Five Things I Can't Live Without (31 page)

But the line was busy for the next hour. With my tolerance for delayed gratification at an all-time low, I finally decided just to get in the car and drive. Napa was only an hour away, and a jaunt through wine country could be just the thing. I decided to hurry, since she was clearly home right then (hence the busy signal), but if I waited too long, she might leave and I’d miss my chance. If she didn’t want to talk to me, I wouldn’t make a fuss or a scene; I’d just apologize and leave. In my gut, though, I felt she would want to talk to me, that she’d relish the chance to share whatever it was that she knew and that I needed to learn. Then I could tell Dan and he wouldn’t want to leave someone who was prepared to love him so well and so completely.

The day was gray and misty, but that’s how Napa looks best. I drove past lush vineyards in the foreground, verdant hills in the background, thunderclouds threatening overhead, and I wished Dan and I had taken that weekend trip we’d once talked about. But we would. We would take the trip someday soon. I would make sure of it. I wouldn’t lose him.

The directions took me to a modest suburban neighborhood. Somehow I’d pictured her in a more rural part of Napa, tending to her horses when she wasn’t writing. But no matter. I peered out at the numbers, identified a small ranch-style house as hers, and parked across from it. There was a car in the driveway, which was promising.

I crossed the street and rang the bell. After a minute, I tried the brass knocker. After a longer pause, I tried both at once. And again. Then I stood for a long time, accepting that she either wasn’t home or wasn’t answering the door. It seemed I’d need a new game plan.

I got back in my car and tried calling her from my cell phone, thinking that maybe I could leave a message, explain who I was and what I wanted, as succinctly and sanely as possible. The line was busy. Did that mean she was inside and not answering the door because she was still on a call? It seemed like an awfully long call. And who in this day and age didn’t have call-waiting? Well, she wasn’t of my day or age, which was the whole point of coming out to talk to her, so she could be forgiven for that. Should I let a little time lapse, and then knock again? Or call again? Or both?

The longer I sat, the less appropriate my behavior seemed. The more it seemed a bit—unhinged. And Sonora had spent her life working with the mentally ill. Maybe she was burned out. What if I wasn’t the first mentally ill person to show up on her doorstep? Maybe that was why she’d stopped answering her door and her phone.

Here I was, staring at an ordinary house, in an ordinary neighborhood, that belonged to an ordinary woman—not the keeper of love’s mysteries, not salvation itself. What was I doing? This was the act of a woman who had come untethered. There was not one area in my life that was secure, sturdy, beyond reproach. Perhaps that was the slot I’d wanted Dan to fit into, and now he was gone. Dan was gone, and I was a stalker. And I wasn’t even stalking Dan; I was stalking a stranger because I was too afraid to

stalk Dan.

After crying piteously into my steering wheel, I realized I had nothing left to lose. Dan wasn’t e-mailing, he wasn’t calling. He was obviously through with me. There was no reason to hold anything back. He couldn’t be more lost to me than he already was.

I dialed his number and reached his voice mail. I knew I should hang up, save myself, but I couldn’t. Through tears, I said, “Hi, Dan. I know you didn’t want me calling you, and I understand why you’re not picking up. You probably screened me. Or maybe you’re out somewhere, doing something. I tried to go out today and track down this short-story writer who I thought had the secret to love. Isn’t that crazy? I think I’m going utterly crazy. I can’t even tell you how lost I am right now, and how much I love you, and how much I … Oh, fuck. I’m so sorry, Dan. I’m so sorry for almost kissing that guy, and for telling you about it in such a stupid way. I’m sorry for being the kind of person who does those kind of things. Because I want to be better for you. I want to be as good for you as you are for me. I’m rambling like this, because I can’t take not knowing if I ruined everything for good …

“But what just occurred to me is that I have to take it. I can’t ask you to make things easy on me. That’s how I got into this mess in the first place. Our relationship had gotten hard, and I never know how to handle it when things are hard, and I fill up my head with bullshit thoughts, and I fill up your voice mail with my bullshit ramblings, because I can’t fucking stand to face myself. I can’t fucking stand it … But I’m going to leave you alone, and I’m going to find a way to stand it, because that’s how much I love you. I love you enough to face my shit this time around, and I’m not running away, okay? I’m not. I’m going to give you the space you asked for. Even though I want you to call back so much and distract me, I need to be in this until Monday. I need to do that for us, and I hope you know I’m sincere. I want to be better. And I hope we come out the other side on this, but if we don’t—well, okay. I’m going to hang up now. Don’t call me back, please. I love you.”

I was breathing deeply, trying to return to my body, when I was startled by a knock on my window. I peered out, and it was a man of about sixty, with a concerned look on his face. I rolled down the window.

“Are you okay, ma’am?” he asked.

I wiped at my face, though the tears had already dried. “I’m fine.”

“You’ve been sitting out here awhile, and I just wanted to make sure you were all right.”

“Yes, thank you.” I tried to smile at him. “But actually, could I ask you something?” He nodded. “I’m an old friend of Sonora Watson’s. Do you know her?”

He tilted his head. “You mean the woman who lives there?” He pointed at Sonora’s house. “Grim-faced? Witchy hair?”

“Well, I’ve never seen her grim.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to speak bad of her. I don’t know her. No one around here does. We’re a friendly block, for the most part, but she really keeps to herself.”

“Maybe she’s been sad.” I thought of telling him about Sonora losing her husband, but I didn’t want to invade her privacy any further. Besides, maybe the story wasn’t true. Maybe it was just the fantasy life of a grim-faced woman.

The man nodded politely.

“Well, I should get going. I don’t know what time she’s getting back. I just thought I’d surprise her.”

“I don’t think she goes out much. That’s her car.” He gestured toward the driveway.

“Oh.” I looked at the house, thought of the busy signal. “I guess she doesn’t want to be disturbed.”

“You’ll be okay to drive? I mean, you’re sure you’re okay?”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Have a good day, now. A better day.” He smiled in at me.

“Thank you. You too.”

I was glad he approached me. That brief talk had anchored me somehow, reminded me that I was in the world, and that it could be kind. I started up the engine, thinking that maybe I’d write Sonora a letter. I wouldn’t say I’d ever been here. I’d try to send her a dispatch like the one I’d just had, let her know it was safe to come back out now.

My message to Dan had been a promise: a promise not to let myself off the hook too easily, and not to indulge in any of my usual mental tricks to avoid true self-investigation. I needed to understand how—despite the faux self-awareness of my meta-life—I had landed here again.

Self-excavation is a daunting task. It would have been a lot easier to let myself keep crying, or to keep beating myself up for my failures. Looking at my past and my present with cold, clear eyes—that was the most brutal of all. But I was determined to do it, and to stay in it no matter how hard it got.

The next two days were excruciating. I wrote harder than I ever had, in every sense of the word. I didn’t know where to start, so I just started. Then I kept going. And somehow through the pain—through my disappointment and anger and sometimes even self-hatred—I also felt prouder of myself than I’d ever been. I was pushing myself further than I’d ever gone, and whatever the outcome, I’d have that.

But I wanted to have Dan. Even though I told him not to call or e-mail, I was still hoping for some smoke signal. Finally, on Monday morning, he sent an e-mail confirming that he’d pick me up for salsa class at 6:30 pm, and that we could talk afterward. That was all. No mention of the message I’d left, or even a statement that he was looking forward to seeing me … Was he really so cold? Had he stopped loving me so completely?

Well, in a matter of hours, I would know. Until then, I could fall apart in my fears, or I could choose to keep writing. Dan could choose me, or not. Either way, I needed to make sure I wouldn’t end up back here again, not at my own hands. So I kept writing.

It was fast approaching six-thirty, and I wasn’t done, but I’d gotten somewhere. I had a sense of what I’d tell Dan later that night, but no idea how he’d respond. He’d given me no clues about what he was thinking, and I was suddenly terrified.

Right at six-thirty, he knocked on the door. I guess I should have figured that he wouldn’t use his key, but I still felt a jolt of sadness. I stood up, so nervous that it was actually hard to walk. My hand shook slightly as I reached for the doorknob.

I ached, seeing him there. There was a long moment where neither of us knew what to do with the other, and it was agonizing. We didn’t move, we didn’t speak. Until, finally, Dan said, “Hi.”

“Hi.”

“Are you ready to go?”

Give me something. Anything.
Was he a sadist? Did he want me to suffer? Would it be wrong if he did? I wanted to tell him, I’ve already been stewing in it. Stewing in me. I’ve never put myself through anything like the past few days, ever. “Let’s go.”

We drove to class in silence. I needed to let him handle this his way. I needed to let him lead, much as it killed me.

Class started predictably, with everyone in horizontal lines, practicing their basic step. I watched Dan in the mirror; he didn’t seem to be watching me. My body was on autopilot, my mind jumbled. I had so much to tell him, and I didn’t know if I’d get the chance, if he’d even want to listen to me. I’d started to figure myself out, at least a little, and he was the one I wanted to tell all my discoveries.

Finally, mercifully, Roxy directed the leaders to form their line facing the mirror, and followers to form their line facing the leaders. I wanted to believe that once Dan had his arms around me again, he’d have to relent. Until I knew otherwise, I’d be

lieve that.

When Roxy gave the order, I leaped into closed position. He held me stiffly, and we smiled at each other with painful awkwardness. I made sure that I waited for his signal before starting to move, even though his signal came a few beats late.

“Now rotate!” Roxy said.

The ponytailed woman to my right came up smiling, expecting me to move on. Four weeks and these co-eds still thought Dan was up for grabs. Only now, was he? I turned to Dan, my heart thumping.
Please say it. Please.

“We’re staying together,” Dan finally said.

I smiled at Dan with relief, wanting to believe that something had been settled. He smiled back uneasily, as if nothing had. I tried to think what to say as Roxy and Thiep took center stage.

“We’re going to learn the cross step now,” she said. “Watch closely; then I’ll break it down for you.” She and Thiep did a combination that ended with Roxy facing the opposite direction. But I didn’t know what else had happened. I couldn’t concentrate; I just wanted to step closer and breathe Dan in. “Now watch again,” she instructed, and she and Thiep repeated the maneuver, slower this time. She explained what she was doing on each beat. They broke apart, and Thiep demonstrated the leader’s part; then Roxy demonstrated the follower’s part.

“Okay, now everyone start in closed position. Try doing a full basic before moving on.” Roxy lifted her hands, about to start clapping.

Dan took me in his arms, and I noticed the preoccupation on his face. It occurred to me that he didn’t want to make a fool out of himself in front of me anymore, that the intimate space between us had closed that completely.

I blinked back tears as we started to move. Dan didn’t do the full basic before going into the new sequence. I followed him without saying anything. But it was clear his footwork was wrong and he was using too much force to help me cross over. I felt like a rag doll being yanked around.

He stopped moving. “Sorry,” he said, avoiding eye contact.

“It’s okay,” I replied softly.

“Rotate!”

I waited for Dan to say the magic words—I desperately wanted to hear them again—but he didn’t seem to notice another follower had come to claim her place. “We’re staying together,” I finally told her. She actually looked to Dan for confirmation, which made me want to wring her scrawny little neck. He nodded, and she went around us.

We were partners for the rest of class, but not like I wanted us to be. We alternated mistakes: One of us messed up nearly every time and apologized, and the other absolved politely, and all that courtesy served to underscore the distance between us, even as we held each other. There was no laughter. There was no ease.

As we walked back to the car, Dan said, “So we’ll go back to the apartment and talk?” There wasn’t much of a question in it, just grim recognition that there was nowhere left to go, nothing to divert us from the inevitability of what was to come.

“Yes.”