PRESENT DAY
Margo
It’s 3 AM. I wake up, dizzy, disoriented, hung over. I look around. Nothing seems familiar. I don’t know where I am or how I ended up here. This is nothing new.
I snatch up my jean miniskirt from where it lays on a pile on the floor with the rest of my clothes and pull my cell phone from the back pocket.
The phone is almost out of battery and the light is dim as my heavy, clumsy fingers fumble with the keypad.
“Hello?” the familiar voice on the other end picks up almost immediately; tries not to sound like the voice of someone who has just been awoken from a lovely sleep.
My tongue cannot seem to form the words that I want to speak. “I dunno whereiam, “ I mumble incoherently, pulling my filmy tank top over my head, backwards maybe, and struggling with my skirt.
There is a short silence on the other end. A small, nearly inaudible sigh. “Stay where you are. I’ll find you.”
“I love youuu soo much,” I blubber just before the phone goes dead. I take a deep breath, try to clear my head, and throw up into my purse.
Gabriel
He carries her into his apartment as the sun peeks out from around the Sears Tower. He has to be at work in three hours, and he is exhausted. But when he lays her sleeping body gently down on his bed, sits on the edge, just watching her slow, relaxed breathing, none of that matters to him.
Her long, flaxen hair is dirty and tangled and her heavy eyeliner, which was so alluring a few hours ago, is smudged across her eyelids and cheeks, giving her the appearance of a very fair skinned raccoon. Her lips are chapped and her tongue sticks out a little when she breathes deeply. Her hands are clenched together tightly, and he slowly loosens them and holds them just for a second before laying them at her sides.
He looks at his watch; knows he should go shower and get ready. When he comes home she will surely be gone. But she’ll be back in a few nights at the most, drunk and disoriented and grateful. If only she would just stay, just once… he wipes the thought from his mind. He has other things to think about right now.
He gently smoothes the sweaty hair off of her forehead and kisses it softly, biting his lip to keep from crying out. It is too overwhelming. He goes to turn on the shower.
SEPTEMBER 1995
Margo
The sidewalk on West Laurel Street seems like the glassy, Zamboni-fresh ice that I skate on three times a week. My sneakers glide right over them. I don’t even feel myself walking, really. There’s a smile stretched across my face, ear to ear, and I couldn’t get rid of it even if I’d wanted to. Luckily, my braces have been off for four months.
My hand goes subconsciously to my mouth as I turn onto Tidge Lane. I run my index finger over my lips. They feel different. Different than they did when I brushed my teeth this morning. Different, even, than when I was putting chapstick on twenty minutes ago, as I waited for the bus.
I cut across old Mrs. Mahoney’s lawn and almost trip as I scamper up the steps of twelve, Tidge Lane. I burst in without knocking.
“Well, hello, Margo.”
“Hi, Carol,” I say to her, the spitting image of Gabriel, as she stands vacuuming the front hallway. Then I dash up the stairs.
Gabriel is in his bedroom, fidgeting with his cassette player.
“Trying to take it apart again?” I say coyly. “That didn’t work so well last time, Gabe.”
Gabriel doesn’t even turn around. “I missed something last time,” he explains. “It’ll work now.”
I perch myself on the edge of his neatly made bed. On his nightstand is a stack of technology magazines. The man on the cover of the top one, as geeky as he is holding a word processing unit, has hair exactly like Bobby Flaxett’s.
My hand goes to my mouth once more.
“So, want to go to Dairy Queen when I finish this piece?” Gabriel asks lackadaisically.
“Bobby Flaxett kissed me!” I blurt out.
Gabriel freezes in mid-unscrew.
“On the bench while we were waiting for the bus! He was sitting right next to me, and I was thinking about how cute he was and, how I’d heard he liked Mindy Elliot, and how jealous I was of her, and then–”
Gabriel whirls around, screwdriver clenched in hand. “That’s nice, Margo,” he says evenly. “And I have a lot of homework to do, so I don’t think we should go to Dairy Queen. Actually, I think you’d better leave.”
“What?” I’m baffled. “Okay… well I have to tell you everything tomorrow then, okay?”
Gabriel doesn’t say anything. I avoid his gaze as I leave the room. I suppose maybe I know subconsciously that the weary look in his eyes is really hurt, but I don’t see it then.
Gabriel
It was the first time he’d lost her, the first time she wasn’t completely his. The feeling was not one he ever wanted to feel again. His whole life, it was always just him and Margo. He guessed he’d known that soon she’d find interest in boys besides him, her best friend, but he had never expected to feel this way about it. It wasn’t supposed to feel like he wanted to break inside. Like he had already broken. His eyes weren’t supposed to feel wet. He was thirteen for crying out loud. He sat on his bed, realized he’d forgotten to breathe. Took a deep breath. Everything smelled different, tasted different. He’d always assumed he’d feel protective of Margo in the way that Daniel, her college-bound brother did. But that wasn’t it at all. He didn’t know why he was feeling this way or how to make it go away. And he knew in his heart that this was only the beginning of it. There was no going back for her now, and only a long road of broken pieces and watery eyes ahead for him.
APRIL 2000
Margo
“Honey, what is that? Smile normally.”
“Mo-om!”
“Sweetie, you’ve got lipstick on your tooth.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
Gabriel fidgets with his collar. I sway back and forth on my silver heels, the highest I’ve ever been allowed to wear.
My mother and Carol stand before us, clutching respective chunky digital cameras.
Carol clicks her camera again. Tyler’s hand is sweaty on my exposed back.
“Carol, could you get a close up of Margo and Tyler,” my mother asks as she pulls the batteries out of her camera. “My battery died.”
“And then we should get one of all of you together,” Carol agrees as she comes closer to where I stand with Tyler. “Smile!”
The flash momentarily blinds me.
Click, click, click goes Carol’s camera as we move towards each other. Gabriel rolls his eyes at me, his hand on the small of Allie’s back.
“How about one of the girls?” my mother suggests enthusiastically. I give her a small look. I hardly know Allie outside of third period trig. We lean in and smile, pull away as soon as the flash goes off.
“And the boys?” Carol asks. I look over. Tyler is tying his shoe. Gabriel shifts uncomfortably. Tyler doesn’t go to school with us, and Gabriel doesn’t know him.
“Margo and Gabe, then,” instructs my mother. “Arms around each other.”
Gabriel and I laughingly obey. Carol snaps a few photos.
“Senior prom,” my mother murmurs, mostly to herself, or Carol, I don’t know.
“I know,” Carol responds. “I can’t believe it. This picture’s going on the mantle, right next to the one of them naked in the bathtub in 1984.”
Gabriel and I both blush, then laugh.
Click, click, click.
“Mom, we’re going to be late,” Gabriel says impatiently. We’ve both seen our respective dates standing awkwardly over on one side.
“Oh, just one more,” Carol insists.
Click.
“Phew,” I let out a breath. “I need to reapply my lipstick before we go. Allie, want to come with me?”
“Sure,” Allie follows me, trying not to break her heels in the soft soil of the lawn.
The mothers are reviewing photos on the tiny screen of Carol’s camera.
“Oh, that’s my favorite,” I hear my mother say.
“I don’t know,” Carol says tentatively. Allie is inside, but I pause at the door to listen. “I mean, I guess I always assumed… senior prom… it would be Margo and Gabe going together.”
“Didn’t we all, Carol,” my mother says softly. “Didn’t we all?”
Gabriel
Destiny’s Child is blaring. Allie is in the restroom with some of the girls from her softball team, fixing her hair. He fidgets with his tie. It’s purple, chosen by Margo. He watches her with Tyler, laughing, smiling, dancing. Carefree. He thinks of the pictures. His mother is probably developing them already, just as excited as they had been for prom.
The picture that will be framed on their mantle will not be the one of he and Allie, but the one of he and Margo.
So why are they on opposite ends of the room, instead of together, as they should be, he wonders.
PRESENT DAY
Gabriel
He is in his cubicle, typing absentmindedly at an article that he should have had in by yesterday, when his phone buzzes noiselessly in his pocket. He slips it into his hand and glances down quickly, feeling like a troublemaker in school. He’s an adult, in his office, at work, he reminds himself, and lifts the phone to his ear.
One missed call. It’s Margo, and he has a new voicemail. He presses #, then 1, 4, 7, and finally reaches his mailbox. 1, 3, 1, and he hears Margo’s tinny, compressed voice through the speaker.
“Gabe, you’d better not have plans for tonight, because I made reservations for seven at Flatwater.”
There is a short pause, the sound of fingers tapping out a message on a QWERTY keyboard.
Then the noise stops and Margo’s voice returns. “Yeah, so your ass better be down there at seven! See you then, okay? Love you, bye.”
There is a click.
“You have no new messages,” the automated voice tells him.
Gabriel hangs up, sits thinking for a moment. Then he pulls up a new text message on the screen and types out a message to Josh, his new friend and co-worker who has been out of town for the past week, letting him know that as it turns out he will not be able to make it to dinner that night.
Then he opens a blank document on his computer, flips through his notebook, and gets back to work.
Margo
It’s seven-fifteen, and I’m sitting alone at the table at Flatwater. I fidget with my necklace, brand new from the jewelry department in the Nordstrom at the Shops at State and Washington. I’m not usually a fidgeter, but I’m nervous. I never get second dates. I don’t even get dates at all, really. I don’t date.
But Galvin – for some reason, it clicked. I haven’t felt this way, this fluttery, infatuated feeling, since my freshman year in college. I try not to think about the disastrous end that came of that feeling, and concentrate on Galvin. We’re going to dinner and a wine tasting in Hinsdale. Tomorrow, six o’clock. His slight British accent is engraved in my mind. No beer pong, followed by dark, anonymous sex. This is what adults do. At least, that’s what I’m assuming, since I have no experience in the world of adult dating.
I need to talk to Gabriel.
As if he’s been listening to my thoughts, I look up and there stands Gabriel. He wears a rumpled suit, a minute coffee stain, only just noticeable, on the lapel, and grins sheepishly at me.
“Hey, you,” I get up, kiss him on the cheek, hand him a menu. “Sit. Order. My treat.”
Gabriel laughs, sits across from me. “Since when do you have money to treat me to dinner?”
“Well,” I draw out. “It’s my treat… with your credit card.”
We laugh.
The waiter comes then, a flamboyantly gay man who informs us his name is Raymundo, and we order. The same entrée, same course. It is chance, but not a surprise.
“So, how have you been,” he asks somewhat formally.
I am taken aback. “Since you saw me, what? Twelve hours ago?”
Gabriel chuckles. “I wasn’t sure if you recalled that meeting,” he quips.
“Oh, shut up,” I roll my eyes at him. “Well actually,” I pause for dramatic effect. “Big news! I have a second date!”
“What?” Gabriel looks confused.
“Me! The un date-able one! I got asked on a second date!”
“Oh, I didn’t know you were dating at all,” Gabriel says, frowning. “But hey,” he quickly adds “That’s so great, Marg!” and asks all of the appropriate questions. Who is he? What’s he like? Where is he taking you? But I sense that he’s not really there anymore.
“How about you?” I ask as we dig into our meal. “Is that friend of yours… the one you were writing the article with – Josh! Is he back in town?”
“Hmm? Yeah,” Gabriel is distracted. “Yeah, he is. We were going to have dinner tonight, but then you called…”
“Oh,” I am embarrassed. “Well, why didn’t you tell me you had plans? I feel bad!”
Gabriel shrugs it off. “Don’t be dumb, Margo. Obviously I’d rather be with you.”
“You’re sweet,” I say, smiling at him. But something is off.
“And will you be paying separately?” Raymundo asks, reappearing at the table. “Or is this a date?” He winks at me.
“Oh, no, no, no,” I say automatically, shaking my head. “No, we’re – we’re best friends, that’s all. He isn’t anyone. Although,” I lean forward, grin at the waiter. “I do have a second date tomorrow! Can you believe that?”
“Omigod, girlfriend,” the man exclaims, and giggles with me. “That’s so great! Congrats! I’ll be right back with your check, okay?”
“Okay!” I smile after him, then turn back to Gabriel. But he is staring out the window silently, and does not turn to meet my gaze when I look at him.
Gabriel
He isn’t anyone. He isn’t anyone.
The words echo over and over in my mind.
MARCH 2004
Gabriel
He doesn’t usually drink. It’s not his thing. He doesn’t like the way it tastes, doesn’t like the way he feels while intoxicated. Doesn’t like not being in control. He wonders if maybe that was the thing that began to distance him from Margo.
He sees her now, sprawled on the lap of a boy in his Social Sciences class. Her hair is a tangle of blonde, her dress short, transparent, and, it seems, optional.
He raises the plastic cup he holds to his lips, takes a sip. Then another.
Margo is all over Social Sciences boy. Her hands run through his hair, over his chest, her lips on his face, his neck.
He drinks, gags with the taste. Drinks again. Sinks into the wall, around the corner from all the others. He is alone now. He drinks again.
Soon there are squeals, drunken laughter. Two semi-entwined bodies push past him, stumble into a room behind a closed door. He sees the long, blond hair, recognizes the familiar laugh. He drinks.
He sinks into a dazed, drunken doze. Scoots his body towards the music to drown out the noise from behind the closed door.
Drinks, drinks, drinks.
He hears a slam. From a door, maybe? He doesn’t know from where, doesn’t care. It hurts his ears.
“Gabriel, Gabriel.”
Who is talking? He feels the warmth of a body sitting very close to him. Looks over. Margo.
“What are you doing here?” he wants to ask, but his mouth doesn’t remember how to form the words.
He stares at her. She is so beautiful, even with her mascara smeared and her eyes bloodshot and her hair a birds nest. He wants to kiss her. It’s so simple. He wonders why he has never done it before. It seems so silly to him. He kisses her. Just like that.
He’s thought about it for eight years, and it’s everything he’s imagined. And she’s kissing him back, and he’s wondering why he waited so long, and then he isn’t thinking anymore, can’t think.
Margo
I wake up, taste lip gloss, taste vomit. I’m in my dorm, don’t remember how I got there. I roll over, try to go back to sleep. There is a body there. In my bed. And I have no clue who it is.
I cautiously raise myself up so I can look around the mop of brown hair to the face. A sharp pain shoots to my temple. I groan. The body is naked, from what I can gather. And out. Seriously out. He doesn’t even stir when I push him, roll him over so he’s facing me.
I remember Jason, from Gabriel’s Social Sciences class. But Jason is blond. At least, I think he is.
I move the hair out of the face, take in the features. I let out a small yelp, push the body away from me, scramble out of bed.
My head throbs, a single word pulsating through.
Gabriel, Gabriel.
Gabriel
His dreams are hazy, muddled. Vaguely familiar people drift in and out. A single face is constant. Margo.
He sleeps and sleeps, because he doesn’t want to wake up and find out that it isn’t true.
JULY 1987
Gabriel
He has just gotten a haircut, and the hairs the hairdresser forgot to wipe off tickle his neck. His head feels oddly light with the absence of his usual mop of brown curls. He shakes his head back and forth, getting a feel for the new haircut, as he walks back to the car, holding his mother’s hand as they cross the parking lot.
“Mom,” he says as Carol buckles him into the backseat.
“Yeah, honey?” Carol asks, closing the door and going around to the driver’s seat.
He speaks quietly, not sure of the reaction his question is going to evoke. “Why couldn’t Daddy help Margo’s dad build our tree house?”
Carol opens her mouth, then pauses, waits until she’s pulled out of the parking lot to answer. “Daddy’s just really busy right now, Gabe,” she explains. “But I’m sure David did a great job with the tree house, honey. Even without Daddy’s help. Have you seen it yet?”
“Not yet,” he responds. He may be little, but he hasn’t missed Carol’s obvious attempt to dodge the subject of his father. Tom has been home less and less with each passing day. He remembers when he was there every night to tuck him in and kiss him goodnight. Sometimes they even read bedtime stories together. Now he and Carol eat alone, and his books sit collecting dust in his closet.
“Well David told me he, Margo, and Daniel were going to put the finishing touches on it this afternoon,” Carol continues, pretending not to notice his weighted silence. “Do you want to go over and help them? I’m sure Margo would want you to.”
He nods, hoping Carol will catch the gesture through the rear view mirror. She does, and smiles slightly. She is comfortable with him when Tom is not part of the conversation. She doesn’t know how long it will be before she will not be able to put off telling him any longer. She hopes as long as possible.
They turn onto Tidge Lane. The tall shady trees that line the block are a relief from the summer heat. Carol drives past number twelve and stops the car at number fourteen. “Go on, honey,” she says. “I’ll come over later to check it out, okay?”
“Are you sure, Mommy?” he asks cautiously, the ever courteous son, even at five. “Do you need help cooking dinner?”
“Sweetie, I have it under control,” Carol smiles appreciatively. “But thank you. Now go! Get out of here!”
He hastily unbuckles his seatbelt and scrambles up the lawn, turning back thrice to wave wildly at Carol. She waves back as he climbs over the broken gate to Margo’s backyard and she pulls away.
“Margo!” he calls uncertainly. “Margo?”
“We’re over here, Gabe,” a man’s voice calls back. Margo’s father, David, and her brother, Daniel, are high up in the tallest tree in their backyard. Daniel hands David nails as he hammers in the last plank of their new tree house.
“Gabriel!” Margo, who stands watching from the ground, exclaims, running over to him. Her blonde hair is tied in short pigtails. “Look Gabriel, it’s done, it’s done!”
“Lets go up,” he responds eagerly.
“One second, you guys,” David calls down. “Danny’s going to come down and help you up.”
Daniel beams with the responsibility he’s been awarded as he scuttles down the ladder. “Don’t even move until I’m down there, Margo,” he says to them. “You too, Gabriel.”
He nods obediently at the older boy, looks over at Margo. She is laughing, rolling her eyes.
Margo
Danny thinks he knows everything. He thinks he’s so smart just because he’s in fifth grade. Well, I may be littler than him, but I sure do know more than him. Such as the fact that I can climb up a ladder by myself with no help at all. Especially not from him. I’m five and a half years old, for goodness sake.
“Gabriel,” I mutter to him as Danny and Daddy make sure the ladder is secure. “Lets climb up now!”
Gabriel shakes his head. “We should wait for you brother to help us,” he responds.
“Why?”
“’Cause he’s bigger,” Gabriel explains logically. “And your dad said so.”
“So, what?” I retort.
“Okay, ready to come on up to your new tree house?” Daddy calls from up in the tree. “Who wants to climb up first?”
I look at Gabriel. “You go,” he says automatically. He is staring at the ladder, the long way to the house of wood my dad sits in. He looks nervous.
I scamper over to the ladder, bouncing back and forth on my feet excitedly.
“Okay honey, be very careful,” Daddy calls down. “Danny will help you up and I’ll be here to grab you at the top.”
“Okay, okay,” I say impatiently. “Can I climb now?”
“Okay, Margo, put your foot in my hand and I’ll hoist you–” Danny begins, but I grab for the ladder and start climbing quickly, quickly, up the ladder.
“Margo, what are you doing?” Daddy yells, frightened. “Stop! Wait for Danny!”
“No!” I am elated, climbing, climbing. I look down, see how far away Gabriel is, how far the ground is, and giggle. I lift my foot to the next rung and miss it completely. My foot flails and I struggle to regain my footing.
“Daddy!” I screech, bursting into tears. “Daddy, help me!”
My father’s face is panicked. He reaches his hand down to grab mine, only a few rungs down. I kick violently, trying not to fall. My hands slip.
“Daddy!” I cry at the top of my lungs. I fall. It is a moment, and then I am down, and my arm is pinned under me, pain shooting up it. I scream. And scream.
Gabriel
Everything seems to be moving slowly. Margo lies crumpled on the ground, crying. Daniel rushes towards her, tries to pick her up. David yells at him, tells him to stay away. He is coming down, skipping rungs, running to her.
He stands rooted in place.
The back door opens, Margo’s mother comes out, holding baby Beth. She screams, runs to her daughter.
“Deborah,” David yells at her. “Deborah, get the car! It’s her arm! Get the car!”
He stands rooted in place.
David is lifting Margo, carrying her writhing body, her arm twisted awkwardly, her little mouth reverberating with cries of pain. The car engine starts in the distance. Deborah is handing the baby to Daniel. Margo cries. Daniel is calling after them. Margo screams. There are shouts, cries, yells.
He stands rooted in place.
“Danny!” Deborah calls, a last, frazzled instruction. “Take Gabriel home and talk to Carol, okay?”
And Margo’s screams are interrupted, her voice, high, strangled, emerges. “Nononono!” she shrieks in between sobs. “I want Gabriel to come! Gabriel has to come!”
He catches sight of Margo’s teary, pain-stricken face as she disappears into the house. Her wide, navy eyes meet his. There is so much pain, he sees it all, feels it all. And he sinks to the ground, sobbing deep, pain-filled cries. His chest heaves, his whole body aches. His right arm throbs with pain. He wails, and wails. Margo’s pain-filled eyes fill his mind. The hurt is unbearable.
OCTOBER 1999
Gabriel
Amy. Amy. Amy.
They sit together at lunch, walk each other to their classes, kiss outside her locker during passing periods. He drives her home from school every day in the beat up, powder blue Volvo that is Carol’s, but that he has unofficially claimed nowadays.
Amy. Amy. Amy.
He is allowed to stare into her deep brown eyes, run his hands through her curly, russet hair, cup her soft, freckled cheeks. She is sweet, reserved. In a word, nice. They speak of silly things, and of thoughtful things, and sometimes, of nothing at all. They never fight. Nothing of her reminds him of Margo. And that is his favorite thing about her.
He’s known Margo seventeen years and six months. He’s been dating Amy three months, and for those three months, the feeling in the pit of his stomach whenever he’s with Margo has lessened. Before it was a sharp pain, now it is only a dulled pang he senses only when he goes looking for it. Which, he notices, is more often than he should, considering he has a girlfriend.
October twenty ninth. They have been studying trigonometry together for hours in his bedroom. They are stretched out on the carpet, their bodies facing each other. He watches her delicate hand write out each step of the problem. It moves slower and slower, her eyes grow glassy. He knows she’s hardly gotten any sleep this last week. Too much homework. She is so dedicated, such a good student. Margo doesn’t care about any of that stuff. She’s smart, yes, but her idea of studying these days seems to be getting so wasted that she can’t even recall she has a test. Amy is better for him, he assures himself.
Amy’s pencil falls out of her hand. She is nodding off. “Amy?” he says cautiously. “Ames?”
She looks up at him sleepily, reaches her hand out to stroke his cheek. “I love you, Gabriel,” she says, more certainly than he’s ever heard her say anything since he’s known her. He blinks at her. Her eyes close, she lays her head down in his lap, doesn’t pause to wait for a response. She seems so certain.
“I love you,” he practices the words as Amy’s breathing steadies. “I love you.”
But then name that naturally forms in his mouth after the words isn’t Amy’s.
He tries, tries again, to put the thought out of his mind as it grows dark.
He lays his head back and closes his eyes. He sleeps lightly, and dreams of Margo.
DECEMBER 1995
Margo
We’re at the mall, looking for presents for Beth’s birthday. Both of us, all by ourselves. It’s the first time our mother’s have ever let us go anywhere alone. Carol warned us of every possible situation on the drive over, gave us money for a pay phone, and kissed our foreheads as we got out of the car.
But now we’re here, all alone, and free.
“What do nine year old girls even like?” Gabriel asks, looking around at the bright lights and music of the surrounding stores, baffled. “Barbies?”
“Uh,” I chuckle. “I don’t know about any other nine year olds, but have you met my sister? She wouldn’t be caught dead with a Barbie.”
“Oh yeah,” Gabriel nods. “I forgot she was still in that army phase.”
Beth goes through the strangest obsessions, and the latest one is an unusual fascination with the United States military. She refuses to wear anything but camouflage clothing, and begs my parents for a toy rifle every night at dinner.
“G.I. Joe dolls,” we say simultaneously. Gabriel checks a map of the mall posted on the wall for the location of a toy store.
“So,” I say slyly. “Have you asked Sarah Hawkins to the Snow Ball yet?”
“Huh?” Gabriel looks up from the map, confused.
“Sarah Hawkins,” I repeat. “Didn’t you say you though she was cute?”
“Oh,” Gabriel runs his hand through his hair, something he does when he in visibly uncomfortable. “Oh, yeah. But I’m not gonna ask her to the Snow Ball.”
“Why not?” I persist. “We can double!”
“What?” Gabriel’s head snaps up. “I mean,” he says hastily. “I didn’t know you were going with anyone.”
“Oh, I’m so glad you asked!” I squeal. “I’ve been bursting to tell you! Gary Hill asked me after school today!”
Gabriel is silent. “Gary Hill,” he repeats.
“Yeah! Can you believe it?” I am practically jumping up and down. It bugs me that Gabriel isn’t more excited for me. I mean, I’ve been practically swooning over Gary Hill for the last three weeks.
“That’s cool, Mar,” he says finally, not meeting my eyes. “But I don’t think I’m going to go. I… I think I have something to do that day anyway.”
“What could you possibly be doing at eight o’clock on a Friday night?” I ask him, annoyed. “You can’t let me go alone, Gabe! I need your reassurance! I’m going to be so nervous. It’s Gary Hill, Gabriel.”
“Yeah,” Gabriel shrugs. “I know. Maybe you can double with Julie or someone. There’s a Discovery Channel special I’ve been dying to watch.”
“You hate Discovery Channel,” I retort. “We only watch those gross deformed body part shows because I love them.”
Gabriel shrugs again. “Well, maybe I like them now,” he says simply. “You don’t know everything about me, Margo.”
I blink. I don’t even know what I did. Lately, Gabriel is always getting upset about nothing. And if there’s one thing I do know, it’s everything about Gabriel Adamson.
Although lately it feels like there’s something I’m missing. Although I can’t put my finger on what.
Gabriel
He never thought Sarah Hawkins was cute. He doesn’t think about girls that way. Doesn’t need to. He knows which girl he loves, the only girl he will ever love.
Love.
It’s a big word. He’s never thought about it in that formation, picked those letters to put together. But the feeling, the swell he feels inside when he thinks about her, the feeling that he supposes matches that word, that has always been there.
PRESENT DAY
Gabriel
He is sleeping when he calls. A peaceful dreamless sleep. He hasn’t seen her, talked to her since Wednesday. It is the weekend now. It’s never that long, but he’s been busy, writing articles, trying to get on his boss’s good side as he thinks about who in the office will receive the promotion. He assumes Margo has been busy too. Most likely not with the same things – although he hasn’t received a drunken phone call in a few weeks – but busy, nonetheless.
His phone vibrates angrily on his bedside table, then screen spelling out her name. He reaches for the phone, rolls over onto his back, hits SEND to answer it.
“Hello?” His voice is groggy.
“Gabriel!” she sounds excited.
“Hey, Mar,” he smiles sleepily at the sound of her voice.
“I can’t talk for long,” she says, lowering her voice. “But I couldn’t wait to tell you! Guess where I am?”
“I don’t know,” Gabriel rubs his eyes. “It’s too early, Margo. Can we have lunch later? Tell me about it then.”
“Yes, yes, yes!” Margo says gleefully. She is giddy. “But Gabriel?”
“Hmm?” He is nodding off.
“Gabe?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m at Eric’s apartment! Eric Forchinsky, Gabe!”
The sleep that has been lingering, clouding his mind, evaporates.
He thought he was past all these childish games when it came to boyfriends. But he guesses not.
“Margo, you’re breaking up,” he says, and hangs up the phone.
MARCH 2002
Gabriel
In the weeks following she is in his every thought. He pictures each curve of her body, the taste of her lips, the smell of her hair. He keeps to himself. Being near her is too much for him. He is too vulnerable.
She leaves school for spring break, visits with her family. He stays, studies, broods. He sketches, indistinguishable blurs of unsharpened pencil. He can make out the waves of her hair, the crevices in her neck and breastbone, the sparkle in her deep, navy eyes, only just barely.
To anyone looking on it is just a scribble. His feelings reciprocate his drawings. They are all over the place, disorganized, blurry. He cannot grasp his feelings, cannot tell what he is feeling and what he wants to feel. He doesn’t know if the difference is small enough that it can be bridged, or even if there is a difference at all.
He takes apart fifteen cell phones that week, then puts them all back together perfectly. For those few silent, secluded moments in his dorm room, alone with his screwdriver, he is able to forget. But then he wonders, does he want to forget?
It was the best day of his life.
It was the best day, but in that, it was the worst. He has never known such a feeling in his lifetime. Such pure, unfiltered joy, but such excruciating, heart wrenching, absolute pain, simultaneously. He cannot fathom it. Cannot wrap his mind around a feeling that he himself is experiencing. And that is the most frightening thing.
Then spring break is over, and he doesn’t have to agonize over it anymore. Margo makes it easier for him. She comes back with Eric.
PRESENT DAY
Margo
He is different than I remember him, but also the same. He is older, more chiselled. His face is rougher, more weathered. But his handsome, boyish look, his blue eyes, always gleaming, his sly smile, the distinct taste of his tongue, all the same. He is familiar, and it is a nice feeling, one I‘ve never experienced with anyone except Gabriel. Our conversation is not forced, unfamiliar. We know each other. Our bodies fit together easily, naturally. It is a feeling that I never want to lose. I crave him.
In the morning I awake suddenly, alarmingly. A strange feeling is creeping through me. I realize it is from the absence of my usual post hook-up hangover, and I cannot stop smiling.
Eric, Eric, Eric. He is different. The fact that it is morning, and I’m waking up in his apartment proves exactly that.
He’s left a note for me on his pillow, informing me he’s gone to get us bagels. The corners of my mouth refuse to turn down.
The door to the apartment opens, the smell of warm, freshly baked bagels reaches my nose. I dance out of bed and over toward him, not even caring if I look like morning. It doesn’t matter.
“Hi,” he grins dopily at me.
“Hi.” My smile matches his own.
“I brought bagels,” he says, holding up the bags, still smiling.
I respond by kissing him.
“Margo, Margo,” he says, cupping my face and pulling away so he can look at me. “I have to get ready for work, unfortunately, but it was really great seeing you again.” His smile grows bigger.
I bite my lip. “Really great,” I echo.
“Yeah, so I was thinking we could meet up for lunch,” he continues, a question now tinting his tone of voice.
“Yes!” I say eagerly, forget all about Gabriel. “Yes!”
DECEMBER 1999
Gabriel
They’ve talked about it, discussed the technicalities, decided. It isn’t romantic, it isn’t spur of the moment. It’s New Year’s Eve, like they’ve planned, and now they have to go through with it. It seems a chore, to him anyway.
They’re at Amy’s house, have been for hours. Carol is working late, not unusual, even for a holiday. They’ve watched Dick Clark with Amy’s drunk aunts, toasted champagne glasses filled with sparkling cider with her youngest cousins, listened to countless stories about Amy as a baby. Now they’ve excused themselves to watch a movie in Amy’s room, across the house from the living room where the family is congregated, door closed.
It’s eleven thirty seven, and they both sit silently on Amy’s bed, side by side, holding hands and watching The Blair Witch Project on mute. Amy shuts of the TV, turns to face him.
“Are we going to do this, Gabe?” she asks quietly.
“Do you want to?” he asks.
“Yes,” she says. “Do you?”
He nods. Somehow, it seems more like a fair trade agreement than what it’s supposed to be.
Amy smiles, kisses him lightly. “I love you,” she says easily.
“I love you too,” he responds. Automatically. He thinks of Margo.
JANUARY 2000
Gabriel
He lies completely still, plays a game with himself. How quietly can he breathe? Quietly enough that Amy will forget he is there?
She breathes heavily, evenly, beside him. They are holding hands again. He wonders if she will notice if he takes his hand out of her grasp. He doesn’t want to be near her anymore.
He feels empty. Completely empty.
It’s a new millennium.
He wanted this to be a new start.
What was he expecting, anyway?
He likes Amy, likes her a lot. He can’t keep playing this game, can’t keep hurting her.
Nothing, not a new century, not even losing his virginity to someone who is in love with him, can change fact.
He’s still absolutely and irrevocably in love with Margo.
PRESENT DAY
Margo
We’re in the car, and in the hours drive back home, Eric has managed to think of every possible scenario that can go wrong.
“Are you sure it’s okay,” he says now, as I turn on my blinker to change lanes. “That this stuffing has butter in it? I don’t think that’s kosher, Mar.”
“Eric, hon,” I say patiently. “My family doesn’t keep kosher. I don’t think my parents have been to temple since their wedding. I’m not even Bat Mitzvahed. Don’t worry!”
“Okay,” he takes a deep breath. “I’m just really nervous. I want your family to like me.”
“They will!” I say confidently. “And even if they don’t, I like you. That’s all that should matter. It’s all that matters to me.” I reach over and squeeze his hand.
“Me too,” Eric says slowly, taking a deep breath, smiling over at me. “I love you, Mar.”
I look over in surprise. He’s never said that before. Yet, it doesn’t seem unnatural. “Love you, too,” I say easily. We smile at each other. I grasp his hand again, then change lanes to exit the freeway. “Ready?”
Gabriel
“Tell us about him, Gabriel.”
They’re all gathered in Margo’s living room. He, his mother, Deborah, David, Daniel, and Beth, just like every year. The only one missing is Margo, and she’s arriving with someone that will surely throw off the balance.
“Margo never brings her boyfriends home to meet us,” Deborah observes. “Is this really serious?”
“Um,” he fidgets. “I don’t know. I mean, it could be. They’ve been seeing each other for a few months.”
Beth snorts. “Exclusively?” she asks. “That doesn’t sound like Margo.”
“Elizabeth,” Deborah scolds. “Maybe this is a special boy.”
“Well, I’d like to meet him before I decide if he is a special boy or not,” David jumps in. “Call me old fashioned, but I don’t like the idea of Margo running around with boys and not bringing them home. Never have.”
“It would be so much easier if…” Deborah starts and then trails off, sharing a knowing look with his mother.
“What?” Beth asks, unhappy about being left out of anything.
“Oh, nothing,” Deborah says dismissively.
“What?” Beth persists. “I don’t get it!”
“God, Beth,” Daniel says, looking up from his sports magazine in annoyance at his younger sister. “Are you really that dense? Mom and Dad and Carol all wish it was Margo and Gabriel that had ended up together.”
A heavy silence follows. Daniel catches his eye, and the look he gives him lets him know that the ‘and Gabriel’ at the end of that sentence was implied, and everyone knows it.
Margo
“We’re here!” I sing-song, opening the unlocked front door to my childhood home. I hear movement inside. Everyone is seated around the coffee table in the living room. They all stand when we arrive, come to greet us.
“Guys, this is Eric,” I say brightly. Eric clutches my hand. “Eric, this is everyone.”
He smiles weakly. “Nice to meet you.”
“My mom, my father,” I introduce, pointing them out. “My brother, Danny, my sister Beth, Gabriel’s mother, and of course you know Gabriel.”
Polite conversation follows, along with the taking of coats. A tour of the house is offered, dishes are taken. College majors are exchanged (Beth), Bulls scores are discussed (Daniel), car loans are brought up (Dad), and Eric’s family is inquired about (Mom and Carol). Dinner is served. Kosher is not observed. I see Eric visibly relax as he chatters with my mother about his Aunt Karen’s stuffing recipe. I smile at him, he smiles back. I realize I haven’t spoken to Gabriel once since I arrived, but I don’t think much of it.
Gabriel
By the time the pumpkin pie is served, everyone is adequately sloshed. The conversation has slowly died, and now they all sit, happily eating, enjoying each other’s company. An NFL game is on low in the background and Daniel, Eric, and David are discussing it amongst themselves. He doesn’t like football.
Beth has been flirting with him all evening, for what reason, he is not entirely sure. Maybe it’s the alcohol talking, but she is very beautiful. He’s never really noticed that before. She’s always been like his little sister. But with her wavy, tousled blonde hair, her deep, navy eyes, she is practically Margo’s clone.
Perhaps that is why, when Beth asks if he will help her clear the table, he agrees.
They’re in the kitchen, soaping dishes. He hears the dull hum of the living room television set, where he imagines everyone else is seated. Beth is having the time of her life with the soap bubbles. They’re more on her arms and chin than they are the plates.
“Gabe, Gabe look,” she says, giggling. She lifts her hands to his face, paints his cheeks with bubbles. “Ha, ha, you’d look so funny with a beard! Wouldn’t you, Gabie? So funny!”
He is silent, feeling her soft, slender fingers on his face. Her hands are Margo’s.
“Gabriel,” Beth giggles, depositing soap bubbles in his hair and proceeding to wrap her arms around his neck. She sticks her tongue out and beams up at him. “Ha, ha, you’re a snowman. A cute snowman,” she giggles again.
He looks down into her eyes, her navy eyes. Margo’s eyes. But at that moment, he hears high pitched laughter, and looks up, out the window into the yard. There are two figures outside, their bodies illuminated by a single porch light. He stomach takes an every familiar lurch.
Margo
We are lying on the dewy grass in my old backyard, laughing, kissing, touching in the darkness. Drunk, happy. “I love you,” I say. “I love you, I love you, I love you, Eric Forchinsky.”
“I love you, Margo Gold,” Eric laughs.
“How much?” I demand, sitting up.
“Thiiis much,” he shows me with his arms, then wraps them around me, tackles me down again, kisses me.
“Let’s go somewhere!” I say suddenly, excited. “Why stay here? We can go anywhere, Eric! You and me, we’re invincible! We can do anything!”
“We can!” he exclaims. “What should we do?”
“Anything!” I cry gleefully.
“Let’s get married!” he throws out.
“Yes!” I respond, giggling. “Yes!”
We laugh and laugh.
Eric pulls me to my feet, still laughing. He twirls, me around, dips me, kisses me, nearly drops me. “Let’s go!” he says, staggering forward.
“Let’s go!” I repeat joyfully.
Gabriel
He can’t take his eyes off of them. He feels the Thanksgiving dinner, so delicious just a few hours ago, threatening to come up. He runs his fingers over Beth’s soapy cheek, examines her pointed nose, her shoulders, her collarbone, her breasts. Margo, Margo, Margo, Margo.
He hears Margo squeal. He is overcome in that moment. It’s a mixture of the champagne, the laughter coming from the backyard, and Beth’s uncanny resemblance to her sister, but before he knows what he is doing, he is clutching Beth’s face, and he is kissing her, and kissing her, and Beth is squealing, mumbling, and they are moving, in a haste of bubbles, out of the kitchen, and Beth is kissing him back, and he does not stop, but he knows then how different she is from Margo. She doesn’t taste like Margo, feel like Margo, give him the same feelings, the feelings that no matter how similar the DNA, only Margo can make him feel.
JUNE 1989
Margo
“Okay,” I say. “Ready for this? It might hurt a little.”
We are seated crisscross apple sauce, facing each other, in the woods behind our houses.
“Are you sure this is okay?” Gabriel asks hesitantly.
“It’s fine,” I say confidently. “Danny told me all about it. It’s the ultimate bond, Gabe. So nothing can ever separate us. Don’t you want that?”
“Yeah,” Gabriel admits. “Okay, but lets not tell our moms. They might get worried. And want to know where you got that needle.” He eyes the sewing needle I have clutched between my right thumb and index finger suspiciously.
“Of course,” I agree. “This is a secret between us. Now give me your thumb.”
He holds out his left thumb reluctantly. I prick is as gently as I can muster, and a small drop of blood appears at the surface of his skin.
“Ouch,” he exclaims half-heartedly.
“See?” I say. “Not that bad, huh?” I prick my own thumb easily.
“Now what?” Gabriel asks.
“Now we press our thumbs together,” I explain. “Here, hold yours out.”
He extends his thumb to me, and I press mine into it. “There,” I say. “Now our blood is mixed together forever. We’re blood brothers now, Gabe.”
“Blood brothers,” Gabriel repeats, trying the phrase out.
“Now the rules of being blood brothers are,” I continue. “Nothing can ever separate us now. We will die for each other if we need to, ’kay?”
Gabriel nods solemnly.
“We have to always have each others backs no matter what. For the rest of our lives.”
“What if we aren’t friends for the rest of our lives?” Gabriel asks.
“We will be,” I say surely. “We’re blood brothers now. We have to do anything for each other. Agreed?”
“Anything for each other,” Gabriel repeats. He’s pauses for a moment, thinking. “Agreed.”
PRESENT DAY
Margo
When I get back to Chicago, the first place I go is to Gabriel’s.
“Hey!” he says happily when I burst in. I hug him hard. He hugs me back, surprised. “Where have you been? I haven’t seen you in ages!”
“I know!” I exclaim happily. “Wanna know why?”
“Why?” Gabriel asks, going into his kitchen. I follow.
“Because I did this!” I can’t suppress my grin. “Look, look!” I feel like a five year old, but I can’t help myself. I stick my left hand in his face, wiggle my fourth finger. He turns white.
Gabriel
His breakfast, down the drain.
He rinses his mouth out.
That rock, on Margo’s finger. His Margo. Not his rock.
His lunch, down the drain.
PART TWO
PRESENT DAY
Margo
It’s been a year and a half. A year and a half.
We’ve been to clinic after clinic, seen specialist after specialist. Nothing has worked.
Now we sit, side by side, me biting my lip, Eric prodding his knuckles uneasily. I can’t look at him.
“Mr. and Mrs. Forchinsky,” the doctor, a new doctor, opens the door and strides in. This is easy for him. He sits in this office every day, delivers the bad news, over and over. He is indifferent. The faces blur together. We are not real people to him, just names he will soon, and easily forget. It is his job, and nothing more. But this is my life, our life, and the words he soon will speak will change everything.
This is our last shot, Eric said to me last night as we went to bed. If not… I don’t want to think about it.
I was never the type who thought I’d have children. Growing up, the thought never crossed my mind. I’m not the patient type, always screaming at Danny and rough with Beth. I was always the one out on Friday nights, never the one stuck home babysitting. But now the idea has presented itself, and I have fallen in love. Fallen in love with this little person that I will make, this little person that will be born from a part of me, this little person that does not even so much as exist yet, but that I have already fallen wholeheartedly in love with. I am already tied devotedly to him or her, to follow them wherever life takes them. I have never felt this kind of love before. Never with a man, not with my family, not with Gabriel, even. This is new, and beautiful, and the only way I can make it stay, make it grow into something concrete, is with the little one that I hope to bear. Hope, hope. Please, I think. Please.
“Well, I’m afraid that it is,” he glances at our file and reads over our previous test results. “Once again, bad news.”
I exhale, finally able to breathe. I am numb now. I can process the information, the words that come out of his mouth, but I cannot begin to feel them yet. My brain cannot process what this means for me, for the future. It just hears words, puts them together into sentences. Syntax is all.
“But I can tell you why the insemination has not been working,” he continues.
Something new. My head perks up. Maybe if he tells us what we’ve been doing wrong, we can find a cure, fix it, somehow. Somehow. There has to be a way. There can’t not be a way. I don’t want to think, can’t think about it.
“Well there are two factors. One, your sperm,” he looks to Eric. “Have a very low mobility rate. So that’s the first thing. There is a very unlikely chance that they will make it all the way to the uterus, you see.”
“So what does that mean for us?” I hear myself saying. “Can you implant them or something? Isn’t that the point of this?”
“Well, that brings me to the second problem,” he continues. “For reasons that science cannot yet explain, in a few rare cases, certain mens’ sperm just are not compatible with certain womens’ eggs. It’s like two magnets that you hold together with the wrong charges facing. No matter how hard you push them together, they just won’t stay.”
I swallow heavily. I have stopped processing altogether.
“So what does this mean?” Eric asks finally. “Are we not going to be able –“
“Don’t say it,” I hiss. I can hear it. Not now. I have to process first. Accept. Accept that the little bundle in my arms, the curly haired toddler, the gawky middle school-er, the broad shouldered graduating senior, will never be mine. I will always be looking on as other parents experience the milestones, as other parents get hugs and bandage knees and experience the totally overpowering, totally unconditional love that has already built up inside me, ready to explode out, not ready to disappear, not ready to be told that there is nowhere for it to go.
“Well, there are other options, now that we have located the problem,” he says. “There is, of course, adoption.”
Eric looks over at me ever so slightly, just a tilt of his neck, but I feel the question hanging in the air between us.
I imagine the little bundle again, but I know I can’t do it. This baby needs to be my creation. I need to carry it, and Eric needs to be there to cut the umbilical cord, and I need to look at it and see myself, and know that I can accomplish some good in this world, despite my faults, and that good has come in the form of this beautiful being that is all me, all me. No, I decide. It cannot be someone else’s. It just can’t.
Eric senses that, I suppose, because he asks if there is anything else.
“You could look into sperm donors,” the doctor says. He turns to me. “Your uterus is not completely uninhabitable, it is just these certain sperm. A sperm donor would be a very good alternative. You would still carry and give birth to the baby, of course.” He senses that is something I need.
Eric looks at me. I nod slowly, hesitantly.
“Would you like me to give you the information for a few sperm banks in the area?” the doctor asks.
“Yes, thank you,” I say, but it is just a formality, just a game, because I know, I know. There is only one person besides Eric. Only one. I do not want the sperm of a stranger, do not want my baby with the eyes of a person I have never met, or the hair, or the gap toothed grin, of even the fingernails of a stranger. Of anyone else, really. Anyone else except one person.
Except the person I haven’t spoken to in eight months.
Except him.
Gabriel
“Do you want to come up for a drink?” he asks, as they near his apartment.
He looks over at her. Rita. It’s their second date, and he’s hoping how likeable the woman is will make up for the lack of spark he feels, but he’s thinking probably not, and trying to ignore the fact.
“Of course!” Rita says pleasantly, hanging off his arm as they enter the building.
And then they’re riding up the elevator, and she’s laughing, retelling some story she heard at work, and he isn’t paying much attention to anything except the way the buttons light up when they reach the correct floor.
Every time he’s been out on the past eight months, set up after set up by his ever-willing friend, Josh, has ended up exactly like this one. Great girl, seemingly perfect relationship, but he just doesn’t care.
He thinks about this on late nights during muted old war specials on TV. He’d thought that as long as Margo was such a huge part of his life, he would never be able to move on, even when it became evident – by her marriage – that she was never going to feel the same way, and he had to force himself to stop dreaming.
But he had tried. Tried to move on. Cut her out of his life, moved to a place where he wouldn’t run into her every day. And he’d been back for a month and still hadn’t spoken to her. It was perfect, ideally. Unfortunately, their relationship was not, and never had been typical, never had been ideal. And although he kept going to dinners, kept bringing the Rita’s of the world upstairs for a drink, he knew somewhere in the back of his mind, in a place that he did not like to visit often but was very aware of, that as long as Margo was even a thought in his mind, he wouldn’t be able to develop a relationship with any other woman. And as much as he had tried to change that, he couldn’t. And it killed him, but he just couldn’t.
Even though he hadn’t seen her for eight months, she was on his mind every day. He thought about her, dreamt about her, had every detail of her face etched in his mind. As if he could ever forget her. As if. He didn’t know what he was trying to accomplish by trying.
He unlocked his apartment door, stepped inside behind Rita, and trying to forget Margo became a lot more difficult.
Margo
I’m sitting on his cracked leather couch, feeling like home, and looking around at the place that I no longer know. There are new frames on the wall, different books on the coffee table, a potted plant in the corner of the room where there was once a bare wall.
I’m sitting, and waiting, playing with my watch, wondering what I could possibly say, what I could possibly do, to convince him, to even talk to him, begin a relationship with him again after eight months. And I’m coming up blank.
And then I hear the door unlocking, and in is stepping not Gabriel, but a pretty, olive skinned woman that I’ve never seen before, and behind her, Gabriel. He is talking to her, asking her what she would like to drink, midsentence when he sees me and his speech cuts off abruptly.
And there is the face I haven’t seen for so many months, the person who’s life is now unfamiliar to me, filled with strange women and potted plants that I didn’t know about, but yet so familiar, so easy. A comfortable warmth washes over me, a feeling I haven’t felt in so long, a feeling I can only describe as Gabriel. A feeling I get only when I’m around the one person in the world who knows me best, who has always known me best. But despite the familiarity, the Gabriel standing before me is not the Gabriel I know, he is changed, his life has moved on, without me, as has mine. And in his eyes I see this, this cold, hard emptiness of not knowing, of not recognizing, a feeling that I have never had with him, which gives me cold shivers up and down my body. Not a good feeling. Not at all.
“What…” he speaks, finally, his voice cracking. He is unable to finish his sentence. And he has opened a door, and I know we cannot sit staring at each other any longer. We have to speak, I have to speak. And so I do. I speak. And although the words are natural, my tone of voice comes out funny, like I am speaking to a stranger, and I recognize this, and I see in his face that he does too, but I can’t change it, and I’ve no idea why.
“Well, you weren’t home so I thought I’d come in and wait.” I’m speaking at a million miles an hour, explaining how I needed to see him and his neighbor buzzed me in. I hold up my purple keychain. “I still have a key,” I finish meekly.
Gabriel stares at me for – I count silently – five Mississippi’s. He doesn’t say a word to me, doesn’t acknowledge that I’ve even spoken. Just stares.
Gabriel
He’s not entirely sure the woman sitting in front of him is a real person, and resists the urge to reach out and touch her just to make sure. This is surreal.
She’s speaking, explaining, and all he wants to do is hold her, hold her and never let go, never let her go, again. And then he remembers Rita. Lovely Rita, standing stock still beside him, apparently bewildered.
“Rita, I think we’d better take a rain check,” he says hastily. “This might be important.”
She looks perplexed. “What? But…” she gestures to Margo. “What? Who…”
“Oh, no,” he says quickly. “No.. it’s not… we’re… she’s my friend. We’re just friends.” The familiar feeling arises as the perpetual truth in his statement registers in his mind after so many months of putting it on the backburner in his life.
“I’ll call you later tonight,” he says, ushering her out the door. “I had a nice time.”
“Oh, me too,” Rita manages to say. She hugs him awkwardly, out of formality, and is all to eager for the door to close behind her.
He shuts the door softly, slowly, delaying. But then he has to, and he turns back to her. To her. To Margo. The name so familiar, yet so strange. He hasn’t said it aloud in forever. In his dreams there is no need for names, because she – they, are more than human; together anyway. That is how he has always felt about them, what they would be together. But there she is, on his couch, as human, as Margo, as ever. And he remembers. Remembers the real woman, so different, so imperfect, compared to the Margo he has known in his mind for eight months.
He stands across from her, looks for a long second. And she is looking too, thinking the same things as he is, he knows. He can always tell with her. Can always tell everything. Their connection is something more than that of two completely separate people. Always has been. Eight months hasn’t changed that.. She has not been a part of his life for all this time, yet it doesn’t feel unnatural, strangely enough, that she is sitting in his living room, that she is there, out of the blue. Out of the blue, indeed. Why is she, he wonders, and then asks, his tone of voice similar to the uneasy nature hers took on earlier. And the comfort of it all is gone with the words, with the human communication, and he is suddenly uneasy around her, for perhaps the first time in his life.
He clears his throat, an uncomfortable noise, uncomfortable feeling in his mouth, in his vocal cords, which are suddenly rusty, suddenly ignorant of their function. “So. . .” he starts out awkwardly. “Erm, so. . . how’s – how’s married life?”
He leans his body back uneasily, perches on the armrest of the other, unoccupied couch. His awkward stance mimics reflects how uncomfortable he feels with this whole situation.
“Um,” Margo says, pauses. “Um. Good. Eric’s great. . . he has a new job. . . although it means he has to travel more, which I don’t love, obviously, and Lisa’s actually been seeing his brother. . . “
He is very conscious of each fingernail on his left hand. The thumbnail is ragged and bitten, the ring finger short and jagged. The middle two are dirty, dirtier than usual, he’d say. He hopes she doesn’t notice, doesn’t think this is his usual hygiene. Why should he care what she thinks, he contradicts his internal monologue. She probably won’t even notice anything is different about him, he argues with himself. But his fingernails have always been well groomed. . . . but Margo doesn’t care about things like that, he decides. He is the freak of nature, the one who has memorized every detail of Margo so accurately that he recognizes that her hair is slightly darker blonde – the ash shade she has always wanted to dye it, he realizes. That the ring that she has always worn on her right thumb is gone, that she has more freckles, is tanner. And that the locket he gave her for her eleventh birthday, because she’d been admiring it in the jewelery store window for months, the locket with the picture of two grinning, gap toothed pre-teens that vaguely resemble himself and her inside, is still fastened securely around her neck, the chain barely visible from underneath her crisp crew neck T-shirt, but there, nonetheless, still there.
He smiles, the first action since she’s been there that does not seem entirely unnatural.
Margo
I don’t know how to do this. I have absolutely no fucking clue. I don’t even know how to talk about trivial things with him, even how to say hello anymore. How can I possibly – I cut myself off mid-thought, afraid that in thinking it I will talk myself out of it, talk myself out of the only way I have fathomed for this to ever be possible.
I need to start at the beginning, work my way back to where we were, and then. And then. Maybe. Possibly. But for now, the very beginning. Simple, easy, I try to tell myself. But even then I have a nagging feeling in the pit of my stomach, a pang that I’ve tried to ignore, but a pang that despite my stubborn refusal to form a concrete thought from, I know exactly the reason for. And then it’s too late, and I’ve thought about it to much, and I’ve let the pang become concrete in my mind, let my thoughts solidly wonder. If it weren’t for this, this thing I am so clearly set upon, this thing that involves Gabriel, that almost makes him a part of an agenda I have, or something, would I ever have come back to him, ever have stood in this apartment again, before my best friend. I don’t know if I’m even entitled to call him that anymore. I like to tell myself of course, of course I would have, no doubt in my mind, but then I wonder, why didn’t I before? And then I can’t wonder anymore, because I can’t bear what I may realize.
“Gabriel,” I say suddenly, realizing we’ve been sitting in silence for several minutes, each of us absorbed in our own thoughts. “Could you. . . I mean, do you want to. . . . dinner?” I stammer, not able to piece my words together.
Gabriel glances briefly at his watch. “Marg,” he says gently. “It’s past ten.”
I blush, a deep, embarrassed blush, a feeling that I associate with awkward first dates, not with this, not with Gabriel. I blink, clear my head briefly, “Oh. Oh,” I laugh a little. “Well,” I pause, hesitate to bring this up, bring it into the already awkward, already tense equation. But I can’t help it, and I do. “Well, we could go down to the Jewel on Halsted and get a pint of Rocky Road ice cream and come back here,” I blurt out, all in one breath.
Gabriel is still, doesn’t speak for a few moments, doesn’t even acknowledge what I’ve said. They are long, silence-filled moments. He shoves his hands into his pockets, pulls them out again, fiddles with his fingernails which, I notice, are raw and torn, unusual for him. His nails are always neat and rounded, always. It’s one of the million little things I love – or loved? – about him. His consistent fingernails. I chuckle out loud.
Gabriel looks up, almost meets my eyes, but looks away just in time, and I’m glad. I don’t know what I would have seen in his eyes. His forehead crinkles easily, confused by my outburst. My lips spread into an involuntary smile, and his frown melts away, and he nods once, sharply. “Okay.”
“Okay?” I repeat, sure I’ve imagined it.
“Yeah,” his hands go back into his pockets, and he shrugs awkwardly, but now it’s the familiar awkwardness that I love about him, not the same painful, uncomfortable air as before. “Yeah, rocky road does sound kind of good right now.”
He gives me a half smile, opens the door, and he goes out first, doesn’t hold the door for me, doesn’t look back, and I’m glad, so glad, in fact, that I’m grinning wider than I have in a long time, grinning at this man who doesn’t do things like that for me, this man who will eat chocolate ice cream on the floor of his empty apartment with me even when we haven’t talked in months, this man who, I know now, will always be my friend. This man that I know, I know, will do anything for me. Because he knows I will do anything for him.
I catch up to him in the dim hallway, press the DOWN button for the elevator, loop my arm through his. And he doesn’t pull away.
Gabriel
His eyes flit open briefly and find the glow in the dark numbers of his bedside clock. It is well past three.
He lets his eyes adjust to the darkness of his bedroom and looks around, notices the melted ice cream dripping onto his Pottery Barn nightstand, the curtains that are not fully closed and will let unwanted light in at sunrise, the uncomfortable cramped feeling he has in his feet that he realizes is due to the fact that his shoes are still on.
And he notices a strange weight on his right arm, and he turns and sees a body, her body. She lies across his arm, still fully clothed and wrapped in his down comforter. Her unkempt blonde hair is splayed around her, the ends creeping across his chest, which silently rises and falls with each breath. Her head is tucked between his shoulder and chin, her face blank and peaceful in slumber.
He doesn’t do anything, doesn’t touch her, doesn’t move her, for fear of waking her and losing this moment, this moment that seems still in time.
He just lays silently and looks at her. She is beautiful, to him, in that three AM haze. She is always beautiful to him. She is everything to him. Even if he can’t be sure about anything about himself, he can always be sure of that.
Margo
Gabriel is still asleep when I wake up in the morning. I edge off his bed slowly, moving silently and little-by-little. I’m afraid my sudden movement will wake him. He looks so funny when he sleeps – funny in an adorable way. His feet, still in his shoes, hang off the end of his bed, and his tongue sticks through the part of his lips just the tiniest bit. And he often laughs when he sleeps. That’s something I’ve only ever known Gabriel to do. He laughs, really laughs. You can always tells what he’s dreaming. He’s sort of like a dog.
Now though, he is silent, breathing steadily, his hands folded across his stomach. I untangle myself from a blanket that is still wrapped around him as I stand, and catch a glimpse of what was my hair and is now just a mess in the mirror across the room. We must be a pretty funny sight, the two of us. Fully clothed, tongues (his) and hair (mine) sticking out everywhere, both wrapped in an oversized blanket and falling all over each other. But, I suppose, that’s’ just Gabriel and I. And it isn’t as if anyone is looking.
I walk over to the bathroom to attempt to make myself presentable, snatching my cell phone from my bag on the hall table along the way. Two missed calls. One is Beth, which I disregard, making a mental note to call her back later, and the other, from just an hour ago, is Eric. I dial him back immediately, cradling the phone between my shoulder and ear as I brush out my hair with Gabriel’s ratty men’s comb.
“Hey, babe,” Eric’s familiar voice picks up after the first ring.
“Hi,” I smile at the sound of his voice. I hear the sounds of scraping plates and utensils in the background. “Where are you?” I ask casually.
“Oh, um, about to go into a meeting actually, so I can’t really talk,” Eric explains hurriedly.
“Oh,” my smile falters. “Okay. Well, when are you going to be home?”
Lately, Eric has been going to out-of-town meetings much more than in-town meetings. It’s only for a night or two, but that is always a lifetime for me when I’m alone in our dark, empty house with the TiVo as my only companion. It’s been difficult.
“I really don’t know, Margo.” Eric sounds impatient now. “It really depends on how this next meeting goes.” High pitched laughter cuts in from the background.
“Who’s that?” I inquire, furrowing my brow a bit.
“A co-worker, Marg,” Eric answers quickly. “Look, hon, I really should go, I’ve got to get to my meeting.”
“Okay,” I say reluctantly. “I love you.”
“You too,” Eric responds.
“Call me later,” I add.
“I will, baby.”
He always says that, but he always forgets, always has some meeting, some dinner, some event, something more important than me. Always.
“Okay… bye,” I begin to close my phone.
“Wait,” Eric’s voice is quick. I bring to phone back to my ear. “How’s Prunella?” I roll my eyes. Eric is obsessed with his stupid goldfish.
“Um, I’m actually not at home–” I begin, then stop to contemplate whether to reveal my whereabouts, and finally, decide against it, “–right now. But I’m sure she’s fine, Eric. I mean, she’s a goldfish.”
‘”She’s my baby, hon,” Eric says seriously. “You know that!”
“Oh,” his words bring a certain topic to my attention, a topic I’ve been trying to hard to pretend isn’t relevant for the last twelve hours. It seems strange to be able to freely talk about it. “Speaking of that, Eric, when you get back, I think we need to talk about the baby, okay? We need to make some decisions about what’s going to happen here. I’ve talked to the fertility clinic and–“
“Yeah, whatever, whatever, sounds fine,” Eric interjects.
“Whatever?” I feel hot, involuntary tears springing to my eyes. “Whatever? This isn’t ‘whatever,’ Eric, this is our child! This is our future! This is everything!”
Eric groans. “Babe, I’ve really got to go.”
“Eric!” I exclaim.
But he’s already hung up.
Gabriel
He awakes abruptly, anxious from a dream he is struggling to remember. In the dream, he and Margo are much younger, perhaps five or six years old, and chasing each other around the field behind their houses. But Margo’s hair is much longer than it would have been then, her face wiser. He realizes in thinking that she looks just like the adult Margo does presently. But in their five-year-old bodies they are carefree, can just enjoy each other and their friendship without any complications.
But it has been decades since he has played tag, and presently he is very aware of the fact that he is alone in his bed, when he recalls Margo sleeping beside him. He pauses, thinking. Was that whole evening a part of his dream as well?
But then he sees Margo’s sandals beside his bed and it is evident what he knows he has known the whole time. He’s not sure if he is trying to fool himself because he doesn’t want it to be true, doesn’t want to know her – who she is, anymore – doesn’t know if he can handle the hurt he knows she will surely cause him, or because he can’t believe it’s really true. That she’s back in his life again. That she came back to him, after the way he just completely cut her out. Can’t believe that he isn’t making it all up to appease the gaping emptiness he has felt without her.
But it is too early for such thinking, he decides, and gets out of bed, trots down the hallway, and that’s when he hears her. The bathroom door is closed, but the sniffling coming from inside is not overlooked.
He stops, knocks politely, feels slightly awful that he isn’t already aware of the reason for her tears. It is just another reminder of the enormous bridge they now have to build over the gap that has been the last eight months, the enormous gap of each others lives that they do not know.
The door opens, and there stands Margo, rumpled and barefooted, old mascara streaking her cheeks. She rubs her eyes, blinks, but it doesn’t do any good. She only looks like more of a raccoon.
“Hey,” he says softly. “What’s wrong, Marg?”
Margo sniffles, rubs her nose with the back of her hand. “Morning,” she mumbles in response, blinks thrice more. “Nothing, nothing,” she tries to smile. “Want some breakfast? It’s the least I can do in return for you letting me stay here.” She tries to slip out of the doorway past him, but he puts his arm out.
“Margo,” he says. “Come, sit. I’ll make some coffee, and you can tell me why you’re crying, okay?”
His words are gentle, his touch light as he guides her to the living room and arranges pillows behind her on the couch. “Why did you stay over anyhow?” he asks, putting every ounce of effort into not sounding bitter. “Isn’t he – Eric – wondering?”
Margo shakes her head profusely, tries to regain her composure. “No,” she squeaks. “Eric’s on a business trip. He always seems to be. I don’t see why his boss can’t send someone else sometimes, you know?”
He forgets about coffee, sits next to Margo, holds her right hand in his hands, runs his thumb along the lines of her palm, the way they did when they were kids and spent ages predicting each other’s families and jobs and misfortunes.
They sit for a few minutes, he with her palm. She leans her head to rest on his shoulder and sighs, but doesn’t speak.
“Do you want to talk about it?” he finally asks. He feels her shrug against his shoulder and doesn’t speak again.
But Margo ˙unexpectedly explodes. “It’s not just that!” she exclaims, suddenly angry, wrenches her hand away from his, turns to look at him. “I mean that’s work, you know? I can handle that. I’m a mature person, right? I am! But it’s not just that, Gabriel!”
He just nods, allows her to continue.
“He says he’ll call me and he doesn’t, and I worry! I worry about him! And I mean, we aren’t in college anymore! I shouldn’t have to be sitting by the phone, wondering if he’ll call. He’s my husband!”
She pauses, gulps in air, continues. “And even when he does, or even when he’s home, he never wants to talk. All he wants to talk about are the Cubs or whatever’s on TV or his stupid, goddamn goldfish. His goldfish! He never wants to talk about the thing that’s most important to me, always changes the subject. . . “ she trails off, looks at her fingernails.
“What?” he can’t help but ask. He’s not sure what he should do. He wants more than anything to console her, but nothing, no action, seems quite right. So he just sits, sits as she picks ferociously at a hangnail, with a scowl on her face that reveals so much more than simply a scowl.
Margo finally looks up, meets his eyes for half a second, breathes in, out. Seems to be deciding something. She goes back to her hangnail, back to him, then to her hangnail again.
She opens her mouth, pauses thoughtfully, speaks more quietly when her voice returns. “We’re. . . we’re trying to have a baby.”
The last word is no more than the tiniest whisper, but it is the word he hears the loudest, the clearest of the entire sentence, of the entire conversation, of their entire relationship even.
He feels last night’s ice cream edging it’s way up his throat, and he’s growing dizzy even as he tries to shut those feelings out, really tries.
