The Truth Is a Theory Page 9

Then, just as she had almost convinced herself that people didn’t know or didn’t care, she overheard two girls in the bathroom, talking loudly between stalls as if the gray metal half-wall between them was soundproof.

  “I hear she was all over him at Beta, and then pretty much dragged him back to her room.”

  “Really? I hardly think he needs to be dragged.”

  “He’s so hot.” The faceless voice giggled. “But that’s what I heard. And that he was in and out.”

  Megan put her toothbrush, paste still on it, down on the counter and held her breath. She knew what in and out meant; in and out of her room, in and out of her.

  “Who told you?”

  “Joe. I guess Baker told the whole fraternity during their Wednesday night pong game.”

  Megan paled. She tiptoed out of the bathroom, leaving her toothbrush on the counter and praying her bare feet wouldn’t make any noise on the tile floor. Then she sprinted to her room.

  “Allie.” Megan slammed the door and burst into tears. “Oh my God, Baker told the whole fraternity about Saturday night. And he made it sound like I was begging for it.”

  “What?” Allie clicked off the TV and beckoned Megan to the couch. “Sit down, tell me.”

  “In the bathroom, two girls were talking about how Baker… about how I… how I dragged him up here and that he was in and out.” Megan slumped down next to Allie.

  “Who were the girls?”

  “I’m not sure, maybe Patty Bennett. It doesn’t matter, they said he told his whole frat.”

  “He’s such an ass. The whole school knows he’s such an ass.”

  Megan’s face crumpled.

  “Oh, Meg, I’m sorry.” Allie put her hand on Megan’s shoulder.

  “No you’re right, I heard all that stuff about him too. I thought things might be different. God, I’m such an idiot.”

  “No you’re not. He totally poured it on. Of course you believed him, that was his goal. And you did because, why in the world would you ever think someone would be that slimy? He’s dirt, Megan.”

  Tears streamed down Megan’s face as she berated herself for the millionth time.

  “Don’t beat yourself up again.” Allie hugged her. “He did a complete number on you, it’s like he put a target on your back.”

  “Why would someone do that? Does it give him a sick thrill to treat girls like that?”

  “Maybe. Or maybe he only knows how to close the deal and then get out, before whoever he’s with sees the real dirtball inside. You know, leave them wanting more, instead of leaving with his tail between his legs.”

  The door opened and Zoe waltzed in. Her smile withered as she took in the scene before her. “What’s up?” She glanced back and forth between Allie and Megan.

  Megan looked up at Zoe with bloodshot eyes. “Baker’s not only completely ignoring me, but he told all of Beta that he was in and out.”

  “Oh.” Zoe dropped onto Allie’s bed with a deep sigh. Then she shook her head. “It’s all just a game of cops and robbers; someone always bleeds.”

  Megan held Zoe’s eyes. “You don’t actually believe that, do you?”

  Zoe exhaled again. “No.”

  Someone yelled “Pizza!” from the other end of the dorm; the word bounced up and down the long hallway.

  “Hey,” Zoe said. “This whole thing just looks bad for him. He thinks he’s adding another notch to his bedpost, but with all the sane people on campus, he’s lost a notch.”

  The surprise at a sympathetic Zoe stunned Megan out of her distress for a moment. The room was quiet.

  Then Megan wailed, “How can I go out there?” She waved her hand to include the whole campus. “I can’t leave the room knowing everyone is staring at me and thinking Baker just fucked me and tossed me aside like a used condom.”

  Zoe did a tiny double-take. “Fiery,” she said. “Use that.” She shook three cigarettes out of a pack on the desk, lit one and passed it to Megan. “Look, hiding is just what Baker’s hoping for. He doesn’t want to be confronted with his own bullshit. If you’re not around, it’s easier for him.”

  Megan took a drag on her fresh cigarette and focused on Zoe.

  “This is all a way of making himself feel powerful.” Zoe passed a cigarette to Allie. “If you stay inside, he wins.”

  Megan nodded solemnly.

  “You need to use that fire and parade around like nothing’s happened. Twirl your baton, do a few flips; you know, stick it in his face. He can’t touch you, Megan. His words are garbage; he is garbage.” Zoe paused and lit her own cigarette.

  “Zoe’s right,” Allie said. “He’s expecting you to cower. You’re stronger than that, Meg.”

  “I’m not sure I am.” Megan sniffed. “But I know you’re right. I don’t know why I’m so afraid of him, why every time I see him I feel like I’m going to throw up.”

  “Because he’s a disease,” Allie said.

  Zoe looked Megan in the eyes. “It’s not as hard as you think, look at me.” She inhaled and then exhaled slowly, watching the smoke twist exotically and then dissipate into nothing. “This whole thing with Gavin and Tess? Do you know how destroyed I was, how destroyed I am?” Her eyes flitted to Allie, who had sat with Zoe through several tons of Kleenex. She looked back at Megan. “No, everyone thinks I’m fine, right? No big deal. Even Gavin, who you’d think would know better. Even he thinks I’m fine.”

  Megan and Allie nodded with this truth.

  Zoe sighed. “Actually sometimes I wish they understood how much they hurt me, because then maybe they’d feel guilty or something. The fact that they think I’m fine makes them feel better, like what happened is all perfectly kosher.”

  “I don’t know how you do it,” Megan said. “Listen Zoe, I’m so sorry about you and Gavin. I haven’t said anything to you, for just the reasons you said; it seemed like you didn’t care, like you were okay with it.” Megan put her burning cigarette in the ashtray and leaned towards Zoe, stopping short of touching her. “But I should have said something. I knew how much you loved Gavin.” Megan’s tears started again.

  Zoe smiled halfheartedly at Megan and patted her shoulder. “It’s better for me to be mad than sad. Sad feels too helpless, anger feels better.” She stood up abruptly, as if eager to move on. “So even though Tess thinks everything’s peachy, I’m mad as hell. But you know what? I’ll never let her know because it gives too much away. Of me. And she doesn’t deserve to own a piece of me.”

  Zoe studied herself in the mirror above Allie’s bureau and set her shoulders. “And anyway, if Gavin thinks he’s in love with Tess, he’s a bigger fool than Baker. If that’s even possible. When he’s bored, Gavin will be back.” She walked over to Megan and leaned in to her. “The key is, don’t ever let them see you bleed.”

  Zoe started to walk out, but stopped in the door and turned around. “You guys want to go and get a drink or something?”

  Allie glanced at Megan, who nodded. “Sure,” Allie said.

  “I’ll just grab my wallet,” Zoe said over her shoulder.

  Megan tried to smile at Allie. “Who was that masked woman?”

  Allie threw her arm around her friend and squeezed her in.

  Chapter 4

  Journal entry #4

  September 9, 2000

  The kids started school this week, summer is over, and the school of life begins again. I love September, it always feels fresh; much more of a new year than New Year’s. But summer, well, summer is velvety chocolate frosting swiped with a finger from a bowl. Real life, or the September through May cake of life, has more ingredients in it—bland flour, dramatic baking soda, life-giving eggs, heart-attack salt—and you never stick your finger in for a preview. Of course, real life can still be sweet, but the summer—basically sugar and butter—makes it all worthwhile.

  Anyway, with routine
starting up and bare feet behind us, we are all grumpy—me, Matthew, Gillian, even Dana. I wonder if any of us thought this separation would drag on past the heat and humidity. I’m not sure I had any expectations, be it length of time or anything else (this wasn’t my idea, I want to scream when Dana scowls at my door. Our door.) I think that especially for the kids, it was easier during the summer to deny that all this was happening. The way the unstructured energy of the day leached into dreamy twilight somehow made it easier to believe that Daddy was just traveling or working late. Anything besides just not here. But now that we’re back into the cake of life, where every hour has an obligation scribbled in ink next to it, Dana’s absence in our lives is glaring. There’s a hole in the evening when Daddy is supposed to walk in the door with his brown leather briefcase and his weary-eyed, but smiling greeting.

  So I get the grumpiness, especially from the kids. They don’t really know what’s going on, they just know they feel bad. Sometimes I think they blame me for Dana’s moving out. Certainly in my meaner moments I hope they blame Dana. But deep in my heart, in a dark place that hurts, I know they don’t blame us.

  They blame themselves.

  Although their slitted eyes and full-lipped pouts may be an effort to shoot blame at one or both of us, at their age, things are simple. They are the center of the universe; things happen to them, for them, and most importantly, because of them. Underneath their cozy comforters at night, snuggled in with all of their favorite stuffed animals, they agonize about whether it was their last tantrum, their picky eating, or their missed soccer goal that caused this fissure in their life.

  I know.

  “I promise I’ll be good. I’ll be nice to Kevin. I won’t scream in the supermarket.” The supermarket promise was my boilerplate. For some reason, when I was little I always melted down in the store—sobbing, howling, a full-blown tantrum—and Eva’s response was to park the cart (with me trapped in it) and move on to another aisle. I would scream harder, my feet kicking against the silver bars of the cart, my small fists pounding the red plastic grip.

  She must have returned to collect me at some point.

  “I’ll be good in the supermarket” was my go-to currency, offered up from underneath my blanket of guilt and shame. The promises floated away. The guilt and shame buried in deep.

  So I can understand Matthew and Gillian being cranky and mean-spirited. And as much as I get down on my knees and assure them that our separation isn’t their fault, they don’t buy it.

  This wretched futility must be why parents try to hold it together for the kids. It’s a pretty powerful deterrent to understand that a divorce will drive over your children and flatten them like asphalt, no matter how hard you try to turn the wheel.

  But here I am, here we are. I have not only mindfully crushed my children, but I am now alone in trying to pick up the pieces. Of course Dana is bending over and gathering pieces as well, but we’re not collaborating, we’re not sharing—in tiny increments in front of the toaster or while carrying brown paper bags in from the car—the raising of our children. We’re each working alone, in the corners of their world, hoping to mend what may be broken now right down the middle.

  As if parenthood didn’t feel overwhelming before.

  I’ve never been more aware that the buck stops here, because now it really does. Our partnership, even when it was crumbling, was always a fender for each other’s blind spots. Now there is no buffer, no luxury of a united front. I alone am responsible for shaping these unblemished kids, for laying all the bricks in the right place. My every move, my every mood is modeling something for my children.

  It really hits me when I see Matt or Gillian doing something exactly as I do it, or saying something in my exact tone of voice. It’s awesome when what they’re doing is special or brave, and I know that somehow I’ve contributed to that. At those moments I feel as if I could rocket skyward on the wings of pride. That’s my child! I helped him develop that self-esteem, those skills!

  But it’s horrifying when I see them doing something nasty or mean or yelling at each other while mimicking my own venom. The times when they imitate the frustration or anger that is spit when I totally lose it with them; those countless times when I’m threadbare and my bag of tricks is empty, and still my buttons are being pushed and punched and so finally, exasperated and at my wits end, I explode. Literally explode—words flying like shrapnel. And in those minutes when the anger is frothing up and out of me, I’m out of control. I’m not able to count to 10 or take a deep breath or in any way exorcise the lunatic I’ve become.

  In the aftermath of these explosions, my guilt alone is toxic; but when I think about the underlying repercussions of my eruption, self-loathing devours me. I have just taught my children something. I have just demonstrated rage. I have just screamed “STOP SCREAMING!” That’s when I truly just want to lie down and give up. Or disappear.

  I’m only human, I tell myself. I’m going to have bad days, ugly moments, angry words. In my head, I know this. In my heart, I cannot forgive myself.

  Maybe this is universal, this belief that no matter how hard I try with my kids, my own humanity trips me up. Maybe it’s the underbelly of motherhood, this nagging feeling that I’m not quite doing it right, don’t have quite enough patience, am not quite giving it my best. That no matter what I do, at times I am wounding my children; that someday, they’ll blame a repugnant personality trait on me, on our relationship.

  “You can’t be perfect,” Sarah says. “And that’s a great lesson to teach your kids.” Yes, yes, I nod. But inside I’m not so sure.

  A mother’s impact on her children is all-powerful. Even absence does not diminish it. The wound Eva left me with will forever bleed into my thoughts and impact my actions.

  I try so hard to be flawless because I know only too well what damaged feels like.

  March 1990: Senior Year

  The Florida Keys

  One by one, every passenger who steps off a plane in Florida and onto the top of the metal jetway performs a sequence of gestures that just might be the secret handshake to vacationland. Puff out chest, deeply inhale the welcome heat, and rapidly salute, using your hand as a vital visor from the sudden, blinding glare. The throngs of college students who descend for spring break are the exception however, as when they disembark, they’re already wearing sunglasses (and brightly colored flip-flops). For these furloughed adolescents, vacation starts on the way to the airport.

  Having already lived through the traditional, wild spring break twice, Allie and Dana—who had whooped when they’d discovered they had the same week off—decided to pass on the wet tee-shirt contests and try to find a more sedate vacation. Allie did the research and discovered a small condo complex on the beach in the Keys, which was inexpensive (not surprising when you split the cost 10 ways), with beds for eight and plenty of floor space. Dana and nine of his friends rented a condo there too, and the scene was set for a small getaway from the senior grind. Unfortunately, their well-kept secret was not so well-kept, and before they knew it, a crowd had jumped aboard their plan and turned their intimate escape into a much more raucous affair; although still tamer than the frenetic chug-til-you-throw-up scenes of spring breaks past.

  The seven days flew by, and what had started out as an ocean of time in front of them had evaporated down to a puddle; one more night. Although a clump of guys had been boozing since breakfast, it was now late afternoon—a more appropriate cocktail hour—and the aluminum crack-and-sigh of cold beers being opened was a subliminal invitation for all those still sipping soda. Out by the pool, lounge chairs were being pulled and scraped into a new alignment as the afternoon shadows stretched longer and slowly encroached on the last precious minutes of sun. This was crunch time; all SPF lotions littered the deck and baby oil was being passed from chair to chair like a glowing joint.

  Allie—awash in oil, sand, and salt—raced insid
e to use the bathroom; even five minutes out of the sun was panic-worthy. With full intent to dash back to her chair, she changed course mid-stride as she noticed Dana sitting out on the tiny balcony.

  He held up two beers as she came out to join him. “Your condo was closer.” He extended an open beer towards her.

  “Thanks.” The balcony was only big enough for one chair, so Allie hopped up onto a sunny spot on the balcony railing, her back to the oval pool, the ocean glittering beyond that. The bottom of her black bikini peeked out from under a big white tee with the sleeves rolled up, and her long dark hair, even wavier than usual because of the wind and water, was loosely pulled back into a ponytail. She lifted her face to the sun and closed her eyes. “Can we just stay here?” She sighed. “I can’t believe we have to leave tomorrow.”

  A full minute of silence passed. Allie opened her eyes and took a closer look at Dana.

  ————

  Dana propped his bare feet on the deck railing under her and stared out at the ocean. He was drunk, having worked his way through a cooler of beer with his buddies on the beach, just a few yards and several towels away from Allie and her friends, who were flipping through magazines and sipping Diet Cokes.

  Senior Spring Break, the source of much planning, much anticipation; now almost relegated to a dusty photo album. Dana wondered if in a few years he would remember the leashed agitation that lay underneath his brown, smiling face in the pictures.

  He kicked himself for not paying more attention to his gut as he and Allie planned this trip. Instead, he had convinced himself that their vacation with friends would be a grand finale to college life, and he held onto that conviction as the small group grew, and grew. When the final tally reached 80, he geared up for a different kind of vacation, and judging from the tower of empty kegs in the parking lot, it had been a success. Everyone would go home sunburned, exhausted, and saying with a smile, “Now I really need a vacation”.

  Dana’s burn, however, came from something other than the sun. The simmering stew of personalities had scorched him with the reality of the whole “dating other people at school” deal he and Allie had agreed to last year. The original—and he had to admit, theoretical—idea of Allie having dinner with someone else now seemed much more threatening than a simple breaking of bread. He had never been in a fight before, but he had clenched his fists and set his jaw many times this week, wanting to pummel the Erikson boys who had been leering moths to Allie’s effervescence. It didn’t help that everyone was pretty much naked the entire week. Each time he came upon her in her tiny bikini or gauzy sundress chatting with some of her guy friends, his mind went into overdrive, and he pictured Allie with her eyes closed and some other guy on top of her…