rapid succession. I can’t go on Facebook anymore without learning of the demise of at least a peripheral person in my universe who’s dropped dead of what I guess we can no longer say are unexpected circumstances. You can’t unexpect something that happens so often. Which has led to a low-grade depression that was hard to kick, which led to the decision that maybe I should say hello. To love. Well, if not hello, at least not fuck off to love. And so I got myself a boyfriend. Who was not a boy. Because I’m not a girl. We’re both in our fifties—not even our early fifties. I suppose I could have dated a younger man to make me feel younger, but I suspect that would have only made me feel older.

  The reason I bring up age as if it matters is because it does.

  Starting a relationship at this time comes with a combined 115 years of life lessons and cautionary tales. We are both determined, even if it’s only subconsciously, not to be brought down by the many, many mistakes of our pasts, and so the entire relationship becomes a Mexican standoff: the two of us eyeing each other carefully, waiting for the shoe to drop. Every time I go a little quiet, he’s certain I’m formulating my breakup speech, just like I jump to the conclusion that when he says his apartment is too messy and he wants to fix it up a little before he invites me over, what he’s really saying is “You can’t come over because that’s where my wife and three kids live.” A little healthy paranoia is useful at this age, because fool us once, shame on us, fool us seven long-term relationships, three fiancés, four live-in boyfriends, and a nine-year marriage—what are we? Idiots? The answer is yes.

  The first two months were filled with adorable discoveries of remarkable things we had in common: our favorite childhood TV show (Flipper), penchant for old Willie Nelson, hot dusty summers, horses, pet snakes, parents who didn’t understand us, social anxiety, a dark sense of humor, a dream of escaping to a hundred acres on a river in a green valley. We marveled how more than fifty years could have gone by before happening upon a person who felt the same way we did about liverwurst (we love it). We told stories in the dark of our failed love affairs and dreams that died along the way. We shyly shared pieces of ourselves, hoping that the feeling of mutual admiration wouldn’t evaporate once something concrete was presented, and even though we were both harsh critics, I could watch him sing and play guitar, and he could read what I wrote, and the bubble still didn’t pop.

  Our nervousness started dating the second month of our relationship. He was on the road, as he often is, being a touring musician—leave it to me to say hello to someone who is always saying goodbye—and he had stopped to see a friend in Tucson. I was vacationing with my kids in Vermont. We were negotiating our fresh romance long distance, through texts and brief phone calls. One evening, instead of sending his usual goodnight text, I got a terse two-word message: “Talk tomorrow.” None of the usual Xs and Os, sounding an alarm from my supersensitive antennae, at which point my Damage whispered in my ear, “Something’s wrong.” My heart suddenly beat faster in my chest, my throat closed, my stomach rolled onto itself. Uh-oh, uh-oh were the only words that repeated in my brain. I had no evidence; nothing had actually happened. But my Damage is so attuned to a shift in energy that she’s practically psychic. I didn’t respond instantly; I had to play this right. I didn’t want to lean in too far because if this was going south, the less I invested now, the less humiliated I would be and the more pride I could salvage at the end. Could this be the end? I had gone from perfectly fine just five minutes before to contemplating the end based on one text. That’s how fast Damage works. Also, that’s how bad texting is for long-distance relationships.

  If I thought the I-love-yous came quickly at the beginning of this thing, that was nothing to how fast Damage could work her magic. So I waited a full thirty minutes before responding with a simple, “K.” That’s when his Nervous kicked into gear, and it wasn’t long before another text arrived. His previously heartbroken hairs were obviously standing up on the back of his neck, too, so he tested the waters with an equally neutral message—nothing that would mark him as being the last one to reveal himself either—his Damage had played this game before as well. It was a photo of his friend’s tortoise, eating a pile of lettuce. No caption. No commitment. His Damage just wanted to see if his assessment of the situation was correct—that we had taken a turn, there had been a cooling off. When I ignored that text, he was able to confirm what he suspected, and without so much as a conversation, our budding romance almost came to an end with four words and a picture of a reptile. And we both fell asleep, three thousand miles apart, on that.

  When we spoke in the morning, things were revealed. What I didn’t realize was that he had gotten stoned with his friend and, knowing my intolerance for being sober in a stoned conversation, decided to keep his interaction with me brief so as not to blow it. What he didn’t realize was that lacking any other information, I automatically assumed his brevity meant he despised me. Because I lack object constancy. It’s Freudian. See, Freud did an experiment where he played peekaboo with a bunch of babies. Some of those babies thought that was a great game and knew he was going to pop up any minute, so they waited in eager anticipation for him to return, smiles on their faces. But for some babies, every time he ducked and disappeared behind the wall or whatever, they thought he was gone forever, and they were devastated. They couldn’t hold on to the idea of a person when he wasn’t right in front of them. Probably because their parents locked them in the station wagon with a sleeve of Ritz crackers while they went into a casino in Reno to play slots… or something.

  The point is, when someone goes away, the whole basis for the relationship suddenly feels like shifting sand, and we both spiraled down, sure that all was lost based on the thinnest possible evidence. Nervous dating Nervous. Damage dating Damage.

  Combine that paranoia with the inescapable feeling that time is rushing past at a breakneck and heartbreaking pace, and we are operating with a sense of panic and hopelessness that has us grasping desperately at the greatness we see in each other while at the same time pushing each other away because of our post-romantic stress disorder, fatalistically certain that we’re doomed—because why should this time be any different? Put it all together, and it’s a fucking shit storm. Now add menopause to the equation, which leaves me with only two operating speeds—rage and despair—and you do not have the makings of a classic love story. It’s not relaxing. And it’s no one’s fault. But at least we have each other. I think. I haven’t heard from him all day.

  Chasing Nothing

  On August 26, I dropped my third, youngest, and final child off at college. To get there, we took a ten-day cross-country road trip from California to Vermont, our 4Runner loaded with his necessities and our two dogs, pulling my beloved 1963 Shasta camper behind us. We scheduled a meandering itinerary lined with fly-fishing meccas, scenic routes, and roadside attractions. We camped next to the Snake River, climbed the Grand Tetons, stopped at Mount Rushmore. We snacked on beef jerky and dill pickle–flavored sunflower seeds. We listened to Bonnie Raitt, Jim Croce, Prince, John Denver, James Taylor, Eminem, and Bob Dylan. Sometimes I let him listen to the Band, and sometimes he let me listen to the Dixie Chicks.

  At the campgrounds where we stopped each night, most of the other campers were traveling in giant RVs with satellite dishes, working toilets, fully equipped kitchens, and king-sized bedrooms. My little vintage canned ham had a tiny but comfortable bed in the back with a foam mattress and good sheets where I slept. Dayton pitched his tent not far off. There was no bathroom in my camper, but some friends did give me a You Go Girl for Christmas, a rubbery funnel device that promised women the stand-up freedom of peeing only men had enjoyed until now. I hadn’t quite mastered the You Go Girl yet—if you didn’t get the angle just right, you’d Go Girl all over the floor of your camper, so I sometimes relied on a large red Solo cup instead when I got too spooked to walk to the faraway bathrooms or well-placed tree in the pitch-black n
ight.

  At the end of a long day of driving, Dayton usually set out to go fishing while I walked the dogs and chatted with other happy campers.

  “Where you from?” they’d ask me from their lounge chairs, sipping their beverages from fancy plastic tumblers with double-insulated walls to keep their drinks cold, which I recognized and coveted from Camping World magazine.

  “California. Me and my boy are driving cross-country.”

  “I like your rig,” they’d say.

  “Oh, thanks, yeah. Pretty comfortable for a tagalong.”

  “Did you do much reno?”

  “Just popped in a double propane and updated the old icebox to a duel-fuel fridge.”

  That’s how people talk on the road.

  The kind of road warriors who are traveling with forty-foot motorhomes are usually parked for weeks at a time. Some of them stay in one location for the whole summer. Dayton and I would be moving on in the morning. We didn’t even unhitch our camper from the truck so we’d always be ready to hit the road. I’d just make boiled instant coffee on the fire, and off we’d go.

  We were very compatible traveling companions. Every time we passed a river or creek, I’d say, “You see that there, son? That’s the mighty Mississipp” in the voice of an old-timey narrator. And every time I did, Dayton laughed. Every. Time. We had a lot of hours for good conversation. Somewhere in Utah, Dayton got the idea, “If I ever have a band, I’m going to call it Slim Pickins.”

  “That’s already been a person,” I told him.

  He was disappointed. “There’s no room left in the world for original thought,” he concluded.

  Somewhere in Idaho I yelled out, “I think that sign was just advertising a million acres for sale!”

  “That’s like a whole state,” Dayton said, equally amazed.

  “How would you put a fence around that?”

  Dayton said you’d probably just get a force field. “If you can afford a million acres, you can definitely afford a force field.”

  I agreed.

  There was a town in Illinois called Edwards. With a creek called Kickapoo. When we passed a road called Kickapoo Edwards, I told Dayton I was going to start introducing myself at the campgrounds that way. “How do you do? I’m Kickapoo Edwards. This is my boy, Big Poo.”

  Dayton was all for it. Because that’s how Dayton is. Sometimes we didn’t talk for miles. And that was good too. We might be soul mates. Don’t tell him I said that.

  I jokingly (not jokingly) said several times during our trip, “What if you didn’t go to college? What if we just stayed on the road and see where it takes us?”

  “No thanks,” he said, not unkindly but firmly. Truth is, I’m fine with him going to college. He’s ready. I’m ready. It’s great to have this one last hurrah, but then it’s time for whatever comes next. I’m fine with that. I am. I’m fine. I am.

  When we pulled up to our campground in Chamberlain, South Dakota, at the end of day seven, the weather had turned ugly. Our spot overlooked the Missouri River, which was empty of summer boat traffic and churning with whitecaps.

  As we were driving in, most of the other campers were pulling out, news of the approaching lightning storm sending them to hotel rooms for the night. Dayton and I decided to wait and see how bad it was going to get.

  We pulled the cooler and other things out of the 4Runner to get ready for a quick dinner before the rain started. I told Dayton I didn’t think it would be safe for him to sleep outside, but he ignored my advice and tried to put up his tent anyway, arguing there wasn’t enough room in the camper. I watched as the wind almost took the tent from his hands and blew it right into the river. He caught it at the last minute and stubbornly tried to wrestle it to the ground until the lady who ran the campground drove up to us in a golf cart. She said there were tornado warnings and we should keep an eye out. If things got too bad, we would need to take shelter in the campground bathrooms. She stared at our California license plates with a final warning. “If you hear the sirens, don’t fool around. The wind’ll start blowing so hard you’ll have to get your butt cheeks sewed back together.” Then she drove away. Dayton and I stared at each other, then the rain started to fall.

  He gave up on the tent. I told him we needed to get all of our equipment back into the 4Runner so it didn’t blow away. I said I was going to put the chock blocks under the wheels of the camper so it didn’t roll, then make a bed for him inside. I asked Dayton to put the cooler and other loose things back into the truck. After I got the blocks under the tires, I went into the camper. I flattened out the little kitchen table into a small second bed and arranged the seat cushions over the top. I put on the sheets, spread out a comforter, and threw on a couple of pillows, and it didn’t look too bad. Cozy, I thought.

  I lit the battery-operated lanterns, one near Dayton’s bed and one at the head of mine on the other side of the camper, five feet away. I could tell the wind had picked up and the rain was coming down harder because the camper was rocking, but so far no water was coming inside. I was really hoping it remained dry—the Shasta had never been tested in a big storm, and she was fifty-two years old—just two years younger than me, and I certainly couldn’t be considered impermeable.

  I went to see how Dayton was coming along outside. I stood in the doorway and saw that the sky had turned black and thunder could be heard in the distance. The rain was steady. Dayton appeared to be moving in slow motion, carrying one item at a time from the picnic table to the open hatchback of the 4Runner. Then he stopped, with one hiking boot in his hand, and started turning in circles looking for the other one. I yelled at him from the doorway of the camper, like Auntie Em calling for Dorothy, startling him out of his daze, “Dayton! You have to hurry!”

  He looked up at me. “What?”

  “Hurry!” I screamed.

  “I am,” he said, standing perfectly still, forgetting what he was looking for.

  “Move!” I shouted.

  I looked at the horizon just as a giant-ass lightning bolt cracked through the heavens like a cartoon lighting up the dark sky and black river below. It was followed seconds later by a deafening clap of thunder. The two dogs and I almost jumped out of our skins, but Dayton still didn’t spring into action.

  Dayton asked, “Do you want everything in the car?”

  I lost it. “Yes! Yes! Jesus!” I shrieked at him. “It’s a tornado warning, for fuck’s sake! Are you kidding me? Drop the boot and get in here! That’s it. Fuck it. I am not leaving you alone at college if you’re too goddamn stupid to come in when there’s a tornado heading toward you. You’re fucking staying with me! We’re going back home tomorrow!” As soon as I finished screeching, I knew it was too much. But in my defense… tornado!

  Dayton stared at me for a beat, then grabbed the rest of the stuff off of the ground, threw it into the back of the truck, and slammed the hatchback closed. He stomped toward me. I stepped out of his way. When he angrily boarded the camper, the whole thing rocked to the side in spite of my stability blocks. He threw off his wet jacket, flung it to the floor, and laid down on his kitchen table bed. It wasn’t quite big enough for his tall frame, so he had to scrunch into it, but still he managed to turn his back to me. Then he called his dog to him. Canelo jumped on top of him, soaking wet with muddy paws. I almost yelled again, but I stopped myself. There was a moment when only the considerable noise from the whipping wind, rain, and occasional thunder filled the camper.

  I had to yell again to be heard over it. I said, “I’m sorry.” He didn’t answer. I offered, “You can have a beer if you want one.” Nothing.

  Then with his back still turned, he said, “I’m not too stupid to stay alive. And I’m not staying home with you.”

  “Obviously, I know that,” I said, too quiet to be heard.

  I laid down in my bed. My golden retriever, Cabot, also soaking wet and stinking, immediately jumped up to join me, and we looked out the little back window that was facing the now raging river. We watche
d the lightning and pouring rain. Cabot shivered every time the thunder boomed. I tried not to think about how much I had to pee.

  Sometimes you think you’re fine. And then it turns out you’re not fine. The problem was, I’d been keeping them all alive for more than eighteen years. It’s pretty fucking insulting to think they could do it without me.

  We fell asleep and woke up in the same place. We didn’t fly away in the middle of the night and didn’t wake up in the Land of Oz. The campground was a mess, but Dayton and I were back to normal. We didn’t talk about it. We drank our boiled coffee and hit the road.

  Two days later, the road ended at the university where Dayton would be starting his freshman year. It ended with me making his bed in his triple suite, assembling the storage containers ordered from Bed Bath & Beyond, hanging the California flag over his desk, arranging photos on his bulletin board of his pets, his brother and sister, his dad, and one particularly large and lovely shot of him and me that I was pretty sure would be taken down the minute I left campus because we kind of looked like a couple.

  When I had organized, folded, fussed, and interior decorated as much as was humanly possible in the ten-by-eight-foot living space he was allotted for his freshman year, there was nothing to do but say goodbye. I gave my six-foot-two lumberjack man-baby a hard hug and wished him well. My throat was closing up, and we both knew I had to get out of there fast. I said something like, “You have to call me. And answer me when I text you. Right away or I’ll think you’re dead.”