Heart Berries: A Memoir(13)

“It’s not a good sign you don’t want to spend the full two hours with your child.”

“I did,” I said. It was all I could say.

Visits went like that, and I didn’t want to put Isaiah through it. I let Isaiah go with my ex-husband and his family to spend time with each other as often as I could bear. Vito never asked to visit, and I wondered why, never out loud.

Through all of this, I believe Isaiah learned that I needed him. Things were so complicated. I think he felt compelled to need me more than most children need their mothers.

With my son in mind, I decided to date men who I couldn’t see a future with—men who would never meet him. He had been exposed to so much with his brother and his father. I couldn’t just move forward in life with another man, but I didn’t want to be lonely.

Eric looked at me a lot on our dates. It was a focused stare that made me forget the abandonment I felt. We had an English class together a long time ago, and he had gone away to study abroad in London and then to L.A.

The first time Eric and I sat down together he asked me what I wanted to drink, and I asked for a Michelob ULTRA. He scoffed and said he hadn’t ordered one of those in years. I didn’t leave then—it was an indication as to my state.

I asked him polite things: what is it like to be back? Will you go to grad school? Can I taste your beer?

“You’re ethnically ambiguous, and I feel like you should be capitalizing on it,” he said.

“Oh no . . .”

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“Are you an ethnic enthusiast?” I asked.

“What?”

We asked questions we shouldn’t have. I revealed I was still in love with my ex. He told me that his ex couldn’t deal with his bipolar cycles.

“The pendulum swings—like a motherfucker,” he said.

I told him I was bipolar, and he already knew.

“I walked into traffic, and then I was taken to the hospital. I decided that when I got out I’d move somewhere there was less shit to do—focus on me,” he said.

“I was in the hospital. I’m not really sure I’m better,” I said.

“The pendulum.”

We went to his place and drank beer and watched stand-up until he asked me what we were doing. He held his face with long fingers—I peeled them one by one until he opened his eyes.

“Nothing,” I said.

With someone to talk to, I started to enjoy myself. He introduced me to his friends, and purposefully said I was brilliant. He barely touched me or told me I was pretty. He weighed less than I did. He didn’t mind anything about me. He was enamored with the convenience—we were both ill and alone and intelligent.

I remembered what it was to be desired, if only for my mind. There was a man just before Casey, who had arranged fireworks on our first date, “in case it didn’t happen on its own.” It felt obligatory to kiss him—to reject him soon after. And Casey, in his boxers, once answered the door to a fruit basket the man sent me, asking for another shot. I watched Casey’s large mouth, full of pineapple, smirking at me—almost angry. Another man, he came to my door with cookies, and one man sent me a puzzle I didn’t put together, with some latitude and longitude for a restaurant he wanted to take me to, all while Casey was there, witnessing, and maybe it was seeing this that made him so resistant to me—to wanting or needing.

Eric’s arms were never heavy when he held me in bed. He felt like a thin blanket. He held me before I left in the morning and told me we could make pancakes. We could do anything, if I had time. He was unafraid of me, in the daylight, at any time—I felt enough.

Eric and I occasionally cried or sent each other long tangents about things we were only momentarily inspired by. It was good to be given every benefit of every doubt. I had composed two packages of work and applied for an M.F.A. program at our college and at the Institute of American Indian Arts. The latter was a long shot. The flyer had a picture of Sherman Alexie on it—low residency and expensive. Some professors at our college had never found my work sophisticated enough. I lacked form and technique.

I emailed you that I was applying for an M.F.A. You responded with an exclamation mark or some well-wish.

I enjoyed the M.A. at our college. I went to class every Tuesday and Thursday, and sometimes we’d be crossing the parking lot at the same time. Sometimes you hugged me.

A professor told me that I was to be accepted into both programs, and he was close to both institutions. He told me that whoever offers me the most money should be my choice. He promised that he would spread the rumor around that the university needed a writer like me.

A few days later, a professor asked me to stop by his office to talk about the program and my potential.

“You are a champ, Terese,” he said.

“Thank you.”

“You’ve taken feedback and come back harder. You’re just an outstanding student.”

“Thank you.”

I had never felt sophisticated enough at the institution, and in my creative writing classes, I only felt like I was seen as the graduate student Casey had been with.

“Have you seen Casey around?” he asked.

“Yes. He could be more miserable if you ask me.”

He smiled.

“Our breakup was hard for me,” I said.

“I’ve seen you around with a new guy,” he offered.