The Other Side (12 page)

When The Man I Live With returns from Denmark we go back to our normal life. I take classes; he teaches. Once a month he plays poker with his former students and comes home with all their money. When he's gone, I apply to grad
schools, the Peace Corps, any excuse to move away. I tell myself I will leave him at the end of the year. I plan exactly what to say. When he's home, he wants to fuck: in the morning, at lunchtime, after school, before bed. If I say no, or turn away, or if I find some reason to be out of the house all day, we're up until three in the morning, him screaming at me the whole time, twisting my words until they tell a story I've never heard before, until I doubt myself, until I finally give in, and let him fuck me while I sob face-first into my pillow. Our polite Asian neighbors never complain, never look me in the eye.

On my twenty-first birthday, he makes me breakfast in bed and pulls a giant package from the top shelf of the bedroom closet: a down duvet he bought in Denmark; he's been hiding it all this time. That night, we go out to a comedy club with a group of his former students, and afterward we go out dancing. In the car on the way home, I roll the window down, close my eyes, and let the wind blow my hair into my face. I'm a little drunk and feeling happy and I reach over to rest my hand on his leg. I feel his hand in my hair so softly, his fingers rubbing the back of my head so softly, his hand pulling me toward him, toward his lap, pushing me down, down, down.

On his fortieth birthday, weeks later, I throw him a surprise party and invite everyone from his department, from his poker games, the bartender from our favorite dive downtown, people from my classes, my teachers, the few friends I have made. He is genuinely surprised, I think, and touched. Everyone dances and drinks until it is nearly dawn. One friend says as he is tumbling out the door,
You guys are such a great couple. You throw the best parties!

The Man I Live With doesn't come to my college graduation. He says he is staying home to get ready for the party, but when I get back to the apartment, nothing has been done. He disappears for longer and longer stretches of time, and occasionally messages appear on our voice mail from numbers I don't recognize. One day I tell him I have been accepted for an internship at a literary magazine in town and the fight we have lasts for days and days. At one point I lock myself in the bathroom and sleep there all night. At another he's cursing at me in every language he knows. He palms my face and pushes me backward onto the couch. I hit my head on the windowsill and see a flash, then darkness. I try to kick him away and he punches me in the hip. I turn into a puddle, dripping from the couch to the floor.

In the morning, I say I'm going to my parents' house for a few days, just to visit. I pack a few changes of clothes into a small bag, nothing to raise suspicion. He is playing backgammon on his computer when I kiss him sweetly on the cheek and walk out the door.

He calls, days later, already very angry, though his voice remains calm. At first he tries to bribe me.
Come home and we'll plan a trip to South America
. Then he pleads, and I can feel the decision slipping out from under me. He threatens to tell my parents what a slut I am. He offers to come get me. Finally, I hang up the phone.

When he calls back, Mom answers and calls him a
sonuva-bitch
before slamming down the receiver. He calls back again and Dad tells him that he is bringing me, along with his friend, The State Trooper, to get my things.

He isn't in the apartment when we arrive—me, Dad, and his friend, The State Trooper—or as we stuff the rest of my clothes and books into big black trash bags and toss them in the back of the car. On the way home, Dad pats my leg and asks how I am feeling. I don't hesitate to answer.

Free
.

I get a haircut. I spend whole days writing in coffee shops with My Handsome Friend. I start an internship at the
literary magazine, reading submissions from the slush pile, helping to load content into the website. I get a job processing used books at a warehouse. I shop and walk in the street. I run errands and buy groceries. Occasionally,
I look over my shoulder and see him walk into or out of a building a half block away. Sometimes I leave through the back exit to avoid him. Other times, I stay right where I am. He approaches me, or doesn't, or leaves a note on my car.
Please come home
. I crumple it up and throw it away. If he follows me, it's always a few cars behind. I sign a lease on an apartment I'll share with My Good Friend.

One night, before we've moved in, My Good Friend drives me back to her place from a bar downtown, and we see a car, his white sedan, following close behind us as we trace the winding unlit road. She drives fast, turning and turning and turning, trying to lose him. We park on the street and run from the car into the house, where we crouch on the living room floor and peer through the blinds with all the lights out. The day I move in to the new apartment he corners me at the hardware store and says he's bought two tickets to Venezuela. He would love to take me there, just to talk.
Just one more trip. Just one last time
. I owe him that much. I want to say,
I don't owe you shit
. But I say nothing. I pretend I haven't heard him. That he's someone I've never met before. I turn my body and go.

Did you ever
, My Newest Therapist finally asks, holding the one list—its intersecting paths—in her hands,
even once, tell anyone the truth about what was happening to you?

No, not ever
, I say.
I still don't understand it myself
.

[seven]

THE DAY BEFORE
I am kidnapped and raped by The Man I Used to Live With, My Good Friend talks me into coming with her to a Fourth of July cookout.
A chance to meet new people
, I think.
As if relief might flow from unfamiliarity. I have a good time at the cookout, but I catch this strange man watching me each time I toss my hair to the side and take a drag of my cigarette. I find it a little creepy, this staring, but slip him my phone number anyway, and only as I am leaving.

Three weeks later, after I return from My Older Sister's apartment, after I begin seeing The Therapist and The Psychiatrist, and after I begin taking three different kinds of psychotropic medication, The Strange Man calls to say he's having people over for drinks. He knows
what happened
but doesn't say so. He doesn't need to. I need to have a beer, to laugh, and tell jokes with new friends. I need to pretend nothing happened. My family disagrees. My aunt invites us all to her house for a little party—a cousin's birthday—where my aunts and uncles and grandparents hug me as if I am an ancient porcelain doll, as if their embrace might shatter me to pieces. This is the only way anyone will speak
to me: the jowly cheek pressed against my cheek, the words clucked right into my ear:
I love you
. The whole thing makes me want to puke. I leave my aunt's party to go home and change: a skirt, a tank top, my favorite pair of flip-flops.

In the apartment of The Strange Man, I sit on the futon in the living room listening to music. When all the other guests leave after hours and hours of drinking, it is either very late or very early, and The Strange Man gets up to make breakfast while I collect beer cans in a big black trash bag. We eat cross-legged on the floor, perched on a pair of pillows. After I've taken three bites of egg and two bites of hash browns, he leans across the plate to kiss me.

It makes me want to puke. Then I am puking.

I come out of the bathroom and find him already apologizing.
It was too soon. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have—not after what you've been through
.

I tell him to shut up. I take him into the bedroom and push him down on the bed. I pull his pants down around his knees. I pull my skirt up around my waist. I don't kiss him and don't let him kiss me. I'm not gentle. This is not lovemaking.

He's still apologizing when I pull down my skirt and walk out the door.