final nightmare
Thursday 9 August 2007 | someone left a cookie
The Brujo drives me, giddy with relief and with twelve-hour computer head, to Trader Joe’s for the mercilessly addictive ice cream bonbons, which are small slops of molten chocolate by the time we’re back in the car and I open the box, because we live in Tartarus. I email the 285-page document to its publisher and we collapse into bed, giggling and in my case half-weeping with fatigue (though his own abrupt, unexpected school orientation schedule is taking its toll on him as well).
And sometime around five-thirty (which I happen to know because of my neurotic cat) I dream that I’ve gone back to the Monk. We spend one night together, the details of which are blessedly obscured, except that the sex is, as it always was, wild and various and probably pretty kinky. When I, as it were, come to in the dream, it’s sometime in the dark of the night and we’re lying in bed planning our escape. We’ll run away together to coastal Georgia, for reasons which now escape me, and live on an island and work dumb jobs and have a cheap house and figure out where to go back to school. (Not entirely unrealistic; we often wondered whether he could finish his undergrad at the same place I could get my PhD—such are the strange questions which arise when seeing someone twelve years younger than yourself.) We’re staying at his dad’s house; his father is a lot like the Republican’s, and in fact the whole dream has the flavor of that era in my life—young, uneducated, thrashing around, putting up with a lot more than I should.
Morning comes and we’re packing excitedly, talking over our journey. We’ll go by Greyhound (another vestigial symbol of “the lost years” in my twenties). As we pack I realize that the bedroom’s queen-sized heirloom quilt and Persian carpet, both tastefully rustic, won’t come with us. They’re not his—they belong to his parents. I feel lied to, and I wonder what else we won’t have. I move more and more slowly, deliberating, as he gets more and more wound up and manic. Hang on, I think; I’m almost 39 years old now. I’ve already done this! Starting with nothing, scrambling, struggling. I don’t have to do it again. And he’s being nice now, because he’s getting his way, but what will he be like when I cross him? He’ll be vicious. And what about the Brujo? I miss him already. Will he take me back after this foolishness? I don’t want to do this with the Monk—move in together and fight and make love and pay rent and thrash around. I want to do it with the Brujo.
I also know that when I spring this on the Monk he is going to completely flip his lid, and this possibility terrifies me (as well as proving my point, that he can’t take not getting his way). So I carry on packing, but just quietly put all my things separately. When we get down to our cars I’m just going to load mine up and take off as quickly as possible, I decide. It’s cowardly and it’s the only way I can think of to get away without being really hurt; I’m actually afraid he’ll hit me. My now-usual moving-anxiety dream ensues, with being unable to find stuff and trying to arrange it in suitcases, bags and boxes. But miraculously by the end of the process I’ve found everything—even my cellphone charger. We go downstairs together in loops, carrying all our belongings. The Monk is flushed and excited. My stomach curls with dread.
There’s just one thing I have to tell you, I say to him as calmly as possible. But he senses something is up anyway and arches an eyebrow, a characteristically pre-emptive expression of derision. I’m not going with you.
I can literally see him struggling not to lose his temper (another familiar sight in real life). Finally he’s able to open his mouth and only be sarcastic. And this, I finish, grabbing handbags and backpacks and moving away, is a big part of why not. Because you can’t hear the word no without getting mean.
At this he withdraws completely into stolid silence and coolness, an entire okay-FINE-then series of gestures, contenting himself with throwing pithy barbs over his shoulder as he moves his stuff into his own car—of which the only one I remember is, Good luck getting a PhD now, with your chequered past! But I know it’s just ill-temper and hurt feelings and for the most part I ignore him and finish getting ready for a long drive to—somewhere, plugging in the cellphone and making sure my wallet’s accessible. I worry, not a little, about where he’ll go—the Beautiful Trench? one of his friends or siblings? on to Georgia?—and what he’ll do—work? take drugs? drink? stop taking meds? practice Zen? go back to college? get himself together or screw himself up?—but I also know it’s none of my place to ask him this, or for that matter to ask him anything. I just forfeited all my rights to be concerned for him.
At the end of the dream we stand facing each other to say goodbye. I know in the deepest way possible I’m doing the right thing. There are small fragments of scrambled egg stuck all over his face and this makes it oddly easier. I feel more sympathy for him than need. For some reason (his increased wrath?), though, I don’t want to tell him I’m going back to the Brujo, so I wonder—should I tell him I’m going to Texas, to see Z. or my parents?
But he doesn’t ask, to my relief; just says a few more sharp-tongued things and then, in pure frustration, does try to hit me. His blows are weak and feeble, though, and glance off the side of my face. I jerk back, startled, consider myself lucky to have got off so lightly, and then turn to leave when out of the corner of my eye I see him running at me with a large red metal oxygen tank. I try to flinch aside but it connects with my skull with a thud. I cry out, in fear more than pain. See, it’s like I said, you were always so scared, he jeers. I’m just trying to show you there was nothing to be scared of, it doesn’t really hurt. But you would never believe me. You never trusted me. He draws it back to strike me again, to prove his point and demonstrate my flaw once more. I hold completely still, whimpering aloud, waiting for it to be over so I can leave. All I can think, over and over, is: I want to go home.
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Goodbye, Monk.