So I choose a date, a deadline if you will, right here and now in this parking lot. I promise myself—and Jude, silently—that I’ll tell him everything, risking “the face,” risking his wrath, risking just about everything I’ve come to care about, on The Anniversary. It’ll arrive sooner than I’ll be ready, I know that. But I also know I’ll never be ready, no matter how long I give myself. The Anniversary will be just as good a day as any to do it.
20
I’m sick. For real. Not in the head this time, but in the body. I’m pretty sure it was something I ate at that Indian place last night. I didn’t even want to go there, but Jude kept going on and on about not having had “a good curry in yonks,” so like a good girlfriend, I let him pick the restaurant, and he picked that one. It looked like one of those places that often appears on the health violations list in the newspaper. But I’ve been accused of being a snob, so I didn’t say anything. I picked at my chicken curry and focused more on the conversation than the food.
It doesn’t matter that I ate like a bird (who was eating a bird, which is wrong); the vomit seems to have the same type of source as the sweat under Marvin’s arms: infinite. The first time I thought that, I puked so hard, I pulled a muscle in my ribs.
I called Jude between sessions with my toilet. He offered to come over, but I could tell it wasn’t an offer he was relishing. (Oh, relish! Gotta run!)
And I don’t want him to see me like this. I’ve been holding back my own hair for years; I’m cool with continuing that job without an assistant. Or an audience.
Back in bed. Shivering from chills. Skin hurting. Rib throbbing. Head booming.
And, joy of joys, I have nothing better to do than think about my looming deadline. As predicted, the weeks have flown by, and I’ve almost arrived at The Day. It’s so much more than The Anniversary now. It has the potential to redeem the date forever or confirm its status as cursed.
Though the date has remained the same, I’ve changed my plan a hundred times. It always starts out the same. I’m going to take the day off, like I always do, but then things get fuzzy. Do I invite him over for dinner? I won’t want to eat, that’s for sure. I suspect I’ll never want to eat again after today, anyway. Do I tell him in a public place so he won’t react too badly? Well, he’s proven that he’s not shy about making scenes, so that’s not a foolproof plan. Do I take him some place that has personal significance to us? To me? To my family before the accident? I don’t know. It’s getting to the point that I’m paralyzed by indecision. I have too many options. The only thing that’s a given is that I have to tell him everything. The setting is up in the air. I try to envision where we are when I tell him, but I can’t picture us having the conversation at all.
Maybe that’s because I won’t tell him.
Yes, I will.
I wish I could tell him on the phone. At least then I wouldn’t have to see “the face.” But it’s not really an over-the-phone conversation. If only it were that easy. I’m actually thinking of “the face” as my just due for waiting so long to tell him.
I finally fall into a fever-soaked sleep, and when I wake up I can tell by the light that it’s late afternoon. I’ve missed three calls on my cell phone, all from Jude. After forcing myself to slowly drink a full glass of water, I call him back. And get his voicemail.
“Hey. Returning your calls. I’m still alive, barely. And you never get to pick where we eat again. Love you. Bye.”
Bed again. I’m dozing in front of an infomercial about a compilation of footage of the British Royal Family, since the dawn of moving pictures (the only thing I could find that I could be reasonably assured wouldn’t make any mention of food) when my phone buzzes on the pillow next to my head.
“I was in a meeting,” he says, surprisingly tersely.
“Oh. I’m… sorry?” I’m not sure why I’m apologizing, but his tone tells me I should be.
“No, no,” he catches himself. “I’m sorry. I… that is, I’m a bit distracted.”
“Everything okay?”
“I think so,” he answers vaguely. “How are you doing? You think it was the food? I’m fine today.”
“We didn’t have the same thing.”
“Still chicken. I dunno. It’s bizarre.”
I can tell he’s not completely focused on our conversation, so I say, “Listen, I was just returning your calls so you didn’t picture me dried up like a raisin on my bathroom floor. I’ll let you get back to work.”
“Right. Sounds good. Cheers.”
Speaking of bizarre… I stare at the phone for a second but then shrug the whole thing off. He’s juggling more projects than anyone else there right now; he’s entitled to be a little scattered. I wouldn’t be holding up under the pressure as well as he is, that’s for sure.
Now, how can I order these videos?
I’m barely at my desk two minutes, trying to catch my breath and holding onto my chair while the stars dance in front of my eyes, before Lisa hops into my cubicle. “Thank God you’re back.”
Touched by her concern, I sit down and say, “Aw, thanks! Yeah, I’m okay. A little weak,
