Reach Me

by J. L. Mac

  “No. Correction, Linds, you don’t know him at all. Russ,” she says with disdain. “Who the hell is this guy? Girl? Person? He could be a psychopath! He could be an old man! He could be anyone!”

  “Yep, and that’s the beauty of it. He could be anyone and it keeps me intrigued,” I chime as I scoot out of the booth and smooth my floral print sundress. “Love ya. Gotta run.”

  “Ugh! Bye, Sicko! Only sickos pen pal with strangers for years and years, you know,” Maggie bemoans as she stands and only half-hugs me goodbye.

  “Not a pen pal. We chat, email and text message.”

  “Semantics,” Maggie grumbles, moving to grab one last gulp of her iced tea as we leave our booth. I secretly enjoy that my “pen pal” clearly annoys her, just like her purse on the table annoys the hell out of me.

  I do battle with the usual traffic in the parent pickup line and finally maneuver my less-than-reliable car alongside the curb in the circle drive of the school. The sunshine reflecting off my third true love’s hair as he flounces down the sidewalk brings a smile to my face. The sandy blond hair that I smooth from his forehead every night before he drifts off to sleep is the same as his father’s.

  The door flies open so hard that it jars my tiny car, causing the hinge to make an unhealthy sounding noise. I flinch, waiting for the door to fall off, but thank God it doesn’t. Trey tosses his backpack in haphazardly then flops down into the passenger seat. Both are attributes I’m positive he’s picked up from his Aunt Maggie; I’m too methodical to flop. Either that or Maggie is a nine year old stuck in a beautiful 29-year-old woman’s body. In my mind, both scenarios are equally plausible.

  “Hey, Bud. How was school?” I glance over to him as I put on my indicator to once again battle the minivan barrage.

  “Fine, I guess,” he moans as he slouches down into the passenger seat.

  “Uh-oh. Wanna talk about it?” I ask hesitantly as I accelerate in the direction of our apartment.

  “Not really. It’s kind of… man stuff.”

  Oh shit! So not ready for man stuff. “Ah. I see.” I purse my lips together and nod knowingly while thinking of plan B. “Well, maybe if you felt like it, you could call Grampa when w—”

  “I don’t think Grampa is going to be able to help me.” Trey doesn’t make eye contact. He’s turned toward the passenger window, resting his forehead against the glass.

  “Okay, what about Uncle Brian?” I offer half-heartedly, sounding more like a question than an answer.

  “Definitely no help!” he replies quickly, and I can tell he’s trying not to laugh.

  My offer got his attention at least. He’s now facing more toward me, aggravation on his face. It’s times like this when I feel so helpless. I’m not his dad. I can’t give him the things a father would and it’s frustrating for both of us. I glance back and forth between Trey and the traffic all around us, wondering what to do.

  Even through the frustration, I have to snicker a little on the inside, knowing full well that he’s right to look at me like I’ve lost my mind suggesting a talk with Uncle Brian. If it’s what I think it is—girl trouble—then he’s light years away from needing Brian’s expertise. Fashion questions, celebrity gossip, social media tips—he’s your man, but beyond that, you’re out of luck. The realm of Brian is a wonky little universe to visit. But I love him so.

  “Well, you could send an email to Russ from my email account. He’s a pretty smart guy.”

  His silence tells me that I may be onto something here. Trey tilts his shaggy blond head to the side and squints up at me. “Okay, yeah, that might work. Except I need to handwrite it. I’m not going to be hacked by my own mom. You’ll snoop. That’s what moms do.”

  I feign being appalled with a show of bugged eyes and a gaping mouth, but my clever boy is right. I have no shame. “I would never read your private email to him!” I protest. “It’s man talk. I get it.”

  “Mom. Handwritten,” he insists.

  “Fine.” I stop at the red light and press my palms to the steering wheel and extend my fingers outward in a show of concession—steering wheel surrender is an everyday occurrence in this family. “I’ll see what I can do. No promises, though. I can ask him, but there’s no guarantee that he’ll just give me his mailing address. We’ve never exchanged our addresses. It’s too risky these days, ya know?”

  “Maybe he has a P.O. Box,” he suggests hopefully.

  The light turns green and I peek over just in time to see that thumbprint dimple that he also managed to inherit from his father. Sigh. Those dimples are a constant reminder.

  Maggie’s right. My love life is pathetic even on my best day.

  “Hop in,” I say, pulling back the covers on Trey’s bed. He slides in, interlaces his fingers on his chest, and looks to me expectantly. Drawing the quilt up to just beneath his chin, I watch him watch me like I do every night.

  Our routine is the same as it’s always been. When I brought him home from the hospital, I didn’t really know what to do with him. Honestly, I was still a kid myself and living with two grown men who didn’t know much of anything about babies (my father apparently had very little to do with our formative years), so I just talked to him. I told my baby the story of me and of him and of how I was lucky enough to get him all to myself. He seemed to listen so I kept talking. I haven’t quit yet.

  “What’s the topic tonight, young sir?” I mock in a terrible English accent.

  “My name!”

  “Excellent choice.” I swallow hard and begin one of his favorite stories, even though it’s basically a painful recap of my failure at relationships. “I fell in love for the first time when I was a little girl, far younger than even you! I was smitten, putty in this man’s hands. I believed everything he said. I followed him around like a puppy. I waited on the front steps for him to come home every day and when he hoisted me high up on his shoulders, I swore I could nearly swirl the clouds with my fingertips like you swirl suds in bath water. I was in love with Grampa before I even knew what love was. He was my first prince charming. My King of Hearts.”

  Trey sighs. I’m pretty sure he has a similar outlook on Grampa.

  “Then came middle school and I was crazy about this guy named Jonathan. I scribbled hearts and ‘I love you’ in my notebooks…”

  Trey giggles on cue. “Ewww, Mom!”

  “Hey! Don’t judge me! I was in love, okay? Anyway, I just knew he was the one, but he didn’t even know I was alive. I asked him to the spring dance in the sixth grade and he shot me down.” I sigh and shake my head dramatically just for show.

  “Burn!”

  “Hey!” I poke him in the ribs through the covers. “I was brokenhearted by my second love. But that wasn’t the last of him. No, sir. He came back around for an encore performance.”

  “Yep!” He nods and smiles. I think this might be his favorite part of the story. The meeting.

  “We met again in college and before I knew it, I was in love all over again.”

  “Mom, are you easy?” he interrupts.

  “WHAT?!” My cheeks redden and my eyes bulge.

  “You seem to fall in love pretty easily and in the lunch room I heard Tommy say that lots of girls are easy so I was wondering if you’re easy too?”

  “No,” I say sternly, trying my best not to laugh or cry, though I’m not really sure which I want to do. “No. That’s not what that means and you shouldn’t being saying that. Ever. Ever. Okay?”

  He nods tentatively.

  “Moving right along,” I continue, trying to push the easy question out of my mind. “Even though I was in love with him, we had to go our separate ways. It was awful. I was heartbroken. Miserable. Worse than when my dog, Gracie, ran away when I was in the second grade; worse than when I broke my arm. But my misery was short lived, because only a couple weeks later, I found out that you were on the way and you rescued my heart from misery. You stole my heart right out from under him and that made you my lucky number three. My thir
d true love is you, my baby boy. So, in true Las Vegas fashion, I named you Trey. My third and only true love. Third time’s the charm.”

  After tucking in my third love, I brush my teeth, wash my face, moisturize, and slip into my favorite faded yellow cotton pajamas in record time. I know Russ will be waiting on me to log on to instant messenger. What does he do while he waits? Talk to someone else? Jealousy swims through my veins instantly and I speed up my nightly routine.

  My contacts box lights up with a little green check mark beside his screen name and my heart flutters for a moment. My fingers move fluidly over the keyboard of my laptop.

  LNZ84: Sorry I’m running behind tonight. Trey and I had a fantastic bedtime talk.

  Russ_00: Oh yeah? What was the topic tonight?

  LNZ84: His name. Again. But he asked if I was “easy,” since he heard Tommy say that lots of girls are easy. Nice, right?

  Russ_00: Are you?

  LNZ84: Watch it, Chief. Your creeper-meter is spiking a tad. ;)

  Russ_00: You know I’m kidding. We both know that if you were “easy” you would’ve agreed to meet me by now. I’ve been asking for the better part of nine years. I think I may hold a record for number of times a guy can be shot down.

  LNZ84: In the words of wise young Trey, “burn!” LOL. In my defense, I agreed to texting years ago! Give me some credit.

  Russ_00: Tell Trey I said thanks a lot, man. No help. No help. One day you’ll say yes, Lindsay. I’m in the business of getting what I want, you know. One date. One. Bring a stun gun if you must, but just agree already.

  LNZ84: Speaking of Trey… I kind of have a problem. He wants to talk to you.

  Russ_00: Sure. About what?

  LNZ84: He won’t tell me. Says it’s man stuff and I’m outside of the realm of man stuff.

  Russ_00: So have him logon tomorrow and I’ll see if I can help.

  LNZ84: Can’t. He thinks I’ll hack his conversation.

  Russ_00: You would.

  LNZ84: You know me too well. ;)

  Russ_00: I have no problem with you having my address. In fact, maybe you’ll get nosey and just show up, knock on the door, and stay…

  My heart comes to an abrupt full stop in my chest and I know it’s because my gut tells me that that’s exactly what I want. I don’t “know” Russ, but I do. I know him better than just about anyone. He’s as much a part of my life as Trey or Maggie or Dad or Brian. I just wish I could convince myself to say yes, to go out on a limb and meet him.

  Russ_00: I didn’t mean to scare you if I did. It’s just the truth. For me, seeing you in more than just my dreams is more than a goal, Lindsay. It’s a wish. A hope. You’ll come around. And until you do, I’ll wait. Here goes. Full disclosure—> L.R. Barnett, 3857 Las Vegas Blvd., Unit 4303, 89109. Now you can stalk me. Please? :)

  Russ_00: You know how to reach me. Goodnight, Linds.

  I sit staring as he signs off in his same old way. “You know how to reach me.” It means so much more than it sounds like. He’s been signing off that way since the beginning and it’s more than just a way to say goodnight. It’s an offer. A request. An extension of the option, the option to give hope a shot.

  I’m too scared. Scared of heartbreak, of course, but more scared of ruining one of the most meaningful relationships I’ve ever been lucky enough to hold on to.

  LNZ84: Goodnight, Russ.

  I stare at my laptop for what feels like forever. He’s so determined and some part of me loves the fact that I feel like I’m going to lose this battle at some point. A part of me wants nothing more than to meet him and just… see if we truly have what I sometimes think we have.

  The other part of me is scared to death of meeting him and being disappointed. I worry that the loss of the mystery and intrigue will inevitably lead to distance and subsequently loss of our friendship. It’s a risk that I’m just not willing to take. Not yet.

  I close my laptop and lie back in the middle of my queen-sized bed amongst my nine throw pillows. I know nine is excessive—even fancy pants Brian says so, and my brother has more throw pillows than Raymour and Flanigan (not that he’d ever shop at such a “gauche” store). I have a system, though. There’s a reason for my multitudes of pillows. I fluff them. I stack them. I adjust them then readjust them. I’m totally and completely neurotic. I should just buy a twin bed and get it over with. After all, only two are for me and seven are for the part of me that wishes there was someone taking up the void on the other side of the mattress. Those other seven pillows are for the part of me that wonders if my life would be any easier if I had a husband to share the weight of my world with. At the rate that I’m going it seems I may never know.

  My hand slips under my pillow to reach my journal. I prop myself against my headboard and crack open my universe. The ballpoint pen slides out from the spiraled spine and I get to it.

  Journal,

  Some days I feel so lonely my chest aches. I run through these various scenarios that all include him here with me. With us. Self-loathing at its best. He turned away from me and I guess it wouldn’t hurt as much if I hadn’t been pregnant. It’s sheer stupidity on my part for thinking that if breaking my heart didn’t give him pause that maybe, just maybe, a child might. It didn’t. He didn’t believe me when I told him about the pregnancy nor did he give me the option to prove it to him. Who does that?

  He packed and left as planned. He transferred to Texas to chase after Sarah Copeland. It still pisses me off. I despised her in middle and high school and nothing has changed on that front. Those two have been on again off again since third grade.

  What bothers me most, still, is that he did it all without the slightest hesitation. There was no “Oh shit, what are we going to do?” moment. He went straight to “Later, bitch!”

  Seeing him walk away from me wasn’t nearly as hard as seeing how easily he walked away from our child. It was unthinkable to me then and it’s unthinkable to me now. I guess if I’m perfectly honest with myself, I’d be forced to admit that maybe I don’t miss him per se, but the idea of him. That’s it exactly. I miss the idea that we might possibly have been together, maybe even happy, with our little boy.

  You know, I always imagined the ridiculous fairytale that all little girls dream of. I dreamed it and I waited for it. I hoped for it. I practically begged for it a time or two. It’s tough to admit, but I wanted him to want the middle-American dream like I did. Like I still do, I suppose. Not that it matters now anyway. He’s gone. I’ve got a handsome, incredible little boy to show for it all and it’s so much more than I could ever ask for. I’ll be fine and so will Trey. We’ll be fine together. We always have been.

  I wish that in some alternate reality, Russ was the one I fell for in college. If I could, I would go back in time and make it so that he was the one who took my virginity that night, that it was him who gave me the most invaluable gift I’ve ever been given. Russ would’ve stayed and made a go of it and by now we’d be married with 2.5 kids, a house, a yard, and maybe even a dog. We’d have a life together; a happy, stable, normal life.

  But that’s not the case. Instead, there’s AWOL Jonathan and phantom Russ who I’m too scared to go for. I wish I wasn’t. Jonathan has never been there. Not during midnight feedings. Not when I was feeling so frazzled I thought I couldn’t continue with this motherhood thing. Russ was, though. He’s always been there to chat, always there to listen. His open ear has been my saving grace many a hard day and late night. I hope he’ll always be around to be my sounding board. It scares me to think that one day someone else will come along and marry him and bring an end to our chat affair. I’ll be crushed. I’m not even sure that I can think about that right now. My chest feels heavy just imagining some terrible email saying, “I found the one. See ya.”

  -L

  I shut off my negative, depressing journal entry and go to bed so that I have plenty of energy tomorrow to worry about being jobless, single, almost thirty, and raising my kid alone. Lovely.

&nbs
p; I draw in a deep breath. It hits the bottom of my lungs and helps to chase away the train of thought that would almost certainly lead to a night full of gloomy dreams of me knitting the world’s largest sweater, alone, with 67 cats and a son who never visits his weird mother.

  I lean over and take a sip of the water on my nightstand to wash down the birth control that I don’t really need and the sleep aid that I do. I plug in my cell phone and burrow beneath my covers. Sleep comes easily. Thank you, Ambien.

  Morning arrives far too early. The alarm buzzes incessantly and feels like life screaming, “Wake up, Linds! Make everything okay for another day!” Truth is, sometimes I just want to lie in bed and feign ignorance. I want to forget the rent, the bills, the knocking in my car’s engine reminding me of the oil change that it desperately needs. Mostly I want to forget that somewhere inside of me craves fulfillment so fiercely that I find it hard to breathe. I want to forget that I keep wondering if this is this it. Is this all life has for me? Is this as good as it’s going to get?

  I roll over and grab my cell phone to shut off the alarm only to find a text from Russ. Good morning. Hope you have a good day at work.

  A sleepy smile eases across my lips as I type out my reply. Ditto! I caved and gave him my cell number years ago but insisted that we use only texting and instant messenger to talk. He’s respected it. It speaks volumes to me that he hasn’t once crossed the line.