“That hasn’t happened with Annie,” Dr. Koftura offers.
“That’s different.” I say it almost automatically.
“How?” Her face is expectant, like she’s leading me somewhere important.
“Because Annie and I are just friends.” Being with Annie is like breathing. I don’t need to think about it, and it keeps me alive.
“But you care about her, and she cares about you, right?”
I nod in the affirmative, although I can picture Annie blowing me fake kisses from Cleveland. You are the love of my life, she’d deadpan.
And we’d both laugh.
But it’d still be true.
“So, what makes you think that you are incapable of loving someone in a romantic relationship? Both involve trust, vulnerability, care, and compassion. Clearly you’ve developed these skills, despite the challenges you’ve faced.”
“Because I always mess things up. Like this morning on campus with Justin—I was totally out of line.” I rake a hand through my hair. “Irrational. Don’t you think?”
Dr. Koftura doesn’t say anything for a moment. Instead she levels her eyes on me and tilts her head to one side. I suddenly feel exposed and cross my arms over my chest.
“I think your behavior today was problematic for your relationship, but not something that should frighten you.” Well, she has me pegged. “It’s a manifestation of past behavioral patterns, not of the brain damage you suffered as a child. And not as a result of any sort of adaptation to trauma from your childhood, either. This is your first relationship since Richard, correct?”
“Yes.”
At least that’s easy to admit.
“And that ended quite dramatically as I recall, but you were in therapy for an extended period of time afterwards and you took full responsibility for your actions. You and I have worked on these issues for a number of years as well. In other words, Morgan,” and Dr. Koftura leans towards me and puts her hand on my arm for emphasis. “You’ve worked hard to overcome your past and, as a result, you are not bound to repeat it.”
I swallow hard again. I clear my throat and grab a tissue from the box on the side counter. It feels smooth and soft in the palm of my hand as I start to shred it into thin strips.
“Now, I still want to do a full examination of you, but the fact that you called me so soon after your fight with Justin shows how much progress you’ve made. You are aware of your patterns; you have the tools you’ve built over all these years to break those patterns; you have a strong support system in Annie; and it appears in Justin as well.”
“So, you don’t think I’m going crazy?” I croak out. God, it has been a day.
Dr. Koftura laughs. “I wouldn’t use that term to begin with, but no, I don’t think your mental health is at risk. I want you to think of your actions today as habits, not symptoms.”
“Do you think Justin’s good for me?” I ask the question impulsively and then inwardly cringe. I study a poster detailing the signs of stroke that’s fixed to the opposite wall of the exam room, waiting.
She motions for me to take a seat on the exam table. “I don’t know enough about him, although the little you’ve told me suggests that he seems to have good control of his emotions, even in provocative situations.” She cocks an eyebrow at me, and I give a nervous half-smile in return.
That’s one way of putting it, I think.
An image of his clenched fist flashes up, the white of his knuckles beckoning me, but I shove it away.
Dr. Koftura continues, “You deserve to be loved, Morgan. I hope you remember that as well.” She turns her back to me in order to set down her clipboard, and it gives me a moment to compose myself.
“Let’s get started, then, shall we?” She turns back towards me as she begins to run through her standard list of assessments, starting with my eyes and working her way downwards. Then she shows me the same set of photographs, pictures that have been in my file since I was a child, and she helps me retell the story we’ve knitted together over the years to fill the blank spaces in my memory. Thirty minutes later I leave with a clean bill of health.
13
On my walk back to my apartment I turn on my phone and hold it in my hand, the cold air searing into my skin as I wait for the screen to come to life. At first nothing appears on my home screen, and a rush of disappointment threatens to swallow me, before I feel my phone vibrate as it registers three notifications. Two are texts from Annie, asking if I made the appointment with Dr. Koftura, and one is from Facebook.
It reads, “Justin McBride has sent you a friend request.”
A little yip escapes before I slap my gloved hand over my mouth.
I quickly text Annie back to tell her my appointment went well and that—of course—she was right. I do feel better after talking to Dr. Koftura. Then I log into my account.
I’m at the intersection of West Boulvard and Wick Avenue, and looking up before I cross the street I see the Youngstown State stadium looming like a massive UFO over the entire campus. With the athletic training center next to it looking like an oversized lozenge with its slick red siding and windowless exterior, the effect on the landscape is anything but picturesque. It makes me think of my old foster parents, Patty and Dave, bringing me to campus as part of a special campus outreach program. We’d gone to a few seminars on college life, geared specifically to intrigue middle schoolers. The three of us had had lunch at Noodles café, which was the best on-campus dining at the time, and then we’d wandered around the campus buildings until finally ending up in Maag library, where they let me roam around the stacks for over an hour, just admiring the books. I lost count of how many times Patty or Dave told me that day that I could go to school here when I was done with high school. That I was meant to go to college.
It was the first time anyone had told me that I had potential. And then a few months later, Dave was diagnosed with lung cancer, Stage 4, and although both he and Patty cried and cried, I had to find a new place to live because Patty said she couldn’t take care of both Dave and me.
However hard it was leaving them, what was even harder was knowing that if they’d really wanted me, they would have found a way to keep me.
On that day, a little over ten years ago, I thought Youngstown State’s campus was the most magical place I’d ever been to. In all honesty, even after four years of undergraduate classes and two years as a professor after graduate school, I still think it’s beautiful. (Although I learned a long time ago that magic is something reserved for middle-aged virgins and Disney—it has nothing to do with me.)
Safely across the street, and dodging cracks in the sidewalk as I make my way back to campus, I open up Facebook and see Justin’s profile pic gazing back at me. It’s a selfie, taken outdoors somewhere with a tree and a bench in the background. Dark hair, brooding eyes, wicked sexy smile. There’s no mistaking him. I push the button to accept. Once we’re connected, I start to navigate into his profile, curious to see who he’s friends with. I know I must look like one of my students, bent over my phone like some trendy hunchback, but I never do this otherwise and figure the generational police will forgive me one millennial moment.
It’s clear to me, as I scroll through, that Justin had just created his account a little while before messaging me. He only has two friends—me and, surprisingly, Annie—and just his profile pic. I’m about to like his profile photo when a notification pops up again for Facebook. When I click on the little red flag, it reads: Justin McBride has sent you a relationship request.
I hit the confirm button.
By now I’ve passed campus and am almost at my apartment. The building is in good shape for a structure built in the 1980s and the landscaping is always neatly prim, as though the apartment complex had hired a compulsive gardener to trim down any rogue growth on the yew bushes surrounding the apartments’ building and parking lot. It doesn’t have much character—not like Justin’s apartment—but it’s comfortable, cheap, and close to campus. It’s t
he triple crown of junior faculty housing.
A huge elm tree sits in the center of the parking lot, with a little island of grass around it to protect the tree’s trunk from rogue tenants parking too close to it. As I traipse across the parking lot, my peripheral vision catches a swath of yellow from behind the elm tree.
A shadow moves from behind the tree and towards me. It’s Justin, holding a huge bouquet of yellow roses.
I’m so surprised to see him I stumble on the railroad tie encasing the grass around the elm tree. I trip and am just about to face-plant onto the asphalt with my phone crashing screen down when Justin manages to catch me by the crook of my arm and hoist me up. I am a walking—née tripping—Internet meme.
“Are you okay?” he asks, adjusting the roses in his arms to keep them from scratching me on the face as he helps me steady myself.
“What are you doing here?” I actually shout this at him, like I’ve recently contracted relationship Tourette's. “I’m sorry,” I continue, this time at a normal volume. “I mean, I’m sorry for saying that just now, and I’m sorry for earlier. I was totally out of line.”
“No, you weren’t,” he begins to say, and I try to barge in again with more apologies on my side, but Justin’s voice is stronger than mine. “I was acting like an asshole. I know I can sometimes be evasive, for no good reason. Or maybe for good reason—my dad was always kind of distant with me. I think I learned it from him.”
I’ve never heard him talk about his father.
He looks down at his hands. “Not that that’s an excuse or anything—I just keep thinking about how I acted and I’m trying to reconcile it with who I think I am, you know? If I’d just told you where I was, all of this could have been avoided.”
I’m tempted to mention that my little excursion across campus to track down his office would still have happened, because his evasiveness didn’t begin until I was already searching for his office and texting demands for location updates from him, but I don’t. Instead, I ask, “Does this mean we’re okay then?”
“If you forgive me for calling you a bitch, then yes—we’re fine.”
“As long as you forgive me for getting all thuggish in your face,” I add, trying to make a joke out of it and hoping I’m succeeding. I keep thinking of what Dr. Koftura said, and Annie before that.
He seems to consider my comment for a second, and then bursts out laughing. “Yeah, you did kind of look like someone who might walk around with a tire iron, back there at the bench.” He reaches out to pull me into a hug, and I let him. “I guess I like my girlfriends tough.”
“Well, you’re in luck then.” I smile up at him. I am, more than anything, relieved. It’s a relief to have this morning behind us. It’s a relief to know that I’m okay—that I’m not falling apart. And it’s a relief to be able to trust what Annie and Dr. Koftura have told me.
That I can do it—this whole love thing.
Speaking of. . .
“I’m sorry about your dad,” I murmur into his wool coat, chafing at my own selfishness a few moments ago.
Justin gives an infinitesimal shrug. “I’m sorry too.”
He pulls away from me and offers the bouquet shyly. “These are for you. I almost got red ones, but the yellow ones just seemed to fit you better.”
I take the bouquet and nod my head, giving into the change of topic. “They’re perfect.”
I can’t smell them because they’re wrapped in a plastic bag to protect them from the cold air. Which reminds me that at this point my hands feel like frozen meat hooks. “Want to come inside?” I ask, and Justin doesn’t even have to answer. He takes my hand and we walk into the warmth of my building together.
14
Justin and I are lying in bed at my apartment. We’d ordered in a pizza for dinner, I graded some papers while Justin caught up on some reading, and then spent a decent chunk of time making love. Or, as Annie would have put it, having hot makeup sex. He’s just returned from the shower with warm skin that’s pinked up under the hot water and the smells of Irish Spring soap. I’m feeling especially cozy and relaxed, and before I can stop myself I ask him,
“So how come you weren’t on Facebook?”
I’m tracing the tiny bones of his ribs that barely protrude through his skin, and the fragility of his body washes over me.
“Why are you?” he teases back, and I roll over to enfold him with my bare stomach and breasts pressed against him like a body lock.
“Answering a question with a question is what got you in trouble in the first place,” I say, and laugh to let him know that we are past that whole misunderstanding. Although I still want to talk about it, apparently. “Seriously, did you go on just for me?”
“Of course I did.” He squeezes me back with his long arms, and I can see that he must be getting cold because the dark hairs on his arms are standing up. “I knew it was important to you. You know, you kind of mentioned it when you were accusing me of being a fraud.”
I look up, worried that he’s not quite over our fight, but find Justin’s mouth twisted into a grin. I slap him playfully on the chest, to which he exclaims, “Your interrogation tactics won’t work on me!”
“So, what did you do this afternoon?” he asks lazily, his hand tracing circles on my spine. I’m tempted to tell him about my appointment with Dr. Koftura. To let this be the moment where I unspool everything, while our bodies are thrumming and we’re just so damn happy.
Justin knows I grew up in foster care, but I haven’t told him about the accident. Or my mother. He definitely doesn’t know that I see a neurologist on the regular. And I’m pretty sure—read, dead certain—I haven’t told him about the whole police-Richard-restraining order situation.
A thought skims across my mind.
Maybe I’m the fraud.
I kiss him hard on the mouth and feel the air rush out of me. “You,” I say. “I did you this afternoon.”
“Hang on,” he replies, his mouth muffled against mine as we kiss. “Should we put a picture up of us? Isn’t that what people on social media do?”
I blush, happy for the distraction. “It seems to be part of the process,” I offer. He kisses me again, and then holds up his phone. Justin touches the little camera to flip its viewpoint and suddenly he and I are up on the screen, looking clearly sex drunk and overused.
And naked. No nipples or anything, but still clearly unclothed.
Click. Justin takes a picture with his phone and starts to review it before I can protest.
“We can’t have a picture of us—clearly in bed together—for your profile picture.” I’m serious, but trying to sound playful at the same time. I don’t want to ruin our little love bubble we’ve made for ourselves here tonight.
“It’s too late,” Justin crows as he gets up from the bed to avoid my reach and presses the upload button on the Facebook app.
I’m up out of bed, saying, “No, you didn’t.”
Justin comes back up to me, wraps his arms around me, and says, “I want the world to know that I have this beautiful woman in my bed. And that I love her!”
And I’ll admit, at that exact moment I was kind of okay with it.
“Fine,” I say, and kiss him again as I reach for his phone. “But let’s check your privacy settings.”
“Hang on,” Justin says, backing up in mock outrage, his hands up in the air like I’ve asked him to hand over a weapon. “Fair is fair.” And he extends his hand out towards me.
I think for a moment, wondering if this is a game or something else, and try to read Justin’s intentions: raised eyebrow, sexy smirk.
It’s been a long day, but I’m determined to have it end well.
“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours,” I say.
He breaks out into a laugh as I hand him my phone, and so I try and laugh too.
That evening Justin is asleep in bed and I’m full of the pizza we ordered in and ate while watching old costume drama movies, which Justin insists are not his fa
vorite but also that he doesn’t hate them either.
I’m having trouble sleeping, despite the fact that my body should be exhausted and deep into REM cycles by now, given all the physical activity and bursts of serotonin it got tonight. I’m trying to read a book—I’d grabbed The Age of Innocence by Edith Wharton—which should put me to sleep because I’ve read it so many times since I was a teenager, but my mind is still electric with unspent energy.
My phone vibrates against my bedside table and I pick it up to see a text from Annie.
How’s it goin’?
I pause for a second, and then text back with the picture Justin took earlier.
She writes back immediately.
Hah! Already saw that on FB u love-addicted weirdo
He brought YELLOW Roses!! I type back.
Well no wonder u fucked him
Hey!
Just kidding / Seriously tho everything’s good?
Yeah, just can’t sleep. Reading Wharton
<3 Wharton Annie writes back.
Annie and I have been obsessed, collectively, with The Age of Innocence, both novel and movie, since we first met in our group home. We even watched it together a few months ago, Annie in her loft in Cleveland and me in my little faculty apartment, and live tweeted it to keep each other entertained as Newland fell in love with May Welland, and then Countess Olenska. Annie and I continue to have the whole debate about whether May deserved the yellow roses originally sent by Newland to Countess Olenska, instead of the boring day lilies he always ordered for his fiancée. Annie says yes, and I adamantly argue no. May Welland is a timid milquetoast, whereas the countess fights for what she wants. End of story.
It Was Always You Page 7
