“Can You See the Real Me?” by Christina Berry
Wednesday October 13, 2004
Am I happy? How would I know? What is the measure of happiness?
Up until yesterday, the three-hundred-sixty-fifth day of my twenty-eighth year, I’d thought I was happy, or at least not unhappy. And I’d naively thought that happiness was somewhat binary. Like a light switch—on, off; light, dark; happy, sad. Or like one of those creepy clowns who moves his hand across his face as he shifts his expression from one extreme to the other—psycho smile, freaky frown, with nothing in between.
God, what an idiot I’ve been. How has it taken me twenty-nine years to see the obvious? To recognize that happiness, like all human emotions, isn’t black and white, but rather a spectrum of shades of gray.
Is there anything so simple in the human condition? Well, there’s death. Death is simple. You can’t get much more binary than that—1, 0; alive, dead.
Regardless of what I used to think, my reality is now forever changed, a birthday present I can’t return. Here I sit, on the dawn of my twenty-ninth year, at the end of the front row of pews in this quaint little church in this quaint little town, tears streaming down my cheeks, wondering how to quantify my happiness—or rather my unhappiness. It’s making me miserable, this little epiphany of mine.
Little is the wrong word, though. There is nothing little about my revelation. This isn’t an idea illuminated by a single incandescence bulb flickering to life over my head. No, this dawning irradiates with the flash burn of a nuclear bomb.
I look up, half-expecting to see a mushroom cloud puffing up over my head, filling the chapel with the pulverized debris of my former notions. But there’s nothing there, only a clear view of the honey-toned oak beams that hold up the roof, and the vaulted tops of the massive stained glass windows which flank the parishioners with cheery, colorful mosaics forming various tableaus—Jesus, a lamb, a dove, a star.
At my side, Greg glances up, too, as if to catch a glimpse of whatever it is that’s captured my attention. When he sees nothing special, he frowns at me before turning his attention back to the pastor at the front of the church.
I start to sniffle again. I blow my nose into the handkerchief Greg’s father gave me at the start of the service. The wet, snotty sound echoes up to the steeple and bounces against the towering windows, nearly drowning out the voice of Pastor Rick.
I glance at the pastor and catch a glimpse of Grandpa Chuck behind him, his face just visible above the edge of the casket. Speaking of death and its binary morbidity, there lies the reason we are all here today. Charles Elton Hendricks III is dead.
I quickly look away, down at the handkerchief fisted tightly in my lap, smears of black where my mascara has marred the white linen. I can’t bear to see him like that. He looks so strange. The mortician has done a good job putting a bit of color in his cheeks to make him look almost alive, just resting, but with his hair combed over and dressed in a light blue suit, he looks like someone else. He looks like the ‘used car salesman’ version of himself.
Grandpa Chuck was a rough and rugged old man, whose entire wardrobe consisted of denim overalls and white t-shirts. He had a half-naked woman tattooed on his arm, and if you asked him to, he would make her undulate and wiggle on his flesh while he sang an Elvis tune. He was missing the tips of two fingers on his left hand, but could still play a mean guitar; even played with Bill Monroe a few times. He was a moonshiner back in his youth, a train hopping hobo for a time, and spent more than a few nights in jail. He had lived a full, long life—a life of bluster, moxy and gusto; a life filled with all the best stories.
Grandpa Chuck was no used car salesman.
Of all the stories told of or by him, my favorites by far were the stories about Millie. Grandpa Chuck’s eyes would sparkle and his smile would stretch wide across his wrinkled face as he’d reminisce about the night he first laid eyes on her.
There was never any doubt in his mind—Millie was his love, his one and only for the seventy-one years they got to spend together. She took a little convincing, lead him on a bit of a chase, but soon she was just as smitten and their love never wavered. They were still in love three days ago when Millie sat beside Grandpa Chuck’s hospice bed, squeezing his frail fingers in the grip of her tiny hand, and promising that she would see him again soon.
With that thought, tears start to well in my eyes…again. Shit. I’m crying…again.
Sniff.
At my left, Greg squeezes my hand and leans close to whisper in my ear. His tone is soothing yet vexed as he asks if I’m okay. It’s a dumb question. Do I look okay? I nearly laugh.
Jesus, who could laugh at a time like this?
Funny, asking Jesus dumb, rhetorical questions while sitting in a church. That thought nearly makes me giggle even more. I cover my mouth with my fist, swallowing the impulse, and slowly nod.
Wanting to quell his concern, I try to cry more demurely, but it’s impossible. I’m an ugly crier, always have been. As far back as I can remember, bawling over skinned knees and playground bullies, my face would puff up and my cheeks would stain with blotches of bright red, like a half-ripened tomato. It’s never been a pretty sight. Without a mirror to check, I can only image what I look like right now in my neatly pressed black dress, my long dark hair tightly twisted into a knot on the nape of my neck, my makeup tidy and understated, except for the raccoon bandit mask of smeared mascara and drippy, bloodshot eyes.
The congregation is singing now, Amazing Grace, but I can’t find my voice. I stare down at the pages of the Hymnal that Greg holds on his lap, my vision swimming in tears. I sniff again and blow my nose, then look up at my husband.
Greg isn’t singing either. Sitting with his head lowered, he stares blankly at the song book’s tablature. He looks as handsome as ever, his classic-Hollywood good looks complimented by the clean lines of his understated slate gray suit, his strong jaw cleanly shaven and his honey brown hair neatly combed back. But his eyes, normally a warm whiskey color, are a cold steel gray today.
I frown at his void expression. He doesn’t notice as he suppresses a yawn with the back of his hand. I smile, feeling an odd sense of relief to be able to attribute his hollow look to exhaustion. Of course he’s exhausted. When he received the call about his grandfather’s stroke, we’d made the trip from Austin to this corner of Appalachia in one night. We’d wanted a chance to say our goodbyes before Grandpa Chuck quietly passed away three days later. The last week has taken a toll on us all, emotionally and physically.
I reach for Greg’s hand and squeeze. He glances at me, blinks, then gives me a half-hearted, toothless grin before turning his gaze back down to the song book. I look over his shoulder to Jake, our best friend, and smile. He looks even more dark and intimidating than usual, decked out in all black, his posture ramrod straight, his hands clasped tightly in his lap, and his long jet black hair plaited into two tight braids that hang down his chest. He sings the hymn lyrics from memory, and despite his imposing physical presence and perpetual scowl, his powerful baritone voice is a welcome, soothing comfort. I grin to myself, listening for a moment more before I look back down at the hymnal in Greg’s lap, only now noticing that it’s open to the wrong song.
****
Outside, Greg, Jake, Greg’s brother Matt, and a myriad of Hendricks cousins carry the cherry coffin to a spot beneath the wide branches of a hickory tree. The hole is already dug, and at the head of it sits a wide gray granite tombstone emblazoned with the name ‘Hendricks’ on the back. On the front, Grandma and Grandpa Hendricks’ names and birthdates are already etched into the stone. Soon, Grandpa Chuck’s death date will be added beside a void beneath Grandma Millie’s information, a placeholder marking the time until she joins her husband in eternal slumber.
The morbid inevitability of it sends a cold shiver through me. I have to look away, distracting myself with the details of the blue pop up tent set off to the side, three rows of plastic chairs laid out for family to sit. No one is sitting except for Millie. Everyone else seems more interested in stretching their legs as they get in a smoke and mingle with close and distant relations.
In her black wool dress and wide-brimmed hat, Millie looks tiny, so frail and delicate. For a moment I think how odd it looks to see her sitting alone. If Grandpa Chuck were here, he would have his lanky arm draped over her slim shoulders, comforting her sorrow away. Then again, if Grandpa Chuck were here, she would feel no sorrow.
I can’t stand the thought of her alone, so I join her, leaving Greg and Jake behind to make my way up the aisle along the edge of the tent. I gingerly take a seat in the plastic chair beside her. Millie glances over at me and flashes a quick, friendly grin. Her gaze moves back to the cherry casket surrounded by sprays of fall floral arrangements and I stare with her.
After a moment, Millie quietly laments, “This morning, I read an article in the newspaper that he would have found interesting. I wanted to tell him about it, and then I remembered that he’s not with me anymore.” She pauses. “I miss him.”
Fresh tears prick my eyes and I reach over to squeeze Millie’s hand in mine. It seems like such a small gesture, given the wound she’s just exposed to me, but she places her other palm over my fingers and squeezes in kind. I glance at her and she smiles at me.
“Ari, it’s your birthday today, isn’t it?” Millie asks in a soft voice.
I grin halfhearted and nod, almost embarrassed to admit it.
“How old are you now?”
“I’m twenty-nine.”
“Well, goodness.” She smiles and it’s genuine. What an incredible woman. “So young, and with so much time ahead of you.” She leans in, as if to tell me a great secret. “Don’t waste a moment of it, honey. It moves so fast, faster than you realize. Cherish the time you have and the people you love.”
I force a grin for Millie’s sake and try to swallow the lump in my throat. It takes everything in me not to start bawling again. I glance up at Greg, the man I’ve spent twelve years of my life with, and try to imagine the next sixty…
I frown and furrow my brow with concentration just as Greg glances my way. He sees my frown and returns it in kind, then looks away, his eyes focusing past me, just over my shoulder. I watch him a moment longer before I too look away, past my husband to the valley beyond.
Fall leaves fill the landscape with fiery color—brilliant shades of orange, yellow, and red. Despite the cold of the day, the surrounding mountains are ablaze with ardent color, like an inferno stretching down the hillsides to the valley below, ready to engulfing us in flames.
I shiver.
****
I soak in the tub until every part of me is pruned and the water has gone tepid, then wrap myself in my old bathrobe and curl up on my old bed to stare out the window at the glooming day. I watch the moving shapes of clouds and wavering colors of leaves before eventually allowing my eyes to drift out of focus.
Vaguely, I note the sound of the front door opening and closing with a heavy bang. Greg’s voice echoes from a distance as he calls to me and then to my parents. He’s greeted with only silence. I clear my throat as if to answer, but there’s no need. With heavy steps, Greg trudges up the hallway and finds me in my old room. He closes the door behind him before crossing the room to sit on the edge of the bed. Sliding his shoes off, he pauses and stares at the floor, alone with his thoughts.
The silence between us is unnerving, I speak just to fill the space. “My parents went to take a casserole to your grandma, and grab some fried chicken for dinner. I told them we weren’t hungry. I hope that’s—”
Greg nods, but doesn’t speak; doesn’t even look at me. I reach my hand over and lay it on his thigh.
“Greg, I’m sorry about your grandpa,” I offer in a soft voice. “And I’m sorry I was so…weepy. I’m not sure what came over me.”
Greg nods again and shrugs, still staring down at the plush carpet at his feet.
I stare hard at the back of his head, urging him with a silent plea: say something, say anything; please, just look at me.
The telepathy works. Greg turns to look down at me, letting out a long, deep sigh. He gives me no smile, nor a frown. He is blank, the lines of his face rigid and cold, like marble—a beautiful statue. With a tilt of his body, he leans closer to me, bracing his weight on one hand while he uses the other to play with a tendril of my hair, then tuck it behind my ear.
Slowly he leans down and kisses me. It’s gentle at first, a delicate brush of his lips over mine, but almost immediately his demeanor changes, his movements become harder, more urgent and insistent. He curls around until he’s on top of me, his weight pressing my back into the soft springy old mattress. I grunt as the air whooshes out of my lungs.
He moves fast, a frenzy of fleet fingers and hot breath. Tugging at my robe belt, he tries to free me from it, but his maneuvers only tighten the terry cloth rope. He settles for pushing the front flaps aside, and fixes his mouth to one of my breasts, sucking and nibbling.
“What if my parents come home?” I let out a nervous giggle as I whisper. I can’t remember the last time we had sex in my old bedroom. Probably before we were married. The idea excites me almost as much as it excited me the first time we had sex in this bed, on the night of my eighteenth birthday when I snuck him through my window and he took my virginity.
Greg gives me a sexy half grin and whispers back, “We’ll be quiet.” Then with a rough edge to his words, he nibbles at my neck as he adds, “Please, Ari, I need you right now.”
At my nod, he groans and fumbles with the zipper on his pants. He enters me with a sharp thrust. I gasp at the sudden fullness, wince at the pinch of pain, but soon my body relaxes around his length. I moan and arch my back as I brace one palm against the headboard and I use the other to grab at him, my nails pressing sharp through the fabric of his slacks to prick his ass, spurring him on. With each stride, his tempo increases until he’s pounding into me. I can’t help but come. I’m easy like that. I freeze and spasm and bite his neck to quiet my cries, and my climax triggers his. He lets out a groan as he comes inside me. Spent, he collapses on top of me.
Lying beneath my husband on my childhood bed, his weight pressing down on me, I can’t help but cry. I’m easy like that. Greg pushes up onto his elbows, and stares down at me in horror, terrified he’s hurt me in some way. The stricken look on his face saddens me even more. Tears slip from the corners of my eyes as I reach up and press my palm against his cheek. He furrows his brow with confusion until I lean up and gently kiss his lips. Relieved, he drops to the side of me and gathers me in his arms, hugging me close to his chest.
Whatever dam existed within me washes away, and I am overcome with tears. I sob uncontrollably, sometimes moaning loudly, and other times, just heaving and shaking with silent convulsions. Greg tenderly strokes my hair and whispers soothing sounds into my ear, patiently letting me cry until I run dry. Then we lay together in silence. As I’m about to drift off to sleep, Greg’s raspy voice breaks the silence with a groan and a curse, “Ah shit.”
I frown at him, confused.
“It’s the thirteenth, isn’t it?” Greg grimaces and pinches the bridge of his nose. “I forgot your birthday, didn’t I?”
“Your grandpa died; you’re excused.”
“I didn’t even get you flowers. I always get you flowers.”
It’s true. Like clockwork, every birthday and anniversary Greg brings me a bouquet of Stargazer Lilies. Trying to lighten the mood and his guilt, I chuckle and point to the assortment of funeral floral arrangements covering every inch of my old desk. Millie had insisted I take a few flowers with me, then loaded me up like a pack mule. “I have plenty of flowers.”
Greg barks out a half-hearted laugh. “Well, I’m still sorry. When we get home, I’ll make it up to you. I promise.”
I give him a thin grin before I close my eyes, lay my cheek on his chest, and drift off to sleep, finally drawing this birth and death day to a close.