Tiptoe Through the True Bits

They say driving while emotional is just as dangerous as drink-driving. As I cruised through Jersey that night I kept thinking I was going to be pulled over and arrested for crying. I didn’t care where I was going. I just drove. For miles and miles.

The thinking was killing me. I’d been putting it off for a long time but suddenly I couldn’t escape it anymore. Something inside me needed to know why it was that Gerard acted so cold towards me. I wanted to know why he couldn’t stand to touch me, or speak to me, or even be in the same room as me. Why it seemed like he pure straight hated me.

The most logical conclusion was that he somehow thought that all of this was my fault. That he assumed my bad driving had killed his unborn son. And the more I thought about this possibility, the more likely it seemed. And the more likely it seemed, the more true it seemed.

I mean, here I was now, driving around the city an absolute wreck. I could barely see the through my tears and I was thinking too much to really be paying attention. Maybe if I hadn’t been so caught up that night in whatever had happened at work, then I would have seen that motorcycle before it was too late. Before the bright light blinded me. Perhaps I had killed not only my child but also that poor driver. Perhaps this really was all my fault. I took a left turn and headed home.

By the time I parked back up on the driveway I was sobbing so hard I could hardly breathe. I wasn’t surprised that Gerard hated me. I hated myself. I was so prepared to walk into that house and take my husband’s hands and tell him that I was sorry; sorry for everything I had done, sorry for tearing this relationship apart and sorry for taking so long to realise that it was really all down to me. I would have begged him to forgive me and to love me again like he used to.

But I didn’t get the chance. Because I arrived home to an empty apartment.

All of his stuff was gone. His music and his clothes and even his shower gel. It was as if he were never here. The only reminder of him was the portrait that hung above the fireplace, and a note on his pillow:

Elise, believe I never wanted this.

That was it. Not even a name or a kiss at the end. Just six little words that broke my heart.

His cell was off. I called his mom and she told me he was staying with a friend but she wouldn’t say who or where. She said he needed to clear his head. I felt like she was trying to shut me out. I felt like I had nobody again.

Until Amber came over. At first I didn’t want to answer the door, but then I decided I should, just in case it was Gerard. I was almost disappointed that it wasn’t, but Amber was incredible. She made me tea and stayed up all night talking to me. I told her about everything. About Gerard being distant. About how miserable I was without him. How my heart shattered when I came home and he was gone.

She stayed the night with me. And then the next night. And the next. I never wanted her to leave me. She was all I had now. She was my only hope. My only reason to be here.

When I was alone, I would paint. At first I tried to get back to the landscapes but there was no passion in them anymore. They would always turn out bland. So I started to pour my heart into my art. I drew lovers. All kinds of lovers. Happy and sad, gay and straight, black and white. Painting love gave me some hope. Hope that maybe one day my husband – shit, my husband – would come back and we would be in love again.

The hope faded, but never left.

Weeks turned to months and then years and I never heard from him. I assumed he’d still gone to college and was probably living in New York. I wondered if he ever thought about me. I thought about him all the time; especially when I sat watching TV in the living room and my eyes wandered up to that painting above the fireplace. I didn’t have the heart to take it down.

It was never as simple as just ‘getting over’ our relationship. We were married. We were so in love. He hurt me badly, but I guess I probably hurt him too. It’s not like I swore off men or anything. After a year or so I started dating but I never met anybody I really liked. I never met anybody like Gerard, and I never would. So eventually I more or less gave up. I had other things to busy myself with.

Amberlyn and Mikey broke up pretty soon after she moved in. I always thought it was my fault, despite her trying to tell me otherwise. She finished high school and worked as a receptionist for her dad’s construction company. Since I didn’t charge her rent she’d insist on buying all of our groceries and paying the bills but she still had ample money left over. Mostly she saved it. She’d never tell me what for.

Amber was incredible. She was always there, if I was feeling a little down, if I needed her. She’d be right there with me. And she never complained. She never told me to shut up and calm down. She just listened. She reminded me that none of it had been my fault. That Gerard had had no right to run away just because we’d argued. She helped me.

But the nights were the hardest. During the days I could busy myself with my paintings, or fixing up the house, or cooking and whatnot. But during the nights I would climb into that big bed all by myself and I would be reminded that I was alone. I’d be reminded that this was mine and Gerard’s bed. We used to sleep here together. We used to make love here. We used to talk about our deepest feelings here. And then it reminded me of when things changed. When we used to lie here as strangers, back to back, and I would cry silently into my pillow because I felt so alone. And now, I really was alone.

All I had was my best friend, and my paintings, and my hope.