Page 33 of Stay Away from Him

The god reached out to brush the snow from my hair, and I just watched him do it, amazed at this turn of events: from thoughts of dying, of letting myself fade away, to being touched by the most gorgeous man who’d ever deigned to speak to me, in the course of—what? Ten seconds? Then he put a hand to my cheek, skin touching skin, and I swear it was like water in the desert. My body wanted it so badly, a bit of tenderness, and before I knew what I was doing, my hands had darted up to grab his wrist and hold him there. I closed my eyes and pressed into him, and when I finally opened my eyes, he asked me if I wanted to come inside.

I wasn’t sure what he meant—inside where?—but I’d have done anything for him just then. If he meant his apartment, I’d have followed him. I didn’t even know his name yet, but I’d have let him take me to his bed, if that’s what he wanted.

As it turned out, he only wanted me to come into a bar, where he bought me a beer.

***

We were from different worlds. His world was the world of science, of labs and figures of the human body, Latin names of muscles and nerves, cadavers to take apart, exams to cram for. Mine was a world of art, of studio time, of figure drawing and clay, of paint daubed on a canvas. And maybe that’s why we fit, at first. Because we were so different. For me, he was something steady, when I was the opposite. I was a mess, but he had everything together. I didn’t know what I wanted out of life, but he knew exactly what he wanted. He wanted to be a pediatrician. He wanted to help kids.

Thomas was something solid in a life that had become unstable. Insubstantial as wind. Thomas anchored me. That’s what he was to me.

And what was I, to him? An escape, perhaps. Thomas was tied to the earth, bound—as an aspiring doctor—to bodies, bones, flesh. He was tied down by his overwhelming schoolwork, by the grueling medical internships and residencies that were coming for him soon enough. His ambition, the impressive thing he wanted desperately to become, motivated him to work hard, but it was also an unbearable weight on his shoulders. And he wanted to rid himself of that weight. He wanted to fly.

Did he think I could help him? Did he think that’s what I was doing out there in the snow, my arms outstretched? Flap my wings and lift into the sky?

He seemed to, that first time in the bar, and later, as we began seeing each other more. Asking me questions about my studies, about art, like it was a form of magic, of witchcraft. Like I was the practitioner of some mysterious craft. I should have told him the truth right then and there—I wasn’t magic,I wasn’t mysterious, I couldn’t help him defy gravity. But I didn’t. Maybe he made me believe it. Believe that I could be his manic pixie dream girl.

He learned about me soon enough. Learned about my moods, about my volatility. I’d get depressed, I’d get hopeless, I’d call him crying to come over, begging him to make me stop feeling this way. Panic coming to his eyes as he realized that there were things inside me he didn’t understand. That he couldn’t see all the way to the bottom of me. That there were things lurking there. Scary things.

But here’s another thing about Thomas: He really loves the idea of saving people. You see, some doctors go into the profession because they genuinely want to help people. Others practice medicine because they’re attached to the idea of helping people. That’s a delicate distinction, but an important one. I didn’t know which kind Thomas was at the time. But either way, he stuck with me, rolled through my moods, my episodes, learning that they were the price for the things about me that were good.

(By the way, in case it isn’t clear, Thomas is the second type of doctor. The kind who helps people not because he wants to, because of who it makes him. The protector. The savior.)

***

Maybe every marriage is a mistake. Two people, together forever? I’m sorry, but it doesn’t work. It’s just that some mistakes are bigger than others. Some mistakes aren’t fatal. Some mistakes can be managed—those are the “good” marriages. Even good marriages don’t work, part of the time. The people in them push through the not-working to theworking. They’re small mistakes, these marriages. Happy mistakes. The kind where you get to the end of your life and shrug. Maybe it wasn’t perfect. Nothing is. But it was more good than bad.

Our marriage, Thomas’s and mine, was a big mistake. And it was, if I’m honest, my mistake. Not that I was the one to propose—Thomas did that, ever the traditionalist. But I was the one to push our relationship from being fairly casual to something more serious. For once, I was the one who had a plan.

It happened around the time that I finally dropped out of school, finally faced up to the fact that it would be nothing more than another dead end. An expensive dead end.

Before I made it official, I went to Thomas with…well, with a proposal. We should move in together. I’d worked it all out in my head, you see. We’d get an apartment together. I’d work shit jobs, whatever I could get, to make rent while he worked his way to being a full doctor. I’d wait tables, pull espressos, pour beers into pint glasses. Hustle for tips. I’d support him through school, be his escape. Work hard to be more his manic pixie dream girl than her opposite: depressive harpy nightmare woman. I’d have elaborate dinners ready for him when he came home, surprise parties for his birthday, kooky decorations for Valentine’s and Halloween, blow jobs when he crawled into bed after a long rotation.

Then, he’d be a full doctor, and I’d be set. My whole life, planned. I’d be flight, he’d be gravity. I’d be wind—he’d be ballast, a rudder, sails. Direction.

We did it. Moved in together. Somewhere in the middle of his residency, he moved ahead on the second phase of the plan—I think he knew I expected him to—by asking me to marry him.

But it was a mistake. Oh, was it ever a mistake. One of the big ones.

***

I don’t know precisely when Thomas started to hate me. I think maybe he always did, even when he loved me. They’re more tied up than we think, love and hate—both emotions are a confession that someone matters to us, that they have power over how we feel. Thomas was always puzzled by my dark moods, didn’t know what to do about them. They made him feel powerless. But he loved me through them, as well. Adored me still for who I could be, who he thought I was when we first met. The image of me he clung to for far too long.

But his hate grew and gradually overtook his love. Dwarfed it. I think his hate for me acquired majority share in the business of his feelings for me when we he realized that nothing he did could make me happy. Not marrying me, or eventually becoming the respected doctor he’d always planned to be—that only made me realize how small I’d become next to him, opening up an emptiness inside me that I could only fill by drinking. And not making me a mother twice over—the girls, Rhiannon and then Kendall, only terrified me with their huge eyes gazing up at me, with their insatiable hungers for food, for attention, for love.

It was when the girls came into our lives that the break between Thomas and me became complete. He’s still married to me, but only on paper. Only in the eyes of the world. Not in his heart.

Whatever love he had for me was transferred to them when they were born. He’s a dad now. A good dad. That’swhat everyone says about him. Throwing it in my face, reminding me how good I have it. Better than I deserve.

Such a good dad.

Maybe. But a terrible husband.

Chapter 8

Melissa brought Bradley to day care again the next day and then went straight home. She didn’t feel safe in Lawrence’s basement anymore—but she didn’t feel safe anywhere else either. She felt like she was being watched now, sensed unseen eyes on her as she drove around town, as she held Bradley’s hand to the door, as she gave him a hug in the entryway. Back home, she locked all the doors, pulled the curtains. Listened for sounds of movement. For someone trying to break in.

She was supposed to be looking for jobs. That’s what she needed—a bookkeeping job so she could pay her rent to Lawrence, fill the fridge with food, pay off the credit card she put the cost of moving on, the legal debt laid on top of her shoulders like a stone.

---