Wishful Thinking

Be careful what you wish for. They told me to be careful what I wish for.

I went to my mother. She told me, "Be careful what you wish for."

I wasn't satisfied, couldn't give up so quickly, so easily. I went to my grandfather. He told me to look into his eyes, and they were black as the tea kettle. He told me, "Son, don't look away and hear what I have to say." He told me, "Be careful what you wish for."

I left. I left and went to my lover. He told me, he told me he loved, he said, "I love you, I do baby, but we have to be careful what we wish for."

He held my hand and told me he loved me. He touched my heart and told me, be careful. I laid with him that night, sweet and bitter, and returned to my mother's the next day.

My mother looked me in the eye, held my chin, and sighed. She told me only to be careful.

I wanted to tell her, I only knew how to be careful. I wanted to tell her, I was always careful. I held my tongue because she was my mother and she only wanted me to be safe.

Safe.

I went to my mentor. I went to my mentor, and she told me that what I was feeling was natural, normal, expected. She told me there was nothing to be ashamed of, that what I wanted was natural.

I wondered if she had to tell me it was natural if she has to insist that it was natural, was it? 

She wouldn't look me in the eye as she added, "Just be careful what you wish for."

I went to the mirror, and I looked at the face staring back at me. The eyes were wide and dark and scared and innocent. My lover spends hours staring into them as if he would drown in their innocence. I look into their innocence and I see fear.

I tell myself there is nothing to fear, but as I tell myself to not be afraid, I look into my eyes and set myself straight. I say to the glass, I say, "Be careful what you wish for."

Later that night, I lay in my bed alone. I think of my lover, alone in his bed, and wish he were with me. I think of my future, and I wonder where I will die. Here, most likely. Here in this bed, in this house, in this town. I look out the window and see city lights not too far on the horizon.

I wish... I wish...

Be careful what you wish for, my dead father's voice rises like a loud whisper from beneath my bed. Look what happened to me. Be careful, son, be careful. You never know what you'll get into.

I shush the monsters under my bed and turn over.

In the morning, I leave for the office. In the evening, I return with my monthly paycheck and buy my mother her rent and her food and her utilities. I lay in my bed and I wish and I tremble.

Be careful what you wish for, they tell me.

They tell me, be careful what you wish for.

And now, I'm too scared to wish for anything.

A month goes by. Then another. I stare out my window, wishfully without wishing for anything.

My lover comes to my window and coaxes smiles out of me because he can see that I've been sad. It always makes him sad when I'm sad. He runs his finger down my jaw and across my cheekbones, wistfully, wishfully, sad so sad. The corners of his eyes droop like flower petals in the summer heat as he murmurs against my ear, "Baby, don't be sad, don't cry. Where do you go, baby, where do you go?"

Which is a strange thing to ask, since I never go anywhere. I tell him so, and I think it makes him even sadder. He lies down with me, whispering that he loves me and that he would take me all around the world if he could. I wish that he could, I truly do.

Be careful, grandmama's ghost tells me in my dreams. Be careful, she says as her head bobbles like dandelions. I wake up with a gasp and my lover shuffles. I tell him to go back to sleep, I tell him nothing is wrong.

The next morning, my boss comes to my desk and tells me he wants me to come to his office in an hour. I try to remember any tasks I had forgotten or missed, which is foolish because by definition you can't remember something you've forgotten or something you've missed.

I go to his office and take the seat he offers me.

"Young man," he tells me as he curls up his lips in mimicry of the bearer of good news. "Young man," he says, "Today you are lucky."

I blink and thank him, though I have no clue what I'm thanking him for. I simply figured it was a safe bet.

He laughs and nods as if it was his due. "You see, I've noticed your diligence and performance."

Ah. Ah? I confess I did not know how to respond, so I nodded demurely and copied his smile.

"I'm a fair man, wouldn't you say? A fair man." He nods sagely, nods as if it is his tragic lot in life to be a fair man. He then tells me that he would like to offer me a managerial job, in the new branch the company is opening. He tells me to give him an answer in 2 weeks.

I go back to the family home that night instead of to my lover's. He calls me, concerned, and I lie that my mother needed me. She's never needed me. It's always been me who needed her to need me. He is understanding, tells me he will see me tomorrow.

The next night, I tell my lover of my boss's offer. I haven't told my mother yet, I tell him. He asks me why not, he tells me this is fantastic news, he tells me I deserve it.

I tell him why I hadn't told my mother.

"Wishful thinking," he says, touching my cheek. "I see now, why you didn't tell your mother."

"Do you?" I ask, running my finger along his sharp hip bone.

"Yes, baby, I know you."

"Do you?" I ask again, running my tongue along the vein in his bicep. His breath hitches.

"Yes, baby, of course. You would never leave this town, your home, your mother, your grandfather. You belong here."

"Wouldn't I?"

He pulls back, searches my eyes as if they hold the galaxy. The conversation dies without ending and I fall asleep in the crook of my lover's arm.

When my two weeks are up, I knock on my boss's open-office-door policy. He calls me in and I take the seat offered. I tell him it is an offer I can't turn down, 'But... you see, it's my mother. My grandfather."

Ah. Ah, he tells me. "I understand," he says. "Family is important, yes, very important."

Yes, very important. More important than self, I say as if it is a profound statement.

I don't go home that night. I later learn that my mother and my lover and even my grandfather leave me 15 missed calls, but I had shut my phone off.

Eventually, it is my brother who finds me by the tunnels.

A laugh leaves my throat without my permission. "Fancy seeing you," I sneer.

"Mother called," he shrugs. As if he always answers her calls. He never answers her calls. She never calls him. Can't. 

Nice suit, I tell him. I laugh. Nice suit, I say again like it is the punchline to a hilarious joke.

He doesn't laugh. "Look, man," he begins as if he has anything to say.

"When did I last see you, hmm? I can't remember, do you remember?" I laugh and lean back against the graffiti.

"Look, just tell me what happened, and then I'll drive you home okay? Or, you have a boyfriend, right? I can take you to his house."

I don't want to talk about it, so I get in my car and leave my lovely successful, big shot, big time brother in our old playground. I see him kicking rocks with the wingtips of his shoes in my rearview mirror. What was he doing haunting my town anyway?

I wish he'd taken me with him when he left town. I wish he hadn't left me behind. Wishful thinking.

I should be careful.

I find my grandfather in the shed behind the house. He doesn't startle when I materialize, just glances at me. I ask him if he ever wished he could leave this town.

He sets down his tools. "No," he says. "No."

I sit down on the desk by the window and watch the silver clouds glide across the moon.

"Your brother did though. Just like your father."

"Father's dead."

"So he won't care if I say that he was the stupidest fool in the world and that quitting his job to go to the city was the stupidest thing he ever did. Outright drove him to his grave."

I want to tell him that my father was happy and free because he left when the opportunity finally arose. Instead, I have to say, "I know."

"Your brother too."

I think about my brother's limp suit, over washed, overused, and old. I think about the way the moon reflected off the scar tissue around his neck. I think about the way his hands shook from trying to look content.

I nod.

I drive to my lover's house and he showers me with love. He trails kisses along my ear and my pulse, holding me so close to his heart that it syncs with mine. I tell him I'm sorry and he tells me don't be. He tells me to take tomorrow off, and I smile because I know he will bring me pancakes and french press coffee in bed tomorrow. He will melt a cut of butter and drizzle hot syrup on my pancakes for me as if I were an emotionally insecure, menstruating girl.

I will scoff and pretend to be offended, say I'm a strong man who doesn't need any man. He will say, "Indulge me," and I will. We will make love and be happy and content.

I smile and press my ear to his heart, planning my sick call to my boss in the morning.

The moon comes out from behind the clouds and I think of my future, and wonder where I will die. I hear my brother's voice, 5 years ago, saying, "Man, I just wish I don't die here in this old town."

Be careful what you wish for is tattooed in the rope scars around my brother's neck as he lies in the open coffin 3 years later. Some nights I stay awake and read the newspaper clippings that add the wannabe broker to the face of suicide prevention ads.

Be careful what you wish for.

Everybody says, be careful what you wish for.

Now... now I'm too scared to wish for anything.