Love and Other Foreign Words (22 page)

As Stu often reminds me, I really do talk too much.

It's Sunday evening. I am lying on Stu's bed. Auntie Pat and Uncle Ken are across the street at my house, having a formal review of Friday's shower over dinner and card games, which my mother usually wins. Sophie has cloistered herself in her room to paint a tree-lined river, frozen and flowing nowhere. She breaks her concentration only to phone or text friends, berating herself for ever telling Josh Brandstetter “that I love him. I hate him!”

They broke up over Sarah Selman, whom Josh had the temerity to call hot, the same adjective he had once used for Sophie, which she understood as both a threat and a betrayal. Refusing to believe his assertions that she was and is, in fact, hotter than Sarah, they argued. She cried. And the rest is unfolding on canvas and Facebook.

“How can Sophie hate Josh tonight when Friday morning she loved him?” I ask. What I mean is
How can I have had such strong feelings for Ethan when now I don't know what I feel aside from overwhelming mortification?

Stu spins around on his music bench to face me.

“You're making this overly complicated,” he says.

“It
is
complicated,” I say. “You should know.”

“Why should I know?” he asks, stretching out on his bed next to me.

“Because of the many and varied girls to whom you have professed your love who now either hate you as Sophie hates Josh or, in at least two cases I know of—count 'em, one, two—lie pining for you at this very moment.”

“Who's pining for me?”

“You know very well.”

“Josie,” he nearly laughs, “it amazes me how little you know me.”

“I know you.”

“No, you don't,” he says in a way that makes me turn my head quickly toward him. “You don't.”

“You realize we're going to go back and forth now—you don't; I do—until you tell me what it is I allegedly don't know about you.”

“You don't know,” he says, propping himself up on one elbow, “that the reason all these girls break up with me is because I don't love them.”

“I know that.”

“You don't know that they have said it to me, but I have never said it back.”

“What?”

“I have never said ‘I love you' to anyone. So they get upset or mad—usually both—and break up with me.”

“You never said ‘I love you' to a single girlfriend?”

“Never.”

“Why not?”

“Because I intend to say it to only one person. When I'm sure. When the time is right.” He leans closer and smiles just a little. “And when I can predict with certainty what your response will be.”

And he kisses me—gently and lingering. I feel his hand against my cheek, his warm skin against my own, his tongue twisting around mine, the pressure of our mouths intensifying, the very weight of my own body lightening, until, at length, he slowly pulls away.

And in my heart-thumping anxiety, I shoot out from underneath him, manage something like, “I have to go,” and stumble a little at the door to avoid Moses. “I'm fine. Cat's fine.” And I race across the street to my house, to my bedroom, in record time.

Text from Stu, 7:27 p.m.

U OK?

Text to Stu, 7:28 p.m.

Fine, thanks. U?

Text from Stu, 7:29 p.m.

I'm great, but I'm not the one who set a new land-speed record leaving here.

Text to Stu, 7:30 p.m.

Was surprised. And now double-checking. Are you honestly telling me you love me? Or might? Or do? What just happened?

Text from Stu, 7:32 p.m.

Do you honestly think I'd tell you in a text?

Text to Stu, 7:33 p.m.

No.

Text from Stu, 7:34 p.m.

Good night, Josie.

Text to Stu, 7:34 p.m.

Good night, Stu.

I click my phone off, drop back against my pillow, and perceive so many thoughts racing through my mind at dizzying speed that I find it impossible to grasp a single one, let alone a single emotion, and instead I find great interest in my own, soothingly plain white bedroom ceiling.

I can't sleep tonight. So I open my journal to this eleven-days-old entry:

Wednesday October 15, 8:17 p.m.

What is the nature of love?

And I see there is no answer yet. So I flip back through the thing, hoping to entice it to start speaking to me, but all I see are loosely connected thoughts, fragments of thoughts appearing like flashcards—a sweater, jogging partner, Stu, eye exam, Kate, hate Kate, don't hate Kate.

I close my journal, flop back on my bed, and mean to think of Stu, mean to answer my own question about the nature of love, but I only see Kate when I close my eyes. Kate brushing my hair. Kate introducing Geoff. Kate laughing with me over a padded bra. Kate yelling at me over spilled spaghetti. Kate excited for me. Kate irritated with me. Kate and Geoff in our kitchen.

I can think of nothing but Kate.
Kate, Kate, Kate, Kate
. And then this—
I love Kate so much I hurt,
and very easily I begin to cry, warm tears falling out of the corners of both eyes, washing out the familiar definition of all objects in my room. Even me.

I cry until I no longer feel like crying. In my bathroom, I wash my face, wipe my glasses dry, and then sit down at my desk to finish my Language Variation Project, which, weeks ago, I changed from
Shut Up/Thank You
to this:

Cool,
Sweet, Hot, Love,
and Other Impossible Words

by Josephine Sheridan

Over the course of the first nine pages, I tackle the easiest words—
cool, sweet,
and
hot
.
Love
comes last. And I write:

Finally,
love
. There is an old adage about poets and playwrights forever struggling to define the term, and I believe the reason is threefold:

It is an ambiguous term.

It is often misused.

There is more than one kind of love.

It is an ambiguous term. In the past several months, I have used the word
love
or heard it said in reference to: sisters, family, Styx, studying languages, quilting, running, chocolate peanut butter cookies, Shopping Commando Style, love itself, weddings, “Mr. Roboto,” “The Best of Times,” two brainy kids in glasses, Dennis DeYoung, the crisp, cracking sound a new journal makes, wedding dresses, Josh Brandstetter, Geoffrey Stephen Brill, and a few other people.

How can one word with one definition apply equally to cameras, weddings, sounds, cookies, and people? It can't. Therefore, it has to have more than one meaning, to be determined contextually, and words with more than one meaning are ambiguous.

It is often misused. The word
love
is used in reference to people when
like
would do.
Like very much
.
Attracted to
.
Infatuated with
. Attraction and infatuation produce strong, exciting emotions that could easily be taken for love. But attraction wanes, and infatuation passes. Love doesn't end.

Sometimes, people think they're in love when they choose to see in someone else only the good qualities, none of the bad ones—only the qualities they most admire, none of the flaws or obstacles. Good becomes perfect, but perfect is an illusion. And illusions are like all spells—temporary and soon broken. And when that happens, feelings change.

Often, when feelings change, people who once loved now claim they hate. But maybe the word
hate
is misused the same way
love
is. Maybe it isn't hate but hurt that comes from embarrassment or regret or sadness or frustration or all of it. I misused the word
hate
once against my sister and can honestly say that no one who truly loves another person could ever treat that person with any of hate's real qualities. If the hate is real, then the love was not.

So what is love—the kind that applies not to cookies but to people? It is a connection, almost like a private language between two people, or an invisible dance. It is an invincible force that binds us to one another and can never be broken. Stretched and tested, even worried over, but never temporary, never fleeting, never broken, which I know from recent experience and which brings me to my third and final point.

There is more than one type of love. Since March, I have watched, studied, scrutinized and analyzed my sister Kate's relationship with her fiancé, Geoffrey Stephen Brill. Their wedding is thirteen days from the date of this paper, and I can conclude the following:

I know my sister and Geoff love each other.

I know I don't understand that.

I don't know if I have ever experienced that kind of love.

I know I experience one kind of love because of my sister Kate, whom I can confidently say I will always love, and who I know loves me, even when I am, at times, unlovable. (Though many of those times are her fault.)

I can't explain why my sister and I love each other, and I cannot prove it mathematically. I know it because of those times when it is tested and worried over. Because it is in those times when I want nothing more in life than love's very restoration, which puts everything else in my life in proper order. And somehow, Kate's love makes all other unhappiness a little easier to bear.

And then there is romantic love, of which I have little experience, though, perhaps, my experience is developing. But based on my observations, it shares the enduring strength of family love plus whatever element accounts for romance, a word that comes from medieval French and means
narrative
—usually a heroic, inexplicable, or otherworldly story. And I think there is something heroic, inexplicable, and otherworldly in every love story.

There is in Kate's and mine.

Both types of love remain a great mystery to me, and I wish, with all my heart, that love were as easily defined and understood as the word
teepee
. But then what would poets and playwrights do with all their time?

I hit
SAVE
, too tired even to reread what I've written, and I reach for my phone.

Text to Kate, 10:47 p.m.

I love U, and I will try my hardest to love Geoff 2.

Text from Kate, 10:47 p.m.

Where R U?

Text to Kate, 10:48 p.m.

My bedroom.

Seconds later, Kate bursts into my room without knocking, and I don't care and hope she always does so, though I'm certain to get mad at her next time. She wraps her arms around me, and I do the same in equal measure, equal pressure, equal sisterly-ness, making this the single most perfect hug in the history of hugs.

“Okay, tell me,” she says, grabbing both of my hands into hers and sitting with me on the bed. “Honestly, Josie. What is it about Geoff?”

“He's a little odd-looking. He talks about ticks. He thinks he knows everything. He thinks there's—” It hits. My throat starts to hurt and my voice thickens. “He thinks there's only one way to do things. His way. And he always wants to be the . . . the smartest guy in the room.” Tears. Tears pour out of my eyes, and my bottom lip quivers as I sob, “He's me, and you already have me. And I don't have that many people who are just mine. So now, when you marry him, I have one fewer.”

“Oh, Josie,” Kate says, pulling me into another hug. “I will always have room for you in my life and in my heart.”

“Nobody wants two of me. I certainly don't.”

“No, Josie, one of you is more than enough,” she teases, which makes me laugh, which comes out of me as a wet, disgusting snort.

She grabs a handful of tissues for me, and I dry my face.

“First of all, neither one of you is funny-looking,” she says.

“I know what I look like, Kate.”

“No, I don't think you do. And I don't think you're looking at Geoff accurately either.” I shrug a maybe at her. She continues, “And yes he found an article about ticks interesting, but he finds lots of things interesting. The way you do. Correct me if I'm wrong, but aren't you interested in learning if you've eaten an entire rat in your lifetime?”

“I think that's important information to have.”

“I think Geoff would agree with you.” She tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear for me. “He is a lot like you, Josie. Why do you think I love him so much?”

I concede with a nod and a considered grin.

“And I'm not replacing you. As if anyone could,” she says. “I have, of course, wanted to throttle you at times.”

“You will again, and, by the way, you haven't been the easiest person to deal with lately either.”

“I know,” she says through a conciliatory smile. “Josie, I'm sorry. I just got caught up in all the plans and the pressure of throwing a wedding. I kind of lost my head.”

“You were a fruit loop.”

“I'm sorry,” she says again before squeezing my hand. “You know I would shrivel up and die if I didn't have you in my life.”

“Please don't ever stop speaking to me again,” I say, and describe how that particular silence felt—the pain, the loneliness—to her repeated apologies, and we talk like this all night, falling asleep on my bed, heads and shoulders touching.