Truth in Advertising Page 0,57
medicine cabinet or the top two drawers in the bureau (which I’d given her to use). Her prescriptions and lotions and face creams and lip balms and Lady Schick razors and Secret deodorant and underwear and bras and wonderfully formfitting Lululemon pants.
When she finally did come by, many weeks later, with her two best friends and a car to get her stuff—remaining furiously silent almost the entire time as she threw things into trash bags and a knapsack—I stood, slouched, afraid, regretful, sweaty, confused, ashamed, guilt-ridden in the middle of the living room with the smile of the village idiot on my face.
Finally she spoke as she was going through the books, packing hers, shoving mine back onto the shelf as if she wanted to hurt them.
Holding up a book, Amy said, “I think this is my Infinite Jest.”
I laughed. The wrong response but it seemed funny to me. She laughed, too, for three seconds, then burst into tears.
Take your Infinite Jest, I wanted to say. Take my Infinite Jest. Take all of my jests and my infiniteness. Take the books, the plates, the glasses, the oddly large button poster. Take anything you want. Just please stop suffering because of me.
“Amy,” I said, but had no more to add.
I took a step to her, to hold her, perhaps, put a hand on her shoulder. It’s how I would have directed the scene.
“Stop,” she said. She shook her head back and forth slowly. “Do you know what you’ve done?” she said. “To me? To my family? Do you have any idea?”
One of her friends—Barb? Mandy? Erin?—came to the door, panting, having gone up and down the six flights several times carrying the trash bags. “All set, Amy. We’ll be in the car.” Barb/Mandy/Erin gave me a look as if to say, I’d like to throw up in your mouth, then walked out.
Amy started for the door and stopped.
She looked at me and said, “Why did you ask me to marry you?”
There are basic questions in life that you need to have answers for.
Why do you do your job?
What can’t you live without?
Who is the most important person in your life?
I do not have the answers to these questions yet. This is not good. Not on the eve of forty, alone, in an apartment whose most striking feature is a toilet in a boxed room.
Here’s the answer: I have no idea why I asked her to marry me. Wishful thinking? That it was the right thing to do? That it was what she wanted me to do? That if I did it I would come around to agree with the idea of it? There are people who believe that life can be lived rationally, that we are in control of our deepest, most powerful emotions, that we can perhaps even escape the deep markers from the early days, the crucial days, where we learn it all. Those people are called crazy. In reality I was playing a part, doing what I imagined I was supposed to do. The words sounded right. That’s why I asked her. How could I stand here and tell her that when I asked her to marry me I was imagining a scene, like in a commercial or a movie, about how one would ask someone to marry them? That it was all distant and unreal to me? That ultimately I did it because it was safe, because I didn’t love her?
Here’s what I knew about myself when it came to Amy: I knew I couldn’t be responsible for her happiness. She was too good, too kind, too loving, too giving. And it was only a matter of time before I let her down. But you cannot say that. Not out loud. Not when you’ve already hurt someone so badly.
I said, “I wanted to make you happy.”
Amy’s face contorted, as if she couldn’t quite believe the words.
“But you didn’t want to make me happy. You just liked the idea of making me happy.”
“Yes,” I said.
“You’re so . . . you’re so pathetic.”
I was running my tongue across the back of my teeth and my ears were hot. I was embarrassed and wounded and angry but ultimately I had no response because she was right.
• • •
I call Phoebe.
“Do you miss me?” I ask.
Phoebe says, “No. Do you miss me?”
I say, “Maybe. How are you? Where are you?”
“Skiing in Vermont. I told you like a thousand times.”
“I meant where are you this moment?”
“In front of a fire with a