SPRING ARRIVES. The ice around the Boat thaws. I book my first professional lead. The play is a world premiere. My character is 15 years old, half Pakistani, half Caucasian. It’s a radical, powerful play, the story of an American woman, a former interrogator in Guantanamo Bay. The American woman is my mother, while my father is a prisoner she interrogated. Fifteen years later I discover their story and my beginnings. I learn the man who I thought was my father, isn’t. The family falls apart. In trying to better understand my parents, I become obsessed with replaying torture methods. I accidentally asphyxiate myself, dying in the final scene.
The play of only four characters is performed in the round, on a stage just big enough to be grand but small enough to be intimate. It’s ideal for the extreme intensity and pace of the story. I can feel the audience collectively breathe, cry, panic, gasp, drown, and die with me. The tale is a stark examination of desperation, cruelty, manipulation, prejudice, and love, and how we’re all capable of these forces.
My husband and I move out of the Boat. I travel to West Virginia for the show. He moves north to the Barn. He sleeps in his Bus while he works everyday, all day, to make the Barn inhabitable. While sad to be apart, I love having my entire day to my work and myself again. Every moment is peaceful. The weather is heavenly. Having only myself to contend with, without him occupying the space he generally demands, I get to sleep, meditate, write, paint, run, read, and make contact with you more freely. And this work itself is precious. The cast is incredible. I’m honored to learn from my peers daily.
Never have I felt more alive. I start eating larger portions and more grains. I increase my daily runs to seven miles. I run and write in the morning, begin rehearsals at 10 a.m. and perform in the evenings. It’s a repertory company. We perform five plays, and most of us are cast in two plays simultaneously. I play a small part in the other play. Between the two, I have sixteen performances a week. My job is to emote, fall in love, destroy, sob, fight, and die sixteen times a week. An exhilarating vacation I’m being paid for.
The season kicks off with a reception, and he drives down to be there with me. He and I are photographed for the front page of the local newspaper. We are picture-perfect, multiracial, young, an embodied promise. He surprises me by coming again on opening night. I don’t know he’s there until I see him in the lobby after the show. I run and jump onto him like a koala, laughing. He spins me around, proud of his girl. He comes to seven shows, driving six hours each way. My parents fly to see the show, as do his mother and stepfather. I’m so grateful and thrilled. We’re growing close.
Once the shows close, I join him in the Bus. While the Boat had a pretty elegance, the Bus is pure humorous charm, tan and rust-brown. A 1981 Vanagon Westfalia, transported from a free-spirited era. The top folds up, the stickering on the windows dark and peeling. The laminate, vinyl, plastic, and rubber inside, on the trays, dashboard, chairs, and sides, smell of time and look happily aged, like a traveling musician who has seen everything and done the crazy. The back seat in the Bus opens like a trunk and out fans a bed, narrow but wider than the Boat’s, in the shape of a rectangle. Gone are the months of sleeping in a triangle. When visiting friends or family, we’ve sometimes slept on queen- or king-sized mattresses. They feel absurd, like we’ve fallen into a world of different dimension and shape. When we’re with a large group and the rooms are being doled out, we volunteer to take the one with the twin bed. The other couples sigh with relief, thanking us as though we’ve done something nice for their sake.
The months are simple and good. We grow our own vegetables on the small plot of land that came with the Barn, and supplement what we need from nearby farms. We pick apples off our trees for breakfast and friends. He fishes. We still don’t have indoor plumbing, but at least now we have warmth, sunshine, and wheels upon earth. Inside the Barn we have electricity. It’s the first thing he hooked up, for powertools and a landline telephone. Tucked as we are in the woods, so removed from civilization, we don’t have cell reception. We cook our meals on the hot plate or on a small camping grill, compact and sturdy despite its years. We make an adventure of everything, luxury mined from imagination. The dollar store is our whimsical cave of possibilities. Anything can be found, and if not, he and I build it from scrapwood, nails, rocks, branches, paint, and gumption. I hang a heart-shaped sign inside the Bus. It says, Home Sweet Home.
“Baby,” he grins, “Just imagine all the places this heart will hang.”
I love being a wife. I love the feeling of cultivating something together, a team. While he works on the Barn, I write on the grass, essays purely for myself, and a book of poetry for kids and parents. I commute into the City to audition and babysit. I land a few art commissions and build my first websites. He digs ditches for a septic system and puts in the roof. Watching him, tireless under the sun, bathed in dirt, sweat, and tenacity, pulls forth the seemingly impossible; I grow to love him even more.
One side of the Barn needs complete remodeling. Sometime in the 70s, a fire devoured the entire wall. He nails new planks to resemble the other three sides. He wants to recreate the original beauty, weathered, accidental, but now deliberate, through paint. I select a few grays and browns at the hardware store. After a few tries, we learn to mimic the effect of time, rain, and wind, using different brushes for an aged texture. We walk across the field, waiting until we’re two hundred feet away before turning to gaze at our work. We stand, tired, sun-kissed, proud. How sacred, these stories we are writing for our children and grandchildren.
We make love in the field with nary a covering except the sky. He feels heavier on me, nicely, his body wider, more muscled, tanned, and toughened from months of hard labor. We’re now closely brown, I only slightly tanner.
I come and he says, “You’re blessing our land.” I blush. We lie half asleep, suspended in the fuzzy warmth found after sex. Few things are better than this nook only we know.
I trace the calluses he collects daily, feeling proud of his strength and the enormity of what he has decided to accomplish. I kiss the hard knots, one by one. He has great, strong, builder’s hands. He slips into a nap.
A butterfly lands on his arm, tiptoes along its length. It treads lightly lest it wake the dozing dragon. Suddenly, I see beads of light dancing over the grass.
“Baby!” I nudge him awake. “Fairies!”
“Silly girl,” he laughs, groggily. “They’re fireflies.”
It is my first time witnessing such magic. Fireflies are fascinating, not only for their bioluminescence but the nature and reasoning behind it. Their light is a “cold light,” devoid of the more common infrared and ultraviolet wavelengths. And, the reason fireflies alight is so to attract both mates and prey.
I turn to tell my husband these things, but he has already fallen back asleep.
HE IS FURIOUS. He bought a wedding ring to replace the yarn but misplaced it. The ring was a slim gold band with a gold heart curved like a shell, nesting a tiny, perfect, white pearl. I saw it at a vintage store, touched the glass case reverently, but didn’t cave. We cannot afford it right now. Unbeknownst to me, he returned and bought the ring.
Now he has lost it. He rips apart the Bus and Barn trying to find the ring, roaring, yanking chunks of hair, knotting them into tiny balls.
“Baby, it’s okay. I don’t need a ring to know you’re mine and I’m yours. Our love is too big to live on a finger.”
He hurricanes still. I pull him down to sitting and get on his lap.
“Shhh, it’s okay,” I murmur into his neck, hair, chest. We sit like this for long minutes, my lips pressed to his forehead. Against my mouth, I feel his frantic pulse slow down, like a hammock swaying softly to rest.
“Let’s get pregnant,” he says suddenly. He likes saying this often, throwing me the sentence like a dishtowel or beach ball, as if to say, Think fast!
I kiss the back of his hand. “Not yet, my love. Let’s wait until we’re on solid ground.”
He nods, yawning. He has exhausted himself.
SKETCHES SURROUND HIM like a growing lake. Different plans for the Barn, scrawled by expert hands. I adore his handwriting and the way he draws, the sophisticated penmanship characteristic of architects and engineers. Their lines have a masterly flare different from my civilian scribbles. He sits on the bed we can’t use for sleeping yet, covered in plastic for safekeeping from sawdust and plaster. It’s a mattress and box spring, the one piece of furniture I’ve ever owned, that’s traveled with me sublet to sublet. The walls of this first floor are nearly finished. Stacks of plywood punctuate the space, with piles of nails and cans of paint eagerly waiting to be used.
He has sawn out most of the windows. They wait patiently for the glass panes. The paneless windows are covered with plastic construction sheets to keep out wind, leaves, and summer rains.
I tiptoe over to peer at the beautiful designs. I want to frame some of these for their artistry and also, their meaning. “Here’s how Daddy built our home,” I’ll say to our son or daughter, balancing him or her on a hip they’ll believe exists solely for their perching. They’ll trace the lines with their pudgy fingers, smudging the glass with the stickiness of childhood, a sweet mix of applesauce, playground, sweat, and sand.
“They’re so beautiful, my love. They’re treasures.”
“Thanks, babe. They’re just sketches.”
I play with his hair. “Which section of the house is this?”
“The second floor. I’m trying to figure out how to use the light best, so it comes through every side, with the rooms mapped out with the rise and set of the sun.”
I love that. He has marked the coordinates on the plans, east, west, north, south. I can see where the windows and rooms would make most sense.
“May I make a suggestion?” I ask.
“No, I got this.”
“Okay, honey. I’ll leave you to it.”
I’m working on a commission, a child’s portrait. It needs the final shading, then I’ll mail it. My art brings in some welcome cash. Recently, two large paintings of nude angels sold for a sweet $1,000 each, which helped immensely with our bills.
I work.
A few hours pass. The light shifts, nudging that it’s time to decide dinner. I package the finished portrait. “Are you hungry, baby?”
Balls of banished paper pockmark his pool of designs. He angrily toys with a knot of hair, kneading it between forefinger and thumb. I slip my hand into his, lace our fingers, tease away the knot. He retrieves it, puts it in his pocket.
“Is it the windows?”
“Yeah. Everything feels wrong.”
“You’ll get it done. Perhaps, if we place the master bedroom here, with two windows facing here and here, we’ll capture the sun’s path perfectly.” I motion what I mean.
He rises. “No. It’s all right. Design isn’t your thing. You’re not an artist. You wanna cook at home or order in?”
I blink. “Home. We can eat outside. The sun’s still out.”
We cook, falling into our familiar rhythm, donning the blessed wordless dance like a sweatshirt that knows your every groove. Chop vegetables, measure rice, add water. A few minutes pass.
“Did you finish your piece?” he asks.
“Yeah, I did. And actually,” strangely, I become shy, “I found the folder of drawings I’ve given you. We can start framing a few, maybe hang them up.”
“It’s vain to hang your own work.” He delivers the verdict with echoing finality, the gavel hitting my breastbone, declaring me guilty of petty desires.
“Oh. I was thinking about painting something for that north wall, since we have that expanse to fill. It’d be lovely, to hang a painting I’ve made, on a wall you’ve built.”
“No. It’s like when a person puts up photos of their kids everywhere. How many reminders of yourself do you need?”
The rice steams. From habit, I draw our initials in the condensation on the mason jar behind the cooker, the one holding oats. I eat them by the bushel like a horse. I run nearly as much as one.
“Here.” He walks over to his makeshift blueprint. With his toe, he indicates a miniscule square on the paper resting on the dusty floor, for a six-by-six-foot structure. “I’m building you your own space. Out in the lawn. Like a shed.”
“It’s small,” I carefully calibrate the inflections in my voice, lest I sound ungrateful.
“It’s just right. Big enough for you. Your writing. Your drawings. You can hang whatever you want there. The Barn’s for family.”
“Okay. Thank you.”
I check on the vegetables. We take our bowls to the lawn. We have been brave with our garden, recently planting cabbages, peppers, kale, carrots, peas, and tomatoes. Along the perimeter of the lawn are wild apple trees. The fruits are coyly dimpled from being left to their own nature, boasting a rich tartness that can’t be bettered. The plastic sheets covering the window frames billow like wings, the wind having her way with them. We balance the bowls on our knees, waiting for the food to cool. I slice an avocado in half, scoop his into his bowl, mine into mine. He returns inside, brings balsamic vinegar and olive oil for himself, water for us both. We murmur, “Thank you, love,” to each other. For dessert he picks an apple off a tree, cuts slices to share. I take in our empty bowls, bring out almond butter. He likes it with his apples.
We snuggle into a favorite conversation. How our kids will look and be. We volley back and forth a gentle patter of hopes and qualities we most admire in each other. Our kids will always seek and find the beauty in others. They’ll give love generously and easily. They’ll celebrate the little things. They’ll be caramel skinned with blue eyes, huge smiles, and thick hair that grows like weeds.
“They’ll be amazing athletes like their father,” I say.
“They’ll be sweet like their mama,” he says.
“They’ll build things like their dad.”
He smiles. “They’ll create something out of nothing like their mom.”
“You’ll teach them how to sing.”
“You’ll teach them how to be funny. You’re funnier than me.”
“Funny-looking,” I quip.
“It’s because your mind’s quicker. You’re smarter.”
“Not true. You’ll teach them how to play guitar and make people glow just by being around them.”
He reaches for my hand, resting it in its rightful place; inside his. “You’ll teach them how to be kind.”
“We both will, my love.”
We braid our fingers, breathe in the fall air that’s beginning to cool like a temper deciding to settle. The sun paints us gold then tawny-brown then lusty, earthy red, before enveloping us in solemn blue. We sit quietly, lulled by food, pensive with love and other things hovering nearby, shadows we try to catch or chase away, succeeding in neither.
I DON’T KNOW HOW to drive. I dodged lessons offered by Papa during high school. The occasional nightmare visits me still, where I crash his Mercedes. I’ve never sat behind the wheel of that car but I know in pristine detail how it feels to destroy it. My head and neck snapping forward, the sickening crackle of knotted vertebrae coming apart. The sound of shattering glass, high-pitched like a shy request. The accordion crunch of metal, the squeal of tires on asphalt, the pebbles, rocks, branches fleeing the scene. Finally, my primal scream pulled from the little ballerina box where I hide unspeakable things.
My husband is very excited to teach me how to drive. He says the Suburban is perfect for teaching, because it’s huge and heavy, with a stick shift—if I can drive this car, I can drive any. I’m told it’s good for men to feel like they can teach you something. It’s important to him, and me, although his enthusiasm is colored by competitiveness. I don’t mind. I want nothing more than for him to feel knowledgeable and thus, hopefully, more confident and secure.
He chooses a winding road up a mountain for my first lesson. The path is choked with snow. The lesson happens spontaneously, like a forest catching fire due to extreme heat. We’re on the way to visit friends when he stops the car and demands I take the wheel.
“Come on, baby. Where’s that famous focus of yours? Let’s see you put your discipline to good use. Go.”
So I do. I wind up the mountain, a wall of rock and snow on our left, empty space on our right. A steep drop, thousands of feet high or deep, however one wishes to see it. I do rather well.
PAPA COMES to visit us. He’s in New York for another conference. He takes the train to stay with us for two days and nights. Ecstatic and so anxious to see the man I revere and fear, I can barely eat or sleep for three days prior to his visit. This will be the first time the two men meet.
My husband’s taken aback by how tiny Papa is, the father who resides so largely in me. They embrace each other like long-lost friends, and it’s clear that Papa’s enamored with my husband. My heart soars. We have a detailed schedule planned for his visit, filled with possible joyful memories yearning to be made.
Papa is astonished by the Barn, our partly constructed, partly scorched life. I show him our makeshift kitchen with our hot plate, rice cooker, vegetable steamer, and my husband’s latest flash purchase, a gleaming refrigerator bought from a bankrupt restaurant. Everything is powered by electric cables, exposed in plain air.
“Ayta thomar shongshar?” Are these the makings of your life?
“We’ll get a stove and an oven soon,” I reply. “Maybe in a few months.”
We show Papa the small vegetable patch with kale, carrots, green beans, peppers. My husband worked quickly to ready a space for Papa in the house, on the second floor, where we’ve placed the mattress and box spring. Papa will sleep here while we sleep in the Bus as usual.
“I wish you could’ve come to my show,” I say, smiling. “I had a leading role.”
“Well,” he says, an answer and an end to the conversation.
“I’m here to see my son’s work. His vision is enormous.” He pats my husband on his back. He looks at the architectural plans, gazes around, wonderstruck, his face a canvas of pride, admiration, and delight.
“He’s an artist! We have an artist in our family!”
“We do,” I agree, feeling my familiar joy and rejection. Don’t be selfish, I scold myself. Be grateful.
I have nearly mastered driving. My husband is determined to show Papa I can drive, believing this can be a watershed event, when we bond and I release my fear of him. But I don’t feel I’m ready to drive, not with other lives on the road, nor do I think we can force an epic turning point in our relationship.
“Come on, baby,” my husband urges with characteristic relentlessness, biting down on his opinion and refusing to relinquish the caught animal.
I consent, both Papa and I viscerally nervous. Nearby, my love, I feel you tense.
“You don’t need to,” Papa says. “It’s okay.”
“It’s okay,” I parrot. “It’ll be fine.”
We begin smoothly. The day is clear, the sun is shining, I’ve driven the Suburban and this loop a dozen times. Papa sits behind me and speaks in Bengali.
“Slow down, look at the rearview mirror, signal the turn, slow down, slow down, slow down, you don’t know what you’re doing, slow down.”
My husband sits beside me and says in English, “Speed up, hurry up, push down on the accelerator, signal the turn, speed up, speed up, why are you doing that, don’t do that, that’s not the way to do it.”
Both voices, one nasal, one gruff, contradicting each other, quickly escalate to yelling, devoted to the same cause; to drive me as I drive. Within minutes, we create our effortless norm: distilled cacophony and my acquiescence. Soon, neither man speaks coherently, only loudly, caught in the vortex of his need to control.
I calmly repeat, “Please stop talking. Please let me drive.”
The instant I stray from this tone, all will be lost. I focus my entire concentration on the wheel, the road, imploring myself, Don’t listen, don’t break, don’t let go. As I approach the turn into our driveway, their voices reverberate against the glass. I feel their tag-teamed efforts battle-ramming my chest. I’m struck by a horrifying thought: they’ll stop only if I crash.
I don’t mean to.
But perhaps I do.
I press down on the accelerator. We smoothly careen into an oak stump, three feet in diameter, at forty miles an hour. The tree receives us without any hesitation, the impact unlike anything I’ve felt before or since: a stoic, solid end. We halt so firmly, so casually, the air bag doesn’t explode. My chest slams against the wheel, my hands gripping it still, like a child refusing to unclutch a security blanket.
The doors swing open, the car spits us onto the grass. We spill more than we walk. I buckle in half as if kneed in the stomach, crumpling like a soiled paper plate a person folds without thinking before throwing it away.
I burst into huge, gulping sobs. I collapse onto the asphalt, the pebbles hot and sharp, creating indentations wherever we touch. I’m so scared. How could I have failed them so terribly? They’ll be livid.
Neither man comes to me. They stand a few feet away. Watching.
Suddenly, my husband starts laughing hysterically, so hard he cannot stop, holding his stomach from the effort of his mirth. His eyes tear up.
“Baby, I have never seen anyone cry like this before! I’m sorry, but I’ve never seen you like this at all, it’s amazing!” He takes out his phone and snaps dozens of photos of me, finally unhinged, weeping.
Papa takes a few steps toward me, unsure of what to do, what to say, how to comfort.
I peer through the salt, my eyelashes caked with the dirt and dust of the ground where I burrow. Our combined personalities have orchestrated a car crash. How humiliatingly unsurprising and inevitable.
Humility is the moment you realize your universe is neither original nor special. You’re scathingly human, mostly alone, and now you must stand.
I stand. I scream: “Someone please hold me.”
I cry this with all my might. I’m terrified they’re both furious with me, but still, I scream my plea.
My husband continues to laugh with unwavering enthusiasm. Papa tries his best to hug me, tying his arms around my face and shoulders like a loose, warm swaddle, patting my cheek with one hand.
“Shh, shh, jaan,” he says. I love him so much for this I feel I’ll collapse again.
“I’m so sorry,” I sob. “I’m not perfect. I know that. And you can’t keep yelling at me for it.”
My words shock me as much as they astonish the two men in my life. I feel I have sinned. I’ve exposed a vicious truth known and hidden by everyone. I return to my tangle on the ground.
A few long minutes pass. Papa pulls me up.
“Shh, amanjee.” Little mother. “It will be okay.” It’s the sweetest thing I’ve ever heard.
My husband continues to take photos, capturing every moment, of Papa trying to hold me up, of the two of us standing in front of the demolished car and the stump. He calls over a neighbor, asks him to take the photos so he can strike a pose. He joins us for another dozen, him grinning, flashing a thumbs up, me weeping, Papa looking stricken. He texts and emails the photos to our families. Momma calls, horrified.
“I’m sorry, Momma. Please don’t worry. Everything is fine. No. I’m not hurt. No one’s hurt. I just. Messed up. Tell me about you guys. Please.”
My brother is with them in Portland. He recently graduated college. He’s visiting Momma and Dad for a few months, for this period between graduation and beginning his corporate job. The wise investment he is, he was recruited straight from school by a Fortune 500. Everyone is so proud. He, too, didn’t learn to drive during his teenage years. Dad has taught him over these past months. My brother wanted time with that pairing of parents for exactly this sort of reason. To feel and do things that escaped us before. I’m so happy for him.
On the phone now, Momma talks about my brother’s achievements and how confident he is on the road, knowing that anything regarding either sibling always raises my spirits. She gushes, I laugh from joy, cry some more. I miss them with a hunger on a cellular level, a longing that travels my veins, replacing my blood. I feel so far away from them, not just physically. I’ve tried tracing when this feeling began. I think I’ve always felt it.
It is evening. My husband asks, “How’re you feelin’?”
“I’m fine. Thank you.”
“It’s okay to cry.”
“Thanks for your permission.” I sound like water turning to ice.
“G’night. Love you.”
“Love you too.”
Of course I do. If I did not love him, who would? Everyone else has left. Who would love these men but me? I close my eyes.
I wake up to his usual morning kisses and playful growls that always make me feel lucky and cherished.
“Wake up, baby. I love you, I love you, I love you. You’re so beautiful when you sleep. So peaceful and young. You’re my little fairy queen. Today will be great, I promise.”
I open my eyes and just this hurts. My whole body throbs with every heartbeat. I sneak a peek under the covers; my breastbone is vivid indigo. I breathe and stretch beneath the press of his body. I giggle despite the bitter ache, still smitten, still susceptible to him.
It’s Papa’s last day with us. We have a blessedly gentle day. We picnic in the field next to the Barn. For dessert we each have an apple from one of our trees, the fruit green and red, speckled with little black freckles. The car is drivable albeit dented and scratched. We drive Papa to the train station. We thank him for making the trip to see us.
“It’s been a wonderful visit,” he says.
“I’m so glad, Papa. Thank you for coming to see us. I’m sorry about yesterday.”
“It’s all right, jaan. You’ll learn to be better.”
My husband slings his arm around me and echoes, “Yup, you’ll get better.”
I look at my men. I smile, nodding in agreement.
AN IDEAL FALL DAY, the sky arrogantly spectacular, the leaves a bonfire of color daring us not to swoon. We are driving into the City for his godson’s birthday party. The little guy is turning 1 today. The Suburban has held up, although it groans and wheezes. My husband is singing. I join him for a few lines before letting him have his airtime. I love his voice. He’s a much better singer than I am. He says I sing like a Disney princess. Sweet, wholesome, without much personality, and not a smidge of sensuality. His voice is pure sex, rich, thick, and coiled like syrup. He’s singing “I Wan’na Be Like You” from The Jungle Book, jazzing it up, weaving in some reggae.
I’m wearing my favorite dress. It’s silk, light pink, short, and fitted with spaghetti straps and delicate ruffles along the neckline and skirt. It’s the second time I’ve worn it. I’m excited for the chance. I bought it a month ago as a rare treat, to wear to my agent’s birthday party. A few years ago, my agent enfolded me into his tribe of close friends and family. They’re a safe, loving clan. Every year now, I’m in charge of my agent’s birthday cake. His favorite is strawberry shortcake, but the tribe favorite is banana chocolate chip. I layer one of each.
I have framed one of my drawings for today’s birthday boy. It sits tucked beside me. On my knees I balance his cake. We offered to make it, and his mama was happy to have one less thing to do. All my baking pans are heart-shaped. I found them, finally, a few months ago. I’ve been baking more for the kids I babysit. All of them are toddlers and older now. With a picky eater who needs more vegetables, fruit, or a higher calorie intake, I’ve learned to get crafty with ways to woo their taste buds. I create recipes for each child off what they need and like, cakes sweetened only with fruit juice and purees, folding in carrots or zucchini for more veggies and nuts, seeds, dried and fresh fruit for richness, flavor, and healthy calories.
I love being a part of so many lives. It’s such a joy, and I get to brainstorm recipes and lessons I can use one day when I’m a mother.
Suddenly, my stomach is clutched by a thing that hasn’t a name, like the creature that lives under our bed. My skin prickles. The climate in the car has changed. The light hasn’t shifted, neither has the temperature. But the air is clotted with emotion.
“Honey, is everything okay?”
He looks at me, sideways.
“I don’t know why you dress like that. And all that makeup. You look like you’re dumb. What’s that line from Hamlet? A painted whore?”
I order my face to remain immovable.
“I don’t know why you work so hard to make women hate you. Everyone at that party knows my ex-wife. Now they’re gonna think you’re my child bride, a rebound. They won’t even pause to see the real you or that we love each other.”
I play with the extra button sewn into my cardigan. It’s cherry-red. The dress is the kind of blush-pink that allows for this. I like to think the ensemble makes me look like a valentine. Valentine, Valentine, please be mine, my mind sings while I look at passing trees, blinking to keep tears from falling.
“A woman can wear—”
His voice rises to drown mine. “It’s like you’re trying to be the most perfect thing in a room.” He shakes his head. “Who do you think you are?”
I remember when we first met, observing he moved with the entitled confidence of someone accustomed to standing center and spotlit in a crowd.
He hits the glove compartment, the mouth drops open, he grabs a handful of takeout paper napkins and thrusts them toward me.
“Here. Wipe your face.” He swabs my cheeks a few times, showing me how, before dropping the napkins into my lap.
I cradle the napkins like petals from an enormous rose, withered and falling apart in my hands. I blot my cheeks, lips, eyelids, dimming myself.
Fitting that the word blot means to erase or wound.
“I don’t wanna go to the party,” he says. “I’m too frustrated.”
“But he’s your godson. We have to.”
“Why d’you have to be like this?”
“I’m sorry,” I reply automatically.
He sighs. “I know. You can’t help it.”
Suddenly, he swings a sharp turn, pulling into a Toyota dealership.
“We need a new car. This one’s not gonna hold up.”
We walk in and in a matter of minutes, he has leased a new Prius. The dealership takes the Suburban to help with the cost of the new car. It’ll take about an hour for the paperwork to go through. In the dealership restroom, I slip into running leggings and one of his sweatshirts. One value to the way we live is there’s always a backpack of clothes within hands’ reach, and both clean and dirty Tupperware and Ziploc bags for our many on-the-road meals. I gingerly slip my pink silk dress into a fresh Ziploc, like a nefarious clue from a crime scene, a phantom detective sneering, “Why were you wearing a short dress?”
We walk to a Barnes & Noble across the highway. I’m happy. Bookshops are the cathedral for this hunchback. I hate that lately I haven’t been able to read as much as I’d like. There is hardly any energy for reading by each day’s end. I lovingly touch the spines of stories I wish I could buy, like an impoverished, hungry child desiring food, walking through a vast supermarket, gazing reverently at cereal cartons and boxes of cookies, the fluorescent light blanching her shrunken face even paler. Money’s extremely tight right now. He has emptied the loan he took to rebuild the Barn on materials and hired labor. We are both working shifts at a neighborhood restaurant. I’m babysitting as much as possible. And now we have a new car for which we’ll have to pay, somehow.
I let a few books open to the page they decide to share with me and read what the author has chosen to confess. I smile, remembering my longstanding fantasy of finding that one book that will feel like my clear thread of love. How I yearn for it. So many longings feel impossible.
He isn’t a reader. I wish he was. Sometimes, before bed, I read aloud passages from books, hoping the words will spark the kind of discourse I, as a young girl, dreamt would be part of my future marriage. My attempts fall listlessly to the ground like rejected love letters.
I close the book in my hands. Naked by David Sedaris. My finger traces the author’s name on the spine.
Maybe I’ll write a book one day.
“You wanna get that?” His voice startles me from my thoughts.
“Can we afford it?”
“Absolutely.”
“Wow. Thank you.”
He pays with the help of his mom’s account. We chitchat with the cashier. He rubs my back, humming a sweet nothing. I order my body to not tense at his touch.
“Thank you for changing, baby.” He plays with the cord of my sweatshirt hood. “You look more comfortable now.”