The Great Inspiration

It’s quiet, in her house. Just the sound of her putting her groceries away in the kitchen. It’s very clean, too. It doesn’t seem like her at all but I guess nine years will change a person. I’m sure I’m not how she remembers me.

“You’ve got a nice place here,” I say, watching her from the doorway. She smiles, and it’s genuinely happy, not some polite or forced expression, and I should be more pleased than I am that she really is happy.

“Thanks! It’s all Al. He’s a lawyer now, you know. Real successful. Real busy, too, but we have long vacations in the summer. Can you believe we went to Paris? The view from our room alone….”

She keeps talking about Al and Paris and I can’t stop thinking that this isn’t her, this isn’t the Jaya I knew. Because, sure, Jaya always wanted to get out of Wellington and go on adventures—I remember when we hitchhiked to Paraparaumu on a whim one night—but not to hotels. Not to the cushy tourist spots in Europe. She’d wanted to climb Kilimanjaro, and to discover the source of the Nile. My old flatmate Charlie once asked her why she would want to do all those things. She laughed. “Because I’m sick of cleaning my room.”

I lean against one of the spotless counters as she rambles on about a fancy vineyard where they made a show of stomping on grapes. Her hair is longer than it used to be, but pulled back into a tight bun. I try not to miss how it felt in my fingers when it was shorter, when she dyed it a different colour every few months. One time she dyed it bright orange but she hated it so much she shaved her head and vowed to never dye it again. I guess she followed through on that promise. It’s dark brown now. Seeing her like this feels strange. Like seeing an alternate reality. I want to ask what happened to her.

“Oh, Eliza, I forgot to ask: do you want something to drink?” She’s standing with her hand on the fridge door, looking at me expectantly.

“It’s just Liz now,” I say.

“Oh.”

“I’m not thirsty.”

She seems out of words now, hand falling from the fridge, so we just look at each other, taking in the differences. It’s uncomfortable. I want to just do what I came here to do, just apologize and leave, but the words won’t come out. They catch on the backs of my teeth, pressing forward almost painfully.

Jaya breaks the silence. “You look well. Healthy.”

“Yeah, you too.” I don’t know what that means really. If we both looked unhealthy before. I just want her to be like her old self again, and I’m beginning to regret my impulsive decision to come here unannounced, waiting for her to return home. I wish I hadn’t looked her up on FaceBook and searched through her photos obtusely thinking that she must be the same, that she can’t have changed. That she’d still want to hear my sorry excuses.

“So are you—” Jaya pauses. “You know. Married? Seeing anyone?”

No, I just got out of a long-term relationship with this girl. Rachel. You would’ve liked her. We clicked, you know, we got along real well. But a few weeks ago she found a picture of you in my closet and I couldn’t tell her that I didn’t still love you, so. Now I’m here.

“Yeah,” I say, “I am seeing someone. It’s going well.”

Jaya blinks. “Good. That’s good. I’m happy for you.” She smiles, polite. It clashes with my memories of her swearing drunkenly at passing strangers. Or at me. Looking at her now, you’d never know how she used to hide whiskey in the bottom drawer of her dresser and under sinks, or that she bullied that kid Austin in high school because he didn’t get acne and to her that meant he “wasn’t human”, or that she would go on smoke breaks to blow bubbles because she wanted to be The Great Inspiration of her time. Capitalized like that. I didn’t know what it meant, but I loved her for it. This new Jaya with her polite smiles looks empty in comparison.

“I think I’ll have something to drink,” she says swiftly, and I half expect her to pull out a beer from the fridge. She takes out milk.

She’s wearing this comfortable-looking blue sweater and it looks good on her but wrong too, because she used to refuse to wear blue. “Everyone always wears blue,” she would complain. I wonder if it’s Al that’s changed her or if she did it all on her own. If she would’ve changed even if we had stayed together this whole time. If she’d still be wearing blue today.

“People change!” Jaya exclaims suddenly, and I look up from her sweater, startled, to see that she’s watching me.

“What?”

“I see how you’re looking at me,” she says and her hands are shaking slightly as she pours some milk into a short glass. “I know I’m not the same person, okay? Did you really want me to still be that way? Still irresponsible, and selfish?”

“Yes,” I reply honestly. Because I need to apologize to Jaya, but I don’t know this person standing in her place.

She reaches to close the milk carton but her shaky hands just knock it over and a torrent of white pours across the counter and onto the floor. It splashes on the side of my shirt, and Jaya is immediately gasping and grabbing for a dishcloth.

“I’m sorry!” she says, wiping at my clothes. I stop her hands with mine gently. “I’m sorry,” she says, searching my eyes, and she’s not talking about my shirt. “Eliza, I’m so sorry. I never should’ve pushed you away. I’m so sorry, so sorry.”

And she looks so pathetic with her watery brown eyes that I pull her into a tight hug, even though she’s a stranger, not my Jaya, not my Great Inspiration.

Milk pools at our feet.

She keeps saying sorry, even though I’m the one who was supposed to apologize, I’m the one who cheated on her.

But I can’t force the words out. My teeth ache with them.