[Read Part One]
Part Two: Saturday, Families and Friends
Michelle called at six a.m. on Saturday, pre-empting my alarm clock to remind me that she would be over in half an hour to take me to Appleton.
We hung up, and I lay in bed for a minute to assess my condition. I didn't remember falling asleep, but I remembered coming home, and I remembered checking the clock around four a.m. as we climbed into bed. I remembered having sex, mostly. It was the high and the rush of hormones that always did me in, regardless of the drinks or the hour. We were both still naked, though, and Greg was sound asleep next to me, probably still drunk after so few hours of rest.
My clothes lay on the floor next to the bed. I grabbed the pile, but immediately dropped it again when the smell of stale cigarettes hit my nostrils. One week in those jeans would have to be enough. I pulled another pair from my suitcase, along with a clean shirt and underwear and tiptoed to the bathroom. By the time I dressed, brushed my teeth, smoothed the bedhead from my smoke-scented hair, and ran some cold water over my heavy eyelids, my phone was ringing again and Greg was stirring in the bedroom.
“What is the address again? I think I'm here,” Michelle asked over her car radio.
“Eight-twenty Johnson. I'll meet you downstairs.”
“Oh, shoot, I am at nine-twenty. Okay, hang on. I'll be there in a few minutes.”
I jammed my suitcase closed, put Greg back to sleep with a kiss to the forehead, and met Michelle as she pulled up outside. She was wide awake, with combed hair and fresh makeup.
“We're going to need to stop for coffee,” I greeted her as I tossed my bag into the back seat.
I have made this drive hundreds of times, but I watch for new things in the drab landscape every time. The view becomes quickly redundant as you leave the city; sparse woods, flat farmland, and the occasional home set back hundreds of feet from the highway. At a few points, it is breathtaking no matter how many times you have crested the same hill. But, at most points, it is plain and disappointing. Most points of the drive into Central Wisconsin are a stark reminder of why I left.
I don't quite know why they choose to settle here. I guess most people don't; that's why this area always seems to be dying. So much of the state is filled with towns that used to be, no longer living, no longer growing, no longer useful or necessary. They are shells of once-thriving manufacturing or agricultural communities, but in the absence of these economies they are left to retirees and commuters.
Most people born to these dying, rolling landscapes leave when they can, and the ones who stay have no incentive to stay, and no hope for growth. They scrape by, procreate, and hope for the next generation to move on. The mosaic of small towns and farmland that fills the area seems to exist solely for those retired people who decide they no longer need hope, that all they want is to leave the world behind and settle into a comfortable rut.
My mom picked me up for lunch on Saturday. Michelle had a baby shower to attend, being of the age when those things happen in the Real World, so I had an afternoon to kill. True to the food culture in the city, we ended up at the Golden Coral, a mini-mall of a buffet restaurant, filled with fatty Wisconsin foods and fat Wisconsin families. I shielded my eyes and tried to stick to the salad bar.
“How's school been going?” my mom asked as we both settled into our seats with full plates.
I sighed. I had thus far neglected to tell her I had dropped out. It was easier at first to avoid the conversation, but I was growing tired of pretending to be a student, tired of pretending that I had some vision for the future that would be shaped by some institution's measures of success, tired of pretending that all of those things she pictured for the life of her daughter mattered to me.
“I decided to quit,” I said plainly, and looked into my salad. She wanted to reply, but I figured I might as well finish it off before she passed her judgment. “And I left my apartment, so I can cut down to part-time at work. I want to spend more time writing. I want to spend all of my time writing.”
“What are you doing with your writing?”
“I've got some leads for getting published.”
“Are you going back to school?”
“I don't know. Probably not. Not for awhile.”
“What about your loans?”
I don't think I'll pay those back; I don't really care about my credit score, and I can't afford the payments. “They can be deferred for awhile.” I didn't want a discussion about money just yet.
“What are you going to do in Madison? Just work part-time?”
“I'm going to write.”
“I mean for money.”
I had stopped planning for that a long time ago. It never seemed to matter; it always worked out. I didn't have the words to explain that idea to her.
“I don't even know if I'm going to stay in Madison. There is nothing keeping me here anymore. I am ready to do more, see new places, write somewhere else. I think I want to be bigger than this town.”
We were starting to come to a new type of understanding in our relationship. I wasn't a kid anymore, and I didn't need to lie to gain her approval. I didn't need to gain her approval, and she was beginning to understand that, too. I could just keep her up-to-date, like any other person in my life who cared about what I was doing, answer her questions, keep in touch. I was straying too far from the plan to try to pretend I was following it anymore, anyway. Honesty was just easier, even if she got that look on her face when I talked about moving or being poor.
I was dropped back at Michelle's house, where I napped off the buffet while she washed her dishes and folded her laundry. She set out sandwiches for dinner, and when her fiance came home from work, we ate together. Then we took turns at the shower and started to get ready for the band.
They were playing downtown at nine p.m. My ex-husband had been part of the band when it was a start-up and we were all in high school, and his brother was running sound now. I hadn't seen any of them since the divorce.
Michelle was ready to go out and dance, enjoy the show as if we were still seventeen-- completely unjaded, nothing but our dreams for the future ahead of us. I was going to have to get drunk.
We drank pitchers of Miller Lite all night-- Michelle was buying-- and I didn't talk to my brother-in-law, but to nod hello when we arrived, both acknowledging each other's presence, both realizing it was better to keep our distance, both wondering why I was there at all. My sister was the only person there I knew besides the band, so I just drank and danced in silence with her all night. She seemed to be able to step out of the moment and enjoy the night like we had since high school. I was not. It did not feel like we were seventeen. I was jaded by twenty-five years of life, and I no longer held out hope for any of the dreams I had had for my future. I existed in nothing but the moment, and I was unable to ignore the fact that no one cared anymore whether I was part of this thing that had been the center of my life for eight years.
After the show, Michelle went home, and I talked the boys into going out for breakfast-- just like the old days. A bit of me held onto the nostalgia, just wanted to believe that I could maintain this connection from this side of the gonzo line.
After breakfast, the boys drove me back to Michelle's and came in for a few more minutes of quality time before we each silently decided to write off the connection completely.
“This is bigger than my entire apartment in Chicago,” Peter said when we walked into the rec room in Michelle's basement.
I turned to glance down the length of the room, long and narrow, the bar at the other end at least twenty feet from where we stood. I nodded. Luxury was cheap in this town, if your definition of luxury mostly included space. The rec room was half of the basement, under the main floor that included a full kitchen, dining room, living room, master bedroom, office, and two full bathrooms. The dining room held Michelle's baby grand piano, and a sliding door opened into a fenced-in yard for the dog and future children.
“It's a comfortable house,” I replied. “in a shitty town.”
They both nodded.
“I guess that's the trade you make,” Peter said.
I glanced one more time to the home bar and the fireplace and the flat-screen. Some choices were easy.
We talked-- about the show, about the summers we had enjoyed together, about the lives we were living now-- until we were all drifting off to sleep. We nodded off together for a few minutes and awoke to realize it at the same time, so the boys decided to head home, leaving behind sleepy promises to keep in touch and visit soon that we all knew would be forgotten. I pulled each of them into a tight hug before they walked out the door, held on a little longer than usual. I wished them well and watched them walk lazily through the yard, unexpected casualties of inevitable choices.
