I Love You and I'm Leaving You Anyway (26 page)

I understand how someone can not know.

Of course, maybe I was prequalified for this type of “surprise,” since I grew up in a world where forces that have been percolating for some time can “unexpectedly” culminate in a new foster home, or an arrest, or some other life-altering development. Eastern philosophy has a phrase to express this idea: “The river runs a long way underground before it comes to the surface.” It means even though a thing can stay hidden a long time, it is nevertheless there and will eventually be seen.

Brandon comes back to New York for a few weeks after his South Carolina experiment and we try to reconcile, but it just won’t work. After three years together, our relationship has simply run its course
and there is nowhere else for it to go. One day I just say out loud what we both must be thinking: “It’s over.”

But not because I don’t love him. I do. Because it’s just not meant to be.

PAUL AND I HAVE PICKED
a date—November 28, 2004. It’s a Sunday, because I was doing some astrological research and I learned that Saturday is named after Saturn, which is the planet of tests and limitation. I figured why not just avoid all that and get married on a Sunday? Paul and I already have three divorces between us, so we need all the help we can get.

We’ve also been seeing my therapist Saundra in advance of the wedding. I suggested it after the whole Caitlin Kelly incident, and Paul agreed with no hesitation. Not that much has really come out of our sessions together (we’ve only had two so far), but my individual sessions have certainly gotten more interesting.

TRACY: I hate the whole thing about Caitlin Kelly.

SAUNDRA: What “whole thing”?

TRACY: How he lied. Do you think he had sex with her?

SAUNDRA: Do
you
think he had sex with her?

TRACY: Probably. Although he really didn’t seem like he was lying. I hate that he lied.

SAUNDRA: You don’t have to rush into this.

TRACY: We’ve already got the date. [I’m afraid if I don’t do it now, I never will.]

SAUNDRA: Then you just need to know you’re marrying a man who is a liar.

TRACY: Ugh. Does that mean I shouldn’t marry him?

SAUNDRA: He’s not a bad person. He just lies. You need to take responsibility for that.

I love how Saundra breaks it down for me but doesn’t tell me what to do. Or what not to do. She just tells me the truth. Paul is a liar. Not all the time about everything. But when he feels threatened—when he believes he’s going to lose something valuable, like me and Sam—he compulsively hides what he thinks will cause him to be rejected. It’s all about power. Paul wants more than it is humanly possible to have.

He wants to control me by limiting my information, which limits my options. If I knew he spent the weekend with Caitlin Kelly I might choose to leave. At the same time that he wants to limit my options, he wants to keep all his open. I get that. Not that it’s right, but at least I understand it.

So, as I sit on the ice-blue sofa later, in the loft that is my home now, just like I thought it would be when I saw that picture online, I decide that I can take responsibility for Paul being a liar. I can marry him, eyes open.

I believe in love.

I see him for who he is way inside, the part of him that has never been touched by his lying dad or his fearful, wounded mother. I see a sweet, open, talented little boy who created layer upon layer of defenses but who wants to be loved and is tentatively taking a step toward letting some of those defenses go. It’s not going to happen overnight.

I believe he wants a healing, or he wouldn’t be with me. He wouldn’t be willing to go to therapy with me. He wouldn’t be marrying me. He wouldn’t be loving me. He wouldn’t be loving my son. I decide to have faith that every single thing that has happened since the elevator doors opened is part of the answer to my prayer and
to know that—no matter what happens—I am exactly where I’m supposed to be.

Am I crazy? Probably. But not really.

I can’t quite reconcile how it is that something as fucked up as my relationship with Paul is nevertheless exactly what I need to do. I want things to be tidy and logical, like they are for the Betsys of the world and that nice couple who used to live next door to me in Glendale. But I’m starting to get that I didn’t come here to have Betsy’s life—where the cart and the horse are in the right order, where Dick and Jane and Spot are all doing the right thing—because if I had, I would know it by now.

I came here to live a life just like the one I’m living, where it’s royally complicated and not at all comprehensible unless you look with your heart. My soul needs this experience somehow, needs
Paul
somehow, and needs to keep moving toward him instead of walking away. I’m just having faith that, eventually, I’ll find out why.

I’M PREGNANT.
And it’s the best thing that has ever happened to me. Not that I was “trying”—in the suburban sense of the word—for a baby. But the moment I saw that plastic pregnancy test stick with the big plus sign on it, I knew that this baby—a boy, due in April—was indeed the Plan for my life. I’ve never been more sure of anything in all my thirty-one years on the planet.

Indirectly, I can thank one of the senior news writers in New York for this blessed event. One day we were sitting around in the newsroom, and I asked her if she had a boyfriend. “Me?” she joked. “Haven’t you heard? We lady writers call ourselves the news nuns.” I didn’t think being a news nun was the least bit funny, and it’s only slightly oversimplifying the story to say that I decamped for Los Angeles a month later to avoid becoming one.

That was almost exactly a year ago.

The baby’s daddy is one of my coworkers in TV news. Dan is thirty-two and normal. He’s got flawless Mediterranean skin and dark eyes that surprise you when they turn out to be blue. And though he’s a little on the short side, he’s got an especially nice way about him and he’s wryly funny, and I like that. We were paired together (I write, he edits) on my very first shift at KNBC-TV and I
took notice of him right away because of his superior news judgment. His editing skills are network-level, which is not something you see a lot in Los Angeles. News out here, especially local news, tends to be kinda junior varsity.

I was making an exception dating Dan. I have always refused to go out with guys in TV news. They’re too regular. But after three years in New York, I was very lonely and still smarting from all that “excitement.” I wanted to be with someone nice for a change—you know, return to my UNG roots. Guys in New York might be dashing, they might be sexy, they might be accomplished…but nice? Not really. Nice modelizers, maybe. News nuns certainly need not apply.

Dan is pretty much my total opposite in every way. I am talkative, he is quiet. I am a big personality, he is low-key. He follows the rules, I break them. I’m an optimist, he’s a skeptic. I think we are dating each other for the same reason—to see how the other half lives. We want to try something completely different.

After a few months the novelty begins to wear off, and we realize getting involved with your complete opposite isn’t the same as it is in the movies. My quirks have become more annoying than heart-warming, and his inability to dance no longer seems so charming. Not that there are fights or fireworks—not at all. But there’s no big, compelling love story to keep us together, either.

“I don’t know if this is working out,” he says one Sunday.

“I don’t know if this is working out, either,” I say back.

We agree the whole relationship has been a fine experiment but it’s over and we should go back to being nice, friendly coworkers again. We break up.

The next day I’m out Rollerblading on Venice Beach, and I pop into Dan’s house to see what he’s up to. We live just six blocks away from each other, both of us within view of the water. He’s not busy, so naturally we end up having sex on his sofa, for old times’ sake. After all, yesterday was a long time ago. The whole thing happens
so spontaneously, I don’t even take off my Rollerblades. It’s all kinds of fun and when it’s over, I leave. No need to prolong the encounter. Dan and I are still opposites, and we’re still broken up.

Little do I know, I am skating away with my baby.

EIGHTEEN WEEKS LATER
I’m lying flat on my back. An ultrasound technician has just smeared a pile of goo onto my midsection, and now she’s getting ready to mow a small, handheld paddle across my bulging belly. This is the “big” ultrasound, the one where they’ll be able to tell the sex of the baby Dan and I are having. We still haven’t decided if we want to know.

On the one hand, we are both in the news business, which means we like information. A lot. So much that we made it our job. We get paid to make sure there’s as much information out there as the world can possibly hold. On the other hand, there’s something just a little bit crunchy about us—we’ve both got flower child rising—and that makes us want to go “natural” for everything. Especially everything related to pregnancy and childbirth. And it’s not natural to know the baby’s sex in advance.

The ultrasound technician is not, evidently, thinking about any of this. Because she’s only been mowing that air hockey thingy across my belly for five seconds when she says, bored, “Well, if you want to know the sex of the baby, I can tell you.”

Really, lady? Why didn’t you just go ahead and shout,
“It’s a boy!”
and blow some New Year’s Eve noisemakers? Because obviously the only way you can tell the sex of the baby that quickly is if you’ve got a positive identification—i.e., the presence of something, not the absence of something, the something in question being a penis. A half a centimeter long.

I look up at Dan, who is clearly excited about the thought of a baby boy. Already, his eyes are dancing with visions of father-son bonding over Dodger games and camping trips.

My thoughts are a little less idealized. Actually, I’m only having one thought, and it is this:

What in the
hell
am I going to do with a boy?

I’m the girly-girl, remember? I like fashion magazines and nail polish and ice skating. And I talk. A lot. About girl things.

What I don’t know yet—lying there flat on my back—is that there is a plan. That starting this very instant, my boy child is going to bestow upon me one of the greatest gifts I’ve never even imagined wanting. A gift I don’t even know I need.

He’s going to teach me to love men.

DAN HAS NEVER BEEN
to a prison before, but he’s not nervous. We’re in the parking lot of the Federal Correctional Institution in Oxford, Wisconsin, a medium-security prison about five hours from Minneapolis. In a few minutes Dan will meet his new father-in-law, and Freddie will meet his new grandson, Sam, now a beautiful, bouncing six-month-old.

“Are you scared to meet my dad?” I’m prodding Dan more than asking him. I have tortured Dan the whole way here with my endless ruminations on the world, which, as far as I’m concerned, is why long car rides were invented. That’s when I do some of my best ruminating! But by the time we are walking into the actual prison, infant in tow, Dan is completely sick of me “just wondering” about stuff. Like how he feels about meeting my dad.

“I’m just wondering,” I say innocently. I’m a little hurt that he’s sick of me.

“I’m fine, Tracy.” Dan’s voice is flat as a skinny starlet in a cosmetic surgeon’s office. We’ve only been married nine months, but I’ve already picked up on a pattern: the more I want a reaction from Dan, the less likely he is to give it to me. This is probably a great defense mechanism for living with me, but it also makes me feel invisible. I really want Dan to express some shock, or at least some
wow!,
at
the fact that he is a very nice guy who has suddenly found himself schlepping into a medium-security prison. But Dan is not known for expressing shock. He’s not even known for reacting.

“Really,” I say to him, without even bothering to hide my contempt. “You’re not the least bit surprised to find yourself here, in the middle of nowhere, about to be frisked?”

“Nope.” He’s annoyed with me, I can tell.

When I found out I was pregnant, Dan and I got back together. The idea was
Hey, we don’t dislike each other, and we are darn good coworkers and sort of traditionalists, so why the heck not?
One thing led to another and we ended up married, but I’m pretty sure I’m not what Dan would have picked out if there had been, say, a wife store.

I do know that he really, really wanted to marry his baby that I was carrying. He just took me as part of the package. Like one of those gift-with-purchase things at the makeup counter with the lipstick shade that, while beautiful, doesn’t particularly suit your coloring.

And now we’re here. At the prison. “Come on,” he says, picking up the heavy baby carrier. “You get the diaper bag, I’ll get Sam.”

This is where it would be relevant to mention that Dan’s father is a Presbyterian minister who performed our wedding ceremony in the small-town church where Dan grew up. I wore a long, sleeveless brocade dress the color of half-and-half—in a size 10 to hide my bump—with a shimmering pale white, gold, and turquoise overcoat, similar to what Michelle Obama wore to the inauguration. We had twenty-eight guests, including Betsy and her husband, who now live on the East Coast.

That Dan’s dad is a minister, just like Gene Ericson, makes me think it’s the Tracy Ericson part of me that married Dan. Not Tracy McMillan—she’s got an entirely different agenda. But somewhere in there, Tracy Ericson heard that little girls grow up to marry someone just like Daddy, and by hook or by crook, she found Dan. She thought to herself,
Now here’s a guy who’s just like the daddy
I
know,
and with a pair of Rollerblades and a little of my help, Tracy Ericson got her man.

I feel completely loved and accepted by Dan’s people, especially his mom. Marie was a missionary in Iran in the 1950s who didn’t get married until she was thirty-two. Then she had four children in five years, starting with Dan. Marie is a woman of deep faith, compassion, and intellect who is already like a surrogate mother to me. As far as shotgun mothers-in-law go, I cannot believe my luck! In fact, sometimes we joke that baby Sam came along just so the two of us could meet. All I know is, between Marie and June Ericson, I’m starting to think god puts a really nice Christian lady in my life every other time I need a new mother.

Now it’s Dan’s turn to meet the in-laws. It’s wacky like those Ben Stiller movies, but in my case, there’s only one in-law—my dad. I haven’t heard from Linda in a couple of years and I long ago decided it’s best to keep a safe distance from Yvonne.

“I know Freddie’s really excited about this visit,” I say as we head inside. “He wants to see what kind of white boy I’m dating this time.” I have a terrible habit of saying controversial things whenever I want. It’s one of my least endearing qualities.

“Maybe he just wants to see his grandson, Tracy,” Dan suggests. He might be right, but his tone—ever-so-slightly superior—makes me feel bad. Like there’s a way that normal people think and act that I know nothing about. “I doubt I’m the person your dad is thinking about right now.”

“Oh yeah,” I say. “He probably
is
excited to see his grandson.”

Especially knowing my dad, who thinks everything revolves around him. In Freddie’s mind, meeting my baby will be like sitting down for a visit with his future self, the part of him that’s going to be looking stylish in the year 2050.

After all of the security rigamarole, my dad makes his entrance. I haven’t seen him since 1994. That was three years—and several life changes—ago. He’s looking good, though. For sixty-two.

“Dan, this is Freddie,” I say, presenting my dad palms-up. My dad grabs Dan’s hand and pumps it vigorously.

“Hello, Dan,” Freddie says.

“And…um…” I pause awkwardly. I’m not sure
what
to call my dad these days. It’s fine to introduce him to someone as Freddie. But I don’t want to address him—daughter to father—by his first name and I don’t want to call him Dad, either. So I “write around it,” which is what we do in TV news when we don’t have all the facts. “And, um, this is Dan.”

“Good to meet you, Mr. McMillan,” Dan says respectfully. Watching this exchange, I am reminded of what I love about Dan. He is extremely fair-minded. He treats everyone the same, because he truly believes everyone is equal to everyone else. He’s not wowed by your social status or how much money you have or what your job is. Dan is just as gracious and polite as he would be if my dad was a cardiologist.

“Wonderful to meet you, too,” Freddie says. “My new
son
-in-law!” He’s obviously tickled pink. “Now let me see my grandson!
Sammy!
”

My dad swoops up my baby and raises him high into the air, just like he did with me when I was little. Sam looks around like,
What just happened?!
“He’s so cute!” Freddie chirps. “Look at him. A chip off the old block.” My dad’s vanity knows no limits. “And how about you, darling daughter?” Freddie gives me a hug and a big smooch on the cheek. “It’s good to see you. Been a long time.” There’s a hint of a guilt trip in there somewhere. Which kind of pisses me off.

Fortunately, Dan’s presence smooths over any prickles coming from me. Freddie’s been in here four and a half years now. There’s a distance that develops—for me it’s a necessary distance—and it doesn’t just melt away the moment I see him in person.

“So, Daniel”—Freddie doesn’t bother to ask if this is Dan’s name of choice—“you say your father is a minister?” He wants to know all about Dan’s family, questioning him the way you imagine an Albanian peasant father questions a prospective son-in-law.

“Yes, sir. He is.”

“And where does he have a church?”

“It’s a small town in south New Jersey. On the way to Atlantic City, if you’re familiar with that area.” Dan doesn’t have a “Joizy” accent at all. He says it “New
Jurr
-zee,” almost overenunciating. It’s a cute affectation that is very boyish and endearing.

“Sure, I’ve been to Atlantic City. Had a great time, too!” Freddie claps his hands together at the memory. He seems to be finding Dan charming and sweet, and I’m glad about it but not really surprised. Very few people who meet Dan don’t get along with him. He is like type O blood. Universally accepted.

“Dan’s town is so small, there’s only one stoplight,” I say.

“That small, huh?” My dad might be feigning serious interest. But more likely, he’s sincere. Freddie doesn’t get a whole lot of visitors. “That’s really tiny.”

“And,” I add, “Dan was born in Beirut.”

I like this part of Dan’s story. At first glance he looks like just another Adam Sandler type. But his father is Lebanese, and Dan spent the first four years of his life there. It means our kid is Arab, African, and European, all at once. I can’t help but feel like this makes the baby sort of evolved. “He moved to the United States when he was four.”