You can have my isolation; you can have the hate that it brings.
-Nine Inch Nails, Closer
S: Those are awfully possessive words coming from the
silent guy who told me to go away.
Space, for S and her husband, was this strange mix of passing the children back and forth, passing each other in the mornings when she’d clear out of the bedroom so he could get ready for work, passing at the front door when she’d head out for a walk or to run errands when he came home for lunch, passing in the driveway when she’d head inside to start dinner once he got home in the evenings. Passing each other at bedtime, when she’d slip into their room and he’d remain out on the couch doing homework. Passing the laptop back and forth, so he’d have time to work and she’d have time to write.
It was polite. And quiet. But empty. Lonely. S slowly began to realize how much company they provided for each other. How, even though most of it was really about nothing, they did talk a lot. They did laugh. They did share. There were things about their life together that she missed once they were gone.
Space, for S and P, was different. Instead of being like a wave, where life still sort of flowed between them, it was more of an abrupt jolt. Like being thrown overboard and left behind, so all one could hear was the sound of thrashing and grasping in the water.
From time to time P would reach out, checking on her, or commenting on something she had written. He would use their old language and stir up her old feelings, but just seconds after it would feel good to hear from him, the ache would set back in.
And from time to time S would reach out to P, wanting to know if he was missing her too. P never told her their game was over forever; he only asked for time. A break. And like everything else he ever said, she believed him. She believed that the morning would come when she would hear the familiar chirp of his message, and they would start over. But when S did the reaching, P said she was pushing, and their correspondence would end in icy words, his filled with irritation and something just shy of contempt, hers full of misunderstanding and something just shy of desperation.
With her real life relationship uncertain, and her fantasy relationship disappearing, she did the only thing she knew how to do when life was messy. She moved forward. She made the decisions she wanted so badly for her husband to support. Either he’d come around, and be happy she wanted to go back to a career, or he’d leave, and she’d have no other choice. She got the information together for the nursing program she wanted to start, and began figuring out a way to make it happen.
And all of the emotions that were twisting up inside her chest went into her writing. She buried herself deep into her file of unfinished stories, and she let her fingers go wild creating new ones. She brought her notebooks out of hiding, and stopped caring about the look that would appear in her husband’s eyes when he’d see her scribbling away.
She also kept up with her blog. It was where she rediscovered her voice, where she could practice being brave, or find comfort when she stumbled. And something began to happen there. More people were reading and commenting. More people were emailing her. There, her words mattered. There, she could affect people.
Sometimes she’d hear from a reader who wanted to flirt, and it occurred to her that whatever it was that happened with Pavlov probably wasn’t all that unique. The world is full of lonely people looking to make a connection. On the one hand it made her laugh, seeing the obvious way some men used to try to get her attention. None were as smooth and charming and challenging as P had been.
But on the other hand it made her sad, leaving her to wonder if her connection with him had been as extraordinary as she believed it to be when it was happening. Maybe it wasn’t. Maybe it was just make-believe. Maybe she didn’t really matter to him at all.
One reader began emailing her often, his notes more like dialogue than just a statement about her daily post. He responded to her answers quickly, like a conversation, and while she didn’t really interpret him as being flirtatious, he was certainly attentive and complimentary. It was enjoyable to have a distraction, and to know somebody who regarded her as a writer.
And after about a week of the emails, he asked if she used Gchat, because that way they could talk more easily. This time she didn’t have to make a joke to cover her ignorance; she knew just what he meant. And the irony made her laugh and cry. And of course, she told Pavlov.
From: Sudan
Re: Something Funny
I have been emailing with somebody who reads my blog, he just asked me to Gchat. After recovering from the huge deja vu, I said I didn't chat. I need another pretend internet boyfriend like I need a hole in my head. And I laughed at how it felt like cheating. On you. Oh, man, life was so much simpler before al gore invented the internet.
To: Sudan
From: Pavlov
Re: Something Funny
Who is he! And don’t you dare say you can’t say!!
Because she and her husband agreed that space would also include some weekends away from each other, out of the house, she began making her plan. She would spend the weekend in a college town getting registered for classes and basically acting like a coed, and she’d go to a blogger meet-up, where, among other readers, this email man would be. She’d do as her husband suggested; she would go make some friends.
S: You gonna beat him up? I’m a sucker for grand gestures.
Makes me weak in the knees.
P: Tell me
Somehow, P ended up coming along with her, too. He was again in her Blackberry tucked into the pocket of her jean jacket, his familiar chirp piercing the silence in the car every so often. They were both a little reluctant; she was unsure of the rules now, and he didn’t seem to like the idea of her going out on her own. But as awkward as it was, that whole day they stayed connected.
S: Oh. So now you wanna talk, huh? Now that you know
other boys are sniffing around your girl? Better be careful
or you might start making me feel special again.
P: Answer me.
She missed that so much, having him in her pocket all day, giving her the feeling that she wasn’t alone. She loved going about her business but being able to stop at any moment and swap a few words with him. Having him there next to her when she got out of the shower, or chose what to wear, or brushed on a little lipstick. She loved having him keep her company.
Even so, this time was different. Like walking over ice, all careful and slippery, listening intently for a cracking sound that would tell them they ventured too far.
S: Why does it even matter? Why is it important for you to know?
P: I need to know. It’s important. I’ll keep it confidential.
S: And I asked you why it was important. You didn’t answer.
Why do you need to know?
P: Because you are mine
She loved being in hotels, and was looking forward to getting settled in her room. She especially loved being in hotels by herself; checking in, handling her own bag, walking up alone, and having all that quiet space belong just to her. Putting her things wherever she wanted without having to share the space. She opened her bag, hung her clothes for dinner that evening, booted up her computer, poured herself a Jamesons, and sat down to write, P right there next to her. Almost like old times.
P: I want to see.
S: What?
. . .
What do you want to see?
P: You know.
You always know.
It was a perfect opportunity for them to play around. They both wanted to. She spent so many nights missing him. It would be so easy. But they weren’t a couple anymore. He asked her for space. It’s what I need, he’d said to her. It’s what I need.
She was confused. One minute he was confessing that he was messed up, getting in too deep, and had counted on her to keep them playing by the rules. But the next minute he was suggesting they do the things they used to do, that once made them feel close and sexy and safe and loved, but eventually made him leave her.
She loved him in a very real way. Like a friend. To take advantage of a weak moment when they were both lonely wasn’t the right thing to do. That wasn’t what he told her he needed.
S: No. You ask me again when you’re
ready to be with me again. When you’ve
sorted yourself out. Right now
let’s just enjoy being friends. Okay?
P: Yeah. Sure.
S: Are you mad? What are you thinking?
P: Just thinking that your brain has killed
yet another great idea
And that was the sound she’d been listening for. The cracking of the ice, signaling that they had indeed taken one step too far. His cold and sarcastic response burned her skin like she’d fallen into the frigid, dark water. Even though she’d made the decision that best protected her hurting heart and his messed up head. Even though she’d done the right thing.
And that familiar twist in her chest returned, the anxiety practically choking her. All through dinner, meeting other bloggers and making new friends, she could feel it. All through drinks afterward, drinks with an interested man, she could feel it. All through the flirting and talking and laughing, she could feel it. On the walk back to her hotel, arm in arm, she could feel it. And during those awkward seconds at her hotel room door, standing there with a man who wanted to come in, she could feel it.
To: Sudan
From: Pavlov
Re:
You fight mean. I don’t like it.
To: Pavlov
From: Sudan
Re:
You called me yours. Yours. Because you are mine, you said. What is that? How is that not fighting mean? When you knew in your head we were through? How am I the one getting all of this wrong, when you finally say something to me, and it's that?
At her hotel room door, she politely avoided a kiss and thanked the man for their night out. He knew she was married, and they had touched briefly on the subject at dinner, so he wasn’t surprised. You can’t blame a guy for trying. I had fun. Tomorrow will be fun, too. Goodnight, S.
She didn’t really have any interest in being with that man that night. Really, just having the opportunity was enough; just the reminder that she was, in fact, desirable. But the reality was, she didn’t tell him no because she was married. She told him no because P was right. The ache in her chest was like a brand, telling her and the world that she belonged to him.
She woke up that morning to her ringing cell phone. The day’s picnic plans had been cancelled due to the rain. Instead of accepting the man's invitation to spend the day together, she simply packed her bag and went home.
And later that afternoon, when she had the house to herself, she did what P wanted her to do the night before. She gave him what he wanted. And she told him what he wanted to hear. If she told him the truth – that instead of making her feel close to him, it made her numb and empty and sad to do that when he was so quiet and cold - he wouldn’t accept it. And even though those things were true, she still wanted to take care of him. She still needed to be the woman he looked at.
P: That's my good girl.
In the days that followed, they reestablished tentative communication again. They began a new game, playing tit-for-tat, S getting words and P getting photos.
But she also gave him more white lies and half-truths. She let him think she liked this new arrangement. She let him think it made her happy. When her husband tried to end their separation by writing her a love letter, she let P think it was easy for her to be strong and true to herself; she didn’t tell him that for just a second, she considered giving in. Because she was tired of being alone. She told P about things that were going on with her dad, but she didn’t tell him about the fear that came with managing doctors and prognoses and family members and appointment setters. She didn’t tell him about the panic that came with handling it all alone.
The truth didn’t really matter. He didn’t want her truth anymore.
She would tell him when she felt lonely. She would wait until it got so bad that she just had to tell somebody, then she’d find P. He was the only person who wouldn’t need her to explain it. He wouldn’t want to talk it out. He’d just give her a few minutes of what she was looking for. He’d play the part. He’d give her a little bit of the care and tenderness and sensuality she needed. He wouldn’t need instruction. He would just take care of her.
What she wouldn’t say was that when she was in her dark bathroom, sneaking and whispering, back pressed up against the door, hand between her legs, his voice in her ear guiding her, her head back and breathing heavy as she came, that she also had tears running down her cheeks. That she wasn’t quiet because her daughter was on the other side of the door, she was quiet because she didn’t want him to hear her cry. Crying because she missed P, crying because both the men who said they loved her only acted that way when they wanted to have sex with her. Crying because what they were doing no longer made her feel close or connected, it made her feel dirty and desperate. But even that was better than lonely and afraid.
