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Monday September 15.
“I’m not going to live like this anymore,” Allison said.
Dread spread out from my inner core. I’d just returned with milk from the convenience store, and there she was, standing in the hallway, wearing her housecoat, her arms folded across her chest. I’d dropped her off at the house after our latest birthing class—she hadn’t spoken to me since leaving the class. The damp wood smell of our old house permeated my nose.
“Live like what?” I asked nervously.
“Do you know how much you’ve embarrassed me at these classes?”
“I’m sorry, you’re right.” I tried to give her a hug, but she stepped back, her gaze angry and resolute.
“You treat the whole thing like a big joke,” she said. “Like it’s all about you, like it’s the Donny Love Show, starring the one and only Donny Love.”
I’d never seen her so intense before.
“I can’t help it, Allison. Like that smoke guy last week—he was way too funny!” Allison’s eyes bored into mine.
“Didn’t you find the situation funny?” I tried hopefully as I hung up my coat in the closet by the door.
“You’re almost forty, Donny. It’s time you learned to control yourself, if not for your own sake, then for mine.” Her face was creased with anger and concern.
I felt defeated. “It’s late, Allison. Let’s get some sleep, and talk about this in the morning.”
“There’s no time for sleep, Donny. There are twenty-nine voice mails and the phone keeps ringing off the hook! Apparently, everyone from old girlfriends to Hollywood reporters wants to talk to you, now that you’re famous, Donny. You’re basically down at that newspaper re-writing your own life script, and it’s selling. Your big lies! What a laugh! For years you’ve sent your stories and manuscripts to every publisher and agent in the publishing and film business with absolutely no success, but now you’re making it big, without an agent, or movie, or payment. But you’re going to end up in jail for character defamation, and we’ll lose the house, and this time, make it move number eight, I’ll have to move out by myself because you’ll be in prison, you damned fool!” She fought back the bitterness that had risen in her voice and her eyes were brimming.
“Twenty-nine voice mails?” That’s too many. This is moving way too fast.
“Just listen to yourself! Who cares how many?” she said, moving closer to me. She gently poked her finger into my chest. “You’ve got a problem, Donny. You need help. We keep moving because you don’t feel any city or town is right for you. You say you came here to help your parents, but you really came here for more than just that, Donny Love. You’re trying to find something, but what? Think about it, Donny. You’re never satisfied with your life, even after almost twenty years of searching and changing and uprooting.” She took me by the hands. “Donny, the past is dead, all those good times are over, but there’s still a future, a good one. We’ll have it, together.” Her tone was pleading.
“I know,” I said. “I know.” But I didn’t, not really.
The phone started to ring. I made for the kitchen, but she held me back. “NO!” She looked frightened; she was obviously afraid this mayhem I’d created was going to destroy us.
“You’re right, I have to get a grip on myself.”
She lowered her voice. “Look around you, Donny. There are packing boxes still unopened. You’ve been promising to unpack them now for months. Deep down, are you already planning your next move, your next job? Your next shot at fame and fortune? What are you afraid of, Donny? What’s going on?” She’d settled her hands on my chest. Burning guilt filled my gut.
I really wasn’t sure, but I did know that something was wrong with me, something deep inside of me that needed to be exorcised: a gibbering demon.
I gathered myself together for Allison’s sake. Her soft face looked so pained. “Listen honey, I know I’ve changed jobs a lot, and I’ve been searching for something since we met, but I’ve always landed us back on our feet. Look, we live in a nice house, finally. We’re having a baby. And I promise I won’t laugh out loud at the next birthing class. And I won’t be late.” I felt like an alcoholic promising there’d be no more relapses.
She offered a weak smile. “I wish I could believe you.”
I put my hands on her shoulders. “I promise we won’t move again. I’ll stay with the Gazette, and I’ll put an end to my Steven columns. Right now.”
“Where did those column even come from, Donny? It’s so strange. I mean, you hardly ever mentioned Steve McCartney before these columns started.”
“I know, but he was a good friend of mine. And when I came here, I started thinking about him again. He was the most talented person I’ve ever met, you know?”
I thought things were beginning to look good between us when Allison took me completely off guard. She clamped her gaze on me, a sad and pleading gaze. “Donny, I want you to see a psychologist.”
“Whoa, a psychologist? You’re kidding, right?” I felt blindsided.
“I think it’s time we figured out why you keep moving running from job to job, city to city.”
I opened my mouth to respond but she cut me off. “I won’t run with you anymore, Donny. I’m run out.”
“This is about me writing, isn’t it?” I pulled away from her.
“Of course it isn’t. It’s about why you write, why you can’t settle anywhere before you get bored and depressed. Not everyone who writes has the talent to get published, Donny.” She looked apologetic. “I’m sorry. I know that’s a bitter pill for you to swallow.”
I nodded shakily.
“Honey, this is the first full-time job you’ve accepted and we have a baby on the way and I can’t take much more upheaval.” She took a deep, pulsing breath. “Like I said, if you leave Hamilton, I’m not going with you.” Tears had welled up in her eyes again.
“You sure you want me to see a psychologist?” I said, staring at a point on the living room floor. A dark depression filled me, and I wondered what the hell was truly wrong with me. The only thing I knew for sure was that I’d always had a bad case of dreamer-itis.
