LoveLines

by S. Walden

  “You also told me that your doctor said your hang-ups are really severe. So, yeah. It’s gonna take some time. You touched the door handle yesterday. That deserves recognition.” Erica thought for a moment. “That deserves a drink.” She hopped up from the couch.

  “It does?” I asked.

  “Totally.”

  I watched Erica disappear into the kitchen then reemerge with two beers.

  “You just want an excuse to drink,” I said, taking the beer.

  “You’re damn straight,” she replied. “You don’t understand, Bailey.” She popped the top then tossed me the bottle opener. “You don’t understand what I go through on a daily basis.”

  “Yes, I do. You tell me. Every day. In excruciating detail.”

  Erica looked at me flatly. “You hate hearing about my kids, don’t you?”

  “Not at all!” I lied.

  “Oh, whatever. It’s obnoxious, I know.”

  “It’s cute,” I said. “Your kids are cute. Well, when they’re not screaming.”

  Erica smiled.

  “Your husband’s cute. Your life’s cute . . .”

  Erica gave me her pity glance.

  “I hate you,” I said, and she laughed.

  “It ain’t all that,” she said, “and you know it.”

  “Better than being alone,” I mumbled. “And I’m not looking for a pity party. Just sayin’.”

  Erica drew in her breath. “You know, I have a really hard time with this notion that you can’t be happy unless you’re with someone. And I don’t mean you you; I just mean people in general. People think this, and it’s dangerous.”

  “Dangerous?”

  “Yeah. It’s like, why can’t you be content with just you? Why aren’t you enough? Why aren’t you complete?”

  I stared at my friend. “Are you really saying this to me?”

  Erica nodded and took a swig of beer.

  I glanced at the kitchen table then turned back to her. “You’re such a bitch,” I hissed.

  “How so?”

  “It’s easy for you to spout ‘wisdom’ like that when you’re married with kids!”

  “Oh, calm down. Half the time I don’t even wanna be married.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “Watch it,” Erica said, jabbing her thumb in the direction of her children. “I’m just saying that I wish you’d be happy.”

  “Erica, I’m not happy being alone. Okay? I commend those people who enjoy being single. Good for them. More power to ‘em. But that’s not me. And it doesn’t make me some weak ass woman because I want a partner. People partner up! That’s what they do! And I’d like to. I’d like to find someone who can . . . deal with me.” I stared at the bottle cradled in my hands. “I’m tired of failing at it.”

  Erica moved over to the couch and sat close to me, our legs touching.

  “You’ll find someone,” she said, “when you least expect it.”

  “You’ve been saying that to me since I was eighteen,” I replied. “Kinda don’t believe you anymore.”

  Erica nudged me. “But it is the truth.”

  I was silent for a moment, aware of the emotional tumult building inside my chest.

  “I miss him!” I blurted, then chugged the rest of my beer.

  “I know.”

  “I hate him.”

  “We all do.”

  “I’m still in love with him, Erica.”

  “Only natural.”

  “What am I supposed to do?” I asked. The tears sprang up. They always did when I drank in the afternoon. Don’t ask me why, but daytime drinking made me highly emotional. Erica knew it. I had no idea why she offered me another beer.

  “You know I’ll take it because I’ve got no willpower,” I snapped. I wasn’t angry with her—just myself for being impossible. I dabbed the corners of my eyes. “You know I’ll have to sleep over or at least take a nap.”

  “That’s cool. Or Noah can drive you home,” Erica called from the kitchen.

  I snorted. “I love how you volunteer your husband for things. Is that a married couples rule?”

  “Only if it’s the wife doing the volunteering,” she replied, plopping back down on the couch and handing me the beer. “Okay. Go ahead and let it all out.”

  On cue, I burst into tears while I sipped my beer. I only spluttered and coughed a handful of times, dotting my shirt with dark brown liquid. Somehow I was able to squash OCD voice who worried that the stains wouldn’t come out in the wash.

  “It’s so unfair!” I wailed.

  “Honey, Brian was a bit of a jerk. I mean, obviously. He broke up with you. That’s jerkish,” Erica said soothingly.

  The breakup was completely my fault, and Erica knew it. But that’s the great thing about girlfriends—they feed us bullshit lies about ourselves so that we can shirk responsibility for our actions. A girl can be a complete psycho in the relationship, and her best friend will find some excuse for blaming the guy. Not that I was a psycho, but my tics were a problem.

  “I’m not talking about Brian!” I cried. I glimpsed Little Noah and Annie. I’d forgotten they were still at the kitchen table. They took absolutely no notice of me, still crunching their carrots and dipping in turn. “M-my con . . . dition!” I stuttered.

  “Sweetie, look at yourself. You’re making great progress. You grabbed the door handle yesterday, Bailey! That’s amazing!”

  I snorted disdainfully. “If I have to have a mental disorder, couldn’t I have gotten one that people actually take seriously?”

  Erica sighed and muttered, “Here we go again.”

  “I’m serious, Erica! I mean, bipolar? People take that shit seriously. They may walk on eggshells around you, but they take it seriously. And there are drugs to help manage it.”

  Erica nodded automatically. She’d heard this a trillion times.

  “Or schizophrenia? Um, hello? There are places where you can actually go and live and rest and have people take care of all fifteen of you twenty-four seven.”

  Erica cracked a smile. “You wanna go live in a psych ward?”

  “I’m just saying it’d be nice to have the option,” I replied. I tipped my beer and discovered all the contents had disappeared. “There are no places for people who have OCD to go. No medicine that really helps.”

  “What about that anti-depressant you’ve been taking?”

  I stared at my friend. “Seriously?”

  “I thought it was helping some.”

  “My tapping tic is back,” I confessed.

  “Oh God. I thought you’d conquered that one,” Erica said.

  I shifted on the couch. “I had. That was until I failed at opening the door early yesterday. My anxiety just exploded, and I found myself tapping my pens all day while I worked.”

  “Did you just hear the way you said that?” Erica asked.

  “Huh?”

  “‘I found myself tapping,’” she quoted.

  I blinked at her.

  “Passive, Bailey. Passive voice. You’re not taking responsibility—”

  “Shutty,” I snapped.

  “Hey, I’m not Dr. Gordon over here, but you told me to call you out when you start playing victim to your disorder,” Erica pointed out.

  I scowled and nodded reluctantly.

  “Aaaaand,” Erica went on, “you also told me to cut you off when you start comparing mental disorders.”

  “I know,” I agreed. “But you don’t understand what I’m dealing with. It’s a joke. No one takes OCD seriously. Half the fucking world thinks it’s OCD. ‘OMG, I, like, have to eat all the yellow M&Ms first out of the bag. I’m so OCD.’ Yeah, no. You’re not OCD.”

  Erica chuckled.

  “They have no idea the self-hatred. They have no idea that most of the time we think something horrible will happen if we don’t perform a tic! We don’t wanna operate this way. It’s not funny, but everyone thinks it is. We’re weird and quirky. Laughable.”

  “Your condition isn’t laug
hable to me,” Erica said softly.

  We were silent for a moment. I traced the bottle rim with my forefinger and thought about Brian.

  “It wasn’t laughable to Brian either,” I admitted. “He really did try to stick it out. I mean, a proposal? That’s the furthest I’ve ever gotten.”

  Erica plucked the beer bottle from my hand and placed it on the coffee table. She turned her head in the direction of the kitchen when she heard her children’s voices. They were climbing off their chairs. Snack time was over.

  “I’m glad you didn’t marry him, Bailey,” Erica whispered in my ear. “He wasn’t right for you.”

  “But he made it the longest,” I said, feeling my eyes well again.

  “And there’s someone else who will beat him. Someone better. Someone who will stay.” She tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “Forever.”

  I smiled sadly and watched the kids march into the living room.

  “Who wants cuddles?” Erica asked them. “Because I think I need them. I know Bailey needs them.”

  Annie pounced on me in a flash, wrapping her plush baby arms around my neck, raining salty hummus kisses on my cheek. She sat in my lap all afternoon, falling asleep after ten minutes. Little Noah lay on the couch with his head cradled in Erica’s lap.

  “So this is why you had kids,” I whispered.

  “You better believe it,” Erica replied. She stroked her son’s hair and listened to his shallow breathing. “Their bodies are so tiny. I love listening to them sleep because their breathing is so faint. Not like my husband.” She grimaced. “Not loud and deep with the grunting and the groaning.”

  I chuckled.

  “And the snorting and the gargling,” she went on.

  “Gargling, huh?”

  “Yeah. When they get that phlegm in their throats and sort of choke on it?”

  I stifled a howl.

  “A man sleeping is just about as disgusting as a fart,” Erica said.

  I guffawed, then slapped a hand over my mouth when Annie shifted on my lap.

  “You’re too hard on him,” I said softly. “You’re bossy and impossible, and he’s gonna divorce you eventually.”

  Erica shrugged. “I’d never let him.”

  I smiled then jerked my head at the sound of the front door. Noah trudged in with bags of groceries in his arms.

  “You switched with him this time?” I asked.

  “I didn’t think you wanted to accompany me to the grocery store,” Erica said.

  “Yeah, but you’re psycho when it comes to your groceries. You have to know he probably got half the list wrong.”

  Erica shrugged. “Eh. I think they call it compromise.”

  “Erica!” Noah called from the kitchen. Both children instantly awoke.

  “Honey, we’re in here,” Erica said patiently. “And you woke up the kids.”

  Noah poked his head in the living room. “Oh, hey Bailey.”

  “‘Sup?” I asked.

  “Just finishing up my woman’s work,” he replied, grinning. “You know, picking up dry cleaning. Grocery shopping. Running to the post office.”

  “Cute,” Erica said.

  “Wait, I get the first two, but the post office? I think that’s gender neutral,” I said.

  “Doesn’t involve a wrench, oil, or ladder, so it classifies as woman’s work,” Noah explained.

  “Are you done?” Erica asked patiently.

  Noah approached his wife and leaned over, kissing her long and slow. I averted my eyes and covered Annie’s. I don’t know why, but I felt like it was too much passion for a two-year-old to witness. She wriggled out of my arms and latched on to her father’s leg.

  “Little Orphan Annie,” Noah said, picking her up and kissing her cheek. It was a thing they did. He kissed her cheek. She kissed his. And they went back and forth until Annie tired of the game. She made it to five pecks before she was distracted by a toy on the floor. Noah set her on her feet.

  “Why do you insist on calling her that?” Erica asked. “She’s gonna grow up thinking she’s adopted and that we’re still unsure if we wanna keep her.”

  “Huh?” Noah replied.

  “Because you keep calling her ‘orphan!’” Erica explained.

  I giggled. Then hiccupped. Noah took notice.

  “Drinking on the job, you two?” he asked.

  “I had one, honey,” Erica replied.

  “And how many did you have?” Noah asked me.

  I held up two fingers. He sighed.

  “Let me go hide everything with sharp edges,” he said.

  “No! That phase is over,” I said. “Soooo over.”

  The first two months after Brian broke off our engagement were really tough. I didn’t try to hurt myself, but my depression was so bad that my friends thought I might. They treated me like I was crazy—and perhaps, in a way, I was—because I didn’t feel like me. I acted weirder than I normally do. I don’t know how I managed to perform my job at any kind of satisfactory level. I don’t remember feeding myself. I’m sure I was a terrible friend. The whole time period is a haze to me still.

  Six months. It’s been six months since the break-up. Six months since my dad invited me fishing with him and fed me as much alcohol as I wanted. Naturally, I got drunk and cried all over his neck and shirt. Six months since Erica told me I was brave. Don’t know what she meant by that. Experiencing a break-up doesn’t make you brave. Six months since my mother asked me what I did wrong.

  “You okay?” Erica asked, interrupting my thoughts.

  I nodded. I wasn’t interested in discussing Brian or my OCD anymore. They were always the same conversations that led to no real understanding—why I do the things I do, why I drive away all the men I date, why I feel like a failure. No one wants a sad friend, and I didn’t want to be that girl. So I persevered, slapped a smile on my face, tried my hardest to exude happiness. For the most part I was good at it, but every so often, Erica would notice the cracks in my armor, and she tried to help me mend them. Because that’s what best friends do.

  “Need any help with the groceries?” I asked, walking to the kitchen before anyone answered.

  ***

  Noah dropped me home sometime around nine. I’d stayed for dinner, thought I’d sobered up sufficiently to drive, but was told to keep my car right where it was—on the curb in front of Erica’s house. She’d drive it over tomorrow.

  I live in a cul-de-sac in an old neighborhood filled with one-story brick homes. They’re small—no bigger than 1500 square feet—but the perfect size for a single woman tired of paying rent. I bought my house two years ago. I’d started saving for a down payment eight years before that. I thought my mother would be so proud of me for purchasing my first home—on my own—but she was more concerned about the people to fill it.

  “Just me, Mom,” I had said during my housewarming party. It included my dad, younger sister, some coworkers, a few friends from college, and Erica’s crew.

  “Not even a roommate, Bailey? At least get a roommate. I mean, what’s the point of two bedrooms if it’s just you?”

  “Office space,” I replied.

  “Office space for what? What do you need an office for? Do you take work home with you? Do they make you work nights and weekends at that place? Honey, let’s talk about the sales job. Remember that sales job I told you about?”

  “Mom, I’d be working more in sales. Do you understand? We’ve been over this. Days. Nights. Weekends. Holidays. Vacations. That’s a sales job!”

  “Honey, this job is different. Now I gave Archie your number. He said he’ll call you—”

  “Oh my God! I just bought a house, Mom! Can we focus on the house?!”

  Yeah. So that’s how most of the conversations went with my mother. God, my mother. What can I say about her? She’s your stereotypical, “When am I getting grandchildren?” mom. She worries incessantly. She carries around passive aggressive judgment and doles it out at just the right moments. I’m conv
inced she decided not to like me once she learned I inherited OCD from my father. Or contracted it. Yes, my mother would use the word “contracted,” like I have some filthy gutter rat disease.

  But back to my house. It’s a cute two-bedroom, two-bath place with hand-scraped hardwoods and a sink in my bathroom with two separate knobs. Makes washing my face a pain in the ass, but I like the vintage feel. I wouldn’t change it when I updated the room.

  I’m your shabby chic kind of girl. Everything in my house looks like a flea market find. Most everything in my house is a flea market find, now that I think about it. I like to discover those discarded treasures, adopt them, bring them home, and clean them up. I think I relate to them in a way. No one wants me, so I understand how they feel. I mean, just because we’re quirky doesn’t mean we lack value.

  I waved to Noah as he drove off, then made my way up the brick path to my front door.

  “Bailey!” shouted my next-door neighbor. She was putting her trashcan on the curb.

  “Hi, Soledad,” I replied.

  She was a plump, little Hispanic woman always wrapped in an apron. Never failed. Every time I saw her, she looked like she was in the middle of baking. She wore her long, black hair up in a bun with the same silver earrings dangling from her lobes. She had nine children—nine. I didn’t think people still had that many children.

  “Esos niños me están volviendo loca,” she said. “Tuve que venir aquí sólo para alejarme. Usted probablemente se ha preguntado por qué estaba poniendo mi basura en la calle cuando no se recogerá hasta el lunes.”

  “I had a really nice day,” I replied. “I visited my friend, Erica, got a little tipsy, cried about my ex-fiancé, then ate pizza.”

  Soledad smiled. “Me gustaría tener tres niños de menos, ¿sabes? Sólo tres. Pero decir eso, no es una cosa común para una mujer hispana. Tenemos familias grandes, Bailey. Así es nuestra cultura.”

  I nodded. “I should probably put my trash on the curb while I’m thinking about it. But I’m also OCD, so it’s not as though I’ll forget come tomorrow evening, right?” I giggled, and Soledad giggled, too.

  “Usted entiende! Yo amo a mis hijos, pero a veces necesito respirar. ¿Entiende?”

  These were typical conversations with my next-door neighbor. Soledad spoke very little English. I spoke even less Spanish. But somehow we had no problem communicating. I assumed she told me about her day. I always told her about mine. We had a mutual understanding, a mutual like for one another, so the words weren’t really important anyway. The longest conversation on record lasted thirty minutes, and I couldn’t tell you one thing she said to me.