You Can't Buy Love Like That

by Carol E. Anderson

  Soaking in the tub, I sought comfort in the softness of the bubbles until Kathy, my off-campus roommate knocked on the bathroom door and reminded me of the time. Without enthusiasm I roamed through my closet and selected my beige jumper and dark brown blouse to wear. People would arrive in forty minutes, so I quickly dressed and went out to meet my hosting friends. I took a tour around the apartment, moving first to the food table, with tea sandwiches and a variety of salads surrounding a large cake with “Congratulations Carol and Mike” scrawled in cursive on the frosting. Another table, set aside for all the gifts, was draped with a white curtain from the bedroom. I felt anxious and disconnected as I wandered through the space and wondered why I didn’t feel happier.

  I greeted my mother at the door.

  “Hi, honey. How are you?” She leaned in and gave me a hug, then in the next breath said, “Oh, Carol. You aren’t going to wear that, are you? Why don’t you wear the green dress you wore to the mother-and-daughter banquet last year?”

  Not in the mood for an argument, I smiled and thanked her for her suggestion and just moved on. “Do I look all right?” I kept asking everyone who passed by until Julie took me by the hand and led me to a chair, sat me down, and took a seat next to me.

  “Are you okay?” she asked.

  “My stomach is a mess.”

  “I think that’s natural,” she said, putting her hand on my knee in a reassuring gesture. “Try to focus on something that makes you happy.”

  My only thought was that I should feel joyful on this occasion, but I didn’t.

  Once everyone arrived, Kathy and Julie led the group in some silly shower games before I opened the presents. Through the whole afternoon, I forced smiles of appreciation and gratitude while my gut flared in opposition to the whole affair. Before leaving, I walked my mother to the car. “It was such a lovely party,” she said as I hugged her goodbye. “You two make such a handsome couple.”

  I wanted to grab her by the hand and say, “You don’t understand. I’m dying inside. I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m scared to death and not sure I love him as much as I loved Nicky.” Instead, I said, “Thanks, Mom. It was great to see you.”

  My roommates moved out of my apartment after graduation. I continued to live there while working part-time as a teacher at a private business school in the evening and as a substitute in public school during the day. This would be a temporary living arrangement until after the wedding in June. As the weeks went on, I felt more confined, trapped. One night in May, Julie presented me with a gift: a Raggedy Ann doll inside a meticulously wrapped cardboard box. I had one when I was younger and always loved her. Instead of the traditional dress of blue gingham with a white apron, this Raggedy Ann was in hand-sewn denim overalls with a white turtleneck, her pudgy hands sticking out at the ends of the sleeves. The outfit was custom made by Julie herself.

  “You looked so nervous at your shower, I thought you needed something to hold on to.”

  “She’s beautiful,” I said, staring at her and noticing the fine stitching on the overalls and the detail on her white turtleneck. She made her with such love and attention, not only to the creation of Raggedy’s outfit, but to my emotional needs, as well. Her insights were uncanny in this way—always seeing what was invisible to others. I leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. “You’re really something. I will treasure her always.” She was right: I did need something to hang on to. I was no more comfortable now about the thought of getting married than I had been at the shower. I held the doll with one hand and patted her bright red hair with the other as I tried to untangle the emotional wiring that unraveled inside me.

  Later that week, I went for a long walk in Milham Park and climbed the giant pine tree at the edge of the bridge that Mike and I had climbed on our first date. I watched the ducks fight over the scraps of food others tossed their way, just like they had the first time we came here. I sat for more than an hour scratching my way through the memories of my five-year stint in college, hoping to be touched by a magic elixir that would bring clarity and peace.

  I had never been with anyone as devoted as Mike, or anyone who showed up in such a committed way. It was Mike working side by side with me at three o’clock in the morning twisting the last of the fake carnations onto the wire mesh around the giant goose that laid the golden egg in preparation for the homecoming parade the next morning because I was in charge of that project for my sorority. And it was Mike who jumped in the car with me and drove a hundred and fifty miles to Detroit for a surprise visit to my mother who was feeling down one evening only to jump in the car again at five o’clock in the morning to get back in time for class. It was Mike who stood in the freezing cold while I chiseled the shape of a chipmunk out of ice for the snow sculpture at my dorm one year, patiently handing me the tool I needed and pouring more water on the finished product to keep it frozen. And it was Mike who endured my spontaneous trips to Benton Harbor and South Bend so I could spend time with Nicky. There wasn’t anyone better than him—as a man or as a human being. It wasn’t that he was not enough; it was that he wasn’t what I needed.

  No such elixir came through my reflections, and no mystical insights dropped from the sky. What did come was the sorrowful realization I dreaded to affirm: I had to break the engagement.

  That afternoon, Mike and I went out for lunch and then returned to my apartment, where we sat out front in his car. Though Mike met all the criteria I had been taught to seek in a husband and was the kindest man I knew, I had never felt about him the way I felt about Nicky; I didn’t even have the same animated feelings for him that I had for Julie.

  The sting of this self-acknowledgment was equaled only by the ache that arose at the thought of telling him. I knew he was crazy about me—for reasons that were often difficult to grasp, given my behavior—and I feared the news would devastate him. The knowledge that he could recover from short-term pain more readily than the harm caused by a marriage built on secrets was the only thought that gave me the courage to follow through.

  Since it was impossible for me to tell him about my attraction to women, I told him a partial truth. Fidgeting with my keys, I could feel the words catch in my throat. “You know I love you, Mike, and these past three years have been wonderful. You have always treated me with respect and kindness.”

  There was a long pause, and my voice softened to a whisper. The look on his face told me that he knew the next line would be painful to hear. Avoiding his eyes, I looked down at my keys and went on. “I don’t know how to say this, but I am just not ready to get married right now.”

  The silence weighed on us. The gray of the day pressed through the windowpane as I blinked to keep back the tears. My heart was still pumping, but I felt cold and empty, knowing I was not only killing his dream, but crushing the biggest part of my life that made me feel normal. My face was hot; my hands were freezing. The scene was unfolding in slow motion—no sound, no rustling in our seats, no words coming from him for what seemed like an hour, though I am sure it was only minutes. There was just the internal booming sound of my head throbbing.

  “You know I love you,” he said. “What if we waited a little longer? We don’t have to get married right now.”

  I wanted to cave in and say, “Okay—let’s wait and see.” But I knew I had waited too long already, and no matter how much more time we wallowed in this never-never land of my noncommitment, things wouldn’t change. To go on would be like wounding an animal, then dragging it behind you for miles before you let it die. “I love you too—and always will. I just can’t commit to anything right now and don’t know if or when that will change. You deserve more than that.”

  Stillness hovered in the small space between us as we both stared through the windshield wishing things were different. I didn’t know how to love him in the way I loved women. I didn’t know how to manufacture those same thrilling states of longing and hunger for him that had coursed through my body at the sight of Nicky, or the feelings that I
resisted having for Julie when in her presence. Wishing it so for three years had failed, and I couldn’t go on pretending. I slipped the ring off of my finger and held it out for him to take back.

  “It was made for you. I hope you’ll keep it and wear it sometime on your other hand.”

  “Are you sure?” I asked, bewildered, but grateful. Even if he changed his mind later, I would keep it for now.

  Looking into his face, I saw the hurt my message had caused, the blue of his eyes blurred by tears. I held his hand and felt the familiar roughness I had felt the first night we went out. They were thick and sturdy, comforting and capable hands. There was nothing more to say. I wanted to wish the ache away; I wanted the incessant pounding to stop and for the sting to be eased by something—anything. But nothing could touch this pain for either of us. So we continued to sit there, both accepting the end but neither making a move to get out of the car.

  “I will take care of sending all the gifts from the shower back,” I said.

  “I can help if you like.”

  Doing anything more together felt dangerous. It had taken all I had to make the break, and, despite my resolve, I was unsure of my ability to follow through. “Thanks, but this is my doing, and I need to clean up the mess I’ve made.”

  Finally, I moved toward him and kissed him goodbye, then reached for the door handle to exit the car. As always, he got out, walked around, and opened the door for me. I made my way alone up the stairs to my apartment. Closing the front door behind me, I wondered if I had just made the biggest mistake of my life, but the calm that came over me as I sat on the couch affirmed that I had not.

  chapter

  9

  road trip

  Julie and I took a road trip to Florida in June to take my mind off the wedding I wasn’t going to have. We drove her new lemon yellow Datsun, a gift from her father for graduation. I hadn’t lost my penchant for sunbathing since the days Gina and I spread out on picnic tables slathered in baby oil. Advancing to an oceanside version of tanning made the prospect thrilling. I was ecstatic to get out of town, to listen to the hum of tires on the freeway, to be soothed by salty air and ocean breezes. A major destination on our way south was Knoxville, Tennessee, to visit my Great-Aunt Noreen. I couldn’t wait for them to meet, and I entertained Julie on the way with memories of my favorite relative.

  Aunt Noreen was my grandmother’s sister. I first met her when I was twelve when she attended my grandma’s funeral. She was dressed then in a purple tweed suit with a fake mink collar and a wide-brimmed scarlet hat with a single ostrich feather. Her sturdy calves, partially visible below her skirt, were anchored in the same black stacked heels my grandmother wore—her lips painted a shade that matched her hat. A pair of crimson gloves completed the outfit. Wisps of fine red hair swept out from underneath her headgear; her face had rivers of lines flowing in all directions. She wore round, rimless glasses, and when she smiled, a smudge of lipstick was often visible on her front tooth. Unaware that my grandma had any siblings, I was enchanted by this discovery and mesmerized by Aunt Noreen’s physical presentation as well as her directness. We got on well, and my mother promised we would visit her in a few years, when my brother turned seventeen and could help with the driving.

  Aunt Noreen was the only relative on my mother’s side that I had the slightest interest in knowing. All of the others were distant and stuffy, but Aunt Noreen was bold and funny. Her bawdy humor and disrespect for rules was appealing to a fifteen-year-old with little concern for other’s expectations. She was a shining star in the dark night of extended family members whose greatest joy in life, it seemed, was finding fault with me. But she knew how to talk to me, and she listened to what I had to say.

  My favored memory of that visit was the evening we stood out on her postage-sized patio in the chilled night air and listened to stories about my grandmother that made us wince. As she held court, she reached for a beer out of the carton on the table and popped the top. Feeling emboldened by her audacious attitude, I piped up and said, “I want a beer, too.” Without flinching, she grabbed another and handed it to me, making me embarrassed not to drink at least part of it, though I knew from the sips I’d taken with Gina that I wouldn’t like it. But I liked having the gumption to ask for one. My mother looked on but never said a word.

  Though I refrained from telling my mother, I secretly wished Aunt Noreen had been my grandma instead of the one I got.

  The roads through the mountains were much improved since my last visit, years before, allowing us to cut off a couple hours of travel time. My excitement built as we arrived in the city and followed the directions to her address. Her mobile home was still marked by a string of Chinese lanterns made of crepe paper that hung across her patio. Her pristine white ’57 Chevy was parked at its standard forty-five-degree angle on the hill in the woods, facing toward the road as though to make a quick getaway—just as I remembered it.

  Aunt Noreen had been through a recent surgery, and from the moment we arrived, I sensed a difference in her. The familiar smells of ancient things mixed with perfume flooded us as we entered the living room. The same bright-colored afghans were strewn about. But her voice was different—angry and abrupt. “What took you so long? Come in and get yourselves something to eat. I already ate.”

  My stomach roiled, and the moisture on my palms brought chills in the evening air. This was not her customary animated voice, full of warmth and mischief. I didn’t know if we should get our luggage or maybe look for a hotel. I made introductions. Then we sat down at the table, ate dinner, and joined her in the living room. She sat in her rocker, nodding off in the middle of conversation, occasionally jerking herself to attention to speak. We talked about our trip, how the roads had changed, and how happy we were to be on vacation. I sat on the couch and inhaled the smells of perfume and musty blankets. She no longer asked interesting questions; she felt distant to me, old in a somber way, more like my grandmother, with whom I was never close.

  “I arranged for you to see Dr. Ruth and your Aunt Pearl,” (my grandmother’s other sisters), “while you are here. I don’t know if I will feel well enough to come along.”

  I nodded graciously and said that would be nice. At 9:00 p.m. she said good night. Julie and I stayed up late, enjoying our freedom and anticipating our time at the ocean. Our laughter must have awakened her, and she shuffled out in her baggy blue flannel bathrobe, shouting. “What in the hell are you doing up at this hour? I am exhausted and trying to sleep,” she said in a belittling and irritated tone. I refused to cry or offer apology, though I wanted to bolt out the door, down the steps, and back into the yellow Datsun and drive to Florida without stopping. Where was my exciting, eccentric, understanding Aunt Noreen? She left the room, and we turned out the lights. Tears stung my eyes as I pressed my face into the antique pillowcase lying on the cot across from Julie.

  The next day we went out to dinner with Dr. Ruth and Pearl, plus Billie and Buddy, my cousins. We talked about the nothings that relatives talk about when they don’t know each other well.

  “My how you’ve grown,” Ruth said. “How is your mother?”

  Then my Aunt Pearl chimed in, “It has been so hard for her all these years with your dad being so sick and all. Could you please pass the coleslaw—I just love how they make it here.”

  A chorus of voices slid over each other as I sat and acted polite on the outside, though my insides felt ragged from the night before. At the end of the meal, we went back to Aunt Noreen’s house—full of food, but not so full of the love I had remembered. Julie and I left the next day. After our visit, she wrote my mother a letter that caused them to break ties altogether. It would be another eight years before I learned the content of that message.

  As we rolled down the road toward I-85, Julie turned off the radio and asked how I felt.

  “Well, that didn’t turn out like I thought it would,” I said. “She used to be different—fun and funny, with a great sense of humor. I’m sorry s
he was so mean.”

  “That’s okay. You should meet some of my relatives,” Julie said with a laugh.

  I glanced her way again and saw that she still had her eyes fixed on me.

  “What are you thinking?” I asked, worried that this bad start to the vacation had really put a damper on the whole thing.

  “I want to tell you something.”

  I had no idea what she was about to say, but I feared that she didn’t want to be my friend anymore. Maybe she had heard stories about me being gay. I gripped the wheel a little tighter and waited for the bad news.

  “What is it?” Jesus, I thought—just spit it out. I can take it.

  “I was thinking that I would really like to kiss you.”

  I turned sharply in her direction to see if she was joking or if some weird spell had come over her. Not only was that the last thing I expected; it was also way beyond the last thing I wanted, and my immediate response was a resounding, “Oh, no you wouldn’t.” It wasn’t the most sensitive approach, but I was having none of that again. I thought Julie was straight. I certainly knew that I wanted to be. What now? I wondered. Do I explain what happened to me with Nicky, and how horrible it was in spite of how wonderful it was, too? Do I admit that, even though I have been fighting against it, I am attracted to her, also? Or do I just keep my mouth shut?

  I pulled off at the first rest area and stopped the car. My uneasiness increased as I turned toward her. Before I spoke, I made her promise that she would never tell anyone what I was about say. She swore that she wouldn’t, and I spilled out my whole story. I told her about Nicky and the terror I felt in having those feelings because of my Christian upbringing, and about the guilt that followed me everywhere because I loved Mike and he was such a good person. I told her about the horror of being confronted by the other RAs, the dread my parents would find out, and how I was terrorized each time the phone rang at home, certain someone was calling to tell them I was gay. And that, even though I could feel the intermittent waves of attraction to her, I was not, for any reason, under any circumstance, ever going to act on them.