Infinite Sadness
Matthew Ryan Fischer
“Becca, I’m so sorry.” Her father had a brain tumor. I wasn’t sure
if I was supposed to know that or not. Our mutual friend Jennifer had told me,
but it wasn’t clear if it was a secret or not. I hadn’t spoken to Rebecca in
years, but if something were wrong and she called me, I would appreciate it. So,
I figured she might feel the same. We could go three years without saying a word,
then pick up like not a minute had gone by. She was on that short list of people,
the ones who really counted, no matter what. Ride or die. Bail money. Bury a
body. That type of relationship. We just didn’t talk much. It was better that
way. We couldn’t drive each other crazy that way. We couldn’t slip and fall
into bed together that way.
“You didn’t have to call.” She was silent. I let the silence
stand. “Thank you,” she eventually added.
I wanted to say fuck that man. I’m glad. I hope he’s dead. I’ll be
happy when he’s dead. Fuck that man for everything he ever did to you and your
sister.
“Anything you need, you tell me. I’m there. You know I’m there.”
“I know.”
Years gone, but I could recognize the mood behind her voice. She was
glad I called, glad I was out there, if needed, but she would never ever call
on that. We could say a million things or stay silent, but we both understood
the feelings. We were both trapped with each other. Too many years and too many
pains and emotional baggage blendered all together and impossible to separate. We
were there together. I was there for it. We never needed to talk about it, but
we had been through it and you never forget the people that pulled you up and
kept you safe and made sure you stayed alive. No matter what they did to you
before or after. We were stuck with that part of each other. We knew everything
without saying it and there would always be a shorthand understanding.
I wished I had killed him. He was a piece of shit and I would have
done it. I told her that once and she cried and eventually smiled and hugged
me. I don’t think either of us were serious. But at the time I had never said
anything like that and meant it. And I felt I meant it in the moment.
Maybe if I had been a man, I would have done it. Was it better to
ask her permission or to just do it? Would I have been protecting her or
stealing her autonomy? I thought too much and struggled with the pain and through
inaction possibly saved my soul but lost our love together. It’s impossible to
know. So many years and so many bad choices and miscommunications. If we had
been smart or mature or healthy things might have been different. But no one
should have to make life and death choices while they’re still a child.
We didn’t say much. There was nothing to say. I sat on the phone
in silence with her. Eventually I could tell Becca was crying and I cried too. We
listened to each other weep and felt as though we were in the same room
together and no time had ever passed. But that wasn’t real. That was just what
we would tell ourselves because it sounded like a nice story. Old wounds and
old scars and the impossible to sift through or sand down and smooth over even
after years and time and a thousand hours of pain and suffering. You can bury
it, you can hide it, some of it will fade, but none of it ever disappeared. Not
for good. It could always come back and ache again, even if the memories of why
slowly faded with time.
“I could come…”
“That’s not necessary…”
Maybe I shouldn’t have asked. Maybe I should have just said I
would be on the next plane. Maybe she wanted to seem polite. Maybe that was her
way of begging me to come. But what was I supposed to do? We said the words.
You can’t read minds and try to guess. If only either of us had ever been healthy
in our lives then maybe we could have said what we meant to say. If only her piece
of shit father would keel over dead, maybe she could some day be free.
She told me there was a gofundme for his medical expenses. I
donated what I could, hoping that whatever the outcome was, it was what she
wanted.
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