If You Could See What I See (32 page)

We didn’t contradict her.

I ordered lemon cake, which I ate first in case I died immediately; then baked halibut, to which I added a smidgen of ranch dressing; and one slice of pickle, cut thin.

Delicious.

We clinked glasses.

Nothing like falling through the sky to make you feel alive.

I leaned off my deck and peeked through the fir and maple trees to see if Blake’s lights were on, as I do every night. I tried to hide behind the maple tree that grows through the center while I did it.

I don’t even attempt to go to sleep anymore until I know he’s there.

I feel better when he’s home.

I know, that’s pathetic and wimpy.

I get it.

I missed him so much I hurt.

His words rang in my head:
If you change your mind, walk across the damn street.

I would not call. But perhaps I could think of another excuse to see him. . . .

 

When a doctor called and told me that Aaron had overdosed, I drove to the hospital, tears streaming down my face, sobs shaking my shoulders. When I arrived, Aaron was on a stretcher, in hospital clothes, and of course on suicide watch.

“My Meggie, honey,” he rasped out. “Baby, I am so sorry. I didn’t mean anything, not any of it.”

I sat by his bed and held his hand. I was broken. I was savaged. I didn’t want to be married to him any longer, but I didn’t want him to die, either. I had been deeply in love with this man at one time.

“Aaron.” My voice sounded like it was being dragged over nails. “Why?

“I can’t live without you, Meggie. I can’t. I love you.”

“If you love me, then why did you take so many pills?”

“You left me, you left us. You deserted me. Walked out. We’re married, Meggie, through the good and the bad.” His voice was a cross between a whine and an accusation. “You were a great mommy to my Josephine. I know it’s not your fault. Please, baby, forgive me. . . .”

I was so shut down inside, I couldn’t say I forgave him. Before he was rolled away, he brought my head down close and the pleading, pathetic voice disappeared. He whispered to me, “I love you. I won’t live without you.” What happened next made me shiver from the inside out. The tears suddenly dried up in his brown eyes and his facial expression changed. Back was the anger and control. “If you leave me, you’re responsible for the consequences. Do you understand that, Meggie?”

I sunk against the wall, staring at the back of his head as they wheeled him out, the black curls I had loved hanging over the stretcher. Now they seemed like black, slinky eels with crazed minds of their own. The black feather seemed to float. I noticed it was broken at the tip.

I stayed up all night long.

I felt trapped, as if I were being smashed by a rock and the rock was growing heavier each second. The cacophony from his constant harangues, his badgering, his criticisms, had disintegrated my self-esteem, even my intelligence, to dust. I had been a strong, smart woman once. I was no longer that woman.

I was so stressed I could barely eat. My hair was falling out. My hands shook. I was constantly anxious. I was grieving. My doctor ran blood tests when I fainted twice and could find nothing wrong except that I was too thin, pale, and in his words “looked mentally shaken and ill.”

I thought that if I had to live with Aaron again, I would rather die.

And yet, if I didn’t live with him again, he would kill himself. I could hardly think anymore.

That’s what living with someone who is mean, vindictive, controlling, an emotional roller coaster, and mentally ill does to you.

Eventually you feel like you can’t think anymore.

Because you can’t.

 

When the doctors released Aaron three weeks later, he promised things would be different. “I’m better, Meggie. I crashed because of Josephine. I’ve been under a lot of stress, too, then that rabid dog came and took a bite out of me.”

I moved back into the apartment and he did well for about two weeks, then he became clingy and possessive of me, even more so than before, because he knew I was pulling away from him. He could feel it. I wanted out. Out, out, out. I was waiting until he was relatively stable.

“Don’t leave me, My Meggie,” he told me often. “We’ll work it out. I’ll change. You’ll change. There are some things you need to change about yourself, even the doctors told me that. You have work to do on you, too.”

The doctors hadn’t told him that. I had talked with his doctors extensively. They were professional, sympathetic, and understanding. They did not mind when I cried. Both of them told me I needed counseling. One said, “You’re young. You have to decide what you owe yourself, too.” The other said, “If you leave him, no one would blame you. If you stay, you’ll need enormous support. This will never be a normal marriage, even if Aaron finally, finally agrees to stay on his medication and participate in counseling, something he hasn’t done before. He also is at high risk for using painkillers, pot, and alcohol again. Can you accept that?”

When Aaron said, “I won’t live without you” and “We will always be together,” I knew what he was really saying to me.

He decided to stop taking his medication because it took away his “spirit, brilliance, ability to channel esoteric ideas into film, and genius” and went to bed, all day, for weeks, smoking pot and drinking. He refused counseling.

I was at one of the lowest ends of my life

The lowest was yet to come.

I worked on another film project, which took me out of town, which is the reason I chose to do it, which put me in a position to meet Henry, which led to me cheating.

I don’t approve of married people cheating with others.

I don’t approve of myself.

 

The students at Lacey’s kids’ high school were generally fine about Hayden’s decision to be a girl once the article came out. There was the expected shock and gossip, and he did initially get hit with a lot of teasing and incredibly unkind comments, but kids are kids. The winter formal was around the corner and they didn’t have a date, they had flunked a math test, they had a fallout with their girlfriend, they had their own things going on, too.

It helped that the majority of kids have known Cassidy, Hayden, and Regan for years. Their parents have known Lacey and Matt. They’ve known our family.

Cassidy is a popular girl. That she is a boot-kicking, now-and-then-pot-smoking rebel with a hot boyfriend is rather appealing. She’s also kind to everyone and brings her treats to school all the time and hands them out in the hallway. She was homecoming queen this year.

Regan is a football star, a sophomore on the varsity team who plays the whole game. Plus, when Regan gets upset he cries, so it makes the other kids relate to him. Regan has friends in many groups at school. He’s on the chess team, though he has never yet won a match. He’s the secretary of the Spanish club and tries to speak to the Hispanic kids in Spanish. Lacey told me they say, “It’s okay, Regan. We speak English.”

He plays the clarinet in band. He doesn’t understand math so he needs extra help and has friends in that small group, too.

As Lacey said, “Adults are the ones who teach kids how to be racist, how to judge harshly, and how to tell everyone else how to live. I can tell some parents are bent out of shape about Hayden, and his article, and their minds are in a twist.”

One parent got all jacked up, as if he was personally affronted by Hayden being transgender. Brady Tiles waddled his beer belly over to Lacey and me at one of Regan’s football games and said, “Why you letting Hayden be all fuckin’ weird like this, Lacey? He don’t need to start dressing like a fuckin’ girl. He don’t need to advertise he’s gay. What’s wrong with your boy?”

And my dear sister, pregnant and glowing, let him have it, both guns shooting. “Look, Brady, you’ve got a brain the size of a prune. Wrinkled, small, tight. You don’t understand a lot of things because you don’t know how to think, and your life experiences are about as broad and wide as your short dick. I don’t care what you think about my family. I’m proud of Hayden. Don’t tell me that my son is fuckin’ weird. You know what, Brady, you’re fucking weird.”

“Don’t you talk to me like that, Lacey—”

“Why not?” I said, taking a step to within six inches of his pig face, my anger ripping through my body. “What Lacey said is true. There were no falsehoods. You are closed-minded and judgmental. You have no class, you’re not smart, you’re not educated, and you’re ugly. You have a narrow, dumbed-down life and you don’t like thinking outside of it because it makes you feel insecure. Easier to stay dumb. You are about as valuable to humanity as a drunken mouse.”

His face turned red. “Why he gotta write about it in the newspaper?”

“Because he’s being honest with himself and everyone else,” Lacey said.

“Because he’s not pretending,” I said. I wanted to slug him. “I’m not pretending, either, when I say that Hayden can dress however he damn well likes, just as you can wear T-shirts that hardly cover your beer gut. Think people like looking at you and your beaver face? They don’t.”

He backed away.

“Asshole,” my sister called after him.

Brady turned around, red-faced.

“Keep waddling, drunken mouse,” I said.

He kept walking. There were a few more derogatory comments from people who have brains the size of prunes. Three mothers called the principal. I know the names of those mothers because a high school friend, Amy, is the head secretary and she whispered them to me.

The mothers said that letting Hayden dress like a girl would “corrupt the Christian values of our school and community . . . it’s allowing and accepting perversity . . . it’s encouraging the other kids to dress like the opposite sex ... it’s confusing to all of the teenagers here . . . his sexual problems don’t need to be flaunted . . . he has a mental illness ... it’s immoral ... it’s wrong ... he’s gay.
He’s gay!
”

The mothers were at the next football game in a clump. Lacey and I approached them, smiling. Lacey was wearing a darling green maternity dress that my mother had sent her. I was wearing boots, jeans, and a blue jacket. I wasn’t in a good mood.

Lacey whispered to me, “Wide-hipped, wide-bottomed, helmet-haired, Parent Teacher Committee queens who like to control the school with their iron fists and their intimidation. School is their fiefdom. They have no power anywhere else, so here they wield it with their self-righteous minds.”

Lacey and I kept smiling. We like to smile before we attack.

“Hello, ladies,” she said. “This is my sister, Meggie.”

I said, “Hello.” They returned the greeting. We all had our shiny, fake smiles on.

“Why don’t you three tell me the problem you’re having with my son to my face instead of going behind my back?” Lacey said.

“Well . . . uh . . .” They stuttered and fluttered. Gossipy women do not like to be confronted by their victims.

I crossed my arms in front of my chest, standing right next to Lacey. I may feel old and tired, but remember: I take no more crap. I
especially
do not take crap when it is thrown at my nephew turned niece—sweet, kind, smart Hayden.

“We feel,” one mother, who had a long face like a horse, said, “that Hayden should go to a special school.”

“A special school?” Lacey said, raising an eyebrow, calm and cool for the moment. “Where would that be? How special is it?”

“We think,” the shortest, fattest one said, “that Hayden’s going to corrupt the children here. He’s a boy, but he wants to dress like a girl. That’s bringing in liberal, gay influences to our school.”

“And,” the other mother, whose hair looked like a dead possum on top of her head, said, “we believe in healthy families with healthy family values. We don’t want homosexual indoctrination here. We don’t want our kids to believe the homosexual lifestyle is acceptable.”

“And being transgender isn’t normal or healthy or right,” Horse Face said. “Not normal.”

“There is no homosexual indoctrination here, you brainless idiot,” Lacey said. “My son isn’t trying to make anyone gay. Do you understand that that’s not remotely possible? Are you that dumb?”

They huffed. “We’re not dumb,” Dead Possum Hair said. “But it could happen. Other kids could become gay or transgender with this out in the open.”

“Ah. So my son is giving off some sort of aura, some sort of magical spell, that will make kids gay?”

Dead Possum Hair looked embarrassed.

“He can pray his way to being a heterosexual!” the shortest, fattest one declared.

“Only the people who have four working brain cells in their heads believe that lunacy,” I said. “There is no legitimate medical or psychiatric group that would agree with you. You can no more pray your way to being a heterosexual than you can pray your way into becoming a dancing cat.”