Dear Maria (on hold)

Dear Maria

I gripped the steering wheel tightly, the muscles in my arms straining, the bones in my fingers growing stiff and sore. Her warm presence beside me was so familiar and comfortable, it tore away at my heart to even think about living a day of my life without her. I'd never had to before, but now that thought, that horrible loneliness, was forced into my head by two simple words spoken by the doctor who had, only days ago, assured us she would be fine, words that I was now thoroughly convinced were the worst, the most heartbreaking, in the world. Terminal cancer. Now, words such as too late, helpless, already gone, lost, forever, alone, without, and death rebounded through my skull. Suddenly, I was pulled out of my silent cries of grief by a touch on my shoulder, and I automatically relaxed, if marginally. I would always respond to her touch, answer to her voice. She softly ran her hand down from my shoulder, down my arm, and her gentle fingers stroked my aging hand. Though I felt better with her touching me, I feel immensely guilty. I should be the one comforting her. She was the one dieing, I thought harshly, and immediately flinched from those words. They were too absolute.

“I love you.” I whispered, my voice rough and broken.

“I know.” She breathed, sadly and tenderly.

“Maria... I started, but I had nothing to say, nothing she didn't already know.

“I remember the day we met. I don't want you to lose our memories, I don't want you to remember my death, I want you to remember our life.” She pressed. I nodded, and took her hand firmly in my own.

“I remember too. No one will forget, I promise. We'll put it all down on paper, okay?” I soothed.

“Okay.” She murmured, and tightened her hold on my hand, and we drove on, afraid for the first time of the certain end we were racing towards with unstoppable speed.

Last night, after driving home from the hospital, Maria and I had stayed up all night talking, just as we'd done so many times all those years ago. In fact, last night we'd been talking about all those years ago, remembering together. We had finally fallen asleep together some time around six in the morning, utterly exhausted and successfully distracted. I fell asleep with her hand in mine, our foreheads touching lightly. Now, this afternoon, after feeling the burning itch to write since I'd woken up, I was finally starting the long, arduous process of writing down our life together, and how it began. Remembering was fraught with numerous tears, laughing so hard I could barely breath, and often, the undiluted, unbearable feeling of longing for and missing what I was about to lose. So now, sitting in front of our old, clunky computer with a blank screen, I sighed, placed my fingers on the big, worn keyboard and began typing.

* * *

I had just left my husband; the divorce had actually been final for about four minutes before I had started packing. Most of my stuff had really been his, so I didn't have much to pack. Besides, we didn't want reminders of our lives together, which is why we were both moving. As it turned out, he had already packed, so I had the privilege of watching him drive away in the van that had taken us camping, had driven us to our honeymoon hotel, had driven me to Motel 6 the night I had found very lacy lingerie in his briefcase that was certainly not mine, had taken him to and from his nineteen year old girlfriend's house. As he and his van rounded the corner, my life took a turn as well. I was finally free from the role playing we'd been dong for the last five years, free from my role as the heterosexual, supportive wife who trusted her husband implicitly, no matter how late he got home, even after she knew he'd been fired months ago. I'd never really been that woman, but it had been safe, a game I'd been playing with myself since I was a child and I'd played “House” with my friends.

This pattern had continued through high school, when I'd played the nice, pretty, straight, shy girl, content to sit and watch, had the “perfect” boyfriend, who never called when he said he would and only loved the idea of me, which too grew stale before long. What I'd really wanted, who I really was, had never really been an option to me, I hadn't let it, it would mean stepping out of the familiar lie I'd lived. But I'd grown more restless as my truth bubbled closer to the surface every day, nearing it's boiling point. Then, one night when I was drunk at a club that both I and the bartender knew I shouldn't be at, neither of us caring, I had attempted to soften the sting of losing yet another boyfriend to someone more “exciting.” I was so sick of never being enough for anyone, worse, I could taste the truth in their words. Every fiber of my being was so fed up with being suppressed for seventeen years, so for one night I completely threw off my shackles and tried on a different persona, one that fit much better. I was crazy drunk and had nothing that meant anything to me to lose, an insanely dangerous place to be in. I had been dancing as hard as I could, oblivious and uncaring to what everyone else in the deafening club thought of me, I knew I would never see them again. I had known that it would be a one-shot deal. There had been a cute girl who had been watching me for awhile, then she came over and began dancing beside me. As the night went on in the club where time didn't exist, I'd made out with the girl, we danced, rubbing up against each other, and to the soundtrack of flashing lights, stomping feet, claustrophobia and music too loud to hear, I'd begun my first experience with a girl.

The next day as I awoke in my bed wearing someone else's clothes, no recollection of how I'd gotten there, the smell of alcohol and cigarettes hanging around me like a party guest that had overstayed his welcome. I'd had my first and worst hangover, my head was pounding and my eyes were red and dry, more tired than I'd ever been. As I sat crying in the shower until long after the water had run cold, heaving with sobs drowned out by the water pounding down on me, I realized. I realized that the girl I'd been yesterday morning was not who I was today, realized that the truth that had been clawing at my throat for so long now was finally still, released. What I'd felt the worst about was how good it had felt. It had never felt good when I'd kissed any of my hit-and-run boyfriends, I didn't even know that sex could make me feel anything... other than resignation, disgust, and often some degree of pain. Most of the guys I'd slept with had been quick and clumsy, and had done it more to be able to say they had than anything else. But the girl (I never found out her name) had made me feel something, had truly taken me to new heights. Though I was completely crocked, and I'm sure I was sloppy and awful at it, it was also the first time I was me, the first time I'd ever felt anything other than rejection, done anything other than be someone else. As I'd risen and shut off the shower, numbly wrapping a white towel around my frozen body covered in goosebumps, my wet hair slicked to my head, I'd come to the conclusion that I was guilty of the only crime I cared about committing. Because I'd stepped out of my safe but suffocating character that I'd been playing, because I'd stopped lying for onenight, the wool had been pulled away from my reluctant eyes and I saw for the first time the lies I knew I'd been telling, but never really had known what I'd been lying about.