Paper Bridges

I gaze down into his deep hazel eyes, like the color of decades worn green sea glass peering out from the summer sand of the Amalfi coast. His tawny, tangled curls spill out onto my crisscrossed lap and his high-bridged nose points to the sunny New Mexico sky. PreCal was a devilish bore so we sneaked out of our last class in ninja-like evasion, dodging the didactic, pompous enemy behind water fountains and villainous SAT stands. Now we find ourselves, the rebellious duo, beneath the shade of a parched oak tree, languidly resting on a rusty picnic bench vandalized in silly declarations of undying teenage love. I won’t claim neither of us contributed to the graffiti, nor will I argue skipping isn’t a habit. “Guess what I’m thinking.” He asks in an enigmatic tone that has left an unsettling feeling in the pit of my stomach ever since its first utterance. The words had become his inscrutable catch phrase over the course of the past two months. Upon its first reluctant release from hesitant, thoughtful lips, I felt a sense of immediate concern, one that occurs as a result of vicarious pain. I could feel his anxiety, discomfort, and a surreptitiously concealed pain glossed over in a white washed pretense. His meticulously strategized facade my eyes were practiced at recognizing screamed an immense grief and guilt, one that refused to be articulated because of its inexplicable magnitude. A dire hurting he feared was perhaps incomprehensible to me and so it was decidedly locked away in a heart losing its tenacity. Over the course of those two months, his catch phrase began to lose its unnerving edge as its seemingly joking air and redundancy gradually weathered down my initial mountain of concern. Naturally, I felt an immediate urge to help however I possibly could and shared this with earnestness, but the offer was brushed off like the slight nuisance of cracker crumbs, with brevity and indifference. His curt transition into another topic of conversation and tacit beckoning for me to willfully join him iced the burn temporarily, but little did I know this phrase would return and take me on a mental wild goose chase. No matter my entreatment to divulge this commanding secret, he left me in the dark, confused, afraid, and worried as a girlfriend should be, over his well-being, mental-constitution and safety. Every moment we were together, alone and soaking in the comfort of each other's beings, from sight to breath, to reassuring embrace and soothing voice, he would drop the daunting and dreaded words like one might an apple peel in a compost bin, with trivial casualty. I could not understand what it was that the soul I cared so deeply for was trying so desperately to divulge from his heart. What nagged most venomously at my psyche was not only his hidden grief, but my inability to unveil the secret behind his suffering. The guilt that sank its razor claws into my conscience unleashed a monster of a complex. The inferiority and inadequacy that results from my lack of perception or girlfriend clairvoyance torments me and continues to mock me now, as I study his eyes, lovely and guarded. “Not this again, Theo. Please. I don’t know what this means. I’ve tried and tried, begged you even, to explain, at the very least give me a hint, but even that is too demanding for you. What is the purpose of you repeatedly saying these four mystifying words? God forbid, are you role playing as 007 again, all mysterious and charismatic? Or worse, is this a game, a twisted puzzle or some cruel joke? If it IS something serious, tell me. Don’t let me despair in this maddening ignorance you’ve trapped me in. I want to help, however I can, whenever I can, with whatever I can offer. Just… you can’t be so vague and foreboding. You know I am here for you, always. Dependably yours.” The tension in the air is palpable and I pray for it to encourage a change of heart, a falter in this impenetrable wall he’s surrounded himself in with a relentless persistence. He stares into my eyes, a trace of resignation fluttering across his stone face, then a startled retreat back into the private recesses of his withdrawn little world and I am shut out once more. I can’t withstand the blow of rejection, of denial and consistent misleading, wildly perplexing reticence from the precious boy who owes me faith and vulnerability. I have that right, at the very least, don’t I? To expect transparency, to desire overtness and receptivity? Communication, is that not what a relationship is founded on, stabilized and healed from? What can I do to lure out his demons other than to withstand the grueling pace of patience and trust its exasperating process? I excuse myself with suppressed tears stinging my eyes, absorbing the full sight of his angular frame and troubled expression before I turn my back and disappear into the crowd of rowdy students, taking advantage of hectic afternoon dismissal. He will pursue me as he always does, apologize profusely, crack untimely and absurdly inappropriate jokes, then fall victim to his normal habit that has him biting his tongue and cheating on me with secrecy. Sometimes I let him find me, settling down in a conspicuous spot while I focus my attention on steadying my ragged breath. Other times, like now, I recoil like a bewildered, fearful animal, hiding in the place that contains my embarrassing fragility and discomposure. In this safe haven, prohibited from boys, blocked on four planes forming a cozy cubicle, far from luxurious and borderline slovenly, I cry. She unleashes the raging waves of hurt for one rejection is too many and any more is soul obliterating, an emotional violation to a girl who wholeheartedly loves. And the sheer existing, of merely being, fresh post-rejection commences, a whirlwind of agonizing thoughts that feast on your crushed spirit. “What am I missing?”, is the reigning thought, dominating over the happinesses and diluting them in a murky, downcast blue. Several minutes pass before I muster both the energy and courage to dare cross my foot into the territory of reality. My trip home is brutal, the bus is especially crowded, the wailing infants especially noisy, the territorial dogs especially savage, the pebble path particularly rocky and uneven, the typically arid atmosphere suddenly dingy and musty. I never fathomed a single boy would have me so tightly wrapped around his finger that I would drive myself to insanity with inane, insecure obsession. The whole concept incites a fusion of chuckling and anguished sighing. Mother greets me at the door as if she predicted I’d return spiritually limping and ravaged. Embracing me in her arms, the situation is communicated tacitly through nothing other than the transcendent power of a mother-daughter bond. “It isn’t your fault. He just isn’t ready, Sugar.” Words that act like an antidote to my battered and crumbling heart. At the very least, my cozy bed awaits me, welcoming tear stains and droplets of inevitable snot. I lie awake for hours, vacantly staring at my sterile white ceiling, merging with its emptiness, appreciating its uncomplicated, unambiguous nothingness. Breaking my trance, mother delicately raps her aged knuckles on the door, a gentle knock but made with polite assertion. She opens the door in my silence and takes a seat beside me, each action watchful, attentive, mild. In her hands is a letter of creamy beige. Printed on its silky surface, in instantly recognizable, familiarly effeminate handwriting are the words, “For Lava”, my special nickname only he is permitted to call me, for if anyone else dares, I promise them an unpleasant fate. “From sweet, adorable Theo, though I’m sure I didn’t need to tell you that. He came over early yesterday morning while you were preoccupied, having some hissy fit in the bathroom about the length of your lashes compared to your male counterparts and pitiful genetics. He gave me specific instructions to deliver this to you the next day, and to not peep a word about our little clandestine operation. He even threatened that he would spill the beans about my overgrown garden and wilting poppies to those judgy, finicky neighbors of ours, so I knew it was serious business.” Chuckling with crescent eyes of endearing fondness, she places the envelope in my hands, plants a loving kiss on my forehead, and winks at me before closing the poster plastered door. I observe the loopy, playful curls of his penmanship, giddily smiling at the juxtaposition between his deliberate act of macho adult man and his inherent florid calligraphy. I carefully peel the seal open and begin to read, “Lava, there’s so much to unload I feel overwhelmed on where to begin. Before I say anything though, first, it is imperative that you are fully aware of this fact: I took these totally legitimate, doctor-prescribed pills called, “Serious in 5 Minutes”, which is why I’m about to be totally lame and boring and lose practically my entire appeal and dashing prince-like charisma….... five minutes later…. I guess I should start off by saying how grateful I am for your presence in my life, how you’ve changed me and opened my heart to so much with purely your healing kindness. I know you’re tired of me saying this, but I really don’t deserve you. I know you’re shaking your head in exasperation at this point, but hear me out. You and I both know I haven’t been entirely honest, in fact, as much as it pains me to admit, I’ve been evasive beyond forgiveness. I’m so remorseful and yet I wouldn’t undo what I’ve done because the truth I so adamantly kept hidden would have impeded on our precious past few months. I shouldn’t have tested you with those cursed words but a part of me hoped you’d somehow magically catch on, as if you'd solve the mystery of my cryptic mantra and I’d be spared from being the bearer of bad news. Insanely, I prayed sole will-power would transfer this knowledge into you without my having to verbally articulate what would have made this situation feel all the more real. It was cruel and incredibly unfair of me to even hope that you could peer into my mind with some telepathic soulmate ability, or catch sight of the signs I desperately, strategically concealed. I’m so sorry. Even with pen and paper, releasing my secret into the world terrifies me, but I can’t continue to suppress the truth knowing only greater pain will come of it.” I inhale a voracious, shaky breath, pleading the divine to grant me grace, laughing at myself for imagining the worst, rebuking myself for taking such deep sincerity lightly, falling prey to the match of rugby in my brain where thoughts are players and the ball my coveted attention. I flip the page with trembling fingers. “Lava, I have leukemia. Acute lymphocytic leukemia. I’ve been undergoing chemotherapy for around two months now. The doctors say the survival rate is really high and that they’ve had many cases like mine. So don’t go bursting into tears like I know you will, or at least hold them back for my sake until I see you. Then we can hold each other tight and wail like insatiable infants, together and without any more secrets. I promise I will tell you everything as soon as I see you. Just not tonight. Wait out until tomorrow morning. The taxing precision of my perfect scrawl is harmful to my sensuous, sinuous, modelesque hands. I’ve already arranged for Dad to pick you up and even convinced Mom to let us have Slurpees, and not the off-brand organic ones with the dumb hippie fruit avatar. Whoops, the meds must have worn off. Anyway, I love you, and thank you for loving me, even through the challenges. From your devastatingly handsome, commendably sage and dangerously seductive boyfriend, Theo.” I’m sobbing and cackling and quivering from head to toe, and somehow sprinting out the door simultaneously. If Theo thinks for a nanosecond that I will keep my person outside the perimeter of his very bedroom at this kind of time, then those legitimate meds must have made him high. My legs form outstretched rainbows with their Olympian runner span. At this transcendent juncture of time, physical limitations vanish and in its unmissed stead is a sea of supersonic adrenaline. I leap over potholes, trample across pernickety neighbor’s flowerbeds, dodge antagonistic strays, barely miss oncoming traffic, flip the bird at startled, cursing pedestrians, all in the frenzy of being with him. Hastily, I slam against the Romero’s fastidiously painted red door, in desperation, apprehension, multiplying impatience. Ms.Romero swings open the door in her characteristic, enthusiastic hospitality, screeching into the house, “I told you Theoadore Manuel Ramos! Dios, cabezoto!” She doesn’t even bother with typical greetings, understanding my urgency. A sprint into the hall. A crashing into his door. A resigned leap into his lap. And we are there, together, no secrets, the truth unveiled, a newfound trust binding us, a sturdier faith intertwining us, a fortified love endured and prevailed. “Oh, just for the mere sake of your enlightenment, the love of my life, the doctors say impulsive girlfriends, especially ones that fling themselves onto their boyfriend’s specifically muscular laps are a huge no no for cancer patients. So I’m sorry ma’am, but -” I forcefully knock him into his “precocious plushie pile”, as he maturely refers to it, and press my pointer finger to the tip of his nose in the most bossy manner conceivable, “What the doctors don’t say, to spare the fragile egos of patients like you, is that we impulsive girlfriends are actually the best medicine for not just inflammation of the ego but for an enduring spirit. Theo, I haven’t had the luxury of rationalizing why, even less putting on shoes, but you could have told me. I will never pretend to understand your unfathomable pain, but I will always, unfailingly, be a supporter, sturdy pillar, and girlfriend to you for as long as you’ll have me.” 

“Your role as girlfriend is terminated as of today. We’re getting married. Mother, dear, schedule the ceremony-”

 “Theo, we’re not playing comedian today. Behave like a precocious teenager, stop crossing your eyes and put your tongue back in your mouth. Progress, now, tell me-”

The loon cuts me off and dives into a seemingly sincere soliloquy, “Two months ago, Dad took me into the hospital. I had this recurring high fever, persistent vomiting, all symptoms common of the flu. I was lying in a hospital bed when he approached me with a look so unfamiliar on that normally happy-go-lucky face I felt my heart drop. He then proceeded to assume the stance of a crazed gorilla and bang his chest whilst bellowing a primal mating cha-”

 I knew he was a lost cause from the get go, nevertheless I persevered as heroines do. “Alright my sickly, deranged husband, I know I have the responsibility as the serious one, so allow me to fulfill my part. I see now why this was so excruciating to convey, and…God only knows how sorry I am for not recognizing the source of your dismay, for not finding an extended patience within myself, for not understanding you’d never keep anything from me if it wasn’t this critical, and how grateful I am to finally be brought to light. I would rather lose a limb than let you face this beast without me, the one who loves you despite your tomfoolery. I would have rather taken on greater grief if it meant I could have been here, by your side, as faithful a reassurance and solace as I can be, sooner. That letter was your determined effort to share a painful part of you that meant extreme emotional unease and many unsettling unknowns. No matter the means, thank you for choosing to share this crucial, and delicate and sensitive news with me, and for having faith in the person you know me to be. Someone who will never forsake you, never grow weary and cease to fight, never lose faith in your conviction, always encourage your best and strongest, always see your uncompromisable brilliance, always see the heartthrob of a boy she is madly in love with.”

 “Pardon. Correction! You mean tough, jacked MAN. I swear I have a six-pack, ya wanna see?!” “Oh God, lend ME your strength and grant HIM truck loads of undeserved mercy. Can we get those authentic Slurpees in advance?”