Love Song

This story is about overcoming the past, everyday existence, and emotional distress.

Every couple is guilty of four things: we lie, we cheat, we exaggerate, and we try to love. We want to stop arguing and we want things to work out in the end, so we do what all good-hearted loving people do: we lie. We wrap our arms around each other reassuring ourselves that everything is going to be alright, and we can make it through; but that doesn’t make it any better so we quit...

Looking down at her in that sterile, antibacterial hospital bed I wanted to tell her the truth. I wanted her to know what I knew. I wanted to tell her she would be gone tomorrow. I wanted to tell her that I knew the baby wasn’t mine. I wanted her suffering to end, so she could stop torturing herself with endless possibilities and scenarios. I wanted her to find relief, knowing it would all be over soon, but I loved her and I lied.
I told her she was going to be okay, that they were letting her go. The tissue had started to grow back and her body was recuperating, growing stronger. Her immune system was regaining control and soon she’d be out of the hospital. We’d get to go to Europe and finally see Paris. She wanted that so bad...but she could see the truth in my eyes and she just looked up at me and cried; she knew that I knew.

I wanted to hold her close and wish away her pain, but I couldn’t. No one could…

* * * * * * * *
In my dreams, she first came to me silent and watchful. It wasn’t her, of course, but after piecing everything together, I finally figured out what everything meant, and I knew she was there, haunting me as I slept...

She used to call me sexy; she used to say things like “kiss”, “love”, and “fuck”. She used to ask me to touch her—now she doesn’t let me.
She told me I wasn’t the man she had fallen in love with. I told her she didn’t know me because I didn’t know her. She claimed I was a Christian and that I believed in God and the triumph of good over evil. Of course, I told her she was full of shit.

* * * * * * * *
She starts calling me boring—she says that I’m “damaged and distant”. She says I never talk to her anymore; “I don’t understand”, she says, “We used to be different”. She claims to miss the way we used to be, the walks, the talks, the massages, the late night laughing parties—the love. I tell her I don’t know why everything has changed and that I don’t understand. She tells me I‘m being indecisive and “non-confrontational”, just what she hates. I tell her I don’t know what she is talking about and she starts to hang up the phone; then I tell her she is dying and I wake up.


<The Palace Hotel; 0630 am.>
Shit. It’s still dark outside. I almost had a good night, too, if it had not have been for that damn circus freak-show fucking beating through the floor below me—I don’t think that couple ever sleeps; poor bastards. Besides, I can’t shake that damn dream:

I open the front door of our house and I find her on the living room floor, crying. She tells me the test results came back positive and I’m going to be a father. I fall to my knees, crying, thinking about how happy we are and how everything is finally falling into place for us; our little American Dream coming true. I tell myself not to be afraid, that everything will work out; that we will be together forever...

When she was around, she would smile at me over morning coffee and tell me how much she loved me, and how she knew we were meant to be together for life, “destiny”, she used to call it. I always smiled back and told her how lucky I was that she was alive, and that she was mine, and how no one had ever made me feel the way she did.

In my dream, we make plans for a family, and decide to get married. I promise her the world and give her the sky. But it never seems to be enough...she always knows something’s amiss, and she knows I know.

I liked the way she used to wiggle awake in the morning, gently nudging me as she stretched her arms and got out of bed. I remember how I used to watch her in the shower, absolutely in love with her. And I remember how she would smile when I got home from work each night: she loved me, too.

I knew we were dying, falling apart, but never wanted to think about it. Instead, I would ponder things like what might have happened had I given her the ring three weeks after I did. I started to believe she would have said “no” instead of “yes”. My mind would wander and I would fall asleep.

In my dream, though, we have a daughter—a little bundle of love that I helped create. I think about how she starts school in three moths, and I’m afraid she’ll miss the bus; just like I did when I was a boy. I worry that she’ll never know “mommy”, and that she won’t understand, but I know she’s smart—she takes after her mother.

I would watch her lying there, in bed, and I would try to figure out what she was thinking. I wondered if she could hear the words, “I love you”; and I wondered if somehow she still loved me, too. I think of the night we had a fight and she stayed with her sister. I remember how helpless and alone I felt after hearing that she was going to stay there for a while. I wanted everything to work out, for our lives to go on together, but I knew I couldn’t take back what she had done. It hurts too much to think about, so I don’t any more.

It feels good to let go.

I sometimes think about the day we got to the hospital after her miscarriage and how much pain was painted on her face. I think about the tears we shared, as the doctors explained what had happened. “Stress”, they said. “Take it easy” they said. Easy...that was just the beginning...

In my dream, I wonder how she made it the whole time without shedding a single tear. I wonder how she could possibly handle that burden, carrying it around for all that time like some new cancer, and I feel embarrassed for crying so much. She was always so strong, but when I see her now, she seems weak—beaten. I can never stand to look at her like that, so I walk down the hall looking for coffee. I ask her if she wants anything, pretending she can hear me, and I bring back two cups, just in case.

I was so angry when she took off and told me to sit in the car that I wanted to kill everybody there—I wanted to put a bullet between the eyes of each of the “friends” that had lied to me in the beginning, claiming they were “nothing serious”. I wondered how they could have lied to me, even I could see through the bullshit eating away at her. I remember crying again, and my heart wanted to explode and my stomach wanted to vomit.

In my dream, she wakes up and asks me why I look so sad. I never tell her that she won’t be here tomorrow and that she only has a few more hours of breath left. I can never tell her that I will be waking up alone, somewhere far away from everything she knows; a ghost of our life together. I can’t explain to her that their cancer has spread to her soul, and that it has grown so strong there is nothing we can do, so I lie.
No matter how many times I have this dream, no matter what variations there are each time, it always ends the same way; just as it should have so many years ago:

I try to tell her that I am sorry, that I wish things were different, that I wish she didn’t have to go. I want to wrap her in my arms and tell her everything is going to be alright. I am afraid, and want to cry, but I have to be strong for her, and I lie.

* * * * * * * *

<The Palace Hotel; 0830 am.>
I woke up alone again today, still jealous of what’s outside. I looked out the window of this cheap hotel and saw the faint, foggy remnants of a life I no longer recognize as my own. An empty whiskey bottle sat tipped on its side on the floor, and a pack of cigarettes lay by the bed. I thought of what happened years ago, the visions still haunting me after all that time. I thought about home, whatever that is. I thought about my cough, and the blood I spat into the tissue the night before. I tried to fall asleep again, but my stomach growled, telling me to eat.

The hotel serves a complimentary breakfast every morning with fresh scrambled eggs, griddled bacon, hot toast, and an assortment of juices. Most days I don’t even move from my bed, but today is different. Besides, after a heavy night of drowning pain in an alcoholic daze, nothing seems more inviting than runny eggs and soggy strips of pig fat—nothing eases the mind like a good, wholesome breakfast. I rise from my bed and stumble to the bathroom.

There’s a picture on the vanity mirror of a man and a woman I barely recognize. The man has long brown hair that matches the reddish brown of the beard on his cheeks, and the woman has a plastic smile and painted eyes—a china doll waiting to be broken.
She told me I could keep the picture as a reminder, but I have all but forgotten what I was remembering; I guess it didn’t work.
The lady at the front desk once said it was a shame things didn’t work out—she really thought we had a chance. She told me I’ve lost track of myself and said I should get help. She told me it’s not my fault. She told me I need to get more fresh air, go walking, ride a bike, or play a sport. I told her to mind her own insecurities and headed to the bar downstairs—I hope she didn’t mind.

* * * * * * * *

<The Palace Hotel; 0900 am.>
I think about it as I brush my teeth, and decide to go shopping after breakfast—there’s a blonde that works at the bookstore down the street and I’ve convinced myself that she likes me. I always flirt with her when I go in, and she seems to flirt back—I just have trouble making the first move; it’s been a while since I’ve been with anyone—intimacy is a distant friend. Besides, there’s a new book about the human mind written by a doctor whose name escapes me that I’ve been meaning to read. Maybe I can ask the blonde and she can guide me in the right direction; it just seems like an expensive way to get a phone number...

For now, I’m going to go downstairs and fill my stomach with citric acid and dead animal. It can’t be any worse than the food at summer camp.

The hostess’ name is Bunnie, or so her nametag says. I’ve seen Bunnie before, in passing, but never gotten a good look at her. She is about five foot five, has bleached blonde dreadlocks, and beautiful artificially darkened skin—the epitome of west coast sex. Bunnie usually works weekends, but apparently someone called in sick and she agreed to cover for them; I learn all of this as she escorts me to my table in the hotel’s version of a dining room—a hospital lounge with much less sterility. It must be my lucky day. She smiles as she sets a plate in front of me and scampers off back to the front. I smile back as I stare down at the greasy table cloth, still groggy form the night before.
I inhale my food trying to fight off my headache, slurp down a cup of coffee, and head back upstairs. As I leave, I whisper in Bunnie’s ear, mentioning drinks and a “pay-per-view”, she blushes and giggles, but regretfully declines—she tells me her fiancée wouldn’t appreciate that too much, and I realize it’s turning out to be another day alone.

* * * * * * * *

<The Palace Hotel; 0930 am.>
After I shower, I stand at the sink, thinking about Bunnie and her “fiancée”. I think about the girl in the bookstore: the blonde with the cute face. As I shave, I daydream about rescuing them from their boring lives and living happily ever after—a fairy tale ending to this fucked up life they call “insane”. My thoughts drift, and I catch myself thinking out loud:

I wonder if Bunnie likes to sleep late on Sundays—maybe she goes to church.
Maybe she thinks I‘m cute.
I wonder if the blonde at the bookstore likes psychology.
Maybe she reads poetry...maybe I can read some of my work to her.
Or, maybe, she just likes to fuck and she’ll be able to teach me some new things.
Now you’re talking...
More wasted time thinking I'll be good enough for anyone. Who am I kidding?

I think about crying and then realize there’s no point….So I quit.

But today could be different...

* * * * * * * *

<The Palace Hotel; 1015 am.>
I think I’ll go down to the bookstore; there’s a book I’ve been meaning to read about the human mind that was written by some doctor whose name escapes me. After all, I could try to get that cute blonde to give me her phone number—maybe we can go out to lunch. Then I can bring her back to the Palace and introduce her to Bunnie, and maybe, just maybe, we can all come back up here and make love on the bed all afternoon—beside this picture of a man and a woman I no longer recognize...

And when I fall asleep tonight I’ll tell her the truth: I’ll tell her she isn’t going to make it...that we’re over; and even if she doesn’t want to believe me, she will, because I believe me. And she’ll forgive me for all of the times I lied to her in the past—for all of the times I tried so hard to bring her back, to make us okay. Tonight I will let her go...forever.

Yeah, today will be different…