Finding Ms. Write Page 9

  “You’re a genius, Nat—I’m so glad we met. I just can’t think clearly.”

  “Clarity will return one day. I promise.” What I didn’t mention was that Meg would feel guilty when it did.

  “I live in hope!” She clinked the rim of her goblet against mine. “I suppose we should give thanks that we had Erin and Barb at all.”

  “If I thought there was a ‘someone’ up there to thank, I’d be more likely to curse them for ending things prematurely.” My tone hardened. “Erin deserved better—and so did Barb. And so do all those kids dying of horrible diseases even as we speak.”

  “You’re not a believer?”

  “I didn’t get those genes.”

  Meg actually grinned—a riveting sight. “To tell the truth, neither did I. That was pure formula on my part, though it would be nice to think Barbara’s safe and happy somewhere.” But her voice broke as she added, “I guess I just wanted to formally acknowledge our women tonight.”

  I touched our wineglasses again. “Then here’s to time well spent with the ladies we’ve loved and lost.” And the tears sliding down her cheeks were mirrored by my own. I stood abruptly, flattened by weariness. “It’s late, Meg. Go get some rest.”

  “After your turkey, I just might be able to.”

  “Let’s hear it for tryptophan!” I said and went to fetch her leftovers.

  Early the next morning, I jerked awake, heart pounding in my chest as the last fragments of a nightmare dissolved: Erin is trapped in quicksand. Gripping her hand, I pull mightily, but she drags me toward certain doom. Then someone grabs my other wrist. Hauls hard, breaking Erin’s grasp. Pulling me toward freedom…

  I bolted upright, shaking uncontrollably. Scooting to the edge of my bed, I fumbled blindly for the tissue box. Black Friday, indeed!

  Over time, I began to catch glimpses of the woman Meg had once been. Someone capable of deep love, or she wouldn’t be so devastated by her partner’s death. Someone capable of great loyalty, or she wouldn’t have stuck out Barbara’s long decline. Someone determined to conquer this most grueling of life’s tests. And a woman who was unfailingly candid about her emotions.

  As the seasons passed, we continued to talk about grief. But while we still commiserated with one another, still shared pithy quotes about death and dying, still exchanged books on mourning, other subjects began to creep into our dialogue. We found we each loved travel, politics, and women’s sports—though Meg was a soccer buff, while I favored tennis. We were both suckers for complex movies with twisted endings. And we were totally devoted to our ridiculously indulged fur-clad companions. By the anniversary of our first meeting, it occurred to me that we’d become true friends.

  One spring Saturday, my cell rang while I was still nestled in bed. Warm and drowsy. Planning to blow off the weekend with a good book, I almost didn’t answer. But that was Meg’s number on the screen, and maybe she needed help. “Hey, what’s up?”

  “Hi, Nat. Do you have a bike?”

  “Doesn’t everybody?” Never mind that my trusty cycle had been gathering cobwebs for years.

  “Not Barb,” Meg said. “She never learned to ride. But before she got sick, I was a cycling fiend. Anyway, I was wondering if you’d like to ride the Katy Trail for a few hours?”

  Gazing ruefully at my comfiest pajamas and my snoozing dog, I kissed the lazy day good-bye. Because this invitation was a milestone—the first major outing Meg had initiated. And even if she was merely trying to outrun heartache for an afternoon, she deserved support. “That sounds great. Where do you want to meet?”

  Twenty minutes later, after bribing a neighbor to take Alpha for her afternoon walk, I stepped into the garage, where I stood motionless, staring at a pair of abandoned touring cycles. Erin’s Kona Sutra, my Devinci. A quick glance told me both tires on my ride were shot. If I intended to meet Meg on time, I’d have to use Erin’s bike. “I’m sorry, babe,” I whispered. “I’ll take good care of it.” I lifted the silver frame from its hooks, balanced its weight on my palms, and indulged myself in a miniature breakdown. Then I turned my attention to essential cleaning, maintenance, and adjustments. Anything to distract me from that futile surge of self-pity. I wanted my woman back. Bad.

  And yet I had a fine time that day. Conditions couldn’t have been more ideal, and riding Erin’s bike reconnected me to a zillion adventures we’d shared. Using my body felt terrific, too—though I’d suffer for it later. Best of all, Meg seemed energized, lighter than at any time since we’d met.

  At three, we sat alongside the trail, eating energy bars, watching other cyclists whiz past us. As clouds sailed overhead, Meg’s face shifted from dark to bright and back again. A metaphor for her life just then, I thought. Nudging her bike shoe, I said, “What’s the latest?”

  She turned toward me, shrugging. “You know the drill… Harsh reality just keeps hammering away at my defenses. I feel like it’s about bludgeoned me into submission. Now that I’ve stopped resisting the truth about Barb, there’s nothing left but learning to cope with her absence.”

  I took Meg’s hand and hauled her to her feet. “That counts as authentic progress, my friend. Better start homeward soon—the dogs await.”

  Meg had been in my back pocket for the better part of two years when I had a disturbing dream. Erin and I are in a hotel room, fighting bitterly. Half-empty luggage gapes on the bed, and clothing’s strewn around us. Despite her fury, Erin looks angelically beautiful, and for an instant, I’m waylaid by her stormy eyes. Then, in a crafty dodge, I pluck a book from my lap and pretend to read.

  She snaps, “Don’t you dare go silent, Natalie Ann!”

  “You’re the one who’s always quiet as a tomb!”

  Enraged, Erin dashes from the room. Just before the door slams behind her, she shouts, “Go back to your bloody books, Nat! They’re all you care about now!”

  But that wasn’t true—not anymore. Because I woke to the certain knowledge that I’d fallen in love with Meg Vickerson. I was captivated by those crinkly eyes, that rare smile, her even temperament, her unswerving commitment to principle. And head-over-heels didn’t begin to describe the severity of my condition. The idea felt shocking, unconscionable—especially since my timing was off. Meg wasn’t ready for a new relationship. To her, I was only good old Natalie, fellow traveler, favorite confidante. And even if she might someday have a different take on me, I had no right to rush her. Which didn’t mean that seeing her was easy. Besides, all at once, I wanted Meg to see me. Standing right in front of her. Alive and eager to rekindle joy. And it was no comfort that I understood precisely why she couldn’t respond in kind.

  After that epiphany, spending time with Meg was excruciating. Everything that had once brought me pleasure was now a source of pain. I kept stepping over the line with her, retreating, feeling frustrated, feeling ashamed. Each night as the moon cycled through my desolate bedroom, I’d tell myself I was a fool. At last, I took the coward’s way out. In an e-mail, I told Meg I had to quit spending time with her. And, choosing my words with exquisite care, I told her why.

  Weeks dragged by without a response. In that long silence, depression reasserted itself. Though I slogged through work five days a week and logged a ridiculous number of volunteer hours at Literary Lesbians, I lacked purpose, could scarcely find a reason for rising each day. I mourned Meg’s absence nearly as much as I’d mourned Erin’s. And I marveled that I’d been so impetuous. So impatient. So selfish. Why had I made this all about me, instead of practicing the restraint I expected others to deploy in the presence of loss?

  At last, in the midst of a solitary Sunday breakfast, my cell rang. When I saw Meg’s number on the screen, my heart began hammering so violently I hardly heard her say, “Nat, I need to talk with you. Can we meet?”

  An hour later, I found her at our usual spot in the park. Meg took my
hands in hers and smiled tenderly, but there was anguish at the back of her eyes. Still her words left me weak with mingled hope and relief. “I can’t handle a romance yet, Nat. But I know that when I can, you’re the woman I’ll want. Will you wait a little longer for me to catch up?”

  I squeezed her fingers. “I really don’t have a choice. But if we’re going to spend time together, you’ll have to stop me when I overstep my bounds. And you’ll have to speak up when—if—anything changes.”

  Meeting my eyes directly, she said, “You’ll be the first to know.”

  Despite the inevitable awkwardness, Meg and I joined forces again. And if being in her presence while keeping my distance was challenging, it was slightly less difficult than loving her at a remove. Once again, we hiked with our dogs, prowled through museums, attended the occasional book signing at Literary Lesbians. Nearly all of those activities chosen, in large measure, for the attendant calm. Because I’d learned to predict what Meg would say when I snagged tickets to a Cards game or a concert: “I’m sorry—I just can’t deal with that much stimulation.”

  “Not to worry,” I’d answer. “I felt exactly the same way in the first two or three years after Erin died.” But one day I took the discussion a step further. “Just let me know if you’re ever ready for wild and crazy, Meg. In the meantime, maybe we should plan a road trip? Go somewhere super serene and secluded…?”

  “That sounds ideal. I’ll spring for gas and food if you’ll pick the destination and drive.”

  “Absolutely.” I remembered the terrible passivity of grief, the way the smallest action required an extravagant expenditure of energy. I folded my hands behind my head and sorted through possibilities. “If you could take a couple weeks of vacation in early February, I’m thinking Grayton Beach State Park would be ideal.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “It’s on Florida’s gulf coast, very beautiful, very low-key. If we went then, we might get a break from nasty weather here.” What I didn’t say was that Erin and I had a long-standing tradition of vacationing at Grayton. I hadn’t returned since her death, but I’d continued to reserve our customary week in February, throwing away good money each year. Now I was glad I hadn’t abandoned the ritual. It felt only a little weird that I was inviting another woman to share a place that held such significance for me. “We could easily make the drive in two days,” I said. Then a brilliant thought struck me. “And—!”

  “And?”

  “There’s something in Montgomery I’ve wanted to see for years. It would add an hour or two to the Alabama leg of the trip.”

  “I’m up for anything that matters to you. What is it?”

  “Do you know about the Southern Poverty Law Center? It’s a favorite charity of mine—social justice work done superbly.”

  “I’m vaguely aware of them. They try to shut down white supremacists?”

  “Some of their efforts target those assholes, yeah. But they also support LBGTQ initiatives. They created a civil rights memorial in Montgomery. A while back, I sent money to have Erin’s name placed on a Wall of Tolerance there.” I choked up but managed to finish: “I’d really, really like to see that.”

  “I’d like to be there when you do.”

  “Thanks, Meg! We could keep the drive south simple. PBJs at roadside parks, instead of noisy cafés. And little motels off the beaten path instead of giant chains.”

  Meg glanced toward Brinx, who—as always—was close at hand. “Can the dogs go?”

  “That’s the one downside. Pets aren’t allowed in the cabins or on the beach. But I know that my sister would gladly watch over our babies. She’s done that before. And Brinx would love running free on her farm.”

  “Call it a plan, then. I’ll put in for time off right away.”

  Something was seriously messed up with my sleep patterns. I couldn’t remember a time when I’d been plagued by so many disturbing dreams. Not even after Erin’s death. Shortly before Meg and I were due to take off for Florida, I had a corker. I’m in the process of curbside check-in at an airport, but my suitcase is too heavy. Kneeling before a testy skycap, I unzip it, find it’s crammed with weighty volumes—grief books, every one. “But I need these!” I wail.

  “Keep the books, or board the plane!” the skycap growls. “Your choice!”

  I snapped into alertness, then lay rigid in oppressive blackness, breathing heavily. And conjuring the late Sigmund Freud, complete with cigar. “How’s that for obvious, Herr Doktor?” I said aloud. But before the great man could respond, I plunged into a deep, untroubled sleep. And when next I opened my eyes, I was oddly at peace. Go figure.

  Meg had agreed to stay in my guest room the night before our trip so we could hit the road early. As she helped pack the car at sunrise, I was acutely conscious of exposing my deepest dykely shame. No matter how much I might intend to travel light, I always ended up packing absurd amounts of stuff. And this time was no exception. In the trunk, Meg’s lone knapsack was dwarfed by suitcases and grocery sacks and sports equipment and emergency gear. Not to mention pet supplies to drop off at Jana’s farm.

  Gazing at the jumbled heap, Meg laughed. “Are you sure there’s room left for our lunch bags?”

  “You’ll be happy to have everything when we’re at Grayton,” I said sheepishly.

  We coaxed the dogs into the backseat and drove through snow flurries to my sister’s place in the boonies. Meg visibly relaxed when Brinx leaped from the car to bound about the farmyard, sniffing ecstatically, inviting every critter she encountered to play. While she got acclimated, we chatted with Jana, describing each dog’s eccentricities. Then we promised to return with a king’s ransom in salt-water taffy, hugged my sister good-bye, and climbed back into my Mazda. We headed south, fleeing the dead gray hand of winter in the heartland.

  Our first night on the road, we registered at an unassuming motel on the outskirts of Huntsville. Where Meg very nearly unhinged me by stepping from the shower into the bedroom stark naked. Wholly at ease. Totally desirable. She popped a sleep shirt over her head, then sat cross-legged on a bed to towel dry her hair. In a thrilling instant, her body had imprinted itself on my brain. Tantalizing afterimages zinged through me—pale breasts, trim waist, small rear—dredging up impulses too long dormant. Probably I only imagined a wicked glint in her eyes when they met mine. How in hell had I ever thought Meg ordinary?

  Sitting across the room, watching her run a comb through damp hair, I tried to regain my composure. I’d be lying if I said I could see what lay between her thighs and lying if I said I didn’t try.

  Wholly unaware of my raging hormones—or at least pretending to be oblivious—Meg asked, “Do you mind if I look for something on cable?”

  “Go for it,” I said, hoping the distraction would help. “This is your last chance for a while—there are no TVs in the cabins at Grayton.”

  Her eyebrows shot up. “Ve vill be calm und relaxed or elze?”

  “That’s the idea.”

  “Ooo-kay.” Meg reached for the remote and powered up the set. “What’s your pleasure?”

  “Anything but hospital dramas.”

  She shuddered. “I no longer think of medical shows as entertainment. How about Jessica Jones?”

  “Works for me.”

  By the time the credits rolled, Meg was snoring lightly, but I tossed and turned on my lumpy mattress for hours. Fighting off flashbacks of her nude body. Trying to forget how close she was—how beautiful, how tempting. Silently repeating a reluctant refrain: she’s totally off-limits, she’s totally off-limits…

  We arrived in Montgomery before noon the next day. After zigzagging through the inevitable urban construction, we found our target, the spare and beautiful Civil Rights Memorial. Just outside the building was a tiny plaza bordered by a black granite wall that bore one of Dr. King’s
most inspiring quotes. And at the center of the plaza, a minimalist fountain beckoned us. Its polished top was etched with a tragic timeline—dozens of dates from the modern civil rights era. Beatings. Lynchings. Sit-ins. Bombings. The assassination of Dr. King, himself. Impossible not to touch those inscriptions. Impossible not to weep as the gentle waters rippled around our fingers.

  “It’s astounding that all this happened so recently,” Meg said.

  “It’s still happening. Michael Brown—”

  “Tamir Rice—”

  “Sandra Bland… What in the world is wrong with this country?”

  In that somber mood, we made our way to the entrance. When I asked for directions to the Wall of Tolerance, a guide waved his hand in a just-around-the-corner gesture. We strolled down a corridor, then came to an abrupt halt in a dim chamber. Though Meg released an audible gasp, I was stunned into silence by the spectacle. Clearly, I’d paid insufficient attention to information about the wall’s design. I’d expected bricks and mortar—the conventional donor acknowledgment.

  Instead, light, motion, and color animated that space. Glorious. Ethereal. Names—hundreds of luminous names—seemed to hang before a curved wall. Some were floating in the foreground, while others—much smaller—appeared to recede. All were sliding silently downward, then disappearing, only to recur in other locations. I was awed by the sheer beauty of that digital artistry, yet daunted by the prospect of picking out Erin’s name from so many others, so many layers, arranged in random order.

  Apparently noting my bewilderment, an attendant pointed to a keypad, explaining that I could summon any name on file by typing it there. “Now watch,” he said when I finished. Suddenly, a new entry blossomed, pure white light spelling out Erin Elaine Tanner. Suspended in mid-air. Drifting slowly toward the floor. Materializing in another spot. I wondered how long her name would remain at the forefront. How soon it would retreat. When it would vanish altogether. Erin Elaine Tanner. Erin Elaine Tanner. Erin Elaine Tanner. I couldn’t take my eyes off those words. Would anyone ever call up her name again?