Chapter Three
“Well, maybe this whole thing was a fucking mistake!” I shout, slamming my open palm on the butcher block in our tiny galley kitchen.
“Jocelyn, can you please look at me? You’re not even looking at me!”
I turn, eyebrows up, arms crossed, tongue pressed between my top and bottom teeth. I light a cigarette. I don’t usually smoke, or I didn’t used to, but lately I have been. I’m blaming it on Europe, but the truth is it’s probably because I’m miserable inside and it’s the only thing that makes me feel like I have control. Even though it makes me feel awful. What I started to feel a month ago, the insidious grieving of my lost career, has turned into rage since the phone call from Joel a week ago. I focus it all on Jordan all the time. And knowing that this is what I’m doing is not enough, apparently, to stop me.
Jordan and I have been fighting for a week straight. He tried to get me to go to my mom, and I didn’t want to go. Then, last night, we got the call that my mother had died.
It was expected. She was on life support and had no signs of improvement in the last few days. I didn’t really feel anything when I got the news, and Jordan trying to care for me and tell me to feel my feelings made me mad. Like he was trying to get me to feel something I don’t feel.
My mom was a bitch. Most of my life. Why would I be upset?
We keep making up and then something small will set me off again, and we start fighting. We’ll wake up in the morning and everything will be fine, but then he’ll ask me to close the window because I’m letting all the hot air out, and I’ll explode. We’re sometimes meanest to those we love most, taking advantage that the love will always be there. All the anger I feel toward my mom I have turned toward him.
“I’m looking at you,” I say. “Better?”
He looks so hurt. “Baby, you’ve been drinking tonight, and you’re going through a lot right now. I get that. But please don’t say this whole thing was a mistake.”
“I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing here! I was a fucking ballerina . Do you have any idea how hard that is?”
“Yes, I—”
“No, no, seriously, do you have a clue? Since I was seven years old I spent every single day trying to force my body to do things it didn’t want to do. You grew up driving to the beach for the weekend or whatever, eating ice cream and pizza.”
I hate myself. I’m weaponizing a memory shared with me, minimizing it and using it as an example of how provincial his life has been compared to mine. What’s worse is that I know that memory is one of the last times he spent with his father before he divorced his mom.
“I didn’t grow up with that shit,” I say, doubling down. “I was in the studio killing myself for ballet. And then—and then , Jordan? I actually got the career that it was all for. I got it. I was living my dream. And then you come along and now it’s all just…” I ash the cigarette onto the ground. “Fucking dust.”
“I didn’t ask you to do that. Can we—”
“You’re a fucking idiot.”
A small smile plays at the corner of his lips. He used to be able to smile like that and any anger I had would just evaporate.
Not tonight.
“What are you fucking smiling at?” I seethe.
“It’s just…you’re clearly not mad at me. This isn’t about me or ballet.”
“Oh, fuck you.”
I turn, my back to him again. I bite the filter of the cigarette and work on getting the bottle of wine open.
“Jocelyn, please don’t say fuck you to me. Don’t stomp around here calling me an idiot and saying fuck you . I get it, you’re mad. You’re upset. You just found out—”
“I can say whatever I want,” I say, my syllables muddy from the object in my mouth. His calm, sweet way of treating me makes me want to scream at him more. I want him to stop being so nice so I have something to yell at.
“Yeah, but could you not?” he implores.
“You’re treating me like I’m a fucking child. Or like I’m sick or dying or—ugh!” I struggle with the bottle and finally it pops open. “Every time I look at you, you’re staring at me, you watch me like I’m a—a—fuck, I don’t know, it’s like you’re waiting for me to explode. I feel like you want me to, you want me to break so you can clean me up.”
He’s not even acting like I’m a child. I’m acting like a child, and I’m afraid he knows it. I know he knows it.
I march out of the kitchen and into the living room.
There’s a light blue velvet sofa and a coffee table full of magazines and books we’re both halfway through. We used to light candles and pour wine, entangle our legs, and read together.
Massive canvases lean against every wall. And above the old, gorgeous mantel, there is a painting of me. Not that you’d know it if Jordan didn’t tell you, since his style is abstract.
It’s all done in tones of white, some with a tint of blue, some with a tint of red, some purple. He said the lines were gestural and that this painting is what it looks like to him when I dance. There’s an elegance and grace to it.
I love it. Or I did. Now I hate everything.
He stands across the room, leaning against the doorframe, still halfway between the kitchen and the living room.
“What?” I ask.
“This is just getting to be too much.” His lips form a tight line.
I pause, stunned. It feels like a searing hot poker going through my chest.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I say, instead of finding contrition.
“It’s like this every night lately.”
“It doesn’t have to be,” I say, like he’s the crazy one. “You’re the one who can’t stop doing…” I gesture at him. “Whatever this is.”
“Honey, your mom died. You think that has nothing to do with all this? That I’m suddenly some monster making your life harder, instead of the fact that maybe you’re just not okay right now and things are harder because of it? Your mom died. It’s hard.”
I say nothing for a moment, unwilling to burst into tears, insistent upon staying on my angry, seething high horse. Then I say, “Yeah? I mean, I know that?”
He’s patient. “I think you might be feeling some guilt for not going to the hospital. I think it’s time to acknowledge what happened and start trying to address the pain instead of pretending—”
“What the fuck, Jordan. I hated my mom,” I say, angrily. “Or do you not remember that because you don’t listen?”
It’s actually impressive what a raging bitch I’m being. Some part of me inside is still sane and normal, hearing myself like I’m someone else. I would dump me, I mean, Jesus.
Even in my state, I can hear how ungodly nasty I’m being.
“Even if you hated her, it doesn’t mean it’s not painful. There are still feelings there, baby.”
“Don’t fucking baby me.”
“I think maybe we should find a therapist to help you work through—”
“Oh my god , Jordan. Sometimes it’s not as simple as just, oh, someone died, now everyone’s sad about it. You don’t even know what things used to be like. It was awful. Horrible. She was a villain. And now she’s dead and I never—”
I almost say, And I never got to tell her how angry I am at her , but I know it’ll prove his point, so I stop.
“Jocelyn.”
“And this isn’t about her, though I know that’s an awful convenient thing for you to blame all this on,” I insist, suddenly finding a way to redirect. “It’s about the fact that suddenly I have no life! No independence! All I do is walk around with you as your arm candy. Hanging with your friends. Living your life.”
“That’s not fair, Jocelyn. I didn’t make you quit ballet. I said we could make the long-distance thing work for a bit until I could come to you. I never once said you needed to uproot for me. You wanted to do that. I’ve also been encouraging you to reach out to the ballet companies here. You can have your own life. I love having you around, and I also love when you do your own thing. There’s no crisis here.” His voice remains calm and steady. There’s no way he can win with me right now, because even this makes me furious.
“Whatever,” I snap.
I don’t even recognize myself right now. I’m completely shut down. Any love or affection I have for Jordan has vanished. Or, if it’s still there, it’s hiding. The kinder he is, the more annoyed I feel by him. He’s giving me unconditional love. The kind people usually get from their parents growing up. The kind people talk about getting in their relationships. When people really love you, they’re with you during the hard times. You’re supposed to be able to yell and scream at them and have a fit and be wrong. You’re supposed to know that they love you no matter what. It’s so far from what I grew up with in my own home that it’s almost laughable.
If I wanted to be loved, I had to go to my grandmother’s house. Mimi is still alive, but she’s not present. Her dementia got worse about a year ago, around when I got together with Jordan. My mom had her in a memory care facility. I don’t even talk to her anymore, which makes me feel even worse and guiltier.
The problem is, when I do FaceTime her, there’s always an aide there. I understand why, but it makes me feel chaperoned and I have trouble being myself. I feel embarrassed in front of the person monitoring. Afraid to ask Mimi if she remembers me or remembers her own life.
No wonder I’m such a mess. My life has crumbled.
On top of everything, I know that Jordan’s right. I know he’s right even in my rage. I know I gave it all up for him, that he didn’t ask me to. He’s not even taking all the credit he deserves. When I said I was quitting, he told me he’d sooner give up the opportunity in London than let me leave the NAB. So, I did it behind his back and didn’t give him a chance to stop me.
It was supposed to be spontaneous. It was supposed to be romantic. Now it just seems like self-sabotage.
“Jocelyn, can we work on this? Together? Do you think we can do this? I want to. If you want me, I’m not going anywhere. But ever since your mom’s accident, you have torn me and us apart every single night. And now that she’s passed away I don’t think it’s going to get better.”
“Now who’s being dramatic?” I roll my eyes.
He’s right. Again.
“Jocelyn. Please.”
I bite the tip of my tongue hard. My mind is starting to tangle with the fact that his words are threatening to access the things inside that I’m not yet ready to access. It’s like he’s jimmied the lock open and I know that if the door opens, all hell will spill out. I’m not ready to deal, so I stuff the lock to stop him.
I say the words that will crush him.
“Jordan, I’m done.”
I’m cool as a poisonous apple. No warmth in my tone. No regret in my eyes. No uncertainty in my words.
The blood rushes out of his face.
“Don’t say that. Don’t say that unless you mean it. We swore we would never play games, Jocelyn. If you’re saying this, I believe you.”
My back is stiff and my glass nearly empty already. “Jordan, just go to bed. I’ll be gone by the morning.”
I can see I have hurt him. He looks like I just told him I’d murdered his dog and I’d done it for fun.
He gives a small shake of the head and comes over to me. He kisses me on top of the head. “Please come to bed, Jocelyn. If you go, I know you mean it. I don’t want that. But I can’t fight for us every day and every night.”
“Go!” I scream it with such unexpected vigor that I see it shock him even more than it shocks me. “Get the fuck away from me.”
I hate myself. I can’t stop. I feel possessed.
“I’ll give you some space. Jocelyn, please don’t go. I’ll be right in there. You don’t need to apologize or anything, just come in when you’re ready.”
And then he leaves. He goes to our room. He doesn’t fight for me any further.
All I really want is for him to get angry with me. To yell, too. To hold me and not let go until I can cry. Cry for my mother. I hated her, yes, but she is—was—still my mother and I abandoned her. I wanted her to know how it felt to be abandoned. I just didn’t anticipate she wouldn’t recover.
I know what it would feel like to crawl in there beside him. Into our linen sheets beneath our fluffy comforter. The twinkle lights he let me wrap around the brass headboard would glow behind us. If I wanted to apologize, he would hear it. If I curled up against him and told him I loved him and I was sorry, he would hear it. I could promise to get help, to talk to someone. I could even tell him he was right.
But instead, I get out my phone and type out a text.
Can I stay over?