Loved - A Novel Page 14

  I didn’t ask to go into his room that day. I couldn’t bear it.

  On the drive home, I tried so hard to imagine him in the passenger seat next to me. I thought that if I could remember the details clearly enough or beg God or Chase’s soul or whatever convincingly enough, that just for a moment he would truly be sitting there beside me. However, that’s not how it works. I was left here, in this world, to drive on alone.

  He was sixteen when I met him and he was twenty-one when he died. Roughly sixty-three months I knew him. Some months he commanded and others we didn't even speak at all. Sixty-three months is something I could map. I could see it. I could take it apart and put it back together like an engine, studying it inside and out. But I couldn’t pinpoint a singular source; the impact that those sixty-three months would have on the rest of my unfinished life would always seem mysteriously huge.

  Every day got a little easier. They say grief is only relieved by the replacement of the thing that’s been lost or if the griever adjusts permanently to accommodate the loss. Chase could not be replaced, though that’s not to say I couldn’t be truly happy and in love with someone else. I suppose I did begin to adjust to the loss the longer I lived with it. That’s how it felt—that the loss of him had a life of its own. I lived with it as I could have lived with him. Some nights it was quiet and sometimes it pounded on my door. Some days we would argue and some nights we would dance.

  There would never come a day that I wouldn’t miss Chase. I promised to myself that I would always believe in an alternate universe in which we lived our artist life in our little apartment in the city, where nothing else mattered except that we were there together.

  November 2005.

  Chad and I were talking more seriously about marriage. He emailed me pictures of rings while I was at work, filling my head with daydreams and making it hard to focus. I would rather be on wedding websites, getting ideas for flowers, dresses and cakes, than calling two-step bars in Tucson asking if they wanted some Reba McEntire posters.

  He started asking me if I would marry him much like he had told me he loved me—first out of the blue, then constantly. We’d be lying in bed in the apartment that he now lived in with his band’s drummer and he’d ask, “Will you marry me?” While the Mythbusters blew something up on TV, he’d ask “Will you marry me?” Driving to meet friends at a restaurant, he’d ask, “Will you marry me?” I said yes every time. He even began to refer to me as his fiancée.

  My life was unfolding in front of me—a straight and narrow path. This was what being grown up was like. This was real life; things had turned out all right after all.

  My parents came to town to spend Thanksgiving with Chad’s family. It was the first time our parents would meet. It was a very big deal. Chad and I had been together for over a year and it was obvious that things were serious.

  Thanksgiving morning, Chad called.

  “My mom isn’t feeling well. Would you and your family mind fending for yourselves today? I’m so sorry…”

  “No!” I insisted. “It’s Thanksgiving, we haven’t prepared, we can’t get food now! What’s going on?”

  Chad admitted that his mom was having a breakdown and had locked herself in the bathroom. I had learned over the past year that this is something she did from time to time. But not today!

  “Ok, I’ll take care of it,” he said.

  When we arrived, the house looked and smelled beautiful and his mom was smiling. I was going to have to deal with this forever, I thought, but Chad was worth it and I was sure that as far as in-laws went, it could have been much worse.

  Chad was barely present. He hardly paid attention to the conversation if he was even in the room at all. I wondered if his mother had done something to upset him.

  We were sound asleep in his bed the next week when his phone rang. “No, I’m sleeping. I’m not coming out tonight,” he told someone. Then he hung up the phone. “That was my friend Jordan. She always wants me to come out late at night,” he said. He held me tighter and fell back asleep while I wondered why I had never met Jordan and why he didn’t say, “I’m in bed with my girlfriend/fiancée/future wife.”

  December 2005.

  I spent Christmas in Pittsburgh. Chad’s family was sad that I wouldn’t be able to be with them on Christmas so we had our own holiday celebration before I left. His mom had asked for a list of things that I wanted and I gave her a few ideas. She bought me all of them, which was nice and completely unexpected. I think she was overcompensating, but still, I was very touched. After I opened a new purse, a book, my favorite hair product and a bottle of perfume, Chad announced that he had to run off to an emergency band practice.

  “It’s my Christmas with your family,” I protested.

  “I know, Peanut, but the guys really need me and they’re already mad that I haven’t been around much.”

  My fault, of course.

  “Well, I’d like to stay and visit with your family then,” I said. I was being the good wife.

  He went. I couldn’t believe it.

  A few nights later some friends of mine were having a Christmas party. Chad had plans with the guys and couldn’t come. We usually made it a point to plan guy’s nights and girl’s nights but not when one of us had something like this going on—an event that we should attend together. Half-heartedly apologetic, he said that he would call me when he could get away. Sophie and I went to the party together. I wore a festive burnt-orange and gold sweater with a falsely pleasant expression.

  The more time that passed without Chad calling, the more wine I drank. I talked with Lacey, with one of the guys from work and with some of the girls. I laughed and posed for pictures. Then I had more wine. I saw some of Ethan’s friends arrive so I texted him to see if he was coming too. He hadn’t been planning on it, but he said he would come by.

  I wandered in a wine fog to the little bathroom to pee and selected a Chanel perfume bottle from the shelf in the bathroom. I over-sprayed myself, as my sense of smell had been too dull to tell how much I had on.

  Ethan arrived and I stood near to him, clutching my wine, asking about his life and going on and on about my cool music business job, my absent fiancée and my condo that was under construction. My hands moved dramatically as I talked and I spilled some wine on my sweater. I brushed at it and kept talking and smiling.

  Suddenly, Chad was there. I hadn’t seen him come in.

  “Hello,” he said, suspiciously.

  “Oh!” I gulped. “Ethan, this is my boyfriend, Chad!” Chad said hello and excused us. He pulled me away to where we could have our own conversation.

  “I came to take you home,” he said.

  “I’m not ready to leave yet!” I slurred. “And you’re supposed to be here to hang out with my friends too.”

  “You’re very drunk and I’m tired,” he said. “We need to go home.”

  We argued for a few more minutes before I gave a few sloppy goodbye hugs and pouted my way out the door.

  Once he had buckled my seatbelt, I set about the task of convincing him that I wasn’t drunk. I could hear my words slurring but I wouldn’t give up.

  “Who was that guy?” Chad asked.

  “Who? Oh, Ethan. An old friend from college,” I said casually.

  “Did you date him?”

  “No, just a friend,” I lied.

  During the few minutes of silence that followed, I passed out. Chad helped me walk to his apartment and settled me in bed.

  “Where did you get that perfume?” he asked when he climbed in the bed next to me.

  “Ummm, the ba...bathroom at the party,” I replied.

  “Don’t ever wear it again,” he said bluntly. He had been angry with me already, but wasn’t it his fault for not being there with me?

  “Why?” I whispered, glad that sleep would be an escape from the icy chill in his voice.

  “My ex wore it,” he said.

  “Oh. I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m really sorry.”

&
nbsp; I wanted him to hold me. I wanted him not to be mad at me anymore. What would I do if I lost him? I needed him not to be mad at me. He held me, but even in my sleep I knew that something was off. I thought it was my fault.

  The next day, on a dreary December Sunday morning, we had sex. It was so strange how it happened. We had waited over a year then suddenly, both sober and feeling sorry, we made the choice to go there.

  We looked into each other’s eyes. It was quiet, unlike our playful kissing and messing around. This was a band-aid, trying to fix a problem that I didn’t even recognize but was covering up. Afterward, we lay still and repeated over and over how we loved each other so very much—each making sure that the other was convinced that things were still the same.

  But things weren’t the same. There was a little devil on my shoulder named Denial and I gave him all my attention, absentmindedly flicking away his friend called Wake-Up-and-Smell-the-End.

  Sophie and I decided to host a New Year’s party. I had the perfect fuchsia and purple dress from Betsey Johnson. I had worn it on Valentine’s Day earlier that year when Chad brought me flowers and took me to Virago for dinner. That was when things were perfect.

  New Year’s Eve day I was preparing the food and confirming the details with some guests, many of whom were stopping by our place first before going to other parties. Chad called to announce that his roommate decided to throw a party too, and he had to stay there to protect his stuff. The last time that they had thrown a party someone peed in his room and he feared for the safety of his musical equipment.

  “Just lock your door!” I told him. If he really wanted to be at my party, he could be.

  “It’s more than that,” he said. “Most of the stuff in this apartment is mine and these people get out of control.”

  “Fine,” I said. “My party ends early anyway so why don’t you just stop by here towards the end of mine and then I’ll come with you to yours.”

  He agreed.

  By the time Chad got to my place, everyone had left for the other parties and he was blasted drunk. Knowing that I had a right to be upset with him, he walked away from our conversation and went into the kitchen. I heard him make a drink and then slide down the wall and land on the kitchen floor with a thump.

  “Chad. Get up,” I said, walking into the kitchen and tugging on his limp arm. I could hear the countdown start on the TV.

  Ten. Nine.

  He looked up at me with a mischievous smile.

  “I love you,” he said, getting up on one knee. “Will you marry me, peanut?

  Six. Five.

  “Yes, yes,” I answered. “I will. I’m upset with you but I’m still going to marry you!”

  Two. One.

  He downed half his drink in one swallow.

  Happy New Year!

  The night only got worse. I changed into jeans and drove us back to his apartment where there was a raging party. Someone was throwing up in the bathroom and people were sitting on the kitchen counters yelling at other people in the same room. It was too loud for my sober mood.

  I said hello to some of Chad’s friends who had become my friends too, many of whom hugged me and wished me a happy new year. I was surprised by how many people that I didn’t know. When did he start hanging out with new people?

  I snapped some pictures of Chad and his friends whether I knew them or not and posed for a couple of shots with his band mates and some of the girls. One girl that I didn’t know who was pretty and thin with curly red hair took a picture with me. I think maybe I’d seen her at some of their shows but I couldn’t tell who she was there with.

  Suddenly Chad was in the mood to pay attention to me. He dragged me by the hand to his room and kissed me. I liked when his mouth tasted of alcohol, usually, but this was different. I could have lit his breath on fire. He tried to push me against the wall, playfully, but he pushed me so hard that I spun around and hit the wall face first.

  I heard my nose crack and it started gushing blood. Chad was surprised and immediately remorseful. He ran to get me some tissue from the bathroom across the hall. I sat on the bed and held the tissue to my nose. It hurt but it wasn’t broken.

  “I’m so sorry, baby,” Chad said, trying to hug me. I knew he was sincere but I pushed him away.

  “Don’t touch me!” I cried, still in shock. What is happening to us, I wondered. Each incident alone was nothing to be concerned about but the off nights just kept piling up.

  I was too embarrassed to go back to the party so I changed into a t-shirt and boxers from my drawer of stuff and got in bed. Chad went to say goodnight to a few people and came to bed too. I was fine by then and I wasn’t angry; I knew it was an accident. So I let him hold me.

  “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” he said over and over.

  January, 2006.

  The first week of the New Year, Chad had daily band practices in order to get ready for a show where they were going to debut a lot of new material.

  “I think this will be good for us to have a little time apart,” he said. “I’ll miss you, though.”

  I thought it was strange; the week was long and uncomfortable. Usually, we stayed the night together or at the very least, we were each other’s first and last call of the day. However, during that week, he didn’t call much, blaming long practices and too much time spent trying to get some of his equipment fixed. He kept reminding me that it was good for us to have space.

  I didn’t want space. I wanted to know why this was happening. Then, I got my wish and I wanted to take it back.

  The day before the show, Chad asked me to stop by his apartment. I sat on the living room floor with him, so glad to see him after our first ever week apart, but he never took his eyes of the guitar that he was re-stringing.

  That’s when I first saw what was coming, why he’d asked me to come over.

  “I think we should take a break,” he said. “I’ve just been feeling a lot of pressure saving money for a ring and talking about getting married and I’m not sure that I’m ready for all of that.” He said that he needed to sort some things out for himself before he could imagine being married. Was it time for him to give up the dream of being a musician? What was he doing with his life?

  On that one, I agreed. What was he doing with his life? And why did he have to make these decisions without me? Wasn’t the point of building a life together exactly that? Our life together? I was the opposite of the people in The Quarterlife Crisis book, and here I was in love with a guy who was having a quarter-life crisis. I couldn’t understand what was wrong with him; he was the one who was always talking about getting married!

  I felt stupid to have believed this would be effortless. I felt scared that a break was really the end. I felt angry that he was hurting me and that he didn’t believe in us like I did. I decided that I would have to have enough faith for the both of us. Then, I went numb. I turned my heart off and switched on the autopilot.

  “Okay,” I said. “Do what you need to do I guess. Just, call me when you want. I won’t call you. You’re the one who wants space.”

  I put my coat on, walked to my car, turned the key, and drove home. I walked to my door, went inside and lay down on my bed.

  Then, I fell apart.

  At first I thought I was going to die. My heart was beating so fast for days that I thought finally it might explode. I threw up what little food I ate. I cried and I didn’t sleep. I called off work and then called Chad to officially break up with him. I just couldn’t take the waiting. I thought it was inevitable and I wanted to get it over with. He assured me that the break was just that—a break—so I agreed to wait it out. However, I needed some parameters. If I couldn’t understand why this change was necessary, at least I could have some control over the guidelines of our new arrangement. We were still together; we would call each other and could still say “I love you,” but we wouldn’t hang out much.

  Everyone seemed to think this was about Chad having cold feet. “Men have trouble m
aking big decisions when they are based on emotion. He’ll come around,” Dad said. The Jamison’s had been through a time apart before they were married, Mrs. Jamison told me. This is normal.

  I prayed a lot. I didn’t want to be with Chad if that was truly not what God wanted for me but then why did I feel so much love for him?

  “You can rejoice in that love,” my pastor told me. “God blessed you with being able to feel that way about someone, whether or not the feelings are returned.”

  Wait, the feelings aren’t returned?

  I read an article in Elle Magazine called “How to be Single,” in which the writer declared that Lean Cuisine and Law and Order reruns are better than dying. I do love Law and Order, I thought. The article got me thinking about what I could do during the break that would help me grow. I could get back into yoga, painting and writing. Somehow, with Chad, I never got to do any of those things. All I had been doing was playing wife. I decided I would fill the emptiness in me with God and with paint.

  Some days, Chad would call and say he wanted me back. I’d tell him that I had to think about it. I was guarding my heart now that I knew what kind of damage he could do to it. I didn’t trust him. Some days, he’d call and say he still didn’t know what he wanted. I told him that he had to want to be with me so badly that he couldn’t stand it or I wasn’t interested.

  I had told him that I wasn’t going to call him; he would have to contact me. He wanted space and I was going to give it to him. He wouldn’t hear from me at all. But I was so sick. I wasn’t eating, sleeping or getting any work done. Even worse, I was waking up with heart palpitations and nausea every morning, choking into the toilet at 6:00 a.m. and then crying in bed until I absolutely had to get up for work. My first conscious thought every morning was that something was terribly wrong. And it was.

  Chad never left me alone for long. A few days would go by and he would text me, “You’re still my tiny peanut,” or send me a picture of our partially constructed condo with the caption “home.” I would become so excited that he still loved me and still thought that I was his future, and then I wouldn’t hear anything for days.