The Me That I Became

by Christopher Harlan

  “Umm. . .work.” That’s a lie. The real answer is that I’m going to therapy.

  “You know what?” he asks. “I just realized that I don’t know what you do for a living.”

  It’s obvious but I never thought of it, either. “You’re right. And ditto, by the way.”

  We sit down at my dining room table and he puts the plates of food in front of us. “I’m an English professor,” he tells me. I don’t know why that surprises me. It probably shouldn’t. After all, most of what I know about the guy revolves around books in some way. The idea of him running a classroom makes him even hotter to me—a sexy professor.

  “At the university?” I ask. “That’s really great, Brandon.”

  “I’m only an adjunct right now. It kind of sucks. We’re the lowest form of academic life according the powers that be. I’m hoping for a tenure track position to open up soon. It’s always been my dream to be a tenured professor at a college. I think that lifestyle would suit me perfectly.”

  “It’ll happen,” I say. I’m not usually so positive, but Brandon has those qualities that you know will lead to success one day. “I know it will. Eventually someone has to see in you what I see. And when they do, they’ll offer you a job.”

  “And what do you see in me, exactly?”

  I don’t answer right away. It’s my turn to give him that smile—to make him feel good just by the look on my face, like he’s done to me a few times already. “I see someone who deserves to get everything he wants in life.” He doesn’t answer, he just reaches across and caresses my hand. It feels warm and comforting.

  “And what about you?” he asks. “What do you do?”

  “Oh, I’m a child and family care social worker. I work at an agency that helps at-risk youth. I can’t believe I didn’t tell you that.”

  “No way?”

  “What?” I ask. He sounds really surprised, and I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.

  “That’s so cool. Like teens?”

  “Teens. Young adults, whole families. I help families find places to live, or apply for food stamps if they need, or sometimes I help with childcare.”

  “Every time I think about how great you are, you get even greater.”

  His words should lift me up, make me feel great about myself. After all, this man—this handsome, intelligent English professor is complimenting me like I’m the greatest woman in the world. He doesn’t know the monster I can be. All of a sudden Brandon’s kind words are drowned out by thoughts of Joel’s cruel ones— . . .the you that you became.

  “Look,” I begin. “I need to tell you something. Like, a confession.”

  Brandon smiles “You’re not really a man, are you?” When I don’t smile at his joke his face gets really serious. I think I’m ready to tell him.

  “I hate having to say this right now, but I. . . I wasn’t totally honest with you about some things, and if we’re going to go anywhere with this, I need to tell you the whole truth.” He puts his hand back over mine and looks at me lovingly, not suspiciously, which I notice before I say anything, and it makes me a little more willing to say what I’m about to say. He doesn’t ask what I lied about, he just listens, and keeps those eyes fixed on my face. “I. . . I lied about. . .” I hesitate. I’m such a coward.

  He rubs his thumb in small, gentle circles over my hand, and it slows me heartbeat. “It’s okay,” he practically whispers. “Whatever it is, it’s okay. Just pull the band aid off.”

  Okay, Brandon, here it goes. Just remember that you said that. “I. . . wasn’t completely honest about. . .Henry.”

  Fuck me.

  Fuck my life.

  Fuck my lying tongue.

  “Is he okay?” Brandon sounds concerned. Really concerned. I need to finish my bullshit so that I don’t give the guy a heart attack.

  “He’s okay, physically, but he. . . he relapsed, recently. I didn’t want to upset you by reminding you of your sister, so I just told you that he was living it up in Europe, having a great time, but he’s been having a terrible time. Panic attacks, anxiety, severe depression that he hides from all the friends he’s making. It’s getting bad, apparently.”

  I didn’t think it was possible to ruin the bliss of waking up with Brandon making me breakfast after a night of the best sex I’ve ever had. But once again I’ve taken something good and turned it into shit because I’m too afraid to just tell him the actual truth. And all the sympathy that I know is about to come out of his mouth only amplifies my feelings. “Oh, Jesus, I’m so sorry. You know that you didn’t have to lie to spare my feelings. I’m a big boy. On top of that I’ve dealt with all of this before. There’s nothing new you could tell me that would upset me more than what I’ve already gone through.” There’s something in his voice that I can’t place—a strange tone, or maybe an odd expression that’s really subtle, but I ignore it so that I can cover my bullshit.

  “I know. You’re right. I’m just so used to hiding Henry’s issues from the world. My parents don’t understand. I’m the only one who helps him feel better.”

  “Well that’s good. That he has you, I mean. Without that. . . bad things can happen.” Tell me about it. I’ve done them all.

  “I know. I’ve always been there for him. He’s just so far away now that I feel like I’m useless. I wish that he was here with me so that other people could help also.”

  “I know the feeling. Being useless, that is. Like no matter what you do—no matter how Herculean your efforts, it just can’t overcome their problems. Depression is quicksand, isn’t it?” It’s a weird thought to have in such an emotional moment, but I think about how only an English professor would use the word ‘Herculean’ in a casual sentence. And then I notice the depression metaphor, and it’s a good one, too. I feel like I’m in quicksand right now, falling faster with each falsehood I let leave my lips. “I can tell you from experience that hiding it is maybe the worst thing. As unpleasant as some of those things are, if they’re hidden then no one can help, and they’re just left to grow where no one can see. Then, by the time you actually do find out, it’s too late.”

  He doesn’t mean to upset me. I know he means the opposite, but as he’s speaking I’m not thinking of myself, or my fake depressed brother, Henry, I’m think of Nana. The last part of what he said reminds me of how she got diagnosed. She was of a generation who believed in being stoic—of sucking up your problems and facing life down without complaining. She always used to tell me how soft ‘kids’ my age were, always looking for other people to solve their problems for them. It was that toughness that let her convince herself that the pain she was feeling was just a muscle pull. It must have been that time last week when I bent over too fast to pick up the book I dropped. When the pain got worse and worse my dad forced her to go to the doctor. A referral to an oncologist later and she was diagnosed with the Cancer that would take her away from me.

  As all of those memories flash through my head in a manner of seconds, I start to feel the shadow fall over my mood. I know how to hide it—it’s what I’m best at—but the feelings of last night are fading from me, quickly. “You’re right. I’m going to call him later and talk to him. Maybe convince him to come home.” I’m a robot right now. The latest in artificial intelligence, and I look so very life-like.

  “I think that’s a great idea. You’re a good sister.”

  “I’m sure not as good as you are a brother.” We go back to our food, each of us seemingly lost in our own thoughts that the conversation inspired. Great, I think, looking at him stare down, his mood noticeably less energetic than a few minutes before. Now I’ve depressed him. I’m contagious. After a few minutes of silent chewing we each finish, and Brandon rises first to clean the table. “No, it’s okay, leave it. You cooked, the least I can do is clean up.”

  “We sounded like an old married couple just then,” he says, the smile coming back to his face. “But allow me to clean up my own mess, okay?” I nod. He looks like he wants
to distract himself from what we just talked about, and loading the dishwasher is his way of doing that. It seems a strange favor for me to let him clean up, but I grant it nonetheless.

  Leaving him at the sink, I go and get dressed for the therapy that I’m pretending is my job, and when I come out he’s finished. “You’re good. I’d never know that anyone was just cooking greasy food in here. Is there anything you can’t do?”

  “A few things.” He has that look again. The one I can’t quite place, but he forces a smile for my benefit, not knowing he’s talking to the queen of deception. The only question is why. What is that fake smile covering up? “I need to get to work soon,” he says. “I have class in like two hours. I teach a summer intro to lit class twice a week for freshman.”

  “Oh, that’s cool.” I say, glad to talk about something normal.

  “Actually, it sucks. They’re like high school kids but they can drive, and you can’t really discipline them. But it pays the bills until that magic tenure job opens up and I can teach real classes.” I walk up to him as he approaches the door. We hug, and he gives me an extra strong squeeze like I’m his good luck charm. I love the way he smells.

  “Well someone’s gotta teach them. Might as well be you. I would’ve killed for a hot professor like you when I was in school.”

  “If I say I would’ve killed for a student like you I’ll sound like a creep, so I’ll just leave it at ‘thank you.’”

  We laugh and promise to see each other soon. When he leaves I feel a little empty, like something is missing. I head to the bathroom to finish my makeup. I stare at myself, but not out of vanity. I stare hoping to recognize the woman looking back at me. I hope that Talia is still in there somewhere. The one who doesn’t lie. The one who I want to be again.

  Chapter Eleven

  “You dirty slut!”

  That’s sisterly love for you. Thank God she’s only joking with me.

  “Not anymore,” I joke back. “This one could be serious.”

  “You don’t waste a minute, do you? Joel’s body isn’t even cold yet and you’re off doing. . . actually, are you gonna tell me about it?”

  “That’s a big fat no, sis. And I was the cold one, remember? The frigid, sad bitch who never wanted my boyfriend to touch me. That was my official title. I can’t be that girl and be a slut, right?”

  “Well, Joel’s gone, and I, for one, am really proud of you, you know that?”

  This isn’t quite what I was expecting when I told her that I met an amazing new guy and slept with him, but I’ll certainly take it. “You’re proud I fucked a new guy? Proud of what?”

  “I’m proud that you’re going after something you know will make you feel happy. Isn’t that what all relationships are, at their core? We can call them whatever we want—marriages, engagements, serious relationships, whatever. But the only reason to be with someone else is because there’s happiness involved. You broke up with that loser and now you’ve found the right guy.”

  “Correction,” I interrupt. “That loser broke up with me, and I don’t know if I’ve found the right guy. I’m not even sure what that means. But I do know that I’ve found a great guy. Seriously, he’s out of a book. You’d love him.”

  “I’m sure I would,” she says. “But how about mom?”

  “I’m keeping Brandon as far away from she-who-birthed-us as possible.”

  Carla shoots me a disapproving look like she always does when I say things like that. “She’s not that bad, Lia. You exaggerate.”

  That’s Carla’s tagline. She’s not that bad is her dismissive line for mom, and he tries, Lia is her line for good old dad. Neither is true, but I don’t begrudge her her opinion. We weren’t really raised by the same parents. Technically we were, but our experiences were so different at times that I don’t blame her for not having the kind of resentment that I have, so I always take her criticism of my feelings towards them with a grain of salt.

  “Regardless, I’ll keep him safe for now.”

  My parents are weird people. Despite all of mom and dad’s intelligence and education, they lack even the most basic skills when it comes to understanding their daughters. They barely get Carla, and she’s the normal one. Imagine how alien they thought I was when I started showing the signs of mental illness at a young age. It was a shit show. It still is, only now I can mostly avoid hearing any direct criticism if I want to—the perks of not living at home any more.

  Mom is much worse than dad. Why is that always the case?

  At least he was raised by Nana, who’s easily the best person I’ve ever known. Some of that was bound to rub off on dad. But mom’s a different animal. I never knew her parents, and seeing at how she turned out, that’s probably a blessing. Mom’s a good person at heart, she just doesn’t know or understand me. And when I say that I’m not even talking about her inability to get my mental problems, I mean that she’s never gotten me—not my personality, or who I am overall. We’re just different people who happen to be related.

  I never wanted to go to an Ivy League school, or play Lacrosse at a high level, and I sure as hell never wanted to go through the grind of taking five Advanced Placement classes my junior year of high school. But I didn’t have much say over my own life back then. Maybe I still don’t, but at least now I can make my own bad decisions. Back then I was the trophy daughter, a showcase for my mom’s fancy friends who she wanted to impress. I was that girl in the Joy Luck Club whose mom forced her to play piano.

  “Dinner’s at 7:00 tomorrow?”

  “As always,” Carla says, taking a sip of her drink. “Some chit-chat. Peter and Dad trying to out-guy each other by talking sports, and then we eat dinner, Gilmore Girls style.”

  “I wonder how long it’ll take before she asks about Joel and me?”

  “Do you want me to tell her?”

  “Thanks, but no. That’ll be even worse. Then she’ll judge me for not telling her personally. I’ll do it myself.”

  “That’s probably a better choice. I didn’t even think about the fact that she didn’t know. No one liked him very much, Lia. I think I can say that to you now. He was a nice enough guy, but I think in this situation she’ll actually be happy.”

  It’s true. Mom never took to Joel. Apparently, a lot of people didn’t. “I guess we’ll find out.”

  After lunch with Carla I head home, with thoughts of my family running through my head. My parents didn’t make me sick, but they sure as hell got the insanity rolling. The few times I’ve tried to express that to my mom all I get back is the same phrase—Oh, Lia, that’s just your therapist talking. She refuses to accept any degrees of responsibility for how I turned out, despite the fact that she’s my parent. I guess she thinks that responsibility means blame, even though I don’t blame either of them for what I’ve become.

  Still, I wonder if I had had supportive, loving parents, if my high school and early college issues would have been a blip on the radar of my life—a past that I could be looking back on now, rather than having it still be my reality. So why am I heading over to their house tomorrow night?

  Despite their general detachment from emotion and overall weirdness, they insist on having family Sunday dinner once a month. It’s the only thing they ever cared about that wasn’t for outside appearances. This was just something for them. I guess it’s their way of feeling like we’re a closer family than we are, who knows? I have too much going on to analyze it right now. But what I do know is that I have to pick up a bottle of wine—Mom likes rosé, so that’s what I’ll be getting—and some kind of dessert. Carla is making a side dish and bringing her husband, Peter, who I love. The two of them keep me sane at these dinners, which, left to their own devices, can end up devolving into my parents probing as far into my life as possible, judging just about everything I have going on. Carla and Peter are my buffers to my parents’ particular form of crazy.

  I pick up the wine and spend the rest of the day working on some cases for work. I’m dreading tom
orrow like always. I just hope they don’t ask too many questions.

  Chapter Twelve

  The Next Day

  Dinner is at 7:00 pm at their house, which is about a half hour drive from my place. Carla comes from farther away than me, so she’s usually the first to arrive, which is another good thing. The less I have to be alone with Mom and Dad, the better. I get there just on time. Dinner doesn’t usually start until 7:30 pm, which leaves thirty more minutes than I need to have my life examined. I pop a Dirty Little Secret with only the spit I can gather in my mouth and let it crawl its way down my throat. It feels terrible, but it’s a necessary evil to get through the next few hours.

  “Baby, you’re home!” My dad always greets me warmly, even though it doesn’t last long. He still calls me baby even though I’m not. Dads like to keep the names they give their daughters forever. It doesn’t bother me, I appreciate the warmth of it all, even though I know it’s just a tease.

  “I am.” He gives me a tight hug, and over his shoulders I see mom making sure all of the place settings on the table are just right, because God forbid there be a hair out of place —what would everyone think? To her left are Carla and Peter. My sister looks like she’s gulping the wine in her glass. It’s almost to the top as she tilts her head backwards and opens her mouth like she’s trying to swallow the universe. An over-poured glass of wine is a surefire indication that my parents are around. Every sip helps. Mom makes eye contact and tries to smile at me. I return the favor, even though both of us are faking it a little. It’s a smile we both want to be genuine, but know in our hearts that it isn’t.

  “You look great.”

  “Thanks, Dad.” That’s another thing about fathers of daughters—they tend to be overly complimentary, even when their compliments are clearly untrue. It’s like they know that their little girls will be picked apart by the world one day, and why add to the negativity?