Surface

by Deirdre Abrahamsson

I protect myself. Rock shut like a shell. Turn off. The ice queen. I have full control of the emotional valve--testing the air, the elements, the crowd before I ... emote. A smile here, a witty comment there. "Tut tut. Oh my God. Really? No way. Wow. That's great. Yeah." Nothing. Mostly nothing. The surface seems still. But underneath! Cyclones, tornadoes, tsunamis. Inferno. Color. Metaphors. Laughter. Conversation. Sorrow. Joy. Expression. Spontaneity.
On the surface.
Uh-huh.

"Did you hear me?"

"What?"

"Lucy. Come on. We've had this conversation over and over. I'm tired of it. Tired of this." Nick swung his arms wide. "I'm just tired in general. Work is driving me crazy..."

I'm swimming now. Diving deep. I don't have a snorkel, but I can breathe. Up above, the surface of the water refracts the sunlight pouring through. There are diamonds up there. Emeralds and sapphires.

"Listen, Nick...I'm sorry. I am trying. It's just that...just...oh, I don't know! I don't know."

He pulls her to him. Puts his arms around her. She buries her head in his chest and puts her arms around his waist. A wider waist now, she thinks, than three years ago. But who was she to talk?

"What are we going to do Lucy? What am I going to do with you?"

Now I am going deeper, diving farther, past schools of minnows, darting into the shadows. Angelfish drifting through coral. Tangerine sea anemones. Cobalt blue starfish. Algae, seaweed. Deeper still, heavy and dark, a small ship, its hull cracked, rudderless. An empty deck. On the rocks. She thinks for a moment, that she forgot something, that feeling when you get off the subway and realize, just after the doors close, that you left your favorite gloves on the seat. And you can see them through the window as the train pulls out of the station. But there is nothing you can do. It is too late.

"I'm sorry," she says. "I love you so much. I'll...I'll get better. I promise, I really want this to work."

Tonight is poker night, and Nick went over to Paul's house to meet the guys. Cigars, beer, and testosterone. Lucy has stopped crying when he goes out with his friends. Stopped the crying and feeling sorry for herself. She tried to do things to fill her loneliness while he was away, like read or talk on the phone to a friend, then go to bed early. She would always rouse herself from sleep when she heard his key in the door.

Lucy didn't dislike his friends per se; she just felt like he was choosing them over her. She felt left out from the group of guys, feeling left out even when she was socializing with them. She remembered how she half-joked once to him about how she should become a lesbian, when they were at his friend's wedding. She realized, too late, that it wasn't funny. That it was hurtful. The words still hung between them. Like so many others. It wasn't really what was said though. It was what was not said. Should she become a lesbian? What did she really mean? That she wanted to be with a woman? Or that she didn't want to be with a man? Or with him?

Their house used to belong to the Greenpoint Historical Society. There were glass cases in the living room, housing his basketball trophies and Elvis plate collection and statues and knick-knacks from his trips to Europe. German beer steins, an Eiffel tower replica, snow domes. With a shake of the wrist, snow fell on the Kremlin, on the orange rooftops of Prague, on London Bridge, on the Little Mermaid. Blue stars rained down on Parc Güell.

She could see her reflection in the glass as she danced in the living room. Only when he went out. She would push the couch to one side, turn on the CD player, and twirl about to Tori Amos's implorations:

Why do we, crucify ourselves?
When nothing I do
is good enough for me...
My heart is crying...

She jumped and twirled, leaped and stretched, marveling at her body, the strong shoulders and muscles, the sinewy arms. She would dance the whole CD-length--and some songs, over and over--until she was exhausted, sweaty.

Then to bed. A quick fix. Right into sleep. If she was awake when he came home, she would pretend that she was sleeping.

Lucy leaned forward on the bureau, on tip-toes, while Nick entered her from behind. She couldn't look at him. Instead she looked into her own eyes in the mirror--green eyes with brown and yellow flecks around the pupils. She always dreamed of having violet eyes, ever since she saw a picture of Elizabeth Taylor and learned that it was possible. Other times during their trysts, she would look at the National Geographic Map that took up a full wall of their bedroom, counting off all the states that she had visited. Thinking of all the places where she wanted to live. The names would rock in her head like waves--Stockholm, Ceylon, Sydney, Toulouse, Tralee, Budapest.

There was a job offer in New York. For Lucy. And she felt forced to take it. She was going to move there, alone. Was that so wrong? There was no right answer. Stay without a job? Nick was angry at her and retreated. He couldn't believe that she couldn't comprehend how he felt. She was confused. She felt like that was all that she did. Wondered what he thought and how he felt.

And he was happy where he was. She knew that. He had traveled the world twice. He had lived in New York. He was not going to move anywhere for her. She knew she had to go, but she couldn't articulate the reasons why. Once it was decided, she cried for a week. He would come home from work and read the newspaper or go out with his friends.

Lucy packed her belongings in boxes and suitcases. She left behind her cat and her dresser, the one with the mirror above. Everything else was his. Or theirs. Her father helped her move her belongings. Nick read the newspaper while they loaded the car. He kissed and hugged her goodbye, and she cried as she held him, not wanting to let go. She couldn't understand why she was doing this, why she was leaving.

They didn't officially break-up then. That came four months later. He broke up with her on the phone. "I can't do this anymore." Lucy cried for hours, days. Her heart was broken. But with the pain of loss, there was the glimmer of hope. Of release. Something was happening. It would take months before she could figure it out.

Sunlight glitters and dances upon the waves. Shards of light slice through the surface. I was always looking down towards the hidden depths of the ocean, searching for the bottom, the darkness. Slowly, slowly, gently, I let go and start to look up.

The Author

Deirdre Abrahamsson is a New Yorker living in Gothenburg, Sweden. She received a BA in English and an MS in Education from the University of Pennsylvania. By day she writes operational plans and reports for the 2006 European Athletics Championships and by night, poems and short stories. She is currently working on a novel about love, sobriety, and New York City.