The Cubicle Next Door (35 page)

My scalp began to tingle. My mouth had suddenly gone dry. “Why?”

“I talk. You scream. We kiss. That was the deal.” He stretched his arm across the backs of our seats. “You’re not going to back out on me now, are you?”

I could not look away from his eyes. I wanted to, but I couldn’t. It was a physical impossibility. I had no control over my body. Because before I could even register his question in my brain, my head began to jerk back and forth.

“Good.” He smiled. I saw those dimples. Then I felt his hand caress my neck.

I must have closed my eyes because the next thing I knew, they were flying open as his lips touched mine.

He brought his other hand up to my neck.

And I must have closed my eyes again because all I can remember was being in a world devoid of any sensation but touch. And taste. And a feeling in the pit of my stomach as if I were driving down a mountain road way too fast. Careening out of control. And the only way to get out, to get through, was to hang onto Joe.

Literally.

When I next opened my eyes, I found I was clutching fistfuls of his sweater. And I meant to push him away, but then he started kissing my neck, and I decided it would actually be better if he were closer.

Slowly, I became aware of a sort of change around us. I tried to open my eyes, but it felt as if I were attempting to lift the garage door with just one finger. I put a hand to Joe’s chest and tried to push myself away from it.

He put a hand up to cover mine and then brought it up to his face. He broke away from my lips.

I watched as he kissed my open palm and then released my hand.

And then we both blinked.

Because in between when our kisses had started and when they had ended, the movie had also ended, the theater had emptied, and the lights had been turned on.

Joe smiled. He gave me a last, quick kiss and then stood up and held out his hand for mine.

I just sat there, looking up at him. “Were we just making out? In public? In a movie theater?”

“Which question do you want me to answer first?”

“Were we making out!”

He sat back down. “We were kissing.” He put his hands up to my face.

I batted them away.

“Jackie. We were just kissing. I didn’t even…touch you anywhere.”

“Well, it felt like you touched me everywhere!”

“Shh.” He put out a hand to smooth my hair away from my face.

“Stop touching me!”

“Whoa! It’s okay.”

“It’s not okay. It is not okay that I become just like my mother.”

“You’re not.”

“How would you know?”

“You’re not—”

“All I have to do is the opposite of what she did and
then
everything will be okay.” I could feel tears coursing down my cheeks, but I could not stop them. “I am not my mother.”

“You’re not.”

“I am not my mother. I will not be out of control. I can’t see you anymore. I can’t kiss you anymore.”

“Okay. That’s fine.”

“I can’t.”

“All right.”

“I won’t.”

He took me by the hand and pulled me onto his lap. He wrapped his arms around me and began to rock, forward and back. Forward and back. Forward and back.

“I can’t see you anymore.”

THE CUBICLE NEXT DOOR BLOG

The worst that can happen

It’s happened. The worst thing I can imagine has happened. I’ve spent my entire life trying to guarantee it wouldn’t, and it has.

Posted on March 21 in
The Cubicle Next Door | Permalink

Comments

Technically speaking, you don’t really know yet what the worst thing that could happen is because you haven’t lived your life in its entirety. Something worse than what happened today could happen tomorrow.

Posted by:
NozAll | March 21 at 11:03 PM

Like that’s really going to cheer her up, you stupid fool!

Posted by:
justluvmyjob | March 21 at 11:36 PM

Maybe it was the worst thing, but you’re still alive to talk about it, right?

Posted by:
philosophie | March 22 at 07:25 AM

Hey—you lived to tell about it. It can only get better from here.

Posted by:
survivor | March 22 at 07:41 AM

Thirty-Five

I
woke the next morning with a migraine. I stumbled out of my bedroom and down the hall to tell Grandmother.

She helped me back to bed. Made sure the shades blocked as much light as they could. I felt her press her palm to my forehead.

I grabbed it and held on.

She pushed my hair away from my forehead with her hand. Exquisite torture for a person with a migraine.

“I haven’t had one of these since…college.”

“Your mother used to get migraines.”

I let go of her hand and raced down the hall. I made it into the bathroom before I threw up.

My mother had migraines. It figured. There was no use denying it anymore. I had become my mother. A woman given over to passionate emotions and ferocious headaches.

I asked Grandmother to call Estelle and then gave myself over to an aura of flashing lights and zigzag lines. The worst sinus headache imaginable. And the pounding of sledgehammers in my head.

And later, I slept.

Right until the doorbell rang at 2:30.

I rose from bed with a hand clamped to the side of my head, trying to keep my brains from falling out, and hobbled down the stairs.

Opened the door.

Squinted against the bright afternoon sun at the silhouette standing in the doorway.

It was Oliver.

“Hullo.”

“Hi.”

“May I come in?”

I stood there for a moment, trying to find the strength to resist him. Failed. I backed away, leaving the door undefended.

“I know a few things about pain.”

I wasn’t in the mood. I moved past him, into the living room, and collapsed on the couch. I pulled a pillow over my head and closed my eyes.

Sweet darkness.

He had followed along right behind me. I heard him help himself to a chair.

“We English are a curious people. We treat our dogs like children and our children like dogs, did you know that?”

I didn’t. But I didn’t find it relevant—at all—to the way my head kept pounding.

“Open the door and gesture the dogs into the house. Open that same door and push the children out into boarding school. Some children do well at that sort of thing, of course. I was not one of them. All I dreamt of while I was at school was coming home. Cried myself to sleep. Didn’t mix with the others. But when I came home, all I could do was push my parents away. I was a very nasty child.”

“You’ve aged well.”

“Ha. Nice of you to say.”

There was silence for a good long while. All I heard was the anniversary clock, ticking away on the mantel. All I felt was the heat from rays of afternoon sun that had slanted through the window.

He cleared his throat. “So you understand then, do you?”

“No.”

He sighed. I heard him shift in the chair. “Even though what I wanted, more than anything, was to stay with my parents, I sabotaged myself at every turn. Made myself so nasty I knew they’d never ask me to stay. And why do you think that was?”

“Because you
were
nasty, Oliver.”

“Because I was afraid, of course, that if I put the question to them quite baldly, they would have said no. That they would have said they didn’t want me.”

“So what, exactly, are you saying?”

“That perhaps I would have done better to just ask them at the first instance. To give them a chance to say yes.

“You think they would have?”

“I’ll never know, will I?”

“I guess you won’t. Was it worth it? Staying away at school?”

“I learned some things. Made the required connections. But I did it all alone, you see.”

“You were lonely.”

“Yes. I believe I was. And the danger in learning to live by yourself is that if you wait too long, it becomes much easier than the alternative.”

“Which is?”

“To learn how to live with someone else.”

“I know.”

“Ah. See there? It might be easier, but is it better? People like you and I aren’t afraid of a little work, are we?”

“No.” We were just afraid of other people. And the possibility that they might not want us.

“Well, just keep in mind that you don’t earn any medals for dying alone.”

I thought about that for a while.

“Were you in the war?”

“Several of them.”

“My grandfather was too. Did you earn any medals?”

“Several.”

“What for?”

“Oh…well…for saving others…other people. It was so very long ago.”

“Did you have to?”

“Do I understand you to mean, Was it my job? No. I wasn’t a medic. No.”

“So why did you do it?”

“Because I was in a position to. I had information that they didn’t. Saw things they couldn’t see. Of course, had I been able to, I might have just dashed off a note and left them to maneuver themselves. But sometimes, there is no time. And when you see someone in peril…and you know that you can help them, well, one does what one must.”

“I see.”

“I hope you do.”

We sat there, together, for a long time. Our silence measured by the ticking of the clock.

And then the doorbell rang again.

I started. Began to remove the pillow from my head. A few small particles of light convinced me I shouldn’t.

I heard Oliver clamber to his feet. Walk to the door. Heard him talking to someone. Heard him return to me.

There was a pressure on the couch beside me. I lifted the pillow enough to see he had sat down. He patted the hand that was clutching the pillow to my head. “Joe’s come to call and I’ll be off.”

“But—”

“Remember, no medals. There’s a good girl.”

“Oliver?”

“Yes?”

“Thanks.”

I heard his footsteps take him away from the living room. Heard the front door shut. Heard Joe cough.

“Um. Can I come in?”

I lifted the pillow. Sat up. Slowly. Squinted. “Sure.”

“Are you okay?”

“Migraine.”

“Maybe I could—should I close the curtains?” He was already on his way toward the windows. As he pulled them shut, the violence of the pounding in my head diminished. Instant relief.

“Thanks. How did you know?”

“I get…used to get migraines, remember? It’s the only reason I’m here.”

He chose to sit in the chair Oliver had just vacated.

“About last night…”

“I can’t kiss you anymore.”

He held up his hands. “I know. I know that’s what you said. I’d just like to know why.”

“Because I can’t…”
No medals
. “I just can’t handle it.”

“Can’t handle what? Is there something I can do to help?”

“I can’t handle what this is. I don’t have any kind of role model for relationships. I have a disaster model. I figure all I have to do is the opposite of what my mother did. So I’m not planning on…falling in love…with anyone.”

“I’m not anyone.”

“I know…” My glance dipped down to the pillow at my side. I just wanted to clamp it over my head and dissolve into sleep. I didn’t want to be accountable anymore for the things I felt. “Why can’t we just go back to the way things were?”

“You mean why can’t you have it all? The dating without dating?”

“Well…yeah.”

“You can’t have it all. Sacrifices must be made. Isn’t that what you told me once?”

“About cross-country skis. And sidecuts.”

“Well, those sidecuts have been making furrows across my heart. I’m tired of skiing oblique turns. I want to ski straight and fast.”

I did too. But I was afraid.

“I want more. And there can be more. Last night had to have convinced you of that.”

“I can’t do it.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t know how.”

“Because you’re afraid?”

I nodded.

“Of becoming your mother.”

I nodded again.

“And what if that did happen? Would that really be so bad?”

I felt my mouth drop open.

“I mean—” He sighed. Got up from the chair and walked over to me. Eyed the space beside me. I didn’t do anything to keep him from sitting, so he sat down.

“I’m not asking you to sleep with me or anything.”

I felt a blush creep up my face.

“I’m not asking you to marry me. Or have a child with me. Or anything at all. I’d just like to be more…serious…about getting to know you. That’s it.” He gathered me into his arms and shifted me over onto his lap.

I sat there, head against his chest, basking in his warmth. In the luxury of being in what I’d just discovered was my favorite place.

“I’m not Superman, Jackie. You can’t ask me to be near you without touching you or kissing you or thinking about the future.”

“But you just said—”

“I know what I told you just now. But I lied. And I knew I was lying to you when I said it. I don’t want to lie to you anymore. I think about a future with you all the time. I want to be more serious. I already
am
more serious. Can you meet me halfway here? So I can stop torturing myself.”

His nose was nuzzling through my hair. It was making my stomach do handsprings. And the longing I had to kiss him was almost over-whelming. Almost unbearable. I could practically feel his lips on mine. And that’s when I knew what I had to tell him.

“I can’t.”

He went still. Absolutely still. And then he rested his cheek on top of my head. “Are you sure? Are you positive it isn’t the migraine speaking? I know how it feels afterward…like everything in your head has been disconnected.”

I nodded.

“If I walk out that door, I’m not coming back.”

“I know.”

“Is this really what you want? Because I don’t think it is. I love you. I think you know that…hope you know that…but I have to say it anyway. Even if you don’t want to hear it.”

I did want to hear it. Longed to hear it.