by John Lynch
“These are good people, Lindsey. They’ve become friends of mine.”
Nothing more than a clumsy nod.
It amazes me how my wife can get everybody rushing to her defense simply by playing the frightened, unhappy child. I’ve seen it so often, but never as clearly and blatantly as right now. All I wanted was for her to meet these people I’ve come to know and enjoy, and the very fact that I enjoy them is her signal to derail the day.
“Lindsey, why don’t you at least say something?” I ask. “People are talking to you, and you’re giving them nothing.”
“She seems to be eating shrimp,” Hank says, giving me a furrowed brow.
No, Hank, she’s trying to wreck the day for me.
I sigh and look down at my hands. “I’m sorry. I thought you’d enjoy this place.”
She looks up at me with a hurt expression, trying to telegraph to the whole table what a bad person I am.
“What do you want, Steven? I am enjoying this place.”
I can feel several pairs of eyes burning into me. “You know exactly what I’m talking about, Lindsey.”
“What? What are you talking about? Steven, stop it. You’re doing it again.”
Her voice is loud and piercing.
Great! Now you’re mad. And you’re going to let everyone see it. Now I’ve done something so terrible, and you’re angry and so you’re justified, right? You win. You put on a show, stack the deck. Yep, looks like you got what you wanted.
“Steven, I don’t think—” Cynthia starts, but I cut her off.
“What are you getting bent out of shape about, Lindsey? How hard is it for you to just enjoy yourself, enjoy this place? You’re acting like it’s this huge burden.”
“A huge… ?” She glares at me, and then her eyes turn to the others at the table.
No you don’t. Don’t go after their sympathy. Stand up for yourself if you’re so innocent. This is between you and me.
“Steven, do you remember you asked me to tell you when you’re doing it. Well, you’re doing it.”
“No, I’m not!”
“Please! Just stop it.” The last part she hisses through her teeth.
The next few moments are a blur. I snap back with something, and Andy is suddenly trying to calm me down like I’m an out-of-control kid.
No, Andy. That’s not right. That’s not what’s going on here!
And then I just blow. I say some really stupid, really mean things that all seem necessary in the moment. Suddenly Lindsey is on her feet, crying. She tries to get away, but discovers there is no exit in the direction she has run. Still crying, she’s forced to turn around and walk past us all before she can get off the deck and down the stairs.
I stand to go after her, but I feel Hank tugging my arm and blocking my path.
I hear Cynthia say, “Hey, Steven, I’ll go down and find her, okay? Why don’t you just hold on a second, dear.”
Everyone is trying to not stare at me. That’s when it hits. The avalanche of realization. The crystal clarity of knowing what you’ve done a split second after it’s irretrievably out there. I’ve hit the Send button, and the e-mail is gone. And I can’t unsend it. In a matter of seconds I can see the entire conversation, the entire scene from three or four angles that simply did not cross my mind until this moment. I’ve lost it again.
I look around the deck. Everyone is frozen in their places. I am suddenly hit with an overwhelming wave of shame and embarrassment. I am angry, at myself. Angry that I could let myself get this exposed. Angry and afraid that I broke my promise.
Hank is still standing next to me. A moment ago he was blocking my path. Now I realize he has an arm around my shoulder.
“You okay?” he says, looking directly at me with incredible care and concern. For the first time I realize Hank is my ally.
“I blew it,” is all I can say.
He gently turns me around and guides me back into my chair. Carlos is leaning in across the table. “You okay, man?” he asks quietly. “What’s going on?”
What is going on? I have no idea. I have no explanation for what just happened. How did I not see what was happening and get a grip on it?
Hank has moved to Lindsey’s chair. He picks up a shrimp from her abandoned plate and says, “Did you think you wouldn’t mess up again? Because you will, you know.”
“I do now.”
I start up out of the chair. Andy, who is sitting on the other side of me, puts his hand on my shoulder and gently but firmly pulls me back down.
“I’ve got to go after her,” I explain.
“I really want you to listen to me right now,” Andy says strongly, getting up to stand in front of me. “She’s had enough lunch for one day.”
Cynthia surfaces at the stairs. “Hon, um, I can take Lindsey home. I’d be really glad if you’d let me do that for you. She’s in my car right now.”
I just nod my head.
“It’s gonna be all right, Steven,” Cynthia calls out to me. “These things take some time, don’t they?” Then she is off down the stairs and out to her car, where my wife sits.
There is more quiet at the table.
“Well, looks like you’re driving me home, Mr. Badillo,” Keith says to Carlos.
Next thing I really remember, I’m sitting in the passenger seat of Andy’s Electra, staring out over the ocean from our old spot up on the cliffs.
Here I am again… again. I’ve done it. She’ll never believe me again.
Andy is working on his cigar and listening to some of the saddest music I think I’ve ever heard. We’ve been sitting here for at least ten jets passing over.
I finally speak. “I gotta tell you, this is hard. I know you’re all here for me… for us… but it feels so horrible, like Lindsey and I are this loser couple that everyone feels sorry for. I’m not used to being pitied.”
Andy strikes a match and places it to the end of his cigar, painstakingly lighting it completely before blowing out his match. Only then, after his first full puff of smoke, does he say, “What you mean is, you’re not used to knowing that you’re being pitied.”
“Are you saying I’ve been pitied and haven’t seen it?”
Andy nods. “Probably. Not only on the deck. Even people at work, where you think the whole place is against you. There are many there who could be good friends. You can’t let that happen for fear that if you let them see your mess, they’d pity you. Tragedy is, they already do. You gain all the pity but none of the friendship. One thing for certain, they don’t see your facade as strength or health.”
“What am I going to do, Andy?”
“What are you going to do? Well, you could move… to the Baltic Sea. I don’t think anyone there pities you, yet.”
“I’m serious.”
He puffs again on his cigar. “Well, let’s take an inventory. What’s changed since our talk at the marina?”
“Apparently nothing.”
He makes the sound of a game-show buzzer. “Oh, I’m sorry. Wrong answer. But we do have some lovely parting gifts for you… .”
“Andy, I mean it. I’m right back where I was last time. Actually, I’m worse off because now I’ve made the apology, made the promises, made the last-ditch statements about how I now realize the truth. And I still blew through all the barricades at the first opportunity. What can I say now that she’ll listen to? What? That I really, really mean it this time?”
“Hold on,” he says, his eyebrow creeping up. “Did you mean what you said the other day, or was that just a ploy? Because I thought for sure when you left me, that you were sincere.”
“I really thought I was,” I answer.
“Then you meant what you said? You told her the truth?”
“Yes.”
“So, if you told her the truth and it wasn’t a ploy, then why wouldn’t you just tell her the truth again?”
It’s at moments like these that I have to take a deep breath and remind myself that at some point Andy usually comes ar
ound to making sense.
I look over at him. “How many times can I tell her the truth and then prove to her it wasn’t really true?”
“Your sincerity and desire were true; your insights were true; your love was true. Behaving today like a raving lunatic didn’t change any of that.”
I nod. Okay, he’s starting to make sense.
“So I’m supposed to just go back and admit that I’m wrong again?”
“You got something else? Steven, listen to me. The truth is all you’ve got. You’re not going to come up with something else or something better. This is where we happen to be. And you aren’t going to miraculously transform from Attila the Hun to Mr. Rogers in a heartbeat, just because you told her you wanted to. The truth is—in case you haven’t noticed—you have a bit of a tendency to blow. And if you want to someday start to get past that tendency, there is really only one solution. You’ll have to keep admitting it and let God and some humans who love you begin to protect you. That truth’s all you got.”
“But how many times is she going to put up with me messing up?”
“Well,” he says, blowing out a huge plume of smoke, “I don’t know. I don’t know how far you’ve pushed this thing. I don’t know how much you’ve torn her down. She may already be done. But I don’t think so. If she believed what you said last week, and if she loves you as much as she appears to, then my answer is: probably as many times as it takes for you to stop acting this way. Hopefully you’ll get there before she cracks. Here’s my ace in the hole—for you and her: if you keep telling the truth, regardless of how embarrassing, it’ll have a profound effect on you. It’ll begin to free and heal you. And you’ll begin to actually behave like less of a Neanderthal. I’m thinking she’s bound to pick that up. So the gamble is whether she can hold out that long, whether she should hold out that long.”
“So, I’ve got to go back and tell her the whole thing again?”
“Tell her why you lost it. Tell her what you were thinking, your whole process.”
He inspects his cigar for a long time, spinning it in his fingers. “Do you know why you lost it?”
“I just… it really seemed, in the moment, like she was intentionally trying to not like Bo’s.”
Andy takes another long draw on his cigar. “Steven, are you ready to hear something hard again?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“No, not really.”
“Then go ahead.”
“Steven, do you know that the rest of us were truly enjoying your wife? Do you know that none of us found her to be anything but a really delightful person? Do you know that if it came to a vote, most would probably trade your place at the table for her?”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“Do I look like I’m kidding?” he answers, with a no-nonsense stare.
“No.”
Andy adjusts his ball cap. “Any chance this was entirely about you again? About you wanting all of us to be so deeply impressed by her so we’d all think you were more impressive? Any chance?”
I can’t look him in the eye.
“Steven, I’m your fan—at the moment, perhaps your biggest fan. But this lunch never had a chance from the start. You were so full of unfair expectations of Lindsey. She never had the opportunity to be herself, only some image you’ve created her to be—an idealized person with just the right humor, intelligence, and debonair to impress your witty new friends. Such a person does not exist. Such a person is not nearly as impressive and delightful as the real Lindsey. It all gets created from that self-story of shame that says you, at all costs, must be admired, respected, in control. So you try to force everyone in your world into that mold. But people, not trapped in your self-story, they don’t fit so easily into those molds. They’re not even sure, from moment to moment, how you want them to perform.”
“Don’t hold back. Speak your mind,” I say, trying to smile.
“And when she doesn’t perform right, you judge her, thinking she’s trying to sabotage you. This makes you even angrier, more irrational and more stupid. The saddest part is that Lindsey is trying so hard to be whoever she thinks you want her to be. But she can’t figure out the rules. So she keeps disappointing you. And eventually, even those who love well have to leave the game. Because love has no home in such a game.”
Andy lets me take in his speech, peering into the rearview mirror, removing something from the corner of one eye. Squinting at his index finger to discover what he just removed, he says, “Any chance I’m right about what I just said?”
After a long time fiddling with the glove compartment button, I say, “I think I’d better get home. I need to talk to my wife. If she’ll let me.”
The Electra starts up and ambles down the hill toward my home.
“Why Do You Get So Angry?”
(Thursday Evening, May 21)
Andy drops me off at my house around two thirty. Nobody is home. So I drive to Santa Monica and work late. I leave a text, telling Lindsey I’ll grab a bite to eat at the office. I don’t try to say anything else. I walk inside our house sometime after ten. Again, there is a light flickering in the family room. Jennifer again is in the dark, watching television.
“Hey, kid.”
“Hello, Dad.” She doesn’t look up at me.
“Mom up?”
“I don’t think so.”
“So, homework all done?”
She sighs and shakes her head. “Dad, do you realize that’s the first thing you almost always ask me?”
“I do? Sorry. I’m guess it’s just because I’m a dad. That’s what dads do, isn’t it?”
“No. Mom doesn’t.”
“Yeah, well, there you go.”
Something’s wrong with Jennifer. She’s more blunt and distant than usual.
“Is there something you want to tell me, Jennifer?”
“Why was Mom crying when she picked me up?”
There it is.
“What did Mom say?” I ask.
“She said that you and she got into an argument in a restaurant. She didn’t want to talk any more about it right then.”
I wait for her to continue.
“Is that true, Dad? Did you and Mom get into a fight?”
“It wasn’t really a fight. But yeah, I kind of was a jerk again.”
“Dad, what’s wrong? Why do you get like that? Why do you get so angry?”
I motion to the screen. “Do you mind if I—” She nods. I grab the channel changer and turn the TV off. Then I sit down on the couch. She sits up. Both of us are now sitting on the couch facing forward, with several feet between us.
“What do you think, Jennifer? Why do you think I get so angry?”
“I don’t know. But I really, really hate it when you get angry. I just want to run away to somewhere else.”
I involuntarily slump and sigh deeply. “I’m sorry, Jennifer. I’m starting to hate it too. I think I’m getting better in some ways. But it takes so danged long. I really love your mom. None of this is her fault.”
We’re still facing forward.
“Dad, why don’t you talk to me?”
“What do you mean? We talk.”
“No, we don’t. You talk. You tell me dad things you think you’re supposed to say.”
“Ouch,” I say.
“We don’t know each other, Dad. Mom and I talk all the time. She knows all my friends.”
I don’t know what to say.
“What do you want to talk about, Jennifer? I want to talk.”
“Do you, Dad? Sometimes I don’t think you do. You could come by my bedroom and knock, but you don’t. Sometimes I try to talk to you, but you usually seem somewhere else. I feel like I’m bothering you, or you’re frustrated with me.”
“Honey, I don’t feel that way at all. Wow. I haven’t read you well. I thought you didn’t want me in your world. You really want me involved?”
“Yeah. Like right now there’s a kid who I think likes me, and I don’t have
any idea what that’s about. Sometimes Mom says, ‘Go ask your dad. He’s a boy.’ But I don’t ever feel like I can.”
“Well, I’m an idiot.”
“No, you’re not. Sometimes I don’t want to talk, you know.”
“I’ve noticed.” I’m looking fully at her now. She’s still looking straight ahead.
“So, Jennifer, do you notice that when we talk, you don’t look at me much?”
“I guess.”
“So, why do you think that is?”
“I don’t know,” she says, still looking forward.
“Do you think it’s maybe because you don’t want to get hurt? And so you act like you don’t care so much?”
“Maybe.”
“Yeah. Maybe, huh. You know, kid, the funny thing is, I think you and I may be a lot alike. I’m finding out that most of what I do is to keep from getting hurt. You may have got some of that stuff from me. I’m sorry.”
“It’s all right.”
All of a sudden, I am overwhelmed with an idea.
“You know what, kid? You could really help me. Maybe I could help you. Like when we get sad and afraid and we pull back. You know what I mean?”
“Yeah.”
“Like maybe the other person could maybe say something. Or if we’re around other people, maybe we could have a code or something. Like you could cough three times or something.”
She laughs. For the first time tonight, Jennifer is looking at me, and she’s smiling.
“I think I see what you meant a moment ago, Jennifer. We’ve never talked like this, have we?”
“No, we haven’t, Dad.”
“Would you do that, Jennifer? When you see me start to get weird? Do you know what I mean?”
“Yeah. You get this really goofy face. Your jaw gets all tight.”
“So I’ve heard. Jen, for some reason it’s hard for me to let your mom tell me. I blew it even today when she tried to stop me. It feels like I’m going to lose something. Maybe I don’t trust that she has my back in the situation. And so then I power up. But you…”
“You really want me to?”
“I probably won’t much like it at first. But I really do need you to do it. What do you say?”
