Forgiveness

 

When I woke up from my nap the house was dead quiet. For a while I just stared at the ceiling, until I got bored and pushed myself up. As I looked at myself in the bathroom mirror I considered taking a shower, but the thought of blow drying my hair made me feel tired, so I drifted into the living room.

Someone who was not my mother sat on the couch.

“Hello, Wolff,” Michael said.  He set his book down. “Did you have a nice nap?”

I ignored the tiny tug I felt in the last living corner of my soul and glared at him. His hair was super short again, and he had the kind of healthy glow that made it clear he no longer lived in Wisconsin. Other than hints of tiredness around his eyes I never would have known he was surfing the misery wave. Not that I should have expected any different: he was a Gibson male. His destiny was to be forever gorgeous, no matter what happened in life. “You have a really bad habit of showing up uninvited,” I informed him.

“I’m innocent. Your mom invited me.”

“Why?”  

“She likes me,” Michael said, and leaned forward. He was wearing a v-neck sweater that was woefully inadequate for Milwaukee in January. “How are you, Wolff?” 

“I’m fine.”

I stiffened as his eyes swept over me. “Yeah,” he replied. “I can tell. A gentle breeze could blow you away.”

“Fuck you. So thanks for stopping by, but...”

“Sorry, but I promised your mom I’d hang around until she got back. She went to the grocery store—she’s going to make me fried chicken.”

Of course she was. The worst mistake I ever made was introducing her to him; she hadn’t been the same since. “That’s just great,” I snapped.

“Come on,” Michael returned. “It’ll be fun.” 

“You have a weird idea of fun.”

“Maybe. Age and experience have probably warped me.”

Here I might have made a joke about his love of grocery shopping, or dreadful Star Trek movies. But I hated him, so I said, “I thought I made it pretty obvious I didn’t want to see you.”

“I live in hope.”

“I have nothing to say to you.”

“That’s all right. I’ve got a book.”  He held up something with a French title. “Research,” he explained. “For my manuscript.”

“You should get back to California so you can work on it.”

“Everyone needs a vacation sometimes. And how can I say no to Wisconsin in January?”

“Now I know you’re sick.”

“Too much sunshine is boring.”

“Then move back to Madison and leave me alone.”

The smile faded from his face. “I can’t. It reminds me of you.”

“You lived there for years before you met me.”

“I guess my time with you overshadows everything else.”

I fussed with the drawstring of my running pants, willing myself not to feel what he was trying to make me feel. “What are you really doing here?”

“Wheedling my way back into your life. You never answered my emails, and then you blocked me.”

“Were you that surprised?”

“No. But I did hope, particularly once I started begging.”

“You never begged.”

 “Then you don’t know what begging looks like,” Michael said. “But at least I know you read them.”

“That’s right. I even have a special folder where I keep all of them. It’s called Asshole.”

With a faint air of amusement, he said, “My own folder. I’m flattered.”

“I like to re-read your messages to remind myself why I never want to talk to you again.”

“Are they that bad? I thought they were nice. Maybe even kind of funny.”

“The first one wasn’t.”

“I’d just gotten out of rehab so I wasn’t in a great mood. And I was still upset about the incident with the sleeping pills.”

“But you’re not now.”

“I’ll always wish it hadn’t happened,” he said, “but I’m not angry. Once I stopped feeling sorry for myself, I remembered that you’d been in a world of pain, too.”

I snorted.

“There is one thing I don’t get, though.”

“And what’s that?”

“Do you not want to talk to me because I remind you of what happened with Jamie, because you hate me for the relapse, or both?”

I considered that for a moment, surprised not to have an immediate answer. I guess I’d just been happy to hate him and leave it at that. “Pretty much the relapse,” I decided. “When you sucked down all that vodka you abandoned me in the worst way possible.”

“Yeah, I’m sorry about that. Everything just felt a little too hard.”

“Yes, it did. And you made it worse. There I was, trying to cope, and there you were, snoring on the rug and smelling like a fucking liquor store.” 

“And then I just waltzed off to rehab, leaving you alone in the hospital.”

“Yep. Proving that you, too, were a self-absorbed asshole. But that’s what I get for mixing myself up with an alcoholic. You know that old saw: how do you tell when an addict is lying?”

“His lips are moving,” Michael finished. “You’re right—we aren’t always very reliable. The only explanation I can offer—and it’s not an excuse—is that I felt responsible for absolutely everything.”

“Join the club.”

 “You shouldn’t. You didn’t think you were marrying a murderer. Whereas I had a bad feeling that night, after I left.”  He opened and closed his book, his thoughts clearly a million miles away. “I wish I’d trusted my instincts and warned my mother.”

“I should have just stayed at home. If I had, he wouldn’t have gone on his rampage.”

“You had no reason to expect that he would kill his own parents.”

“Well, then, neither did you.” 

Michael managed a small laugh. “Touché.”

 “Speaking of mothers,” I said, because I no longer wanted to think about that night, “mine is getting a divorce.”

“Yeah, she mentioned that.”

“How did she seem about it when she told you?”

“Calm, I’d say. But let’s face it, he was a dick.”

“Yeah. But he was her dick.”

“Well, there are plenty more where he came from. And maybe this time she’ll find a guy who’s halfway decent.”

“I’m not sure a guy like that exists.”

“I can see why you’d think that,” Michael said, “but there are probably a few of them milling about, and your mom has a lot going for her. I’m willing to bet there’s some nice middle-aged guy out there who’d appreciate her many fine qualities.”

“You do know she’s pushing 60, right?”

“So? Sixty is the new 40, or something like that. And she seems okay in herself, which is the most important thing.”

“If you say so.”

I sank into a chair, suddenly very tired. “You’re leaving after you get your fried chicken.”

“Your mom invited me to stay for a while.”

“You must be staying in a hotel.”

“I thought sleeping on a couch would be more fun. I haven’t done it in years.”

“You’re too tall for that couch.”

Michael surveyed his proposed bed with an unworried air. “Maybe. But there’s always the floor. When you’re a drunk you spend a lot of time sleeping on floors, anyway, so I’m used to it.”

“Given that I hate you, why would you want to stay?”

“You talked about your mom’s cooking so much, how could I say no?”

I rolled my eyes. “You know you can’t save me, right?”

“Maybe I’m here to save myself.”

“Then you came to the wrong place.”

“And yet this is the only place I want to be.”

My eyes suddenly burning, I turned and looked out of the picture window, into the gray afternoon. God, this place was depressing in the winter. “Anyway,” I said, girding myself on the arms of the chair, “I should go back to bed. Feel free to get yourself a cup of coffee if you want one.”

“I’m saving myself for the fried chicken,” Michael reminded me. “And you just got up. You can’t want more sleep already. Besides, I might steal something if you don’t keep an eye on me.”

“My mother has nothing you could possibly want.”

“I don’t know. That collection of ceramic dog figurines is calling me. I’ve got my eye on the German Shepherd.”

“Shut up.”

“I mean it,” he insisted. “I like dogs. I think we should get one.”

We. I sunk into my chair again, not sure whether to admire or deride his determination. As it was easier to do neither, I asked, “When is she coming back?”

“I don’t know. A couple of hours, maybe. She said she had a few errands to run.”

“She could be gone for days and you wouldn’t be able to save me. I don’t know why she’s bothering.”

“Mothers are like that,” Michael said. “The decent ones have a thing about their kids being safe. At least she’s not running away from her parental responsibilities anymore.”

“Too bad it’s about twenty years too late.”

“I don’t know—you two seem like you’re doing all right.”

“If you say so.”

“I do. But you can’t want to live in your mom’s bungalow forever. You’re young, you’ve got money, you’ve got skills. You must want more from your life than this.”

“That isn’t really any of your business anymore.”

“Why not? You made my life your business when you took those pills next to me.”

“I was stupid, and I was wrong. Sorry about that.”

“You shouldn’t be,” Michael answered. “You saved my life. I just wish you’d picked a less fatal way to do it.”

“I wasn’t trying to save your life. I was trying to end mine.”

“Jean seems to think you’re planning on doing that again.”

“I don’t know why.”

“Well, let’s see...you’ve made a will, sold everything you own, and have been acting like someone who doesn’t want to live anymore,” Michael retorted. When I refused to take the bait, he said, “You can’t really blame her for thinking that, can you?”

“Once again, it’s none of your business. You’re not my boyfriend, you’re no longer my brother-in-law, you’re not even my friend. I don’t owe you anything.”

Michael drew himself up. “Except that you left one thing off of that list—you are, and will forever be, my co-survivor. You’re the only other person who really understands that night. Call me selfish, but I don’t want to be the last one standing.”

“That is selfish.”

“Sorry.”

He said this with such an utter lack of apology that suddenly I felt furious. “I was willing to let you die when you wanted to,” I raged at him. “But now that you’ve decided you want to live, I have to live, too? No matter how much I hate it?”

“Yep. That’s pretty much it.”

“Well, that’s just fucking great,” I spat out. “But it doesn’t matter, because I don’t care what you want—I don’t care. I’m very happy for you that you’ve worked everything out, but you need to leave me alone to make my own choices.”

Michael let out a short, bitter laugh. “What makes you think I’ve worked everything out? It’s going to be a while before that beautiful day comes around. But until it does for both of us, I refuse to leave you alone to make your own choices when the choice you want to make is irreversible, not to mention fucking stupid.”

“That’s your opinion. And it’s not as if you can stop me.”

“Don’t be so sure. I’ve got nothing but time. There’s nowhere I need to be, and I’m sure Jean would let me stay here for as long as I want to. Given that you’re too depressed to move out I shouldn’t have any trouble keeping track of you.”

“You wouldn’t,” I protested. When he just arched an eyebrow, as if to say, Wanna bet? I yelped, “Why can’t you just leave me alone?”

“Because my survival is tied up with yours. Like it or not, that’s just the way it is.”

“For christ’s sake, get a girlfriend, will you?”

 “That’s not as easy as you seem to think. I mean, the unemployed alcoholic thing is bad enough. But even if someone could get past that, finding out that all the men in my family are serial philanderers, at least two are wife abusers, and my brother was a murderer would probably nip any potential romance in the bud. A family history like that would make most women understandably nervous.”

“So you have been trying, then,” I accused, but Michael answered, “No, actually, I just think it’s a safe assumption. In fact, the way I see it you and I don’t really have any choice but to end up together. You’re pretty much the only woman out there who will take me as I am, because you know that despite my many faults I would never hurt you.”

“Do I? You are a male Gibson, after all.”

“If you’re nervous you can always keep me under constant surveillance.”

“You’d enjoy that too much,” I snapped, prompting him to laugh. “You’re right,” he said, “I would. Which brings me to my next point: when you don’t hate me, we get along great. The only problem is, you want to die, so I need to make sure you don’t. Otherwise all of my plans will go to shit.”

“Your plans,” I repeated. “And what would those be, or don’t I want to know?”

“Well, in a nutshell, you stop hating me, move out to California, we get married, have kids, get old together...that sort of thing.”

“You’re joking!”

“Nope. I still love you, Wolff. I always will. What Jamie did can’t change that.”

God, I hated myself, for how much I had wanted to hear that. Self-loathing almost oozing out of my pores, I told him, “My plan was to never see anyone named Gibson ever again.”

“I don’t mind taking your last name. I’m not that attached to mine.”

“You wouldn’t!”

“I most certainly would. Or we could choose a new one. I was also toying with the idea of taking my mom’s last name, Santiago—Tim would have a coronary. It would be worth it for that reason alone.”

His grin caused me to lose my train of thought. When I remembered it again, I wondered how differently things might have turned out if Edward hadn’t tried to mold his beautiful Hispanic, Catholic wife into a WASP suburban queen. But that never could have happened. Like Jamie, Edward equated control with love. “Michael Santiago has a certain ring to it,” I allowed myself to say.

“I thought so too. Angie Santiago’s not bad, either.”

Scowling again, I replied, “But you’re a bad bet.”

“And yet a committed bad bet. And maybe not as bad of a bet as you think.”

“I’ve seen plenty of proof. Anyway, you’re too old to have kids.”

Affronted, he answered, “I am not. I’m just hitting my prime.”

To be fair I had to agree—which was pretty annoying, really. “Even if that were true,” I said, “I can’t just leave my mom. She’d be all alone.”

“She’d be the first one to put you on a plane. For some reason she loves me. I suggested she move out to California, too, but she wasn’t really into the idea. Although she did promise she’d visit.”

“You’ve talked about it with her that much?”

“I wanted to give her a chance to voice any concern or objections. It only seemed fair.”

“Right,” I scoffed. “She probably just wants to get rid of me.”

“Not at all. She’s happy to have you back in her life. She just wants what’s best for you. But,” Michael went on, now wearing the expression of a martyr, “if you’d rather stay here, I’m sure I can find a way to cope with winter again-”

“I don’t want to stay here,” I broke in. “I just don’t know where else to go. And I can’t help but think you’re only doing this because you feel guilty.”

“Of course I feel guilty. But that has nothing to do with how much I fucking miss you.”

“Why? How can you miss me?”

“Easy. I feel better around you—more like myself. Or at least the version of myself I like best.  Does that make sense?”

“No. You were with me when you relapsed, remember?”

“But in a weird way it was what I needed,” Michael said. “I still had the mentality of an angry 14-year-old. You forced me to grow up. Besides, you’re smokin’ hot, even when you’ve been living like you want to die. And I just really like you. I’m sick of having conversations with you in my head—I want to have them with you in real life again.”

“But I’ll always remind you of what happened. Don’t you want to start over?”

“You know as well as I do that there is no starting over. There’s just carrying on.”

“That’s the problem—I don’t know how to.”

“I don’t either. I just think it has to be easier if we do it together.”

“We tried,” I reminded him, my voice breaking, “and we failed.”

“We didn’t fail—we just needed to be apart for a little while to figure some things out. Unfortunately, the separation went on a lot longer than I wanted it to. But now it’s time to move on to the part where you take me back and we never split up again, because I can’t do this separation thing anymore. I’d rather have you around and punishing me, than have you in another state blocking my emails.”

“I don’t want to punish you. That was never what I meant to do.”

I saw a flash of torment in Michael’s eyes—and in that moment something fierce and uncontrollable started banging against the walls of the room where I’d locked it away to die. I tried to hate Michael for waking it, but I couldn’t. It simply wasn’t possible anymore.   

“What then,” he asked, “were you trying to do?”

“I don’t know,” I said helplessly. “I guess survive.”

“It will be more fun with me.”

The memory of our grocery trips flashed in my mind. How he loved Woodman’s, Madison’s enormous grocery store with aisle after aisle of strange and exotic food. Once we were there for two hours. And I’d been laughing almost the entire time.

“Maybe,” I answered.

If I’d thought he was beautiful before, it was nothing compared to how he appeared now.

“It will be,” he assured me. “I have Nintendo. We can play Mario Kart—you’ll love it!”

Mario Kart. Against my will I imagined the two of us, sitting on the couch, talking smack to each other as our cartoon characters zoomed around a race course. It was the us I’d always wanted to be.

Watching him out of the corner of my eye, I admitted, “I guess your relapse was also an act of despair and desperation.”

“Yeah, it was. That doesn’t make it okay, and I should have gotten the help I needed before doing something so fucking idiotic, but some of us need to learn our lesson more than once.”

“Do you think you have now? Learned your lesson, I mean?”

“I hope so. I’ll always have the mentality of a drunk, but finding you like that was a warning I’ll never forget.”

“You should probably hate me for it.”

“That would be incredibly unfair, considering the state you found me in. And you didn’t really know how to ask for help, either. Hopefully we’re both a little smarter now.”

Tears stung my eyes. I couldn’t disguise the crack in my voice, as I said, “I don’t know. I still feel pretty fucking lost.”

 “Don’t worry, Wolff. I’ll find you.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“Because I’m wandering the same wilderness. And I won’t give up until I do.”

“You promise?”

“I promise. After all, you’ve left me about a million times, and yet here I am.”

“That just makes you stupid.”

“The least of my crimes,” Michael answered, and I couldn’t help but laugh. “Which reminds me,” he said. “Do you still have the ring?”

I nodded.

“Good.”

I gave him a sideways look. “Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

“Too late. I’m already there.”

His there, where we were married and playing video games in between nervous breakdowns. It sounded better than what I had going now. But would it stay better for the next fifty years? That was what I could never figure out. When was it okay to trust?

“Well this has been fun,” I said, “but I need to take a shower.”

As I stood up I watched his expression transform into a mask of worry.

“It’s okay,” I told him. “There aren’t any knives or pills in the bathroom. If it makes you feel better I won’t lock the door, not that that’s an invitation to come barging in.”

Relaxing again, Michael replied, “I won’t. I’ll just be here with my book if you need me.”

“Okay. And leave the doggy figurines alone.”

“Shucks,” he returned.

With a chuckle I headed to the bathroom.