15. Present
Chapter fifteen
Present
Istart spending so much time at Matt’s that I have to force myself to come home every so often to do mundane tasks, like laundry.
Being home shifts everything; what once felt comfortable now feels weird to me.
I’m like a stranger in my own space. Still, as Jess says, it’s never a good idea to get lost in a guy.
You always have to maintain your own identity.
I mean, never mind the fact that we’re not together.
One Sunday afternoon, I’m making a meatloaf to bring over to Matt and Brett’s for dinner while a load of wash is in the dryer when my cell phone rings. Wiping my hands on a dish towel, I swipe at the screen with my pinky, answering it.
“Hello?”
“Hello, my niecey.”
“Ah, why hello, my auntie.” I smile at the familiar greeting.
“How are you doing?”
“I’m good. Just making a meatloaf.”
“Oh, that sounds nice. It’s a good day for a hot meal like that. It snowed three inches here just a little while ago.”
“Really? No snow here. Just windy out. So, what’s going on by you?”
“Nothing much. Just figured I’d give you a call to check in since it’s been a few weeks since I last spoke to you.”
“Has it?” I try to remember. “I guess, yeah.”
“How’s everything?”
“Good. Can’t complain. Actually, there’s been an interesting development in my life.”
“Oh?”
“Do you remember Matt Thompson?”
“Of course. He was the young man from your sleepaway camp, right?”
I smile. “Yes. Well, it’s quite the story. I found out not too long ago that he recently suffered a stroke.”
“Oh, Taylor. I’m so sorry to hear that. He’s so young.”
“Yeah, it’s sad. He has a daughter, too. She’s six years old. Brett. She’s adorable.”
“You’ve met her?”
“Well, so, yeah, that’s the story. I found out about it on social media, and I really didn’t know what to do. His girlfriend was heading out of town for an extended time, and she set up a website to raise money for the family while he’s unable to work.”
“He couldn’t go on disability?”
Hmm. I never thought about that. “I don’t know the particulars. But I made a donation, and I went to visit him to see if there was anything I could do to help.”
“You’re a good girl. And he was always a good friend.”
Aunt Lucy’s responses remind me of the natural censorship I experienced around her as a child.
It was a technique I learned from my mom, really.
Once, when I was about eight years old, Mom cut her foot on a broken bottle that had been thrown at the wall during a heated argument with my father.
When Lucy asked Mom how she hurt herself, Mom lied and said she dropped a jar of marinara sauce on the kitchen floor.
Puzzled, I almost corrected my mother, but she winked at me, and the message was sent. Family matters stay quiet.
Later, in private, I asked her why she lied to Aunt Lucy.
“I’m sorry you saw that.”
“But why did you do it? Lying is wrong.”
“That’s right, sweetheart. Lying is wrong, and I want you to remember that. But Auntie doesn’t need to know that Daddy sometimes does things like that.”
“But he threw the bottle at you. It cut your foot. Wouldn’t she care that you got hurt?”
“Of course she would care. But it might make her sad to think that he did that. And I appreciate Auntie and everything she does for our family, so I don’t want to upset her. Does that make sense, love?”
“I guess so.”
But it didn’t. It only confused me more.
It created shame and secrecy and made me wonder when to tell the truth versus when to lie in service of someone else’s feelings.
I learned how to lie to guidance counselors, concerned neighbors, and even a police officer, once.
It wasn’t something I did often anymore, but the gut instinct always resurfaced whenever I spoke to my aunt.
Now, on the telephone, I say, “So, I’ve been to see him a few times, mostly to help out with his daughter.”
“That’s nice of you,” Aunt Lucy affirms. “Where is his girlfriend?”
“Oh, she’s away on business. She’ll be back soon.”
“I never understood why the two of you didn’t work out.”
Of course you didn’t. I never told you. “Just not meant to be, I guess. But I still care for him as a friend. In fact, the meatloaf I’m making is for Matt and his daughter.”
“Well, that’s sweet.”
“How about you? Anything new and exciting going on?”
Here, I zone out as my aunt launches into a discussion about her tax returns, a trip she’s planning to go on with a group of friends from church, and the details of a heel spur that’s been causing her to spend many hours at the podiatrist. Aunt Lucy never married, so because she lives alone, her phone calls with me and a handful of friends are really the only major opportunity she has to talk to people.
I politely offer appropriate commentary for a few more minutes until I grow tired of the conversation.
I set the timer on the microwave for 30 seconds.
When it beeps, the shrill sound interrupts Aunt Lucy’s thoughts on whether or not one should get a flu shot.
“What’s that?” she asks.
“Oh! My meatloaf’s all done. I better get going so it doesn’t burn.”
“Okay, dear. Enjoy your evening. I’ll talk to you soon.”
“Sounds good. Love you.”
“Love you too.”
Hanging up the phone, I let out a sigh. I love that my aunt cares enough to check in, but the phone calls are always just surface chats, and I yearn for more than that—not necessarily with my aunt, but with a grown-up, someone impartial who might be able to help me figure out what on earth I’m doing in this situation with Matt.
It was so nice to see Diana the other day. It reminded me of my mom.
“The trick is,” Mom had said when she was explaining to me how and when lying was acceptable, “to keep one person around who always knows the whole truth. You know what?”
“What?”
“You’re my person.”
I remember feeling honored. “You’re my person, too, Mommy,” I replied.
My person now is Jess.
I wish it was Matt.
But then we wouldn’t be here.