(Colleen)
I may have found a purpose
.
HOW LONG IS
too long to go without a shower?
How long is too long to go without changing your sweatpants?
I ask these questions of Darla and Lindsay—who stand before me, arms crossed, donning matching scowls—who refuse to answer. The question seems legitimate to me. After all, if they are going to accuse me of being a dirty bitch, I'd like to know by what standards they're judging me.
"Can you hand me that candy bar?" I ask, but neither
Darla nor Lindsay is budging. I pout and tears well up in my eyes. The candy bar has somehow made its across the coffee table, which is strange considering I've made a conscious effort to keep all perishable items within reach.
"Get off your fat ass and get it yourself,"
Darla shakes her head. Lindsay gives Darla the stink eye and elbows her, mouthing, "Be nice."
"We are not going to feed into your little downward spiral. Call it depression or whatever, but we're putting a stop to it."
Lindsay's voice is firm, bartering no disagreement. She may be unmoving, but she's also tiny and easy to tackle.
"Look, I'm not in the mood for company. If I were, I would have opened the damn door when you knocked."
Darla smirks. When I didn't open the door she used her copy of the house key to get in.
"We're not leaving,
Colleen. We have business to take care of," Lindsay pleads with me. The candy bar continues to give me the come hither look from its unreachable location.
"Well, if you're not here to socialize, then what are you here for?" I shimmy down the couch and stick my socked feet out toward the coffee
table in an attempt to bring the candy bar closer. Eyeing me, Darla nabs the candy bar, which is already opened, and takes a bite, smiling. I'm not amused. That candy bar was my pre-dinner snack. My pizza should arrive any time now.
"This,
Colleen," Lindsay smiles softly—in sharp contrast to Darla's devious grin—"is an intervention."
"A what?
" I shout and huddle back into my corner of the sofa. A crinkle and a crunch sound behind me and I pull out a mostly empty bag of Cheetos. Thankfully, there are still some crumbs at the bottom. I stick my middle finger in, cover it in processed cheesy goodness, and then stick it in my mouth. Dip. Lick. Repeat.
"Look at yourself,
Colleen. You're disgusting," Lindsay says, snatching the chip bag. She disappears into the kitchen and returns with the garbage can. For a moment, I'm oblivious to the trash lain about the living room. But then I see it. I'm a pig: there's a Chinese takeout container on the entertainment center, a pizza box from a few days back under the pile of candy bar wrappers and empty soda cans on the coffee table. I look down at the couch and see a few more wrappers poking out from between cushions. I stand up immediately in disgust as Lindsay tries to rid Brad's house of my slovenly ways.
"Come on,"
Darla urges, suddenly very gentle. She approaches slowly, as though she's afraid of startling a wild animal, and I suppose she is. I nod and she opens her arms. She only hugs me for a moment and then holds me at arm's length, wrinkling her nose. "Have you showered at all in the last week?"
I look away, feeling myself blush. I'm not exactly proud of my unkempt ways as of late. I just haven't had the energy since my fight with
Brad. Every day for the past five days I have woken up on the couch with the intent of showering and cleaning up the house. But then when I realize that I'm on the couch, again, I can't bring myself to move. The first night I tried to sleep in Brad's bed, it just felt wrong without him there.
The next day I tried to shower, but I saw his razor tucked away in its holder on the sink and I broke down crying. I sat on the floor and just stared at the shower, remembering the almost shower sex. Yesterday, I dropped a piece of sweet and sour chicken on my lap. I had every intention to change, but I had found
Brad's not-so-hidden home video collection and I was too sad to move. I was on the third tape. It was of us on my second birthday. Even as a baby, he was beautiful, and even as a baby, I pushed him away. And I may have bit him a few times to boot. I cried even harder, then. He's always put up with me.
The only productive thing I’ve done since Brad left me was to work on a new case. In his haste he left
a case file on the coffee table. I didn’t mean to look at it, but curiosity won out. The file came from the Boys & Girls club for one of their former little brothers who has since transitioned to being a big brother himself. Brad mentored him a few years ago. I remember how disappointed Brad was when he told me that the boy had gotten his girlfriend pregnant. They were both in high school. The file had notes with it, hand written by Brad. He’s been working on creating an internship for kids like this one down at the station. How did I not know he was working on this? How could I be so blind?
By day three, I was going insane and I needed something to do, so I threw myself into Brad’s project. The idea is ambitious, but it’s plausible with some hard work and a good attorney working on it. And for now, I have purpose in life. I have something that matters. This something reminds me why I got into law in the first place. I wanted to help people. But so far in my career all I’ve done is help myself.
I let Darla lead me upstairs to the bathroom. She starts running the water for the shower. I undress in front of her, not caring anymore. Normally, I would be embarrassed about my naked self, even without the added weight. It's just that without my career and without my Brad, I just don't care. Everything I have ever defined myself by is gone. I have always been Colleen the lawyer or Brad's best friend, the lawyer. Even before I graduated, I was Colleen, the lawyer. And now? Now I don't know who I am without it.
I step under the hot, inviting spray and the tears start flowing as my mind purges itself of everything tha
t's fallen apart the past week.
How much have you been eating?
You're insane.
The man is folding my laundry.
Who does that?
Nobody.
Do you want out?
We don't get divorced,
Colleen, or have you forgotten that we're Catholic?
Let me rephrase that,
Colleen, I won't get a divorce. Marriage may not mean shit to you, but it means something to me. Even if we have to be separated for the rest of our fucking lives, we will die married to one another.
I don't need your permission,
Bradley.
We're just friends, remember that,
Bradley.
That was the biggest lie of them all. We're not just friends. We haven't been for a while. Maybe ever. He's always been my
Brad—my pretty boy—in one way or another. I've always been his pretty girl and he's always been my best friend.
When he looks at me, I swear I can see love. Even when he's angry, I see love. But then, he's been looking at me the same way since as far back as I can remember. I could be imagining it—the love. But somewhere deep down I know that's just a safety cushion. I don't know if I want him to love me back. If he loves me back,
I have a hell of a lot to lose.
Who marries their best friend ju
st so he can see her smile?
Nobody.
But Brad did.
He did that for me.
I wash myself thoroughly, though I try to avoid the noticeable curves which have shown up the past two weeks. They're everywhere. My hips have meat on them and my thighs no longer fit in my regular pants. I'm reduced to exercise wear. My stomach is filling out, forming a pouch above my pelvis and below my naval. I noticed the beginnings of my first fat roll a few days ago. The one good thing that's come with the added weight are my new breasts. Even if they are sore, they've definitely gotten bigger. Along with the exercise wear, I'm also now reduced to sports bras. The fancy ones are too uncomfortable and they create an extra bulge of fat over the cup.
If I had the guts, I'd take a pregnancy test. It's just that, right now, I don't want to be let down again. And it's a double-edge sword anyway. If I am pregnant, and I've pushed
Brad away permanently, then he's stuck with me. Having a baby wouldn't be such an awesome thing if the father-to-be can't stand the mother-to-be. Besides, I think I'd know if I was pregnant.
After my shower, feeling much better, I dress in the yoga pants, underwear, sports bra, and t-shirt
Darla has laid out for me. The t-shirt is one of my old Red Sox shirts from seasons back. I doubt it's going to fit, but I squeeze into it anyway. The reasons why are things I don't let myself spend too long thinking about. It might lead me down a road I'm not yet ready to explore.
When I leave the bathroom, I see
Darla and Lindsay in the bedroom, sitting on the bed, waiting for me. Darla has my Uggs sitting out waiting for me. I give her the eye but she assures me that we're just going to her house. She explains that I need a change of scenery. I'd fight her, but she's right. Plus, I really can't stand being in this house without Brad anymore.
I wonder if he's ever coming home.
"Can I get a minute alone?" I ask gently. I assure them both that I won't be locking the door or jumping out of any windows or hiding under the bed or in the closet. When I finish the list of never-ending places to hide/flee, and they decide I'm being sincere, they leave me alone in the room. The moment they're gone I rid myself of my t-shirt and I raid Brad's drawers for something far more comfortable.
Brad
's dresser is long and deep set. His top drawer houses his boxers, his socks, and some old t-shirts he mostly wears around the house because they're falling apart. Upon inspection, I find that they're sorted by team: a stack each for the Celtics and the Patriots, and the Bruins. There are two stacks for the Red Sox.
I dig through the piles looking for a particular shirt. It's an old navy blue with the Red Sox logo in the center. On the right shoulder there are remnants of faded black writing. Early on in the '07 season, I wrote "This is the year" on
Brad's sleeve. He wore that t-shirt to every home game we went to together, despite the incessant whines of his then-girlfriend, Amy. We won the series that year.
Finally, I find what I'm looking for at the bottom of the stack. My hand scrapes against a piece of paper. I try to ignore it, but I can't. A piece of paper in the bottom of a clothing drawer reeks of a hiding spot.
Deciding that it would be rude to automatically pull the paper out, I push the clothes aside and stare at it. The paper is well worn and halfway sticking out of a white envelope. Its condition is indicative of it having been folded and re-folded a hundred times. Whatever is written on it must be something Brad wanted to read more than once.
Curiosity gets the better of me and I cave. I lift the envelope from the drawer and remove the paper, unfolding it. It's of your standard lined fare with no ornamentation to it. My gut drops when I realize what I'm holding.
This is a letter to Brad from Heather. Instantly, I worry that he's still in love with her. But before I let those thoughts run away with me, I read it. Morality be damned!
Bradley
,
I wish you would talk to me. I wish you would let me explain in person. I don't want your forgiveness, but I know that
Colleen does. She needs it.
All I could make out from your screaming the last time we saw each other was that you can't believe what
Colleen did. I was there, too, Bradley. But as usual, that's a minor detail. It's always about Colleen.
You love her and I understand that. She's in love with you, too. It's plain as day. I don't know how you can g
o on pretending it's not there.
That's why I can't feel too bad about what happened. You're mad about
Colleen getting with your girlfriend. I should be mad about you loving her when you said you loved me. Or maybe I should just be mad at myself for believing you every time you told me you were just friends. Like I said, it's always about Colleen. I should have known better. It was obvious. I just can't believe you weren't even a little upset at seeing me with someone else; instead, you were livid with Colleen. It was like I wasn't even there.
I just wanted you to know that it's not totally her fault. I wanted her and I went after her. Maybe I wanted her because you wanted her. I'm not s
ure. It doesn't matter anymore.
Don't be mad at her for too long. She ne
ver would have done that sober. Sorry I hurt you,
Heather
Breathing becomes difficult and I feel my knees give way. I let myself cry for what feels like forever. But I rebound slowly and with a new purpose. I need to rectify what's happened between me and Brad. I need to show him that I can be good for him. I need to get him back.
I go to walk out the door but then I remember something. I need a shirt. I neatly tuck the note back in the envelope as it was and place it at the bottom of the drawer and I pull out the shirt I'd gone looking for and throw it on. Regardless of how confused, and sure, and sad, and happy I am inside all at the same time, I soldier on because I can't hide away, avoiding my problems for ever.