Chapter Six #3
I’m trying to remember moving out of the apartment I lived in with Ben. I know I packed my clothes in garbage bags. The only suitcase I owned was full of my books. I remember hauling my belongings out of that building, up and down the stairs, sweating, worrying I was making a mis-take.
I’m at a red light.
I think that was the last time I ever saw Ben. He was sitting on our couch with his head in his hands. His hair was hanging over his knuckles. I said goodbye to him from the doorframe. He wouldn’t say bye back.
“Bye, Ben,” I said.
“Bye?”
“Are you going to say goodbye to me?”
I turn up the radio. This song used to play in the grocery store when I was a kid.
I remember hearing it while I rode on the end of my mom’s cart.
It always stood out to me as the best grocery store song.
When I was a kid, I didn’t really register the lyrics.
I just liked how it sounded. The first time I absorbed the words I already knew them.
I understood the lyrics as I sang along.
The song is about a person dreaming of having a better life.
She has a difficult existence; she lives in poverty, and her dad is an alcoholic.
She wants to escape with her partner to someplace better, but they don’t escape.
She’s left to take care of their kids while her partner stays out drinking with his friends.
She eventually realizes they aren’t going any-where.
In the last verse of the song, she changes the line to say, “You gotta make a decision.” She said the word “We” before. At first, the dream was this collective hope for a better life, but by the end of the song, it’s this solitary choice.
Someone honks at me. I look up. The light turned green.
“He’s normally an angel,” I tell the vet.
Kyle has pinned his ears, arched his back, and hisses at the vet.
“It’s okay, buddy,” I say to him. “You’re okay.”
He’s crawled into the sink and is howling like a rabid skunk.
“Maybe he had a bad experience at the vet before,” I say. I feel oddly insecure about his behavior. I feel like I’m at the principal’s office watching my child throw a fit. “He’s a stray. I don’t know his history.”
The vet tries to comfort Kyle, but he’s afraid of her. He’s stuffed his head into the corner of the sink, as if that hides him. His round orange butt is facing us.
“Why do they pin their ears back like that?” I ask. For some reason, I feel driven to make conversation. I want this vet to know that I’m a normal person. I’m not abusing Kyle. I don’t know why he’s behaving this way.
“I’ve read they’re trying to look like snakes,” she says.
“Really?”
He looks nothing like a snake.
I snort. “Cats must have a terrible read on other animals. When my other cats see birds, they make these bizarre noises. I imagine they must think it will lure the birds, but they just sound ridiculous.”
Kyle is biting the vet.
“I’m so sorry.” I grimace.
She gives him his vaccines in his legs. “It’s okay. He’s just scared.”
He howls like he’s being murdered.
Kyle is back in the workshop, resting after his traumatic evening. I’m standing in the living room, surveying the stacks of books I’ve taken off our shelves. I don’t know how I should organize them.
If I lived alone, I might digitally catalog everything.
I could use software and add all the books to a catalog.
I’d track things like date acquired, reading status, and rating.
I’d update the catalog every time I bought or read a new book; however, I think that would be too much for Joy.
I need to use a system that works for both of us.
I could put all our unread books on one shelf and organize the rest by how we rate them. I could put all our favorite books together. Our least favorites could go on the bottom shelves.
I’m not sure Joy and I always agree on ratings, however. And what would we do with books one of us has read that the other hasn’t? Or that one of us loved but the other didn’t?
I think Joy would find it easiest to put things away if we organized books by color; however, that approach only works well when it comes to putting books away. It’s less useful when it comes to finding them. I can’t be sure I’d remember the color of a cover.
I have the windows open. I’m in bed. Lou and Toulouse are lying on Joy’s side.
I’m reading poetry, listening to the frogs croaking outside.
A moment ago, I wrote a large block of text for Joy, but I erased it.
In it, I planned to tell her about the woman who came to the library today.
I didn’t hit send because I’ve never really told Joy about that woman before.
We have discussed everyone we’ve ever had sex with, and I did include that woman in the number of people I’ve slept with. It’s seven.
1) Paul, who was a guy I regrettably dated briefly in high school.
2) Ben.
3) That woman.
4) A woman named Enid who I met on a dating app.
5) Zuri. We dated for about four months a couple years before I met Joy.
6) Georgia. We dated for about six months, roughly a year before I started dating Joy.
7) Joy.
I’ve never mentioned, however, when I hooked up with that woman.
I never shared the details of the encounter.
I think I’ve implied, in fact, that it happened after I broke up with Ben.
I don’t want Joy to know I’ve cheated on someone before.
I’m worried it’ll upset her. She might think of me differently.
I wish I could think of myself differently. Dr. Jeong said I should work toward forgiving myself. I should have asked her how to do that.
I’ve googled “how to forgive yourself.”
The first result from a reputable source says: “Take responsibility. Face your guilt.”
I scroll down.
“Telling yourself that you are a bad person is not constructive, but feeling guilt can help you avoid repeating mistakes. Make Amends—”
I pause. How do I make amends with someone who isn’t alive?
I scan the rest of the article.
It doesn’t say.