Happy That It's Not True (20 page)

              Harry looked over Diego’s shoulder and whispered.  “She’s here.  Good luck—I’m gonna to get going.”  Harry pushed his pile of papers together forming a stack and slid them into a folder.  “See ya later.”

              Diego turned to see Ling, who politely yet awkwardly greeted Harry as he was leaving.

              “Hey Ling—come sit with me,” Diego said.

              Ling Woo was a middle-aged woman with eyes that pierced Diego’s soul like sparks from flames—lips that she rarely used to smile, but were full and expressive—beautiful in conversation.  She was ethnically Chinese, which blessed her with an inheritance of striking characteristics—narrow almond eyes, high cheekbones, and silk-like black hair that flowed down past her shoulders.  She wore a brown sweater and dark baggy blue jeans, moving delicately towards the coffee machine.  After she poured herself coffee and emptied four packets of sugar, she sat across from Diego.

              “How you holding up?” Diego said.

              Ling gave him a look that he could only interpret as exhaustion.  She softly rubbed her hands on the coffee mug as if to warm herself, making attempts at eye contact, but settling for the landscape of Diego’s hands.  “I don’t know,” she said.

              “Man, you should’ve taken the summer term off.  Don’t get me wrong, I love seeing you here—but you really need some time off.”

              “Diego, if I go home—I’ll completely lose it.  I’m here, and I might be falling apart, but at least it’s better than what would happen if I was at home all day by myself.”

              “We should go to the beach.  Let me take you some time.  Nothing like having sand all over you.  Beach sand is proof you’re having a good day—”

              “Can’t.”

              “You should think about going somewhere.  You travel much?”

              “Not really.”

              “Any place you’ve ever wanted to visit?”

              “Maybe somewhere in one of those landscapes you paint.”

              “They’re not real places.”

              “That’s my point.  I don’t really want anything to do with this world anymore.”

              “Anything I can do?”

              “Kill me.”

              “Oh God—Ling—aren’t the meds working at all?”

              “He switched them again—I had dizziness and nausea, but I still don’t feel so good.  I’m crying for no reason—it takes me forever to do everything—whatever kind of work I’m able to finish, I have to do twice, because I don’t trust myself to do it right the first time—I feel so impaired.”

              “I’m here for you Ling, we’ll get through this.”

              “I’m glad I have you.  It seems like we just met the other day, and now I can’t imagine not having you to talk to.  I like strangers.  Maybe that’s why it’s so easy to talk to you.  Think you can stay that way forever?”

              Diego bit his lips softly, falling into Ling’s despair, blinded by her beauty and her defenseless state.  “You’re completely transparent, you tell me about your problems—you’re as naked as my models in drawing class—except you want me to remain a stranger, a mystery.  Why is that?”

              “I don’t know.  Just keep being a mystery.”

              “Be perpetually mysterious?”

              “You’re very good at it.  You’re completely opaque, thick as a Van Gogh-”

              “Thick, as in stupid?”

              “No, I meant you’re deep, containing many mysteries.  I like that about you.”

              “Well, since you’re so transparent, tell me everything about your life—where you grew up, all that stuff.”

              Ling smiled and shifted her eyes to remember, “Uuuuh—my parents were from China.  I was born in Malaysia.  I was a ballerina as a girl.  Eventually, I moved to the states and I made my foray into the visual arts.  And that, Diego, is my story—and I’m learning from you how to keep the best stuff hidden.”

              “So you just told me your life story but left out all the important stuff?”

              “The stuff I don’t want to talk about.”

              “In that case, you aren’t that transparent after all.”

              “All right, tell me something that you don’t want anyone to know and maybe I’ll tell you my deep dark secrets.”

              “But then I won’t be mysterious anymore,” Diego laughed.

              “You can tell me one little thing, without giving away the whole show.”             

              Diego looked carefully into Ling’s eyes before answering. “You’re depressed, possibly suicidal—I don’t want to say anything that might be upsetting to you.”

              As Ling’s expression became severe, Diego studied the arc of her eyelids and her partially hidden lashes, which he tried to count.  He also studied the lines and patterns in her irises, and then peered into the rich blackness of her enlarged pupils. 

              “Please tell me,” Diego said.  “What mysteries did you leave out of your life story?”

              “Have you ever been depressed?”

              “No.  I was sad when my parents died.  But no, I’ve never been clinically depressed.  I don’t let anything bother me.”

              “How is that possible?  You’re an artist like me—you’re a highly sensitive and passionate person.”

              “I was talking to my niece—her stepfather assaulted her.  I told her that she was very special, that she didn’t let it make her bitter—that she should channel everything through her art.  She asked me if I knew about pain.  I told her that I hadn’t had enough pain in my life to make me a great artist like her.”

              “Your niece is an artist?”

              “Incredible artist—she’s nineteen—not going to school, though.”

              “I’d like to meet her.”

              “Oh that would be embarrassing.”

              “Why?”

              “Long story.”

              “Which you will tell me.”

              “I will.”

              “And what’s this about you not being a great artist?  I love your work.”

              “You and Cara are both great artists.  You may like my work, but it’s not great.”

              “I disagree.” 

              Diego and Ling looked at each other for a while.

              “I like talking to you,” Ling said.  “Okay, what is it you were going to tell me?”

              “I don’t know where to start, but maybe last night will explain everything.  As you know, my niece and nephew are living with me.  There’s a picture on the wall that they were asking me about.  It’s a picture of an actress.  My niece, Cara, thought I wanted a girlfriend who looked like the woman in the picture.  Last night she had a coworker, who she thought resembled the woman, come to my figure drawing class.”

              “Oh no!” Ling laughed.

              “Yeah, and she was way too young for me, but I stayed with her after class, talking with her for a long time.  She was nice to look at—great personality.  When she found out that I wasn’t interested, she was humiliated.  I didn’t realize a little flirting could be so dangerous, so harmful—I don’t like hurting people.”

              “What was it about her that didn’t interest you?”

              Diego waited a moment before responding. 

              “She wasn’t you.”

              Ling took in a deep breath and looked down at her coffee.  “What about the picture of the actress?”

              “Just a picture of Yi Ching Ku, who happens to remind me of you.”

              “Diego, you’re getting in way over your head.  You’re toying with the queen of darkness—Besides, I don’t look anything like Yi Ching Ku.”  Ling attempted to smile, but could only get her lips to quiver.

              “You’re more beautiful.”   

              “All right Diego, now I tell you everything.”  

              One of the professors came into the lounge.  “Where are the friggin dry erase markers?  Why can’t I find any?”

              Ling turned away to hide her teary face.

              “No supplies in here,” Diego said.              

              “This is BS!” said the man as he hurried out of the room.

              Diego looked at Ling with anticipation.  “I’m listening.”

              Ling hesitated, finding patterns in the floor tiles and the ceiling panels.  “The reason my family moved from Malaysia was because of an older boy.  He would sneak into my room at night and I would feel his heaviness climbing on top of me in bed.  He would kiss the back of my neck—and would pull down my underwear and touch every part of me.  I was too afraid to tell anyone—I didn’t know what to do.  It was terrifying for me, but maybe he thought I liked it.  Eventually, one night he raped me.  It was only then that I learned to feel rage.  I screamed and beat him with my hands.  My parents—they never wanted to talk about it.  They treated me as if everything was my fault. 

              “In America, I reinvented myself.  I was the great ballerina.  I couldn’t be Ling anymore—I had to be someone else, someone with powers over nature.  Someone who could defy gravity—and that’s what they told me—-I could leap very high in the air.  I was like a goddess—no one can hurt a goddess.  But no matter how high I leapt, I couldn’t escape the world.  I never progressed in ballet.  Maybe I wasn’t as good as I thought.  Maybe I was just average.  So I had to reinvent myself again.  I became a painter.  A painter doesn’t need any athletic super powers.  But I was never able to soar again.  I never heard the sound of an audience applauding—little girls in beautiful dresses bringing me flowers.  And I never again felt like a goddess.”  Ling stared at Diego for a while.

              “Looks like you could use a hug,” Diego said.             

              “Not a good idea.”

              “It’s only a matter of time until you get better.  You’re getting counseling and eventually you’ll be cured.  You know that none of this is your fault—there’s just something inside of you that you haven’t figured out.  You’ll get better, and I’ll be waiting for you.”

              “Diego—”

              “It could be a medical condition.  I knew a guy with low blood sugar.  It really affected his mood.  He was constantly writing angry letters to everyone.  Everything seemed to be a crisis.  Once he treated his condition, he couldn’t even remember what he had been so riled up about.  Maybe you have a slight chemical imbalance.  Maybe it’s causing you to obsess about the past.”

              Ling looked down and nodded.  “That girl last night—was she pretty?”

              “Very.”

              “That was a very foolish thing—to pass up someone like her because you’re waiting for a mental case like me to get better.  Was she young and pretty?” Ling said with widening eyes, almost smiling.

              “Twenty something.”

              “Diego!  You passed up a young hot woman for me?  You idiot—oh my God!  Don’t get me wrong—you’re a good looking man, but you’ll never get an opportunity like that again.”

              “I’ll wait for you to get better.”

              Ling lowered her voice and spoke slowly, hoping every word would be taken in and understood.  “Here’s what would happen—I’ll describe it all for you in detail.  First, everything would start off wonderfully.  The romantic high would mask whatever is not working right with my body chemistry.  The love making would be wonderful and life would be perfect.  But eventually the high would wear off.  Whatever we have would become cold and lifeless.  And that would be the end.”

              Diego looked at Ling, his blinking eyes the only indication that he hadn’t been turned to stone.  He tapped his lips with his finger, carefully preparing his words. 

              “You walked into this room a total wreck—stress hormones making you even more anxious and depressed.  You think I’m a fool—but I’d be a fool to listen to what you have to say right now.  You’ll get better—I believe in you.  So you had something terrible happen to you once.  I still don’t get why we can’t just go out for a coffee sometime.”

              “Maybe what happened was even worse than what I just told you.  Maybe it wasn’t an older boy at all—maybe someone very close to me.  Maybe that’s why I prefer strangers.  I’m damaged goods.  Don’t waste your time on me.”

              “What if I told you that I was the most complicated, mysterious, unknowable person that you’ve ever met—that there was no end to the depths of my heart—that you could never fully know me?  What if I promised you that there are parts to me that I will never tell you about?  What if I could promise that I would never become familiar—always remain a stranger, a complete mystery?”   

              “You’re turning me on,” Ling laughed.  “I have a class to teach.” 

              “Okay.  By the way, you’re still a goddess.”