So Much It Hurts

by Monique Polak

  “He gave me the ring.” I extend my arm so she can see the ring. But she won’t look at it.

  “How could you not have told me, Iris?”

  “I’m telling you now.”

  “How is he?”

  It’s the last question I expect from her.

  “He’s okay, I guess. He’s working on some big deal.”

  “He always was.” She says it sadly.

  “Did you love him?” I don’t know why I never thought of asking her this question before. Because now it seems to me like the most important question in the world. The only question.

  Mom doesn’t say she loved him. Or that she didn’t love him.

  All she says is this: “I had to make myself stop.”

  “Stop what?”

  Mom looks down at her hands as if they might have the answer. “Stop loving him. It was the hardest thing I ever had to do.”

  I could feel sorry for her, but I don’t. I don’t even care that I’ve hurt her. She’s hurt me, too, by keeping my father away from me all these years. Even if he did bad things, reckless things, he was still my father. She could have let me speak to him; when I was older, she could have found a way to let me meet him.

  “He told me he tried to stay in touch. But that you blocked him. That you changed our number. He said I should ask you why you did it.”

  Mom’s face is crumbling. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I didn’t know what else to do. I was protecting you…”

  “Protecting me?”

  We both know it’s a lie. She was protecting herself.

  Mom sighs. “I was afraid”—now I notice that her upper lip is trembling—“afraid I wouldn’t be able to live without him. That if I saw him again, or even heard his voice, I’d give in…”

  I don’t see Mick all weekend. He texts to tell me it’s better this way. All I know is life feels flat and dull when I’m not with him. I’ve gotten so used to thinking of myself as part of a couple (“me and Mick”) that I’m not sure anymore who me is without him. At least Mom doesn’t bombard me with more questions. Either she’s making a big effort not to be annoying or she’s recovering from our talk at the bagel place. Maybe a combination of the two.

  I spend Saturday and Sunday afternoons studying in my room. Concentrating, which usually comes easily to me, feels like a huge effort. But when I’m finally able to focus on economics or world history, I forget—for a while anyhow—what a terrible mess I’ve made of things.

  Mom stands outside the door a lot, asking if I want green tea. “No sugar. Not too strong. Just the way you like it.” In the end, I say yes to the tea, more to make her go away than anything. Why is it that love can sometimes feel like a burden?

  It seems like forever till it’s finally Monday after school. When I let myself into the loft, Mick is already there. The place looks brighter and shinier than usual. Mick must’ve cleaned over the weekend. Maybe because he was so lonely for me. Maybe because he feels bad that I’ve been doing so much of the housework.

  Mick meets me in the doorway. William Shakespeare comes too, and I lean down to pet him. When I straighten, Mick scoops me into his arms and dances me to the table. I’m breathless and giggling. He’s chilled a bottle of his favorite Australian chardonnay; he’s even chilled our wineglasses. When I reach for my glass, my fingers leave their prints on the frosted surface.

  That’s when Mick notices the dragon ring. “I thought you didn’t like that ring,” he says.

  “You’re the one who didn’t like it,” I tell him. “I’m hoping it’ll make me stronger.”

  “You’re strong enough already.” Mick looks so deep into my eyes that I almost have to look away. “Let’s toast, Joey, to our new beginning. Oh God, I’ve missed you the last few days. I’m aching for you.”

  I love it when he tells me that. “Me too,” I say. “Aching.” We clink glasses. “To our new beginning.” I have the same feeling I had the day Mick and I had our first real conversation—over lattes on Mount Royal Avenue—the feeling that he really gets me. He must know how much I want a new beginning. How much I need a new beginning. There’s so much I want to tell him…all the things I’ve been thinking about over the weekend. I need to tell him about the memory that came back at the cast party and about the things I’ve learned about my father— and my mother.

  Mick breaks into a huge smile. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him look so happy. I know it’s because he’s been aching to see me and now the ache is over. “I’ve taken a job in Melbourne!” he says.

  It’s as if all the air’s been sucked out of the apartment. “You did what?”

  “Don’t look so surprised, Joey. It’s a fantastic offer from the Melbourne Theater Company, which is a very prestigious place. You must have realized this could happen.”

  Mick is still smiling. “Of course, I want you to come, Joey, so you can get to know Nial.”

  I’m so surprised that at first, I can’t even make words. “But…what about William Shakespeare?” I finally sputter. It’s a weird question, but it’s the first one that pops into my head.

  “We’ll give him away,” Mick says, sweeping his hand through the air as if the problem of William Shakespeare is already solved.

  “Give him away? Can’t he come with us?”

  “Things like that can be complicated. There’s all kinds of paperwork involved.”

  William Shakespeare is sitting on my feet, oblivious to the fact that his future is up for discussion. I pick him up and hold him close to my chest. His back paws dangle down against my belly. “I can’t give him away.”

  “We’ll see what we can do, Joey. He is just a cat.”

  “He’s our cat.”

  “The more important question, Joey, is what you’re going to do in Melbourne. It’s just like you to put the damn cat before yourself.” Mick shakes his head, and immediately I’m sorry for upsetting him. “I did some research over the weekend. There’s still time for you to apply to some very prestigious theater programs in Melbourne.”

  I wish Mick didn’t use the word prestigious so much.

  That’s when I realize Mick hasn’t even asked me whether I want to go to Melbourne. He just assumes I’ll follow him. He’s right, of course, and we both know it. Which is why he didn’t ask. I’d follow him anywhere. That’s what love is, isn’t it? But at this very second, I feel dizzy, and I don’t think it’s because I’ve had a few sips of chardonnay. It’s the idea of moving so far away and of not having anyone there I know besides Mick. What will my mom do without me? She’ll freak out when I tell her.

  “I really want to get to know Nial.” I’m picturing Mick and me and Nial together, having a picnic in Melbourne. The three of us are sitting on a blanket, and Nial is laughing so hard he throws his head back. And I know Mick will be happier and less tense when he’s not so far away from his son. He won’t lose his temper the way he has here in Montreal.

  “He’s going to love you,” Mick says. “Just like his dad does.”

  How is it that when Mick wants to, he always seems to know the exact right thing to say?

  We have sex. Twice. Maybe when we’re in Melbourne together, I’ll be able to relax more during sex. Mick says he can’t get enough of me and that no one else—no one—has ever made him feel this way. That makes me think of the poem I found, but I don’t bring it up again.

  Afterward, when I’m curled around him, I tell Mick about the memory that came back. His spine tenses up, but he doesn’t say anything. I hope I haven’t upset him.

  “What about you, Mick? Did bad things ever happen to you when you were little?” I whisper into his back. I’m glad I don’t have to see his face.

  Mick’s spine tenses up again. Then he takes a long deep breath, and I know he’s thinking about my question.

  “Did anyone ever hurt you, Mick?”

  I know it’s a terrible question, but I have to ask it. Even if I already know the answer. Of course someone hurt him. That’s why Mick thinks it’s okay t
o hurt me. Maybe talking things out will bring us even closer. But Mick doesn’t want to talk things out. “The past is the past, Joey,” is all he’ll say.

  Later, I get on the computer and start checking out the theater programs offered in Melbourne.

  Part of me is scared silly. Melbourne?

  Another part of me is crazy excited. Moving to Melbourne will mean starting a brand-new life. A clean slate. When I think about my life, a clean slate is exactly what I need.

  CHAPTER 28

  “What dreams may come…

  Must give us pause.” —HAMLET, ACT 3, SCENE 1

  To go or not to go to Melbourne? That is my question.

  I’m lying in my narrow bed, trying to imagine my future. I can feel myself getting sleepy—my arms and legs are heavy, my breaths are longer, and I’m not so anxious anymore. When I close my eyes, I don’t see any too-tall trees. Instead, I see Mick and me.

  It’s as if I’m watching a play inside my head, with the two of us co-starring. I feel my lips curling into a smile. Mick and I look so good together.

  I’m going with him to Melbourne. We’ll have two stopovers—one in Vancouver and another in Honolulu. I love the sound of the word Honolulu. Just saying it makes me happy.

  I ask Mick whether we can extend the Honolulu stopover so that we can have a beach weekend, but he says no way. Too expensive, and we need to watch our money. He says he doesn’t understand how I can be thinking about holiday weekends when we have so much to get organized.

  Mick and I have two suitcases each. Plus we’ve sent some things—like books and winter clothes—by cargo. I’ve brought a whole bunch of picture books for Nial. All the ones I used to love when I was little. Good Night Moon and One Fish, Two Fish. One of the things I like imagining is how I’ll read to him before he goes to bed, the way Mom used to do with me. Mick thinks Nial will spend a couple of nights every week with us and alternate weekends too. Mick and Nial and I will be our own little family. In a few years, once I’ve finished theater school and got my career established, Mick and I might even have a baby of our own.

  We’re sitting at the airport gate when there’s an announcement that the flight to Vancouver is going to be delayed. The airplane hasn’t yet arrived in Montreal. Mick scowls when he checks the time on his cell phone. “It’s not going to be easy to make the first connecting flight,” he says, his voice tight.

  “I guess there’s nothing we can do about it.” I reach for his hand, but he doesn’t give it to me. Instead, he gives me an irritated look, as if I’m the one responsible for delaying the flight. I haven’t said so, but I think Mick is nervous about going back to Melbourne and having to juggle even more things than he’s had to juggle here in Montreal—work, Nial, Nial’s mom and the lawyer, and now, of course, he’ll also have to look after me, make sure I’m adjusting to life far away from home.

  “You know what I’ve noticed about this airline?” a woman sitting across from us says to no one in particular. “They tell you it’s going to be a one-hour delay, and then an hour later, they tell you there’s been another delay. You know what I wish?” The woman doesn’t wait for anyone to ask her what it is she wishes. “I wish these big corporations would just give it to us straight in the first place.”

  “I’m with you,” Mick tells the woman.

  I fight the urge to say, You’re with me, not her. What good would saying it do? Besides, it would sound like I’m jealous, which I’m not.

  The woman turns out to be right. Exactly one hour later, there’s another announcement: the flight from Vancouver won’t be arriving for at least another hour. There’s been engine trouble.

  “Goddammit,” Mick mutters under his breath.

  I stroke the top of his hand. The blue veins look like rivers on a topographical map. “There’s nothing we can do,” I whisper.

  Mick pulls his hand away. “For God’s sake, will you stop saying that?” He is raising his voice now. It’s one thing for him to shout at me in the loft, but this is the first time he’s shouted at me when other people are around. I can feel the woman across from us watching.

  “Please don’t shout.” I’m trying not to cry.

  Mick’s eyes have that angry, unhinged flash they get just before he loses it. He takes my hand, and for a second I’m confused. Why does Mick want to hold hands now? I feel that old familiar hope building inside me. Maybe this time Mick will be different. Maybe this time he’ll catch himself and be calm and kind, not angry. Maybe. Please.

  But I’m wrong. Mick doesn’t want to hold my hand. Instead, he uses his fingers like a vice, pressing down hard— too hard—on both sides of my hand. I swear I hear the bones crack. He’s pressing down too hard for me to pull away.

  “Stop it,” I whisper—I really don’t want anyone to hear— but he won’t.

  It’s only when my eyes fill with tears that Mick finally lets go. I blink back the tears.

  The woman is still watching. Judging Mick and me. Disapproving. I pass her when I get up from my seat to go to the bathroom. “Your boyfriend sure seems to be a nasty piece of work,” she whispers. “What are you doing with him?”

  In the bathroom, I splash my face with cold water. I can still feel Mick’s fingers crushing my hand.

  He’s stressed out about making our connection in Vancouver. He’s stressed out about the long trip ahead. He’s stressed out about seeing Nial and dealing with Millicent and the lawyer. He’ll be better in Melbourne. I shouldn’t have told him there was nothing we could do about the delay. I should’ve known better. I should’ve been watching for land mines.

  I take the long way back to my seat so I don’t have to pass the woman who made the mean comment about Mick. What does she know? She’s probably jealous because she’s traveling alone. I’ll bet she wishes she had a hot boyfriend. She’s bitter. I can hear it in her voice, see it in her face.

  Mick smiles at me when I sit down. There’s no more angry flash in his eyes. “Good news,” he says. “I spoke to an attendant. The plane to Vancouver’ll be here in twenty minutes. They’re going to hold the next plane—the one to Honolulu. So we’re going to be fine, Joey.”

  “That’s good. That’s great.” I let him kiss me.

  More than anything in the world, I need for us to be fine. In Melbourne, Mick will be all I’ve got.

  He reaches into his jeans pocket. I’m sure he’s going to offer me a piece of gum or candy. Instead, he fishes out a gold pocket watch. It’s one of those really old-fashioned ones with a thin gold chain. Mick’s long fingers work quickly as he winds the watch by hand. “I’m going to set it on Melbourne time,” he says. “Pretty, isn’t it? I picked it up for Nial.” Mick turns the watch around and shows me the N engraved in cursive on the back of the watch.

  Oh my god. I’ve seen that watch before. It was Nelson Karpman’s.

  “That watch!”

  My own voice wakes me up.

  Where am I? What’s going on? We have a plane to catch…but no, I’m in my own bedroom.

  “Iris? Is everything okay up there?” Mom calls from the kitchen.

  I sit up in my bed. “I’m fine,” I call back. “It was just a dream.”

  Just a dream. But so real that I need to shake out my fingers—the ones I imagined Mick crushing. What an awful dream!

  Thank goodness that was all it was. An awful, silly dream. Mick would never hurt me in front of other people. And he’d never steal Nelson Karpman’s watch.

  CHAPTER 29

  “More matter, with less art.”

  —HAMLET, ACT 2, SCENE 2

  We’re at the loft, packing.

  I’ve applied to two theater schools in Melbourne and have already had an early acceptance from one, but I still haven’t decided for sure to follow Mick to Australia. It’s the worst case of indecision I’ve ever had. A zillion times worse than when I was a little girl choosing ice cream. The thing is, I can’t imagine living without Mick. But I also can’t imagine living in Australia. I have the terrible
feeling that whatever I end up deciding will be wrong. So for now, I’ve decided not to decide. I’m just trying to live inside that fuzzy, unsettling place that for me is Indecision.

  Mick is sending his books by cargo. The Australian theater company will cover the cost of the move, including shipping. They’ve even agreed to pay for shipping my stuff too, if, in the end, I decide to go to Melbourne with Mick.

  He’s taking two suitcases and a carry-on bag. “Have you seen my passport?” Mick looks relieved when I know exactly where it is—in the pile of things where I found the legal papers and the poem. The one he said he’d written for me.

  “That has to go in my carry-on,” Mick says when I show him I’ve found the passport. “I’ll do it.”

  I’ve already reached for Mick’s carry-on bag. It’s made of soft tan leather, and it feels expensive.

  I unzip the bag. Which is when I spot the gold pocket watch with the gold chain so delicate a spider might have spun it. It’s right there, in the silky side pocket. I can’t help sucking in my breath. The back of the pocket watch has a curly N engraved on it. I’d know that watch anywhere. It was Nelson Karpman’s.

  Just like in my dream. Could I be dreaming again? I pinch my arm, but no, this is real.

  I pull the watch out of the bag. “What are you doing with this?” My voice sounds stronger than I’m used to hearing it. I think because this isn’t about me—it’s about my friend. That watch belongs to Mrs. Karpman.

  “What do you mean what am I doing with this? It’s an antique pocket watch. I bought it at an antique shop on Notre-Dame Street. For Nial. Did you notice the N on the back?” Mick is talking more quickly than usual, but he’s looking at me. Most liars can’t make eye contact when they’re lying. Unless, of course, they’re actors—or theater directors with a background in acting. I’m sure Mick is lying. I’d recognize that pocket watch anywhere.

  I’m shaking. Not because I’m afraid, the way I usually am when I start shaking; it’s because I’m angry. White-hot burning angry.