Chapter Thirty-Two

 

<><> Miriam <><>

 

With the fridge cleaned out and my bags packed, I still haven’t told Chris I’m leaving today. It’s been two days since the For Sale sign went up and two days since I’ve seen him. Guilt festers to the extreme. He was over last night, but I was out buying more containers for my move. He left a note tucked into the screen door, scrawled on the back of a Picorelli’s Pizza receipt. 'Dropped by. Sorry I missed you. Are we okay? Call me and I’ll come back over.' I didn’t call. Today I can’t avoid him any longer. I’m not good with long drawn out goodbyes anyway. I’ve had my fair share of them recently and I can’t take the emotional build-up. I’ve learned it’s best to get it over with, like the chop of a guillotine – one quick break and on your way. Although I have to admit, deciding to move to Connecticut and leaving Chris is breaking my heart and the guilt is overpowering. I had no idea it would hurt this much, especially since it feels like I’ve led him on right to the bitter end.

Picking up the phone, I’m practically speechless in fear. This is going to be one of the most difficult conversations of my life.

“Chris, it’s me. I have to talk to you.”

Chris is silent, as if sensing what’s to come. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m leaving today.”

His silence is petrifying. I should have said this in person. I’m such a coward.

“I understand. You need to be with your family right now, especially since your friends are gone. I’ll be here for you. I can start looking for apartments if you want, have it all lined up for when you get back. Have you decided how long you’re going for?”

I hesitate, digging deep to find my courage. I have to be honest with him. “I may not come back.”

“What?”

“I may stay in Connecticut.”

“Miriam, you don’t have to do this.”

“It’s the right thing to do.”

“No! Are you doing this because people expect you to?”

His voice sounds gruff over the phone, like he’s so angry he can hardly get the words out, or on the verge of tears. Maybe both. Bottom line, I’ve caused that gruff demeanor and it shreds my insides, but my leaving is self-preservation. Besides, he’s better off without my neediness. He should be carefree and meeting girls who are more suited to his wild side. In time, he’ll see that, I’m sure of it. I try to keep things emotionless and direct – even though it’s killing me in the process.

“I’ll come over.”

“No.”

“Please, Miriam, lets talk this out.”

“I have to go, I’m sorry, Chris.” I hang up and burst into tears.

A few minutes later, I see my dad pull into the driveway through the living room window and a ripple of panic finds my stomach and my intuition alarm bells ding. I wipe the tears away and take a quick breath, forcing myself to be strong. The phone rings and I let it, knowing who it is, knowing that if I pick it up I’ll beg him to come over and what good will that do either of us. It would only prolong the inevitable. I take in the sight of my surroundings, frantic to hold on to the memory of the space; frantic to hold onto the precious time I spent with my mom under this roof. I feel like it’s all slipping away through my fingers and I’ll never get it back once I leave.

Dad knocks and comes in. It’s been years since he’s been in the house, and even back when he did come over it had only been to help us move in after the divorce. Even though it’s been so long, he doesn’t seem to care much about the place. It probably represents the life of a woman he’d lost touch with, like their time together had been a lifetime ago and he vaguely remembers it.

Dad brings me into a forced bear hug. “I’m so sorry about your mom.”

“Thanks,” I say, bothered that he hasn’t referred to her by her name. Instead of saying Sandra, the woman he once loved and shared a life with, he simply refers to her as 'my mom', like that was all she was.

“Are you ready to go?” he asks, pulling away from me and picking up the large suitcase near the front door. Sentiments and wallowing were never his strong suit.

“Yes,” I practically whisper because I’m far from being ready, even though I’ve packed four large Tupperware containers stacked in the living room and another large duffle bag at the ready, full of all my winter clothes, important papers, and basically everything I own. I’ve donated most of Mom’s clothes and shoes to the Clothing Donation, but I kept a few items to wear and remember her by. Whenever I wear her favorite oversized wool sweater, with its cable-knit design and chunky whalebone buttons, it feels like my mom is wrapping her arms around me and I’m safe and protected. But at this moment, with my heart aching over Chris and the stark reality that I’m leaving this house forever, no amount of protection can guard me from my guilt and sorrow. It invades me to my core.

“Do you need a moment?” Dad asks, seeing my eyes well up.

“Yeah, maybe just a few. I’ll be right out.”

“Sure. Take your time.”

I wander around, running my hand along the walls as if trying to remember the place through touch, smell, sight, sound. Although this house has been my home for a shorter time than our last one, I’ve had much better memories here with my mom. It’s been our place. And now, it’s time to let it go and move on — even if deep down I don’t want to. Something nags at the pit of me. Maybe it’s the finality of my rash decision catching up with my true desire to stay in this house after all. And now it’s too late.