I shook my head.
"Thinking about you and how you never quit."
"Come on."
"I mean it. I know your coworkers frustrate you, and the whole exercise thing isn't exactly your favorite. But you keep working out even though the weight isn't doing what you want, and you work so hard at the office even when people don't know all the stuff you do."
"They don't know because—"
She waved this off. "I know, you didn't tell them. I still don't understand that. You could have got credit for it the other way."
I shrugged. "It was more fun to do it and not tell. And besides, who cares about that now? Today's all about you."
"It is, isn't it?" She grinned, then sobered. "But seriously, you helped. I kept imagining coming back here and saying, 'Yeah, I kind of stopped trying.' I couldn't say that to you. You wouldn't even understand the words. No matter how things went, you'd have kept going."
I would also have hated myself for not doing it exactly how I'd planned, even if the plan wasn't realistic, but if she hadn't picked up that particular neurosis from me she was better off and I wouldn't try to give it to her. Knowing her attitude was a million times better than my own, though, I couldn't let her keep praising me. "So will you do another one?"
She buried her face in her hands. "God help me, but yes."
"Good. I don't want to do it alone."
She looked up, excitement growing in her eyes. "You're going to do it? That's awesome. You and me, right here, next year. Yes?"
"It's too late to back out, I guess?"
"Definitely."
"Then yes." Her enthusiasm infected me. "Yes, for sure. You and me, right here."
When I told her, a week later, that I wouldn't be doing the race after all because I needed to focus on losing weight for her wedding, she was horrified.
"Come on, Sandra, you don't want me fat and ruining your pictures. Think of what happened to poor Kathleen."
"First off, Kathleen's insane grandmother won't be at my wedding. Second, you didn't ruin those pictures. And even if you did, which you didn't, you're my best friend and even if you were eight hundred pounds I'd want you as my maid of honor. Do the race. You'll love it."
I'd promised to think about it, but I'd gone home and studied myself in the mirror and that had been it. I could not go to Sandra's wedding at two hundred pounds.
I give a huge sigh and bring myself back to the present. It seems so stupid now. I've never thought of myself as shallow and self-obsessed, and yet every decision I've made in the last six months has revolved around my weight.
At the time, it seemed normal. Nearly every woman I know has at least one thing she hates about her body, and most have a collection. I don't think I was all that different. Maybe a little more obsessed, but not much more.
How much energy, collectively, have my friends and I wasted in worrying about our perfectly normal and functional bodies? How much more could women in general have accomplished if we hadn't been so unnecessarily stressed about how we looked while we were accomplishing?
It's not that simple, though. Sure, you can say, "Well, stop caring about it", but it's not easy to do. Looking back, it seems like a tremendous waste, but life's like that. You see the little details most of the time, not the big picture of your life as a whole.
My life has become a hole, empty of everything but calorie counting and self-loathing.
What has my poor body ever done to deserve being loathed? It carries me around, even at my current weight. It puts up with long hard exercise sessions and short rations of food, and I hardly ever get sick so it's taking care of me. Much better than I'm taking care of it.
When did I get the 'me versus it' feeling about my body? And how do I get rid of it?
Sandra doesn't have it, I don't think. Maybe she could teach me.
I never actually started a letter for Sandra. I need one, of course, so I flip open the laptop.
Dear Sandra,
That should probably say 'dearest', because you're by far the best friend I've ever had and the dearest person on the planet. I've been so lucky to know you.
I hope I'm wrong, but I might not get to your wedding. If I don't, I expect you to have an amazing time and make it the wedding of your dreams, and if you're sad about me for more than a minute or two know that I will show up and haunt you. :) And if you thought I was persistent alive, wait until I'm a ghost and can devote all my time to your haunting. Watch out, missy!
There's so much I want to say that isn't goofy, and I have no idea how to word it. I'm so glad you and Mark got together. You are good for each other. While nobody would be quite good enough for you, he's about as close as you can get. Please, do enjoy your wedding. I want that so much for you.
I can't see the keyboard any more, so I lean back against the seat and let the blinding tears fall. How the hell is my best friend supposed to enjoy her wedding if I die in this damned car?
Sandra's words, her insistence that I'd never give up, come back to me. Am I giving up? Is there something else I can do to get out? Maybe there is.
I scrub away the tears and try to concentrate. It's hard. My mind doesn't want to follow a single path. It's bouncing between the letter and escape and Andrew and my increasing desire for a little nap. But I force myself to think. What do I need?
I need my phone. If only I could grab it. When I made my biggest stretch toward it, I was about a foot and a half away. Is there some way I could extend my reach? I look around the car, everywhere I can think of to look, and see nothing that would help me escape.
With a sigh, I lay my fingers on the keyboard to continue Sandra's letter, then freeze.
The laptop. It's a tiny thing, ten inches long at the most, but with its screen fully open it's probably over a foot wide. Could I somehow push it out there and use it to drag the phone?
I stare at the phone, trying to figure out if it's possible, and finally decide that it might be, and that I have to try even if it's not.
Holding the laptop with the tips of my fingers, I lean to the side and stretch out my arm. I'm closer, but not close enough, so I pull against my stuck foot, ignoring the pain pouring through me, and push my arm out even harder while turning to extend my shoulder to the maximum. Twisted on such an angle, I can't see, but I know I haven't hit the phone yet.
Hit. I could end up pushing it further away.
I rest and reconsider, and decide that I'm currently screwed and I won't be more screwed if the phone gets further away. Can't be more out of communication than I am now.
To avoid pushing the phone, though, I switch to lifting the laptop an inch or so and lowering it onto the car's floor, hoping to land on the phone. The first few attempts are futile, so I decide to try it ten times and then regroup and think of another plan.
On the eighth drop, the laptop slips out of my fingers and I can't get it back.
Chapter Thirteen
The horror that sweeps through me makes it impossible to move. I stare at the laptop, hardly able to understand what's happened. I thought I couldn't be more out of communication, but I was wrong and now I am. Without the laptop I can't say my goodbyes. Without it, I'll have to sit here and think, with nothing to distract myself from the worst things I've done and no way to apologize for them.
I'm afraid to reach for it again, terrified that I won't be able to get it back. But I already feel so much more alone. I hadn't realized how the laptop's familiar presence was calming me. I need it back.
It slid from my fingers as I dropped it onto the car's carpet, so it can't be too far out of my reach. Pushing the idea that even a millimeter is too far if I can't stretch any further out of my mind, I take a deep breath then let it out and drive myself toward the computer.
My fingertips brush its lower edge, but it's smooth and rounded and I can't get a grip on it. I can barely keep a grip on myself either, but I refuse to give way to the fear churning within me, instead studying the laptop again and trying to see how I can get
hold of it.
The keyboard is way out of my reach, but the built-in trackpad isn't. The pad itself is perfectly smooth but its buttons have a tiny crack all the way around them since they move up and down when I press them. If I can get a nail into one of those cracks...
The bottom edge of the trackpad is about a centimeter up from the edge of the laptop, and for a terrifying moment I don't think I can stretch that much further. But then I feel my fingernail slip into the crack beneath the right mouse button.
In my relief, my hand moves. Only a tiny bit, but enough to jar my nail out of the crack. But now that I know I can get there, giving up isn't remotely an option, and I try again and again. Sometimes my nail stays in the crack long enough to move the laptop a fraction of an inch along the floor mat, and sometimes it falls out right away, but eventually the computer is close enough that I can pinch its bottom edge between my fingers and thumb and pull it toward me.
With my arms wrapped firmly around the precious machine, I slump into my seat and absolute panic floods me. Delayed reaction: now that I've succeeded it's so clear how terrible failure would have been.
The laptop is the only thing keeping me connected to my friends and family, and they in turn are the only things keeping me connected to even a hint of calm and sanity.
It's not just the laptop, of course. It's the situation. I keep trying not to think of it but it keeps coming back.
What does it feel like to die?
I suppose it's different depending on how it happens. Bill probably faded into unconsciousness, or at least an exhausted sleep, and died from there. I hope so. I've never been able to let myself really imagine what he must have suffered there in the snow.
I'm not in the snow. I'm still soggy from earlier, but I'm reasonably comfortable in my coat and if it does get colder I can put my wet mittens on and hope they'll help. If my leg weren't hurt, I could wait for hours, maybe days, for rescue.
But it is hurt. My efforts to reach the phone and laptop reawakened the pain, and while it's fading again it's still obvious something is very wrong. The urge to slip a hand down into my boot and try to determine just how badly I'm injured rises, but I force it away. If I bring that hand out covered in blood, my blood, how will I cope with it? Might be better not to know.
Another wave of utter fury sweeps me. Julie will live out her life in a prison cell, assuming some bleeding-heart judge doesn't let her out early, and I might die here. How is that fair? I'm obviously so much more deserving of life, and there are so many things I want to do.
Bill's foundation. That's the main thing I want to do. Maybe, somehow, if I start planning it now I will be able to stay alive. The universe wouldn't want to get rid of me if I were set to do something great for it, would it? Surely not. So I will put together the outline of what I want to do, and maybe the universe will accept that and keep me alive.
I open the laptop, create and save a file called "Foundation for Bill", and set to work. I'm both delighted and heartbroken by how quickly the ideas flow. While I've never done any conscious work on this, clearly part of my brain has been making progress, and before I know it I have several pages of explanations of what the group would do, how it might work, and how I will go about getting it started.
When the ideas run dry, I save the file and close the laptop to conserve its battery life. It's only got about forty minutes left, and while I know it's not remotely true some part of me feels that my life will end when the battery dies.
What is true is that I won't be able to communicate any more. And I still have so much to say. But at least now I've said what I wanted to say about Bill's foundation. And if I—
Anger sweeps me. Why am I saying 'if'? I can't die here, I just can't. When I get out, I will use my notes to start the foundation.
I am crying before I know the tears are coming, crying in great sobs that shake my body and leave my throat raw and aching. It's not 'when', it's most definitely 'if', and I can't cope.
I knew I'd die someday, of course. Everyone knows that. But the thought of 'someday' becoming 'today' is so shocking that my mind and heart keep pulling back as if it burns them.
With all the energy I can muster up, I force myself not to think about it, drag my thoughts away like a misbehaving dog and try to find them a new obsession.
Andrew, of course, is the most interesting one I have at the moment, so I wipe then close my eyes, cuddle the laptop close, and try to think of our good moments without letting the bad interfere.
The problem is, there aren't that many good memories left, at least not big ones. Lots of little ones, like the hours we'd spent together playing the game, but only two huge ones and I want to savor them. The last one only happened yesterday and I still can't quite believe it.
Only two big good ones. And one vicious bad one.
I consider going back to the computer and writing more letters, but I know I have to think about the bad one, what I did and how I hurt both Andrew and myself. I hate myself for it, and I don't want to die hating myself. Doesn't seem right.
My head seems to expand to the size of the galaxy as the biggest "this is really my life" moment I've ever experienced rips through me. I'm really here, alive and still somewhat well. This isn't a dress rehearsal. This is my life. The only one I'll get.
And what have I done with it? Not nearly enough. If this ends up being my last day, what have I really achieved?
I know the usual answer is that everything I've done has changed the people I know and love, so I'll live on. The usual answer sucks right now.
I flip open my laptop and run my eyes over my plan document. It all seems so pointless now. Little petty goals for a little petty life. What if I had really lived? Done like Andrew said and lived by 'flow with the go'? How different would my life have been?
Maybe totally different. Maybe not different at all. Yes, I gave up on a lot of my goals and plans, like that hundred and one task thing. But I did some of the tasks, the most interesting ones. I played paintball for the first time, giving Bill an enormous bruise on the butt that he kept threatening to show to everyone we knew. I managed to go two full weeks without uttering a single swear word, although it came down to the wire when I was trying to arrange our new dishwasher's delivery and kept getting the runaround, but two weeks and fifteen minutes counts as two weeks. And I made the work database on my own terms and enjoyed keeping it a secret.
Lots of accomplishments. But all small ones. Do I have any big ones?
An epiphany bursts into my mind. What I really wanted to do was to set up Bill's foundation. That was how I truly wanted to make a difference, but I was afraid of it. So instead I gave all that energy and devotion to the database and the other little tasks. Rather than put myself out there, I hid from the one thing that really mattered to me. I am a failure.
Sadness sweeps me, but then I force my chin up and look into my eyes in the rearview mirror. No. I am not. Yes, I could have done Bill's foundation, and I didn't. I did fail there. But that doesn't have to define me. I don't want it to. I failed, but I am not a failure.
I did lots of other things, and they changed me. Some were more dramatic than others, some were more successful than others, but every moment of every day has shaped me into the person I am right now.
Perhaps more important, they shaped my friends and family too. The usual answer is right: life is about how we interact with each other. We all changed each other, every day. Those little things are what really made up my life, and I should have paid more attention to them as they flew by.
But I didn't, and now all I can do is remember them, imperfect though the recollections are, and try to relive them while I still can.
*****
After our first run, Andrew and I got closer and closer, hugging every time we parted and spending all our free time together. I was certain now that I liked him, wanted to be with him, but not at all sure I was ready and even less convinced he felt the same way about me. I knew he cared about me, but did he w
ant me? I didn't know, and he hadn't made any moves in that direction.
He'd hardly had time, though. Work, with the "check all the code" deadline fast approaching, was keeping him busy, and he was still doing twice-weekly MMA classes.
Not to mention I was something of a monster that week. I had all the code-checking plus my new area to finish. Add in my hour-long workouts every morning coupled with the still all-too-present nightmare, and even Ruby was walking on eggshells around me. I wouldn't have wanted to date me, but Andrew was still with me every chance he got.
On the Tuesday before my birthday, I lost my temper over a piece of code that wouldn't cooperate and threw my laptop's wireless mouse at the wall. Ruby zipped out from under my desk and fled in fear, and my anger fled too leaving me guilt-ridden at scaring my baby.
"Please, let me help you."
I took a long breath. "I'm fine. But thanks."
"I'm ahead on my goal sheet for the week. I have time."
Andrew had surprised me a few weeks back by asking for advice on how to be more productive at work. I'd told him how I did my planning, and while it was too much for him he had decided to try listing his goals for the week. He'd been adorably delighted with how much more he'd achieved, and he brought up his sheet at every possible opportunity.
"That's great, but it's my work."
He took my shoulder and turned me to face him. "Like Liz said, it's our work. Nobody has to know. I don't care about getting the credit. I just don't want you to kill yourself."
I put my hand over his. "Seriously, I'll be okay."
"Promise you'll tell me if you do need help?"
I wouldn't, and I didn't want to lie, but he wouldn't be happy unless I said I'd tell him. I finally went with, "If I ask anyone for help, it'll be you."
He gave my shoulder a squeeze, then wrapped his arms around me. "That's not actually the same thing, but I'll take it."
I hugged him hard. "Thank you. Really. You're awesome. Will you help me get Ruby?"
If only I'd let him help with work too.
Toronto Collection Volume 1 (Toronto Series #1-5) Page 67
