True Love Way

by Mary Elizabeth

  Running my hand through my hair, I scope out the clock on the wall.

  Five minutes.

  Five more minutes and I’m free.

  I watch as the second hand makes its way around the clock over and over, taking its time. I listen as each minute ticks and tocks by. My foot bounces, and my pen hits the desk despite the girl’s dirty looks.

  My stomach twists, and my heart clenches.

  Four more minutes until I can go.

  Three more minutes.

  Tick, tock, tick, tock…

  Two more minutes.

  One more minute.

  Thirty seconds.

  Five seconds.

  I slide my key into the knob, slowly and quietly unlocking our front door. It’s bright outside, but inside the apartment is pitch-black and silent. I drop my backpack onto the couch and head back to our room, bringing the container I brought with me.

  “Hi,” Penelope whispers, lifting the comforter so I can fit in beside her.

  “Hey.” I kiss her forehead. “Are you okay?”

  She shakes her head, smiling despite tears running from her eyes. I open the container and light the pink and white candle. Penelope smiles, knowing.

  “Happy twenty-first birthday,” I whisper, holding the cupcake for her to blow out.

  The candle burns, but neither one of us blows it out. Our dark bedroom is illuminated with the slight orange light the flame gives off. Penelope and I stare at each other, hearts beating and breaths shaky.

  “We’re supposed to be out living it up. We’re twenty-one,” she cries softly.

  I make a wish—the same wish I always make—and blow out the candle. Reaching for her, I hold her so fucking close. So fucking tight she’ll never, ever, ever question my devotion. I kiss the top of Penelope’s head and allow her to cry into my chest.

  “No, this is good.” I smile, leaning back and closing my eyes. “This is perfect.”

  “We’re moving.”

  Penelope dumps chopped potatoes from the cutting board into the crock-pot with the pot roast. She took a cooking class, so gone are the days of eating raw spaghetti noodles with red sauce. We now live in the times of overcooked proteins, lumpy mashed potatoes that taste like a salt lick, and garlic sautéed everything.

  “What do you mean ‘we’re moving’?” she asks, wiping her wet hands on the back of her shirt. Pen maneuvers around our small kitchen in a pair of purple-rimmed sunglasses and bare feet.

  Plucking a carrot from her meal, I pop it into my mouth and immediately turn away so I can spit it out into my hand. Who knows what she’s done to make a carrot taste like soy sauce, but Pen’s done it.

  “I want to get you a bigger place, somewhere with a backyard.” We’ve been in this apartment for almost four years; I’m ready to move on.

  “That’s dumb.” Penelope pushes me away, knowing I’m inspecting her food. “We can’t afford to move, and you still have quite a few years of school left.”

  I’ve been accepted into medical school here in Seattle. The next few years of my life will consist of residencies and fellowships. Not to mention a shit ton of money and a hell of a lot of stress.

  “We’re getting a dog,” I offer instead.

  Penelope laughs, chopping the onions. “We can’t have a dog without a backyard.”

  “Then we should move.”

  “What is with you today?” My girl pours a handful of onions into the mix. She looks up at me and smiles.

  “I don’t know. I feel like we’re stuck. We’ve reached some kind of dead end.”

  “It’s all a part of the process, Dillon,” she says, shaking paprika over tonight’s dinner.

  Since when has pot roast needed paprika?

  Our relationship—that’s what’s stuck. We move along at the same pace, doing the same things day in and day out.

  “You’re going to love me forever, right?”

  “No. I’ve met someone else and have fallen madly in love. I was going to tell you, but I figured killing you softly with poisoned pot roast was a better idea.”

  “Good to know.” I laugh.

  She kisses my lips, slipping something into my hand. “Here, take this.”

  I look at it and laugh. “What is it?”

  It’s a heart-shaped radish. Odd but completely fitting.

  “If that’s not a sign of our undying love, then I don’t know what is.” Penelope winks, setting the lid onto the crock-pot.

  Penelope’s pot roast didn’t kill me. It was actually very good, and we ate two servings each. Penelope had some trouble going to sleep, so we stayed up a lot of the night. When my alarm went off in the morning, I already knew I wouldn’t be going to class.

  I make the room dark, covering her completely, helping her to feel safe. “Not today, Penelope?”

  “Not today, Dillon.”

  “Are you feeling okay? Do you want to head home?” I ask.

  “No!” Dillon rubs his palms over his face before pulling the collar of his shirt away from his neck. “No, I’m okay. It’s just warm in here.”

  He nervously runs his hands through his hair, pushing his messy blonde strands away from his reddened face. Our waitress comes by and delivers edginess another soda, even though he hasn’t touched the last two she brought by.

  “What’s the matter with you, boy?” My dad laughs from the other side of the table, eating his steak, looking with a smug smile and knowing eyes.

  Mom swats him with her cloth napkin, Timothy and Dawn smile, and Risa glows, staring at me with a smile spread across her face. Kyle elbows her, and the grin falls, but pops right back up a second later.

  “I’m sure it’s just stress from school, right, Son?” Tim offers, almost like he’s leading the conversation.

  “Yeah, Dad, whatever,” my guy answers, scooting his seat back.

  Dillon stands.

  The entire table takes a breath.

  Meeting our families for dinner to celebrate our birthday was his idea, but he’s been avoiding and completely on edge all day. Looking up at the boy in question, dark green eyes meet mine, and goose bumps rise on my arms.

  “Take me somewhere where we can be alone,” I whisper, needing some space.

  He nods, capturing my hand in his and telling our families not to follow us. Dillon leads me outside, inhaling a deep breath and blowing it out between his straight lips once we’re out in the open.

  “I should have done this at home. This is stupid,” he mumbles to himself before addressing me. “You’re everything to me, Penelope.”

  “I know,” I answer timidly.

  “Who knew it would be so hard?” he whispers. Dillon takes another deep breath, brushing my hair away from my shoulder. “Stay here, okay?”

  After running back into the restaurant to pay the bill, the love of my life walks me to his Pontiac, and we drive back to our childhood homes, where we’re staying for the weekend. The end-of-September night smells like incoming rain and is quiet enough to hear waves crashing against Castle Rock a mile down at the beach.

  When my parents’ old Chrysler and the Deckers’ vehicle pull into the driveway behind our GTO, I’m surprised to see they left dinner when we did. Dad was still buttering his roll when we excused ourselves for some air.

  “What are they doing here?” I ask, motioning to open my door.

  “Let me get that for you.” Dillon places his hand on my knee, stopping me before he gets out and rushes around the back of the car.

  The tremble in his body doesn’t go unnoticed when he opens my door and stands back to let me by. My confusion only grows when I see everyone standing on the lawn, staring at us.

  Risa gives me a thumbs-up.

  Turning around to ask Dillon what the heck is going on, I’m stunned to find him down on his knee, shaking, crying, and speaking.

  He says forever and always.

  He says be mine, and let’s grow old together.

  The ring shines like his watering eyes in the moonlight.
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  Families cry, Moms hug, and Dads look happy.

  “Marry me, Penelope.”

  I cover my mouth with my hands as tears fall from my eyes. Dillon waits patiently for an answer as the world around fades away, leaving only us.

  He’s so handsome. So strong. So entirely forever.

  I think back to the very first day I saw this boy. How the sunlight lit up his hair. How cute I thought he was while he sat on his bike watching me move boxes from the moving truck to the stairs. I remember blowing the biggest bubbles I could, knowing boys thought bubble gum was awesome.

  We spent years writing letters across lawns, and he traded M&M’s for smiles.

  He gave me yellow feathers and kept our heart-shaped radish.

  Dillon brushed my hair and taught me how to use tampons. He brought me coffee and kissed me for the first time.

  “Say yes,” eternity whispers.

  So I do.

  I say yes.

  Everything’s dark behind his hands, but I let him guide my way, knowing he will never let me fall.

  “Your eyes better be closed, Penelope,” Dillon warns.

  “They are.”

  I hear the sound of a door being opened and smell wet paint. We slowly shuffle forward until the ground under my feet softens, and we’re no longer outside.

  “You can look now.”

  We’re alone in an empty house I’ve never been in before. The living room opens to a large kitchen, and Dillon’s excited to show me the master and three other smaller bedrooms. The bathrooms seem bigger than the one-bedroom apartment we’ve spent the last five years in. A pool and spa are in the backyard that I can’t wait to dip my toes into.

  “I got in at the hospital, Penelope. This is yours. Anything you want you can have.”

  Dillon is a doctor.

  This is what the last few years have been for.

  “I love it.” It’s the absolute truth.

  He sweeps my feet out from under me and runs toward the pool, and I know there’s no point in doing anything else but holding on.

  We cut through the air, and as we drop, I take a breath so big my lungs burn.

  I release it the moment my skin touches the frigid water.

  Sinking fast, bubbles blur my vision, and I kick free from my captor.

  Dillon catches me, and we kiss beneath the water, stopping time so this airless moment lasts just a little longer.

  The true love way.

  If you freeze a heart-shaped radish, it will still shrivel and grow roots.

  If you wrap a heart-shaped radish in plastic wrap and stick it into the far corner of your freezer where it’s safe, protected, and loved, it will still go bad.

  Despite all my efforts to keep this radish safe from itself, from its nature, from the reality of its sad existence, my heart-shaped radish is still only a radish.

  All my hard work and dedication will never change that simple fact.

  “You should have let the radish go in the crock-pot, Dillon,” Penelope says, shaking her head at my poor heart-shaped radish.

  “Maybe, but I love this radish more than anyone, and I wanted to keep it safe.”

  “It’s only a radish, a plain and dirty radish,” she says, laughing as she jumps onto the kitchen counter. “Besides, that radish has real, real serious problems. I’ve heard that radish, the one you love so much, is a little bit crazy.”

  Penelope winks, turning the page of her cookbook, kicking her feet out in front of her.

  “Watch your mouth, woman. I love my radish, and I won’t let you talk shit.” I kiss it before sticking it back into the freezer, confident that it will last as long as I keep cutting off the roots. Turning back to my girl, I kiss her face and her neck. Running my hands up her thighs, I whisper into her ear, “Besides, we’re all a little bit crazy.”

  “Maybe, but your radish—she’s crazier than the rest.” She wraps her arms around my neck.

  I nod, not disagreeing with her.

  “What are the chances that I’d be lucky enough to find that particular heart-shaped radish? Out of all the radishes in this world—all the normal radishes—I was the one chosen to have the heart-shaped one? Pretty small, I’d say.” I kiss along her jaw. My thumb rubs over her nipple through her shirt. “I’m pretty lucky, and I’ll never take that for granted. Even if it does have roots.”

  “Your radish is defective.”

  “Take that back. It isn’t even close to being true,” I whisper against her skin, pulling her shirt over her head.

  Penelope sinks back onto the kitchen counter. Her arms fall above her head, and her legs wrap around my waist. I kiss up her collarbone and touch the side of her breast.

  “Your radish loves you, too, you know?” She squirms, laughing when I bite her nipple over her bra. “It’s grateful for all you do for her. She sleeps well at night because she knows you’ll always be around to help when the roots get a little out of hand. And when your radish goes a little bit crazy, she is well aware of your love. Your radish told me to tell you that.”

  “Does my radish know that she has great tits?” Unhooking her bra, I throw it behind me.

  Penelope bites on her bottom lip, closing her eyes and nodding her head. “Yes.”

  Hooking my fingers into the waistband of her shorts, I pull them down her legs and die when I see my radish isn’t wearing any underwear.

  Once I situate myself between her legs, chills run up and down her naked body. She touches the side of my face, and I turn and kiss her palm, loving the way the diamond around her finger binds her to me.

  “Does my radish know that she drives me wild? Does she know I’ve loved her since I was twelve? That I would die for her?”

  “She knows. That’s why she’s going to marry you.”

  “I’m going to be late for work,” I groan, pushing inside her.

  Six months without an episode, Pen’s edgy, and I can feel it coming. She isn’t as quick to get out of bed in the morning because she’s not sleeping at night. Madness is easily distracted, and her mood swings are unpredictable.

  When I love her like this, giving myself to her to take and use in whichever way she needs, she seems better. Our bodies move together, heavy breaths and clinging limbs. I want to be here, in the now, enjoying her skin against mine. All I can manage to think about is whom I can call and have come over to watch her while I’m at the hospital.

  “Love me. Love me,” she whispers.

  “I do. So much.”

  As I kiss over her flushed cheeks, Penelope smiles and hums. Her closed eyes open, looking at me with her dark browns. The depth and the significance of the brief stare is enough to let me know she is thinking about the same thing I am. Neither one of us says a word about the inevitable—the silent condition that rules our lives.

  The next couple of days pass slowly, and I have no choice but to leave for the hospital every day. With new opportunities come new responsibilities, and obligations at work don’t care that my fiancée is dying inside.

  Balancing on the edge of hopelessness, it’s a battle she has been losing since she was a kid.

  She doesn’t have any more fight to give.

  “You treat me like I’m a fucking child, Dillon!” she snaps, walking past me into our bedroom and slamming the door.

  Before I follow her inside, I take a step back and remind myself that the girl I love isn’t upset with me; it’s the monster inside her.

  “I’m coming in,” I warn her, cautiously turning the knob.

  Taking off my tie, I slip out of my shoes while Penelope sits in the center of our bed with her face in her hands. There isn’t anything I can say that will make her feel better. She’ll use my words against me, so I remain silent while changing out of my work clothes.

  “I’m alone all day,” she cries. “I miss you, but you’re always gone.”

  “This is how it has to be for a while.” I hang up my shirt and step out of my black slacks.

  “I don’t want your sis
ter here. I don’t need a babysitter.”

  “She won’t be here to babysit you. I promise.” I sit on the edge of the bed, careful to give madness space.

  She cries harder and harder as the minutes pass—shaking the bed and hurting my ears, my pride, and my heart. I should be able to fix this. I’m a doctor. I’ve studied about treating and curing people and their aliments, but there is nothing I can do for the one person who means everything to me.

  I’m helpless.

  I can only sit back and listen to her ear-shattering sobs, knowing this is only the beginning. Tonight, she won’t sleep, but tomorrow, she will sleep all day. Penelope won’t eat, and she’ll stop talking. She’ll lose weight and manipulate me into having sex. She’ll feel so bad afterward that the crying will start all over again.

  Who knows how long it will last? A few days. A week. A month. A few months.

  “Penelope,” I whisper her name. “We have to do something about this. We can’t just sit back and let it happen to you.”

  Taking a chance, I look over at the love of my life. Her green circular sunglasses block the view of her red swollen eyes. She doesn’t even attempt to smile, laying her cheeks down on her knees. I scoot closer, then closer again, until I’m right next to her and my arms have her safely pinned against me.

  “I hate feeling like this. It’s like I’m dying.”

  “You’re not. I swear you’re not.”

  “My heart is beating too fast. I can’t catch my breath.” Her feet start to kick, and her fingernails dig into the skin of my arm.

  “Everything’s okay,” I assure her.

  Looking back at our lives, this type of depression is a condition that was passed down to Penelope through genes and birth. Symptoms showed themselves as early as age two. By five, she was hiding behind her glasses, unemotional. At twelve, she’d met me, but nothing about her personality had changed. Penelope was awkward and overlooked because of her unsociable personality. She was detached to everyone except me, and around age twelve, the symptoms really began to show. She was consumed by fifteen.

  I’d like to think I did something to help—that any of us did—but the reality is we did nothing more than contain and treat, again and again. We got Penelope by.