Fighting Pride

by Jennifer Miller

  It’s impossible not to enjoy the electricity in the air. Tucking my hands in my pockets, I continue my walk, eyeing an ice cream store contemplating if I want to take in the calories or not. Before I can make up my mind, a young kid on my right smiles and hands me a flyer, “Here you go, sir.”

  Reaching out, I automatically take it from him, nodding in return. I take several steps deciding I’d like that ice cream after all before I look down absently at the flyer in my hand intending to dump it in the trash can on my way inside the parlor. I’m expecting it to be for a sale at one of the local stores on this street, or maybe an advertisement for a performance of some kind, but what I see instead makes me feel like I’ve been stabbed in the chest with an ice pick. My breath stalls in my chest and I come to a complete stop, unable to move.

  My eyes blink over and over and my hand begins to shake as I stare down at the paper trying to comprehend what I’m seeing. There’s writing, but it’s the eyes staring at me from the photo in the bottom right corner that sears my very soul. Beautiful, even in black and white, I take in the slight curve of her full lips as she smiles at whoever is behind the lens. In my mind, I see the blue and green of her eyes as if she’s dazzling me with them right now. Reaching out a finger, I trace the line of her jaw, my hand forming a fist after I reach her chin.

  Looking away, I take a moment to gather myself and simply breathe. It takes a moment for me to realize the foreign feeling occurring is my heart beating out of control in my chest. It’s been far too long since I’ve felt it, I’ve forgotten I even have one. It seems that it shriveled up and died five years ago.

  Seeing a bench to my left, I quickly take a seat and close my eyes, trying to center myself, refusing to acknowledge the burning behind my eyes. Squeezing my eyes tight once more, I open them and dare to look again at the flyer making sure this isn’t some crazy dream. I look at her face again, but briefly this time, then move my eyes to read the text. It’s an announcement for an art show. It’s for her work – her paintings. Pride, that I have no right to feel, bursts through my chest. She did it. I knew she would. I knew she could.

  And the show, it’s here in downtown Tempe at a gallery literally on the same street where I’m sitting. Looking down the street in the direction of the gallery, I startle when I see the lit sign from my seat. It shines like a beacon from the overhang in front of the front door, enticing, inviting. I stare at it, for I’m not sure how long. I wrestle with the decision in my mind. My chest begins to ache at the thought of seeing her again. Memories begin to flood my mind, but I push them away, not able to handle them. Not able to think about her. To think about the last time I saw her. When I broke her.

  Before I even realize what I’m doing I’m moving rapidly down the sidewalk. Some part of my mind calls out to me, trying initially to stop me, then to slow my steps, another part second-guesses each footstep, but I ignore it all and continue to put one foot in front of the other. Walking has never been so difficult. Stopping suddenly, the reality of what I’m doing hits and I turn and quicken the pace back toward my apartment. What the hell am I thinking? What if she sees me? What would I even say? Do I even have a right to see her? Would she even acknowledge seeing me? My heart races at the thought and I press my hand there. Do I want her to see me? Do I want to talk to her? I have so much shit I’d like to say to her, but even more I’d like to hear in return. Is she happy? Has she thought about me at all these past five years? Does she still hate me? She should. I still hate me.

  Somehow, I’ve made my way back toward the gallery and find myself standing feet from the front. Taking a deep breath, I fold the flyer up into several squares and shove it in my pocket, then clear my throat. There’s a large window, giving art lovers a peek at the gallery exhibits from the sidewalk in hopes of invoking enough interest to entice entry. I notice the lights are on and the glow brightens the sidewalk before it. Moving to the edge of the window, I peek in, keeping most of my body to the side.

  My eyes move rapidly around the room, looking for her. There are people working, moving around the room, large canvases in their arms. It looks as if they are setting up for the showing that according to the flyer begins tomorrow. I want to see her work too, but I can’t focus on it right now, all I can do is look for her.

  A movement in the far right corner of the room captures my attention. A woman in black has her back to me, she’s facing a painting that I can’t see, but I’d recognize that body, her stance, that hair - anywhere. My breath catches, my fists clench, my teeth grind together and pain mixed with shock and longing runs through my body making me clench my muscles as if doing so helps fight off the sizzling pain that engulfs me. My hand grips the edge of the window, the stucco of the building ripping skin, and I find myself practically pressed against the glass, as if I’m trying to get even closer to her. Tears unashamedly flood my eyes without my permission and I blink rapidly against them in automatic reflex. I open my mouth, but for what? To say her name? To scream ‘I’m sorry’ over and over again?

  Her head turns suddenly as if something has captured her attention, but I can’t take my eyes off of her to see what it is. It isn’t until an arm goes across her shoulders that he captures my attention. When she smiles at him, the sight of it burns its way through my body. When she lifts her head up to his and he places a kiss on her lips, bile floods my throat and just as I swear she turns her head toward me, I turn and run back to my apartment, hoping to leave the pain in my veins far behind.

  It feels strange to be back in this town. Now that I’m here, the past can no longer be kept in the recesses of my mind. It seems like only yesterday when I packed up my bags with tears in my eyes and anger and devastation in the depths of my very soul. I didn’t want to leave here initially. Not because I didn’t have a desire to start over, but because it felt like I was leaving my heart behind. I may have felt desperation for a change, and a longing to forget, but it was my heart full of Hope that somehow helped me push forward and leave when I did. Being away from here made the distance easier – better in some ways. I used to say that it would take Jesus himself to ever bring me back. But yet, here I am.

  I knew being back would feel…strange. I was delusional when I assumed that the chapters of my life spent here with all of their emotions would remain in the past. That it wouldn’t touch me or burden me all these years later. I couldn’t have been more wrong. Even though it’s been five years, I’ve experienced a searing pain resonating to the depth of my very bones since the moment my plane landed in this desert.

  “This piece is hauntingly beautiful, ma’am.”

  Snapped out of my musings, I look at one of the gallery workers standing before one of my paintings. It’s a woman looking in the mirror. Her hands are pressed against her flat stomach and tears pour down her face. You can almost see the harrowing pain and sorrow in her eyes, but outside the window where she stands is a lush garden. It’s full of flowers, greenery, birds and life. A nest of baby birds is in a tree and the mother leans down to feed them. It’s part of my ‘Beautifully Broken’ collection. It depicts how life moves on even when one feels otherwise; how there is always beauty in the midst of pain.

  “Thank you,” I murmur to the woman, shy about my own work and humbled by compliments after all this time.

  Returning my focus to the group of paintings in front of me, my eyes move from piece to piece. I absorb the vivid and loving brush strokes. I wonder if admirers will be able to see my tears mixed into the paint. If they can see and feel the emotion poured into each and every one. The more I gaze at them, the stronger my inclination to take them down, conceal them. I want to hide them, take them totally out of view, as if in doing so, I can pretend this all never happened. This level of vulnerability leaves me feeling excruciatingly raw. It’s as if I’m holding my life, my heart in my hands and laying it bare for everyone to look at, touch, judge and feel. Perhaps I’m not ready for this. As my chest tightens, agonizing with emotion, I realize I may never really be ready.


  “You’re second-guessing yourself again.” Turning my head toward his voice, I smile at the man in my life. I find it a complete conundrum that at the same time Blaine can know me so well, in many ways, he doesn’t know me at all. He places an arm around my shoulders and regardless of my thoughts I’m happy for the contact. Especially when I feel like I’m floundering. “They are beautiful,” he reassures me, “and part of the process of moving forward.”

  Not wanting to dissect his words, I push them aside and lift my head to him in silent request for a kiss. He graces my lips with his for a moment, then pulls away with a smile.

  Feeling as if I’m being watched, movement out of the corner of my eye grabs my attention. Turning my head to the window at the front of the gallery, there appears to be someone peering inside, but it’s dark outside and very bright in here in contrast; I have trouble making out their characteristics. When the shadow moves, something in my heart stills for a moment and I think…but it can’t be. Exhaling as the person walks away, I’m curious as to why I feel so unsettled. It’s a busy street and people have been walking by all evening as we’ve been setting up. Pushing my feelings away, I tell myself I’m being silly and turn back to my painting collection.

  My feelings see-saw between wanting to keep these pieces private and all to myself, to knowing that exposing them is truly a part of moving forward. For me, and for her. Besides, it’s irrelevant at this point, the night before the showing. I long since committed to this, and many other showings for that matter. I just don’t know what I was thinking agreeing to have a show here, of all places.

  Yes you do. You are hoping to see him.

  Slamming the door shut on that thought, I force concentration on Blaine’s words instead. The rational side of me understands where he’s coming from. Blaine would know best of course since after all, he’s my therapist. Well, he used to be my therapist, before we became lovers. I know he’s trying to help and be supportive, but sometimes I want to tell him he doesn’t have a fucking clue. That not everything is purely clinical. That he should stop using his textbook psychobabble shit on me. I want to remind him that I’m not his patient anymore. The worst is when he speaks to me in his ‘I’m trying to help you’ voice. Sometimes I want to see what he would say if I told him that maybe I don’t want to move forward. Maybe I like, or at least liked, much of my past. Maybe I don’t want to do this and I think it’s the worst idea ever. What would he think of that?

  Actually, it wouldn’t matter at all. He’d just tell me that what I’m feeling is normal, but not appropriate at this step in the therapeutic process, and blah blah. Sometimes I just want him to yell and fight back; to show some humanity about the events of my past life. Instead he’s this calm, patient and rational man that seems to never lose his cool. I used to always think that it was exactly what I needed. I was done with the passionate, fiery, insanity inducing kind of man. An even keel personality was what I needed. Right? Maybe I’m wrong.

  Suddenly feeling shock and discomfort at my thoughts, I remind myself that this self-talk is contrary to what I’ve come to know. I’m wrong. He’s exactly what I need. He’s secure, comfortable and reliable. He’s helped me to move from my emotions, to move from dreams to reality. And that’s a good thing. I’m being a jerk, especially since I know he’s only trying to help. Smiling at him when he returns from giving direction to an employee that had a question, I firmly squeeze his arm, finally responding to his previous comment. “I know it’s part of moving forward, I remember. But even though I know it, it doesn’t mean that it’s an easy thing to do. In fact, it’s not at all an easy thing to do.”

  “Letting go never is. But, it’s necessary.”

  Is it? I wonder to myself. What if I don’t want to let go? Who says I have to? Why do I have to? I’ve moved past the unhealthy part of dealing with my loss and devastation as much as I can. The thoughts of her aren’t debilitating any longer, and my paintings have helped me heal in an amazing and special way, but why do I feel like his version of ‘moving on’ is different from mine? I don’t want to move on if it means asking me to forget. Because, I never want to forget, and sometimes I’m afraid I will. I’m afraid that she will no longer be a part of me, that I’ll forget the perfect way her eyes tilted up in the corners, how soft the wisps of hair on her tiny head were, or the fullness of her bottom lip. I’d rather she always be a part of me, the best part, a beautiful part, the part that reminds me I’m strong and brave. Maybe that’s what he means, but he never says that, he always says I have to ‘move on’ and ‘let go’.

  Blain interrupts my thoughts; “I think they’ve got this under control. They have the lay out sheet that tells them where the last of the paintings need to be placed.”

  “That may be so, but they still have had questions.”

  “I’m sure it’s because you’re here. If you weren’t, they’d just move along and get the job done. Besides, we need to get you back to the hotel so you can rest. Tomorrow night is a big night.” I start to argue but he places his finger over my lips and I frown. “Once we come here tomorrow and see that everything is set up perfectly, I have to leave remember?”

  “Yes. I still don’t understand why you have to leave before I actually have my showing. I’d like you to be here.”

  He sighs and pulls away, “We’ve discussed this already. You know that I need to get back to see some patients. And your being here without me is part of the process – you need to do this without me. Stand on your own capable legs. My physical support would be an obstacle, a crutch at this point in your healing. You know we’ve discussed this and agreed. I’ll make sure everything is perfect before I leave and head to the airport.”

  “Just because I know the reason you’re leaving, doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

  “Of course not,” he smiles. “You are entitled to your feelings. In fact, I’d expect nothing less.” I’m not sure if he means that as fondly as I’d like to think he does. “Now let’s go. We’ll be here early enough tomorrow that if anything needs to be rearranged we can get it taken care of.”

  “Okay,” I reluctantly agree. Looking around the room, I ascertain that they do have most everything finished and that is the only reason I agree to head out. He leads me through the gallery by the hand, and we exit through the back door and head toward our rental car.

  I breathe in deeply as soon as we step outside, and sigh happily at the smell of rain in the air. The last five years in Chicago, and the hustle and bustle of city life, have made me forget the things I loved about living here. Not to mention the prominent smells in Chicago, in the thick of the city depending on where one is and the time of day, are exhaust fumes and the stench of trash. Though, I guess in more pleasant areas there’s the smell of popcorn, hot dogs or even chocolate. Clearly, not the same, and while some may love it just fine, to me, Arizona wins hands down. Other things I missed are how pleasant the evenings are this time of year here. How beautiful the bougainvillea and cactus are when they’re in bloom. Even the artistic sides of the highways and vegetation lined midways. How quiet the desert is at night, and the beautifully clear sky that gives you a spectacular view of the millions of stars in the sky. My memories of Arizona sunrises and sunsets don’t do the real thing justice. But somehow, it’s the smell of rain that will always remind me of stolen kisses and whispered promises.

  As Blaine drives us back to our hotel, my eyes take in every detail as we drive, wanting to commit it all to memory so I never forget it again. Feeling like I need to apologize to my home for allowing myself to do so in the first place. I think I realize for the first time that no matter where I go, my heart will always find Arizona to be its home.

  When Blaine first surprised me with the gallery showing I was angry. He told me he was friends with the owner of several galleries along the west coast, one of them in Arizona. He went behind my back and sent copies of my work to his friend Mark, and Mark sent an email to Blaine with an offer for me to do a gallery tour.
I, along with my work of course, would appear at all of the galleries over the span of a couple weeks, having public showings at each. Some of my paintings would travel with me from gallery to gallery as a display of my work. Other pieces would be offered for sale. Many would be shipped in advance to the various galleries awaiting the show. He practically agreed before I knew a thing about it.

  So, of course I was initially angry at him. But, I realize now that it was done out of love for me. It’s both exciting and terrifying. I’ve had several showings in Chicago before, it was a mandatory part of my schooling, but nothing of this caliber, and it feels altogether different having a showing here. When Mark contacted me with the offer that he had already discussed with Blaine, I was on board for every stop but this one. But, a longing to visit my home, and the fact that it coincided with an important date in my life, seemed like it was fate telling me to visit. Five years away was long enough – a visit way overdue.

  Blaine takes an unexpected turn down a street and I find that suddenly I’m staring at the old apartment complex where I used to live. The apartment bedroom faced the entrance to the complex and I can pinpoint exactly which apartment was mine, my eyes riveted to the window as if I can see my past self sitting there looking out the window. As we move past, balloons waving in the breeze that are tied to the entrance welcoming potential residents catch my attention and illicit a memory of the last time I watched balloons floating from that same sign fly in the air.

  I’m not sure how long I’ve been trying to read, but I keep staring at the same spot, not really taking any of it in. It doesn’t seem to be helping me today. I’m not sure why. Reading usually helps take the pain away. Burying my thoughts and feelings into another world helps. Losing myself in the pain of fictional characters makes me forget my own, at least for a little while. I’ve learned that keeping my mind busy is helpful – schoolwork is also really good for that. But sometimes it doesn’t matter what I do.