Choices

It was an explosive day—his size 13 foot landing solidly in my gut, my teeth, my head—the pain erupting like a 5-alarm fire. I swear I didn’t see it coming. It was a day like any other day, and then suddenly it wasn’t. And me, silly me, caught so unaware. Sitting there, wide-eyed and believing, when the kick came. Like an open bull’s eye that his foot sailed right through.

And I am an imposture, living my fake life. My unfamiliar life. After the blows land and he walks away, I tend to my wounds for a short while, but before I’ve even stopped bleeding, I turn away from the pain and back to my work. Check emails, take phone calls, read papers. Try to recreate an unremarkable day. Every now and again, I rub the swollen, bruised places on the soft part of my skin. But I don’t linger there too long—because even the gentlest touch in those areas is painful, makes me cry. Toward the end of the day, Liza comes in and says, you’re not okay, I can tell. And she’s right, I’m not, but I grab a mask from my desk drawer and slap it on quick. I’m fine, I tell her. Just tired. But as sometimes happens when I put my mask on too quickly, it lies obliquely on my face—and Liza walks away shaking her head. Girl, I hear her say, it ain’t none of it worth it…

Last night I sit with my son in a place that sells pizza and pasta and salad—and wine. My little boy and I skim the menu, make our choices. I want something new, something I haven't tried before. The man at the counter pours a quiet Chardonnay, and slides the amber colored glass across the flat surface between us. Here, he says in a lilting voice I recognize, it’s on me. He smiles, and I return an anemic smile—the best I can do tonight—and limp back to the table where my son waits, still deciding. Around us are families playing out their lives, making their choices. The young mother beside us feeds her baby pizza, chocolate cake and Mountain Dew. I wrinkle my nose at her choices, but just that one action pains me—and I remember that I am in no position to judge: my own life like a shattered picture window around me. No matter how I rearrange the shards, and make choices about the pattern, I cannot figure out how to put the window back together. I am laid bare without even a gas-filled pane to shadow me. And then suddenly, at just the right volume, a bit of reggae and then r&b, modulating from hidden speakers--and it soothes me and all the raw places along my wounded body. The man with the voice I recognize has made his choices known, and I see him watching me as I sip my wine and pretend to eat. He tries to read my story from the choices I make, moving my fork around my plate. And I ache to tell him that I no longer recognize my story, that I am bruised and hurt. That I am lost…

Out in the car, I study the floor beneath the wheel. Gas pedal and brake. And tonight I see the two things as symbols. Both are within reach of my delicately painted toes and the hard flat surface of my shoe. I test the resistance of each one, gently at first and then with more conviction. I am surprised at times by my own strength, even when I am wounded. It is a clear night tonight—the streetlights march along the avenue, lighting the way into the distance, into the future. My son and I are buckled in, ready for the ride—he trusting that I will make good choices, and me playing over the options in my mind, wanting desperately to get it right...
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