by Leigh Kramer
My heart betrayed me, thumping eagerly at this unexpected change in topics. It had been Thursday and he asked me out for the weekend. Gram's lifelong directive came through loud and clear: never accept a date for the weekend after Tuesday. Even though he didn't technically ask me out on a date. There's a difference between getting together for dinner and going out on a date. It was old-fashioned advice but I never could ignore it. Luckily, I already had plans or I'd have rationalized his delay and made an exception to the rule.
I didn't have time to worry about the ramifications of being too busy to say yes. He reiterated that he wanted to tell me about what had happened back home and then asked if I was free Sunday morning.
Before I knew it, I'd agreed to brunch.
“So I guess we'll see what happens then,” I lamely finished. I hadn't broken Gram's rule about accepting a last-minute date. Because this wasn't a date. He probably viewed me as a nice woman he could talk to. Nothing more, nothing less.
Gram gave me an appraising look. “I'd like to meet this young man sometime. Give him my stamp of approval. Or not.”
“Gram, did you not just listen to me? He's not interested in me.” The more I thought about it, the more I became convinced nothing would come of this. The lack of timely phone calls, the supposed unexpected trip back to Pittsburgh. He was probably married, for all I knew.
Gram made a noncommittal noise. “I wouldn't be so sure about that. I like the idea of watching you fall in love before I die.”
I liked that idea too. Minus the pesky detail of finding a man with whom I could fall in love.
“There's nothing I'd like more. You should probably find me a back-up guy. Like a Plan B. Would it be wrong to date your nurse?” I waggled my eyebrows at the thought of Justin, and Gram laughed as she waved me off. I continued, “you may be optimistic about Reagan but I'm not. Come to think of it, why have you never meddled in my love life before? Everyone else trucks out guys for me to meet. Not that they've been winners, they haven't been. You've never set me up with anyone.”
“Olivia Jane, you despise when anyone interferes in your love life. That's why I don't raise the topic with you. I wanted you to bring it up first. Think about how you bristled at the mention of your trip to Paris and its impact on relationships since. If I meddle a little more, it's only because I don't know how much more time I'll have to meddle in the future.” She patted the back of my hand and I turned it over so I could grasp hers. She was right. I didn't want to talk about Paris and I didn't want to assume Reagan was interested. But she had me pegged.
I realized anew my complicated view of myself and how others treated me. Why anyone bothered to unearth any of my goodness was beyond me.
“You're right. If you'd sat through some of those blind dates the aunts forced me on, you'd understand why I don't want them to interfere. You know me, Gram, way better than they ever have. I think you'd have a good idea of what I need.”
A grin settled on Gram’s face as her eyes fluttered shut. I chastened, aware of how much time passed. She needed to rest. As if talking about her final wishes wasn't tiring enough, I'd added my drama to her plate.
Before I could tuck a blanket around her and tiptoe away, her eyes opened and found mine.
“More than watching you fall in love, I want to see you end this vendetta against the family. We are all cut from the same cloth. Family is family. At the end of the day, you can't undo your blood relationships. You've tolerated gatherings for far too long. Whatever it is you have against them, settle it.” Her mandate raised every hackle. My left eye began to tic, the kind where you feel you must look like a crazy person but no one else notices the imperceptible spasm.
“Gram, it's not me, it's them. You don't even know half of—”
She cut me off. “It doesn't matter. Don't think my absence will absolve you from this family. If anything, my death will draw you in even further. That's how it should be. I'm not going to argue with you about it. Either you make amends or you don't. Think long and hard about your choice, however. Think about who you've hurt in the process. And then, think about what your dad would say.”
I sucked in a breath at the low blow. After years of letting me figure out my path on my own, Gram left no territory uncovered. I respected my elder and held my tongue. I smiled and nodded, then took my leave.
Turning a blind eye to their transgressions against me? Forgiving them? Over my dead body.
Her words gnawed at me, however. Later that night, I threw myself into a show at The Metro with friends. I let Gram's roiling words fade into the music. For now, the pulsing bass carried me, until I stopped caring about anything at all.
Chapter Eleven
Sunday morning Gram's words continued to reverberate through my mind as I sat on my balcony drinking tea.
If Gram knew what Uncle Marcus had said. If she heard about the way my aunts and uncles had treated me, she would absolve me.
Deep down I knew the past was in the past and this bitterness hurt only me. Three decades of hurt contained in one body made it hard to let bygones be bygones. Forgiveness came too close to amnesty and I was not in the habit of giving up grudges. Perhaps I was a true Frasier after all.
How do you forgive the collective years of mistreatment? When Dad died, I lost my protector, the mediator between them and me. There were not so many defining moments as there were rolled eyes, barbed words, and ever-present condemnation.
And yes, I played a part. I dished back what was served. My life intentionally veered opposite of banking, money, and numbers. I delighted in wearing sleeveless dresses and shirts so they couldn't miss the wildflower tattoo decorating my right shoulder and bicep: vibrant, mesmerizing, peaceful. To everyone else, at least. Ink affronted the Frasier family image but I'd stopped caring about that long ago.
I became their contradiction, a reminder of what they could not control. Now it was simply the way we lived and related to one another. My cousins didn't remember I used to skip around the bank, eager to be helpful. Sometimes I didn't remember either. True, certain members got along with me better than others. Not every gathering was an exercise in futility.
In those terms, forgiveness shouldn't be so difficult. I peered into my hard heart and wondered when it got that way. What part of me I would lose if I admitted to the burden I carried? I wasn't ready to find out.
For now, my most pressing thoughts centered on how Gram fared and what Reagan would tell me. I'd imagined several worthy scenarios, including one in which I tossed a glass of water in his face and stormed out the restaurant. I didn't allow myself to dream up a happier ending. Best to keep some sort of perspective.
* * *
Reagan sat across from me, handsome in jeans and a plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up. The colors of his shirt reminded me of fall. He appeared at home with himself, from his clothes to his contented posture. I coveted a measure of that composure.
The corner booth cozied us away from the bustle of the diner. In between bites of panini and salad, we discussed what we’d been up to over the weekend, the way we never quite felt our age, and debated the greatest movie of all time. The Godfather for me, Shawshank Redemption for him. We didn’t reach a consensus, but we both agreed Casablanca was overrated.
Conversation with Reagan was never predictable. I waited for him to bring up his trip home but our discussion went in other directions. He asked about Gram and I updated him on the latest. He crossed his arms at the news Gram had a male nurse. I may have mentioned Justin looked like a hot Viking. Maybe. His reaction shouldn't have made me as happy as it did. We finished eating and I wanted to linger at the table longer. There was still so much more to say and explore, and I was relieved when Reagan suggested we cap off our meal with hot beverages. Coffee for him and tea for me.
The tone changed and we both shifted into comfortable positions. We would be here for a while. Based on her response to Reagan's smile, the waitress didn't appear to mind.
Reagan ran his hand thro
ugh his hair, a nervous tic. My own nerves grew and rumbled in response. I waited for him to begin, not knowing what could make such a confident man stumble.
He was probably married. How chivalrous for him to confess after caffeinating and dining me.
“I have something I need to tell you,” he said. And then, nothing.
I crossed my legs one way, then the other, unable to get comfortable as the silence continued. What was he having such a hard time telling me? This couldn’t be good.
He started out slow, as if unsure where to begin, and then the words tumbled out, as if released from captivity.
“I have to start from the beginning before I can tell you how it ended. I haven’t talked about this in a long time, but I want you to understand this side of me. Actually, I think I need you to understand,” he said. I could see this from his steady eye contact, his gestures, his voice. My mind worked furiously to keep up and process, already spinning with the possibilities.
He'd met Katie while pursuing his MBA at Boston University. I tried to picture this girl with the nondescript name. She couldn’t have been nondescript herself to have attracted Reagan's attention. Their meet-cute was movie perfect—literally running into each other on the quad. He on his way to class, while she was leaving a speaking engagement for the School of Social Work. She worked at a non-profit, something he described as similar to Big Brothers, Little Sisters but with more hands-on community involvement. My rendering of Katie became more saint-like and dread filled me. I could never compare.
An unlikely pairing, the social worker and the banker. His eyes softened as he described her passion for working with the poor and disenfranchised. Meanwhile, he finished his degree, returned home to Pittsburgh, and continued up the ladder at his corporation. After dating long distance, she moved to Pittsburgh as well. They were together for four years.
Reagan's face reflected regret, his eyes downcast. He fiddled with his mug and tapped on the table, fidgeting moves that endeared him to me while also causing concern. I unconsciously mirrored his movements, grateful for the warmth of my mug and the distraction from the jealous bile roiling in my stomach. Who had this Katie been? Where was she now?
“I was busy with work, consumed by it. I still painted here and there but I was caught up with surpassing goals at work and making more money so I could retire early. Then I could do what I wanted to do, right? Everything was on the back burner, even Katie. She wanted more from me but I thought I was setting things up so we'd have a better life together. I had a plan and I wasn’t going to change it, even if that meant I canceled date nights and missed dinner together on a regular basis.” He steepled his hands against his forehead, briefly closing his eyes.
“I woke up one morning and realized she was still in bed. She usually got up first. She was always an early riser. I turned to her, wondering if it was the weekend, but no, it was a Wednesday. We both needed to go to work.”
Reagan’s eyes were anguished as they fixed on me. He swallowed hard, as if summoning the courage to continue.
“I nudged her a little, thinking maybe she'd come down with a cold and needed a little extra rest. But she didn't move. So I tried again but she didn't respond to my voice either. I still didn't get it. She looked so peaceful and I didn't get it.”
Awareness flooded me. Of all the scenarios I'd concocted, I hadn't imagined this one. I didn’t want it to be true, not when I saw the pain in Reagan’s eyes. I didn’t want him to say the words.
“She died in her sleep. Twenty-eight years old. She died and I didn't notice. Just like I hadn't noticed so many things that year.”
“Oh my God, Reagan. I’m so sorry.” I grasped for something else to say, some way to carry this burden for him. My hands itched to touch him, to offer some tangible comfort. It felt intrusive to his memories of Katie. I cupped my mug closer instead.
I didn't know what more there could be to his story or how it related to flying back home last weekend. But I didn't care. His pain gnawed at me and I wanted to make it better. Short of bringing Katie back to life, there was nothing I could do or say to erase his hurt. Instead, I let him continue talking and refused to analyze any part of this tale.
“We were the same age. She did so much good with her work, while I worked for The Man. What made me more deserving? Not that I'll ever know the answer to that, but I couldn't stop beating myself up.” They were the same age when she died. I did the math—Reagan was a couple years older than me so this was seven or eight years ago. Did he still love her? Did he feel the way about Katie that Gram felt about Pop? If that was the case, we were twins in misery, but for entirely different reasons.
“They never figured out why she died. The coroner said her heart stopped for no apparent reason. It wasn't an overdose, no fluke illness they could detect. No foul play. She was fine when she went to bed. She just didn't wake up again. It almost made it worse, not having a reason why. For so long I felt like I’d missed something, that I should have sensed it when she stopped breathing. Logically I knew I couldn't have done anything to save her, but my heart told me I'd failed. And failing was unacceptable,” he mocked himself.
“So what did you do?” I wondered how this connected to the bits and pieces of himself he'd already shared. Katie's death must be the dark period he referred to. I guessed he hadn't coped well with her death. Not that I would do much better whenever Gram died. Another rabbit trail I couldn't follow.
“I did the opposite of what Katie would have wanted. I threw myself into work even more. Our biggest argument had been about how much time I spent at the bank. Without her there, eighty-hour work weeks became normal. Sometimes even more than that. I didn't want to face the memories in our apartment. I didn't want to face myself. I didn't want to admit work wasn't fulfilling either so when I wasn't there, I rounded up buddies at the bar.”
“I didn't have a drinking problem,” he reassured me before I could consider otherwise. “I'm not in denial either. Sometimes you need to forget for a little while; a few beers and friends relaxed me enough to face my empty place. On the other hand, it also kept me from recognizing how depressed I'd become. It took a while before I reached my breaking point.”
Reagan described the effects of grief. The mind-numbing depression he internalized, unwilling to process the guilt, anger, and sadness he'd experienced once his girlfriend died. He stopped painting altogether, somehow pulled himself through each work day, and then alternated between sleeping once he got home or pacing the halls as he fought insomnia.
“Katie had been so perfect in my mind. She had flaws, of course, but once she died, all of her irritating qualities disappeared. All I could think of was how the wrong person had died. How I'd screwed things up by not saving her and by not making more of a commitment to her. I'd wasted her life and now I was wasting mine.” Reagan continued to talk but he lost me once he'd mentioned her perfection. His dead girlfriend atop a pedestal. I couldn't compete with that. I wouldn't compete with that, if that's why he was telling me.
My cheeks drooped with sadness and I struggled to remain composed. Nodded understandingly as needed. My thoughts raced as I glanced into my half-full mug. I didn't like this tension of wanting to comfort him but not wanting to hear more about Katie. I didn't know how to remain present to his pain or what this meant for us.
Reagan reached across the table. He loosened my hand's grip from the mug and cradled it between his.
“You're probably wondering what this has to do with you.” I started to deny it. “It's okay. I'd ask myself the same question if you told me about a dead boyfriend. You don't have a dead boyfriend in your past, do you?” The teasing spark returned to his eyes.
I chuckled, and the sad demeanor hovering around us left for a moment. “No. A few skeletons, sure, but no dead boyfriend.”
Reagan breathed an exaggerated sigh of relief. “Thanks for hanging in there. I promise it'll make sense in the end.” He paused. His index finger traced a mysterious pattern on the hand enclosed
in his. I wanted to lose myself in the sensation but I made myself focus. He continued. “I don't talk about that time in my life much. Ever, really. There's something about you that makes me want to tell you everything.”
I looked down at the free hand in my lap, suddenly shy. His grasp provided reassurance but I didn't know how to respond to such trust. He didn't know me. And yet, somehow, he did.
“About nine months after Katie died, I was at work and I was overwhelmed with the feeling that none of this mattered. That my life didn't matter. It scared the shit out of me. Even though I struggled with thinking the wrong person died, I didn't actually believe I should have died. Now suddenly I did. It shocked me enough to go down to HR and take a leave of absence. I drove straight to my parent's house.”
“My parents had been worried about me for a while. They dropped everything once I told them I needed help. It was hard to admit but, at the same time, I didn't care about much those days.” Reagan let go of my hand, vulnerability splayed across his face. I felt the absence keenly but grasped my mug instead. He'd thought about suicide? I couldn't believe he had once been in such a dark place. It was the last thing I’d ever guess about this confident, self-assured man.
“It took time, but I started going to therapy. I finally dealt with my grief.”
Reagan had no way of knowing how much this resonated with my own story, but it wasn't the time or place to share.
“The leave of absence wasn't long and I had to go back to work. I developed a better routine but therapy had opened my eyes to what I really wanted to do with my life. I knew I’d leave the bank eventually. It was only a matter of when. You know I ended up quitting and ran off to Ireland so I won't bore you with those details.”
“As if you could bore me,” I quipped, unsure if he'd receive my attempt at levity but wanting to smooth the way.
