“And he’s a mechanic, right?
“Right.”
“Does he do anything else? Where did he go to school?”
“Nowhere, just high school,” my voice was cold, detached almost mechanical in nature. I still wasn’t looking at either of them.
“You said at Christmas you were taking the car to a mechanic with a garage, I assume you meant whatever garage he operates, right?”
“Yes, he does have a garage – it’s in back of his mother’s house. I never said it was like a commercial garage, but it is a business – it’s how he supports himself, and helps his mother,” I replied, my voice sounded empty even to my own ears. Looking up at them I said, “I’ll cancel dinner.” I was defeated and I knew it.
They shot each other another look of some kind. They were communicating as a team again, like they did at Christmas. They had never done that when I lived with them. I remembered them being at odds with each other, arguing, but now, well maybe they were doing better. The only thing I knew of that had changed was me leaving: maybe I had been the cause of their problems? My mind started to dart in different directions again when I heard my mother say, “Please don’t cancel, we’d like to meet him.”
After taking a moment to make up my mind, I acknowledged her, “Fine, but he’s a good person, and I swear to God I’ll …” I knew exactly what I wanted to say, but decided against it. “He’s the only thing that’s kept me half way sane this year, so you damn well better be nice to him!”
They nodded in agreement. I stood up, and announced I was going out for a while, but would be back soon. Before they could finish their objections, I was out the door.
~~~~~~~~
I made a beeline for the nearest pay phone. I called Mary Beth and I called Michael – neither of them answered. I hadn’t wanted to go to The Canteen, but figured I’d check and see if, by chance, Michael was there already. I wiped my eyes with my hands trying to ensure my earlier tears weren’t too visible, even though I knew Michael would be able to tell something was wrong. It was still early, he might not be there yet, I thought as I walked down the block, head bent down against the wind.
“Jackie! Jackie!” I looked up to see Michael calling me, dashing across the street dodging cars as he did. “What are you doing out here? I thought you’d be home with your parents,” he said leaning down to give me a quick kiss. His jacket was unzipped, and I slid my arms under it, hugging him, refusing to let go. “What’s wrong? What happened? Are you alright?” he asked managing to loosen my grip on him, and turning my face toward the street light.
“I’m fine, I’ll be fine,” I replied, “Let’s go to the diner for a minute, okay?”
“Sure, were you crying?” he asked as we started to walk over to Broadway. Over a cup of coffee I explained the events of the day as best I could. “Do you want to cancel tomorrow?” he asked, “I’ll be cool with it whichever way you want.”
“No, but if I can get a hold of Mary Beth, I’m going to invite her too – that should help keep them in line.”
Michael chuckled. “You don’t have to protect me; I’m a big boy.”
“Hmph, well you may have to protect me,” I smiled in reply hoping to ease the mood. “I’ve got to get back – I told them I wouldn’t be too long. Walk with me?”
“But of course,” he said.
~~~~~~~~
Wednesday passed without incident; the three of us were on our best behavior. I showed them the fancy private school, Francis W. Parker, where I would be doing my student teaching next year, we took a short lunch cruise down the Chicago River, and finished with an extended tour of the School of the Art Institute giving them a chance to meet Lana Christakos, one of my instructors from the education department.
When we arrived that evening at Green Things, one of the trendy new restaurants on Division Street, Mary Beth and Michael were already waiting inside. I almost didn’t recognize Michael – instead of his usual jeans, tee shirt, leather vest and boots; he was wearing khaki pants, a light blue long sleeved shirt and penny loafers. He looked absolutely preppy with his hair slicked back behind his ears – its length barely noticeable. Catching my eye, he smiled with an ever so faint mischievous tinge. He stepped forward giving me a hug, a quick kiss on the lips and whispered, “Like the new me?”
I flinched a little – displays of affection were not prevalent in my family, so I thought his kiss might bother them –but before I could react or reply, he turned, putting his hand out towards my father, “Mr. Moretti, I’m Michael Nowak, it’s very nice to meet you sir, your daughter has told me a lot about you.” Nodding to my mother he said, “Mrs. Moretti, it’s especially nice to meet you ma’am. I hope you don’t mind, but I took the liberty of bringing these for you.” Then out of nowhere he produced a small bouquet of yellow and white carnations mixed with daisies, sprigs of baby’s breath and ferns.
I couldn’t believe what I was witnessing – this was a side of Michael I had never seen before. I could feel myself grinning inside; the tension in my gut gave way, and my mother, who I figured had made up her mind to dislike him because he was Catholic, was melting. Mary Beth had turned so her back was to my parents and was choking back a laugh.
Green Things was set in an old brownstone store front. I had reserved a table by the front window so we could watch all the beautiful people walk by on the street. They had a varied menu, and a new thing called a salad bar where you could help yourself to an endless variety of vegetables, lettuce and salad toppings – my mother said her prime rib was so tender she could cut it with a butter knife, and my father’s porterhouse steak was cooked to perfection.
Much to my surprise, the conversation with Michael flowed in a natural way. My father thanked him for taking care of the car then sprinkled the evening with statements like, “with your knowledge you’d make a good engineer – have you ever thought about going back to school for a degree?”
To which Michael replied, “As a matter of fact, I have. I’ve been saving up some money so when my brother gets back from Vietnam this summer, he can take over the garage, and I could go back to school after that.”
“Your brother is in the service is he? What branch?”
“Army. He was drafted in 1970 – had a low number.”
“Where do you stand with the draft board?” my father asked, giving him a quick, sidelong glance.
“I was born on October 9th. I’m #342, so I won’t be called up.” Michael replied.
Mary Beth jumped into the conversation at that point steering it away from the war. She knew Michael was as anti-war as the rest of our friends, and didn’t want to risk spoiling the evening by getting into the subject. Michael scored another win with my father when he refused a second beer with dinner saying he was driving, and had to get up early in the morning to start rebuilding a transmission. Who is this person sitting next to me anyhow?
On the drive back to the apartment after dinner, both of them told me what a nice young man Michael was. “Very different than I had expected,” per my father, “I’m glad to hear he wants to continue his education.”
Hmph, yeah I thought, I was going to have to ask him where that crock of shit came from – he had never said anything to me about going back to school. Of course it wasn’t an entirely bad idea… nice if it were true. Whatever the case, it was the perfect answer for my father who was forced to quit in the 8th grade when his crazy relative got locked away. But most of all, it was a relief not to have to lie or avoid mentioning Michael or The Canteen or the divorce whenever I spoke to them on the phone from now on. My parents left for St. Louis in the morning.
~~~~~~~~
“How come you’ve never brought me flowers, and where the hell did you get those clothes?” I asked when Michael showed up at the bar that evening instead of saying ‘hello’.
“Jealous?” he asked, then burst out laughing.
“Absolutely! Who was that person? How much of what you were saying was true?” The questions flew out of m
e in rapid fire succession while he smiled from ear to ear.
“That was me, all me, just the part I don’t show much anymore. Like it?” he shot back, “but more importantly, what did they say about me after I left?”
“Ha, well you did it,” I told him. “Between you and Charlie and his grandfather’s Medal of Honor, they left here more or less happy. At least I doubt they’ll try to force me back to Boston. I owe you guys!”
“I like the sound of that… you can pay off your debt to me when you get off work,” he purred in my ear as he leaned down to give me a kiss. “I’ve missed you, beautiful.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Take the Cosmo Test
It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Everything I read, be it in self-help or text books, or trashy magazines (my favorite source), all said that time was supposed to heal all wounds. To my way of thinking that meant I should be feeling better each day, but I wasn’t – most days I felt like a pile of shit. I passed all my courses – how I’m not exactly sure, but I did, through sheer will power, forcing myself to somehow function through the fog. Three years down, one to go.
I was going to spend the summer in Chicago again instead of going home. My parents had suggested it when Mary Beth told them she would be coming home for the summer while we were at dinner, but I shut down that idea saying I had to be here for the divorce. In truth I knew I couldn’t live in their house anymore, the constant criticism I felt – my inability to live up to their expectations, whether that assessment was self-imposed or was the way they felt didn’t matter – it was still there in my mind. Besides, I didn’t want to take the chance that I’d somehow get sucked into staying after the argument we’d had, and if I was being honest with myself, I didn’t want to leave Michael for three months. Even though I had given him a pass on his ‘fling’ over Christmas, and I had no suspicions at this point, there was no need tempting fate.
My mind never stopped – not while I was awake, or from what Michael told me, not while I was asleep either. I tossed and turned, waking up frequently, not able to get back to sleep for hours, causing him to lose sleep too. It was getting so I couldn’t fall asleep without Valium; however, getting them was now also an issue as Michael’s normal supplier had been busted. He was making new connections, but just in case it took a while, I was splitting pills, and swallowing them with gulps of SoCo, a lot more than usual. All I wanted to do was sleep, to stop my brain. Nothing else I did let me find that joyous place where all the ghosts, demons and fears fell away, I wanted to stay in Never Never Land as long as humanly possible.
Time did not pass, it crawled along. Time was not on my side; it worked against me with every fiber of its being. Each monotonous, mundane day terrified me – I had no idea what I was afraid of, I just felt like something was going to happen. Sleeping was the only thing that made the hands of the clock actually move. When I was awake minutes ticking by were imperceptible – I hated it. What I couldn’t figure out with any certainty was why the hell I wanted time to pass. Did I think that once the divorce was final, the world would be fine again – who the hell knew – but I wanted to be done with it and done now.
I felt worthless – nothing, no accomplishment felt worth the effort. Was I just ungrateful for all the good things in my life? I was healthy; I had friends – not a lot, but friends nonetheless; I had a bright future; I had a nice apartment, food, clothes. All the things a person was supposed to want I already had, and most of all, I had Michael’s love. What more could I ask for? What the fuck was the problem?
Mornings were the toughest, especially when Michael wasn’t around. On those days, I’d be lucky to get up before noon. First of all, I hated sleeping alone. If he had stayed the night, it seemed easier somehow. My thoughts were less likely to devour me while falling asleep – I was safe nestled against his chest, his fingers tangled in my hair, holding me, keeping the world at bay. When daylight illuminated the red drapes, I didn’t mind opening my eyes as much. Michael loved making love in the morning – “the perfect start to a perfect day,” he’d say with a grin on his face – but even when we didn’t have sex, the days when he was there in the morning turned out better for me. When he got up, I got up. I rattled around the kitchen, pretended to be domestic, making him breakfast – usually nothing more than scrambled eggs and toast or bagels with cream cheese and coffee, but it was enough to get me out of bed – and most days I even stayed up.
Unfortunately, the crappy days were coming closer and closer together, and try as I may, I couldn’t figure out why they happened. There didn’t seem to be a pattern. My divorce was going smoothly: John had sent copies of all the paperwork to Virginia’s address as well as publishing it, so I was sure Stephen knew I had filed. There was no response to any of it, and that was good news; he wasn’t going to contest it – nothing to be upset or depressed about.
Ever since John mentioned the word ‘depression’ a couple months before, the idea haunted me – was it possible? I tossed the idea around, over and over, in my mind. Depression equaled crazy to me. It was not culturally acceptable. My mother thought being divorced would ‘mark’ me for the rest of my life, what the hell would she think if I went to a shrink – now that would be a real stigma. But my mind seemed boundless in its ability to make me miserable.
I read everything I could find on depression. I became an avid reader of self-help books and trashy magazines like Cosmopolitan and Seventeen, (or in a pinch, even respectable ones like Time, Newsweek, Good Housekeeping, Redbook, McCall’s), whose writers professed to be able to solve any problem in 10 easy steps. I even read serious books on psychology, philosophy, mental health and the causes of suicide. A 16th Century philosopher and mathematician named René Descartes said, “I think, therefore I am.” To me he hit the nail on the head with those five little words; the only problem was, he didn’t give a solution, a way to stop thinking, and still live at least. But serious literature like that made my head hurt – I didn’t feel smart or educated enough to understand the in-depth theories – so my favorite sources of information remained the trashy magazines that all had articles on the subject in one issue or another. The word depression started to loom up everywhere I turned. I took one trashy magazine test after the other trying to diagnose myself – always hoping for a different result, but never getting it. The questions were almost always some variation on the same thing, just restated depending on the angle the author of the article wanted to take. Did I have:
Difficulty concentrating, remembering details, and making decisions? SOMETIMES – depended on what I was thinking about.
Constant fatigue and decreased energy? YES
Feelings of guilt, worthlessness, hopelessness and/or helplessness? YES – well it was my fault, so what the fuck was wrong with admitting it?
Insomnia (early-morning wakefulness, difficulty sleeping) or hypersomnia (sleeping too much)? YES, YES, YES!
Irritability and restlessness? MAYBE – sometimes the people I got irritated at deserved it, sometimes they were idiots. That wasn’t all my fault and certainly didn’t mean I was depressed.
Persistent sadness, anxiety, or “empty” feelings? YES
Overeating or appetite loss? NO, I wish, I could stand to lose a couple pounds.
Persistent aches or pains, such as headaches, cramps, and digestive problems that do not ease with treatment? NO
Thoughts of suicide or actual suicidal attempts? YES, if exploding brains counted.
Decreased libido, lack of interest in sex? NO, in fact I couldn’t get enough - I had Michael and he oozed sex appeal, at least to me.
The one thing none of these articles didn’t do was to give me a way to resolve the problem on my own. What was I supposed to do with all my new-found self-knowledge anyhow? The instructions said if you answered ‘yes’ to four or more of the questions, then you should seek professional help. Well that was not going to happen. I was stronger than that. I just needed to find a way to ‘pull myself up by my bootstraps’ like my
father said. Besides, I was positive everyone in the entire world would answer ‘yes’ to at least four questions. I expected a lot more of myself than that – for me to think of myself this way I would have to answer ‘yes’ at least eight times. Besides, if the world was depressed, then it was just part of life, some kind of innocuous bullshit, something whoever was writing these articles was making money from and not serious.
~~~~~~~~
“So how long have you known,” I asked Charlie?
“Hmph, did you really think you fooled me?” he answered with a satisfied grin on his face.
“Well, yeah, yeah I did. So how long… Who told you?” I chirped back.
I was very stoned by that time – it had been a wonderful night, one I was not at all expecting when I showed up at work. It was the night before my 21st birthday. I had this little scenario all planned out in my head of how I was going to tell Charlie that I was only 19 when he hired me – hoping he wouldn’t be pissed off at my deception. I was so proud of myself for managing to keep it from him, but was also happy I could now tell him the truth and not get fired – at least I didn’t think he’d fire me now.
I never got the opportunity to play out that conversation in real life because just before midnight, some of Michael’s friends from his neighborhood showed up at the bar. I had met all of them for the first time at Thanksgiving, and again many times since. Then Ashley, Lisa and a couple other friends of mine from SAIC showed up. I wandered over to Michael who was sitting at his usual place near the corner at the far end of the bar with Jeff. “What a coincidence that all these people would show up here on the same night,” I said eyeing both of them. Jeff’s face flinched – he was not as good at hiding expressions as Michael. But then, at that moment, Bernie showed up with his latest girlfriend, and I knew something was up – this was not a coincidence.
Whirling around, from the corner of my eye, I saw a couple of the regulars unfolding a string of multi-colored letters saying HAPPY BIRTHDAY along the side wall, tacking it up between the Budweiser and Smirnoff neon wall signs; Charlie was pulling a huge sheet cake from somewhere in back of the bar – it had gobs of white and yellow frosting in the shapes of roses, the words ‘Happy 21st Birthday Jackie’ scrawled on top, and 21 candles. The next second, everyone there, including the people I didn’t know, were singing as Michael made a show of kissing me, whispering “Happy Birthday beautiful,” in my ear. “Surprised?” he asked.
Love's Illusions: A Novel Page 18
