Anything You Can Do
Page 18
“I’m done with the war, Lucas!” I say, wiggling a crude flag I made out of a toothpick and a ripped square of paper towel. “Done. I surrender. Okay? No more!”
He laughs and I know I’ve said the wrong thing.
“There is no war, Daisy. For me, there never was.”
He pushes on my elbows. My arms fold and he passes, just like that.
“What are you talking about?!” I shout after him. “What about the golf, the fruit basket? Oh, and I seem to remember a couple decades of fighting before that too.”
“I realized something today, Daisy, something it has taken me 28 years to understand.”
“Tell me! C’mon, you can’t just walk away from me—from us!”
“There is no us, Daisy! You only care about yourself! You think we’ve been at war for 28 years? Is that what it always was for you? Fighting, for the sake of what? Fighting?”
“I…I don’t know.”
“You’ve been so blinded by the competition you’ve built up in your own head, you can’t see what’s right in front of you—what’s been there the whole fucking time!”
“Tell me then, Lucas! I’m here, begging you to talk to me. You can’t act as if you didn’t fight with me too—you can’t pretend you’ve always wanted this. What about the other girls you dated in college?! What about winter formal girl?”
“Are you kidding me right now?”
The glare he casts my way makes me want to dig my heels in more.
“Why do you think I’ve never had a serious girlfriend? Huh?” He pushes on. “Why do you think I always broke things off before I came home to Hamilton? It was for YOU! Because I wanted you. Every other relationship I’ve had has been a futile attempt to get over you. To move on.”
His words are sharp little daggers, making me feel worse. I fight against them.
“Oh, come on. You can’t just pretend you were Mr. Nice Guy the entire time. Just because you saved the Founder’s Day booth and gave me a place to stay, and…never mind. I’m finished. Did you hear that part? The stupid war is over now. No more!”
He doesn’t listen. He turns and slams his bedroom door and for a good while, I’m standing on the other side, shouting at the wood. I’m trying to plead with him to talk to me, but when he finally walks back out, overnight bag in hand, I can tell he’s not interested in listening. He’s more defeated than I’ve ever seen him.
“You can stay tonight, but then I need you to find your own place.”
He’s not even talking to me. It’s like he’s saying, Apartment, could you please tell Daisy I’m not in the mood to argue and she has to leave.
“No. Stay. I’ll leave. You shouldn’t have to leave your own home.”
But Lucas is already at the door, tugging it open and shaking his head.
He’s gone and my throat hurts from shouting and I realize Lucas never shouted once. When I think back over the years, I’d always assumed our conflict would end with a bang, not silence. Now, we’re done, and the quiet is overwhelming. I waved the flag and Lucas left. 28 years have been wiped out in a single evening and worst of all, that exchange couldn’t even be classified as a fight. It was a one-sided desperate attempt to get Lucas to see reason.
I stand immobile for too long, because the second I realize I could have fought harder and forced him to stay, his truck isn’t parked downstairs anymore. I have no clue where he’s gone.
I try his cell phone in vain. Tonight, Lucas is not going to answer my calls.
What now?
My thumbs have been twiddled within an inch of their life and I think I have crazy hair, but I’m too scared to look in the mirror. Instead, I look around my guest room, where Lucas has boxes piled against one of the walls. I asked him about them the other day and he said his mom was cleaning house and told him to come grab his old things if he wanted them or she was putting them in storage. It seemed kind of harsh to me, but now that I see them all piled there, it is quite a lot of stuff to hang on to over the years. I push off the bed and peer down into the first unlabeled box. I keep my hands clasped behind my back, figuring that if I don’t touch anything, it’s not really an invasion of privacy. Inside the box, there are trophies and ribbons, very much like the ones adorning the wall in my bedroom back home.
The box beside it is full of his old cross country gear, old shoes and worn-in uniforms. There are a few bibs he wore during races, and looking at them, I realize I truly despise cross country. Always did. I only picked up the sport because of Lucas. I smile and move on to the next box. It’s a gold mine, filled with home videos. Full of nostalgia, I kneel down close to read the titles, still making sure to not touch anything. Each of the DVDs is carefully labeled, and a few of them say things like Easter 1989 or Christmas 1997. Baby Madeleine is probably the star attraction in all the videos and I have half a mind to watch one of them, but then another stack of videos in the box catches my eye.
Lucas and Daisy Debate Tournament - 2006
L&D Science Fair - 1999
1994 - Lucas and Daisy School Play
Lucas & Daisy Kindergarten Graduation
There are dozens of them, all labeled for me and for Lucas. I decide that if my name is on them, it’s not really breaking the privacy rule, right? I snatch the first one in the stack and load it into the DVD player in the living room. The video isn’t great, thanks in part to Mrs. Thatcher’s apparent videographer policy of more is more. She zooms and pans and changes orientations so many times, I’m dizzy by the time I locate the two of us in the frame. It’s from one of our last cross country meets our senior year. We’ve finished racing and Lucas took gold in the men’s varsity division. He’s holding up his medal for the camera and I’m in the background, talking with Madeleine. Mrs. Thatcher and my mom try to get Lucas and me to pose for a photo, but the look on my face says it all: Do I have to? Lucas obviously agrees.
He shakes his head, cheeks red from the race, and lets his medal fall back to his chest. “Mom. Stop.”
He is eighteen all right, annoyed with our parents and not afraid to show it. He huffs out of the frame and then my mom and Mrs. Thatcher laugh off camera.
“They’re so funny.”
“I guess you were right—the only people who don’t know Lucas loves Daisy are Lucas and Daisy,” my mom says, and Mrs. Thatcher agrees.
Wait.
What did she just—
I rewind and watch the clip a half dozen times before I leap off the couch and yank out the DVD.
I hold it in the palm of my hand, studying it before slipping it back into its protective sleep. I listen for sounds of footsteps in the hall, willing Lucas to return, but it’s quiet and I’m still alone in his apartment, waiting for him to come home so we can fight. It’s what we’re best at.
I slip another DVD in and press play. It’s labeled Lucas and Daisy Debate Tournament 2002, and there is a second or two of debate coverage: Lucas and me as precocious middle schoolers, sitting up on the school stage wearing ill-fitting church clothes, but then the video cuts off. Someone recorded over the footage.
“Which red button means record again? Oh! Okay I think it’s on. Look into the camera and say your name and how old you are.”
It’s Mrs. Thatcher’s voice, but the shot hasn’t settled into place yet. I don’t know who she’s talking to until she pans to the right and centers on Lucas, sitting on the ground, chopping up pieces of construction paper in their family room.
“Mom, I’m busy.”
“Well hi, ‘Busy’. I thought your name was Lucas,” she replies as only mothers can. “And how old are you?”
He rolls his eyes and stares up into the camera. It nearly punches me in the gut to see this young version of Lucas. Horrible bowl haircut, braces locked in place. His limbs are long and skinny, but even still, he was one of the popular boys in our middle school, a place where awkward phases were to be expected.
“Thirteen.”
“And what are you doing down there on the ground?”
>
“Making something,” he says, looking down and getting back to work with his scissors.
Mrs. Thatcher doesn’t give up. She keeps the camera aimed on him and prods him for answers.
“Is it a gift?”
“Sorta.”
“A gift for whom?”
His spine goes pin straight. “No one.”
“You know, it kind of looks like you’re cutting out little white flowers.”
I can just barely make out the edge of the smile he’s hiding from the camera. “Mmhmm.”
My heart clenches in my chest and I sit back on my heels, still only a few feet away from the television.
“They look like daisies.”
“Mmhmm.”
“She’s going to love them,” Mrs. Thatcher replies.
His gaze flickers up to her. “The dance is next week. I thought I could make her a bouquet to ask her, but some of the guys said not to make it special in case the girl says no.”
“And what do you think?”
“I think she would want something special.”
In the background, I hear footsteps on the stairs and then Madeleine’s voice drifts into the video.
“Hey Mom, can Daisy and I walk to go get some ice cream?”
“Dinner will be ready soon. I’d rather you wait and go after.”
“Whatever. What are you doing Lucas?”
“Don’t bother him, Madeleine. Go back upstairs, or play outside.”
She doesn’t listen. Instead she walks over and crouches down in front of Lucas. Before he can stop her, she holds up one singular daisy made of white and green construction paper. It wilts in her hand. “Are these for—you can’t be serious!”
“Madeleine!” Mrs. Thatcher drops the video camera; the room turns sideways and then the video goes black.
I realize then that I remember that day. I recognize the soft blue t-shirt and cargo shorts Lucas is wearing. Madeleine and I played outside, waiting for dinner so we could scarf down our food and then walk to get ice cream.
I remember Madeleine running out of the house with Lucas hot on her heels. She wanted to tell me something, was desperate to get it out, but Lucas spoke first. He told me that since I would probably be going to the dance alone, I’d better go with him so people didn’t point and laugh. I walked up and punched him in the eye, right underneath their oak tree, and I got into a hell of a lot of trouble. Even still, I was allowed to go to the dance with Matt Del Rey, and Lucas never showed. All these years, I assumed he’d been grounded for being mean to me. I liked to imagine him at home with cold peas pressed to his bruised face.
The truth…
The truth is much worse.
I notice there is a leak in Lucas’ ceiling, and then I realize that it’s me. I’m crying, because I am too late. Because Lucas loved me all along and I sent his CV to Hawaii.
I call him again. And again. I dial so many times, I fear my phone company will think I’ve gone nuts and cut off my service.
After a while, I realize he must have his phone on do not disturb because there’s no way anyone in their right mind would ignore this many calls. I try Madeleine and his parents, but they don’t know where he is. I’m tempted to check the Lone Star Motel, but it’s a long walk from Lucas’ apartment and the sun set hours ago.
It becomes clear that I won’t reach Lucas tonight.
And then my email pings.
From: lucasthatcher@stanford.edu
To: daisybell@duke.edu
Subject: #352
Over the years, I’ve written you 351 emails. The first was the week I left for college. I was miserable without you and too much of a coward to ever say it out loud, so I typed it up and saved it to my drafts folder. 11 years later, 351 emails have been added to that folder. Sometimes I treated the emails like a journal, but in reality, I just needed to feel the type of connection with you that one click of the mouse could provide. This is the first one I’ve ever sent, and it will probably be the last.
Let me tell you what I should have told you then.
For 18 years, I loved you.
Now, I’ve loved you for 28.
It sounds like quite the accomplishment, but it’s always been so easy for me to love you. Through all the pain, all the conflict, I’ve always known the truth. We cared about each other. Nobody fights over something that doesn’t matter—they just walk away. And so, I’ve always known that if you ever really wanted me to suffer, all you would have to do is just that.
Walk away.
Now I see I was naïve. We were never on the same page. You think I wanted to fight with you because I hate you? Because I want to win? What does it even mean to “win” at this point? What are we fighting for? The job? Hometown hero? Over the years I’ve lost track, and I never really minded because for me, it was never about the war and it was never about beating you. I just wanted to have you any way I could.
I regret letting it go so far. I should have said something ten years ago. I should have never come back to Hamilton. Instead of writing that very first email, I should have walked out of my dorm room and met a girl. Any girl. But it was already too late; not one girl I dated over the years ever challenged me like you did. How could they? My heart, my fight was with someone else.
I know you never asked me to sacrifice so much to love you over the years. You proved as much by signing that offer letter. But as you bask in the winner’s circle, Daisy, I want you to look back at the doors you’ve closed behind you and ask yourself one thing.
Was it all worth it?
-Lucas
___
For as long as we’ve been in conflict, it strikes me that this could be the first real fight we’ve ever had. Lucas’ raw hurt and anger leaps out from the computer screen and slices right through me. It’s an unrestrained honesty from him that I’ve never felt before.
I sense flickers of my old self, the desire to lash out at him for waiting so long to tell me this, the urge to call and heap part of the blame for this mess back onto him. I’m willing to bear the weight of your words, but not the burden of 28 years of silence. That’s on you, Lucas.
But now I can see that my normal inclinations—attack, criticize, insult—they’re actually all defense mechanisms, ways to hide feelings from myself that hurt too much to acknowledge. I’ve reached a point now where it hurts more to leave the truth unspoken.
So instead of continuing a war I’m no longer interested in fighting, I hit reply and hope to God it’s not too late.
From: daisybell@duke.edu
To: lucasthatcher@stanford.edu
Subject: You’re wrong, but for the right reasons.
Please come home so we can talk. You think you have everything figured out, but you’re wrong. I wasn’t ever going to take that job. Yes, I considered it—would you have respected me if I hadn’t? You know it has always been my dream to own my own practice. For years, I worked for that goal, so when it was delivered to me on a silver platter, I had to take a second to think about it.
Would you believe that someone you’ve known your whole life is capable of change? I hope so, because I think that’s what is happening here. To us. Don’t you see? Your email wasn’t the 352nd of something, it was the first.
Please let there be a second.
Love,
Daisy
___
My night is spent hitting the refresh button on my browser over and over and over. I hover over my inbox, waiting for a new email to pop up from Lucas, but I’m not shocked that he never replies. The next day, when I go into the office with puffy eyes and droopy shoulders, Dr. McCormick informs me that Lucas has requested the rest of the week off. The anger I’d hoped would dissipate overnight has only grown stronger, and I don’t blame him. What seemed like petulant behavior yesterday now seems wholly justified. I had all night to think over my actions and I don’t blame Lucas for his anger. I don’t blame him for walking out. No wonder he looked defeated. No wonder he didn’t put a fight. How tired
must he be after 28 years of the same routine? Him putting himself on the line, me completely bulldozing over his feelings. Oblivious. Naïve. Selfish. To think that I might have taken that job is the true lesson in all this. I might have provoked Lucas into action over the years, but he was never really the bad guy.
I was.
I have no clue where Lucas is or how long he intends to ignore me, but I’m not going to give up.
If I want to reach him, I’m going to have to try a little harder. And I will. Because for 28 years, Lucas tried hard for me.
Chapter Twenty-Five
From: daisybell@duke.edu
To: lucasthatcher@stanford.edu
Subject: Hey
Work sucks without you. I had an itch under my cast and now one of your chopsticks is stuck in there. Please call me back, I need a doctor.
___
From: daisybell@duke.edu
To: lucasthatcher@stanford.edu
Subject: Emails
I’m sorry, that was a bad attempt at humor, which is me trying to avoid being honest. Do you still have the other 351 emails? I’d like to read them. Even if you want nothing to do with me, the least you can do is send me those emails. Or are you going to make me write 350 more of these before you respond? It might take a while—I’m having to hit the keyboard with the end of that chopstick to type.
___
From: daisybell@duke.edu
To: lucasthatcher@stanford.edu
Subject: Re: Emails
I’MSORRYI’MSORRYI’MSORRYI’MSORRYI’MSORRYI’MSORRY I’MSORRYI’MSORRY.
PS Are you reading these?
___
From: defnotdaisybell@gmail.com
To: lucasthatcher@stanford.edu
Subject: Hi
Hi, this is uhm, Macy. I’m a sexy single in your area, and I was wondering