I Only Remember the Sad Ones by Jill Schmehl

I Only Remember the Sad Ones Eight Tiny Tales by Jill Schmehl

I Only Remember the Sad Ones Eight Tiny Tales

words and pictures by Jill Schmehl

I STOOD ON THE EDGE OF THE TOUR GROUP CLUSTER AND DUTIFULLY STARED AT THE STATUE. I DIDN’T BELONG WITH THESE PEOPLE. THE ONLY PERSON CLOSE TO MY AGE WAS THE GUIDE AND I SUSPECTED I MADE HIM UNCOMFORTABLE. HIS ENGINEERED EXPRESSIONS THAT ELICITED LAUGHTER FROM HIS USUAL AUDIENCE OF OCTOGENARIANS ONLY MADE ME SIGH. WE’D BEEN IN ROME FOR TWO DAYS, THE NEXT STOP WAS NAPLES. I’D PAID AHEAD OF TIME FOR THE GUIDED TOUR PACKAGE, THINKING I MIGHT LEARN SOMETHING, BUT ALL IT DID WAS EXHAUST ME. I WAS SLEEPING WELL FOR THE FIRST TIME IN MONTHS.

THE STATUE, POCKMARKED AND MISSING ITS ORIGINAL DETAILS, STOOD ALONE. I COULD IMAGINE THE SUFFERING IT HAD EXPERIENCED OVER THE CENTURIES. TO ENDURE SO LONG ONLY TO BE CIRCLED BY STRANGERS, THE THOUGHT BROUGHT TEARS TO MY EYES. I TURNED AWAY.

BEHIND ME, MODERN ROME RUSHED BY IN A HAZE OF TINY CARS AND SCOOTERS. COMMUTERS FORCED TO DRIVE IN CIRCLES TO AVOID THE UBIQUITOUS PAST.

THE SIGHT OF A ROUNDED GREEN CAR LIKE THE OLD VOLKSWAGEN I’D OWNED WITH MY EX-HUSBAND PULLED MY OWN PAST INTO THE PRESENT. I CUT THE MEMORY OFF AND TURNED BACK TO THE GROUP. BUT THE GROUP WAS GONE. I FROZE, ONLY MY EYES MOVING, DARTING, SEARCHING. THE GROUP DIDN’T MOVE FAST, THEY COULDN’T HAVE GONE FAR. WOULD THEY NOTICE I WASN’T WITH THEM? WOULD THEY CARE?

I’D RESENTED THEM, ALL THOSE OLD, NOSY GOSSIPS, DIGGING INTO MY PAST, BUT NOW I WANTED THEM BACK. IF THEY CAME BACK, I PROMISED MYSELF I’D TELL THEM THE TRUTH: THAT I HATED BEING ALONE. IT WAS THE REASON I’D STAYED MARRIED FOR ALL THOSE YEARS. I WOULD HAVE STAYED FOREVER IF MY HUSBAND HADN’T FINALLY, OH SO GENTLY, PUSHED ME OUT THE DOOR. ’’YOU’LL BE BETTER OFF WITHOUT ME,” HE’D SAID. THE OLD LADIES ECHOED HIS WORDS,

’’YOU’D BE BETTER ON YOUR OWN.” AND NOW THEY HAD, OH SO GENTLY, WALKED AWAY FROM ME.

I STOOD MOTIONLESS, CIRCLED BY STRANGERS, AND WAITED TO BE FOUND.

THE EMPTY BENCH CALLED TO ME. STOP, THINK, BREATHE, IT SAID. GET YOUR WORDS RIGHT. HE’LL WANT TO KNOW THE DETAILS.

’’WHAT DID THE DOCTOR SAY, EXACTLY?” EXACTLY. NONVIABLE, DNC, CHROMOSOMAL ABNORMALITY. HE WON’T ASK HOW I FEEL.

THE DOCTOR, ’’YOUNG AND HEALTHY, TRY AGAIN.” THE NURSE, ’’HAVE A REST, TRY AGAIN.” HE’LL SAY, ’’WE’LL TRY AGAIN.” TRY AGAIN. NO. NO, I WILL NOT.

I DON’T WANT THIS. ANY OF THIS. HUSBAND-HOUSE-CHILD-YARD-CAR-DOG ON THE BENCH, I BREATHED, I CALMED MY HEART. I RESTRAINED MY JOY, MY SENSE OF RELEASE. I ANSWERED THE RINGING PHONE, AND TOLD HIM THE TRUTH.

THE QUESTION COMES FROM BEHIND ME, AN UNEXPECTED PLACE. ’’WHAT DO YOU WANT?” SHE ASKS AGAIN. THE QUESTION HITS MY RIGHT SHOULDER, AND BOUNCES OFF MY HEAD. I HAVE BEEN WAITING FOR THIS QUESTION MY ENTIRE LIFE, BUT THE PAIN OF IT SHOCKS ME INTO SILENCE.

I TURN TO SEE A WOMAN THERE, ASKING A CHILD TO MAKE A DECISION. SHE IS SURPRISINGLY CALM, PATIENT, WAITING FOR HER SON TO ANSWER. THE BOY SHAKES HIS HEAD, LOOKING UP AT THE MENU, ’’I DON’T KNOW.” HIS MOTHER NODS, AND TAKES HIM BY THE HAND, ’’LET’S WAIT OVER HERE UNTIL YOU ARE READY.” SHE WAVES AT THE PEOPLE BEHIND HER TO GO AHEAD.

BUT SHE AND HER SON ARE NOT THE CAUSE OF THE DELAY, AND I CANNOT STEP OUT OF LINE, I’VE ALREADY STARTED MY ORDER. I GO BACK TO THE BASICS. I BREATHE IN AND OUT. I LISTEN TO MY HEART BEATING. AFTER A CENTURY OF SECONDS, I AM CALM. I FINISH RECITING MY ORDER TO THE PIMPLY BOY WITH THE PAPER HAT AND MOVE AWAY. NOBODY YELLS AT ME.

THE AIRPORT IS QUIET TODAY, NOT LIKE LAST WEEK OR THE WEEK BEFORE, WHEN MORE OBNOXIOUS CHILDREN AND MOTHERS, FINISHING THEIR SUMMER HOLIDAYS, YELLED AND SCREAMED ABOUT WANTS AND NEEDS. ’’JUST MAKE A DECISION!” SCREECHES ECHOING OFF VAULTED CEILINGS DECORATED WITH MODEL PLANES THAT NEVER FLY AWAY FROM HOME AND NEVER CRASH.

THE BOY DECIDES. THE MOTHER’S KINDNESS INFECTS THOSE AROUND HER, WHO GLADLY LET HER AND HER CHILD BACK IN LINE. THE MOTHER ASKED, THE BOY ANSWERED, THE MOTHER PROVIDED.

THE QUESTION STILL HURTS AND I RUB AT THE SORE SPOT, TRYING TO SMOOTH AWAY THE PAIN.

I SPIN TO FACE THE OTHER WAY, TO SEE THE GREENER VIEW. TO MOVE, TO CHANGE, TO REINVENT MYSELF. I SPIN AND YOU ARE THERE. I SLOW TO SEE YOU MORE CLEARLY, AND YOU GRAB MY HANDS TO HOLD ME STILL.

FOR YOUR SAKE, I STOP.

I STARE INTO YOUR STEADFAST GAZE AND TRY TO ADOPT YOUR VIEW OF THE WORLD. I ADMIRE YOUR WORTHY GOALS. I RESPECT YOUR THOUGHTS AND IDEAS. I WANT TO MAKE THEM MY OWN. I WANT TO SEE LIFE THROUGH YOUR EYES. I FAIL.

TOO SOON, MY EYES WANDER. MY HEAD TURNS, MY SHOULDERS STIFFEN, AND MY ARMS TUG AT MY HANDS. DESPITE MY BEST INTENTIONS, I GROW BORED WITH THE UNCHANGING VIEW. IT DOES NOT SUIT ANYMORE.

ANTS IN YOUR PANTS, MY MOTHER ALWAYS SAID.

THE MENTAL REACTION TO INACTIVITY FEELS LIKE AN ITCHING IN MY BRAIN. THE BOREDOM SWARMS IN LIKE BUGS, EATING AWAY AT MY MIND. THE ONLY RELIEF IS CHANGE.

FLIGHTY, MY FATHER ALWAYS SAID. NO STICK-TO-ITIVENESS.

WHAT MADE ME HAPPY YESTERDAY WILL NOT MAKE ME HAPPY TODAY.

YOU CLING TO MY HANDS, TRYING SO HARD TO KEEP MY ATTENTION. I DO NOT CHANGE OUT OF SPITE OR CRUELTY. I DO NOT WANT TO HURT YOU.

TO LIVE IS TO CHANGE.

TO STOP, TO SETTLE, TO STAY STILL IS TO DIE.

I WRENCH MY HANDS FROM YOUR GRASP AND I SPIN AWAY.

’’I DON’T THINK I’LL MAKE IT OUT THIS TIME,” SHE SAYS TO ME, AND I BELIEVE HER. USUALLY BY NOW THERE ARE TEARS, RAGES AGAINST THE UNFAIRNESS OF LIVING BECAUSE OTHER PEOPLE SAY TO DO OTHERWISE IS SELFISH.

NOT THIS TIME.

IT’S IN THE WAY SHE TALKS, FLAT, WITH AN ECONOMY OF BREATH, LIKE SHE KNOWS SHE’S RUNNING OUT OF AIR. THEY’LL KEEP HER HERE FOR A WHILE. BUT NOT FOREVER. EVENTUALLY SHE WILL GO HOME, AND THIS TIME SHE’LL DO IT FOR REAL, AND THERE IS NOTHING ANYONE CAN DO TO STOP HER. SHE’S ALREADY GONE.

I STAND UP, MY THIGHS PEEL AWAY FROM THE PLASTIC CHAIR. SHE STANDS TOO AND MISINTERPRETS MY PULLING AWAY FROM THE CHAIR AS A LEAN TOWARDS HER. SHE PUTS OUT HER ARMS FOR A HUG, LIMPLY, A HABIT OF MOTION ONLY. I RESPOND TO THE HABIT. MY ARMS GO AROUND HER AND SUDDENLY WE ARE BOTH HUGGING TIGHT, TOO TIGHT.

WE ARE EACH OTHERS LIFELINES BUT WE ARE BOTH DROWNING. ’’I CAN’T SAVE YOU!” I WANT TO SCREAM AT HER. I LET GO.

AT HOME, HE ASKS ME HOW IT WENT. I SHRUG. I WON’T SAY MY THOUGHTS ALOUD. IT MIGHT MAKE THEM COME TRUE. HE KISSES THE TOP OF MY HEAD AND TELLS ME HE LOVES ME. ’’I KNOW,” I SAY. OUR LITTLE JOKE, BECAUSE SOMETIMES I CAN’T SAY THOSE WORDS. ’’I’M PROUD OF YOU,” HE SAYS.

I’M FEELING SICK TO MY STOMACH, ’’WHY?” ’’I KNOW HOW HARD IT IS FOR YOU TO GO THERE.” ’’WELL, I’M NOT GOING BACK.” ’’I KNOW,” HE SAYS.

OUR LITTLE JOKE.

BECAUSE THAT IS WHAT I SAID YESTERDAY.

PULL APART THE MOMENT. SORT THE PIECES BY WEIGHT, - A CURVED FINGER - PART OF A WHISPER - A SUSTAINED GLANCE - THE EDGE OF A HUG - A SIGH - A ’SO?’ - THE CORNER OF A LIP, UPTURNED.

SHAKE THE BOX, TAKE EACH PIECE OUT OF CONTEXT.

INSPECT FOR CONJECTURE WITH LENSES OF ASSUMPTION AND FANCY.

FIND WHAT I WANT TO FEEL.

COMPLICATED: HOURS SPENT, PIECES IN HAND, EYES CLOSED, STARING AT THE CEILING, INVENTING CLUES IN TEXTURE, TASTE AND TONE.

I AM MY MOST ALIVE, ENTOMBED WITHIN THIS MOMENT.

FRUSTRATED FUN, THE HOLIDAY ENDS, THE PICTURE UNFINISHED. PIECES SWEPT BACK INTO THE BOX. UNTIL NEXT TIME.

HE CALLS FROM A PAYPHONE. ’’I’M GOING TO THE WOODS,” HE SAYS. I TRY, ’’OH? UM. YEAH?” THEN, BECAUSE I CAN’T STOP MYSELF, ’’WHY?” ’’GODDAMMIT!” HE EXPLODES AT ME, ’’BECAUSE IT’S ALL I CAN FUCKING DO RIGHT NOW! OK?” QUICKLY, ’’YES! YES, OK.” I TAKE A DEEP BREATH. ’’BUT JUST THINK, YOU COULD COME HERE?” HE NEEDS TO BE REMINDED OF CHOICES. ’’YEAH, YOUR HUSBAND WOULD LOVE THAT.”

THE TWO MEN IN MY LIFE, MY ENGINEER HUSBAND, WITH HIS CHECKLISTS AND FAIL SAFES AND BACKUPS FOR THE BACKUP PLAN, VERSES MY BROTHER, THE ARTIST. MY HUSBAND: ’’IF HE’S AN ARTIST, SHOW ME HIS WORK. SHOW ME ONE THING HE’S CREATED. JUST ONE.” MY BROTHER: ’’ART ISN’T QUANTIFIABLE.”

’’DO YOU HAVE FOOD?” I ASK MY LITTLE BROTHER, ’’WATER, A TENT, MATCHES? A SHOVEL? PLIERS?” ’’PLIERS? REALLY?” HE LAUGHS, A LOW CHUCKLE THAT FLOWS DOWN MY BACK LIKE WARM WATER. THINGS AREN’T AS BAD AS THEY SEEM.

’’I’VE GOT IT COVERED,” HE SAYS. THIS ISN’T THE FIRST TIME HE’S PULLED A THOREAU. I WANT TO CRY. BUT INSTEAD I SAY, ’’IT’S ALREADY FALL.” MY VOICE SOUNDS CHOKED. ’’I WISH YOU’D GET A CELL PHONE.” ’’YOU KNOW THOSE THINGS RADIATE CANCER.” I HOLD IN MY SIGH. I DON’T WANT TO END ON AN ARGUMENT. ’’I LOVE YOU, PLEASE BE CAREFUL.” ’’I WILL.”

I HEAR THE CLUNK OF THE HEAVY OLD HANDSET HITTING SOMETHING, BUT THE CONNECTION DOESN’T END. PERHAPS THE BYGONE PAY PHONE IS BROKEN AFTER ALL. I HEAR THE SQUEAL OF THE PHONE BOOTH DOOR AND THEN THE SOUNDS OF SHOES HITTING PAVEMENT, A BRISK WALK THAT QUICKLY FADES AWAY.

LONG MINUTES LATER, I STILL HAVE THE PHONE TO MY EAR, ABSORBING THE SOUNDS OF THE OCCASIONAL PASSING CAR AND WHAT MIGHT BE A HOOTING OWL, WHEN MY HUSBAND ENTERS THE KITCHEN. ’’WHO IS IT?” HE MOUTHS SILENTLY. THEN HE POINTS TO THE STOVE. THE PASTA WATER IS BOILING OVER. I TAP THE END CALL BUTTON. ’’NO ONE,” I SAY, TURNING DOWN THE FLAMES. ’’SILENCE.”

LEAVE ME ALONE WITH MY OPINION, PLEASE. DO NOT QUESTION ITS VALIDITY, ITS VERY WORTHINESS, BECAUSE IT DOES NOT CORRESPOND WITH YOUR OWN. YOU ARE OLDER THAN I AM, AND MORE EXPERIENCED, IT IS TRUE. HOWEVER, THAT DOES NOT MEAN YOU KNOW WHAT IS BETTER FOR ME.

THIS IS NOT 1952. WE ARE NOT YOUR PARENTS.

A HUSBAND CAN NOT DICTATE A WIFE’S LIKES AND DISLIKES.

JUST BECAUSE I CAN NOT EXPLAIN TO YOU HOW I REACHED MY CONCLUSION, THE STEP BY STEP PROCESS BY WHICH I DETERMINED WHY I LIKE SOMETHING, THAT DOES NOT MEAN I DID NOT TRY HARD ENOUGH.

AND YOU KNOW THAT IF MY OPINION MATCHED YOURS, YOU WOULD NEVER LOOK FOR AN EXPLANATION AT ALL. IF I AGREED WITH YOU ON THIS, YOU WOULD THINK I HAD DONE ALL THAT DEEP THINKING YOU BELIEVE IS REQUIRED FOR EVERY SINGLE STUPID LITTLE DECISION.

CAN WE, FOR ONCE, NOT FIGHT ABOUT WHY I LIKE WHAT I LIKE? CAN WE PLEASE JUST AGREE TO DISAGREE? PLEASE, JUST THIS ONCE?

CAN I PLEASE JUST ENJOY MY CHOCOLATE ICE CREAM BEFORE IT M EL T S ?

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