At a Loss For Words Page 11

  YOURS: Before this day is over, you will realize that the confusion you have been feeling of late is because you have been looking at your existence from the wrong angle. Something you see or hear over the next twenty-four hours will answer many of your questions and set you off in a new direction that lasts a lifetime.

  I am thinking about how sometimes I still catch myself thinking of things I want to tell you, but we are no longer in touch and so I don’t. Things like:

  Last week I bought two new fridge magnets with illustrations of elegant mink-collared women from the forties with flawless skin, deep red lipstick, and eyebrows plucked into shrewd ironic arches. One magnet says, She knew how to please a man but most days she chose not to. The other says, Rainy days and morons always get me down…(It was the ellipsis in this one, as much as the sentiment, that made me laugh out loud in the store.)

  One day I was stopped at a red light downtown in a rainstorm. A huge tour bus came lumbering through the intersection and turned left in front of me. It was completely covered with one of those wraparound advertising signs. The picture on the bus featured a majestic castle, so vivid and clear, even in the rain, that it was virtually three-dimensional. It was not until the light had turned green and I was on my way again that I realized the building on the bus was the luxury hotel in your city in which we’d stayed together. When I got home after doing my errands, I was hardly even surprised to find an e-mail from the hotel called Customer Satisfaction Survey.

  I heard “Dancing in the Moonlight” three times in one week. The first two times I heard it on the oldies radio station I always listen to in the car. The first time, I cried, but only lightly, only briefly, only a little bit, not enough to have to pull over. The second time, I turned off the radio and sailed on to my destination with only a small lump in my throat and a barely noticeable knot in my stomach.

  The third time I heard the song I was in a downtown restaurant having lunch with my friend Lorraine. After much unnecessary studying of our menus, we ordered the same thing we always had: steak sandwiches for both of us (hers rare, mine medium), french fries, corn salsa, garlic mayonnaise for dipping, and unlimited cups of decaf. The song came on while we were waiting for our food.

  At the sound of the opening bars, I stopped talking in mid-sentence and pointed at the ceiling from where the music was emanating. We both listened intently for a moment, our heads tilted upwards. Then we pursed our lips, rolled our eyes, and picked up our conversation where we’d left off.

  By the time our steak sandwiches arrived, we had forgotten all about you.

  I am thinking about the last time I saw you. I was once again in your city staying at the luxury hotel.

  An hour or so before it was time for me to leave and come home, we decided to have a drink in the lobby piano bar. I had coffee, you had a glass of red wine which, I couldn’t help but note, cost nearly as much as a whole bottle would in the liquor store. We held hands across the table, while making inconsequential easy talk as comfortably as if we did this every day.

  At one point, I went to the washroom and enjoyed the sensation of you watching me as I walked across the room. With my fancy-dancy high-heeled black leather boots, I was wearing a new outfit (an exceptionally sleek-fitting knee-length black skirt and a shimmering turquoise silk shirt that clung in all the right places) that I’d bought especially for this visit, not for the business I had to do, but for you. Up in the room, you had duly admired and then gently removed it, one piece at a time, beginning with the boots.

  Soon it was time for me to go. You paid for our drinks and I retrieved my suitcase from the concierge desk. You said you wished you could drive me to the train station, but you really had to get back to work. So you put me and my suitcase in a taxi and told the driver to take good care of me. He smirked at me in the rearview mirror as we pulled away and you stood there waving sadly.

  I didn’t cry in the taxi, as I didn’t want to give the driver the satisfaction. But I did cry at the train station. Nobody much seemed to notice. Those few people who did notice didn’t seem to mind. Several women smiled at me with instinctive sympathy and understanding. I had an epiphany about the fact that there are a goodly number of public places in which crying is acceptable, train stations definitely being one of them, also bus depots, airports, churches, hospitals, cemeteries, movie theaters, and possibly bars very late at night after half a dozen drinks and a few too many sad songs (although not in grocery stores, as I had already ascertained). I wrote all this down in the little notebook I carry in my purse (just like writers are supposed to).

  Then I called you at work from my cellphone to tell you my epiphany. I was still crying. You answered, but you were busy and couldn’t talk.

  I boarded the train at the appropriate time. Somewhere in the shuffle of finding my seat, stowing my suitcase, and giving my ticket to the conductor, I stopped crying. When we hadn’t started moving forty-five minutes past the scheduled departure time and were already getting restless, they announced that the train was broken.

  We sat there in the station for another two hours, which was about as long as my trip home should have taken. We sat there eating tiny bags of peanuts and potato chips, watching the sun go down in the west. I rested my head against the window while your city was swallowed into the darkness and then began to sparkle in the night.

  There was a lot of grumbling and sighing, many disgruntled passengers on their cellphones calling home to say they would be late. I had no one at home to call. I thought about calling Kate or Michelle, but then I decided to call you again instead. This time there was no answer.

  Finally they hooked our train up to another train (this took some time, as you can imagine) and towed it all the way back to my city and beyond.

  Of course I told you all this in an e-mail the next morning.

  You said, Train trips are poignant and reflective enough…but to have that long delay on top of it all! I certainly empathize and feel for you. I wish very much I could of been at the station, but that too can be a hard thing…so many old movies had partings at train stations…Still, it would have been really nice to have had that extra time together.

  I didn’t know then that this would be the last time we saw each other.

  Did you?

  I thought we would just go on and on.

  Did you?

  There were so many questions I asked that you never answered. But there are still some very important questions that, for some reason, I never had the nerve to ask. Questions to which I would still like to know the answers, although I’m sure I never will now.

  I would still like to know when you decided we were done.

  I would still like to know why you never bothered to mention this to me. I would still like to know why you just let me go on and on.

  I am thinking about the last time I saw you.

  You said I was perfect.

  I said you were perfect too.

  We were both naked. We were both wrong.

  Write a story that begins with the question, “Why didn’t you call me?”

  Write a story that begins with the question, “Why didn’t you write to me?”

  Write a story that begins with the question, “Why didn’t you tell me you didn’t want me anymore?”

  Write a story in the form of a love letter.

  I am.

  I am thinking about how many times I told you I’m a person who needs to know the truth no matter what it is.

  You said you respected and admired this so very much.

  Write about silence.

  Write about a forbidden activity.

  Write about electricity.

  Write about regret.

  Write about dubious intentions.

  Write about casting a spell.

  Write about cowardice.

  Write about lies.

  Write about mistaken identity.

  Write about a promise made.

  Write about a promise broken.

  Write abo
ut crying.

  Write one whole page about snot.

  I said, In my romantic dream of our story, I am indeed an angel, able to handle this situation forever with grace and ease and strength, thinking only of you and never of myself. In my romantic dream, I am serene and selfless, always giving, never needing anything more than the sheer joy of loving you, even when I don’t hear from you for weeks, even when I don’t see you for months on end. But in reality, I’m disappointed to discover that I am none of these things. Not serene. Not selfless. Not able to keep giving without wanting something in return. Still not able to conquer this communication issue. Still not able to stop wanting to hear your voice and see your face. In reality, I’m disappointed to discover that I am not an angel…I am just human.

  I said, My romantic dream is so rich and beautiful and would make a very good movie. But reality is so different: so paltry and hopeless and impossible. As you well know, love in the real world is never what you expect it to be.

  You said, I want to stop hurting you.

  I said, Five or ten years from now, when we look back on this time in our lives, I wonder what we will say. How will we describe it? I guess time will tell…just as it always does.

  You did not reply.

  When it became increasingly apparent that I wasn’t managing the stress and anxiety of our situation especially well, you said I should take up running. You said this would help me get back to writing regularly. You said I wasn’t getting enough exercise. You said medical studies have shown that fitter people are in better mental health and that exercise is now becoming a recognized treatment for anxiety and depression. You said that if I wanted to hang around with you, I had to become a practitioner of physical fitness.

  You said, You already have the body of a runner…you would be a natural!

  I said, If I do already have the body of a runner, then I’ve managed to get it without running. Why start now?

  You said if I wasn’t keen on running, then walking would be the next best thing. You said I should go out and buy myself a proper pair of walking shoes. You said, If you take up walking, then you too can consider yourself an athlete!

  I bristled at your tone. I said I’d never had any great burning desire to consider myself an athlete.

  You apologized for being so avuncular, a characteristic of yours that you said others had also objected to in the past.

  Eventually I capitulated. I said that, resistant though I might have been to this idea initially, still I would give it a try…in my regular boots. It was February after all.

  You said I should send you a daily progress report.

  Day One

  WALKING REPORT

  From here to downtown and back: 1 hour round trip with 2 short stops. Purchased shampoo and conditioner at The Body Shop (very good: all-natural ingredients, community trade honey from Zambia, olive oil from Italy, not tested on animals) and an iced cappuccino at Tim Hortons (not so good: probably healthier to drink the shampoo…does consumption of iced cappuccino cancel out benefits and virtues of walk?). While walking, did not smoke, drink Pepsi, or talk on cellphone. Saw several other people walking while doing some or all of these things. Also saw one man eating a pizza slice. Appeared to be pepperoni and mushrooms, possibly also onions. Thought it better not to look too closely for fear of being misunderstood.

  CONCLUSIONS

  Am supposed to be writing light-hearted book about happiness while feeling heavy-hearted and unhappy. Perhaps should write light-hearted book about unhappiness, heavyhearted book about happiness, or heavy-hearted book about unhappiness. Many options!

  Walking is much easier than writing.

  Day Two

  WALKING REPORT

  Drove downtown but then walked around doing errands: approx. 45 minutes. Does walking (quickly) while doing errands have same beneficial effects as walking for its own sake? Perhaps not as soothing but still good exercise?

  Had some bad moments in art supply store brought on by song on Muzak featuring line: Some people wait a lifetime for a moment like this…Recovered with help of Bruce Springsteen on car radio while driving home. In song called “Dancing in the Dark” (as opposed to “Dancing in the Moonlight”), the Boss going on about how tired he is of sitting around here trying to write this book! Laughed out loud.

  CONCLUSIONS

  Why do all stores play music? People no longer capable of shopping without soundtrack? Music is ubiquitous hazard. Must buy earplugs.

  Despite musical ambush, did feel weight of world lifting off skinny shoulders. Not sure if due to walking or to finally getting errands done. Either way, very good. Skinny shoulders not up to the task.

  Day Three

  WALKING REPORT

  From here to Victoria Park and back: 35 minutes round trip with no stops. Despite umbrella, walk curtailed due to rain. Fog nice though. At park, three hockey rinks and family skating loop all melted. Very sad. (Remember when winter was cold and there was no such thing as rain in February?) Found a quarter and a teeny-tiny black-and-white plastic cow. Signs from God? Should make phone call? Should drink more milk? Should move to Alberta and become cattle baroness? Post-walk bubble bath with lavender oil (said to be soothing fragrance): 30 minutes. Was briefly soothed.

  CONCLUSIONS

  Writing this report most fun had all day.

  Walking still easier than writing, despite inclement weather. Felt very virtuous while putting one foot in front of the other.

  Combination of new shampoo and wet weather made hair look very nice.

  Too many baths in February, even with lavender oil, make skin very dry. Must return to Body Shop and buy moisturizer.

  Day Four

  WALKING REPORT

  Did not walk. Lazy. Stomach upset. Headache. Too cold out. (Winter is back.) Feet hurt. Many excuses. Had nap instead. Post-nap pacing around house while trying to write: 1 hour and 45 minutes. (Can pacing be counted as walking?)

  CONCLUSIONS

  Feel guilty.

  But not guilty enough to get out there.

  Day Five

  WALKING REPORT

  No walk again today. Still too cold out. Would rather stay inside and read a book in front of fireplace. (Do not actually have fireplace, but would sit and read in front of it if I did. Will curl up under snuggly afghan instead.) While reading, will drink Pepsi and smoke. Later, will put on pajamas and housecoat, eat large bag of barbecue potato chips, drink more Pepsi, and watch trashy reality TV show in which one wealthy handsome bachelor must choose a wife from a bevy of twenty-five buxom babes.

  CONCLUSIONS

  Not destined to be athlete.

  Have now officially opted for early retirement from walking career. Will stick to laughing instead. (See article: “A laugh a day keeps the doctor away.”)

  Hope you are not mad at me.

  You said you could understand my resistance to physical exercise. You said you knew how hard it was to change.

  You said, Forging your own lifestyle is your domain and anything I offer or suggest is not a command by any means.

  You said I could choose to ignore or accept. You said you certainly would not be judgmental about this.

  You said, There are things we like or are comfortable with about ourselves and do not really want to change.

  I said, I’m glad you understand.

  You said, If we try to change each other, it will only end in disaster.

  I said, I don’t want to change you…I love you just the way you are.

  You were supposed to say you didn’t want to change me either, but you didn’t.

  Not surprisingly, my horoscope for the following day said: You are who you are for good reasons and trying to change that is an exercise in futility. Once you understand this, your life will be easier by far, not least because you stop trying to please people whose personalities and paths through life are so different from your own.

  I said, For years I thought I had my life all figured out. And a carefully constructed
life it was, a life that allowed me to feel safe and sane and happy enough. Now I feel all in a muddle. I’m no longer fitting into my own life as well as I used to.

  I said, I’ve always loved my little house. I’ve lived here for twenty years and I’ve always loved the comforting sense of having it wrapped around me. I’ve always loved all my stuff too, probably more than I should. I’ve always loved this little square inch of the planet that I call mine. I said, But lately I find myself wanting to get rid of everything. This little house is so full of stuff, it’s a wonder it doesn’t explode! Sometimes I imagine that the walls are bulging under the strain. Or that it’s going to fall over to the one side where all the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves are. I feel burdened by so much stuff. Right now I would just like to get rid of everything and live in a white room with only the barest of necessities…or maybe in a tent or a cave or on an island accessible only by floatplane. There I would give my life to literature and leave the rest behind…

  By “the rest” I meant you.

  I wanted you to be alarmed at the thought that I might be quite capable of doing something drastic and dramatic like decamping and disappearing altogether, never to be seen or heard from again.

  But I also wanted you to know that I was willing to give up everything if I had to…“if I had to” meaning if you asked me to come and live with you there.

  (It occurs to me now that you were not then, or ever, much likely to be trying that hard to read between the lines of my so carefully drafted e-mails. It occurs to me now that you were not peering at my so painstakingly chosen words the way I was perpetually peering at your infuriating dot dot dots.)