Dream Deferred

Christmas and New Year's is a lonely time to be single. It is even lonelier if you just recently broke up with somebody. Or didn’t break up with him, per se, but just let the relationship fade away into oblivion. Saving him the trouble of breaking up with you.

I met my perfect man a few days after my birthday. Just when I least expected it. I was a few weeks into my surgery rotation, when I looked my least attractive due to lack of sleep and the required uniform of ill-fitting scrubs. Yet despite my puffy eyes and blue jumpsuit, I met the man of my dreams. He was tall and very handsome, with dark hair and brown eyes lined by glossy black eyelashes. He had a great sense of humor, and could do funny impressions of people (a talent I really enjoy because I happen to be quite the mimic myself ahem). And an added bonus was that he was Cuban. Sexy, latin, and a revolutionary. (I felt slightly let down when I found out that he had become a US citizen, but let’s face it, I was still high.)

Carlos was one of the other medical students who joined our surgery rotation. I pretty much just looked at him as a classmate the first few days. I always feel pretty asexual in the hospital, and I usually don’t think much of people hitting on me, but for some reason, Carlos caught my eye after a while. He would flirt with me and give me winks and whatnot, but the tipping point was when he stood up for this pathetic, nerdy student in my class, when he was being yelled at by one of the surgeons. I love a valiant man! I was hooked.

Carlos and I were soon talking every day, and texting like love-crazed high schoolers every night. We would sneak away for off-campus lunches, and make out in the stairwells of County General. He was smart, funny, and kind. He showered me with compliments. There was one little fly in the ointment, however. Ok, maybe not a fly. More like an elephant. Carlos had a girlfriend. A girlfriend of four years, actually. I shooed her away in my mind. She’s far away, in Indiana! And Carlos lives in NY now, only leaving to visit his family in Miami! He’s mine. Besides, she can’t possibly be as cute as me. (I am slightly embarrassed to have thought this, but if you can’t tell the truth in a blog, when can you tell it?)

On our first date, after making out in the middle of the street in SoHo, I asked Carlos if he still had his girlfriend. “No, no, I took care of it.” Took care of it? I winced at the idea of some poor girl getting a phone call from her perfect man, breaking it off… But I quickly shook my head of the thought. We went to a bar for some drinks, and it was literally within minutes when the second bomb dropped.

For some reason, religion came up. “Are you Catholic?” Carlos asked me.

“Yes,” I replied in my most angelic way, only then to give a wink and say, “but I’m a very bad Catholic girl.” Rather than a normal response, which I suppose would be to smirk back at me, and imagine a very naughty rendezvous involving spanking and the like, Carlos instead said this: “I used to be Catholic, but now I’m a Christian.” My stomach turned to lead, knowing what was coming.

“What do you mean, Christian?”

“I’m a Born-again Christian, I’ve accepted Jesus Christ as my personal savior.”

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

My heart screamed out. My brain told me to run, run far away. Shush! I silenced myself. How could you run from the perfect man?!

What does this Christian thing mean anyway, I wondered to myself. My uncle was born-again, and years ago, he sent the entire family what is now known as “the hell letter”—a letter informing us that if we did not accept Jesus as our savior, then we would burn in a fiery hell for eternity. My mom told her brother if he ever tried a stunt like that again, she would never speak to him again. Later, a roommate in college, who turned out to be a dear friend, educated us. Although she believed we would not be saved on Judgment Day, she still had close friends outside her religion. Comforting. The only other experience I have with this particular sect is the memory of waking up early one day as a child and stumbling upon some weird cult church show while flipping channels on the television. The priest was yelling in tongues and striking people down—even children! I was terrified. (Carlos informed me recently that this is entirely different—Evangelical Christian—but terrifying just the same.)

“Maybe since his religion was repressed in Cuba, this is his way of expressing his beliefs,” my mom offered some words of comfort. Romantic, but unlikely. I took his Christianity and shoved it far in the back of my mind, hoping that if I ignored the issue, it would go away.

Days later, and essentially no dinner dates later, we slept together. It was way too early, but I let him pressure me into it. I was VERY pleased to find out that he was not at ALL very Christian in bed! Just a blur of Spanish and acrobatics. As we lay in bliss, Carlos actually said, “I was just thinking of how attractive our children would be.” HIGHHH!!!!

We continued like this, sneaking off in the hospital for a make-out shesh, making crazy Latin love at night, texting and calling each other all the time. Despite my visions of beautiful half Cuban, half Nordic children, I did not feel intimate with Carlos. It was forced. I didn’t feel like he was my boyfriend at all. But I so wanted to feel that way. Intimacy takes time, I knew this. But did Carlos?

Meanwhile, the church questions were becoming more and more frequent.

“Did you go to church today?” He asked me every Sunday.

“No! You know I never go, its sooo boring!” I would giggle every time. He would laugh too. I decided it would not be the best time to tell him the funny story about how Brian Wilder and I accidentally got wasted off the consecrated wine during the Christmas Eve mass in high school…

Sooner than later, despite my best effort to be charming and adorable, things started to change. Texts got less flirty. Phone calls slowed, and then stopped. I asked Carlos, carefully, what was going on.

“Cosita, you’re perfect. I think we have something really good going on here, and I just want to take things slow. You have to understand, I just got out of a four year relationship.”

Wait. A. Second. Mister! My heart screamed out, but my face stayed calm. He was the one who pursued me! He was the one who pressured me into sleeping together, into calling each other boyfriend and girlfriend, and who showed pictures of me to his family!! “I totally understand,” I smiled.

That was the truth. I understood all too well. Years ago, I had a long term boyfriend. We dated for years, and I was in love with him. I built dreams around him. Living in a house by the sea, babies in white hats playing on the beach…

But I broke my own heart when I realized we would never work out together, and I broke up with him. I rebounded into a whirlwind affair with someone completely different—loud, dark, outspoken and passionate. I was high off Johnny. But after a few weeks, the ghost of my old love haunted me. I couldn’t get him out of my mind. And he became untouchable; no man could ever compare to him.

Was I becoming to Carlos what Johnny had become to me? A fun, fiery affair, but just a careless rebound?

The last time I saw Carlos was the night of his birthday. We went out with his friends in the city, and had a fantastic time. We both had too much to drink, but what’s too much if you’re having fun, right?! But that night, in bed, came the third bomb.

After the usual imitation-porn-movie series of moves, came the question. Actually, more like a statement. “I want to put my ___ in your____.”

Let’s just let that hang in midair, because that’s basically how I felt. I did my best to express that I wasn’t into that (especially after only dating for like a month and a half, are you crazy??!!)

“Well, we don’t have to…tonight,” was his Christian response. I’ll leave out the gorey details, but let me say for documenting purposes that he tried this a few more times, and when he dropped me off the next morning, I was left feeling very uncomfortable about the whole situation.

Carlos headed down to Miami that day. We spoke a few times afterwards, only because I initiated. A few days before Christmas, I stopped calling. It’s his turn, I figured. I still wanted him to be enamored with me, like he was in the beginning. I was dying for him to miss me, to surprise me and come up for New Years Eve. But day by aching day, I never heard from him. My dreams I had just begin to build around him faded away. Dried up, like a raisin in the sun. And just like that, I was on my own again.

It is not Carlos who I miss, but the idea of him. I miss the man I created, who was basically a skeleton of Carlos, once you stripped away the religious zealot, the cheating boyfriend, and the wannabe porn star. So, not Carlos at all really. After a few days of grieving, drinking and eating cookies, (the latter two which I would do anyway during the holidays) I will be my laughing, cheerful self once again. Besides, I already met another tall, handsome guy who just might be the one.

Un clavo saca a otro clavo.

December 21

Snow fell in clumps. It looked like confetti, like fake snow. “It’s too heavy to be real,” I thought. My chin rested in my palms, elbows on a cushiony pillow, and stomach on the rug. As The Santa Clause boomed on the TV, Alex and Michelle giggled, but Becca and I didn’t. We just existed there, looking at the fake snow. “They don’t get it,” I thought. “How can they? It’s not their family.”

Becca was quiet as the other girls laughed again. “I wonder if Becca wants to stay too? Probably.” Nancy carried milk and graham crackers into the TV room. “Wow. We are never allowed to eat outside of the kitchen,” Michelle chirped. Becca turned her head and just stared at me, whispering a million wishes to me in one glance.

“Want anything else, girls?” Nancy asked. She was looking at Becca and me. Her eyes were wider than usual and her eyebrows wrinkled. She knelt down and rubbed Becca’s back.

“We’re okay,” I answered for the both of us.

“Yea?”

“Yea. Have you heard from our mom yet?”

“No, sweetie. She hasn’t called yet.”

“Okay.”

Alex and Michelle chuckled at the movie, but Becca and I were silent. “I remember the movie being much funnier,” I mused to myself. The room was warm, warm enough that I could take off the blanket on my back. I sat up, crossed my legs, and reached for a glass of milk. “The graham crackers look good,” I said, but I didn’t eat any. I took another sip of milk, put the glass down, then returned to lying on my stomach, legs stretched out behind me.

Creeeaaak. The front door bellowed. Becca and I looked at each other but didn’t move. Nancy came in a moment later. “Your mom’s here. She’s in the living room.” The knot in my chest that had been there all day suddenly strangled my lungs. I was nauseated. My heart flung against my ribs in a rhythmic beat of panic, quicker and quicker. The thumping started travelling up my throat. Becca and I lifted ourselves from the floor and casually went to meet our mom. She stood there, stuffed like a teddy bear in her winter jacket and hat and scarf, her cheeks bright pink and blotchy, scratched by the wind. “It must be really cold outside,” I realized, so detached that I felt like I was floating. She smiled and scrunched up her face. “That’s what Nancy did before,” I thought as I looked at Mom.

“Come here girls. Let’s sit down.” Mom had only been away for a night, but in that time the world had changed. She put her arms around us and walked over to the sofa. We all sat down and she slowly pulled off her hat, placed it on her lap and tugged at a loose woolen thread. I looked out the window, shocked at how high the snow had piled. I knew what she was about to say, and I wanted to just sit there in silence, realizing it was all over but not hearing her words confirm it.

“Girls, Daddy passed away a few hours ago.” I sat there. My eyes started to burn and I saw Mom's chin start to dimple. I hated seeing her cry. “Uncle Rick and Aunt Gail were there with us. I was right next to him. Aunt Gail told us something funny that happened to her, and we all laughed. Daddy smiled and then he let go. He’s out of pain now, girls.” I wiped my damp face. “He loved you so much.” She paused. I looked up and realized she couldn’t speak because her face was full of tears and sadness. “You’re all he was talking about.” We three sat there, three who didn't know how to be anything other than four.

Just then I realized Uncle Rick was in the room, still wearing his jacket and slouched against the wall with this thumb and forefinger in his eyes.

“Do you girls want to walk home with me?” Mom asked. It was the oddest question. Wouldn't we all want to cling to one another and never be apart again? Wouldn't we all want to go home to our own beds, no more hospitals for Mom or neighbor's futons for us, and figure out how not to crumble to pieces? But at the time the question made sense to us. What exactly do we do now?

“Umm,” we looked at each other. “I wanna stay here tonight.”

“Me too,” Becca breathed.

“Are you sure?” Mom asked.

I had no idea what I wanted to do. “Umm, yea.”

“Ok. I’ll be at home whenever you want to come back. I love you girls so much. I’m so sorry,” Mom croaked while squeezing us tightly. I couldn’t feel anything.

Becca and I stood up, walked past Nancy and Michael, and sunk back into the TV room. Alex pressed the rewind button and I watched the gray lines on the screen. She pressed play and we continued watching the scene we stopped at minutes before.

A few seconds passed before Becca and I turned to each other.

“Wanna go home?” I asked her. I started to feel the weight of my body. I was so tired.

“Yes.” she nodded.

We stood up. “Bye,” I said to Alex and Michelle.

“We’re so sorry,” they whispered.

“Uh-huh,” I uttered.

Becca and I walked out of the room and saw Nancy and Michael sitting at the dining room table. “We’re gonna go home.”

“I’ll walk you home, girls.” Michael smiled faintly with his red, sunken eyes. Nancy stood up and gave me a tight hug.

“I’m so sorry, Jo,” she said. Her chest vibrated against my head while she spoke. “We’re always here for you. Always.”

I slid my arms into my snow jacket. It was bulkier than I remembered. I wrapped my scarf closely around my neck and zipped my coat up halfway. “What’s the point,” I thought. “It’s only a few houses away. How cold can it be?”

We left through the front door and marched into a sheet of snow. It fell madly from the sky. I closed my eyes and tilted my head down, walking right behind Michael. Wind slapped my face like sandpaper. Becca followed next to me. The streetlights were caked with snow and the light was gray, the street so quiet. I couldn’t even hear my own footsteps.

We got to our front door, opened it, and began shedding our layers of down and nylon. Mom was there, waiting for our return. The Christmas tree lit up the living room and housed piles of presents. There were hundreds of them. I looked at the tags and quickly realized they were from almost everyone we knew. Over the past month people had left presents, casseroles, cookies, and anything else that might distract us from the fact that Dad now lived in the hospital. Seeing all the gifts sparkle under the blinking bulbs seemed like a huge waste.

I stared at the tree and watched the light show dance on the walls and stairway. The Christmas tree flickered, completely unaware of what had just happened to Dad.

***

I remembered when Dad brought in last year’s tree. He had it on his broad shoulders, carrying it through the door as if he held a prize from a hunting trip. He propped the tree up in the same corner as always, and then secured it into the base. We watched him artfully loosen the branches from the netting and fluff the tree into an amazing sight. As he pulled down one of the branches he whispered, “Ah. Look…what…we…” and continued to reach deep into the thicket, “have… here.” He slowly pulled his arm out of the pine needles and held a perfect little bird’s nest in his hand. It was the size of his wide palm. Becca and I shrieked and scurried over to put our faces up close to the discovered treasure.

“Wow! That’s so cool!” I said marvelled. We touched the little branches that comprised the delicate nest. Mom ran into the room and then she too hovered over the finding. “What a cool bonus to getting the tree,” I thought.

“Did you know that finding a bird’s nest in your Christmas tree means you’ll have good luck for the whole year?” Dad said, in his soft voice. He gave us a smile and opened his eyes wide. I felt the luck already.

***

It is almost fourteen years since that cold night in December and I am now twenty-five. During the time my father was losing his life to cancer, I did not know how my mother, sister, and I would soldier on, but I knew we had to.

It was appropriate for us that he died on the winter solstice, the shortest day of the year, because we were ready to find a sign of light. It was also an appropriate time for him, being in sync with the natural world, that he should leave this earth as the seasons quietly switched acts. December will always be a difficult time for me and each year I continue to feel a sadness wash over me as the first day of winter approaches, but with each year comes more successes, more promise for the future. Although it would be impossible to retrace the steps we took from that day forward, it is those small steps, those choices, those moments of strength that have allowed not the tragedy to define our family, but rather, our endurance and love instead.

Phoenix or bust

As much as I think I’m trying to be financially responsible, I’m not. Responsible adults pay their gas bills and have functioning stoves. They also receive letters saying their credit limit has increased and that they just earned extra sky miles. I don’t get those letters. I get dangerously thin envelopes with the words Final Notice stamped across the front, letters written in all caps, forcing my eyes to read the words I’ve been ignoring for many weeks, words like Due to accruing late payments and Your credit rating has been lowered. In fact, not too long ago, I opened a letter from The Gap and wrongly assumed it was a bill for yellow corduroys I purchased for a modernized Snow White costume. But no, the letter was even less forgiving than tight yellow pants—it informed me that my credit limit had been reduced to $100. I wanted to yell, “That’s ridiculous! One hundred dollars doesn’t even pay for a chunky knit sweater these days!” Confused and ashamed, my vision inevitably focused on the familiar words that read Due to your recent late payments on other credit cards… Ah, my injured relationship with the bank had been leaked! In the world of payee-payer relationships, I am not redeeming myself with good behavior, and I’m looking at fifteen to life, with only some ill-fitting cords to keep me warm.

Recently, throwing caution to the wind, I bought lunch near my school on the Upper West Side. After much shoving around by high schoolers and fellow lunch goers, I decided on split pea soup and a veggie wrap. I chucked my debit card across the counter, trying to get out of there as soon as possible.

“Sorry, ma’am. It’s declined,” the cashier said, handing me the curled receipt inked with the D-word. “Do you have another card?”

“First of all, ‘ma’am’ isn’t necessary. And please try that card again,” I smiled uncomfortably.

The man rolled his eyes, as if to say, You’re making my life more difficult than those high schoolers behind you trying to steal cans of soda. But he ran the card, and again shoved the receipt reading declined in my face.

“Do you have another card or what? There’s people waiting.”

“Um, yea, hold on,” I said, fumbling through my wallet, “try this one.” I tossed him my sparkly for-emergency-purchases-only credit card.

“Ma’am, card’s no good. Do you have anything else?”

Glowing all shades red, I shook my head, handed the food back over the counter and mouthed, “I’m sorry.” I dialed my bank immediately. When a man picked up, I spurted, “My debit card is no good. I tried to buy lunch and they said no! It’s been declined. Why?”

“OK, Miss (read: Crazy). Hold on…Well, it seems like we’ve put a hold on the card, ma’am.”

Yes, so that it wouldn’t go up in flames the next time I swiped it at Loehmann’s, I thought to myself.

“What’s your social security number, ma’am?” he asked, then followed up with, “And the state in which you received your social security card, ma’am?” The onslaught of ma’ams combined with starvation was all too much. Not only was I being called old and told I may not eat, but my card was being put in a time out. The only thing that could have made the moment worse was if the banker’s next question was, “And when was the last time you actually went to the gym?”

Informing the banker I was born and bred in New York, he said, “So, you didn’t purchase anything in a Walmart in Phoenix, Arizona yesterday?”

“Um, no. I didn’t.”

“Well, it looks like someone has been charging things to your account. At WalMart and Safeway.”

“Oh my goodness! That’s terrifying!”

“Yes, ma’am, it is. We’re gonna go ahead and cancel this card for you, and I’d recommend you close this account, just to be safe.”

“But I’m leaving for Ireland in two days! How fast can I figure all this out?”

He cleared his throat as if to say, You have $200 in your account, you seem to go out for dinner quite a lot, but yet you’re going to Ireland. Don’t choke on your whiskey.

He was right. Who do I think I am? I had two overdraft fees this month and The Gap won’t even allow me any more dark-washed denim. I realize the card cancellation is unrelated to my recklessness—since Fake Me was unaware of who she had swindled while buying armfuls of junk at Walmart—but maybe it takes a scammer in Phoenix to stop the Real Me from committing any more financial harm.

So after work, I darted to my nearest bank to open up a new account and withdraw some cash for my trip. A new checking account and a few twenties in hand, I filtered onto the rush hour subway, desperate for a seat and some sympathy. I squeezed in between a gaggle of high school girls, a sprinkling of sad nine-to-fivers and two moms with strollers. Holding onto my wallet and handrail, both for dear life, I couldn’t help but overhear a mother and teenage daughter next to me.

Daughter: Mom, who are you giving the Tiffany’s gift card to?

Mom: Not sure, probably Kirsten. I still don’t know who to give that Cartier caviar set to though. The only people I’ve seen serve it recently are Barb and Doug. So maybe I’ll give it to them.

OK, so apparently not everyone buckles down when the economy bites the dust. It’s a harsh world out there, and getting harsher—just ask Fake Me, who required my buck for her shopping spree! I know it’s going to be a steep and messy climb out of this hole I’m in, full of ample time in last season’s clothing to think about my sinful ways. I’ll start repenting as soon as my plane takes off for Ireland.