Normal
by Don Macavoy
The trees whirred by as a I sped down the two lane highway just outside of town. There were other cars on the road but I didn’t really see them. My eyes were set straight ahead in a trance. I’m not sure how I made it this far without hitting someone or running a stoplight. That would be awful irony.
I slowed down instinctively as I neared the driveway. I pulled in, with more speed than I should have, creating a smokescreen of dust that trailed my car all the way to where I parked before it shrouded me in a momentary darkness. How appropriate.
I got out of the car, coughing to get the gravel out of my throat, then proceeded across the lawn expressionless. I sauntered along the fresh spring grass, around the big stones and sprinklers I had learned to navigate over the past few months. I stopped near your flowers and stared down at them, remembering the first time I came here.
It was January. Your whole family was there. A bunch of your friends too. It was snowing really hard and it had already piled up a good deal but everyone was standing around out there, huddling in little groups to build up some heat. Their black petticoats were a stark contrast to the ocean of white surrounding them. They were the shadow to a bright day.
I’ve never been that comfortable talking to your family, so I stood off to the side like usual. The snow kept hitting my face, begging me to open my mouth and taste it but I wasn’t in the mood to eat snow that day. Every once in a while someone I knew would come over and talk to me for a few minutes, slowly stepping away after their questions evoked little more than a patronizing nod from me.
I just stood there taking in the cold. My body had lost the ability to shiver a while ago. The snow I stood in was melting into my shoes as the falling flakes turned to water on my head and streamed down my face. I listened to the words that people were saying as I watched the swirling mess of white in the foreground of a grey sky. Just clichés and comments about the weather. That’s why I felt better alone with my thoughts. They may not be happy or interesting but at least they’re original.
I looked across the snowy field, through the crowd to where you were. I wondered if you would get a chance to read the note I gave you earlier that day. I would go ask you but I didn’t think I would get an answer. Not one I would understand anyway. So I just stayed at the farthest edge of the crowd thinking about all the things I explained in that note and wondering if you could ever understand.
I had written to you about all you mean to me. You were my first love. My first real relationship. Everybody in high school thinks they were in love at least once; I did. But then two years later when I found you, the real thing, I realized I had never even been close.
I explained how I took you for granted. I became complacent with what I had. I didn’t appreciate you and I took advantage of your trust in me. I had time to reflect on all of that during the two weeks we weren’t talking. I missed you so much. Even though I was on vacation and should have been having fun, all I was thinking about was you. About my apology.
A few days into it, I called you and blurted out how sorry I was. You admitted that you had missed me too and I admired you for being strong, not calling me first. We talked for an hour or two, deciding to meet once I got back from Florida. The rest of the trip was much better. I was able to have fun, but I was still formulating my speech to you in the back of my mind.
The moment the plane touched down at Philadelphia International I sent you a message asking when we would meet. It was the only time I had been so anxiously awaiting my return from vacation. We made our plans and the next few hours passed slowly. The ride home from the airport was seemingly endless.
We agreed to meet at the park by our old high school. I got there about an hour early. I paced around the swings, kicking at the mulch, then walked around the pond at least four times. I had a terrible heavy feeling in my gut for which walking did nothing. I just wanted you to be there so we could get this over with and go on to be happy together. Then I saw your headlights.
So many things were going through my head when you walked up to me that I couldn’t pick one to spit out first. I just hugged you. It was the best hug I’ve ever had. When you put your arms around me and squeezed me back I felt like everything would be okay. That feeling that I had lost you for good was finally gone and you were here with me.
At that moment I knew that I could be a different person. A better person. I knew that I never wanted to feel that alone ever again. I would do everything I could do to show how much I loved you and how much this meant to me. And I told you. I don’t think you completely believed me, but you could see the passion in my eyes and hear it in my voice. Then you decided you would take me back.
For the next few days I was elated and everyone could tell. I spent the time thinking of things we could do. Places we could go. We talked on the phone every night like when we first met. Everything was going amazingly well. Then, just one week after our reunion and my solemn vow to never take you for granted again, everything seemed to be back to the usual drill.
We had run out of exciting things to talk about on the phone so there were some awkward silences before we hung up. We had seen each other every day since I had gotten home so it wasn’t really a “special occasion” as it felt like the first few times. You asked me to come over later that night and I said that I would. I had to work in the morning, a few hours after midnight, so I would have to sleep for a while and get up early to come see you. When my alarm went off at one A.M. I was not ready to wake up. I hit the snooze and went back to sleep until right before work. I was sure you’d understand. I’d just see you the next night.
After work the next day I had band practice. We were in the cold garage, rocking out as always, when I broke a bass string. Bass strings are much thicker than guitar strings, therefore much harder to break. It was strange. We had to stop playing so I could fix it, but I didn’t have any spare A strings. Since you played bass as well, I figured I would call you up and ask you for one.
When I picked up my cell phone I noticed a missed call from your best friend. You always called me from her phone when you didn’t have service so you must have been at her house wondering why I didn’t come over last night. I called the number back and she picked up the phone, not you.
I shuddered suddenly. I looked up from the flowers I had been staring at and realized it had gotten dark. I must have been standing here for a few hours. I wiped my eyes and gazed at the bright moon that illuminated the spot where I stood. I closed my eyes and lowered my head slowly. When I opened my eyes I stared down at my glimmering tears on a granite rock. They spilled into the letters of your name and the etched date, exactly four months ago.
This has been every day for me. I drive straight here, I stare, I play our memories in my head like a movie, I find another reason to hate myself and then I wonder when it will end. When will this end? That’s what I ask the psychiatrist, whom I was urged to see a few months ago, every Tuesday and Friday night when I sit in his vinyl chair that’s a far cry from the comfortable couch we picture when we think of a seeing a shrink.
He never has a solid answer for me. The only other thing I ever ask him is why I still feel like this. Why I still do this every day. His response is always the same, patronizing psychologist cop-out answer: “Feeling this way after the sudden death of someone you love is normal.” It’s normal.
I’m still wondering if you’ll read my note. I left it right next to you the last time I saw you, lying in the front of the room as everyone passed by and looked at you, dropping gifts and letters on the satin you lay upon. It was still there when they closed the lid over your head and I watched from the snow bank behind the crowd of black coats as you were lowered into the ground. Lowered beneath where I’m standing right now. Where I’ve stood each day for the past four months. Talking and expecting a reply somehow. Because now that I’ve lost you again, I need you back.
So I talk to the ground and stare at tulips until the sun hides away. Then I leave, knowing that I’ll come back the next day. It’s normal. I’m normal.
