Heart Berries: A Memoir(16)

Every time there was a slight against me, I remembered when I reacted to your judgments with uncontrollable crying. I remembered when I hit myself until there were bruises on both sides of my head, and I also remember, somehow, those nights I slept better. Those nights, I wasn’t convinced I was crazy. With you, in the newness of my medication and our agreements, I felt crazy.

I was so subdued. I was convinced that it was good for me. And then you took my son to the park while I cooked something in your kitchen. You left your computer open so I could watch Netflix. There was an open document in the corner of the screen. A letter to a woman named Lillis.

You told her that your departure the other night was awkward. You apologized. You told her that you were not committed to anyone and that you did want to kiss her that night.

When you and my son came back, I was subdued. You would have called me crazy if I inferred too much from a letter about two friends having an awkward encounter. Friends can be attracted to each other. You had called her attractive in the past. I remembered that you told me your ex-girlfriend, the one you left for me, accused you of liking Lillis, and she was “crazy.”

I breathed deeply and made jokes and held you. My son and I left the next day, and I did not hound you to see if you went straight to her.

I decided to give you an ultimatum on our next date. You and I were drunk in your bar. I had my hand wrapped around your wrist and my fingers couldn’t clasp around it completely. I always marvel at your largeness. I was drunk and felt lighter than I normally do. I nonchalantly told you that, in three months, I was going to start seeing other people seriously.

“We can keep doing this. I know we kind of agreed not to fuck other people, but I want a relationship,” I said.

“What?” You looked interested.

“Having sex. Not being serious. After three months I would like to try seeing other people.”

We kept drinking, and my face was in such close proximity to yours the whole night. You are such a home to me.

“Three months,” I said. I furrowed my eyebrows.

“Why?”

“What?”

“Why not now?” You said, really asking—as if you hadn’t spent months explaining why.

“Now what?”

“We can do this now.”

Because of my medication, I didn’t cry over breakfast or minor transgressions. You believed me when I said the past was my fault. I believed me. When you were annoyed with me, I had to prove I was sane. I didn’t speak my mind like I used to. You were beaming.

And then you told me that when Isaiah and I are to come for our weekly visit, you would be babysitting Lillis’s dog. I said it was okay. You told me about the dog, and that it will eat gluten-free food. You didn’t say anything about Lillis. I didn’t either.

In my kitchen I turn the lights off again, like I used to. It allows me to feel as nothing as the dark. I know where everything is, like I did before. I become scared because it is this behavior that causes me to commit myself. I still take a knife and I press it against the fat of my palm—in the dark, hoping that I have the bravery to puncture myself, so that the next day I can be more fearless.

I was polite enough, and considerate enough, to hurt myself like a secret. So you didn’t need to question how this kind of crazy would hinder your work or your isolation.

I knew that someone else would have congratulated herself for being contained. I understood how things could be misunderstood. I knew that, whichever white woman you saw while I was in the hospital, she would have let you have friends. She would have trusted that growth hurt but that it redefined the boundaries of the relationship—those boundaries were mutually developed in her mind. She would have convinced herself that permissiveness equated to a voice—like you wouldn’t have fucking done what you do anyway, regardless of her consent or mine.

I turned the light on, and I had not punctured my skin. It was just the cutest red dot that stayed for several minutes—perfectly circular.

I called you. You seemed busy. I told you that I didn’t want you to babysit Lillis’s dog. You swore. You said that I could not do this. I couldn’t tell you that it was impermissible after agreeing. You told me she was traveling, and it was not what friends did to each other. Your word mattered.

“I don’t give a fuck. Fuck her. I don’t like it,” I said.

You yelled at me and hung up. I cried. You didn’t call me back. I know that you felt in the right, because you assumed I had no knowledge of the awkward encounters you had with her. If you had known I knew, you would have had to acknowledge you were committed to me, and I had reason to dislike it.

I call you back after consoling myself. I told you it was fine.

You were so lukewarm the next few days. Those days were heavy for me. I asked my friends what I should do, and it was a unanimous, “Fuck Casey.” Someone said I held some power in my secret knowledge. I told her it felt like the opposite.

Isaiah and I arrived at your house, and you had already started dinner. Rose, Lillis’s dog, was running around. She looked like a white woman’s dog. She was a blond mutt and looked like the type of dog that was meant to be roadkill, but rescue missions for stupid dogs interfered with the natural world.

I was still contained. You sensed anger. You knew I didn’t like the dog or Lillis, but you also knew I had no real reason to be so angry (withholding the letter).