“THEY’RE ON THEIR WAY! They can’t wait to meet you!”
“Your parents?”
“Yup!” my girlfriend bubbles, the same friend whose brother I dated. You and I are in our eighth month of writing, and New York feels like a lifetime ago. An entire self ago. I’m so different from the girl who was once drawn to him. Soon after I landed, I wrote him an email expressing my gratitude for our time together, all we learned, and my favorite details about him that I’ll remember fondly. I wished him joy and success. He didn’t write back.
“They felt like taking a spontaneous road trip, and they’ve never been to Portland. I’m texting you my mom’s number. I wish I was there!”
“Me too, sweetheart,” I laugh. “I’ll call her right away.”
I daydreamed of meeting his parents one day. I simply didn’t think it would happen this way. I call and talk to their mom, who is as warm and kind as I imagined. They’re staying only a night in Portland. I invite them over to Momma and Dad’s for dinner.
I cook and bake a feast. They arrive, and it feels like a reunion with dear, old friends. All five of us talk, laugh, and joke with effortless ease. They ask me how I know their daughter and if I’ve met the rest of the family. I realize then, they don’t know he and I dated. I expected as much. He was very careful to keep us a secret.
They ask why I left New York and what I’m doing now.
“I needed something new. I’m writing a book, actually.” I’m suddenly shy.
“About what?”
“Love. Life. People. The things we do.”
They smile. They begin to share anecdotes about their children. All four, remarkable outliers. But she’s gushing mostly about him. He’s close to my age, and in another’s eyes, or in another life, we would seem like an obvious match. I listen, and watch her face blush with love, pride, and affection. I listen to all the faith, effort, hope, and love poured into him from the time he was born. I see him as she, his mother, sees him: a man who was once a child, and like all children, utterly lovable. Any remnants of dark feeling inside me leave. They are replaced swiftly with compassion.
We talk late into the night. I pack them off with a few dozen cookies for their two-day trek back. They give us a box of chocolates from their hometown and make me promise I’ll visit. I don’t know if that will ever fruit.
Before she goes, she tells me, squeezing my hands, “The only path you’re supposed to walk is your own.”
“Oh wow. Thank you.”
She laughs, hugs me once more, and they drive off. Sometimes the best affirmations arrive in the most unlikely ways.
A few weeks later, I finalize my divorce paperwork. It took a long time to organize all our fragments. I fill out the paperwork without a lawyer. With each letter, word, and page I feel myself letting him go. It is sublime. I create an addendum to the basic paperwork, for my ex-husband to sign and waive any claims to my past, present, and future work, including but not limited to books I will publish. Although I’m still writing this narrative, and can’t describe my future in detail, I know it holds immense light. I deserve protection.
“Hey, how are ya?” my ex-husband’s drawl curls over the phone.
“Wonderful, thank you. Did you have a chance to listen to my message? I was calling to say I’ve sent you the paperwork. It’s all rather innocuous.”
“Cool. So, what you been up to? I heard you’re not acting anymore?”
I fill him in.
“You?” He chuckles. “A book?” Breathe. I am the softness in this frame. I am the sand, he is the sea, he tries to carve his mark in me.
“Yes,” I reply.
“What kind of book?”
“A memoir.”
He laughs, hard. “Who’d wanna read about your life?”
Breathe. An act of love or a cry for love.
“Well, I did always say you’re a great writer.”
Breathe.
“Am I in it?”
“Yes.”
I hear him thinking. I wait for him to speak. He doesn’t.
“So, I’ve tagged the places you need to sign, notarize, and print your name. They’re color-coded blue, green, and pink. I’ve included a pre-paid, self-addressed stamped return envelope.”
“Awesome. Thanks.” His tone shifts. “I’m glad you’re doin’ good.”
“Thank you. I’m happy you’re well.”
I hang up, spinning from the carnival hall of mirrors that is his mind. His voice still ringing, he then sends two texts: “Don’t make me sound like an abusive redneck. There was a little more finesse in my abuse.”
Followed by, “Hahahaaa.”
It takes a few tries. He returns the paperwork a first time. I need to send it back. He fills it out correctly, sends it again. Finally, Momma and I drive the papers over to the county courthouse. I file and ten days later, we are divorced. The two bookends of our relationship are thus: falling in love, and getting a divorce, were the quickest, easiest parts.
My love, I have healed. And now, I release. Daily, I practice the truth I first learned as a teenager: The task of an artist is to turn pain into poetry. Wound into wisdom. As these pages grow, my once feral anger is replaced with peace. These nights, I no longer sleep on anger’s belly. I have forgiveness, a dear little pillow where I lay my head to rest. My beastly rage no longer growls. It purrs. We are all sleeping deeply, lulled by the song we are writing.
A few days after the phone call, I receive an email. The author writes he has changed and hints I would realize that were I to come “see for (my)self.”
Darling friend, they can always tell when we are our happiest. They sense our lifeblood pumping its brightest crimson, and they desire a good, long drink. So this man from my past has reached out, inviting me to come be a part of him again. Love, I realize you don’t know which “him” I am writing about. He could be Peter Pan, the Prince, or any one of the other men who have entered and left my life.
Every man will bring out a different version of my self, unless, until, I arrive at the day when my self lives solidly, consistently, intact and anchored within. “His” name has never mattered. What has mattered, what will always matter, is the woman I am with or without him. Moreover, I have learned the vital distinction that yes, although I was born to be a conduit of love, compassion, and forgiveness, I simultaneously hold the right to refuse to bear the bruise of another’s shadow.
Today, I hold myself whole. To him I reply, “No, thank you. I’m sorting my orbit. I wish you love.”