She’s dead.
The woman’s daughter, in a flurry of emergency vehicles and police cars, on a misty Wednesday evening, was taken away without urgency. This was not a rescue. Not a crime scene either, from what I can gather from my across the culdesac neighbor and resident gnome. “Gloria didn’t want to talk about it.” That’s the mom, another neighbor on a property between us.
A year or so ago, the mom, Gloria, bought a house on the corner for her daughter and grandson. There were anomalies from the beginning. A stripper pole left out for “large item trash collection.” A son who appeared to have legs that worked backwards, as he evolved from a wheel chair to walking again in the first few months. And the daughter, thin and elusive as a stray cat. I never learned the story.
I was proud of the mom for buying the house and putting her daughter and grand son in a comfortable place nearby. Seems like the ex-husband and father appeared occasionally at various times over the year.
They’ve all been here for a week. A huge fancy Sprinter RV with external lights shining into the open garage as they sort through her stuff. Boxes and empty shelves being arranged on the street for pickup. A scruffy dog that followed Gloria back and forth from her daughter’s memoriam and back to her house. Maybe a sister.
A few nights ago I was getting my mail. She pulled up in her black Mercedes and checked the mail. I was 50-feet from her in the darkening evening. I wanted to reach out, say something, anything. Comfort. There is no comforting a mom who has lost a daughter. I know this first hand. I remained reverently quiet. And sad.
It’s not my place to inquire. Six months ago when another fanfare of police cars surrounded the young woman’s house for a few hours. I was curious. I didn’t ask. None of my business.
Much the same this morning as the sun is starting to rise behind the sad house. I can feel the grief. I sense it. There is a pull of energy and sadness coming from the now-empty house, with the purple LED lights bathing the ceiling of the living room and glowing out into the night. The Sprinter van has returned home with the scruffy dog and salvageable or Ebay-able stuff.
At the time the house came on the market, my girlfriend and I mused about buying it. It would be fun having her 100 yards away. (Not really.) She didn’t buy the house, but it primed the pump. She ended up putting an offer on a house about a mile away. She noticed the for sale sign a few weeks after Gloria bought the corner house for her daughter. And a few months later, she had a house for her and her two dogs. A house with a plunge pool. It was a dream. The proximity worked well for us.
For a while.
I haven’t spoken to her since August. Two texts about returning some of her stuff, garnered angry responses. “I don’t want anything.”
I know she is on her way to teach 2nd grade right now, this moment. Friday, Dec. 6. I miss her. I miss the two dogs. I made the right decision.
Out here in the moment of sadness, I am doing things to prop myself up. The sadness is infectious. I can’t tell you everything, but I can say I’ve got a second date tonight. The moment of pause and reflect is over.
I’d say I’m in no hurry. “No pressure,” I add to my advancements. I’m pressureless at the moment. Not without agency. Just without urgency.
A time of great growth for me, probably for my now ex-girlfriend.
“I’m sorry. I still love you very much. I just can’t be with you anymore,” I said. She started her white Volvo, the car neither of us liked very much. She didn’t look at me. She didn’t hear me break up with her 6 weeks earlier. Or take my 2-week pilgrimage to the Catskills as a message. I wanted to do it right, gently, and with compassion. I probably failed.
Rounding out the disappointments of the season, my son’s isolation has reached a peak. No response since three days before Thanksgiving and my birthday. The coach updated us, “Tell them I had a really shitty day.”
That’s it. He’s now using the coach as a shield for not taking responsibility. He says to the coach, “I feel like I don’t have a family.” And then refuses to join us for Thanksgiving. Oh, yes. I understand. And I really understand about letting go of those you can’t change or adapt to. I will not adapt to my son being an AR-wielding recluse. I will not jeopardize my serenity. I cannot rescue him. I’ve been through this movie several times.
First with my dad, who was drowning himself in booze. Then my favorite sister who’d begun talking to horses before she fled off a bridge on Christmas day. So, yeah, Christmas can be a bitch. And this year, with my son likely to refuse festivities, I have to be okay with his decisions. It’s not my role to manage or save him.
It was not my role to manage or transform my former girlfriend into a more self-aware partner. I tried. Provided books. Asked questions. Requested a few boundaries around my son’s struggles, that just could not be adhered to. On the forth or fifth time I shouted, “You need to stay in your lane.” That’s an hour before I canceled my flight to San Diego to be with her. It was going to be our Summer vacation.
How was I supposed to leave on vacation, play on the California beaches, and pretend to be happy? I was going to give it a shot. I sent her my flight information and her first text back was, “You booked the wrong flight home. I can’t use my air miles.”
I canceled the ticket a few hours later. In fairness, I had hoped she would stay in CA for the rest of the week. She flew home early. I guess to support me. In her mind, anyway. I was asking her to back off. She was trying to insert herself and her wisdom into a relationship and process she knew nothing about.
In the plunge pool, a few days after she returned we had the talk.
“This is me breaking up with you,” I said. She hadn’t been hearing me. She heard that. I packed my things and came home. I’ve only been back in her house once, and that was to return her garage remote and retrieve one of the three paintings she’d borrowed from me.
I did leave her a potted plant on her front porch on her birthday. My daughter counseled me to just say “Happy Birthday.” Nothing else. The two dogs, which I loved very much for three years, were at the window begging and barking for me to come in. I left without speaking to them. I was sad.
I was also released.
I did not want to go back in the house. I didn’t want to drive down her street anymore. I didn’t want to be in a relationship that wasn’t evolving along with me. I wanted to be alone.
Here I am. More to come…
