“I’m having a hard time, I need you,” I speak to her as if she can hear me, as if she is there. “Alexandre and I are not in a good place, I don’t know what to do. And well, I met someone, Mom. He makes me feel special. I wish you were here. God, I miss you.” I’m split in two.
Completely broken.
I’ve never needed anyone more than her. She is my light, she is my sanity, and she is my unblemished match. She embodies everything I’ve ever wanted to be, but now when I look at her, she’s gone, and I’m not sure where that leaves me. I stare into the blank space. My vision focuses on one tiny crack in the foundation. My eyes follow the crack as it spreads and grows. The paint is bumbling around it. I stare at it, mesmerized how what started as a tiny flaw has grown, the fault so big now it needs to be fixed.
After about an hour of sitting with my mom, I stand from my seat and walk over to her. I kneel and look directly into her soft green eyes. They remind me of a freshly cut meadow. She smiles at me, but there is no recognition. She smiles as if I’m a patient she bumped into on the street, as if I’m an old colleague she once knew. I lean forward and give her a tentative hug. She smells of lilacs and peppermint, how she has always has smelled. It brings me comfort to have something stay the same.
“Bye, Mom, I love you.” I turn to find Tara standing in the hallway leading to the bedrooms. “Bye, Tara, I’ll be back next week. I’ll call tomorrow to check in.”
I spend the eight-block walk thinking of my mother. I reminisce on her life and all the things she has taught me. I wonder what she would say if she could speak to me about my issues with Alexandre? Would she judge me for my feelings towards another man? Would I make her proud, or would she be disappointed? My mother has lived an exceptional life, traveled the world, healed many. What have I done in contrast? These thoughts plague me, and as I walk into my apartment, I can’t help but feel disconnected from my life and my marriage.
Later that night I find that sleep eludes me yet again. I reach for my pills. It’s nearly impossible to calm my mind enough, so instead, I decide to medicate myself with Xanax. It’s just a Band-Aid. The underlying issue is not as easy to fix. I pop a pill and as I wait for the bliss to set in, I turn on my phone and open messenger.
Ava Readsalot: You there? I can’t sleep :-(
Ryder Matthews: Hey, baby, what’s wrong?
My heart skips a beat just to read the words he wrote. But I need more. I’ve become insatiable.
Ava Readsalot: I want to hear your voice. I need to hear your voice right now.
Ryder Matthews: Okay.
Ava Readsalot: I just realized I don’t even have your number.
Ryder Matthews: Well, that can easily be fixed.
Ava Readsalot: So…Waiting, patiently…
Ryder Matthews: Anyone ever tell you you’re kind of a nerd.
Ava Readsalot: Yeah once, he was dashingly handsome man, coppery brown hair, eyes so blue they would make the oceans jealous ;-)
Ryder Matthews: Flattery will get you everywhere 917-555-0303
I glance over to my left, making sure Alexandre is still asleep.
Clutching my phone in my hand and walking into my bathroom, closing the door, I run the water and proceed to walk further into the en-suite. I slide my finger over the home screen, typing in the code I’ve recently added for obvious reasons. Guilt starts to set in but it’s replaced quickly as I get excited for what I’m about to do.
“Hi,” I whisper into the phone.
“Hi.” His voice low and husky, it drips with seduction. “Are you okay?”
“Not really, I saw my mom today. She has early onset Alzheimer's. So yeah.”
“Oh God, I’m so sorry, Ava. If I could take your pain, I would.”
“Just speaking to you helps. I just feel so alone sometimes.”
“You’re not alone.”
“It’s just with Alexandre…”
“Find someone who loves you for who you are. You deserve nothing less than perfection.” His words come out slowly and with resolution.
“I just don’t know. I’m scared.” My voice is low as I speak into the phone in a hushed tone.
“What are you scared of?”
“I’m scared that no one else will love me. I’m not perfect. I have flaws.”
“You don’t have to be perfect. You just have to be you.” His exhale echoes through the phone. “The truth of our character is defined by our defects. It’s like that painting we saw ‘Imperfect Truth.’ Is she any less beautiful, any less perfect, when you see her flaws?”
His words have truth, and he makes me hold onto hope. “You leave me speechless, Ryder, utterly speechless. How do you always know exactly the right things to say?”