Forever, Interrupted(65)

“What?” I say. “You were insisting that I needed to start moving on! You said I should do it!”

She nods. “Yeah, because you should. But that doesn’t mean I didn’t know it was hard.”

“Then why did you say it like it was easy?”

“Because you needed to do it and I knew that you could. No one wants to do it.”

“Yeah, well, no one else has to.”

I want her to leave and I think she knows that.

“I’m sorry about the other night. I was out of line. I’m truly sorry,” she says.

“It’s fine,” I say, and I mean it. It is fine. I should be apologizing too, but I just don’t want to talk to anyone right now.

“All right, well, I’m going to go,” she says. She gathers herself and leaves.

“I love you,” she says.

“Me too,” I say back, hoping it passes for an “I love you too.” I do love her, but I don’t want to say it. I don’t want to feel anything. I see her drive away out of my front window, and I think that she is probably going to meet up with Kevin somewhere and she’ll tell him all about this little episode of mine and he’ll grab her hand and he’ll say, “You poor baby, that sounds difficult,” as if the world has conspired against her, as if she doesn’t deserve this. I hate them both for being able to sigh, make a couple of serious faces about how hard this must be on me, and then go to the movies and laugh at dick jokes.

I walk to the Goodwill the next morning and get my car. My keys are sitting on the front seat where I left them, and yet, no one has stolen anything. It pisses me off, to be honest. It pisses me off that of all times, the world conspires to help me now.





At work on Monday, I am scowling at strangers. When they ask me to help them, I do it with a frown on my face, and when I’m done, I curse them under my breath.

When Mr. Callahan makes his way toward me, I have little energy left.

“Hello, my dear,” he says as he moves to touch my arm. I instinctively pull away. He doesn’t seem to take it personally. “Bad day?” he asks.

“You could say that.” I grab the handle on a cart of books to reshelve. It’s not technically my job to put them back, but it seems like a good way to graciously end the conversation. Mr. Callahan doesn’t get the hint. He walks with me.

“I had a bad day once,” he says, grinning. It’s a classic cheer-up routine, and it’s wasted on me. I don’t want to cheer up. I’m honestly not sure I even remember how to smile naturally. What do you do? You pull the corners of your mouth up?

“Bad joke,” he says, waving his hand in an attempt to both dismiss the joke and let me off the hook for not laughing at it. “Anything I can do for you?”

“Oh,” I say, my eyes focused on the bookshelves above me. I don’t even remember what I’m looking for. I have to look at the book in my hand again. The details aren’t registering. The call number falls out of my head before my eyes make it back up to the shelf. “No, thanks,” I say.

“I’ve got two ears, you know!” he says.

My face contorts into impatient confusion. “I’m sorry?”

“For listening, I mean. I’m good at listening.”

“Oh.”

“Anyway,” he continues. “You’d rather be alone. I get it. Just know the offer stands. I’m always here to listen.” He looks at me a minute, perhaps trying to break through my empty stare. “And I wouldn’t say that to just anybody,” he says, smiling as he pats my hand gently, and he leaves me to the cart.

I wish I had it in me to tell him he’s a good man. I wish I had it in me to say thank you. I just don’t. I can’t smile at him. I don’t even say good-bye. I let him walk away and I turn to the bookshelves as if he was never there. I forget, once more, the number of the book I have in my hand, and instead of checking again, I drop it right there on the cart and I walk away.

I step outside and take a breath. I tell myself to get it together. I tell myself that this situation I’m in is no one’s fault. I am by the bike rack, pacing, when I see a young couple with a baby. The man has the baby strapped to his chest, the woman is carrying a diaper bag. She is cooing to the child, the man is looking down. She kisses the man on the lips and laughs as she maneuvers awkwardly around the baby. They play with the baby’s hands and feet.

Why me and not them? Why couldn’t that guy have died? Why am I not here right now with Ben looking at a sad woman pacing on the street, on the edge of a nervous breakdown? What right do they have to be happy? Why does everyone in the world have to be happy in front of me?

I go back inside and tell Nancy I’ll be in the Native American section. I tell her I’m researching the Aztecs for next month’s display. I stand in the aisle, running my fingers over the spines, feeling the cellophane crackle as I touch it. I watch as the Dewey decimal numbers escalate higher and higher. I try to focus only on the numbers, only on the spines. It works for a moment, for a moment I don’t feel like I want to get a gun. But in that moment, I crash face-first into someone else.

“Oh! I’m so sorry,” he says to me, picking up the book he’s dropped. He’s my age, maybe a bit older. He has black hair and what is probably a permanent five o’clock shadow. He is tall with a firm body and broad shoulders. He is dressed in a faded T-shirt and jeans. I notice his brightly colored Chuck Taylors as he picks up his book. I move to get out of his way, but he seems to want to stop and talk.