Goodbye

Struggling Goodbye – Scott Micheel

She wasn’t perfect. Neither am I, Lord knows. She used to smoke. She was a book snob. She never, ever washed the dishes without prompting. But we were engaged for a long time. Lived together for three months. It ended ugly, of course. The look on her face, the rage in her eyes . . . mostly the sound of her shouting at me – I’ll never forget that. Her face is so strange now. No emotion whatever.

We started dating in college. First met in an English class. She ended up majoring in comparative literature, or somesuch. She always felt that gave her the right to disdain anything I read. “That’s the kind of attitude I’d expect from a science fiction fan,” she’d say. Or mystery fan, anyone who didn’t worship Hemingway, or, the ultimate insult, a Stephen King fan.

But we had good times. She loved hiking and camping, long talks on just about any subject, and the occasional Thai dinner. We once got into a deep discussion about prehistoric man, she relating items from her Anthro class, me countering with examples I’d picked up from Psych and History, over a wonderfully spicy batch of take-out.

I kidded her once, after a short climb up a hill, on how hard she was breathing, how out of shape she was. Jokingly indignant, she replied that it was my job to keep her muscle tone up, and that I’d better start doing the job right or she’d have to get help elsewhere. The respirator helps her now.

She was always cuddly. She loved to be touching; hugs, back rubs, sitting close, all the things young lovers do. Especially warming her cold hands on me. Usually by sneaking up on me from behind and grasping my neck. Invariably gave me gooseflesh. I touch her hand now, and it’s warm. Something important there.

She liked seeing new movies. Actually, she liked going out to see movies. With me, with friends. We’d always end up in a restaurant or bar or coffee house later, picking the movie apart, almost always declaring it fatally flawed, even if we enjoyed it. She always came up with a redeeming feature though, or when we were stuck after a really good movie, a problem with the plot. She liked to start arguments.

I can’t say she changed after we moved in together. It was the same old stuff as always, just more of it. I don’t think I changed. We just came to realize what we let ourselves in for. She’d get on me about cleaning the place, feeding the cat, forgetting phone messages that were of the utmost importance . . . I’d reply about the money situation, the car, her late nights out with her girlfriends . . .

Later it became bills she wouldn’t pay and an attractive girl I worked with. In the process of moving out, a number of items got thrown. The last time I saw her, she threatened me with a kitchen knife over a missing CD. Love gone to hate. Corrupted into its opposite.

She stated plainly that she wanted kids. More than one, and fairly soon after we were married. I wasn’t really too hot on the idea. Afraid, actually, about the awesome responsibility. I’m not a highly spiritual guy (neither was she) but one thing I know; I might or might not be a good father, but I’d be in it for the long haul. To create a child, and then fail him, is surely damnation. We were always careful about protection. I never really saw her as a mother. I was kind of afraid to find out how she might take to it. I tended to try to postpone her plans . . . Wait until you get your degree. We really need to be making more money. Shouldn’t we look for a house first?

I wonder what she’d say now. We’d both been brought up Christian; she Baptist, me Methodist. We both pretty much ignored it all. We’d discussed life after death, of course. Never came to any conclusion that I can remember. We were both too young to be worried about such things. She did flirt briefly with going Buddhist, because one of her friends was. I took some history courses in Islam and eastern philosophies. But nothing ever took.

She defended deeply anything feminist, though she never seemed to apply any such thought to her own world. She would deeply criticize a movie for sexist attitudes, yet expect every sort of polite male behavior from me – from opening doors and helping her with her coat to ordering for both of us at a restaurant to paying for everything myself. That actually prompted a strange complement from her. When called on this seeming contradiction, she replied that she knew all about me, and that the one thing I wasn’t, was sexist. So she felt comfortable in her role as the traditional female, knowing that if she wanted, she could change the situation with a word. I grumbled that it was a convenient way to keep my wallet empty, but she just looked smug.

She was beautiful. Still is. Short black hair, curly ends. Great figure, nice face. And gorgeous eyes. My special weakness. The kind of girl that never looks at guys like me. A completely different circle of friends, of interests, of life. The guys were amazed that she would enter my world for me. Her friends just tolerated me, I think. I’d like to believe my friends were jealous, but they surely realized, long before I did, that life with her was like a roller coaster.

She had this incredible ability to jump from one extreme to another in just moments. We would be playfully discussing what to have for dinner, and whose turn it was to cook, and isn’t there enough left in the account to go out to eat just once more . . . and less than a minute later she’d be yelling about something I’d done, or forgot to do, and I’d end up with a cheese sandwich while she went out to eat with the phone bill money.

My psyche texts described that as a bipolar disorder – manic-depressive behavior. I don’t know if she ever saw any therapists. I’m pretty sure she didn’t while she was seeing me. She did have a prescription once for Prozac, but the university health clinic is fairly generous with stuff like that . . . at least to hear other students talk about it. The subject never came up with us.

I hear the nurse talking about organ donation. I can’t help but smile a little. One time she was at her most charming, on one of her crusades, she’d already registered as an organ donor, and was trying to get everyone she knew to join her. And so I’d filled out a living will about what to do with my mortal remains, and the look in her eyes was so bright and dazzling, like I’d done something so heroic, so unselfish, so exactly-what-she-wanted . . . We ended up in bed that night. I suppose they won’t bother with her lungs. Too damaged by acid & bile.

She never really had goals, as such. She’d wanted to be a teacher, even got her teaching certificate, but gave it up after one year of high school English. She worked as a grad student, as a secretary, even at McDonalds for awhile. The job I think she liked best was at the bookstore. She had to give that one up because the hours were ridiculous, and she was intent on getting her degree that year.

I know she’d had other boyfriends before me. She once boasted, in the middle of a fairly normal conversation otherwise, that she’d been tested for AIDS four times. Struggling to say something, I mumbled that being tested wasn’t exactly reassuring . . . Looking back on it now, I’m amazed that she didn’t blow up at me right there. But all she did was hastily reassure me that she’d passed the tests, and the conversation went on from there.

I wonder if she ever saw anybody after we split up. I haven’t, really. But it wouldn’t surprise me if she did. It’s been almost a year. And she was always so . . . social. It was so hard, those first few months, to ever catch her alone. She was always with a group of friends. Mostly with people who’d alienate me instantly. Come to think of it, I don’t think they ever really liked me. Not a warm shoulder in the bunch. I can just hear her friend Danielle; what she probably said after we broke up. God, what they’d say if they saw me here now. I’d be lucky to leave without the cops being called.

I could have called the cops on her. One of my friends says that in this state, just shaking your fist at somebody is technically assault. That last night, when she actually waved the knife at me, was when it finally sunk in that we were finished. Actually, we were yelling so loud I’m surprised the neighbors didn’t call the police on both of us. I suppose she’d claim self defense or something. I’d never do it, of course.

One of my favorite lines is, “It’s better to have a horrible ending, than to have horrors without end.” Such a great phrase. Another is “Quitting is always an option.” That one has given me lots of grim hope during bad times. When the job got so bad, when the longing kicks in at night; I’ve got a choice. And usually, that means looking at both sides, and I realize things aren’t quite as bad as I’ve made them out to be. I’ve quit sometimes.

It was her mom that told me. In a completely deadpan voice. Not like she was in shock or anything. Not really tired, like maybe she had repeated it so much that it had become automatic. Just completely without emotion. It’s a wonder that she called me at all. She never seemed to care about me that much. Always urged me to take care of her daughter. Maybe I grew on her, just a little. I know I was in her life longer than any of Amy’s other boyfriends.

I wonder if it was suicide. I think I’d rather believe that, than have it be a stupid accident. One thing she wasn’t, was dumb. But she liked to drink as much as anyone. I don’t know. Maybe.

She looks so still. Even with the ventilator going, and the heart monitor. Even in sleep she had a kind of energy, a kind of dynamic . . . Now it’s hard to connect the two. The doctor explained that the EEG was flatlined. Completely unresponsive. Brain dead. Lack of oxygen for too long. With the damage to the lungs, there’s just no hope.

So this is our last goodbye. I’ll come to the funeral, of course. But you’re already gone. Just looking at you, I can tell that. Something vital is gone. There’s been a hollow feeling in my stomach ever since your mom called. If there is an afterlife, I hope you find it. I loved you.

Did I love you?

I must have, once. I think I might still. Despite all those things I said. Despite the fights, despite all the anger and frustration. Some times, I’d have been glad to see you here. But now. . . all I can think is that it’s such a waste. I don’t even feel pain, exactly. Just this sense of loss. And I’m not even sure what. It’s like I’ve lost a chunk of me, but the edges are numb. I know something’s missing, but I can’t tell you what it is.

I wonder if I ever cried in front of you. I must have, during a movie, or one of your sad songs. You cried lots of times with me. But I have no tears right now. Sorry about that.

“Steve.” Danielle just walked up. I didn’t notice her come in. She and Amy were best friends. She always took Amy’s side, without fail. I haven’t seen her in over a year, though. She’s dressed up; business suit. She’s been crying, you can tell. Looks frazzled. Suit’s rumpled a bit. A wisp of hair escaping. And the plain, harsh face. No makeup, a bit puffy and red around the eyes. She really needs a bit of makeup right now.

“I flew in as soon as I heard. Is there any hope?” She knew there wasn’t. You could see it in her face. I was tempted, briefly, to lash out at her, start an argument. But I didn’t have the energy. And it just wouldn’t be right. I shook my head sadly.

“Doctors say she’s already gone. They’re keeping her here while the paperwork goes through about the living will.” I glanced at her, and she smiled a bit too. Amy had gotten to both of us on that. Not a bad kind of legacy, I guess.

“Will you be in town long?” I asked. I’d heard she’d gotten a great job in Portland. Something corporate. Something that required a suit.

“Just until after the funeral,” she replied. “Do you know if anybody would object to a wake? I had an idea on the plane, to get all her friends together one last time and just share remembrances.” Her voice was a bit hoarse. Gravelly. “To let me say goodbye,” she said softly, eyes bright with unshed tears. “The last time I talked to her was almost three months ago. Dammit!” she said, as she wiped her face with a tissue.

I thought about it. It’d be good for me, I suppose. A chance to make a final peace. But I couldn’t face her friends. Danielle wasn’t especially hostile back then, until the split, but Jen & Dave, Ashley, Frank. They’d all give me that cold stare. Like it was my fault. I haven’t seen her in almost a year! How was I supposed to know? My silence seemed the best answer.

“Would you come?” she pleaded. I looked at her, and saw her anguish like a physical thing. Danielle was suffering. She had known Amy even longer than I had. I can’t imagine why she moved away. It can’t have been just money. They worked at McDonalds together, way back when. But she did, and I see it in her face, hear it in her voice. She feels guilty too.

“Of course,” I said softly. “But they may not want me there. We didn’t end on exactly good terms.” In fact, Amy had said she’d send Frank to get her CD back from me. Frank played football for two seasons at the University; fullback, he outweighs me by a hundred pounds. But nothing ever happened with that.

“No, you’ve got to be there too.” Her voice took on a determined note. “Everybody.” Danielle had been a business major. I’d thought she was too flighty, too much, well, like Amy, to make a good businesswoman. But I watched as her expression changed, became harder, more controlled. Maybe I was wrong. “Friday night. After the funeral. At Mulligans.” A restaurant near campus. “I want you there, too. Just to share memories. Did you ever see her, after?”

She wasn’t looking at me now. I guess I had accepted. But she wanted to know about me, about how I felt . . . would I make a scene. Would I actually ruin her last chance to share a final goodbye with her old friends? And I can tell, already, that she still wants me there. She trusts me. It moves me, somehow. I look back at Amy on the bed.

“I haven’t seen her in months. I don’t think we spoke since the breakup.” And I too meant something else by that. Did you hate me too? For the whole thing, the split. God knows, we’ve carried such a load of anger and bitterness around since, I’d be surprised if some hadn’t rubbed off on her.

Danielle turned her head to me, and just like that, said “She didn’t hate you.” And it was a moment or two before my stomach returned. She meant, too, that she didn’t hate me either. But I was suddenly aware again of the hollow feeling inside, the sense of loss. An Amy-shaped hole in my soul. God! Emotions just poured over me, like a flood. For an instant, a great weight was lifted – one that I didn’t even realize I carried. Such a sweet feeling, a chronic pain that’s suddenly gone! And then, like a railing collapsed under me, I plunge into that empty pit. Nothing objective anymore, the sense of loss drills to my bones. I feel the tears come, now. This new pain is so much worse . . . It’s all I can do just to stand, for a few moments, eyes tightly shut, tears trickling down my cheeks. God yes, I loved her! She was my life! I probe hesitantly, tenderly, inside myself, but all my anger is gone. Swept away. A broken dam.

Danielle gives me a minute. When I finally take a deep breath and open my eyes again, she went on. “Amy always blamed herself for everything. You remember. Everything was in relation to her. A month later, you were a saint in her eyes. Putting up with her for as long as you did, and she’d finally drove you away. That’s why I asked if you’d gotten together again. We all knew how much you two cared for each other.”

Guilt returned, like a toothache, on top of everything. Why do I feel guilty that she felt guilty? I realize the answer to that one right away. Because it takes two to argue, that’s why. “It wasn’t only her fault,” I say. My voice is strained now, too. Low and uneven. I wipe my eyes with my hands. She hands me an extra tissue, and I blow my nose.

“You’ll be there, right? At the wake?” She knows I will, now. I actually manage to smile at her.

“Absolutely. And . . . thanks.” She knows, and manages to smile in return. Just before I turn to leave, she gives me a hug. One-arm. I return it fiercely for a moment. It helps.

The whole evening and following day passed in a blur. I must have eaten, slept, read the paper. But I don’t remember anything about it. I moved in a daze, somehow both happy and sad. My feelings were just intoxicating, overwhelming, after a year of suppression. And her death.

They said actually that her body would probably still be alive during the funeral. But there was no lack of participation for that. They held it in a Baptist church. Her mom & dad were seated together in the front row, stoic and emotionless. They’ve been divorced for years. And there were easily seventy to eighty people there. Amy’s friends seemed to be lost among so many friends of her parents. Funerals are for the survivors, I heard once.

It was a boring ceremony. Full of “God’s will” and “Kingdom of Heaven,” read straight out of the book. Could have served for anyone at all. Only once during the whole thing did they even mention her name. We stood and prayed, and sat and listened. I nodded sadly in greeting at several friends we had known. They returned the same nod. Nothing deep, just acknowledgment of each other and the whole sad situation. As the service concluded, we all seemed to gravitate into small groups, just to talk and catch up on each other. I found myself listening to Danielle, repeating pretty much what she had told me about the wake she was getting together. I passed the news around to others in the area, as I moved from group to group.

There were no recriminations from anyone. I mean, we were still in the church, but no one seemed at all ready to hold me responsible. It was a profound relief. Actually, I seemed to sense the same guilt in a lot of people. That we’d lost touch, hadn’t been there for her.

About a dozen of us ended up at Mulligans. Took over one wall and moved four tables into one long one. Ordered food and drinks, and started telling little stories among ourselves. About Amy, and us. Ashley telling of one time she and Amy had gotten drunk and almost been arrested. Frank relating how hard Amy’d hit him once. Me recalling how incredibly sweet she was when she came down with the flu. She seemed to think that it was in incredible imposition on her friends. She’d be so apologetic over the phone, how bad she felt that she had to cancel whatever was planned. Even if she could barely talk and had a raging fever. She’d lie in bed suffering rather than go get aspirin, but if I could do it for her, she’d be so grateful. And then feel guilty about making me go get it.

It all helped. This was the kind of thing that a funeral should be. Remembering the good times. There was laughter here. Even from me, as Jen and Dave finally told the truth about what happened after the English 312 finals one year.

But I noticed that there was nothing recent. I asked about, and everyone seemed to have lost contact with Amy. It made me sad, in a new way. Maybe it was suicide. Danielle produced Amy’s little phone book. She’d asked Amy’s mom for it, to arrange the wake. It had my new number, just two months old.

We all grew a bit more melancholy as the drinks continued. I found out that I was the only one who actually knew what happened. It wasn’t pretty. Her mom had told me, in that deadpan voice, when I asked what happened. She hadn’t told anyone else. I wondered if she’d said it to spite me. Or maybe it was just that she thought I deserved to know. Amy had been living back with her mom, working part time. One evening, without any warning, they found her lying on the couch, unconscious, not breathing. Not a word was spoken as I related this to the group.

They’d called 911, and were able to resuscitate her, but it was already too late. Turns out she’d taken some Valium her mom had around, and she’d been drinking. She fell asleep, and choked on her own vomit. Lack of oxygen to the brain for too long, there was nothing anyone could do.

The group sat in silence. You could tell everyone was asking themselves the same question. The tension grew and grew, as guilt and shock and horror spread over their faces. I finally had to break the silence, and I felt a bit bolder as I remembered examples from my Psych classes.

“I don’t think it was suicide,” I said. “There was no note, no indication that it was planned.” I had their whole attention. “Suicides almost always leave something behind. Jumpers usually take off their shoes. Amy once told me that if she ever found out she had cancer, she’d want to go out in a blaze of glory. Live life to its fullest. Go places, do things. Exit in a spectacular fashion.” You could feel the tension drain away as I talked. “It was just a stupid accident,” I said. “Such a damn waste.”

The crisis was over. Some small talk continued, but we broke up pretty quickly after that. Nobody ordered anything else to drink. We said our goodbyes to each other, and trickled out. Danielle gave me another hug. Both arms. I hugged her back.

“Thanks,” she said. For everything, she meant. Just like me, I could tell that a great weight had been lifted inside her. She had gotten her goodbye. I think I had too. We all had. Not a happy one, but an ending. We could get on with our lives now.

And I when I got home, I checked the mailbox. Among the bills and the offers, was a square package. From Amy. Inside was the CD. Not a replacement, it was the CD. Scuffed case and all. Taped to the case was a little note that simply said “Sorry. Amy.”

I punched the wall once, hard. And collapsed on the bed, crying into the pillow.