by M. Mabie
Fucking three, two and one.
I’d been counting for five solid days. It was only fitting that the last one of the year she counted with me. I’d be doing 2009’s counting alone.
She rolled over on top of me, kissed the center of my neck and said, “Happy New Year.”
For what it was worth, I knew my year had already peaked.
It was damned from the start.
We fucked and slept in the center of her mansion under chandeliers. I didn’t want to sleep though. I wanted a goddamned solution. A wanted a different fucking way, but thinking that hard was exhausting.
She didn’t say a lot New Year’s Day.
Neither did I.
Every time I would think of something I just added more weight to my shoulders.
I had to focus. This was best for her. She didn’t deserve any guilt for wanting what she was rightfully entitled to. She didn’t owe me a damned thing.
All because I fucking loved her. Wasn’t that some shit?
I didn’t want to wait until the last minute to pack, so I started that evening knowing I’d have to drive back to the airport in the morning.
I always knew I was going back by myself, but I didn’t think I would be that alone.
She busied herself with her work, having sat down at her laptop and papers.
I wasn’t thinking clearly when I said, “You know you’re much more generous with them than you should be.” Then, I realized I’d given myself away.
“Did you read all of this?” she asked, but it was also accusing. She tipped her head to one side.
I stood tall, accepting that maybe this was the way. I submitted to it and told her the truth. “Yes. All of it.”
She crossed her arms, her brow drew in. “Why would you do that? I didn’t ask you to go through my things.” Her tone was elevated and severe.
Like that was something someone would ask another to do.
It was like a punch in the gut, and the wind was knocked from me when I realized I’d already kissed her for the last time. I knew it was over. That there was no more thinking about our last time because it had passed. I’d let it slip through my fingers.
“You left them out, Nora. I got curious.”
“Well, it wasn’t any of your business,” she nearly shouted. The paper she held shook.
“I know,” I admitted and unexpectedly my temper elevated to match hers. “But you know damn well I could have helped you.”
“I don’t need your help.” She stood, her hands holding firm to her hips.
I fell on my cold, dull sword. “Are you coming back to Chicago?”
“No,” she deadpanned.
It was so easy and so hard, but I replied, “Good.”
In my head, I paced and kicked and roared and screamed and fought.
In reality, I didn’t.
She straightened, my lack of an argument probably surprising her. If she could have seen the show in my head, things may have been different.
“Just like that?” she asked and snapped her long fingers, the click sounded more like the hammer being drawn on a revolver. “That’s it?”
I could only nod. I fucking detested that most of all.
I packed the rest of my things, and she walked over by the window, but couldn’t see her face.
My flight wasn’t for hours. Tens of hours, but I had to leave. I’d find a quiet place in the first class lounge to lick my wounds.
When my things were ready, and it was time to go, there were so many things that I wanted to say to her, but I didn’t. Going against my splintered instincts, shards of myself tore away.
I wanted to kiss her again but knew better. I gave myself a long time to look at her. I didn’t know if she could tell I was doing it or not, but she didn’t turn around.
I walked down halls that before had seemed much longer, but regretfully felt short as I left.
Adrenaline and something else surged through me, and I dropped the handle of my suitcase and started back for her. My body fought my resolve, and for a minute it won.
Then, after only a few paces, I stilled.
Reggie, whatever you gain she loses. Love her enough to lose.
I made it to the airport in good time, but once again turned around and went back to her.
Was that how I was going to leave it?
The gate at the mansion was stuck open from the snow, but I’d watched it shut behind me earlier. When I pulled up the drive, there was a vehicle parked out front. I knew who it was in my bones.
I parked behind it. Marched up the path and went inside.
Had she invited them? I’d only been gone a few hours. It was getting late. I didn’t hear voices, but there were lights on in the direction of the kitchen that hadn’t been on before.
I walked that way.
Then, I heard a female’s voice, and it sounded like she’d said, “—but you were so happy.”
I stopped.
“Oh, I was,” Nora argued, but she sounded annoyed.
“It’s better this way, love,” Ives said.
What the hell do you know, motherfucker?
Then, she replied, “It is. Now I can go back to being me. Right?”
I turned around and left again. Making it three times that day. You would have thought I’d start getting used to it.
TWENTY-ONE
PAST
NORA—Sunday, February 1, 2009
Every day was hard. Every minute. Every second. But, I had to get used to it.
I officially resigned from the Harbor Hotel the first business day of the year. Then, I contacted the manager of the Lunar and let them know I’d be breaking my lease. I was penalized, but not nearly like I deserved.
Easy enough, I contacted movers. My things would be sent over. I was surprised what money could buy. For me, my first frivolous purchase was spent on avoiding Chicago.
I was a bit crazy, but mostly after things were all squared away, and I knew for sure I didn’t have to go back. That’s when I began missing him the most.
Or was it just more than the day before?
This was a routine feeling. Thinking it couldn’t hurt worse, then it did.
I tried many things to get him out of my head. Busying myself with redecorating. Helping Laura in the kitchen. Drinking wine.
After a month, with no contact from him at all, I sat down at my computer and opened his old emails. Thankfully or not, I had plenty to reread.
I got drunk the whole day one Sunday and opened a new account. The wine and I decided we could create a placebo Reagan.
It was ingenious.
FROM: Nora V. Koehl
Subject: Fuck you
Date: February 1, 2009 17:33 CET
To: Jekyll-Hyde Warren
Sometimes I’m fucking mad at you. Why didn’t you fight for me? You fought about everything else, you asshole. Why don’t you call?
I hate you. I should have never taken a cab with you, you bossy prick. How could it really end like this?
Nora
From: Nora V. Koehl
Subject: Fault
Date: February 8, 2009 20:01 CET
To: Jekyll-Hyde Warren
It wasn’t your fault. I didn’t really care that you’d read my things. You were right. I’d left them out.
I picked that fight. I only expected a bigger one.
You didn’t even say goodbye. Didn’t I mean more to you than that?
I don’t want to sign this email because if I see the word I thought of typing here, I’ll cry. And, surprisingly, I haven’t cried today.
FROM: Nora V. Koehl
Subject: (No Subject)
Date: February 12, 2009 19:36 CET
To: Jekyll-Hyde Warren
I miss how you wash my hair. It never feels clean anymore. Damn you.
Nora
From: Nora V. Koehl
Subject: This doesn’t get better
Date: February 14, 2009 15:33 CET
To: Jekyll-Hyde Warren
<
br /> I was afraid if I loved you as much as I thought I did, I’d die if you left me. I was scared I’d eventually turn out like my mom and hurt you. Or turn out like my dad and cheat. Now I’m just scared I’ll never feel that good again. That I’ll live like this WITH A FUCKING HOLE INSIDE ME for the rest of my life.
I don’t know which would be worse.
I don’t like the color red anymore, and almost everything I eat tastes like shit.
Will it ever stop hurting?
HAPPY FUCKING VALENTINE’S DAY
NEARLY EVERY DAY, I sent them.
Sometimes it made me feel better getting things off my chest. Sometimes I was mad and pissed off and angry, and when I finished, I’d send a second message to apologize to a stupid email account no one would ever see.
I fought privately with myself.
It started out as a thing I did when I was drunk, but every once in a while, I’d write one in the middle of the day.
I said everything I could think of, knowing it was only for me, but I got it out.
In the time in between messages, I just got by.
The spring brought parties. We held a baptism for some friends of my brothers. Laura did most of the front of house duties that day, and I worked from my office.
The brothers Koehl accepted the money they’d been offered. To be honest, there was enough to go around, so I would have never known the difference anyway.
Laura took well to managing. She even acquired us many new clients, which was great since we were still only using word of mouth to advertise. A mansion wasn’t something you put into the classifieds.
It looked arrogant and snobby.
Maybe that’s what reminded me of Vivian. She could be an arrogant snob.
I sat in the hot tub and waited for my mother to pick up the phone. I imagined her holding it, waiting for it to ring a few times before she pressed accept.
“Hello,” she chimed. “Is this my daughter?” Same old song and dance.
“Yes, Mom. It’s me. The daughter who never calls or comes to see you.” I glanced at my free hand, wrinkled and pale.
“Oh, Nora. Yes, I think I remember you. Skinny, little unmarried thing.”
I considered dropping my phone in the water.
“I hate to disappoint you, but I’ll be visiting for your birthday. Then what will you bitch about?”
“Don’t tease your mother,” she genuinely sounded shocked about my visit, and I laughed. It sounded so fake. To be clear, it was. Nothing felt sincere anymore. Even though I’d been confused and scared with Reagan, at least I’d felt real.
“I’m not teasing. You’re turning sixty. That’s almost one hundred.” I whispered directly into the microphone of my phone. “That’s really old. So I figured I’d come get drunk with you about it.”
She chuckled. “So drunk, honey. I’ll be so drunk.”
That sounded good to me. I finally felt good about leaving the house in capable hands for a week or so, and it was her birthday—and kind of a big one.
Besides, everything was so shitty, and I wanted to spoil someone, just to watch their happiness. Nothing made my mother happier than money. Well, maybe a new man, which I was predicting she’d tell me about. It was about that time.
Before I left Zurich, I googled how many miles it was from Aspen to the Lunar. It was a fuck of a lot less than Switzerland, the Land of Misfit Lovers.
When I flew to the states the next week, I wasn’t prepared for how much stronger the impulse to contact him would be. I didn’t even bother turning my phone back on after my last flight. It was too tempting.
There wasn’t a sea between us anymore, only the universe.
Really, had any other two people ever had more odds against them?
He was the most dominant man I’d ever met. His dominance was so powerful it even spoke to me—a woman who couldn’t even commit herself to a weekly fucking television show.
We were stupid for trying.
My mother picked me up in a fur. A goddamned fur. I died.
“You look ridiculous in that, and I don’t want to be seen with you while you’re wearing it,” I told her as we did a one arm hug at baggage claim.
“What a shame, sweetie. It’s your Christmas gift.”
Figures.
“It looks better on you,” I said and rolled my eyes.
“It does, doesn’t it?” Then, she howled. “Nora, it’s so good to have you here. So what do you want to do?”
Pulling my bag behind me, I had one mission. Get lit. I was treating this trip as a real vacation.
“I don’t care, Mom. Book us spa shit everywhere. Make sure they have wine. Lots of wine.” I’d never behaved this way around her. Typically, I was the one telling her to act her age. To stop drawing attention.
I didn’t give a fuck anymore.
It felt like game-on. If I had no choice but to be like her, then I should at least enjoy the perks.
Three days later, we were still doing it up. That evening we were getting massages in her game room downstairs. It was our second one that week.
I sipped from my cup through the whole in the table I laid on under a sheet, next to my naked mom under hers.
“So are you going to tell me what his name is?” I heard coming from her direction, partly muffled from the way the table held her jaw, part slurred.
I was drunk enough to tell her.
“Reagan,” I said. “His name was Reagan. Are you happy?” We’d bickered with each other all week, but I don’t think either of us took the other seriously.
“Reagan. Very manly. What’s the story? Did he want your money?” she asked flippantly as she sat up, the session ending. She wrapped her sheet around herself and looked thoroughly ridiculous with a white headband holding up her bangs.
“No, he wasn’t like you. He didn’t want my money.”
“Ha!” she cackled. “Did you offer?”
“Fuck, no. He wouldn’t have wanted it.”
“Who wouldn’t want that?” She flicked her hand, motioning it down my body. It reminded me of a time in my bedroom in Chicago. It fucking hurt, but what didn’t? She said, “Look at you. I never looked like you, and I’ve had some pretty incredible men, sweetie. You could have anyone. With your legs up to your armpits—and rich. Jesus, woman. Take your pick. They will all love you.”
A year ago, I would have thought, I’d love to have all of them, too. But, drunk at my mom’s, it was undeniable, I only wanted one.
“Have you talked to him?” she finally asked when I felt hot tears running down my cheeks. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d cried in front of my mother. At least a decade had passed. Maybe more.
She hopped off her table and climbed onto mine.
“No,” I said petulantly. “He hasn’t called.”
“Your phone broken? Can’t you call him? Is he one of those burly military men? Off on some crazy mission?” The way she asked making it sound like that’s what she would have preferred.
Did she live in a different romance novel every day?
“No. He’s a banker type.”
“Oh. Is he ugly?” she whispered. “Honey, turn the lights off. You can work with ugly if he’s good in bed.”
She would know. She’d had them all.
I looked at her sideways and mimed the equivalent of sarcasm.
“He’s beautiful, mom.” Saying it made more tears jump their banks and sloppily run down my face.
“Do you want me to talk to him?” She gave me a bump and a cheeky wink. He did sound right up her alley, even more fitting. We even had the same fucking taste in men.
I was doomed.
“No, Mom,” I said. “He deserves better than us.”
Offended, she sat back a little and held the sheet tighter. “What do you mean by that?”
“Oh, God.” I took a long sip from my wine, suddenly seeing the merits of drinking from a straw. It got the job done. Way done. “You know how we are.”
“I do?”
she scoffed, and her blond hair shook loose from the elastic holding it back. “Yes, mom. You’ve been married how many times?”
“So?” she fired back.
“You can’t honestly tell me you believe in monogamy.”
“I sure as fuck do. I just haven’t found it. It’s called faith, Nora. Believing in something when you’ve never seen it.”
I didn’t have any faith.
Later that night, I typed the fake account another email, curled up in my mom’s spare bed. I told him how badly I missed him and how I hated oranges.
Yes—the bed was a queen, but it didn’t matter anymore. The whole fucking world felt like an empty mattress, I might as well get some lumbar support.
The nights were so long and cold.
TWENTY-TWO
PAST
REAGAN—Sunday, April 5, 2009
It had been months. Long. Shitty. Cold. Months.
I was dating a girl named Sarah, who Craig and his wife set me up with. I hadn’t heard from Nora, and I didn’t call or text her either.
“You should be getting the invitation in the mail, but that’s the date. I thought I’d call and give you a heads up on the Warren Family News: Pacific Coast Edition,” my dad said. “How are things going with Sarah?”
I spared him most of the details, but I talked to my dad a lot. He knew the bullet points of what happened with Nora and me.
“Good. She’s great.” She was. Great and tame and predictable and typical and pretty and fine, but there was no thrill. No excitement.
A year ago, I would have been satisfied with Sarah. She was a graphic designer and owned a small business. She was shy and somewhat innocent. Still, we had been on several dates, and I hadn’t had sex with her.
Hadn’t even tried.
Every time she waited patiently for me to kiss her, I’d get a sharp twisting in my chest, and I’d chastely kiss her. It was like I’d been neutered. There was a time when I would have taken much pleasure in finding ways to crack Sarah’s pristine shell.
I didn’t have it in me anymore.
“Think you’ll bring her to the wedding?” he asked.
I didn’t see why not. Spending time in her company was nice; she was a good time. Maybe a trip would spark something. Fuck it. Maybe she’d make a move, and I could quit fucking thinking for twenty minutes.
