He doesn’t call me Jessie that often.  When he does, something’s gone wrong and he’s unsure how to handle the situation.  It’s out of his control and unchartered territory.  A mismapped emotion.

“Dad.  Are you going.”  It wasn’t a question, that he knew.

“I don’t even know when it is.”

“The email says it’s Saturday.  In Michigan.”

“I probably should.”

I heard the buzz of background noise in a car.  A sales rep he manages chattering. I digressed diving away from emotion.

“Are you picking me up?”

“No Jessie. Mom is.”

“Okay.  See you tonight.”
I awoke elated recognizing the date. I haven’t seen my older sister in 11 months.  I chattered  knowing I would soon be wearing turtlenecks and closed toed shoes because I had to.  In Texas, we wear sweaters as an excuse.  In New Jersey, wear them or freeze.  Walking to the computer and hitting CHECK MAIL I paused, stared at the computer, called My Father, then sat in the shower feeling nothing for 20 minutes after reading the below email My Mother forwarded from a relative.
“This email is sent with the saddest news of my life. My Mother, Barbara Henry died.   I sure wasn’t prepared for this and I can hardly believe it’s true.
She passed away peacefully, naturally with my Dad by her side.  (that’s how it should be _ I interject)  Mom went to sleep and woke up in God’s arms.”

For two years old she knows a lot of things. She knows if she wants to run around the house with reckless abandon she’ll pull the cat’s tale. She knows that socks are never as tight as leggings that, “we’ll see” always means “No,” and that only Mommy’s can put brothers in time out. She has learned enough of the world to realize that it is a place of grown ups, and that the only way to make her mark is to speak at the end and middle of their sentences, to act so much like them that they sit up and take notice. She knows the minute she falls asleep her dolls eyes pop open. She knows that the truth can cause a sharp pain behind your eyes and that love sometimes feels like a fist around your throat….or a needle in your thigh.

She also knows that although everyone is careful to keep it from her, they care for her differently. She knows she’s had days where hospital visits have a color on them, like scribble of a crayon gone crazy off the page and splattered on her body. She knows there is a lot WE don’t know. And more we’re trying to learn.

I know she’s stronger than most and can paint circles around others when I can’t even draw a straight line. I know there’s a lot we don’t know.

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In the mail this afternoon a large manila envelope arrived. It looked official, stamped with the address of an old friend, someone from a past life. I slit it open with my thumb and got a paper cut. Just like that, in one small sliver my mind traveled over distant memories of the former me. I think of traditions we spoke of and suddenly my heart feels to big for my chest. I did what he had wanted me to do. I acted like women I watched from a distance: pretending to like tennis and giving a shit about what Martha says. I invited his coworkers to dinner smiling at the compliments they bestowed, wanting to vomit with each passing half witted smile and hurl rejection at their feet. I turned into a shell he could be proud of. I was his, and now I’ve spent the last six years figuring out what I want to be….who I want to be and most importantly who I am.

The memories of Us are disconnected from the me of today. I try to envision my hand grasping for his and how he adored the way my mouth curled when I said the name of the cat we picked at the SPCA. The one he still has and I left behind. It’s a cat, not a kid. I try, but I can’t succeed – the pictures are too fuzzy or too distant to do the memory justice. Maybe this is how it works with failures of the heart. Maybe you edit your history, so that the stories you tell yourself become legend, so that accidents never happen. But then again, all I have to do is remember the blur of images as my head smacked the window by the strength of his arm. One. Two. Three times and the weight of his, “I’m sorry for years ago,” in the letter haunt me with memories I’ve purposely left untraveled.

The letter states, “I’ve tried to call you, and once watched you shop from a distance at Kroger. I hid behind a cereal box as you walked by. The fact of the matter is, I don’t know what to say. Every time I think I have the apology right I remember the fright in your eyes as I pulled away realizing what I was doing. Jess that was the worst day of my life and I want to apologize. I’m sorry and I wish you well.”

I tore up the letter ripping it to shreds, walked it over to the nearest trash and tossed it like a chemical spill I wanted to deny. The worst thing about endings is knowing you’ve had the daunting task of starting over. And have I ever started over, forgot him, and dropped this weight.

I’ve had to understand my past and what has fashioned me into who I am. After reading the letter, examining the message and tossing it I imagine he’s spent years making himself into someone other than that lost little boy who idolizes the Land of The Misfits from the Rudolph movie – into someone whose cornerstone of self-actualization is that he is a good/non-violent person, into someone who is sorry for the things he’s done.

Recently, I sent the below email to a friend who got married at an early age and now in her mid twenties is trying to figure out if she should stop divorce proceedings.

Even though we’ve only known one another for a brief time I can already tell you that I am in the long run of life with you and want the best for you. I want to see you be true to yourself. When you first told me about X your thoughts were distant of him. You vaguely connected the memories you had of him. You mentioned the action of getting married as though it was something you did one night on a double dog dare….like TP the neighbor’s house. Over the last few months you’ve had an opportunity to meet up with him once again, to reconnect and see if you are still that person with him…..you’ve tried to salvage a friendship and own up to your past. For that, I think the world of you. If there is one thing in this lifetime we own it is our past.

I don’t know if it’s the way you mention X to us, your friends, or the way you are trying to play it off but, it does not appear your heart is in it. We are completely different people in our early 20’s vs. our late 20’s. Heck if I was the same person at 22 I would be living with a guy who chocked me.

My point to all this is, yes we all want to go out to dinner with friends on the weekend and be tame but…you’re questioning everything with him. He hurt you, he walked out on you and you’ve since been able to confront him on it but, you still question the relationship. You still question if there is one left. I know this because you’re telling us the question and if you have to ask the question you’re heart already knows the answer.

Over night her world changed when he left. She’s since picked up, started her own business, and stands taller without his stilts. After a dinner, the life I was living transformed into a shrill of colors and salty tears. The signs of an aggressive nature were there. I ignored them. It was easier to stay than go because if I questioned him the door of possibilities swung open smacking the wall behind it. I froze until the signs were actualized and question how one can go from dropping sentiments of care thoughtless as pocket change to the very thought of a person wringing you dry of sentiment. Dry of emotion. And full of forgiveness.

The only question that remains is how he got my P.O. Box address.