I Liked My Life(6)

The struggle Dad and I have now is totally ironic. We’re so used to her caring for us that we have no idea how to care for each other. We play a reverse game of hide-and-seek where the goal is to never be caught in the same room. Do we not know what to talk about or is there really nothing to say? We discuss only necessities, and even then he seems limited to specific words: yes, no, maybe, when, where, why, who, okay.

Every three or four days he attempts a deep talk, usually after he’s had a few. Last night he asked if I knew “all about sex.” I said it was a determination of whether you’re male or female and laughed. His eyes watered. I felt bad, so I told him not to worry about it, that I was “all set in that department.” When I realized how much I sounded like Mom, I started crying too. We both ditched the living room in opposite directions.

The truth is, I’ve been sleeping with John since my sixteenth birthday. I wish I’d told my mom while I had the chance, but I overheard her on the phone with Aunt Meg the night my cousin Lucy announced she was planning to do it with Keith: “It’s so special she told you. I hope Eve trusts me when it’s time.” I knew instantly what she was talking about. “Make sure Lucy’s smart about it, so you aren’t a grandma at forty.” There was a pause while my aunt spoke. “Well, I’ll certainly keep you posted, but I don’t think Eve is ready yet. Lucy has it right; seventeen is a respectable age to take the plunge. Not too old, not too young.” I play the conversation over and over in my mind. I did trust and respect my mom, but I figured there was no harm waiting until I was the same respectable age as Lucy to tell her, which will be next month.

I was always deliberate like that. I got my first period when I was only eleven, not even in middle school yet. I calmly grabbed a quarter from the bottom of my backpack, snuck into the teachers’ bathroom to buy a pad from the machine that we hid notes under between classes, and went on with my day. When I got home and told my mom she looked alarmed. “You could’ve called,” she said. “I would’ve picked you up so we could talk about it.”

“We already talked about it.”

“I mean about the details of what to do.”

“What details?” I asked, genuinely concerned I’d missed something. “Blood comes out and something needs to be there to catch it, right?”

“Huh, well, yes, but your independence does scare me sometimes. I hope you know I’m here if you need me.”

“I do,” I said. “That’s why I can be independent.”

She smiled. She had the best smile.

Technically I’m more independent than ever since there’s literally no one looking after me, but independence isn’t liberating when it’s involuntary. I’ve been discarded like day-old milk. Even if I accept there’s a lifetime ahead, I cannot picture how I’ll live it without her. No Christmas cards will be sent, the vegetable garden will die, our sheets will have visible dirt before Dad or I think to change them, and we won’t do anything to celebrate my birthday this year. Which is fine by me.

Brady

My wife is dead. She jumped off a fucking building. I could watch the movie a thousand more times and still be shocked by the ending.

At the funeral her sister Meg kept throwing out possibilities like closet depression or a hidden trauma, but it’s all bullshit. Maddy wasn’t a secret-keeper. She couldn’t tell a lie, even when it was the socially acceptable thing to do. A friend once hounded her for details on childbirth. She endeavored to avoid the question, advising that you don’t think about the experience once that precious baby is in your arms, but the lady wouldn’t relent. “You’re sure you want the truth?” Maddy asked. The lady nodded. “Labor is like shitting a watermelon while getting felt up by your mailman. And when it’s all over, you still look pregnant.” The woman blanched. With Maddy, it was ask and you shall receive.

There’s no room for a hidden life with a personality like that, so if Maddy jumped it was to abandon us. The total contradiction between who she was and what she did is unfathomable. The last text I got from her read: I have no idea how we’re going to fit everyone @ the dining room table on Easter. I have a hard time reconciling that this dilemma was enough to end it all. The psychologist at the police station claimed suicide is often an impulsive act, especially in cases with a “family history” like Maddy’s, a history he pulled from me in pieces, then exaggerated to support his conclusion.

Maddy was nothing like Janine. She had one glass of wine a night. One. Maybe two. Sometimes three on Friday and Saturday. It was social. She considered her mother’s suicide selfish, described it as a last fuck you to the few people who still cared. I remember the words exactly because it wasn’t like Maddy to be so harsh. She walked in other people’s shoes more than her own.

I’m avoiding the bedside drawer where her journal lives. Yes, I want answers, but only if they prove reality to be what I remember.

I made her laugh. I know I did.

Sometimes when she wanted to relax before bed, she’d ask me to tell her a story, any story. I reserved an arsenal for those moments. The key was to get her laughing straightaway. Laughter was Maddy’s elixir. I’d jump right into a scene, as though she’d put a quarter in me. “Have I ever told you about the time I was six and got a tick on my dick?” Or, “Last night there was a guy at the airport so drunk he couldn’t drive his luggage.” The stories never had a point; they weren’t supposed to. Current events or work updates revved her up, and the fact that I knew it pleased Maddy. When I was home, she was happy. But I often wasn’t home.