THE EXES IN MY IPOD: A Playlist of the Men Who Rocked Me to Wine Country

by Lisa M. Mattson

  She talked to me in a soft, calming tone. “Follow the air into your mouth, deep into your lungs. Examine every breath. Deeply.” My eyelids were pressed against my eyeballs. My mind looked like this gigantic, dark tunnel. I could feel my breaths relaxing into a slow pace. “Follow the blood flowing through your veins as it moves up to your mind.” She continued leading me with her kind voice. “Look for the hallway to life in your mind,” she said. “You’re going to see a passage way full of doors.” It felt like sunshine was blinding me from inside my closed eyes. I saw the doors. The first one was big, black and covered in metal spikes. It was either the doorway to hell, or the entrance to the kinkiest S&M club in the afterworld. My body began to tremble. Was Robert in there? Marco? I pushed on, passing the creepy door.

  Sunshine poured through the cracks of a weathered-wood door at the end of the hallway. “You’ll know which door to open,” she whispered.

  I saw the brightest light, reminding me of Fernando’s first kiss. My hand reached for the doorknob. Suddenly, it felt like a vacuum was sucking me through a hose into another world—like a time warp. Vividly detailed descriptions of the scene poured from my mouth. I could hear the words, but they sounded as if they were coming from the next room. I knew they were my thoughts verbalized, but my brain had never exposed them before.

  I saw a thin, dark-skinned woman with long, black hair, kneeling. She was inside a dirt-floor teepee, looking over a baby in a makeshift crib. The teepee was small and bare; there were none of those fancy, animal-hair rugs and fluffy pillows like the Dothrakis have on Game of Thrones. The woman was in her early twenties. I’d never seen her face before, but I knew who she was. She was me. I was a Pocahontas! I’m a waitress from Kansas in this lifetime and a Native American living off the land in another? The Gods had a sick sense of humor. Next time, I wanted to be someone powerful, sexy and kind like Angelina Jolie—minus four kids and all those tattoos.

  The tribal chief was my husband, but I didn’t recognize him. Definitely not Fernando. He was much older, maybe late thirties, and he had children from other marriages. Those wives had died. I was raising his children as my own, and I could not get pregnant. The tribe thought I was weak for not giving him a child—any interesting dynamic I wish I’d had time to explore. The therapist’s voice instructed me to leave the tent. “Keep going,” she said. “Follow your mind.”

  The Native American me shuffled through a meadow carrying a big, wooden bucket. The chief’s oldest son was walking beside me with another bucket. His son was strong, brave and kind with long, jet-black hair. I guessed he was nineteen. We arrived at a river to fetch water. The son reached to grab my pail, tenderly touching my fingers. My heartbeat gunned like it had at Sloppy Joe’s. Fernando! He didn’t have the same eyes or body, but the touch was unmistakable. My breath fluttered wildly. “Stay in the moment,” she said. “Just focus on your breathing.” I exhaled deeply. The therapist coached me back to the river. Fernando caressed my arms, then pulled me down onto the grass. The sound of water cascading over rocks filled my ears. We made love.

  Fucking your husband’s son isn’t a good idea—not now and not in 1412. I’m not sure how long we’d been trying to keep our forbidden love a secret, but I knew our history just by watching our naked bodies spooning in the meadow. We’d often left the tribe to gather food and didn’t come back until dark. I treated him differently than the rest of the children. My mind sped forward to a day when we were off gathering berries in the woods. Fernando wrapped his arms around me and kissed my neck passionately. He pushed me playfully against an oak tree. We heard a twig snap. A tribal yell echoed in the distance.

  Busted.

  We jumped on our horses and charged into a nearby forest. The sound of hooves smacking against dirt blasted in our ears. I could hear chanting behind us. The chief and his men were closing in. I panted in the therapist’s room. “Just breathe. Keep going,” she whispered.

  Three men on horses darted out in front of us. Our horses reared up and stalled. One man grabbed me by my hair; another lassoed Fernando. They tied us to two pine trees. The men set fire to the brush surrounding our feet. Winds whipped around us, fueling the flames. Our horses paced in circles, then dashed through the fire, escaping into the woods. It was exactly the same vision of horses from my dreams. Fernando and I squirmed and screamed, bound to the flaming trees, staring into each other’s wild, scared eyes. The chief and his men stood on the other side of the roaring flames, watching us burn.

  Afterward, the therapist gave me a cassette tape recording of the 60-minute session. “I think you broke through a big barrier here, and at least you’re starting to get some answers.” She squeezed my shoulder warmly. “Your newfound interest in classical music might be from another lifetime.” She encouraged me to come back for another session.

  I hid the tape in my dresser under Dr. Weiss’s book.

  The holiday season arrived with its twinkly Christmas palm trees and hordes of tourists wearing Hawaiian shirts and flip-flops. Fernando and I were still alive, and stocking up on great memories. Fernando bought me a necklace for Christmas and invited me to a black-tie gala on New Year’s Eve. Two days before Christmas, he drove me to Miami International Airport for my flight to Kansas. I spent the entire car ride squeezing his hand, fighting off the uncanny feeling that if I got on that plane and left his side, I would lose him forever. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t shake the feeling that we were doomed.

  My airplane didn’t crash, nor did my car plunge into a ravine, but contemplation began ruling my brain. Should I muster up the courage to tell Fernando what is fueling the energy between us? I’d leave out the teepees and borderline incest parts, of course. Maybe I should just keep my big mouth shut and relax? The relationship was still new and thrilling. We ushered in 1998 at a downtown Miami hotel ballroom, sipping Gloria Ferrer Blanc de Noirs sparkling wine—a value-priced bubbly with zippy fruit flavors. We spent New Year’s day in sweats and T-shirts, curled up on my futon watching the first South Park—the bootleg Brian Boitano-Jesus episode—which, in my book, was as bonding as skydiving together. The following weekend, he snuck me into his bedroom and proudly showed off his guns, fishing poles and camouflage bibs. We made love in his bed, whispering and giggling in the dark. He called me “Mami,” and I didn’t even flinch.

  The annual Coconut Grove Arts Festival rolled into town in late January, and one of Fernando’s cousins was having her Quinceañera party that weekend. After the party and my brunch shift, we’d planned to spend a sunny Sunday afternoon strolling the tent-filled streets, looking at paintings. I told him I’d page him when I got off work. Yes, pagers were still cool in Miami in 1998.

  I paged him at five o’clock. No response. I tried again at six. Nada. I stared at my Sprint PCS cell phone and begged it to ring, filled with that feeling of helpless desperation. My heart, my whole world, was in his hands. I turned the power on and off, then checked again for messages. Nothing. I walked aimlessly through the white tents dotting Peacock Park, looking blankly at every painting, frame or sculpture. I called Fernando’s private home line, something I rarely did. When his answering machine picked up, I quickly hit “END” on my cell. I called back and listened to his voice, then hung up before the beep. Did he have call waiting? Did three pages in two hours constitute stalking? I began to panic. I didn’t want him to think I was the kind of lover who would boil a bunny on his stove.

  I sat down at a table on Sloppy Joe’s open-air patio and stared at the empty dance floor, reliving our first kiss. His pager battery is probably dead, or he’s getting a guilt trip from his Cuban mother for leaving early, I reassured myself. There were countless, reasonable excuses for his disappearance. But I couldn’t shake the horrific thought throbbing in the back of my brain: Things are moving too fast, and he is scared. I rapped my knuckles on the tabletop. I wanted to kick myself for sleeping with him before our deadline, for inviting him to stay the night so many times, for waking him up in the middle of t
he night to have sex. Maybe spending a day with his big Cuban family had made him realize having a gringa girlfriend wasn’t a great fit.

  I went home and reorganized my entire wardrobe by color, then by clothing type. I pulled every CD from my black plastic racks and rearranged them alphabetically by genre, then artist.

  My home phone rang at nine thirty. I practically hurdled my coffee table and snapped the cordless off the couch before the second ring.

  “Hey,” he whispered.

  “Hi.” My pulse galloped. I waited for him to talk. Uncomfortable silence filled the line. Something was wrong. We didn’t do wrong. “How was the party?” I forced a chipper tone from my clenched jaw.

  “Good.” His voice was flat.

  “So, do you still want to come over and watch South Park?” I asked, grasping for some act of normalcy that would put this bizarre afternoon behind us.

  “Uhhh, yeah. But I can’t stay.” He was coming over. I could save us. My nerves began to calm. I poured myself another glass of Zaca Mesa Z Cuvée. My game plan took shape in my head. I would tell him I thought we needed to slow things down. I would tell him we should take some time to really think about how special our connection was. I totally believed Fernando was the man I was destined to spend the rest of my life with. There was no need to rush eternity. This was the lifetime we’d find happily ever after, not be burned at the stake for adultery.

  I reached for my doorknob, wearing in a tight, sky-blue top and khaki skirt. My hair and make-up were freshly touched up. I opened the door, ready for his touch and a big talk.

  Fernando stood outside my doorway with his hands stuffed deep in his jean pockets. His eyebrows hid under a baseball cap. Fernando never wore hats outside work. My chest grew tight.

  “Aren’t you going to come in?” My voice cracked. I forced a smile. My fingers started to shake with fear.

  He stepped through the door and pecked me on the cheek. “Hey.” His smile was rigid, almost plastic. He looked like he was about to sit down in the dentist’s chair for a root canal. I watched the wall begin forming between us. My head throbbed with confusion. I shut the door and grabbed his hand. I stepped toward him, lifting my chin to his. Kissing was the only defense against the wall. I needed him to feel the energy, jolting him to remember our perfection. His lips pressed against mine, and his tongue glided into my mouth. He wrapped his arms around me, pulling me close. I moaned softly, feeling our electricity reviving him.

  Fernando’s hands gripped my shoulders. He pushed me away. My eyes shot open, dazed and confused.

  “I can’t…I can’t handle this,” he said, shaking his head. My mouth dropped. I reached for his hand. When my fingertips touched his, he jerked his arm away as if he’d just touched a hot skillet. His brown eyes widened. “I’m sorry.” Silence filled the room. My chest felt numb, as I stared at his solemn face, twisted with confusion. “It’s…it’s just…” He started to move toward me, then took a deep, jittery breath and stepped back. He pushed both hands back into his pockets. “You’re just.” Words staggered from his mouth. “You’re just too…” His face flushed pale. I held my breath, squeezing my hands. “This is too good to be true.” He stared down at my floor. His eyes and mouth drooped. I couldn’t tell who was more confused and sad—him or me. His words paralyzed me. I watched his contorted face. My back and shoulders stiffened from the shock. My mind screamed but I couldn’t speak. Tell him you understand! Tell him something so perfect scares you too! Tell him why he’s feeling this way! Tell him your souls have been chained for lifetimes! My vocal cords and lips couldn’t move. I watched him grip my brass door knob. He turned to me. My eyes darted around his face, pleading. Don’t go, please.

  His dark shadow passed outside my living room window. The scent of his spicy-woodsy cologne began to retreat. I inhaled deeply, savoring the remnants of his smell. My mind reeled from the waves of shock and sadness. I listened to his footsteps trail down the three flights of stairs. Open the door, Harley. Stop him. His truck door opened and slammed shut. My legs didn’t move. I could feel my heart splintering into so many pieces not even Ty Pennington could repair me. Our love was worth dying for centuries ago. It was worth fighting for in 1998. Why wasn’t I running after him? Funny how a girl who’d always chased men in the beginning didn’t have the guts to do it in the end. I didn’t know where to start. Girls weren’t supposed to fight for their men, right? He’d given me his answer. He couldn’t handle the power of us. Lines from the Dr. Weiss’s book began replaying over and over in my head:

  “Soul recognition may be subtle and slow … Not everyone is ready to see it right away. There is a timing at work, and patience may be necessary for the one who sees first.”2

  Patience? I’d been looking for Fernando since my freshman year of college. And he’d just told me I was too good to be true.

  I listened to his truck engine rev up. His wheels screeched as he barreled out of my parking lot. I collapsed into my futon couch and stared at the ceiling. My six-disc CD changer clicked, and the familiar cords of Dave Matthews’s guitar filled the room. The feeling of helplessness rushed my body. I felt like my chest had been sliced open.

  First came the tears—then the visions of racing horses. Fernando had left me with the haunting memories of our past life, and the sinking feeling that my true love of this lifetime might be lost forever.

  1Weiss, B. (1996). Only Love is Real: A Story of Soulmates Reunited (pp. 1, 2). New York: Warner Books Inc.

  2Weiss, B. (1996). Only Love is Real: A Story of Soulmates Reunited (pp. 2). New York: Warner Books Inc.

  TYLER

  “SUPERMAN’S DEAD”

  Our Lady Peace

  REWIND: Tyler pulled a ball of gray dress socks from his dresser drawer. The morning sun flared through a wall of windows spanning the east side of his behemoth bedroom. I sat on his twin bed, watching him from the corner of my eye while buttoning my shimmery blouse. He wore only tighty-whities, which seemed so adult and so, well, white boy—a respite from my former world where all men were Latin, immature or both, and usually wore boxers. I bit my upper lip as he tousled his full head of bleach-blonde hair, still damp from our shower. Is he thinking what I’m thinking? I took a deep, perplexed breath. Tyler had the body and face of Bart Conner back in his 1984 Summer Olympics heyday. And we were finally getting serious. It was time. I’d found a nice, handsome gringo—someone who’d never remind me of Fernando when I looked into his icy-blue eyes—which seemed like the only recipe for healing my wounds.

  Tyler turned toward me, catching my stare. I smiled timidly while zipping my new XOXO suit skirt. His cheeks turned bright pink, and he threw both hands over his crotch like a nervous middle schooler dressing in the locker room after gym class.

  “This is kind of weird.” His voice muttered over the music. My back muscles flinched. I felt like I’d been crane-kicked in the face—Daniel-son style. Our Lady Peace, one of the many grunge bands we both loved, roared from a Pioneer stereo tower in the corner. Tyler turned away, looking out the windows.

  I stood up from his bed. “Weird?” I stuffed my shirttails into my tan skirt, looking out the window. I felt my shoulders tighten. The night before, he’d insisted we sleep in the guest bedroom and had locked the door behind us. That was weird. He’d flipped off the lights and scurried under the bed sheets like a virgin. That was strange.

  My eyes scanned his rosy cheeks for clues. His choice of adjective echoed in my ears. Hearing the word “weird” used to describe the morning-after rituals of our first sleepover made my head spin. I’d been dreaming about sharing a bed with him for months. Tyler’s eyes met mine again for a nanosecond, as he flashed his usual, bashful smirk. I straightened the collar on my blouse and stared blankly at his throbbing stereo speakers, frustrated. The blasting music filled the silence but did not blow away the awkward air between us.

  “Uh, yeah. I guess I can see that.” I tried to sound agreeable even though he’d just thrown a gigantic gutter ball at my e
motional bowling alley. I looked over at Tyler’s chiseled chest and bit my lower lip. Keeping my true feelings to myself had gotten easier with 150 days of practice. It felt so strange to be holding back, to be hiding in his spare bedroom. We’d never slept in the same bed before that night, and we’d been dating for five months. The relationship had moved slower than a barge docking at the Port of Miami, and I’d actually welcomed the change of pace … for a few months.

  He turned his back to me and quickly slipped on his gray dress slacks. “Don’t watch me like that.” His voice was playful, yet snippy. I shook my head and readjusted my skirt. After years of sensuous Latin lovers, dating a shy guy was refreshing for about four weeks and bewildering ever since. Tyler wouldn’t even look at me naked without putting on a condom. Embarrassing memories of my bedtime follies with Robert and John had made Tyler’s coyness seem so cute at first. But I’d just turned twenty-four and had landed my first job at a wine distributor in Broward County, thanks to a referral from Fernando’s sister-in-law. I was getting too old to work for tips and to date guys who weren’t ready for marriage. My taste for the career world wasn’t pairing so well with Tyler’s boyish charms.

  I picked at my acrylic nails. “It’s not like we’re going to get caught.”

  “We better not.” He fished a white T-shirt from his dresser. “My mom would never speak to me again.” My eyes bounced from his lips to his sculpted cheek bones. I glanced over at the stereo to hide my rolling eyes. Sneaking around felt as ancient as wearing Jordache jeans. After graduating from Florida State University, Tyler had moved back to his parents’ house to save money for his own apartment. Why was an independent girl like me always drawn to guys who still lived at home? Through them, I’d get a taste of what it was like to have happy parents supporting me.