Forever, Interrupted

by Taylor Jenkins Reid

  MAY

  Ben’s back had gotten so bad he couldn’t move. He had called in sick to work for three days. I tried to go to work on Monday but left halfway through the day because he was stuck and didn’t think he could get out of bed by himself. By Wednesday, I had given up trying to go to work and just stayed with him.

  He was pathetic about the pain and acted like a huge baby. He would groan and complain as if he had flesh-eating bacteria every time I asked him how he was doing. But to me, he was adorably ill. I liked being needed by him. I liked making his food for him, running his baths for him, massaging his muscles. I liked caring for him, taking care of him. It made me feel like I had a real purpose. It felt so good to make him feel even the littlest bit better.

  It had been a few days since he’d asked me to marry him, but I was having a hard time ignoring it. He was just drugged up. But what if he did mean it? Why was I so affected by it? It was just a silly thing he said when he was on Vicodin. But how much does Vicodin really mess with you? It doesn’t make you say things you don’t mean.

  I think I was just overly excitable about it because I loved him in a way I’d never thought possible. I knew that if I lost him, if I had to live without him, it would crush me. I needed him and I didn’t just need him now, I needed him in the future. I needed him always. I wanted him always. I wanted him to be the father of my children. It’s such a silly statement now; people say it all the time, they throw it around like it’s nothing. And some people treat it like it is nothing, but it wasn’t nothing to me. I wanted to have children with him someday. I wanted to be a parent with him. I wanted to have a child that was half him and half me. I wanted to commit to him and sacrifice for him. I wanted to lose part of myself in order to gain some of him. I wanted to marry him. So I wanted him to have meant it. I wanted it to be real.

  As he got better and better, he asked me to take one more day off work to spend with him. He said that I had been so great to him, he wanted one day to return the favor. It wasn’t difficult to oblige him.

  I woke to him standing over me with a tray of breakfast foods.

  “Voilà!” he said, grinning as he watched me. I sat up in bed and let him set the tray in front of me. The tray was full of things I would normally consider mutually exclusive: a bagel and a croissant; French toast and waffles; cream cheese and butter. He’d even toasted a Pop-Tart.

  “I think I went a bit overboard,” he said. “But it was all really easy. You can get all of this at your local grocer’s freezer.”

  “Thank you,” I said. I smiled and kissed his lips as he bent down toward me. He didn’t moan or wail in pain.

  “Are you taking the pain medication finally?”

  “Nope!” he said proudly. “I just feel better.”

  “You just feel better?”

  “Yes! This is what I mean. You people and your Western medicine,” he said with a smile. “I really feel fine. I swear.”

  He walked around the side of the bed and sat down next to me. He stared at my food as I began to attack it.

  “Did you want some?” I offered.

  “Took you long enough. Jesus,” he said as he grabbed the Pop-Tart. “Were you going to eat this all yourself?”

  I kissed his cheek and took the Pop-Tart out of his mouth. I offered him a waffle instead. “I was really looking forward to this. Brown sugar and cinnamon is my favorite flavor.” I bit a huge chunk out of it before he could try to wrestle it back from me. He resigned himself to the waffle.

  “I think we should get married,” he said. “What do you think of that?”

  I laughed, completely unsure of how serious he was. “Why do you keep joking like that?” I said. I sounded more exasperated than I wanted to.

  “I’m not joking,” he said.

  “Yes, you are.” I finished the Pop-Tart and wiped my hands. “Stop joking about it or you’ll end up married,” I said.

  “Oh, is that so?”

  “Yes, that’s so.”

  “So, if I said, ‘Let’s go get married today,’ you’d go get married today?”

  “What are you doing? Daring me?”

  “I’m just asking a question, is all,” he said, but the tone of his voice wasn’t one of a hypothetical question. I suddenly became embarrassed and anxious.

  “Well, I just . . . ” I said. “You wouldn’t.”

  “Would you? That is my question.”

  “You can’t do that! You can’t ask me if I would if you wouldn’t!”

  He grabbed my hand. “You said I wouldn’t. I didn’t say that.”

  “Are you asking me to marry you for real?” I asked, finally unsure of how else to figure out what conversation we were actually having.

  “I want to be with you for the rest of my life and I know that it is soon, but I would like to marry you. I don’t want to ask you to marry me if it freaks you out or you think it’s crazy.”

  “For real?” I was too excited by this idea to trust my own ears.

  “Elsie! Jesus! Yes!”

  “I don’t think it’s crazy!” I said. I grabbed him as tears started building in my eyes. I looked at him.

  “You don’t?” I could see his eyes start to water as well. They were growing red. His face was no longer carefree. It was sincere and moved.

  “No!” I could no longer control my voice. I could barely control my limbs.

  “You’ll marry me?” He grabbed my head on both sides and focused my face on his. I could feel my hair crinkling between his hands and my ears. I knew we both looked silly on our knees in the middle of our crumpled bed, but I could focus on nothing but him.

  “Yes,” I said softly and stunned, and then it grew louder and louder. “Yes! Yes! Yes!” I said, kissing him. He was holding on to me tightly. I have no doubt that some of our neighbors thought they were overhearing something they shouldn’t have.

  We fell back onto the bed and proved them right. “I love you,” he said to me over and over. He whispered it and he moaned it. He spoke it and he sang it. He loved me. He loved me. He loved me.

  And just like that, I was going to be part of a family again.

  NOVEMBER

  By the time Sunday afternoon rolls around, Ana has been well indoctrinated into this new, luxurious lifestyle.

  She, Susan, and I are lying out by the pool. The weather has started to cool during the nights, but the days are still hot enough to lie outside. Given that it’s early November, it makes me especially glad to live in Southern California. Winter is upon us, and yet, I can barely feel a chill.

  Ana read an entire book this weekend. Susan cooked every meal as if she was a gourmet chef. I mostly lazed around like I have been doing, getting to the point where I am so bored that I yearn for some sort of life again. A couple of times yesterday I pondered whether to pick up a hobby. No final decision has been made.

  We are all in a little bit of a food coma from the soufflé Susan made for our “lunch dessert,” as she called it. We are all quiet at the moment, but I decide to break the silence.

  “So what are you and Kevin doing this week?” I ask.

  “Oh, not sure,” Ana said. “Although, did I tell you? He asked me to meet his parents.”

  “He did?” I ask.

  “How long have you two been together?” Susan asks.

  “Oh, just a few months now. But I really like him. He’s . . . ”

  “He’s really sweet,” I say to Susan. I mean it, so it comes across like I mean it and I think it touches Ana. I still maintain that he’s a bit blah all around, but you don’t need spice in the boyfriend of your best friend. You need him to be reliable, kindhearted, and sincere. You need to know he won’t hurt her, if he can help it. You need to know he has good intentions. By all of those accounts, I like Kevin. (But he’s boring.)

  “Are his parents from around here?” I ask.

  “He’s from San Jose. So it’s a few hours’ drive, but he said he really wanted them to meet me.”

  This touches a nerve
with Susan. I can see it. Ana probably can’t, but I’ve done nothing but sit around with this woman for five weeks now. I know her like the back of my hand. I also knew her son and I’m learning that they aren’t altogether terribly different people.

  Susan lightly excuses herself as Ana and I continue to talk. I remember when I was happy like she is, when Ben felt invincible to me like I’m sure Kevin feels to her now. I remember how I felt like nothing in the world could take that feeling away from me. There was nothing I could not do. But instead of hating her for being happy, I can see now that I am feeling melancholy, nostalgic, and a little jealous. It’s not perfect, but it’s certainly a lot healthier than last month.

  Ana gets her things ready, and I walk her out to her car. She’s meeting Kevin for dinner tonight in L.A., and I don’t begrudge her leaving early for it. I’m also exhausted from the company. I’ve been alone so many hours lately that talking to two people at once has been a struggle for my attention span.

  “Oh!” she says, turning toward her car and digging through it. “I forgot that I brought your mail.” She finds it and hands me a big chunk of envelopes. I already know that some of them will have Ben’s name on them. Truth be told, I was happy to let the piles accumulate in my mailbox hours away. If my marriage certificate isn’t in here, I’m gonna wig out.

  “Awesome,” I say and give her a hug. “Thank you. For this, and for coming here. It really means a lot to me.”

  “I miss you, girl,” Ana says, as she gets in her car. “But you seem happier. Just a little.”

  I don’t want to seem happier, even if I do feel it a little bit. It feels wrong to be labeled “happier,” even if it is incremental. The woman that loved Ben as fiercely as I did would never feel any degree of happy after losing him.

  “Drive safe,” I say. “Tell Kevin I said hi.”

  “You got it.”

  When she’s gone, I rifle through the envelopes looking for one from the County Recorder’s Office. I come up short. My stomach sinks, and I know that I have to call them tomorrow. I cannot ignore this problem. I cannot pretend it doesn’t exist. I need to know what is going on with the legality of my marriage. I have to face it.

  At the bottom of the stack is a hand-addressed envelope. The writing is shaky and uneven. I don’t have to look at the return address to know who it is from.

  Mr. George Callahan.

  I put the other envelopes on the sidewalk and sit down on the curb. I tear open the envelope.

  Dear Elsie,

  I hope you don’t mind that I asked the library for your mailing address. They were hesitant to give it to me, but an old man has his ways. First of all, I wanted to tell you that I don’t know why you punched that guy but that I hope you won’t mind me telling Lorraine about it. It was the most interesting thing to happen in months!

  The real reason I am writing is because Lorraine is not well. The doctors have taken her from our home and she is now staying in the hospital. Unfortunately, old age is really starting to catch up to her. I am staying with her here at Cedars-Sinai. Sometimes I take a cab back to our home and get some of her things, but most of the time, I stay right here next to her. She is sleeping most of the time, but that’s all right by me. Just being next to her, hearing her breathe, feels like a miracle sometimes.

  I wanted to say that I am sorry for telling you to move on. I am now looking at the prospect of living without the love of my life, and I find it daunting and miserable. I do not know how I will live a day after I lose her. I feel like I am standing on the edge of a huge, black hole, waiting to fall.

  Maybe there is one person for everyone. If so, Lorraine was mine. Maybe the reason I was able to get over Esther was because she wasn’t the right one. Maybe the reason you can’t get over Ben is because he was.

  I just wanted you to know that even at almost ninety, I’m still learning new things every day, and I think I am learning now that when you lose the thing you love most in the world, things can’t be okay again.

  I’d like to say I miss you at the library, but truthfully, I don’t get down there very much.

  As I’ve reread this now, I realize it’s a little bit of a mopey letter, so I hope you’ll excuse my rambling.

  Thanks for listening.

  Best,

  George Callahan

  I walk inside and ask Susan where her stationery is. She gives me some, and I sit down at her kitchen table. I write until my hand feels like it’s going to fall off. My palm feels cramped, my fingers ache. I have been holding the pen too tightly. I have been pressing the pen down too hard. I read over what I have written and see that it makes absolutely no sense. It is barely legible. So I throw it away and I write what my heart is screaming at him.

  Dear George,

  I was wrong. You are wrong.

  We can live again. I’m not sure if we can love again, but we can live again.

  I believe in you.

  Love,

  Elsie

  MAY

  We had filled the day with discussions about how to get married and where to get married and when to get married. I realized I didn’t know the first thing about marriage. Logistically, I mean. How does one get married? What does one need to do?

  I found out pretty quickly that Ben was thinking of a real wedding. He was thinking of a wedding with bridesmaids and white dresses, flowers in the centers of round tables. Champagne flutes. A dance floor. I wasn’t opposed to that; it just hadn’t occurred to me. His proposal felt unorthodox; our relationship felt electric and exciting. It seemed strange to seal it with something so conventional. It felt more appropriate to put on some clothes and drive down to city hall. Large weddings with long guest lists and speeches felt like things that people did when they had been together for years. They felt rational and practiced, well thought out and logical—like a business decision. I wanted to do something crazy. Something you’d only do if you were in as much love as we were.

  “Okay, so you’re thinking a small wedding?” he asked me.

  “I mean, it can be as big as you want it to be,” I said. “If it were up to me, there wouldn’t be anyone there. Just me, you, and the officiant.”

  “Oh wow, okay, so you’re talking about straight-up eloping,” he said.

  “Aren’t you?”

  “Well, I was thinking we could do it with our families and really plan something, you know? But now that you say it, eloping does sound much easier. Certainly more exciting,” he said as he smiled at me and grabbed my hand.

  “Really?” I said.

  “Yeah. How does one go about eloping?” he said, and when he did, his eyes were so bright, his face almost maniacally excited, I knew he was on board.

  “I have no idea.” I laughed. Everything felt funny to me. Everything felt invigorating. I felt light and giddy, like the wind could knock me over.

  “Ah!” he said, excited. “Okay! Let’s do it! Let’s get married now. Can we do it today? Can we, like, go somewhere right now and do it?”

  “Now?” I said. We hadn’t even showered yet.

  “No better time than the present,” he said, grabbing me into his arms and holding me. I could tell he was smelling my hair. I just lay against his chest and let him.

  “Great,” I said. “Let’s do it today.”

  “Okay.” He ran out of the room and grabbed a suitcase.

  “What are you doing?” I asked him.

  “Well, we’re going to Vegas, right? Isn’t that how people elope?”

  “Oh!” Honestly, that thought hadn’t even occurred to me. But he was exactly right. Vegas was where people went to do those things. “Okay! Let’s go.”

  Ben was throwing clothes into the bag and checking his watch. “If we leave in the next twenty minutes or so, we can be there by 10:00 p.m. I’m sure there are chapels open at ten.”

  That’s when it hit me. This was really happening. I was about to get married.

  NOVEMBER

  You okay?” Susan asks me from the kitc
hen. I am addressing the envelope to Mr. Callahan.

  “Actually, I am really good. You okay?”

  “Mmm-hmm,” she said. “I wanted to talk to you about something actually.”

  “Oh?”

  “Well.” She sits down next to me at the breakfast nook table. “I closed Ben’s bank account.”

  “Oh,” I say. I didn’t know she was going to do that. I don’t really know if it’s her place to do that.

  “It really is none of my business,” she said. “But I did it because I knew that if you did it, or if I tried to get you to do it, you would not take the money.”

  “Oh,” I say. “I don’t feel comfortable—”

  “Listen.” She grabs my hand. “You were his wife. He would want you to have it. What am I going to do with it? Add it to the pile of money I was left from Steven? It means more in your hands, and Ben would want it that way. It’s not some extravagant amount. Ben was a smart guy, but he wasn’t brilliant with money. Neither was his father. Actually, if I hadn’t taken out the life insurance policy on Steven when we were in our twenties, I’d be in a much different place right now, but that’s beside the point. Take the money, okay?”

  “Uh . . . ”

  “Elsie,” she says to me. “Take the damn money. I didn’t spend forty-five minutes on the phone with the bank convincing them I had the authority to do it for my health. I did it behind your back so I could deceive you enough to get the check in your name.” She smiled at me, and I laughed.

  “Okay,” I say. It doesn’t even occur to me to ask how much it is. It seems irrelevant and somehow perverse, like knowing what color underwear your dermatologist is wearing.

  “By the way, while we are talking about uncomfortable and depressing things, what did the county say about your marriage certificate? Did you call?”