“Did you figure out why you had insomnia before?”
“No. Perhaps I was just bored. Or I was afraid of wasting my life.”
“Killing time, huh?”
I looked down.
“Have you ever killed time?” he asked.
“Yes, I think I have, and I hate myself for it.”
“Maybe you needed to rest, to shut your mind down. You shouldn’t punish yourself for that.”
“Do you think insomnia was my way to punish myself?”
“I’ve thought it,” he said, but he didn’t give me the diagnosis I was hoping for. And he continued, “I loved your description of our first meeting. Did you really want to make love to me?”
“Yes, I did,” I said, and smiled, somehow surprising myself with that truth.
“I did too,” he said, perhaps thinking that it felt good to be honest. It seemed it did.
“I know,” I said. “I read your comments.”
“Right. Sometimes it’s surprisingly easy to be honest . . .”
We both smiled.
“And you masturbated thinking of me?”
I looked at him and paused. I remembered his questions. He was going over them, one by one, as if he were following his script, careful not to miss any part of it.
“Did you come here to get your answers?” I asked.
“No. I came here to make sure you listen to them.”
“I’m not following.”
“You said you’re having trouble writing your finale. I’m trying to help.”
I didn’t comment on that, but I thought about his words.
As we walked, the tension between us slowly disappeared and turned into curiosity. What did he know about my story? What did he know about my search that I didn’t? If I had asked him, he wouldn’t have told me. I had to go find the answer myself. He had left the door open. Again.
“Yes, I masturbated thinking of you. But I didn’t think you would be doing the same, so that thought did not turn me on,” I said, and thought about his question, one that was hard to forget.
I would have loved to see you masturbate that morning. I actually did the same thinking of you. Did it cross your mind that I could be doing that? Did it turn you on?
“Why did I make you uncomfortable?” Another of his questions I remembered.
“It was the unknown,” I said.
“What do you mean?”
“What I didn’t know about you made me uncomfortable. The way you looked at me. The thoughts that were crossing your mind and I didn’t see. The ones that were crossing my mind and I couldn’t share with you. Sometimes I felt I had to play the role that you had imagined for me. But it wasn’t mine, and I felt trapped in your idea.”
“Would you believe me if I said you made me uncomfortable too?”
It was hard to believe. I tried.
When we walked back onto the main street, I looked for the autumn leaves, but I couldn’t find any.
“Look at the sky. It’s not like in LA. It seems more distant from us.”
Yes, it did. It looked unreachable now, and it probably was.
I remembered another of his questions.
“You wondered why I always tried to fix you?” I asked.
“Yes. Why did you?”
“I was hoping you would commit to me.”
“Are you sure that’s what you wanted?”
“You don’t think that was the reason?”
“It’s not convincing,” he said. “I don’t think you like stability. You’re not stable. Like me. Instability is what you know and look for. Am I right?”
Was he?
I didn’t know the answer to that.
His questions and my answers or silences were generating more questions. I got it now. He was helping me. But I needed him to push me, I needed him to ask the questions he had written for me, otherwise I would have forgotten or convinced myself that I no longer remembered them.
“The red lipstick . . . Why did you use it that day?”
“I think I wanted to be fucked,” I said.
“I thought so.”
“But you didn’t fuck me that night.”
“I didn’t,” he said. “I couldn’t. I would have made love to you, and I was scared.”
We walked more in silence, sometimes looking at each other, sometimes looking somewhere else.
Elinor was a hard topic.
“Do you still think about that night at the theater?” he asked.
“Yes, I do.”
“And what are your thoughts?”
“It’s not about the cheating anymore. It’s more about me, my fear of losing my mind.”
“What do you mean?”
“That night I felt like the pain was poisoning my brain.”
“Your description of the hotel was scary.”
“It was a scary place, but you know what? I thought it was exactly where I was supposed to be.”
“Hell?”
“Yes, except that hell appeared more comforting than my mind.”
“Was that the only time you felt so?”
I looked at my hands and said, “No.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“I’ll let you read that.”
He took a breath, and said, “The night you left, I looked for you. Went to places where I thought you might be, asked my friends to help. I felt horrible.”
It never crossed my mind that he could have looked for me. So many things I didn’t know.
“I also lose my mind sometimes, and I like it,” he then confessed, perhaps trying to make me feel better. “I like to drink myself to numbness.”
I had seen that. I believed it.
“Did you ever think I could be a drug addict?” he asked.
“Are you?”
“Did you?” he pushed.
“I . . . No, I didn’t think that.”
“What if I told you that I am. Would that surprise you?”
I hesitated.
“No, I guess it wouldn’t.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. Maybe because I know you, or perhaps because I don’t.”
He looked at me as if he wanted to say that I did know him.
“Why do you think I cheated on you?” he then asked.
“Because you didn’t care?”
“I actually cared, perhaps more than you think.”
He looked sad and turned away to hide it. I almost believed him. He breathed in that summertime air and we arrived back in front of my grandmother’s house.
“Did you ever doubt that I loved you?” he asked.
After a long pause, I spoke.
“No. I guess deep down I never did.”
“Do you still miss me?” he asked.
“Do you miss making love to me?” I asked.
“Is that what’s blocking your writing?”
I looked at him, then opened the gate, and walked back into the house.
Haunted
Is that what’s blocking your writing?
I heard Nick’s voice asking that over and over again. And it became louder, and louder, until it started screaming in my head.
Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh! my head cried. Who would hear that?
I had been writing for hours when I checked the time. It was three in the morning. The night seemed silent. Where did all that noise in my head come from?
I reached out to the bottle on my desk to pour another glass when I noticed there was no wine left. But I had opened that bottle that night. Was that how much I had drunk? I stood up and went looking for more wine. I searched my grandmother’s house, and finally found a bottle covered in dust. A label on it said,
Happy anniversary, Jasmine. Wayne. November 2, 1968.
My mother had died on the day of their anniversary? Nobody ever told me that. I thought about putting the bottle down, but I was too drunk to think rationally, and I missed her, and I was angry, at her, at my father, at Nick. I needed to drink. As I was walki
ng back to my bedroom, I stopped in front of my mother’s room. I stared at the door for a while, undecided on whether I should enter.
Is that what’s blocking your writing?
I rubbed my eyes to think more clearly but I couldn’t. I entered her room. Maybe I wanted to share the wine with her. Would she come visit me? Would she forgive me for opening her bottle then? Her room was so silent. For a while I thought the noise had left me alone. I felt relieved. The windows were open, and the white curtains were moving with the wind. I had never seen them still. My mother loved the wind, and everything was as she had left it. I drank a bit, then more. I closed my eyes, and when I opened them again I saw her. She was as I remembered her, that memory of her I had not revisited in years. I thought I had forgotten. But there she was. Fragile, pale, her long hair, wavy, thin, extremely thin. You could see through her. A living ghost.
“Play with me,” she whispered.
“I don’t feel like it,” I said.
“Why not? Nobody will see us.”
“That’s not the point. I drank too much. I feel sick.”
“Is that why you don’t want to play with me, Susan? What are you afraid of?”
“Mom,” I said. I had not called her that name in years, perhaps not even in my dreams. It felt weird. “I can’t play with you.”
“Remember when we used to play? You liked it.”
“I didn’t,” I said. “I did not. I can’t play.”
Is that what’s blocking your writing?
That voice was back.
“What’s wrong?”
“I can’t. I don’t like this.”
Is that what’s blocking your writing?
“Do you want to hear my story?” she said. “You want to know why I killed myself?”
“Mom, don’t.”
Is that what’s blocking your writing?
“You need to hear it.”
I lay the bottle on the bed, and the wine spilled all over. The bedsheet looked bloodstained, and the blood smelled like hell.
“My head was too loud,” she said. “I heard voices. Loud voices. They made me sick to my stomach.”
Is that what’s blocking your writing?
“One day I thought they were in my veins. Those fucking voices. I cut them. I cut the veins. I did exactly what you did, Susan. I cut my skin, then the veins, deeper into them.”
She laughed. I cried. My tears were warm now. I lay my head on the wine. The wine wet my hair. My head started spinning.
Is that what’s blocking your writing?
“I cut my veins, Susan. But the voices didn’t leave me.”
“What did your voices tell you?” I asked. I wanted to hear. Were they similar to the one I was hearing now?
“They said I was trapped. Had nowhere to go. That I was drowning.”
“But you weren’t, Mom. Were you?”
“How do you know? You’re drowning yourself and you don’t even see it.”
I ran my fingers across my face and my tears tasted like blood and wine. I was confused. I implored her to stop, but she didn’t.
Is that what’s blocking your writing?
“Mom, stop,” I asked her again, but she continued.
“They kept pounding in my head. Those stupid voices. They would never let me free. When I went to bed, when I woke up, in the middle of everything and everywhere.”
Is that what’s blocking your writing?
“Mom, please.”
“I had to kill myself, Susan. I had to do it. I had no choice.”
“You had a choice.”
“Really? What was it? What choice, Susan?”
She came close. I saw her hands. They were still young, as I remembered them. But then she came closer, and I saw her head, cut, hanging to one side.
I cried.
“You’re like me, Susan. You are exactly like me.”
Is that what’s blocking your writing?
Is that what’s blocking your writing?
Addictions
When I woke up the next day, the wine’s stench was so intense that it made me sick. I felt I had to throw up. I looked at the clock on the wall and its swinging pendulum. Its repetitive ticking amplified my nausea and forced me to stand up. It was almost six. The sun would be up soon. I had to be quick, I thought. I folded the bedsheet and headed to the bathroom to wash it before my grandmother woke up. I didn’t want her to see that. I passed by a mirror and avoided looking at myself. But then I wanted to see. I went back and looked. What I saw disgusted me.
“Susan, are you awake?” My grandmother called from downstairs.
I said I’d be down soon. I pushed the bedsheet into the washing machine and wished I could have joined it. I could add some bleach, some softener, and come out whiter, cleaner, sweeter. I did what I could to hide the hell of the past few hours, but she was waiting, and I needed more time to fake a healthy smile for her, big enough to hide everything else. So I gave up. It just wasn’t going to work. When I went down, I saw my grandmother seated at the dining table, holding a cup. I smelled the coffee and closed my eyes to taste it. She looked at me and smiled.
“What?” I asked.
“What?” she echoed me.
“Why are you smiling?”
She looked down and remained silent for a while.
“What do you see that makes you smile?”
She rose and went to the kitchen to place the cup in the sink. I waited for her to return and answer my question. When she came, though, she looked at me and said, “You’re going through hell. Aren’t you?”
“Yes. And that makes you smile?”
She became serious, her smile disappeared from her lips.
“You need to finish your story. We’ll talk about this when you’re done.” She went up the stairs, turned, and said, “Close the door when you leave. I’ll see you when you’re done. Remember you promised to read the rest of the story to me.” She turned again, and added, “Your fiction.” I heard her soft laugh.
Her tone had changed. Her voice now reminded me of something I had seen, experienced, before, but I couldn’t say exactly what it was. I left a note for Eva and asked her to take care of the bedsheet in the washing machine, grabbed my stuff, and left.
When I arrived back home, Matt was getting ready to leave. He scanned me, and before I even said anything, he spoke.
“Is this what you’re doing at your grandmother’s place?”
I knew what he meant, so I didn’t ask him to explain or try to hide my misery. I wanted to talk to him, share with him exactly what had happened the night before, my nightmares, the memories that were tormenting me, but I didn’t mention any of that, and just said,“I know. It won’t happen again.”
He didn’t respond and returned to the bedroom to choose a tie for the day, one among the many he had. All in variations of blue, all of which I had selected. Every time I could almost predict the one he would pick. This time I expected the striped dark-blue one. I was right. I poured some of the coffee Matt had made and checked on Will. He was sleeping. Did he wake up last night? Did he call my name? I didn’t ask Matt, and I took a shower. When I came out of the bathroom, Matt said Will had slept well. He asked me if I wanted him to take Will to my father’s.
“You’ll need some silence today. I bet you have a terrible headache.”
I said there was no need, as I wanted to spend time with Will.
“I’m writing my finale.” I tried to open up a bit.
“Hmm . . .”
He took his work bag, headed to the door, then turned and asked, “Will I see you tonight?”
“I’ll wait until you return, but I will then go to my apartment. I need a few more days.”
“Are you sure this is healthy? What you’re doing to yourself?”
“I don’t know.”
He didn’t say more, just closed the door and disappeared.
I thought about last night and felt drained and confused. I remembered Nick’s questions, the ones I
had read, the ones he had asked. I thought about giving him a voice in my story, but I wasn’t sure I believed that voice, and so I wasn’t sure it should be part of the fiction.
Do you still miss me?
Do you miss making love to me?
Those questions had remained unanswered, perhaps because they didn’t need an answer.
As I sat immersed in the taste of my coffee and in my thoughts, still in my robe, my hair wet to give me a temporary illusion of cleanliness, Will woke up. I played with him, smiled for him, sang, watched cartoons, and drew smiling trees and trains with big eyes. I didn’t fake any of that. I would dig into my darkness to find those trees and trains for him, and when I found them they seemed real, even to me. But as soon as he fell asleep or started playing on his own, those trees and trains disappeared, and the shadows would return. Those shadows had become darker and darker lately. I was afraid of them.
I spent all day suspended between the light me and the dark me, and I did not write. When Matt came home that night, we tried to talk, sort of.
“Do you want to talk about it?” he tried. I’m sure he had thought about it all day. I hadn’t.
“What do you want to know?”
“What you are feeling?”
I looked for an answer that would tell him enough. Could I grab my feelings, hold them, display them in a window for him? Every time I tried to hold them all within my arms, tried to explain them to myself, they would flee, disappear somewhere.
“Unfinished,” I then said, and wondered whether he would understand, as he didn’t know about the frozen butterflies, the unfinished stories, Andrew and his comments, my sketches, and what I felt when I thought about all of this.
“Unfinished,” I repeated. Would he understand now? Did it help that I had repeated it?
He looked at me, trying hard not to ask or say too much. I would have helped him if I could. I needed his silence now. But there was nothing definitive I could say that would make him feel better about me.
Frozen Butterflies Page 21
