I Like You Just Fine When You're Not Around (3 page)

• • •

With her coat slung over her arm and her bag dangling from one shoulder, Tig walked to the front desk where Macie sat, fringed black bangs in her eyes, clicking through computer screens. “Well, I did it. I finished my last day, ruined my career, and made myself miserable.”

“You'll forget all this in Hawaii, Dr. M.”

“I'm not sure I'm going right away,” Tig said. “I think I'm going to tie some things up at home first, get my mom settled.”

Macie tugged the gauge in her ear lobe. “Oh. Is that okay?”

“How long before the Harmeyers call Julie and ask her to fire me?”

“He already called.”

“It's good it's my last day.” Tig stared at the floor.

“How's your mom?”

“Not so good. That's why this decision to wait to go to Hawaii feels right. You know, aside from calling Newman Harmeyer a prick, I don't feel too terrible. I really should feel worse.”

“Oh, yeah, calling someone a prick is totally therapeutic.” Macie fiddled with her gauge again. “There's research.”

As Tig Monahan turned onto the highway, a cavalry of sunshine raced through the windshield as if it might save the day from the disaster to come. She switched on the radio, opened the sunroof, and accelerated. Between the music, the breeze, and the feelings of guilty freedom swirling around her, Tig—fixer of the troubled mind, daughter of the year—forgot, for just a moment, the cost of liberty: the psychological fee associated with breaking all promises and putting your confused mother into memory care when it's the last thing you want to do.

With practiced automation, she signaled and turned onto her street. The speed radar trailer at the entry of her neighborhood blinked the Too Fast warning in red and blue. Tig braked hard and watched her purse tumble upside down onto the floor. If she were superstitious, she might have crossed herself and said a quick prayer. Instead, Tig tried to retrieve her phone and wallet while swerving at the last minute and bumping into her driveway.

She shoved the door of her Subaru open, and rushed to her front stoop. The purse slid off her shoulder as she pulled the screen open, sending her keys clattering to her feet. She said to no one, “Today, I don't even effing care.”

Tig dumped her bag onto the hardwood floor. Her black labradoodle, Margaret Thatcher, looked up from the black leather couch and banged a friendly Morse code with her tail. With great dignity, the curly-haired dog stood, dropped her front paws to the floor, and executed a flawless downward dog.

“Hi, girl. Did you have a nice day with Stacy?” Stacy was Tig's next-door neighbor, a single thirty-something graphic designer who worked from home. She was Tig's unofficial dog sitter and was always available to rescue Thatcher from whatever scheduling conflicts Tig got herself into. She scratched Thatcher's back, and said, “I made a big decision today. Is Pete here? Where's Pete?” Tig straightened and quickly peeled a note off the front door.
This Is Home
. She folded it carefully, the tape crinkled and stuck together in her hand while she snatched another note off the hall closet:
Coats and Shoes.

“Pete?” In the kitchen, yellow Post-its fluttered like leaves on the light oak cupboards and stainless appliances, remnants of her mother's confusion and evidence of Tig's exhausting life as a caregiver. One by one, she ripped each note free from its place.

Hot.

Forks.

Cups.

Turn Off!

Towels.

Dishwasher.

Stove.

Tig Cell Phone.

Help: 911.

With one hand clutching imperatives, she yanked the empty suitcase from her bed onto the floor and kicked it under the bed. At the sound of the front door opening, she shoved the Post-it notes into the garbage next to her bed, and covered them with tissues.

As Tig rounded the corner, Pete strode into the living room, wiping his face and smearing his sweaty palms across his Runner's Run T-shirt. The Runner's Run was a twenty-four-hour running match where sleep was profane and mileage was the Holy Grail. The goal: to rack up as many miles as possible in a twenty-four-hour period by both pacing and killing yourself. It was neither fun nor just a run, in Tig's opinion. Her only role in her boyfriend's athletic endeavors was to hold the Gatorade and the Go Pete! sign.

“You're home,” he said. The late afternoon sun sat loyally on his shoulders and the scent of the final moments of a successful summer day wafted into the room. Margaret Thatcher licked the salt from Pete's fingers, bumping her tail against the wall.

Tig pulled another Post-it from the thermostat that read
Don't Touch
and stuck it into her back pocket. Pete didn't seem to notice. Tig followed his eyes to the spare room off the living room, where several pieces of luggage-sized duffel bags sat clustered in the doorway.

“I thought you'd be later,” he said. “You know, tying up stuff at the office.”

Tig stepped closer to him. “I know you think I haven't been getting ready for the trip, but I have. I've been cleaning out files all month. So, I came home to talk about the trip.”

She stretched to kiss him, but he stepped back, saying, “I'm sweaty.”

Tig glanced at his packed bags and said, “Looks like you made a lot of progress today.” When he didn't respond, she said, “Since I'm home early, let's go get something to eat and celebrate. Maybe we could stop in to see my mom later.”

“I,” he started, then said, “I think we should talk about something.”

“Yes! Good. I want to talk about something, too.”

Pete touched the scar behind his ear, an early sign of nerves to those who knew him. A tiny poker tell to loved ones wanting a read.

Tig said, “Should we talk at dinner?” She noticed Pete's hesitation, and said, “Or here. Here's good. What's up? Is something wrong?”

“I don't think this is something to really worry about, but it's been on my mind lately. I think I should talk about it. In fairness.”

Tig frowned and said, “Okay. I feel like I should sit down. Should I sit down?”

Pete grabbed the bottom of his T-shirt, exposing his tight abdominal muscles, and wiped his face. “I don't know why this is, but I'm just not that excited about you, lately.” He squeezed his eyes shut and tried again. “I mean, I'm not excited about anything right now. This sabbatical. Going to Hawaii. That's why it's not about you.”

A cold frost gripped Tig's neck and shoulders. “You're not that excited about me?”

“That came out wrong. What I mean is, this whole trip. I don't know why I'm not more excited about going.” He wiped his face with his T-shirt again and added, “With you.”

Pete paced away from her and turned. “This isn't coming out right at all. Something isn't right with me.”

“Something isn't right with you,” Tig repeated.

“I should be more excited.”

“I think you need to stop saying that.” Her counselor self kicked in and she said, “Are you saying that you don't know how you feel about this trip?” Her non-counselor self said, “Since when? Since yesterday? Since last week?” Margaret Thatcher seemed to follow the conversation and, as if taking sides, the dog walked over to Tig and leaned against her leg. Tig absently touched the top of her silky head, extracting a tiny measure of quiet comfort from the dog's solidarity.

Pete stared at her. Then, with resolution, he grabbed a duffel. “I've just been thinking. Maybe I should go to Hawaii, alone. At least at first.”

“What are you saying? Am I disinvited?” Tig couldn't decide how she felt about this. The tables were turning in both the best and absolutely worst ways. She'd come home to tell Pete to go and she would follow. However, now that he was suggesting this very thing on his own, and with this new lack of excitement, Tig shivered.

“No, not forever.” He pushed the screen open and swung the luggage out the door. It landed in a thud on the front stoop. “Though I'm not sure you ever really wanted to go.”

“Wait a minute. That's not what we're talking about.” Tig watched Pete grab another duffel bag. She wrung her hands, and looked around for support: a wall, a chair. Something to stand on that wasn't sinking. “You invited me. You said I could stay six months or the full year, so I said yes. I didn't ask to come with you.”

“I know, and I still want you to come. Maybe just not right away.”

All of a sudden, Tig felt defensive and confused. “What are you saying? I left my job.”

As if Tig had opened a door labeled the Bright Side
,
Pete moved to her. “This will give you the time you wanted to get your mom settled. Pack up the house more. Maybe find renters like you wanted. I'll get set up in Hawaii and then you can come.”

“You are doing this for me?” She stalled. In that second, Tig recognized what she was doing: she was trying to help Pete get through the conversation and save face for herself. She was getting what she wanted, but in the midst of this, she found she only wanted it if he loved her. She needed to know but was too afraid of the answer. With her emotions zigzagging, she tried to recover a little self-esteem. Tig said, “You don't want me. That's what you're saying.”

“No,” he said, “you're taking this wrong.”

“How should I take it? No woman ever wants to hear that the person she,” and she hesitated here, meaning to say
loves
, but instead said, “made plans with, is not that
excited
about them.” Tig moved around the room as if tiny fires had broken out, overwhelming her with heat. “I don't want to hear that from my mailman, let alone my boyfriend,” she muttered. She watched Pete toss the last bag out the front door and said, “Could you just stop? Did I do something wrong?”

“That's just it. No. I didn't think it was fair to go to Hawaii without talking about this.” Pete moved and Tig put her hand up to stop him. He tried again. “This will give you more time to get everything in order, like you wanted to before this sabbatical came up.”

Tig opened her mouth to speak. She wanted to say,
But I want to say that!
Instead, she clamped her mouth shut.
Dignity
, is what she thought. Her mother used to say, “Be pleased, not eager.”

“It's true, Pete. At first, I couldn't imagine leaving my mom in the nursing home alone while I snorkeled with you. Then she hurt herself and I did the thing I don't ever do. I let go, for a change.” She thought of her stately and completely confused mother sitting in her unfamiliar room at Hope House, and added with a spark of resentment, “We talked about getting married! How dare you attach the word ‘fairness' to this?” For the second time in twenty-four hours she saw that she did not know what she wanted, and she could not shut her mouth.

Pete's lined face lost its boyishness. The scar on the side of his head pulsed with the clench of his jaw. “I knew you were going to say that.”

“This is all so out of the blue. You made a decision before we'd discussed anything.”

“I'm trying to discuss this right now. And I'm not leaving you.”

Tig straightened her shoulders and said, “I don't know what you are doing here, Pete.” She looked him directly in the eyes. “Hawaii and us, that was your idea. It took me a while to get on board, but . . . .” She frowned. “Call this what you want, but don't call it
fair
.”

He opened his mouth to say more, looked down at his triathlon watch and then his shoes and said, “I just thought . . . .”

She saw in that moment how uncomfortable he was, and in a flash she felt sorry for him. It was what made her an effective counselor, an oft-requested caregiver, this overriding feeling of empathy that flooded her emotions and sank her defenses. She thought maybe if she didn't make a fuss, if she did what she always tried to do with people, to
be no trouble to anyone
. . . . She said, “Okay. I have to do some thinking. You should go.” And then she did something she wanted to slap herself for later. She hugged him, and kissed his soft, salty lips, effectively and completely letting him off the hook.

Tig stared at his back as he walked away, and as the screen door slammed shut, she rushed to it. With the last bit of courage her ego could manage, she said, “Don't call me! Don't.” She started to turn away and raised her voice. “Period.” She knew in that instant that he wouldn't. She knew there would be no tearful
I'm sorry
s or long explaining conversations. That wasn't Pete. That wasn't either of them. Then her strength seemed to ebb away, and Tig felt herself dissolve like a sandcastle in a hard wind. She wiped her eyes with a brutal tenting of her thumb and forefinger.

She sank to the couch and reached for her phone. But who could she call? Her mother, whose memory had been erased as effectively as chalk on the sidewalk after a summer shower? Her self-obsessed sister Wendy, who only answered her phone one in ten times? There were other people. Friends. But most of her friends had warned her about Pete, calling him the “boy-man of Madison, Wisconsin.” Friends who, one by one, disappeared under the scheduling nightmare that exists when you move your mother into your house and become her caregiver before you become a mother yourself.

She took a tortured breath and rubbed her chest, remembering her mother's soft hands on her sternum after a bad dream, how her mother's touch used to calm her childish concerns. Sometimes Hallie was quiet during those times. Other times, she'd distract Tig by telling her about the animals in the clinic.

“The Great Dane walked right in like he owned the place,” she might begin a story. “His name was Bo, Boregard Halsey. He was a crabby old dog with a heart murmur. He'd get excited and pass out, which made him look like he had roller blades on. He'd go over and his legs would stick out like an old wooden stool.” Her stories could make Tig laugh, or could help her fall back asleep. The magic lay in her mother's talk about the continuation of life, the business as usual goings-on that confirmed the world had not ended. This was her mother in a nutshell.