PART 13
She stays another couple of days after Thanksgiving, my mom, and it's OK except that she keeps trying to make herself useful and I can't find anything in the kitchen because she puts everything in the wrong place. She even gets Luka to come along to see what we can get in the sales, which is how I find myself seriously considering the huge, old fashioned baby carriage on its gigantic wheels. When I point out that we'll still need something that we can put in the car Luka shrugs and Maggie says that I'll feel like a princess pushing this thing around. My observation that princesses don't push baby carriages around because they have nannies for that is brushed aside and it's not until Luka finally looks at the price tag and turns kind of green that he sees sense. He's disappointed.
"Shame – it's sort of . . . sporty" he says.
"You're crazy."
"The carriage lines, that suspension . . . "
"Oh, sure. It's sporty like a Rolls Royce is sporty."
"You don't want a Rolls Royce?"
"Not at these prices. And it probably eats gas."
"But – " and then he sees the joke and allows himself to be torn away. Truth is I'm sort of disappointed too. I rest a finger on the handle and watch as the body sways on its suspension straps and I think of the little boat in Vodice and I have to smile. In the end we settle for practical over beautiful but it reminds me that there's a conversation we have to have, a real serious conversation, and not one I'm looking forward to at all; no, not at all.
Actually he takes it well; a little resistance but I expected that.
"It was good while it lasted," he says, "It was fun, we had some good times. But you're right. People change, need different things."
"I know this is hard, Luka, but you'll get over it. You know it's better this way."
"I guess." He takes one last, longing look at the Viper, runs a hand lovingly over its wing before handing over the keys to the guy at the lot and taking the keys of the sensible Volvo which is our new car.
"You want to drive?" he asks, gloomily. "I don't have the heart for it."
He's a little more enthusiastic when I outline my plan for testing just exactly how roomy these things are in back but afterwards I still drive it home.
I don't know where he's gone. He just said he had something to do so here I am, Sunday morning, kicking my heels. If I still have heels. I sure as hell don't have ankles any more. I do have a cleavage though and I'm wondering how long that will last when he comes home. I lean back against him as he wraps his arms around me and I'm trying to figure out what the faintly familiar smell clinging to him is.
Oh.
"How was it?"
"What?"
"Church."
"You know?"
"You smell of incense."
"Oh." There's a pause. "I can't see their faces any more." What do I say to that? "It used to be easy. I thought it would be easy today." Today. Oh, shit, shit, shit. Today.
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be. I'm not."
"No?"
"No." The words come slowly now, his head bent, like in the confessional, mouth close to my ear, his breath stirring my hair a little, just a little. "When we were together before . . . I . . . sometimes, when I looked at you . . . I saw her." Wow.
"You couldn't see me?"
"No, no I saw you. I think it was because – " he falters.
"Go on."
"I think it was because you couldn't see me. I knew you couldn't. I needed to see someone who saw me." And wow again.
"You see me now?"
"Always." His hold on me tightens for a second. "Always."
"I wish – "
"Don't wish. Don't wish."
"OK. No wishing. Just . . . doing."
He's quiet for a long time before he says "Yes."
....................................................................................................
I could have been, I don't know, upset that he did that, went to church without me. Time was I would have been, like when he didn't mind me going to that fundraiser with Carter. I mean, we're married, not joined at the hip. Joined at the heart. Barf.
And also – totally wrong. I'm getting that this is as much about thinking as feeling, about understanding more than, well, more than sharing. There's stuff, vast acreages of stuff, that we can't share, not ever. The fallout is what we share. And, you know, you can't think with your heart. You might as well try and think with your spleen or your liver – doesn't work, it's not what it's meant for. And here's the weirdest thing of all; sometimes - and I feel like I should whisper this - sometimes I think I'm better at this stuff than he is. Not had to do it so much I guess while me, well, I'm all sponsored and rehabbed and 12 stepped up, it should be a piece of cake for me. Yeah. Go me.
So I get a little kick out of the fact that sometimes he's the one who lays out his thoughts for me, like he's just checking, like I'm the one who knows how to do this stuff. He looks at me to see if we're keeping up. So far so good.
I used to have this idea that I thought too much, but I didn't, not really. I had thoughts, sure, but I didn't do anything with them, nothing useful anyhow. And forget quality control. I never once stopped to say to myself that this thought was ridiculous, or that thought was damaging or mean or, well, just, you know, wrong, because what I really had were feelings, and lots of them. Well, maybe not lots of them – pretty much the same one but in a comprehensive range of colours and styles. And feelings, well they are what they are, they just come at you, so the good, bad, mean, stupid, wrong stuff didn't really figure at all. I took 'em all on and kept finding room for them.
It's like when you keep buying clothes; comes a time when the closet is full and all your stuff gets squished up together and you can't even see what you have and you just keep wearing the stuff you can get at, not what you really want or what's right for you. I did that with my feelings, kept slipping into the old comfortable stuff even if it made me look drab and didn't really suit me any more and God, I knew I was ready for a makeover. But just like guys don't sort out the attic or the basement when it's full of so much crap that it's useless – maybe even dangerous – I sure as hell didn't sort out that closet.
Am I rambling? Indulge me. But see, here's what I found out; thinking, it's like clearing out the closet or the basement or the attic. Those few days when Luka was sick, it was like this whole baby thing was the last tiny little thing that got put in the attic and, holy crap, there goes the ceiling. And me, I've got a whole new wardrobe, whole outfits of new thoughts and ideas and, in the end, feelings. I like these much better, I think they suit me, make me look younger, feel younger, a lot sexier, a new woman. Well, yeah, OK, so I've got some of the old stuff in a garbage bag in the back of the closet, but I'll get round to it, and even if I don't I don't think I'll ever be wearing it again.
And I don't need anyone else to tell me that I look great in this new stuff. I see the evidence, like when you walk past those big store windows and you think "Whoa, who's the good looking chick? Hey! It's me!". And so now I'm thinking "Who is this woman who was OK with her husband going to church to remember his dead wife and kids and who thought more about him than about herself? Holy crap! It's me!"
Which is why it's weird that I'm kind of panicking over this one thing, this one thing I've been thinking about. Maybe I'm not so sure that Luka has the attic sorted and you know, if you just even ask a man "Did you finish clearing out the attic?" they'll say you're nagging even if it has been months – or, say, 12 years – that it's needed doing. Hey, I know whereof I speak; my attic's been a mess for more than 30 years and nagging never got me off my ass to do anything about it. My ceiling had to pretty much crash down on my head too. But like reformed smokers and drinkers, the reformed hoarder is nothing if not zealous. Still. I'm going to have to find out, and I'm going to have to do it soon.
She stays another couple of days after Thanksgiving, my mom, and it's OK except that she keeps trying to make herself useful and I can't find anything in the kitchen because she puts everything in the wrong place. She even gets Luka to come along to see what we can get in the sales, which is how I find myself seriously considering the huge, old fashioned baby carriage on its gigantic wheels. When I point out that we'll still need something that we can put in the car Luka shrugs and Maggie says that I'll feel like a princess pushing this thing around. My observation that princesses don't push baby carriages around because they have nannies for that is brushed aside and it's not until Luka finally looks at the price tag and turns kind of green that he sees sense. He's disappointed.
"Shame – it's sort of . . . sporty" he says.
"You're crazy."
"The carriage lines, that suspension . . . "
"Oh, sure. It's sporty like a Rolls Royce is sporty."
"You don't want a Rolls Royce?"
"Not at these prices. And it probably eats gas."
"But – " and then he sees the joke and allows himself to be torn away. Truth is I'm sort of disappointed too. I rest a finger on the handle and watch as the body sways on its suspension straps and I think of the little boat in Vodice and I have to smile. In the end we settle for practical over beautiful but it reminds me that there's a conversation we have to have, a real serious conversation, and not one I'm looking forward to at all; no, not at all.
Actually he takes it well; a little resistance but I expected that.
"It was good while it lasted," he says, "It was fun, we had some good times. But you're right. People change, need different things."
"I know this is hard, Luka, but you'll get over it. You know it's better this way."
"I guess." He takes one last, longing look at the Viper, runs a hand lovingly over its wing before handing over the keys to the guy at the lot and taking the keys of the sensible Volvo which is our new car.
"You want to drive?" he asks, gloomily. "I don't have the heart for it."
He's a little more enthusiastic when I outline my plan for testing just exactly how roomy these things are in back but afterwards I still drive it home.
I don't know where he's gone. He just said he had something to do so here I am, Sunday morning, kicking my heels. If I still have heels. I sure as hell don't have ankles any more. I do have a cleavage though and I'm wondering how long that will last when he comes home. I lean back against him as he wraps his arms around me and I'm trying to figure out what the faintly familiar smell clinging to him is.
Oh.
"How was it?"
"What?"
"Church."
"You know?"
"You smell of incense."
"Oh." There's a pause. "I can't see their faces any more." What do I say to that? "It used to be easy. I thought it would be easy today." Today. Oh, shit, shit, shit. Today.
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be. I'm not."
"No?"
"No." The words come slowly now, his head bent, like in the confessional, mouth close to my ear, his breath stirring my hair a little, just a little. "When we were together before . . . I . . . sometimes, when I looked at you . . . I saw her." Wow.
"You couldn't see me?"
"No, no I saw you. I think it was because – " he falters.
"Go on."
"I think it was because you couldn't see me. I knew you couldn't. I needed to see someone who saw me." And wow again.
"You see me now?"
"Always." His hold on me tightens for a second. "Always."
"I wish – "
"Don't wish. Don't wish."
"OK. No wishing. Just . . . doing."
He's quiet for a long time before he says "Yes."
....................................................................................................
I could have been, I don't know, upset that he did that, went to church without me. Time was I would have been, like when he didn't mind me going to that fundraiser with Carter. I mean, we're married, not joined at the hip. Joined at the heart. Barf.
And also – totally wrong. I'm getting that this is as much about thinking as feeling, about understanding more than, well, more than sharing. There's stuff, vast acreages of stuff, that we can't share, not ever. The fallout is what we share. And, you know, you can't think with your heart. You might as well try and think with your spleen or your liver – doesn't work, it's not what it's meant for. And here's the weirdest thing of all; sometimes - and I feel like I should whisper this - sometimes I think I'm better at this stuff than he is. Not had to do it so much I guess while me, well, I'm all sponsored and rehabbed and 12 stepped up, it should be a piece of cake for me. Yeah. Go me.
So I get a little kick out of the fact that sometimes he's the one who lays out his thoughts for me, like he's just checking, like I'm the one who knows how to do this stuff. He looks at me to see if we're keeping up. So far so good.
I used to have this idea that I thought too much, but I didn't, not really. I had thoughts, sure, but I didn't do anything with them, nothing useful anyhow. And forget quality control. I never once stopped to say to myself that this thought was ridiculous, or that thought was damaging or mean or, well, just, you know, wrong, because what I really had were feelings, and lots of them. Well, maybe not lots of them – pretty much the same one but in a comprehensive range of colours and styles. And feelings, well they are what they are, they just come at you, so the good, bad, mean, stupid, wrong stuff didn't really figure at all. I took 'em all on and kept finding room for them.
It's like when you keep buying clothes; comes a time when the closet is full and all your stuff gets squished up together and you can't even see what you have and you just keep wearing the stuff you can get at, not what you really want or what's right for you. I did that with my feelings, kept slipping into the old comfortable stuff even if it made me look drab and didn't really suit me any more and God, I knew I was ready for a makeover. But just like guys don't sort out the attic or the basement when it's full of so much crap that it's useless – maybe even dangerous – I sure as hell didn't sort out that closet.
Am I rambling? Indulge me. But see, here's what I found out; thinking, it's like clearing out the closet or the basement or the attic. Those few days when Luka was sick, it was like this whole baby thing was the last tiny little thing that got put in the attic and, holy crap, there goes the ceiling. And me, I've got a whole new wardrobe, whole outfits of new thoughts and ideas and, in the end, feelings. I like these much better, I think they suit me, make me look younger, feel younger, a lot sexier, a new woman. Well, yeah, OK, so I've got some of the old stuff in a garbage bag in the back of the closet, but I'll get round to it, and even if I don't I don't think I'll ever be wearing it again.
And I don't need anyone else to tell me that I look great in this new stuff. I see the evidence, like when you walk past those big store windows and you think "Whoa, who's the good looking chick? Hey! It's me!". And so now I'm thinking "Who is this woman who was OK with her husband going to church to remember his dead wife and kids and who thought more about him than about herself? Holy crap! It's me!"
Which is why it's weird that I'm kind of panicking over this one thing, this one thing I've been thinking about. Maybe I'm not so sure that Luka has the attic sorted and you know, if you just even ask a man "Did you finish clearing out the attic?" they'll say you're nagging even if it has been months – or, say, 12 years – that it's needed doing. Hey, I know whereof I speak; my attic's been a mess for more than 30 years and nagging never got me off my ass to do anything about it. My ceiling had to pretty much crash down on my head too. But like reformed smokers and drinkers, the reformed hoarder is nothing if not zealous. Still. I'm going to have to find out, and I'm going to have to do it soon.