Some people exercise or read, or take hot baths with scented candles and mood music. I knead batter, weigh flour, and play with fondant like I’m a toddler with Play-Doh. It sedates my inner demons in a way nothing else can, and I think it’s because I feel close to him when I’m in the kitchen, mixing and blending and measuring.
It’s my vice. My escape.
My cell phone pings from the kitchen table, so I swipe both of my white-dusted palms along my apron and fetch it, letting a smile lift when I see Leah’s name light up the screen.
Leah: LOVE YOU SO MUCH. Miss your face. And that cute ass of yours. Has anyone told you what a nice butt you have? Seriously. It’s fantastic. I’m sure you already know. Am I making this weird? Fuck. I always do this. It’s totally weird now. But you still love me, right? Muahhh.
God, I adore her.
I shoot her a quick text back, taking a seat.
Me: It’s always weird. That’s why I love us. Coffee talk on Saturday?
While I await her response, I scroll through my unopened texts and nibble my lip when I notice a missed message from my mother.
Mom: Give me a call when you can, sweetie. Dad threw out his back and won’t be able to finish the remodel on your bathroom. He’s okay, don’t worry. I will try to see if Al is able to give you a good price.
A lump forms in the back of my throat as I attempt to call her back, but it goes straight to voicemail, which means she’s probably in bed already.
The bathroom.
It was one of the last things Charlie and I discussed before…
Before winter rolled in.
We bought this house together three years ago, and it was a fixer-upper to say the least. Drab carpeting, funky wallpaper, a mauve master bathroom. Mauve. It was a running joke between us for years, but it was always pushed to the bottom of the to-do list, trumped by other projects and financial commitments. But Charlie had received quite a large pay raise at the beginning of the year, giving us the opportunity to finally tackle the bathroom.
It was one of many things left undone, and one I finally decided to pull the trigger on after an entire year of crying myself to sleep on those mulberry tiles, begging the decorative, floral wallpaper to bring him back to me.
I send my mother a reply, licking a dab of lemon batter from my index finger.
Me: Give Dad a big hug for me. Don’t worry about the bathroom. I’ll stop by for dinner this week. xoxo
There’s a heavy weight in the pit of my stomach when I set my phone down. A tumor. And it’s the malignant kind, that I know, invasive and deadly, spreading rapidly and infecting all the parts of me I try to keep from its reach—from its stems and hungry roots.
But I’m stronger than my sickness.
I have to be.
Heaving in a calming breath, I pluck my phone from the tabletop and open up my e-mail app. An unsent draft stares back at me, riddled with clumsy words and ill-defined thoughts.
What does one say to the man who holds her husband’s beloved heart in his chest?
What am I supposed to say to this person, this faceless man, who is by all accounts a complete stranger, but who feels closer to me than anyone else in this world?
He has what I want. He has what I crave.
He has a piece of my heart inside of him.
I enlarge the little window that hosts my response, worrying my lip between my teeth as my brain scrambles to assemble words and coherent thoughts. And then my thumbs start swiping at the digital keypad, transmitting a frenzy of feelings.
from:
Magnolia <[email protected]>
to:
date:
Apr 25, 2021, 10:33 PM
subject:
Unperfect
Zephyr,
I’m sorry it took me so long to reply. I was trying to find the perfect words, until I realized… you’re right. There’s no such thing as perfect. There are only words and what we take from them. So, here are the unperfect words I have for you today.
Grief is a mechanical bull.
You can hold on as tight as you can with white-knuckled fists, clenched teeth, and tears biting at your eyes, but you’re destined to lose your grip. You’re going to get thrown.
And when you hit the ground, it’s going to hurt like hell.
People will try to help you up, tell you it’s okay, encourage you to hop back on and try again.
So, you’ll try again, expecting a different result, or at the very least, hope that you can hold on a little tighter this time—stay on a little longer.
But you’ll still get thrown. And it will still hurt.
I think the key to healing is accepting that your grief isn’t going anywhere, then getting back on the bull anyway. One day, you’ll start to enjoy the ride more than you’ll fear the anticipation of the inevitable fall.
I can’t wait for that day.
— Magnolia
I hold my breath, squeezing the phone in my hand as I click “send.”
And then my heart starts to thump erratically when I notice the little dot by his name turn green, alerting me that he’s online. He’s probably reading my e-mail right now.
Something about that feels so… intimate.
My feet tap the wood planks beneath my kitchen table as I wait for him to respond, my palms sweaty, my chest rattling with suspense. I wait a few minutes, then a few more, almost ready to turn off my phone and call it a night, when a little message box pops up, and my breath catches.
Zephyr: I think you meant “imperfect.”
I blink at the response, frozen. Mentally tongue-tied. Those five words hang between us, nearly palpable, something I can almost reach out and touch. With the e-mail correspondence, there was a bit of a disconnect—room to pretend.
The imaginary Zephyr and his make-believe heart.
But this, this instant messaging, this live conversation… it all feels too real.
There’s a bitter sting in the back of my throat, and I notice that my hands are trembling as I hold the phone face a few inches from mine.
Think, think, think.
Words.
I need words.
I swallow back the sting and the residue it leaves behind, then type out a rambling reply.
Me: I didn’t. Unperfect and imperfect are both accurate and carry the same meaning, but unperfect is less recognized. It’s overshadowed by its prettier, shinier counterpart, and I can’t help but relate to that. Everything deserves a chance to make a comeback, you know?
A heartbeat skips by before his response comes through.
Zephyr: Touché.
It only takes one more heartbeat for me to realize that I’m smiling.
—SEVEN—
“Dancing in the lake.”
I find myself watching her again, elbow to knee, my chin propped up by the heel of my hand. Her heartbreak is tangible, engraved into her voice, carved into her skin, and coiled around every piece of her like barbed wire.