Five Things I Can't Live Without (23 page)

The marriage lasted less than two years, and it only changed Stephen for the worse. He had believed in the redemptive power of marriage, too, and when he saw that he was still just who he was, the despair enveloped them both. They felt trapped together, and their moments of torment far outweighed their moments of ecstasy. Finally, one day, Kathy found she couldn’t get out of bed. I don’t mean she just felt tired, or that she just felt depressed. She describes it as a physical paralysis. Psychosomatic, a therapist declared later. As she lay there, she decided, “If I can get up, if I’m lucky enough to get back up, I’m leaving.” And she did. But it took her a long, long time to recover fully. She moved home to live with her parents, went to therapy three times a week, and worked as much as she could to get her mind off Stephen. She told me she temporarily needed a substitute addiction, and work was it.

It had been years since Kathy laid eyes on Stephen, and in that time, she’d done more therapy than Larissa, and she’s no longer a work junkie. But watching her with Matt still alarmed me. I’d suffered vicarious trauma throughout the Stephen period and didn’t want to see that happen to her ever again.
Give her more credit. This time she’ll know she’s being broken down and she’ll get out.
But I couldn’t help thinking about the resilience of our patterns, and as I lay there on the couch trying to sleep, about the resilience of my own pattern. Matt was in the bedroom with Kathy, and through the closed door, I heard the occasional loud moan escape one of them, then the sound of the other shushing. The sounds of their quieted ecstasy were disconcerting, but I didn’t know if that was because of my fears for Kathy or for me.

The next day, Kathy and I decided to walk the Brooklyn Bridge and then the extra mile or so to Little Italy. She was in a great mood; mine was more subdued.

I’d walked the Golden Gate Bridge in San Francisco a number of times, and it had a remarkably different feel. The Golden Gate felt less rugged somehow, in the way that San Francisco often did when compared to New York. The Golden Gate was orange, in part so that it could be seen through the fog that routinely descended on the city, while the Brooklyn Bridge was simple stone masonry. The view from Golden Gate was lush in contrast to the urban majesty of Manhattan. I was taken with New York, but it intimidated me. It felt tougher than I was. I realized I probably fit better in the Bay Area, but I admired people who fit best in New York.

As we walked, my mood improved. For one thing, Kathy was so obviously thrilled to have me there. For another, she wasn’t talking about Matt. When I started talking about the experiential contrast between the Golden Gate and the Brooklyn Bridge, Kathy chimed in her agreement.

“You know,” she said, “there might be a magazine article in this. I know tons of people who’ve tried San Francisco and moved back to New York, because even though San Francisco might be prettier and the weather is better and California’s gorgeous, New York is just more them. And I bet you know people who’ve felt the reverse.”

“I do. I also know the people you’re talking about, people I knew when I first moved to San Francisco who don’t live there anymore. There’s that ‘grass is greener’ syndrome, too, and those people who boomerang between the Coasts every few years and never really settle anywhere.”

“I’d never thought about how interesting the word ‘settle’ is,” Kathy mused. “When you think about our ancestors and settling and how virtuous that seemed, and about what it means to settle now … I don’t know quite what I mean, but like I said, it’s interesting.”

“I’ve never tried writing articles, but that might be fun.” I stopped walking to gaze into the distance. I thought about my own ancestors coming through Ellis Island all those years ago, about the nobility of settling. I started to feel excited about working on an article that integrated all those disparate ideas. Then I caught myself doing it, and turned back to Kathy. “See, this is the thing. This is what I did with the profile writing. I seize on it, and I think, ‘Yes! Now I have it.’ But it turns out I don’t.”

“Maybe all of those things together are it, and you just give up on each one too quickly.” She turned to face me fully. “I’m not saying that profile writing is it for you; I’m just saying that you shouldn’t rule it out yet. Over the years, I’ve found that the best thing about the freelancing life is that you can have your finger in a lot of different pots. For a commitment-phobe, it’s the perfect career choice.”

“You might be right,” I allowed.

“Just think it over. I’d be happy to help you figure out markets for your article. And if you wanted editing assignments, I could help you get started with that, too. Instead of being wholly dependent on the profiles, they could just be one source of income. You might even like getting out and meeting people after you’ve been cooped up half the day working on an article. Trust me.”

I didn’t feel elation; I felt a measured calm. That was better. I looked at Kathy as a feeling of immense gratitude spread through me. “Do you know how much I appreciate the way you look after me? It’s like you save me from myself.”

“Don’t think I’ve forgotten how hard you tried to save me from myself back in the Stephen era.” I was surprised to hear her say it so casually. We almost never referred to Stephen. It was like how people never mention a past suicide attempt to a survivor. “I don’t think I could ever repay that debt.”

“Good thing it’s not a debt, then.”

“I have to confess, that wasn’t really a spontaneous pitch I just made,” she said. I noticed how quickly she steered us back to the original subject. She still didn’t like dwelling on Stephen long; she said once that that chapter of her life seemed like it had been lived by someone else and that she’d spent all that time in therapy to exorcise whoever the hell it was. “I’ve been thinking about things since we talked, and about what might be the most Nora of all careers. And I thought, ‘Being in everything at once might be the most you.’”

“Bouncing back and forth between the Coasts rather than settling?” I asked, smiling.

“You’ve settled a little bit. I mean, you’ve got Dan.”

I groaned.

“I didn’t mean you settled
for
Dan; I meant you’ve settled
in
with him. For the most part, recent fight excluded. I mean, every couple fights.” She cast me a sidelong glance. “How have things been since then?”

“We only had a few days together before I flew out here. I guess everything seemed back to normal. Dan said his piece, and now he feels fine again.” I threw up my hands in exasperation. “What can I say? We’re your perfectly average, basically loving couple—except for my dissection of everything. I mean, we’re still affectionate, I still adore him, but everything’s gotten routine.”

“When you say everything’s gotten routine … ?”

“Yes. The sex too.”

“So spice it up.”

“That’s what people always say. Why should we need to work so hard? If we’re right for each other, it seems like the spice should happen naturally. Just thinking about working at something like that depresses me.”

“I think that in the beginning, the endorphins and the pheromones and all those chemicals buzzing around do all the work. You’re horny all the time. Then a bit of time passes, you’re not as new to each other, and you’ve got to take over where biology leaves off. The only relationships I’ve had where the sex didn’t cool down over time were the ones where we were so crazy together that our chemicals just stayed buzzing. Like with Stephen, the adrenaline never stopped. But in a decent relationship, at some point, they will. It’s inevitable. And that’s where the work comes in.”

“You don’t find that depressing?”

“No!” She shook her head emphatically. “That’s the part you can control. What I don’t want anymore is a passion that’s out of control.”

“Controlled passion seems like an oxymoron.”

“No.” She shook her head again. I was relieved to see she’d given so much thought to this. It was a theory that let me know I didn’t have to worry so much about her and Matt. “I want to know that I can get things moving again whenever I’m willing to try. I think that’s a really powerful thought.”

“I’ve never had any success with getting the passion going again,” I said.

“Because you spend so much time beating yourself up, instead of seeing it as a normal part of the relationship and working at it. It sounds trite, but we all just need to find someone great, and make it work. I know from everything you’ve told me that Dan is great. I don’t know yet if Matt is, but if it turns out that he is, that’s what I’m going to do.”

“So what do you think I should do? How do I start to work on things?”

“Well, an article I read said that the way to jumpstart passion is to do new things together. It can actually get the chemicals moving in a way that simulates the beginning of the relationship. You and Dan could try … skydiving. I hear that’s pure adrenaline.”

“Have you met me before?” We both laughed. “No way.”

“Some sort of lessons,” Kathy suggested. “Like dance lessons. Salsa. Or flamenco. Something sexy.”

I laughed, picturing Dan wearing all black with a rose in his teeth. “I don’t know if he’d go for it.”

“Then he can come up with something else. But it has to be something you wouldn’t normally do, right? Otherwise, it won’t stimulate the chemicals.”

After we’d traversed the bridge, Kathy and I walked through the narrow, cobblestone streets of Little Italy for what seemed like hours. I told her my fears about Matt; she told me her fears about her own discernment. It felt good to be so honest, and to know that Kathy was looking after herself this time around.

There was a sudden downpour, so we ducked into the first cafe we saw for cappuccinos. Laughing, we took off our damp jackets and Kathy blotted her wet hair with a napkin. Then she reached over and blotted mine. I didn’t want to be anywhere else in the world. That’s when I realized my meta-life had gone dead silent.

Chapter 15

T
he visit with Kathy had been just what I needed. We settled all the big questions on our second day, so for the rest of my time in New York, I felt more relaxed and hopeful than I’d felt in ages. But as the train pulled into the station just outside Baltimore, a familiar knot developed in my stomach. How old did I have to be before a visit to my parents’ house would be knot-free?

I wasn’t technically visiting my parents. I hadn’t seen my biological father since I was six. I was visiting my mother and my stepfather, Ed. Ed’s been around for the past fifteen years, and he’s a pretty easygoing guy. When he picked me up at the train station alone, the relief I felt was immediate and palpable.

We had a pleasant, small-talky ride back to the new house. It’s the third time they’ve moved in the past ten years. Ed’s successful in real estate, and their houses keep getting bigger. As we pulled up, I tried to quell my distaste. The house was a Greek Revival-style behemoth; it actually had a portico supported by columns. I half-expected it to be topped by a statue of Zeus in full repose. Not only was it absurd to have transplanted such a home to suburban Baltimore, but there was no reason for three people to inhabit a space that large, except to show others that they could.

Ed let us in the front door. I was slightly disappointed that Casey wasn’t waiting nearby to hurtle herself into my arms. But it had been almost a year since I’d seen her and the difference between twelve and thirteen was sizable, at least in the head of the thirteen-year-old. Ed was telling me during the car ride that Casey’s exasperated response to everything now was “I’m
thirteen
!” He said she seemed to be really embracing the worldliness of being thirteen, which amused him. Casey was luckier than she knew to have a dad like Ed.

He shouted my arrival, and my mother came from what I presumed to be the direction of the kitchen. Her short black hair was shot through with more silver than the last time I’d seen her, and she’d dressed up for my arrival, wearing a bright silk scarf and matching silver jewelry. I was company.

She took my face in her hands and smiled. “You look beautiful,” she said.

I was thrown off by that opening gambit. “Thanks,” I stammered.

When she released me, I watched Casey descend the staircase. The house I’d grown up with just had steps, but this one had an actual entrance hall and a curving staircase. Casey looked taller and had a smattering of pimples on her forehead but other than that, she was just Casey: a girl with bad posture who didn’t realize how cute she could be. I noticed she wasn’t wearing her glasses anymore; she’d told me on the phone that she’d gotten contact lenses. And while they did make her eyes burn, she thought they were the best thing that had ever happened to her.