“I’m in this prison you built for you…In this situation I don’t know what to do.” (Operation Ivy)

I had a hard time waking up this morning. I remember the alarm going off and I remember Rock hitting the snooze button, even though that’s really not his style. He had a hard time getting up this morning, too, probably as a result of Saturday night’s camping trip with friends and another late night with me last night. Every day I vow to go to bed at a reasonable hour because with all of the kids home I can never, ever nap. And every night finds me hauling my ass to bed way, way, way too late for a week day.

Goes with the territory, I guess. Still, I’m on the sleepy side of average this morning and I’m guessing that Michael didn’t have a very good sleep last night, either, because he’s crabby as all get out. My sister and her boyfriend are coming to visit today…probably around lunchtime or a bit later. They are on holidays together. Well, my sister has pretty much been on an extended holiday since school for her let out, with the exception of working part time and studying her buns off for the le grand test in the fall. Regardless, she phoned last night to say that she and Alain are going to be driving up for the day and they’d like to see us. Which really means that she wants to get her hands on the kids.

Goes with the territory, I guess! Ha!

But I’m getting off track. Because today’s post is not about my sister nor is it about not sleeping that much. No. Today’s post has another guest appearance from the old man in the hat. And it starts in the shower, of all places.

“Always something makes me think…Things don’t have to be so wrong.” (Operation Ivy)

I gulped about half a cup of coffee in one swig, standing at the edge of the counter first thing this morning. My eyes were bleary and my head was swimming slightly. I went outside, through the side door, and sat with my coffee for about five minutes before getting my brain to wake up and getting my ass into gear. I went back in and grabbed a towel and washcloth.

I got into the shower and let it do what it is that showers are good for…waking people up. I washed my hair which looked a lot like an old and tattered wig, with clumps of hair and dreads sticking out all over the place after being confined into two pigtails yesterday. As I rinsed my head and started to reach for the conditioner (yes, it’s completely possible to have dreads and still have clean hair…) I felt something.

The unmistakable feeling of someone standing next to me.

I turned and there he was, holding his hat between his hands.

“Hey kiddo.”

I know that you’re probably expecting some kind of freak out on my part, but the truth is that it never occurred to me to flip. It’s been a while, but this is rather commonplace here in Janet Land. Especially with this guy.

“Hey. So, I guess this means that dead people can’t get wet?”

He laughed and said, “Nope. One of the perks. That and I haven’t had to eat a piece of fruit in decades.”

Then it was my turn to laugh. And I did.

I reached for the bar of handmade soap, strawberry scented, because like Terri, I can’t quite bring myself to use the bar of Patchouli scented soap I bought for myself. At four dollars a bar, it seems “too good” to be left in the shower. Instead, I’ve been sneaking Emma’s.

As I start to lather up the bath puffy, he speaks again,

“It’s not good, Kiddo.”

I look down at my naked feet, toenails still purple after all of this time and whisper,

“I’m scared. I’m scared that we’re falling apart.”

Without looking up I hear him answer,

“So is he.”

I turn to look at him, half soaped up, the water running down my back and over my shoulders.

“What do I do, Paul?” I ask.

He looks straight at me and begins to speak. And it’s one of those times when I know I really need to listen. Because I know that I’m listening for two.

“He was like this even as a kid, Jan. Always struggling to make everyone happy. Always sure that it was his fault whenever anyone felt a little put off, even if he had nothing to do with it. It was always impossible to stay angry at the little guy because his guilt would eat away at you. He never learned to use that against us. He never learned that he could have done anything and gotten away with it, it was that hard to stay mad. But then, I guess, maybe he did and his guilt ate away at him, too.”

He stops for a moment and I take the opportunity to rinse.

And then he begins again,

“I never showed him. I wish I had. I wish I had told him that making someone happy doesn’t mean giving up your own happiness. I wish that I had told him that he could have both. But I didn’t and he doesn’t know. He believes that in order to make the world happy he has to be unhappy. I think his mother taught him that. And I wasn’t around long enough to contradict her.”

“Even me?” I ask. “Does he think he has to be unhappy so that he can make me happy?”

Paul pauses and gives me one of his looks. A look unlike anyone else’s. A look completely void of humor from a man who is (was?) pretty fucking funny.

“Yup.”

I exhale. “Shit.”

And then I forget the golden rule of talking to dead people:

They can read your thoughts.

So, I’m a little surprised when he answers what I’ve only been thinking in my head.

“I know, Kiddo. I know you didn’t mean for it to happen this way. But you’re working against years of tradition and years of teaching. He knows that you want him to be happy. That he does know. But he’s scared that his happiness doesn’t include you.”

I feel my heart sink. Because maybe that’s true.

“Jan…He’s scared that his happiness doesn’t include you because he makes you so damn unhappy. He’s scared that while you keep lifting him up…and you do, Babe…and that while you keep making him happiest, he’s sucking you dry. Draining you of your own happiness. That he can’t be happy without you but can’t make you happy.”

I feel my eyes desperately search Paul’s face.

“But he knows, doesn’t he?!” I’m almost shouting. “He knows that I want him to be happy, right?! He knows he makes me happy, doesn’t he?! He knows I want us both to be smiling…” My voice trails off as Paul takes one hand off of his hat and reaches for mine.

“Let’s go, Kiddo.”

And just like that, my feet lift up from the porcelain tub and I feel dry.

But I’m still naked. And I’m pretty sure that’s not a coincidence.

Within seconds, my feet land on a different floor. A familiar floor. And the smell. The smell is just the same and it brings tears to my eyes just as my eyes are prickling now, remembering it and writing it. I love that smell. I love that place.

And then there he is. Standing with one hip to the side, as always. A gentle, silent sway. I can see only his back since he’s intent on looking at himself. And the tears spill out because it feels like an eternity since I’ve seen him stand. The back of his head, his smooth neck. I know without touching it that it’s soft. And my chest begins to ache. And my breathing gets deeper. And I can’t hold the sob in. As it escapes from my mouth, I reach out, the urge to touch him overwhelming me. I start to walk towards his back, my arms outreached before I feel another hand on my naked arm.

“You can’t touch him, Kiddo. He doesn’t know we’re here.”

My arm drops to the side with disappointment.

“Listen,” Paul whispers.

And as he says it, it’s almost like someone turned the volume up on an invisible stereo. I wasn’t even aware of the talking until Paul told me to pay attention. The voice seems to radiate around the room and I can’t quite place where it’s coming from. Like some kind of weird surround sound. It sounds oddly familiar, like I’ve maybe heard it on TV or in a movie or something. It’s cold. And harsh. And it fills me with a chill that has nothing to do with the fact that I’m still completely unclothed.

I turn to look at Paul but before I can ask him where the voice is coming from, he quickly whispers,

“Listen.”

So I do.

And I cringe at the sound,

“YOU PIECE OF FUCKING SHIT. WAY TO FUCKING GO. IT’S AMAZING, ASSHOLE, IT REALLY IS. HOW YOU MANAGE TO FUCK UP OVER AND OVER AGAIN. WHY ARE YOU EVEN BOTHERING ANYMORE? DO HER A FAVOR. DO EVERYONE A FUCKING FAVOR YOU FUCKING LOSER. GIVE IT UP. YOU LOSE. YOU FAILED. GAME FUCKING OVER.”

I turn to stare at Paul, my eyes wide with fear and confusion.

“Shhh…Listen.”

But I don’t want to hear anymore. Because I already know where the voice is coming from.

“YOU’RE AN UGLY, DISGUSTING PIECE OF FUCKING SHIT. YOU SHOULD HAVE LEARNED THIS SHIT TWENTY FUCKING YEARS AGO, ASSHOLE. PIECE OF FUCKING GARBAGE. SHE’S AN IDIOT FOR STICKING IT OUT THIS FAR. SHE SHOULD HAVE GIVEN UP BY NOW. YOU SELFISH CUNT. SHE PUTS UP WITH YOUR BULLSHIT AND YOU LET HER. DO HER A FUCKING FAVOR, ASSHOLE. DO US ALL A FAVOR.”

I turn to Paul and beg him without words to make it stop.

“Can’t Kiddo. He’s not listening to me lately.”

But the volume has been turned down again and although I can still see him standing with his back to me and I know the voice is still speaking, I don’t hear it anymore. I’m embarrassed to admit that I was relieved.

“Why did it sound like that?” I ask. “Why was it so loud? Where was it coming from?”

“From within, Kiddo.”

Paul reaches once again for my arm and off we go, back to my shower. Within a split second, my feet touch the tub once more. I feel the water hit my head and I can suddenly hear the kids shouting from outside the door. We’re almost finished. That much I am sure of.

“Why’d you have to leave him?” I ask. “He could have used you. He could use you now.”

Paul looks down and hesitates for a second. And I’m suddenly aware that it’s the first time I’ve ever seen him do this. He’s usually pretty darn quick.

“For reasons nobody knows, Kiddo.”

I stare at him and for the first time, really make note of his face. The lines I never noticed before. The concern pulling at his eyes. I don’t remember when he finally started letting me see me as he was. It was a long time ago, that much I’m sure of. But I always assumed it was only because then I could recognize him. And then his son could, too.

‘The Big Guy’ he used to call himself.

“I know what it’s like to feel as though things are falling apart. People are falling apart. And I didn’t know then how to show him how to be happy. So I just made the happiness for him. I couldn’t take away the pain. Because I couldn’t take away my own. I tried, too. Tried to let us both be happy. Barbie taught him that he couldn’t have both. And he doesn’t even realize it, but he’s scared of the same thing happening to you two.”

“I wish I had known you while you were alive,” I say.

His eyes burn into my own.

“No. You don’t.”

And just like that, he’s gone.

And I’m left with a new resolution.

“You put up walls with nothing spoken…In your weakness you’re so strong.” (Operation Ivy)