April 2002 Issue - Essay # 14
The
Visit
By Wanda Pipitz
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I
am doing a very stupid thing. I am visiting my ex-husband, even staying
with him in his new apartment in "It's
so sparkling clean here," I say, “what happened to the slob I was
married to?""That's not a nice thing to say," he scolds
me, and gently takes my face in his hands. My throat is starting to feel
raw, my eyes are burning. He'd always been sweet when I insulted him. "But
it's the truth," I insist, my lower lip quivering. "Oh,
you and the truth," he replies lightly, and then: "Don’t
cry, baby." He had only started to call me that the day I told
him I could no longer stand living with him. "Now,
now. Don't be sad. Let's go eat." He still knows what works with
me. We
go to a cozy little Italian place not far from his apartment. My palms
are sweaty. Restaurants have never been easy for us. "I
won't refuse the table they show us to or send my food back," I say
to Doug, as we are waiting to be seated. "Good.
I won't complain about how much you order or be rude to the
waiter." This
settled, the anxious knot in my stomach relaxes. "Why
did we break up?" he asks after we have ordered. He
has asked me that question at least once a week for the past year. And I
believed I had all the answers. We cried every time we spoke on the
phone. We decided at the end of each conversation that we should not
talk to each other anymore for a while. But he kept calling. And I
needed those calls. Now, hearing the same question again and sitting
across from him, I cannot bring myself to answer with my usual cliches
(we were too young, we didn't love each other enough, we were too
similar or too different). "I
don't know," I answer, my voice scratchy and broken. "I have
no idea." "How
can you say that?" The corners of his mouth are twitching.
"You always told me you knew, and now, suddenly…"I am
studying every detail of the pattern on the tablecloth. I can't stand to
look at Doug's face. His pain is too close to me. Yes, we were lovers
once. I still think he was the best lover I ever had, and I am not
talking about technique. Our lovemaking was like a beautiful ballet, and
always a different one. That's why I married him, mistaking the beauty
and harmony of our bodies coming together for love. Our
appetizers arrive. I am hungry and would like to start eating. My moods
hardly ever affect my appetite; I can almost always eat. It used to
infuriate Doug that I could calmly stuff myself after a bitter argument
and enjoy every bite. As
comfortable as he was making love with me, he never wanted to talk about
it, not even right afterwards. I think he was right. Words would have
spoiled it. There was something mystical, spiritual in our physical
encounters. I still can't bring myself to call them sex. I had sex
before and after Doug; I never had just sex with Doug. Whatever it was,
the last year of our marriage it didn’t happen anymore between us. We
talked about that, then. To an eavesdropper, our conversations must have
sounded as if we were mourning the death of a close friend. In a way, we
were. I have finished both our appetizers. He has changed the
subject and is telling me funny anecdotes about work. I am so relieved.
I eat my main course, have a few bites of his, and start feeling good.
We end the evening complimenting each other on how special and grown up
we are. No ugly divorce for us. We are friends. The
next day, disaster strikes. It is Saturday, and Doug and I are walking
to the Exploratorium, in silence. It’s about an hour walk. The day is
unusually hot for bitter.
Suddenly, it’s very clear to me why I divorced this man. But then an
idea comes to me, and it makes me smile. He is not the same man. I am
not the same woman. We have a different relationship now. Surely I can
tell him I need to get some water. But I can't recognize my own voice
when I hear it. It is whining, complaining, like a child's. "I'm
thirsty." "We
are almost there," he says gruffly. This
is a voice I recognize. This is a face I know. This is my husband. "I
want to go over there and get some water," I say firmly, pointing
at a restaurant across the street. "No,"
he snaps, "I said we are almost there." This
is what it was like in the end, I think, my body heavy and sad. "This
is why I did not want to live with you anymore," I say, tears
starting to roll down my cheeks. "This
is how I know we shouldn’t be together," he hisses. We have
stopped walking. I am shaking because the anger in his face frightens
me. "You
always wanted something from me. This is wrong, fix it. Do something.
Always. Always! And then, you cry. I can’t stand to look at your
tears." He
is crying himself, now. "You always were so embarrassed
whenever I wanted something. You would not even let me send bad food
back in a restaurant!" "There
never was any bad food!" he shouts, "you are just so damn
difficult! Nothing is ever right for you!" "So
why did you invite me up here?" "Why
did you come?" "To
see if it is really over." I have said something ugly and my tears
stop. Doug
is still crying. "You don’t understand," he says. He is
waving his hands, not looking at me. "When I look at you in the
morning and see that little bit of hair sticking out from under the
blanket, I have to kiss it. You are so sweet when you are sleepy. Why?
Why after all this time do I still want to kiss your hair? Why do I
forget you don’t love me? When I see you eat like a hog, I want to
give you more food. When I see a beautiful piece of jewelry, I want to
buy it for you. Why? Why? Day after day, I think about you, I talk about
you. Why?"I don’t want to hear him. I don’t have an answer. We
both hang our heads for a while. "I think we are having the
break-up talk we never had," I finally venture carefully. It’s
true. We hadn't dug deeply. We had been sad, somber, and then he'd made
a joke. "You are cleaning and sweeping, and you are sweeping me out
the door." We both had laughed at that. I don’t know how we'd
done it. I couldn’t laugh at something like that now. "Did
you ever really love me?" As soon as I've asked the question, I
regret it. My face muscles tense as I wait for his answer. But he
doesn't say anything, just shoves his fists deep into his pants pockets
and starts walking again. Like a robot, I follow. We are passing the
restaurant, and I am still thirsty. I
turn around and cross the street, and I walk away from him.
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Author's Biography A native Viennese, Wanda Pipitz has lived in Los Angeles since 1981. Passionate about writing since childhood, she is currently working on a screenplay and a short story collection. To pay the rent, she works as a wild animal trainer in the film industry.
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