What we have found version 2

Dearest Ryan:
How do we stop from strangling ourselves in our loose ends? I’ve begun this letter a thousand times but even the very first word trips me up. Dear sounds too formal and my love just seems painful now, even though it’s true. But however hard this is to write, however wrong everything sounds, I know I have to try because you deserve more than the cold silence of an empty room and a bed left in the middle of the night. I wasn’t lying when I told you I loved you. I still love you. But, I am bound to someone else. Pulled in two directions too long we risk tearing in half. I was the only one who could choose to walk away and so I did. Just know this, in our losses we always find something. In my loss, I found Mackay and later you too I suppose, but let me start with Mackay, let me start at the beginning of the thread and see if I can find the end.
I’ve known Mackay since I was born, or probably before. Our mom’s were pregnant at roughly the same time and there are pictures of the two of them sitting side by side, comparing the swells of their pregnant bellies. I imagine Mackay and I may have tapped Morse Code messages back and forth to each other from our womb homes.
We were born two weeks apart in the same local hospital. It was inevitable that we would be friends, so we were. When I think back all of my childhood memories are of Mackay but sometimes I wonder if I have any specific memories of those years or if the images I see are a composite of all the time we spent together. These are some of the things I remember:
1) Sitting in the back yard drinking imaginary tea from my miniature porcelain tea set. Mackay was always a king and I was a very bossy queen who told him to do things like wipe his nose and pull up his socks. In my mind we are anywhere between four and six. By six, the neighbourhood boys had made it clear to Mackay that boys did not drink tea, not even imaginary tea, from porcelain tea cups.
2) Kissing Mackay, my first kiss, in a game of boy chase girl on the playground. I caught up with him next to the swings and went to kiss him on the cheek, the usual punishment. He looked so disgusted that I decided to tease him by leaning in for a big smooch on the lips. The disgusted face must have been an act because suddenly his tongue was in my mouth. See, that sounds like a concrete memory but he claims we kissed earlier than that, at a sleep out in his back yard. I don’t know whose memory to trust.
3) Playing never ending games of crazy eights, on the porch with lemonade if it was sunny, in a blanket fort in either of our living rooms with hot chocolate if it was cold.
4) Auditioning for the school play in grade nine, when my memories become a bit more distinct, and, somewhat to our dismay, being cast as Romeo and Juliet which only added to the litany of “are you guys dating?” we were forced to field on a regular basis. We weren’t.
We didn’t date until university. That is, we didn’t date each other until university. We dated as much as anyone else in high school. Nothing serious for either of us. Nobody ever passed muster when compared to Mackay. His girlfriends were always jealous of me and most of my boyfriends felt the same about him. Almost everybody thought our friendship was weird but for us it was what it had always been. I do think it’s kind of strange that neither of us considered the romantic possibilities at the time but it’s hard to shake the image of a snotty nose kid you grew up with even when an almost full grown man is standing before you. So, Mackay was always just there. For everything. Like an arm. You don’t notice it all that much until you really need it. Or it’s gone.
I guess we didn’t happen until my dad died so in a sense we were always tied together in death. It was my first year in university. I had moved away. Not far, only a four hour drive, but far away enough to feel like it was a whole new world. I was just trying to get my footing, figure out who I was in this new landscape, when my dad had a stroke. As soon as Mackay heard, he drove out to get me. He talked to all my profs and made sure I got extensions. He cleaned my dorm room so I could go back to a nice space. He sorted through my dad’s stuff, keeping the holey red cardigan I had given him as a Christmas gift when I was five, tossing the ridiculous collection of ties. He dealt with transferring bills to my mom’s name and all the details we were too upset to consider. Basically, he said and did all the right things. When I lost my dad, I found my husband.
I’m glad we didn’t get married right away or anything. Neither of us were the impetuous types. It wasn’t a whirlwind romance but a slow natural progression from friends to friends and more. It wasn’t entirely without its weirdness. The first time we slept together was a disaster. I kept freaking out about the fact that I was seeing Mackay naked and when he started kissing my neck I laughed. He tried not to be offended but then, mid deed, I had a full blown laugh attack and we were forced to stop. Luckily, we got better at that stuff. The rest was easy. Some times I wondered if I lost out on the thrill getting to know someone for the first time but what was that thrill compared to the comfort we had?
Mackay proposed two years after my dad died. There was no hot air balloon ride or candle filled bedroom, just a sensible discussion about the possibility, a discussion that ended in the decision to go ahead and get married. Our parents were thrilled but not surprised. No one was.
Like any newly wed couple, especially a young one still struggling through school, we fought. I was a yeller and a thrower, books, cloths, pillows, anything unbreakable I could get my hands on, while he was a quiet sulker, prone to walking out and wandering for hours. But, we were always able to laugh about it all later. I was happy. Mackay had always been there for me and I imagined he always would.
One night we argued. It was common argument. He had a bad habit of leaving wet dish cloths in the sink. If I didn’t notice, they’d sit there and start to smell and it drove me nuts. I found one in the sink, got irrationally mad, and ended up throwing the dripping, stinky thing at his face. Understandably, he was pissed and stormed out. That was the last time I saw Mackay, at least in that form.
Mackay was walking on the shoulder of the road and a drunk driver came flying around the bend and struck him. He died instantly, or at least that’s what the police officer who knocked on my door said. I don’t imagine that they ever tell you that your loved one suffered a slow agonizing death. In one moment, I lost my husband and my closest friend. I could try to tell you what this feels like. How at first you think it’s a cruel joke, even though you know it’s too terrible to be fake, how even when your brain understands your heart doesn’t, how there’s numbness until the knife of your grief splits you open and spills your pain in hot tears, in shrieks, how your body stops working and you find yourself falling to the floor, breath gone, how the words don’t matter, how you want to be held but can’t stand to be near anyone, how you are deaf but every noise puts you on edege, how you are a shell that keeps breaking, a seam that keeps splitting, a blackness that swallows the world whole. But, unless you’ve been there, my words are just words.
I don’t remember thinking “I’m not going to make it” but everyone around me seemed to think I might break irreparably. People were around me day and night. Sharp objects and pain killers were removed. I was brought hot teas and cold cloths, sung songs and stroked, left alone in dark rooms and surrounded by hugging arms. Nothing cut through my raw pain. My only thought was “Mackay, Mackay, Mackay” a chant that filled my head, some times a lullaby, some times a war cry, some times a prayer.
I hardly moved from my childhood room for months. Food was brought to me on trays. Some times I ate it, mostly I didn’t. At first, I was left in peace but after a while my mother and other well intentioned guests started trying to pique my interest in the outside world. I was brought gossip magazines and blockbuster movies. I was cajoled and bribed and then sternly admonished to get out of bed. I couldn’t. But then one day, I heard Mackay call my name and I felt him standing over me. “Rose,” he said “I’m here. You called me loud enough and long enough and I found you.” I felt the pain lift, like a dark velvet curtain rising to reveal a bare stage. There is nothing there yet but the audience is full of anticipation. With Mackay as my audience, for the first time in months, I left the bedroom.
I remember standing over the sink and brushing my teeth. The face in the mirror seemed not to be mine. The eyes and cheeks were sunken. The teeth appeared enlarged against the thinness of my face. I was shades paler. My hair had grown but was matted, unwashed and unbrushed. Mackay stood over my shoulder and watched me, encouraging me in this simple task. I thought I might have lost my mind but it was a relief. I sat at the kitchen table and ate breakfast -poached eggs on English muffins and orange juice- with my mother. She watched me with such attention and shock that I thought she must seeing Mackay behind my shoulder but I was the only unnatural apparition.
It didn’t take long to settle back into our place. Many of the pieces of my husband, photographs of us together, books he had enjoyed and underlined, his favourite mug, had been tucked into boxes by well-meaning friends and relatives. I pulled them all out, feeling that they would weigh him down, stop him from simply drifting away again to wherever he had come from. It’s a grey space, he told me. He didn’t know how long he had been there, only moments it seemed, but had torn through the fog, following my voice. I missed our conversations. In your ephemeral state it was hard to pin him down to anything concrete - no more arguments about communism versus socialism or the merits of carbon trading- but we gained an intimacy even thicker than when we were both solid. I felt him slip inside my skin at times. I breathed him in. He guided my hands as I chopped onions on the wooden cutting board. He twirled me as we listened to Cuban salsa on our old record player. He slept in my hollows, never rolling over to the edge of the bed. When I finally went back to work at the school, he followed me. I would feel him blanketing the children when they got too rowdy, touching my neck when I was tense, always calming the air.
People were constantly checking up on me. Though they wanted to see me doing well, I suspect they were unnerved by my sudden recovery. I told them I felt Mackay around me, knowing they would nod and agree without understanding a thing. Slowly though, they got used to my strength, used to my new habit of talking aloud to myself, the way I would suddenly smile as if I had witnessed something funny or touching that the couldn’t see. I too grew used to these habits. Again, in loss, I found my husband.
I could have continued like this forever. I believe Mackay could have too though I often feared he would eventually be called back to the grey space. Or that I would and we wouldn’t be able to find each other. Sure people thought I was a bit strange, felt I spent a bit too much time alone, but they didn’t matter. Only Mackay. And then you, Ryan.
I think Mackay noticed you before I did. He was always more in tune to other people and that only intensified with death. H had that ability to be over everything and I tended to ignore others. He didn’t say anything but, in retrospect, I felt a shift. He was afraid. You approached so slowly, I never thought of putting up my guard. Hellos in the corridor, a cup of coffee in the staff lounge, just another co-worker, but Mackay knew before I did that I looked forward to seeing you, made excuses to linger. When you first started walking me home, it was awkward. I felt Mackay around me always. I imagined I was betraying him as I laughed at your jokes. Once, you touched my arm gently mid sentence and I felt Mackay try to seep into the space between us. You looked at me strangely feeling the air grow suddenly cold. I grew momentarily cold too. I realized that while Mackay had been the love of my life, he was no longer of my life. You were flesh and blood and love that I could touch; he was a memory I was trying to breath life into.
I hadn’t planned to you in. Or maybe I did. Some times we forget to lock the door on purpose, tempting fate, and how tempting you were Ryan. All handsome and solid, all patient and soft. Mackay was angry with me. He didn’t say it of course, conversation being limited as it was and directness not being his style even in life, but I felt him pull away. He stopped coming to work with me and at home he often stayed in other rooms. I felt the pain lurking just beneath the surface and afraid to let it out I would call to him again and he would join me, plugging the leaks for a while.
But I couldn’t ignore you Ryan. You were persistent. You made me feel like letting the pain leak out. The first time we kissed, I sobbed for hours and you held me on the stoop, refusing to let go even when it grew dark and cold. I knew that if I let you in completely, eventually I would heal but I wasn’t sure I was ready to let go of the hurt. Mackay was watching from just over my left shoulder. I felt his pain find mine.
After that, cracks started appearing between Mackay and me. I would call and he would not come. I would enter a room where he was but not be able to feel him. I would find the photos of us face down on the mantle or knocked to the floor. I would cut myself while chopping onions. The records would skip incessantly. Through all of this you seemed to have infinite patience for my halting steps towards you. Eventually my steps became strides and leaps and I found myself in your arms despite the resistance. I wanted to stay in them but there was always the feeling I was tearing in two. Sometimes when we were making love, I would feel Mackay there watching us. It was impossible to continue. You thought the only battle was with his memory. I often wished it were and then felt so guilty. Every time I said “I love you,” I meant it but my heart also tore a little each time, knowing Mackay was listening to my words. But Ryan, you were also my salve. You made me happy. You made me believe a life without Mackay was still a life worth living. And so, I stopped calling Mackay, I swear I did; it was torturous but I needed to let go, to move forward with you. But Mackay stayed. And I realized he couldn’t leave. He’s not a selfish man. He is kind and giving. If he could have helped me find happiness, if he could have helped me let go, he would have. But he can’t find the way back. I called him and he came. He overcame death to find me, slipped through the grey into this world, and now he’s weighed down here forever. I can’t tear myself in two. I can’t love both of you at once. If it were just his memory, I would let it go, I swear, but I called him and now I responsible for him. You can walk away. You can make yourself whole again and find something in your loss. I can resign myself to private looks and the intimacy of the formless. I will mourn you loss Ryan but in all my losses I have always found myself bound to Mackay. I hope you find a way to cut yourself loose from my threads and there’s still enough of you left to tie yourself to someone new.

Rose