Blowout

And So

54 And so And so it came to pass— that on January 21, 2009, the day after the inauguration, you came back to pick up your stuff that I put in the middle of the living room with a rope around it. I’d left quarters on the table to feed the meter— my last codependent gesture, so your rental wouldn’t get towed. And so it came to pass— that the first friend I called after you disappeared 132 days ago and his son, who helped me set up a Facebook account so I could try to talk you out of suicide, met you to take away boxes and bags and suitcases of your belongings while I was lying in a hotel room an hour north under a white comforter with a mustard stain I’d put there myself eating a sandwich in bed the day before. I couldn’t eat today as I thought of you in the apartment again. My friend told me that you couldn’t fit everything into the Avis SUV, so you gave him a couple of your antique typewriters and a film projector and left me with a few paintings to either keep or throw away. How did he look? I asked. Chubby, smoking a cigarette. So I revised my joke—when people asked how much weight I’d lost 55 I upped the punch line, “Two hundred and eighty pounds. . . . Twenty of my own plus my ex.” I’m not sure how much you really weighed, though you used to stand on the scale when we first walked into the supermarket like you were a giant pineapple from produce. You’d say, “Hey, I lost two pounds,” or something like that. I would never have weighed myself in public/Publix, and I stood away, near the carriages, to give you privacy. That’s how freaked out I was. I didn’t want to monitor your weight anymore or the diabetes you ignored, your glucose meter full of dust when I crammed it between your sweatshirts and socks in the suitcase. I didn’t want to monitor your porn or your sleep habits or your blog. And so it came to pass— that while we were separated Obama was elected. I wept watching the first couple dance, weeping with America, weeping with relief, but also weeping for us because you were born the same year as Michelle and I, the same year as Barack, and we were married the same year as they were in the same church, 56 the United Church of Christ, and what had we done with our lives so far except make a giant mess? No Malia, no Sasha, no hypoallergenic pup. And so it came to pass— you called me as you drove away for the last time because you knew I wasn’t home. When I checked my messages I heard you say— hey, I got my stuff. Casual, like it was no big deal. It startled me to hear your voice again. The police told me when you vanished in September that you’d call within 24 hours if you still were alive and when that didn’t happen they admitted this was a very strange case. When you started writing threats and the police posted the safety alert, they listed you as 5'10", two inches taller than you actually were, your weight listed as 260 pounds. No one asked me for your statistics. Could you really have weighed that much? And so it came to pass— that I slept again at last, on the fourth day after you left. Or rather, so it came to pass— 57 that I passed out, with my cell phone in one hand and the cordless in the other. And so it came to pass— that today I waited for my friend to call to give me an update, to say you were quiet, mostly, that it was a little weird, that you didn’t ask about me at all. And so it came to pass— that you seemed, well, happy, with your new GPS. Happy like this mustard stain, which looks like a sun poking through clouds. What a coward, I thought—calling when you knew I wouldn’t be home. What a brave soul, I thought—driving north with the gadget you’d always wanted but I’d said no, since I was the one...