While he was gone, I moved into the spare
bedroom. With just a futon and lamp on the floor, it looked like a college dorm
room, but I was a decade past that stage, him more. The whole house seemed
temporary, transitory, unsure, not a final resting place—no rugs, no curtains,
boxes still unpacked after living there a year. Some boxes had been picked up
and moved intact so many times that they were waxy from wear. Why were we so
hesitant to commit to bookcases, to shelving, to staying, I wondered as I
looked for futon sheets in one of the boxes. What was it about unpacking that
we both couldn’t quite bear?
Around ten, I laid down on the futon,
straight, on my back, my old, flat pillow beneath my head, pale freckled arms
by my side, palms up. I lay imagining myself a Pre-Raphaelite painting: redhead
floating down river, dead perhaps, certainly cold, immobilized by both despair
and relief, too tired to be fearful yet. I squinted at a ceiling I would learn
well in the coming months, trying to remember a poem I once knew—Ruskin?
Rossetti?
I
lay as like a chance shadow
In
moving water, floating and not
A
brief mention of reflected form;
There
and not, each ripple separating me
And
not even my own dread strong enough
To
keep my form together.
I lay perfectly still, but felt like I was
in moving water, rapids taking me somewhere new, where? Dangerous? Rocks? Rapids? My heart sloshed in my chest
like it had suddenly detached from its walls and was free floating until I
heard his Vespa fall against the porch steps two hours later; then it stopped
sloshing, caught up on a stick in the stream, pummeled by rushing water past.
My pulse raced and clicked, like a
metronome set faster. I could hear metal hit metal as he fumbled the key in the
lock. I hadn’t prepared myself for the fear I suddenly felt; I should have
left. He was capable of anything now.
What was I thinking, staying there?
Seven years before, I had sold the small
blue Chevette Daddy bought me just before he died. “We don’t really need a car
in the city,” I explained to Mama on the phone. “It’s more trouble than it’s
worth. You can’t park anywhere, we’re near a Metro station, the police have a
ticket quota system, cars get broken into all the time—it just doesn’t make
sense to own one here.”
But I knew those weren’t the real reasons.
I sold it when I realized the wide range of
drunkenness that a human could aspire to and attain. I sold it because I
couldn’t live through one more call from a police station to pick him up,
another DWI. I sold it because I knew one night the call would be worse, not him
in a holding cell, but a child walking across Wisconsin Avenue for peppermint
ice cream with her daddy and now dead, the victim of a drunk driver, him. No,
that wouldn’t do at all. What on earth would the Southern Baptists think? That
was it; the Chevette must go.
And oddly, as life will do, that decision
put me in direct proximity to John. All those rides home. You build up a friendship like that, don’t you? One ride at a time?
They worked across from each other on P Street. “You’ve gotta
go meet John. He’s a fantastic guy. Funny as hell. Brilliant.” Yes, he was, is.
I heard a stumble on the stairs.
I felt the bedroom door open and pretended
to be asleep while he looked at me for a long, quiet time. What was he seeing,
I wondered? Was he lamenting the loss, regretting the past, cataloging his
boxes, wishing for time back?
I heard him breathe words, just barely,
only two: “Damn you.” I lay there waiting for him to hurt me, shoot me,
strangle me. It was possible, I knew immediately. My eyes fluttered wildly
behind closed lids, light hitting veiny skin like riding in a car on a bright
day through the woods—dark, light, dark, light, dark-light; I was trying to
approximate the eye movements of sleep, not panic.
I knew he had gone when I heard him pee,
creating crashing torrents of beer urine that reverberated in the quiet, still
house. There was no flush; he forgot in his stumble toward our bed, now one
pillow short.
Suddenly, without any warning, a gunshot in
the next room tore open the quiet acquiescence with which we were adjusting to
our new situation. Explosive, then a dampened thud, then nothing. My chest
expanded violently. I felt strangled. I gasped for air. My shut eyes were now
wide open as I mouthed the words, “Oh god, no. Oh god, no.”
My face went hot; my mouth filled with the
taste of aluminum foil, then bile. “Oh god, no,” I said aloud. The sound of my
own blood filled my ears, filled the whole room, house, street, neighborhood,
town. My blood inside me; his flowing out. My heartbeat forced against the
tight skin of my neck so violently I felt it could slash me open.
I knew immediately: he did this to get me
back, that shot, the thud, the moments in between as he slid down the wall to
the floor. He probably smiled as he pulled, the drunken bastard. I had tried so hard, so long, to save him, help him. Ultimately, perhaps I actually did, though not in the way I imagined.
It suddenly seemed such a long time since
we had met. I was finishing graduate school; he was the only person I’d met who
had read The Recognitions, the focus
of my dissertation. I don’t know—it seemed a good reason at the time. Plus, he
was tall and professorial; his room was filled with books. He was so smart,
funny, tall.
Three years into
it, we set sail aboard the S.S. Universe, living on bunk beds in a small room
for four months, riding waves. We sailed right around the globe, circling like
a ring or halo or life vest or strait jacket. We were floating on a river of
debris, or was it desire? As Siddarta wrote, “what is the appropriate behavior for a man or a woman in the midst of
this world, where each person is clinging to his piece of debris? What’s the
proper salutation between people as they pass each other in this flood?”
We were like two islands in that small,
cramped, underwater room. Ports of call sparked both of us to break out of that
space as if gasping for air on the surface, our gills desperate for oxygen, but
in different directions, never together. That was, to any other person, a sign.
We didn’t see it. Not yet.
Rather,
instead of unpacking those boxes we kept them in neat stacks—safe, packed,
piled—a neatness that finally shattered, like the typhoon we sailed into. I didn't know it at the time, but he rode
out the storm lashed outside to the ship’s upper deck to record the sounds,
fierce winds and waves. We all nearly died on that ship, but damned if he doesn’t
have a recording of it, packed away somewhere in a box. Don’t we all have our
own river of debris?
I couldn’t move. I tried moving one arm,
but my heart exploded. I bent one knee; my limbs all fell off. I have to call
someone; I cannot do this myself. How in god’s name can I make this okay?”
In my quietest, most horrible moments of
self examination, those moments where you pull the thread of some deep pattern,
I realized that I kept repeating “Oh god, no” not because he was dead, but
because he had forced me to deal with him one last time by shooting himself. I
had to do something about what had happened in the next room. I wondered,
desperately, quickly: Could I just wait until morning, or walk away from the
house and never return? Maybe if I sleep, it will all go away.
“I can’t do this,” I said aloud, alone.
The pathology of my avoidance was never
clearer to me than at that moment, though it had started in the second grade
when Mrs. Goins towered over my chair, asking if I had urinated in my seat.
“No, M’am,” I said, “not me.”
I was freckled and orange-haired, sitting
in an undeniable pee pool at the time, a hot oasis of yellow, my own personal Niagara,
my Rhine,
my
Dead Sea.
Not a quarter-sized pool, but a pool so large it lapped onto the floor and made
rivulets aching to inch their way to Blake Revis’ chair. He wailed in horror at
the encroaching urine, undeniably mine. “I don’t know what you are talking
about, Mrs. Goins,” I said.
Avoidance and denial weren’t possible now.
Damn him for doing this to me. I waited, then rolled off the futon. I paused on
my knees, forearms on the floor in front of me, hands flat and fingers spread
so far they whitened. How would I ever explain this?
His body had fallen across the bed
diagonally, legs toward the door, head off the other side at the far reaches of
the room; there was no way to assess the damage but by entering. I stood still,
suppressing vomit.
I took one step in. The room was smaller
than I remembered. I took another step, lifting my foot over a photo album that
lay on the floor against one wall, its pages at odd angles as if some had been
ripped loose; otherwise—except for his body and my pillow—everything was in its
place. I imagined this space as a room at Monticello,
a red velvet rope across the door; I wasn’t supposed to enter here.
I couldn’t see his head from where I stood.
I had to walk farther in, around the foot of the bed, my heart the size of my
pillow, smothering me. I smelled death; it smelled sweet.
He looked
oddly intact.
I felt myself lunge toward him in love,
regret, loss.
His glasses were still on, but crooked,
like he had been pondering Buber or Kierkegaard and moved the lenses aside to
rub at one eye.
The smell wasn’t death, but Budweiser.
There was no blood. How could this be? I
looked frantically around the room, trying to understand, my chest hollow, then
full, hollow, then full. My eyes fell, finally, to that book of photographs
from our trip around the world. It was askew on the floor, directly below where
he had slammed it against the wall.
He moved out; I followed months later to a less
haunted space. But there was the final matter of clearing out the behemoth
storage shed out back—a place I never visited in the year we lived there—full
of lawn tools and oil cans, I imagined.
John came to help; we were momentarily paralyzed
after we opened the shed’s door and our eyes adjusted to the light: the ground
inside was carpeted with compacted beer cans so deep they reached above our
knees, no floor showing through crushed aluminum, representing (and not in that
fun, metaphoric way) one uncontrollable year in which thousands of beers had
been consumed alone in an unlighted, unheated, outdoor shed. I will long
remember those metallic sounds as we waded through, like we were on the beach
searching for starfish, gathering instead 36 Hefty leaf bags of his life.
Oddly, things sometimes become clearer when
our eyes are full of tears, like drops of water magnify the veins on leaves
when they sit on them after a rain storm. But how fleeting, that rain, that
drop, that magnification. When small bugs climb up those stalks or the wind
blows, the drop of water falls, leaving no evidence of its ever having been
there except for the trace of the river it makes in leaving.
I lay as like a chance shadow in those
rivers of tears, not even my dread strong enough to keep my form together,
thinking it is better that we leave things in boxes. That way, nothing disturbs
the water and the leaving is easier.
Isn’t it?
~*~ 37 Days:
Do it Now Challenge ~*~
If life is a river of debris in which we are all
floating, some are better swimmers than others. Some stay on the
surface—bright, glinting in the sunlight, smiling pillars of society. And some
struggle, the water shocking them with its coldness, the debris from other
people’s lives snagging their clothes and pulling them down. What keeps them
from surfacing—is it me? What is there to cling to in this river of debris if
not each other? But in the clinging, are we drowning those around us? What is the proper salutation between people
as we pass each other in the flood?
Leaving’s not the only way to go. Piles of boxes
are metaphorical architecture. They
tell a story. As Margaret Atwood
wrote, “No one knows what causes an outer landscape to become an inner one.” Unpack your boxes, stay a while.
Either commit to the swim or go.
“We were invited; I’m going” was all he
said, unfolding to his full height. He pressed his small, round, gold glasses
against the bridge of his nose as he stared down at me. He kept looking at me,
silently, as he wound a burgundy knitted scarf around his neck. He didn’t break
eye contact as he reached for his coat on the back of the couch, turned, and
walked out without another word. 
Around ten, I laid down on the futon,
straight, on my back, my old, flat pillow beneath my head, pale freckled arms
by my side, palms up. I lay imagining myself a Pre-Raphaelite painting: redhead
floating down river, dead perhaps, certainly cold, immobilized by both despair
and relief, too tired to be fearful yet. I squinted at a ceiling I would learn
well in the coming months, trying to remember a poem I once knew—Ruskin?
Rossetti?
Rather,
instead of unpacking those boxes we kept them in neat stacks—safe, packed,
piled—a neatness that finally shattered, like the typhoon we sailed into. I didn't know it at the time, but he rode
out the storm lashed outside to the ship’s upper deck to record the sounds,
fierce winds and waves. We all nearly died on that ship, but damned if he doesn’t
have a recording of it, packed away somewhere in a box. Don’t we all have our
own river of debris?
The pathology of my avoidance was never
clearer to me than at that moment, though it had started in the second grade
when Mrs. Goins towered over my chair, asking if I had urinated in my seat.
“No, M’am,” I said, “not me.” 
He looked
oddly intact. 
Oddly, things sometimes become clearer when
our eyes are full of tears, like drops of water magnify the veins on leaves
when they sit on them after a rain storm. But how fleeting, that rain, that
drop, that magnification. When small bugs climb up those stalks or the wind
blows, the drop of water falls, leaving no evidence of its ever having been
there except for the trace of the river it makes in leaving. 
If life is a river of debris in which we are all
floating, some are better swimmers than others. Some stay on the
surface—bright, glinting in the sunlight, smiling pillars of society. And some
struggle, the water shocking them with its coldness, the debris from other
people’s lives snagging their clothes and pulling them down. What keeps them
from surfacing—is it me? What is there to cling to in this river of debris if
not each other? But in the clinging, are we drowning those around us? What is the proper salutation between people
as we pass each other in the flood?
Oh, god, Patti. How difficult was this to write? It so closely mirrors some of the things I experienced with both my first huisband, and like an idiot, the husband I have now...
You are so perfectly, beautifully eloquent...What an amazing talent. I am simply in AWE of you.
Posted by: Felicity | 02 July 2006 at 08:16
This was so beautiful..i am haunted by the little girl and how she stays with us all...and i like your style of swaying in and out of the story so smoothly...with memories of childhood, influences of art, and comparisons to nature. You have an amazing gift. Dan Bowman showed me your site; it's one of my favorites. thank you
Posted by: atticus | 02 July 2006 at 10:09
Wow...
Powerful stuff, Patti. I'm glad you survived those days. ...and that can you write of them now.
(waves at atticus)
Posted by: dan | 02 July 2006 at 15:04
This was simply amazing. God, I am in awe of this piece. Profound and moving and just...gah. I am at a loss for words.
Posted by: Mardougrrl | 02 July 2006 at 15:17
my earlier comment was in the wrong spot after reading a different post. i just read this one. wow. i am floored. so stunning and moving and disquieting. thank you for that. i need a bit of inspiration and i got boxes and boxes of it. thank you!
Posted by: kyra | 02 July 2006 at 16:24
What an odd position it puts one in to realize what you pictured hadn't happened.
It opens the reluctant mental eye to what one's real reactions have been and the range of options.
Posted by: Pearl | 02 July 2006 at 18:33
Dear Friends - I have emailed each of you personally, but allow me to post a public thank you for not only your kind words, but the very passion and energy and just plain good vibes that come to me from each of you. Many, many thanks for stopping by, for not allowing the length of the essays to dissuade you (after all, they *are* long for blog posts), and for allowing me to know of your own insights. Your words enrich me.
Posted by: patti digh | 03 July 2006 at 18:05
Jesus...thank you for sharing this.
I think you are amazing.
Posted by: Nicole | 05 July 2006 at 17:41
In need of nourishment, I come here to wend my way through your thoughtful words, to blend a little, to laugh and remember a little.
Thank you.
.
Posted by: deb | 05 July 2006 at 21:03
Wow! I am in awe! Wonderfully written and so profound. I also think you are amazing!
Thank you.
Posted by: Rain | 06 July 2006 at 17:44
damn.
As in,
what a good essay.
what an awful event/time/situation.
what craziness life dishes out.
how evocative your writing is.
Posted by: OTRgirl | 07 July 2006 at 15:09
wow. someone once commented on here that your blog is her new bible -- that every time she comes here she seems to read exactly what she was needing to hear. i feel the same.
the gunshot you heard was the awakening you needed. i heard a gunshot like that once too, and felt the exact same reaction you described here. it was the awakening i needed too, but instead of awakening to my need to leave, it just plain woke me up. sometimes goddess has to pull the trigger to get us to REALLY pay attention, hey? and how lucky are we when we realize it was just a warning shot...
thank you for writing. your words enrich my life and awaken me. thank you.
Posted by: Mary-Sue | 08 July 2006 at 01:12
wow. someone once commented on here that your blog is her new bible -- that every time she comes here she seems to read exactly what she was needing to hear. i feel the same.
the gunshot you heard was the awakening you needed. i heard a gunshot like that once too, and felt the exact same reaction you described here. it was the awakening i needed too, but instead of awakening to my need to leave, it just plain woke me up. sometimes goddess has to pull the trigger to get us to REALLY pay attention, hey? and how lucky are we when we realize it was just a warning shot...
thank you for writing. your words enrich my life and awaken me. thank you.
Posted by: Mary-Sue | 08 July 2006 at 01:12
That's probably one of the most powerful pieces of writing I've ever read. I'm not even sure how I found my way here, but what a gift it is.
Posted by: terrilynn | 15 July 2006 at 16:10
you are an astonishing writer .... this is amazing stuff .....
Posted by: e.beck | 27 November 2007 at 23:42
I am fairly new to gmail and I just happened to be exploring this lazy Sunday morning and being a k.d. lang fan typed in her name under blogs and your blog came up...so I started exploring and reading. MY GOD...I have found a goldmine!! You are wonderful, awesome, profound and have touched some places inside me that I think I have put a brick wall around for a long time. THANK you for all you are doing. I will be reading everything you do. You are a GODDESS of words. Funny how that little girl never leaves any of us...
Posted by: Gayle | 06 April 2008 at 07:52
Again - Wow!
Got here synchronously, also; (from Hamguin's Hiding Place & his loving comments about your workshop - & to HIS from a SoulCollager's site)
I appreciate the way you weave the story - both for yourself & for your readers . . . thank you for sharing!
I am almost 4 years out of my last toxic (tho not so dangerous) relationship, & can appreciate in your struggles - & the insights!
Oh, & that 'not me!' little girl - yep! I recall shaving my eyebrows in jr hi (WHY would anyone??!) & being asked if I had (having penciled some in - yikes!!) 'no . . . '
tee hee!
Posted by: Nadya | 07 November 2008 at 02:42