I Like You Just Fine When You're Not Around (4 page)

These memories did nothing for Tig now other than make her feel a profound sense of loss. She put her head in her hand. Thatcher moved again to Tig's side. “C'mere girl,” Tig said, stroking the dog around the soft folds of her neck. “I don't know what just happened.” As the dog clambered up onto the couch beside her, Tig sighed and said, “We got a runner, girl, and runners run. That's what they do.”

Tig lay with Thatcher on the couch as the sunlight faded, her cell phone still in her hand. The sun moved, time passed, and Tig snuggled closer to her best friend as the temperature dipped in the room and the shadows circled. She heard the sound of someone approaching the front door, which she noticed only now was still open, and she and the dog scrambled to a sitting position. “Pete?”

“Hey, Dr. M, it's me.” The high-pitched voice of her former assistant, Macie, warbled through the screen. She carried the cardboard box Tig had packed earlier. “You were so ready to leave us behind and party on with your new life, you left this on the front desk. I thought I'd just drop it by.” Macie opened the door with her free hand, and poked her head into the foyer. Tig braced herself against Margaret Thatcher and stood. “You look kind of disorganized, Doc.”

“I'm not going to Hawaii, and I think Pete left me.”

“What?”

“He left. I'm not going.” Tig brushed her hands together. “So there you have it.” She took the box from Macie and dropped it on a dying philodendron on the coffee table.

Macie pulled the box off the struggling plant and followed Tig into the kitchen. “What the heck happened?”

“I'm not sure, but whatever it was, it happened really fast.” Tig looked around at nothing. “I'm giving myself permission to act very non-counselor-like for the next twenty-four hours. Right now, I'm going to send him a text.” Tig said
text
like she meant
bomb
. “I'll write, ‘Your loss bucko.' I'll put an exclamation point on it.” Tig pressed the buttons on her phone, saying, “Why does it keep changing ‘bucko' to ‘cuckoo'? Wait, maybe I'll leave it ‘cuckoo.'”

“That'll show him,” Macie said.

Tig glanced at Macie. “What, not strong enough? How about, ‘Don't call me when you're lonely, pal'? Can you italicize text?” She dropped her hands and said, “Wait, what if I want him to call me when he's lonely?” Macie pulled a piece of lint off Tig's shoulder as Tig said, “No, I don't! I know. I'm going to send him the very succinct and always appropriate, ‘You suck,' no exclamation point needed.”

“Rule number one of texting, Dr. M: never text when drunk or angry.” Macie eased the phone from Tig's grasp, then guided her over to the kitchen table.

“Right. That's very wise, Macie. Okay, then.”

“Doctor M, let's get you a glass of water. Then you can fill me in.”

Tig eased herself onto the solid wooden chair next to her beloved farm table. She and Pete had bought the table together at an estate sale. She closed her eyes, remembering. They'd driven back from the sale and were eating at No Hablo Inglés, their favorite Mexican restaurant, where red, green, and white crêpe paper piñatas mocked their serious conversation. After the bike accident that had left a dramatic scar on his head, Pete also lost his sense of smell and could only taste hot, spicy foods. She'd said, “You have to wash your running clothes more, honey. You smell terrible.”

“It's my ‘go green' solution to global warming.”

“I think even Al Gore would agree that washing a T-shirt occasionally is not an excessive use of resources. The inconvenient truth here, sweetie, is that you stink like chicken soup and mildew. Why not stop buying new running shoes made by small children in Malaysia, if you really want to help the universe?”

“You're such an eco-bully, Tig. Are you coming to Hawaii with me?”

No hablo happy
, she'd thought. The constant push, push, push that went with Pete's enthusiasm and decision making made her feel anxious, not loved. She hadn't made her decision and she didn't like being pressured. The slightly soapy rim of the amber-colored water glass, the nubby texture of the lightweight plastic against her fingers, felt stingy and cheap. “It's not what I want or don't want,” she'd said. “I have responsibilities, Pete.”

“People do what they want to do. You and I both know that.”

Pete's eager persistence had won her over. He was a charismatic man and she loved him. Her counselor brain wasn't much of a match for those two facts. Quieting her noisy memories, she focused on Pete's partner resume. The top criteria were all represented: Funny. Check. Smart. Check. Kind. Integrity. Sexy. Check. Check. Check. The second tier was also well represented: Fit. Employed. Kid Friendly. And finally, the tier that should not be named, the tier that was important but shallow and only whispered about with best friends: Nice lips, toenails clipped, and adequate penis size; not huge, not miniscule, just adequate.

On paper, Pete looked perfect and he felt pretty perfect, too. So she had committed to at least six months in Hawaii, thinking,
Finally, an uncomplicated, nice, normal guy
. Finally, someone who seemed to fit her. And so what if he was more impulsive than she. So what if he exercised like he was running from a swarm of locusts. So what if there were times when she relished the quiet of his long runs and multi-day bike rides. So what.

The real truth was that she needed a break. She'd agreed to accompany him to Hawaii in a wild moment of anger at her sister, Wendy, an inability to continue to come up with excuses for Pete, and pure exhaustion brought on by being her mother's sole caretaker. The last one simply broke Tig's heart. Every time she entered her front door now that her mother was gone, she felt loss, guilt, and grief. It didn't matter that her mother had become unsafe in Tig's home, or that her urinary tract infections seemed to sprout out of nowhere. Tig missed her. The best thing for her would be to get out of this house for a while.

Now, however, all of her reasoning, plans, and ideals had been shoved aside like a dusty curtain, and she had no idea what to do. She turned to Macie and said, “When you say ‘I love you,' do you mean it like a promise, or do you mean it like, ‘I feel this right now, but things might change tomorrow'?”

Macie blinked. “Who, me?”

Tig shook her head. “Never mind. Sit with me. We'll make a new plan.”

“We? You want me to help you plan?” Macie smiled and sat at the kitchen table. Tig yanked a yellow legal pad from under a stack of unopened mail, and a wrinkled page of doodles flopped into view. Tig scrawled
Options
at the top of a fresh sheet of paper
.

“What are my options?” Tig wrote
#1
, circled it, then wrote,
Get job back
.

Macie smoothed the crinkled paper and examined one of Tig's doodles. Sketched in blue ink were a palm tree, a cruise ship, and a hula dancer. “You're a good drawer, Dr. M.”

Tig grabbed the page from Macie's hands, strode to the sink, shoved it down the garbage disposal, and flipped the switch. The disposal made the sickening sound of something shoved beyond its limits. “What else can I put on the list? Help me brainstorm.”

Macie widened her eyes and said, “Not to be, you know, negative, but you can't get your job back.”

Tig said, “C'mon, what else?”

“You could go to Hawaii. It's not just his Hawaii, you know. You don't have to stay here.”

Tig scowled. “Don't be ridiculous. That idea has ‘pathetic' written all over it. ‘Pathetic' and ‘stalker.'”

“When my cousin got dumped, she took a pole dancing class. It's all about empowerment. Building strength.”

Tig frowned. “I don't want a fad. I want a future. Besides, stripper classes are the scrapbooking of the new millennium. It's just a Band-Aid.”

“Only with better abs. Dr. M, you've got a lot of mascara on your face.”

“Stay focused! We only have one thing on the list.” Tig looked at the ceiling, then wrote,
#2: Get a different job
. “What other job could I do?” As Macie wet a paper towel, took Tig by the chin, and wiped at her cheeks, Tig said, “I hear Starbucks has great bennies.” She pushed Macie's hands away and wrote
a. Starbucks
,
b. Pottery Barn
, and
c. Ann Taylor
under the
#2
.

“I'm not a therapist, like you, Dr. M, but I think maybe you should take a break from work.”

“That would kill me. All I would do is think about Pete and my mother.”

“Well, that might be okay. Don't you tell people to reflect a little to get better?”

“I don't need to get better. Better than what? I'm good. Pete's the one who needs to get better. What kind of person does this?” Tig gestured around the room as if displaying the obvious. As if the broken pieces of their relationship could be seen scattered around the room.

“So what exactly happened? I thought you didn't want to go with him, but now you do?”

“I wanted to tell him that I needed more time but then
he
told
me
I needed more time and that he . . . .” Tig paused, because really this was the hardest thing to stomach and the thing that was clearly at the root of her emotions. “He wasn't that excited about me.”

“Oh,” Macie said, like the “Oh” had been caught in her throat and she'd been slapped on the back.

Tig wrote on her list,
#3: Quilt
.

“Do you quilt, Dr. M?”

“No, but I could. I'm artistic, deliberate.”

Macie nodded. “On my days off, I like to stare at the ceiling. You can't believe the great ideas I come up with. I designed this tattoo during one of those sessions.” Macie rolled up her sleeve and showed Tig a string of ivy with the word
love
written in every leaf.

Tig added a
#4
to her list, then froze; her body sagged, and a heavy tear dropped onto
Ann Taylor
, smearing the
lor
. Macie put her arm around Tig's shoulders, and Thatcher trotted over and put her head in Tig's lap.

“I didn't know Pete was capable of this. We talked about getting married in Hawaii.”

“You were engaged?”

“Sort of. I mean, I agreed with Pete when he talked about a beach wedding. Puka shell rings. I chalk it up to last-ditch spontaneity, magical thinking, and reality television.”

Macie sat back, bit a dark purple nail.

Tig took a deep raking breath as if inhaling over an old-time washboard. “I'm sorry, Macie. I bet you never knew I was such a mess.”

“Um. I just didn't know very much about you, I guess.” She gave her head a little shake and said, “It doesn't matter. You're not a mess, Dr. M. Why not just rest? You don't need a plan.”

“I've been getting up for school or work or both for the last twenty years. Lying in bed without a plan is as luxurious to me as sitting in quicksand.” She looked down at the palm of her hand, and saw nothing but an open schedule and a long lifeline.

Macie let her cry and then said, “Okay, Dr. M. Let's drink this water and put you to bed.”

“No, I have to go in and see my mom.”

“Not tonight, Dr. M.” Macie steered her into the bedroom by one arm, where she dragged a folder off the bed and knocked a faded blue shoebox onto the floor. The loose top fell open and yellowed envelopes spilled onto the carpet. Tig scooped up the letters and box and sat on top of the gray quilted bedspread. She fingered the corner of an envelope, releasing a faint odor of dust into the air. “These letters are my mom's. I've been going through her things, I suppose as a way to keep her close. My dad died before I was born, you know.”

“I don't think I've ever heard you talk about either of your parents until just recently.”

“I don't know very much about him, really. I didn't think I was interested. I've always been so fierce about my mom being enough.
She
wanted so much to be enough. But now, I find that I am very interested, now that she wouldn't know I'm asking.”

Macie eased the letters from Tig's hands. Tig started to resist, then relented and let Macie help her into bed. “I'm sorry you have to see me like this.”

“I'm honored, Dr. M. You help a lot of people every day.”

Tig sighed. “In these letters, apparently my mom used to call my dad ‘the Goat.' Weird nickname, huh? I think it's because he was a hard worker.”

Macie smiled. “Your mother was quite the romantic.”

The sound of her neighbor dragging a rolling garbage pail to the street seemed to return Tig to the room. “Maybe Pete is right that something wasn't right between us. He's always had strong intuition.”

“Dr. M, excuse me for saying so, but leaving didn't take much strength.”

“Maybe Pete should take the pole dancing class.” Thatcher jumped onto the bed and happily took the spot where Pete used to lie. Tig turned away from Macie and put her arm around the dog. She spoke into the black dog's hair, “I'm about to ask something totally unprofessional, but could you stay for a little longer?”

Macie nodded, and when Tig's breathing relaxed she took Tig's phone and typed. Later, when Tig woke, she would see that Macie had found Pete's number and typed a quick text:
You suck
. No exclamation point.

• • •

The next morning, Tig woke on her stomach, feeling the press and warmth of the body next to her. It was a full minute before she realized the body was her dog's, not her boyfriend's. She let her mind drift to the month before, when she watched Pete through her lashes as he combed his hair to cover the scythe-shaped scar near his right temple, a macabre cowlick in his short hair. She watched as he worked his lean shoulders into his favorite bright red shirt—a purchase from one of his exercise-adventure outings to Peru or Colombia—ignoring the mirror. She remembered his bemused expression when she'd joked upon seeing this particular shirt for the first time, “How many bandanas had to die to make that shirt?”