Chapter Fourteen #2
“We were at a library conference,” I say.
“Joy’s a bookbinder. She had a booth. She had a copy of The Velveteen Rabbit on her table.
I told her that was my favorite book when I was a kid.
She said it was hers too. She’d restored this old edition she found in a secondhand shop.
She used velvet and foil stamping for the cover.
She gave me her business card and wrote her cell phone number on the back.
I still have it in my wallet, actually. The conference was out of town, but we chatted a bit at her booth and learned we both lived in the same city.
She asked me if I wanted to have dinner with her, so we went to a Mexican rest-aurant. ”
“And how long have you two been together?” she asks.
“About seven years,” I say. “She gave me that Velveteen Rabbit book, actually, on our first anniversary.”
Dr. Jeong says, “That’s a thoughtful gift.”
I nod.
Before I broke up with Ben, I felt like a lab monkey living in a cage who spent her days being tested on. When we broke up, it was like I’d been released back into my natural tropical forest habitat, and when I found Joy, it felt like I finally met another chimpanzee.
“Have you found your relationship with Joy has been impacted by the challenges and grief you’ve recently faced about Ben?”
The longer we were together, the less time we spent drumming, laughing, and swinging from branches. We spent more time quietly picking through each other’s fur and nesting. The static excitement of being with someone I liked was replaced by this sort of calm, contented, easy feeling.
Lately I’ve felt less calm, though. I feel sort of shaken, vulnerable, and nervous. I’ve been reminded of the lab, and the mistakes I made there.
I nod. “Yes. I think it has.”
“Can you expand on that for me?”
I wish I were a chimpanzee who was born in the forest. I wish I’d never spent any time in a lab. I wish I’d never had a handler who was kind to me, or mean to me, or who I bit. I wish I were born where I was supposed to be.
“I don’t feel totally like myself lately. I feel anxious, and sort of far away. I find myself thinking about Ben a lot. I space out. I’m distracted by it. I’ve spent a lot of time ruminating about our relationship. I feel this strange sort of guilty grief.”
She says, “I understand.”
I don’t know if this therapy is helping. I’m worried I’m going to feel like this forever.
“Am I a bad patient?” I ask.
She looks at me. “No. Why do you ask that?”
“I just feel like I’m bad at this. I want you to think I’m getting better.”
“You want me to think you’re getting better?”
I look down at my nail beds. “Yes.”
“You know, I’d rather you didn’t center my thoughts in relation to your treatment here. Why do you think you might be doing that?”
I stare at a hangnail. “I don’t know. Because I have people-pleasing tendencies?”
She hums. “You do, yes. But you also demonstrate a desire to pursue honesty over performance. You set boundaries. You express your feelings. You prioritize yourself, and your own approval, over others. You stand up for yourself. I care much more about your own thoughts, about your progress, but for your awareness, I do think you’re getting better. Don’t you?”
I look over at her hands. Her nails are painted mauve, and she’s wearing a wedding ring. I wonder who she’s married to.
I say, “I don’t know. I still feel terrible about Ben. Is there something more I can do to get over this?”
She writes something down. “It’s natural to want to get better, and I understand why you feel that way. This doesn’t have a quick fix, though, and it might not be something you get over. What we’re doing here is finding ways for you to cope and move forward.”
I would like a better answer than that. I want to be given something I can do.
“What do you think about writing a letter to Ben?” she says, as if she were reading my mind. “I think that could help you. It could give you an outlet for some of your complicated feelings. It might offer an opportunity to honor your memories and say goodbye.”
I say, “Okay. I’ll try anything.”
Joy is talking to her mom on speakerphone. I have my head in her lap. I’m reading poetry. She has one hand in my hair.
Tammy is going to visit Sophie in a few days now that Joy has come home. She lives a few hours away from Sophie, so she hasn’t met January in person yet. She and Joy decided to space out their visits so Sophie has the most support at all times.
“I was just on the phone with Sophie,” Tammy says. “She seems like she’s doing so much better since your visit.”
Joy says, “I think she is doing better, yeah, but I do worry she might have postpartum. Especially considering her genes and how badly you were affected by it.”
Tammy is quiet for a moment.
“You know,” she says, “postpartum is strange. It’s hard to say what parts of it are hereditary, or even chemical.
For me, I don’t know how to differentiate between what was postpartum, and what was my own personal crisis.
I was definitely affected by how my hormones shifted through pregnancy and childbirth, but there was more to it.
I was only twenty-three years old when I had Sophie, and I was even younger when I had you.
After Sophie was born, I had this strange feeling.
It was like I’d just been transported into my body.
I felt suddenly aware of the fact that I was married, and a mom.
I’m not sure that’s hereditary or something we need to worry about when it comes to Sophie’s genes. ”
I look up at Joy. She and I have talked about how I felt that way when I left Ben.
Joy had a similar experience too. She dropped out of college and took a year off when it happened to her.
I think there’s this moment for a lot of people as we age when we sort of wake up.
It might especially happen to those of us raised as girls.
So much of our lives are mapped out for us.
It’s assumed by everyone around us, even by ourselves, that we’ll take a socially prescribed path.
“I was reading The Bell Jar when I was pregnant with Sophie,” Tammy says.
“And I got to the part about the fig tree. You know, where Esther is sitting in the crotch of a fig tree, trying to decide which fig to pick. Each fig represents a different path she could take in her life. Be a wife. Travel the world. Be a mother. Be a poet. She can’t pick them all, and they start falling.
I felt really affected by that. I was too young when I got married, and I didn’t have the time to consider what life I’d pick for myself.
I just took the life served to me. I really think Sophie is suited to be a mother.
She might look back at the life she didn’t pick, but I don’t think she’ll truly regret having January.
I don’t regret having you girls, either.
I hope you know that. I’d always pick to have you.
But I do think it’s important for everyone to reflect on their life and the path they choose.
To make choices for themselves—rather than forge ahead however the world pushes them to go.
I think I left that year because I realized I hadn’t chosen my own life.
Though I really would choose to have you girls again, honey. I promise I don’t regret—”
“Don’t worry. I understand, Mom,” Joy says.
Tammy often laments about the year she left and how regretful she is about it. She’s assured Joy and Sophie numerous times that she regrets leaving, that she loves them and is grateful they’ve forgiven her.
“I wouldn’t have married your father, though,” she adds.
Joy laughs.
Lou is purring in my lap. I’m sitting on the floor of our home library, struggling to write my letter to Ben. So far, I’ve only managed to write, “Dear Ben.”
The windows are open, our curtains are swaying, and the room is tidy. After Joy organized our books, I vacuumed, Windexed, and wiped down all the surfaces. All our throw blankets are folded. The plants are watered. It smells crisp and citrusy.
I shift to stretch my legs. As I do, my eyes catch something under our couch. A dusty ball of cat hair. Gross. I must have missed it while I was vacuuming. I squint at it, wondering how long it’s been there. I must have missed it a few times.
I tilt my head back and look at the shelves. I wonder if any of our books outline how to write a letter to a dead ex-boyfriend. I doubt it. Unfortunately, there aren’t guidebooks for everything.
My eyes continue to wander through our shelves until I spot a book placed in the wrong section. I stand up to put it where it belongs, but as I pull it off the shelf, I hesitate. I decide to flip through it instead.
I read a poem about letting go of judgment, stepping outside rigid categories, and the limits of language.
I sit with the book on the floor. I feel a sort of cosmic magic finding me in this poem. I read it again. While I run my hand over it, I think about how we organize things to make them easier to find—but I found this book because it was in the wrong place.
I think sometimes I get lost following steps. I think too rigidly and lose sight of the objective. It doesn’t matter if our library is organized perfectly. What’s the point of organizing it? It’s to find things, to make this room neat.
I look at the words, “Dear Ben,” in my notebook.
The point of writing this letter is to help me get closure. It doesn’t have to be perfect.
I look up and see Declan Turner exiting the grocery store with a woman, a teenaged girl, and a little boy. They must be his family. I watch him push their cart through the parking lot. His son is riding on it. His wife is reviewing their receipt, and his daughter is straggling behind.
I unbuckle my seat belt. I want to ask him about the emails. It’s probably not the best time since he’s with his family, but why should I care about that? He wouldn’t care to consider that for me.
I step out of my car and walk toward them.
“Declan!” I shout as I get closer.
He and his wife turn to look at me. It takes him a moment to register who I am. His face drops when he does. He says, “I’m with my family right now—”
“This will only take a minute,” I say. “I just want to understand something. Humor me, please.”
His wife looks concerned. His children are looking from his face to mine.
Rather than wait for him to reply, I say, “I wanted to ask you about those emails you sent. I think I understand what motivated you to send me those emails from that EaglesNest account. You wanted to blackmail me because you see me as a dangerous person in our community. Fine. But I don’t understand what you were doing with the bird questions.
Were you trying to get the inside scoop about how we handle reference questions, or something?
What’s your angle? What are you planning? ”
He makes a face. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Please. I’m not trying to pick a fight. I really just want to know the answer. I’m a librarian. I like to get to the bottom of things. I don’t understand why you wrote to the library with two different email addresses.”
“I didn’t write to the library with two email addresses. I did…” he trails off.
“What?” I ask.
He turns to his wife and children. “Go to the car, guys. I’ll meet you there in a minute.”
His wife squints at me over her shoulder while she directs their children to the car.
After they’ve walked out of earshot, Declan says, “I did send the emails from the EaglesNest account. And I, uh, believe I owe you an apology. I shouldn’t have sent those photos. I’m sorry.”
I look into his eyes. I’m surprised at his apology.
He adds quickly, “I’m not sorry for standing up for my beliefs, but I think I may have crossed a line with the photos. So, I’m sorry.”
I narrow my eyes with trepidation. “Thank you. I appreciate the apology, and the honesty. But you also sent the bird questions, right? I know you did. We tracked your IP address.”
He squints. “What are you talking about? What bird questions?”
“Come on, let’s stay honest. I really want to know. I just want to understand why—”
“I am being honest. I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He’s looking right into my eyes.
“Really?” I ask.
“My hand to God,” he says, before turning toward his family. They are paused at a distance from us, watching.
I stay where I am as he rejoins them, and they all walk the rest of the way to their car. I exhale. I guess confronting him with his wife and kids was a poor choice. I just wanted to understand. I hate not understanding something, wondering why, with no route to an answer.
I watch them trek forward, and just as I begin to accept that I don’t get to know why he sent those emails, his daughter looks back at me.
“Hurry up, Sammy,” he says to her.