Sunday, August 17, 2014

Day 170: Playing Tricks



Sunday, August 17, 2014

Dear Gareth,

You were not there at the airport to greet me when I returned from the U.S. like you were last year.  I know because I looked. I scanned faces as I exited the secure area into the sea of expectant people waiting for those they knew. I looked for someone your height. I looked for your cap. Last year you were holding roses. I looked for roses.

They were not there. You were not there. And I don't understand how this could be.

What an unraveling that snatched you from the present that I'm in now. How is it that more than five months later I still have trouble believing it?

Do you remember last year? I flew into Busan. It was closer to Hadong- pre-move and pre-Philopena. Of course you knew I was coming. We had been chatting at each layover. In Chicago I described my sandwich to you- turkey, brie, and apple on a baguette. "A goddam sandwich without any bullshit!" you exclaimed happily. "I just want a goddam sandwich without any bullshit!" is what you'd say when eying the spam-layered, sweet sauce-dripping monstrosities in Korea. And here I was eating one. My sandwich with no bullshit.

I had the same kind of sandwich on my way home this time. I wanted to call and tell you about it. Were you waiting for me in Korea this time as I took the first bite? It felt like you could have been. My mind still plays tricks on me.

Even after not seeing you in the crowd, I was nearly convinced for a moment (and that's all it takes) that you were alive. I imagined my name on one of the signs being held up by various people waiting to connect with those they are responsible for picking up. "That's me," I'd say, pointing to "BRIDGET MARET" written out in all caps with that subtly different font that indicates a non-native English speaker wrote it. "That's me. I'm Bridget."

"Ah! Follow me!" the man would say. I'd roll my multiple suitcases to his van, load them in the back, and hop in the front seat.

"Where are we going?" I'd ask.

"It's a surprise," he'd say.

I'd buckle myself in and marvel at the fact that I was in no way thrown by an unexpected airport pickup taking me to a mystery destination.

Maybe I'd sleep a bit in the van. It's nighttime and it was a long flight here. Yes. I'd sleep. But just a bit.

I'd wake up when I feel the shift of speed as we exit the highway and go through the I.C. I'd recognize it as Gyeongju- the city where you last lived.

We'd wind our way past the scrap metal yard and approach SHOW MOTEL! with its impressive dripping neon lights.

We'd snake along the river. Mountains to our left. Buildings to our right.

We'd pass the turn for your old apartment and instead take a left across the bridge towards Dongguk University where you taught for the past year.

I'd try not to look too long or too hard at the university hospital where I last saw you. I wouldn't want to think about that and I wouldn't want to ruin the surprise.

The van, however, would park right at the entrance to the hospital, and instead of feeling sick about it, I'd begin to realize what the surprise could be. I'd run from the car, not bothering to close the door, and speed through the entrance.

My shoes would squeak on the shiny floor as I run past people and signs and posters and elevators and blur they're a blur I don't see anything else because I know where I'm headed.

I'd round the corner and take the back steps two at a time. I'd run past the bathroom where I washed the blood from your necklace before handing it over to your brother. I'd run past the chairs that I made into a bed for the several nights I stayed as close to your side as I could. I'd run below the speaker that played the prayers and the chants and the sound of the hollow wooden bell. I'd fling open the two doors separating me from you except for those brief 20-minute visits we were allowed.

I'd take a sharp right and stop just as I'd reach the foot of your hospital bed and you'd be there.

Sitting up.

Laughing.

An elaborate joke. A terrible joke. But my relief at you being here with me now would overtake my confusion and anger about what hell it's been for the past 5 months.

"But how did you-?"
"But what about the-?"
"Then how did you-?"
"So you're saying-?"

You'd have an answer for everything. So many people would have been in on it.

I'd be impressed that you went to such lengths to pull something like this off.  You'd momentarily feel terrible about causing such anxiety.

Remember when you threw back the shower curtain when I was taking a shower and yelled, "I GOT MY EYE ON YOU JAY-QUELLEN!" You were only repeating a line from Key and Peele that made both of us laugh and laugh each time we heard it, said it, or thought about it. You had no idea the surprise would put me in such an adrenaline state of panic that I'd continue screaming long after you brought your hand to your mouth and quietly said over and over, "Oh, babe! I'm so sorry! I didn't meant to startle you. I thought it would be funny. Oh, sweetie. Oh, babe. I'm so sorry..."

"Oh, babe," you'd say this time. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you. It was just a prank."

Pranking was never your thing. You didn't like any humor that could be construed as mean or hurtful. I love how sensitive you were. We didn't tease like this.

I'd have to suspend that part to continue the fantasy that you are still here. Waiting. Not at the airport, but several hours away in an intensive care unit at Dongguk University Hospital.

But I can't suspend it. By the time I've actually made my way to the bus outside of the airport, a mere 4 minute walk from where I'd first scanned the faces for you, my imaginary story would be over. They're never sustainable. Or if they are, I'm somehow making a choice time and time again to step back into reality. Into the present. It is where I live now, without you.

Dear Gareth, sweet Gareth, I'm beginning my third year in this country where we met. This place where we "met...by chance, deliberately," as you wrote. This place where we "...tripped into love/like little kids tripping into puddles of rain, getting messy/making worlds then running home to the rational brain." In some ways, I am here for the first time. I will not meet you on my second day in my new little town. I will not fill the months to come with adventures of Korea and trains and buses and you.

I will have experiences without you. And this will be different. (Different,  I'm told to say. Not difficult- though it will be. Not devastating, though sometimes it will be that, too. Different. It will be different.) And I am to remember that different can be good, too.

Different friends. Different experiences in the same places we went. Different adventures in new places where we hadn't gone. Chuseok will come and go and be different. Same for Halloween, Thanksgiving, my birthday, and Christmas. This will all be different.

And my choice in the matter- and I like to employ it where I can- is to turn towards this different-ness with my arms wide open. You would love this about me, Gareth. You would love that I'm choosing to go about it this way. I'm not particularly ready, but I will do it. I will open my arms out wide and I'm going to live this shit out of this life that I've been given, for as long as I'm given it.

And the trick, as it turns out, is just to be willing. Willing to be open to different when same is no longer an option.
















1 comment:

  1. Thanks for reminding me to be open to "different" when I slip into the depression of "devastating." Like you, I had a fantasy. Only my fantasy was in the hospital where I imagined Jessica would wake up and say "fooled you" to all the medical personnel who entered her room while I would be so delighted at her joke. I so wish it would have been real.

    Still I found myself remembering on the flight back. A little girl, 6 years old was traveling alone. She found so many ways to entertain herself, engaging flight attendants and passengers seated next to her. It reminded me of her first at 3+ years old. She had her earphones in and sang along to a cassette tape of a sesame street song--sang at the top of her lungs. It was a delightful memory. I wonder when the memories will come without the wave of sadness that follows.

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