by Portia Moore
“How do I pretend the last few years of my life didn’t happen?” I say frantically.
Angela gently grabs my face and lifts it so that I’m looking directly at her. “You don’t. You don’t pretend that the past didn’t happen, but you don’t dwell on it. You accept the past, but you don’t live there anymore.” She speaks in an affectionate tone, but her words are stern. “You’ve chosen to look forward, and to let go, and you can do it. You’ve been through so much, and you’ve bent a few times but never broken. We won’t let you now!” She squeezes me a little tighter. The authority disappears from her face and the warm smile I know returns. “Okay?”
“Okay.” I nod, calming down.
She’s right. As much as I’ve talked about moving on and forward, I haven’t. It’s the reason I’m still here. Everywhere I look, I see a memory of Cal, enrapturing, comforting, and appeasing me. And now I can’t rest in memories, in false hope. I have to let go. I have to let him go and believe that the future can take the place of my past.
Chapter 18
March 23rd, 2013
It’s been two weeks since the catastrophe of a lifetime happened to me, since I found out about, met, and, well, almost fought with Cal—Chris—and the woman he loves. The woman who, unfortunately, in some bizarre, unimaginable way, will be my daughter’s stepmom. I try not to think about that or how I’m supposed to accept it. I said I would accept it, and my mind says I must, but my heart and mind have never been able to agree on anything. But since I agreed to head back to Madison tomorrow, so Caylen can meet Chris and his parents, I’ve found myself thinking about it more and more. Today, I worked up the confidence to try to start moving forward. Still, it’s funny how when you try to move on, some habits from the past creep in and wrap around you.
I haven’t had any alcohol since before I found out I was pregnant with Caylen. Actually, the last time I drank was the night I most likely conceived her. That night, I packed my things, with the wine’s help, determined to leave Cal. Tonight, I need it to aid me in packing up his things, trying to be content with the fact that he’s gone.
I look at the last box I packed, the remainder of all things “Cal” that I could find. It’s the first step of many that I’m taking to try to “cleanse” myself of him, even though the thought of it makes my heart sink, even though my tears choke me as I gather everything together. I keep trying to remind myself I have to do this, that this is for Caylen, but how do I shake the feeling that I’m in mourning? I know it’s only been two weeks since all of this happened, but when do I feel “fixed”? When will I be able to get over all that has happened? When do I start to feel a little less numb than I did the day before? Because now, the same hole within me just seems to be getting deeper, and what Angela described as a way of taking my life back, in actuality, is like burying myself deeper and deeper. I squeeze my hands together and take deep breaths. I can’t stand this.
After spending hours going through his things and packing them, cleansing myself, I’ve been searching old pictures of us, unsuccessfully trying to find some sign. Was there some secret hidden behind his eyes that I failed to unlock? I replay every conversation we had. Was there something I missed? Did he ever try to tell me? Was there anything I ignored which would have prevented me from being here? In the end, I realize I’m surrounded by the past, by lies, by a ghost of a person who never really existed.
That thought sends chills through my body. If I believed it, I wouldn’t be in mourning for a person who’s still alive. At least his body is here. I try not to think about where Cal really is. What happens to an alter when it’s not here? Has he completely dissipated, or can he see from behind Chris’s eyes? At first sight, when I threw myself onto Chris and called Ca;’s name, was Cal somewhere in there? Could he hear me call him? Could he see me?
I know I have to stop thinking like this. It’s not going to do me any good. I can’t hold on to the belief that Cal exists on any level. I have to move on for Caylen, our little girl—to whom I heard him talking that night. At that time, Chris didn’t know who Caylen was, so it had to have been Cal. Was he able to escape from whatever mental desert he was lost in for that purpose only?
Ugh! I told Chris I could deal with this, but they were just words. I kick over a box and throw my wine glass at the wall, watching the small amount run down the gray wall, leaving a vivid stain. I have to get a hold of myself. I’m so glad Angela took Caylen for the night while I do this. I guess she knew it wouldn’t be as easy as she led me to believe.
You’re being ridiculous, Lauren. I go to close the box and remember there’s only one thing left that hasn’t been packed away. I walk over to my drawer, and underneath all of my blouses is a button-up of his, studded with tiny black buttons and smelling faintly of cologne—Cal’s. When he first left, I couldn’t bear to get rid of his things. I always hoped he’d be back to reclaim them. After a few months, I avoided them, never once opening his closet.
But this one thing, this one shirt, I couldn’t bear to put in the box. I didn’t hide from or avoid it, though I hid it from everyone else. It’s the one I wore for to bed on the nights when I missed him so much that even the fabric that last touched his skin gave me comfort. His scent, faintly clinging to it, had calmed me while a part of him rested inside me.
Going through an entire pregnancy alone, without him, was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do. I put on a brave face for those around me, especially Raven, Angela, and Hillary. They were there with me every day, making sure I was never alone. I was still lonely when they were with me, because they weren’t him.
He wasn’t there to rub my belly, to banter about whether it’d be a boy or a girl. To just hold me. I missed all of that. Going to childbirth classes with Angela, while all the husbands and boyfriends of the other pregnant women were with them, made me want to hide in a corner. So many times, I imagined him bursting into the room the moment Caylen made her appearance. But I guess a thing like that only happens in the movies.
But on those nights when I was home alone, I’d put on his shirt and pretend it was his arms around me. For a while, it held his scent, and when it faded away, I’m embarrassed to say I sprayed his cologne on it. If I told anyone, I’m sure they’d think these little moments were insanity or an odd form of self-torture. But those rituals somehow kept me sane all those nights alone.
I sit on the floor with the shirt in my hand and hold it to my chest as tears escape from my eyes. If I’m saying good-bye, trying to escape him tomorrow, I can still make a fool out of myself tonight. I pull my shirt over my head, stand up, slip out of my jogging shorts, and put on his shirt, and for a moment, I pretend this is all a bad dream.
But this room feels suffocating. I glance through the glass doors that lead to the terrace. The sky is dark, and raindrops start to paint the glass, and the clouds echo my pain. All those times I wished the weather matched my mood—this is not one of them. I step over the broken glass from earlier, make my way downstairs to the kitchen, and pour myself another glass of wine.
After finishing it, I crawl onto the couch. I close my eyes and pretend I’m visiting an alternate reality where my husband is not my husband. Here, he doesn’t wear jeans that cost in the upper hundreds but ones that come from Old Navy. Here, he lives in a house on a farm, instead of on one of the top floors of a high-rise in the city. Here, he slings manure instead of stealing away on jets around the world, and it’s not so devastating that he’s in love with a woman named Jenna, not Lauren.
But I know I’m not in an alternate reality, because in an alternate reality, the weight of his absence wouldn’t feel like a tomb on my chest, and any distraction wouldn’t only be for seconds. In an alternate reality, as I’m lying on this couch, closing my eyes, I wouldn’t give anything for him to be next to me, to feel him kiss the back of my neck, his fingers to trace his name on my lower back. I wouldn’t still be so in love with a man who’s a ghost, myth, fairy tale, and tragedy all wrapped in one, and I would
n’t trade half my soul just to hear him say, You’re all I ever wanted. I pull my throw over me, hug my knees, and will myself to sleep, to start over with another day.
The thunder crashing outside my window awakens me. My head is still spinning. The banging on the door rouses me, and my body feels as if it weighs a thousand pounds. There are boxes all over the living room floor, and I don’t remember bringing them down. The front door swings open, and the adrenaline coursing through my body is replaced not by relief but by utter confusion. What is he doing here?
“Chris?” I say hesitantly, making my way to the doorway. “You scared the hell out of me!” One hand covers my pounding heart as I make my way toward him
But as I get closer, I see his chest is heaving up and down. He’s sucking in as much air as he can, his clothing and hair wet from the storm and clinging to his body. My mind says to ask him if he’s okay and what he’s doing here, but when I look at his eyes, which are set directly on me, he shakes his head. A grin appears on his face, and I know.
“Close, but not quite right,” he says, seemingly winded but with a familiar grin.
When we’re face to face, I’m able to separate my tongue from the roof of my mouth. “Cal?” It’s barely a whisper, since my throat has closed up. I wonder if he heard me.
But as I look at him, even though he hasn’t answered yet, as his breathing slows down, the grin slowly becomes a seductive smile, and I know.
“So it’s that easy, huh?” His voice stops me cold. The moonlight from the window highlights his gray eyes. I try to move, but I can’t. “So you’re giving up on me—on us. Just like that?”
He walks toward me. I try to reach out to him, but my limbs are frozen. He bends down, looking at the box I packed earlier.
“You’re going to pack me away and pretend I never existed?” he roars and kicks the box over. The sound is so loud, it echoes through the entire house. “What about us, Lauren? What about our family?”
He’s so angry that I see the veins in his forehead throbbing. I keep trying to talk or to move, but I can’t manage either.
“Do you really think the Scotts are going to accept you into their life? They want to pretend I never existed! Do you think they want a constant reminder of me walking around, spoiling their delusional little world? I’m the bastard child… their prodigal son!” He laughs angrily, circling around my frozen body.
“Caylen needs a real father who’s here,” I whisper, somehow breaking my catatonic state.
“I’m her father!” he shouts angrily in my face.
He grabs my arm roughly, ushers me to the couch, and pins me on it. His weight feels like a house on top of me, and I can’t breathe.
“Was it Chris who made love to you here? Was it his name you called out?” he whispers vehemently in my ear.
He then rips my shirt in two. His lips touch mine firmly, and I turn my face. I’m so angry at him. I keep trying to speak, but I’m mute. He grabs my face and turns it back toward him.
“There’s a lot you want to say to me, huh, Lauren?” He laughs in my face.
“Yes!” I scream.
Chapter 19
I wake up from a dream so real, I can still feel Cal’s hands on me. I’m on the floor in a cold sweat. I don’t remember falling asleep, but I must have drifted off after I put Caylen down for her nap. I try to catch my breath and slow my heart at the same time. It’s the third dream I’ve had this week about Cal.
Each one was slightly different, but I notice a few things stay consistent. He’s always dressed entirely in black, his eyes are gray, and I can barely speak. He’s also furious with me for not fighting for us. Whatever that means? I fought for us for over five years, two of which he was completely absent from. I don’t know what more he wants me to do, other than knock Chris on the head until he comes out?
If Cal were dead, I’d swear he was haunting me in my dreams. But it’s not really Cal, of course. I’ve held on so tightly up until now that a part of me is having trouble letting go. I can only describe it as an addict detoxing. I guess it’s the right time for this to happen. I don’t want Chris to think the mother of his child is a complete lunatic.
Yet wouldn’t it be ironic for him to think that, considering the circumstances? I’d at least like to find my bearings, especially since I’m back in Madison and staying at the lovely Ritter Inn. More importantly, I’ve agreed to take Caylen to see Chris and the Scotts later on today, and I’ve been having so much anxiety over that.
What if Chris freaks out and can’t deal with all of this? What if Caylen doesn’t like him? What if she likes him too much? Aside from all of the obvious weirdness of the situation, how am I going to adjust to sharing my daughter with a person I don’t know? I’ve been a single parent so long. I don’t know how co-parenting really works. I grew up with Raven raising me pretty much on her own. I wonder how people do this—make long-distance parenting work? I guess I’m jumping too far ahead of myself. In three hours, we’ll all find out.
The last time I met him at this house, I had a complete nervous breakdown. He offered to come to Chicago to meet Caylen, but I thought that would be weird for both of us. I’m trying to be optimistic about getting away from there. Staying has become increasingly difficult after everything that has happened. I really think I’m going to sell the penthouse and start over.
I pick up Caylen’s gray sweater, pink leggings, and khaki Ugg boots. It took me twenty outfits before I decided what she should wear.
It’s a surreal feeling getting her dressed to meet Chris. Especially after all the days when I wondered what it would be like for Cal to hold her. To see how he’d be with a tiny version of himself. Well, that’s not going to happen now.
Even if she wasn’t going anywhere special, I always dress her like my own little doll. These days, I spend more time planning what she wears than I do for myself. It’s actually been a while since I’ve worn more than a T-shirt and jeans. I haven’t had anyone to dress up for in a long time, but today I’ve tried to plan the appropriate thing. I don’t want to look as though I didn’t put any thought into what I’m wearing, but I also don’t want to look as though I spent too much. I mean… there’s no reason for me to worry anyway. It’s not as though I haven’t already made a first impression with my hair tangled and mascara dripping down my face.
I decide on being Caylen’s twin with a long gray sweater and leggings. But instead of bubble-gum pink, I decide on black of course. I’m hoping to redeem myself from the image of the hysterical, yelling crazy woman they met before. Not that they didn’t deserve it after everything that’s happened. I move my thoughts from my last meeting at the Scotts’ to the last time Chris was here in this room. I think about how he seemed just as nervous as I was, almost more so. Still, other than the nervous energy, something about him was a little calming. Do I dare say… comfortable?
I glance at the clock. I have less than an hour before Caylen’s usual wake-up time. I grab my things and head to the bathroom for a quick shower, hoping to relax at the beginning of what’s sure to be a nerve-racking day.
“Okay, Lauren, you can do this,” I say to myself. Then I look in the rearview mirror and see Caylen smiling at me. “You must think Mommy’s crazy, huh?”
I smile at her, and a few of my nerves dissipate. She’s so innocent. I’m glad she’s young enough that none of this awkward weirdness is affecting her. I start to wonder if I should call or just go up to the Scotts’ door. That didn’t turn out so great the last time. At least I know I won’t go into emotional overload today. I can’t. Not while she’s here. I drum my hands on the steering wheel to calm my nerves. I mean, the worst is behind me. The only thing that would make this worse than last time would be if Chris came to the door in drag. I giggle at that image.
I tried to kill time on the way here by having breakfast with Caylen at a little diner named Goldman’s. I haven’t had a good bowl of grits since I moved from Saginaw. Caylen enjoyed playing in her applesauce and hash br
owns more than she enjoyed actually eating them. I look at my watch and notice its nine fifteen. I told him I’d be here at nine thirty. Is it rude to show up early? I glance at the house and see someone holding the curtains open at the front window.
Oh no, they see me! Well, someone does. If I sit out here now, I’ll look like a stalker or weirdo. Okay, it’s now or never.
I get out of the car and take a deep breath. I pull Caylen out of her car seat and close the door. I guess this is it. I never really prayed before, but I quietly ask God to give me strength to deal with this and not make a complete fool out of myself.
The door to the house opens, and I watch as a six-foot figure walks through it. I feel myself getting nervous, and I take another deep breath. I squeeze Caylen’s little hand as we walk toward the towering front porch. Her tiny steps are making this the longest walk ever. I look up at him, and I’m caught by his eyes—they’re bright green with glimmers of gray. As he walks closer, his smile widens. I glance down at Caylen, whose little steps quicken.
“Hi,” I say, my voice light and unfamiliar.
“Hey,” he replies, his voice warm but shaky.
His smile widens even more as his big hands squeeze the little stuffed animal he’s holding. I can feel my heart speeding up. I let go of Caylen’s hand once we’re on the sidewalk. She quickly makes her way over to him. She reaches up for the penguin he’s holding, and he chuckles, staring at her in what I can only describe as amazement.
“Umm, my friend’s daughter loves the penguins in the Madagascar movie. I thought she’d like it,” he explains nervously.
“She watches that movie all the time,” I reply and notice the wonderment on his face. I watch as he squats down to her eye level.
“I thought you might like this,” he says, holding out the little penguin.
