LJ Idol Season 10, Week 4: "I don't skate to where the puck is..."
“Mel shouldn’t move in with us, anymore.” Her words are final; her blue eyes icy.
You blink and squint at her, trying to wrap your head around this. “Why not?” The words are past your lips before you can stop them. Part of you knows better than to even ask. What she says goes; it’s how it’s always been -- it’s how it always will be.
“She hasn’t been putting in the work,” she says as she settles onto your dad’s couch. You’re just days from moving into your own place for good; living on your own with your small child and your brother. Melissa was supposed to be joining you, too, but -- now your wife is saying otherwise. It doesn’t take her long to cross one leg over the other, to square her shoulders and her jaw as she continues:
“She’s been flaking whenever me and my dad have been trying to get the house up and ready -- she’s not acting as if she wants to be there or like we’re offering her a great deal, considering people’d pay us a lot more than two hundred for what’s basically a full apartment upstairs…”
You take in every word, nod in the appropriate places. You’re not sure you agree with her -- Melissa’s done more than enough work. She works third shift. She’s fucking exhausted, yet still making it out to the house to help move furniture or clean or paint as your father-in-law directs the repairs, even if it’s not for as long as your wife thinks she should be there.
There’s also the fact that Melissa acted as a live-in babysitter for the first year of your son’s life. Your crazy, goofball son who’s now passed out in the spare bedroom of your father’s house -- though you suspect he’ll only be asleep for another hour or two.
Melissa has always been there for you guys; always helped whenever she could. And your son adored her, treated her like another parent. Because she more or less had been.
But when your wife finishes listing the reasons -- when she finishes detailing exactly why Melissa is longer worthy of living in the same spacious, five bedroom house as you, you find yourself glancing down at your computer screen and nodding.
“I’ll tell her,” you whisper, offering your wife a reassuring, albeit shaky, smile. “She’ll take it better, if it comes from me.”
So you memorize everything your wife had said; lay out the details in your mind, picking them up one by one and examining them. You breathe them to yourself as you fall asleep. Rehearse them for when you see Melissa in person next.
It’s not easy, telling her that maybe it’d be best if she didn’t move in. It’s not easy, because this girl is one of your closest friends and you love her like a sister. It’s not easy, because without this woman, you’d have had no one, those first six days of your son’s life, and you’ll never stop feeling so grateful for that.
Her hazel eyes widen behind her square glasses, her bottom lip catching underneath her teeth for a moment. And you see the flare of anger, but she rakes her fingers through her shortly cropped hair and it’s gone with the rise and fall of her arm.
It’s not until a couple of days later, after you think that maybe the dust has settled, that she messages you: look, I need you to be honest with me and tell me exactly why you decided you didn't want me to move in, cause I'm assuming what you told me is not everything
You stare at the message for a long time. It takes you a couple of hours to respond, to construct it just so, to make it clear that there will be no changing your nor your wife’s mind, while explaining your standpoint as clearly as you can.
You send it, and you wait, and you hope for the best.
***
Your friendship never fully recovers from the message you sent; from the blow you’d dealt to it, highlighting the flaws you and your wife saw in Melissa and in whether she’d appreciated all the things you’d both done to her.
She dies six months later -- not even -- just a few days after New Years. You’d last seen her at your place, laughing and giggling and just a little tipsy, playing Cards Against Humanity, and for a few wonderful hours, it felt like maybe things were working their way back to how they used to be. And then she got into her car, headed to work, and never made it in.
A drunk driver. Your wife is devastated -- all the destruction and pain she’d witnessed in Afghanistan, and Melissa is still the first friend she’s lost to death.
Your brother falls into the worst depressive state you’ve ever seen him in.
And you -- you do your best to hold things together. To keep the house moving. To keep it functioning, despite the pain, despite how, to this day, a part of you shuts down when you hear American Pie -- Melissa’s favorite song.
You can’t look at your facebook messages to her, though you occasionally post notes to her wall. How this reminded you of her. How you thought of her that day. How you’d wished she could see the second season of Legend of Korra. How proud she’d be of your son and all of the progress he’s made.
Because when you look at the last words you’ve exchanged with her through facebook, it’s those messages -- her “look, tell me what I did wrong,” and your “here, let me detail exactly how you fucked up.” Except you hadn’t put it like that, of course.
But you might as well have, and a part of you can’t handle the guilt.
***
Four years pass since Melissa’s death.
In those four years, your marriage has dissolved. You’ve started working again and changed jobs and moved out of that five bedroom house. Your son has made so much progress he’s even been awarded Student of the Month, standing on a small stage wearing his Pikachu hoodie, and actually remaining in his spot.
You wish more than anything that Melissa was here, standing beside you, cooing over your son and how cute he is, how sweet he is, how much more aware he’s gotten of the world and everything around him. Your ex-wife isn’t at the ceremony -- you told her about just a few weeks ago.
You purposely hadn’t reminded her that it was tonight.
The last thing you want right now is to talk about your son’s development with her -- how this doesn’t mean he couldn’t be doing BETTER, how he can’t keep improving or how this means you don’t have to push him.
Because the thing is, with your ex-wife, nothing is ever good enough.
There is no amount of progress that’s just right. There’s no amount of effort that’s enough. You can bend over backwards, sacrifice everything you have, and you’re still wrong. You’re still not doing it right. You’re still not there for her and you’re abusive for not giving her everything she wants -- for daring to put boundaries up when they’re needed.
If you’d just realized this years ago, maybe you wouldn’t have gotten married to her in the first place. Maybe you wouldn’t have tied yourself to her for the rest of your life by having a child with her -- though you love that child more than anything and want the world for him.
Maybe, if you’d realized this years ago, you’d have told your ex-wife that maybe you were being too hard on Melissa. And maybe if you’d had, you’d still have one of your best friends by your side, helping you through some of the roughest years of your life.
But you can’t predict life. You can’t predict where you’re going to be -- whether you’re in the path of a drunk, out of control driver and whether this ride to work’ll be your last, like Melissa.
You can’t predict, but you can sure as hell try your best to anticipate.
And as much as you anticipated having to stare into those icy blue eyes with all your carefully constructed courage, you’re so glad you don’t have to rely on it, tonight.
You blink and squint at her, trying to wrap your head around this. “Why not?” The words are past your lips before you can stop them. Part of you knows better than to even ask. What she says goes; it’s how it’s always been -- it’s how it always will be.
“She hasn’t been putting in the work,” she says as she settles onto your dad’s couch. You’re just days from moving into your own place for good; living on your own with your small child and your brother. Melissa was supposed to be joining you, too, but -- now your wife is saying otherwise. It doesn’t take her long to cross one leg over the other, to square her shoulders and her jaw as she continues:
“She’s been flaking whenever me and my dad have been trying to get the house up and ready -- she’s not acting as if she wants to be there or like we’re offering her a great deal, considering people’d pay us a lot more than two hundred for what’s basically a full apartment upstairs…”
You take in every word, nod in the appropriate places. You’re not sure you agree with her -- Melissa’s done more than enough work. She works third shift. She’s fucking exhausted, yet still making it out to the house to help move furniture or clean or paint as your father-in-law directs the repairs, even if it’s not for as long as your wife thinks she should be there.
There’s also the fact that Melissa acted as a live-in babysitter for the first year of your son’s life. Your crazy, goofball son who’s now passed out in the spare bedroom of your father’s house -- though you suspect he’ll only be asleep for another hour or two.
Melissa has always been there for you guys; always helped whenever she could. And your son adored her, treated her like another parent. Because she more or less had been.
But when your wife finishes listing the reasons -- when she finishes detailing exactly why Melissa is longer worthy of living in the same spacious, five bedroom house as you, you find yourself glancing down at your computer screen and nodding.
“I’ll tell her,” you whisper, offering your wife a reassuring, albeit shaky, smile. “She’ll take it better, if it comes from me.”
So you memorize everything your wife had said; lay out the details in your mind, picking them up one by one and examining them. You breathe them to yourself as you fall asleep. Rehearse them for when you see Melissa in person next.
It’s not easy, telling her that maybe it’d be best if she didn’t move in. It’s not easy, because this girl is one of your closest friends and you love her like a sister. It’s not easy, because without this woman, you’d have had no one, those first six days of your son’s life, and you’ll never stop feeling so grateful for that.
Her hazel eyes widen behind her square glasses, her bottom lip catching underneath her teeth for a moment. And you see the flare of anger, but she rakes her fingers through her shortly cropped hair and it’s gone with the rise and fall of her arm.
It’s not until a couple of days later, after you think that maybe the dust has settled, that she messages you: look, I need you to be honest with me and tell me exactly why you decided you didn't want me to move in, cause I'm assuming what you told me is not everything
You stare at the message for a long time. It takes you a couple of hours to respond, to construct it just so, to make it clear that there will be no changing your nor your wife’s mind, while explaining your standpoint as clearly as you can.
You send it, and you wait, and you hope for the best.
***
Your friendship never fully recovers from the message you sent; from the blow you’d dealt to it, highlighting the flaws you and your wife saw in Melissa and in whether she’d appreciated all the things you’d both done to her.
She dies six months later -- not even -- just a few days after New Years. You’d last seen her at your place, laughing and giggling and just a little tipsy, playing Cards Against Humanity, and for a few wonderful hours, it felt like maybe things were working their way back to how they used to be. And then she got into her car, headed to work, and never made it in.
A drunk driver. Your wife is devastated -- all the destruction and pain she’d witnessed in Afghanistan, and Melissa is still the first friend she’s lost to death.
Your brother falls into the worst depressive state you’ve ever seen him in.
And you -- you do your best to hold things together. To keep the house moving. To keep it functioning, despite the pain, despite how, to this day, a part of you shuts down when you hear American Pie -- Melissa’s favorite song.
You can’t look at your facebook messages to her, though you occasionally post notes to her wall. How this reminded you of her. How you thought of her that day. How you’d wished she could see the second season of Legend of Korra. How proud she’d be of your son and all of the progress he’s made.
Because when you look at the last words you’ve exchanged with her through facebook, it’s those messages -- her “look, tell me what I did wrong,” and your “here, let me detail exactly how you fucked up.” Except you hadn’t put it like that, of course.
But you might as well have, and a part of you can’t handle the guilt.
***
Four years pass since Melissa’s death.
In those four years, your marriage has dissolved. You’ve started working again and changed jobs and moved out of that five bedroom house. Your son has made so much progress he’s even been awarded Student of the Month, standing on a small stage wearing his Pikachu hoodie, and actually remaining in his spot.
You wish more than anything that Melissa was here, standing beside you, cooing over your son and how cute he is, how sweet he is, how much more aware he’s gotten of the world and everything around him. Your ex-wife isn’t at the ceremony -- you told her about just a few weeks ago.
You purposely hadn’t reminded her that it was tonight.
The last thing you want right now is to talk about your son’s development with her -- how this doesn’t mean he couldn’t be doing BETTER, how he can’t keep improving or how this means you don’t have to push him.
Because the thing is, with your ex-wife, nothing is ever good enough.
There is no amount of progress that’s just right. There’s no amount of effort that’s enough. You can bend over backwards, sacrifice everything you have, and you’re still wrong. You’re still not doing it right. You’re still not there for her and you’re abusive for not giving her everything she wants -- for daring to put boundaries up when they’re needed.
If you’d just realized this years ago, maybe you wouldn’t have gotten married to her in the first place. Maybe you wouldn’t have tied yourself to her for the rest of your life by having a child with her -- though you love that child more than anything and want the world for him.
Maybe, if you’d realized this years ago, you’d have told your ex-wife that maybe you were being too hard on Melissa. And maybe if you’d had, you’d still have one of your best friends by your side, helping you through some of the roughest years of your life.
But you can’t predict life. You can’t predict where you’re going to be -- whether you’re in the path of a drunk, out of control driver and whether this ride to work’ll be your last, like Melissa.
You can’t predict, but you can sure as hell try your best to anticipate.
And as much as you anticipated having to stare into those icy blue eyes with all your carefully constructed courage, you’re so glad you don’t have to rely on it, tonight.