Second Chance
Forgotten
For the next couple of weeks, we sit in the living room talking, after Amelia is asleep.
Ellen tells me stories. Of me. Of her. Of us. Of all the things that I've forgotten.
My mother was German, my father Brazilian.
They died when I was seventeen.
A year before I met her.
I was a bartender, before I died.
Her parents were of Irish decent, but they never really claimed it. Just said they were white.
She hasn't spoken to them in four years.
She is an English teacher. She'll be going back to work in the fall, just two months away.
She always hesitates before going into stories about our relationship. Like she has to phrase things perfectly. Like she has to be careful not to let something slip.
I know that I've hurt her. Physically, emotionally. I'm not sure of the extent of that pain. I don't know why I did it. But I know, and I know that I don't know. I've no idea of the actual toll it must have taken on her.
But she never mentions these things. She never talks about the nights I came in drunk, or high. Of the nights that I beat her.
She tells me of the things she loved about me, of the happiest memories, of the best days, that she can remember.
"You were nervous," she tells me, "I could tell. I had no idea why. You were thinking really hard about it. About what it would be like meeting my parents for the first time. And of course, it was a disaster. They saw how tan you were, and immediately asked if you were part black. I was so embarrassed. When we left, you felt like it was your fault things went badly, even though my parents were the ones who were completely ignorant. I kept trying to reassure you, to cheer you up. You looked up at me, and told me that you had to tell me something. I was sure you were going to break up with me, I was positive. You were going to tell me you couldn't see me anymore. But instead, you looked straight at me, and said "I love you." I was shocked, completely dumbfounded. I'd been waiting for what seemed like forever to hear you say those three words to me. After realizing a little late that that was my cue to say it back, I finally said it back. And then you kissed me. It seemed the most magical kiss. There were no fireworks, but it was better. Like I was jumping in a big bowl of cherry jell-o--which is my favorite food by the way--it was just amazing."
I am silent, as I imagine what it would be like to kiss her now. With these new lips.
"When you have someone, you never stop to think how easily they can be taken. How they can leave. Disappear. Exit you life at any given moment. And when they come back, you can't even begin to wrap your mind around them staying. I wake up everyday wondering if you're still here. I get up, expecting you to be gone."
"I promise you, Ellen, I'm not going anywhere. I'm staying right here, with you, and Amelia."
Ellen tells me stories. Of me. Of her. Of us. Of all the things that I've forgotten.
My mother was German, my father Brazilian.
They died when I was seventeen.
A year before I met her.
I was a bartender, before I died.
Her parents were of Irish decent, but they never really claimed it. Just said they were white.
She hasn't spoken to them in four years.
She is an English teacher. She'll be going back to work in the fall, just two months away.
She always hesitates before going into stories about our relationship. Like she has to phrase things perfectly. Like she has to be careful not to let something slip.
I know that I've hurt her. Physically, emotionally. I'm not sure of the extent of that pain. I don't know why I did it. But I know, and I know that I don't know. I've no idea of the actual toll it must have taken on her.
But she never mentions these things. She never talks about the nights I came in drunk, or high. Of the nights that I beat her.
She tells me of the things she loved about me, of the happiest memories, of the best days, that she can remember.
"You were nervous," she tells me, "I could tell. I had no idea why. You were thinking really hard about it. About what it would be like meeting my parents for the first time. And of course, it was a disaster. They saw how tan you were, and immediately asked if you were part black. I was so embarrassed. When we left, you felt like it was your fault things went badly, even though my parents were the ones who were completely ignorant. I kept trying to reassure you, to cheer you up. You looked up at me, and told me that you had to tell me something. I was sure you were going to break up with me, I was positive. You were going to tell me you couldn't see me anymore. But instead, you looked straight at me, and said "I love you." I was shocked, completely dumbfounded. I'd been waiting for what seemed like forever to hear you say those three words to me. After realizing a little late that that was my cue to say it back, I finally said it back. And then you kissed me. It seemed the most magical kiss. There were no fireworks, but it was better. Like I was jumping in a big bowl of cherry jell-o--which is my favorite food by the way--it was just amazing."
I am silent, as I imagine what it would be like to kiss her now. With these new lips.
"When you have someone, you never stop to think how easily they can be taken. How they can leave. Disappear. Exit you life at any given moment. And when they come back, you can't even begin to wrap your mind around them staying. I wake up everyday wondering if you're still here. I get up, expecting you to be gone."
"I promise you, Ellen, I'm not going anywhere. I'm staying right here, with you, and Amelia."