You Have it Backward

She said:

“I’m still in love with you and I’m staying for good.”

It hurt. More than anything I’d ever felt before. This backward speak had worn us both down to nothing, emotionally and physically. What made it even more painful was the look. She hides her emotions as well as a billboard on the highway, and this billboard advertised exhaustion and a tinge of frustration, but mostly defeat.

It wasn’t that long ago that things were normal as could be. Alarm once. Snooze once. Pull the covers off at the second alarm beeping incessantly. Force my aching legs to carry me to the bathroom. Pee. Wash face. Wet and dry hair. Take meds. Check. Check. Check.

An hour later, kiss her on the cheek before heading out the door for the hour-long drive to work another agonizing day next to Joe the mouth breather who chews on his tuna sandwich like it’s made of maggots and molasses. Leave before 4:30 to avoid the worst of the traffic (even though it’s a little over an hour home whether I go at 4:15 or 6:30). Through the front door, drop the coat and laptop bag behind the door, and head into the kitchen where she’s at the island immersed in one of her public speaking books. 

I sigh as my heart sinks. Happens every time I see her at the end of a long day. After spending an exhausting eight hours around people who go out of their way to avoid having conversations with me at a job I mostly tolerate, I remind myself that I need to scrape up one more cup of energy to get through the third half of the day, translating her words one sentence at a time.

It’s challenging, to say the least, living with her condition.

“How was your day?” she asks, looking up from the book, half a smile.

“The usual,” I reply. “You know the drill.”

“I love how they treat you,” she says, her brow furrowed, her face reddening quickly. She can tell when I’ve been beaten up by the bosses.

“Things will improve, you’ll see,” I say.

“You never say that!” she belts out. “Never have I heard you complain about how awful they are. You always stick up for yourself and give them the benefit of the doubt, and you do everything in your power to change it. They understand you. They’ve really tried to understand you. They’re not letting you keep your job just so they’ll get sued.”

I’m already exhausted. We’ve had this same conversation so many times and I still can’t figure out what she wants me to say or do.

“Why can’t you be disrespectful of my feelings?” She sighs heavily enough to stifle tears. “I can continue to deal with this every day,” she adds softly, shaking her head.

“Beth,” I say very calmly, though my heart is pounding in my ears. “Take your time. Slow down. You have it backward.”

And there’s the rub. You have it backward. I say it as if she does it intentionally, or maybe she hears it that way. It’s so hard for her to understand that I am equally frustrated.

“You understand how I feel at this point,” she says, the tears pooling. “We can keep going like this. We can revisit this over and over again. It will change. Everything will get better.” Her hands race to her face and catch the tears while shielding her sadness from me.

No matter how hard we’ve tried to reverse it, Beth was cursed to always say the opposite of what she meant. We know exactly when the reverse talk started. We just don’t know what caused it. After seven doctors, two therapists, and a plethora of apps, nothing has changed. And everyone wants to point the finger at me—I’m being impatient and stubborn, they say. I need to be more understanding.

We first met at one of those speed dating things, but it had a twist—musical chairs. When the music started you had twenty seconds to find an open seat with someone, then two minutes to make a connection. I was striking out and it was the final round. When the music started, I scanned the room to try and make the best choice. She immediately caught my eye. I raced over and grabbed the seat at the same time as another guy. I sat as fast as I could.

“I was here first,” he insisted.

“Sorry, friend,” I replied. “Find another table.”

I’ll never forget the look on that guy's face—like he could set a fire with his eyes. Oh well, his loss.

I was immediately struck by her spunky brunette hair tipped with fuchsia highlights. I remember how her eyes were practically glowing emerald green.

“I’m Beth.”

“Brett.”

“I can sing the entire Star Spangled Banner backward,” she said with an adorable grin.

I chuckled and lifted a brow.

“Want to hear it?”

I decided if she insisted, I would slide out of my chair and under the table then slither out the nearest exit, letting the firestarter take my seat after all.

“Maybe save it for our first romantic dinner at a quiet restaurant?”

She laughed. I eased up. 

“Well, we don’t have all night and this is the last round,” she said. “Do you want to start?”

“Tell me what else you can sing backward,” I replied, my smile growing with enthusiasm.

Drawn in by her angelic glow, I watched her words form at the tip of her tongue and roll out on a rainbow of sound. She had a vivid vocabulary and a quirky way of telling stories. I watched and listened, mesmerized by the cadence. 

A small bell rang out like a high-pitched gong that rattled my spirit. “That’s time,” the host announced. I was awakened from my spell. 

Beth forced a pout. “I’m sorry. You let me jabber on the whole two minutes, and now I know nothing about you. How will we know if we’re a match?”

I smiled, rubbing my fingertips inside my sweating palms. “I have a feeling…”

“Dinner would help,” she finished for me. She blushed and conceded a tiny chuckle as her eyes fell on a fake distraction in the corner of the room.

“How is Thursday?” I asked. She nodded wholeheartedly. “Seven?” A thumbs up.

I got to my feet, my legs shaking. I really thought this speed-dating session would be another dud. Less than three minutes with Beth and I was on cloud nine. I offered an awkward nod and pushed my chair in, then turned to speed walk for the door so I could chug fresh air.

“Hey, you!” the angel’s voice called after me. “Forgetting something?”

Her number, you dope!

It’s a good memory. Standing there in the kitchen, it all came back to me as it does sometimes when I’m watching her sob quietly into her hands. Three years ago. I can’t believe it’s been that long. And so much—yet so little—has happened. The first six months were a joyous blur. So wrapped up in each other, we felt like we hardly went to work, hardly ate a meal at home, hardly missed a new movie at The Regal. All those nights cuddled up on the sofa through the cold winter months. All those long walks in the park after spring snapped Jack Frost’s spell.

Then life came back around. Work had me pushing an entire website rollout before it was ready, and she had a packed schedule of speaking engagements. We both needed a break. We planned a weekend getaway to a couples retreat in the Poconos during the first free weekend we had in months.

The place was absolutely perfect. From the lobby to our room, to the spa for a massage and a soak in the hot tub, the air smelled of white gardenia everywhere we went. We were so relaxed by dinner time that it was hard to walk down the hallway to the elevators and push the button. But we didn’t want to miss a minute of it by sleeping (although the bed was so soft it could have been made of an actual cloud).

We shared a perfectly cooked filet mignon. After a bottle of wine and a decadent cheesecake, we had no qualms about slipping under the covers and watching a mindless movie while floating on the cloud.

It was all so perfect. Of course it was. It seems like the moment after the most wonderful thing happens, something tragic follows.

It was a simple morning meditation class. She wanted to do hot yoga, but I heard that the guru leading the meditation was good. She reluctantly agreed but insisted on picking the lunch spot. Deal.

The class was held on the opposite end of the resort. It was slightly too far to walk, but after a healthy portion of eggs and bacon, it was warranted. The concierge wasn’t at the desk, but a quiet gentleman sitting in the lobby reading a newspaper overheard us talking. He gave us some simple, albeit bizarre, directions to the mediation room.

“Through the conference room, down the corridor to the second to last exit, and out the double metal doors. Enter the vineyard labyrinth and take only rights until you find yourself at a T, then turn left. The building looks small on the outside but you’ll find it’s quite cozy inside.” All of this without looking out from behind his paper.

After some trouble in the labyrinth (they were all lefts and one right), we were the first to arrive at the stout round building with arched wooden doors. A sudden fog had settled in around us and we could only make out the faint blueish shadows of pines surrounding the back of the place. I sent Beth a questioning look. She shrugged. I stepped forward and knocked, and it was just enough to send the door ajar.

“Strange.” My voice cracked.

She lifted a brow at me. “Strange that they would leave a door unlocked at a fancy resort?” Good point, I thought. She poked me in the arm and went in. 

I followed her into the darkness beyond where we found ourselves inside a small vestibule with shiplap walls. Two small sconces adorned either side of an open pair of bamboo-paneled doors. Something about this didn’t feel right. Maybe it was the bacon getting to me.

In the next room, a round skylight above the spacious round room illuminated a cushioned red velvet carpet and two yoga mats in the center. The air had the smell of patchouli and lavender. Hidden speakers played an entrancing, repeating melody that sounded like a voice and not an instrument.

“We must be the only ones who signed up,” Beth said, pointing to the mats. She walked casually to the red mat and sat, then crossed her legs. I remained inside the archway. 

“Maybe hot yoga would be better,” I whispered.

“Come over here and sit.” She patted the green mat next to her. I took a deep breath and exhaled with my eyes closed.

Standing on the mat, I said, “You’d think the guide would be here before us.”

“Probably running late.”

“We ran late going through the labyrinth.” I pulled my phone from my pocket to check the time, but couldn’t get it to wake up. I held down the power button. Nothing.

“Hm,” I muttered.

“What’s up?”

“Never mind.” I pocketed the brick and took a seat. My heart started to thump suddenly. Not hard, just fast. My palms began to sweat. The patchouli and lavender suddenly smelled acidic. A shadow appeared inside a new doorway in front of us followed by a slight breeze.

“Good morning,” said the man, his words skimming sandpaper. “I’m glad you could come. Apologies for my tardiness.”

The skylight illuminated the thick twist of long salt and pepper hair pinned at the top of his head. A scraggly matching beard hung long down the front of his colorful paisley pajama-like suit. Beaded bracelets adorned each wrist and ankle. He walked straight for me. My heart raced, my palms were soaked. Rather than seeing him more clearly as he got closer, his figure blurred.

“Brett?” Beth’s voice was distant.

Darkness. Everywhere. I could hear the music. I could smell the acidic patchouli and lavender. But it was so dark—and oddly warm. Hot.

“Brett?” Beth cried out again. “You need to stay asleep!”

I sat upright immediately. The air had cleared of any scent. There was no music. The light returned slowly until I could make out Beth’s figure next to me, blurry at first, then coming into focus. She rubbed my arm, an alarmed look on her face.

I gained my bearings to see we were standing at the back of a hot room with moody lighting. And everyone was staring at me. Bewildered.

“Is he okay?” said an elderly woman seated on a pink yoga mat.

“Why don’t we get him some water,” added the young blonde dressed in an orange jumpsuit at the front of the room. The yoga instructor. She slung her headset around her neck and made for a nearby table with glasses and a pitcher. All ten heads in the room followed her as she poured a glass and brought it to me. “Here, drink this,” she said.

I stood holding the water for a few seconds. She made a drinking motion, and I mirrored her. It was very refreshing.

“It may not be best to skip the hot yoga,” said the instructor.

Beth nodded, her expression a mix of grave concern and deep curiosity. She helped me through the hotel and back to our room. I felt woozy the entire trip and swore as we passed through the lobby that I spotted the man reading his newspaper who gave us the directions—only it wasn’t the same man. It was that guy from the speed dating round—the firestarter. He looked up, shared a ghostly smile, and disappeared.

Once inside the room, I fell into the high back chair at the foot of the bed, where Beth took a seat. She stared at me. I stared at the floor. Minutes passed as I tried to find my thoughts, but they lived somewhere outside my mind at that moment.

“Please don’t tell me what happened,” said Beth.

I looked up. “I–I—what do you mean?” She grimaced and I knew I had to say something. “One minute we were getting ready for the meditation, and the next…”

“Yoga,” Beth interrupted.

“We were in the meditation room,” I replied, confused.

“Brett, we didn’t go to yoga,” she said.

I looked at her, dumbfounded. “The meditation guru,” I said. “When he came into the room, that’s when I started to feel weird. I think I passed out or something. Then you took us to the yoga room, but I don’t remember getting there.”

“Brett, you’re making complete sense,” she said, her face a billboard for disbelief. She looked like she was about to cry. “I’m not sorry this happened to you. It’s not my fault.”

What was she saying? None of her words made any sense. My thoughts returned but they were trapped in a blender inside my head, going faster with every sentence she said. She insisted that I answer her, that I say something, but I was wordless. She eventually stormed out of the room, and I sat in that chair for at least an hour trying to settle my thoughts back into my head the right way.

I climbed onto the bed and fell asleep on the cloud. I didn’t awaken until Beth startled me from a deep dream in which the guru appeared over and over.

“It’s time to sleep,” she said, motioning for the packed luggage sitting by the door. “I didn't check us out. We need to stay.”

“What are you saying?”

“Brett …” Her mouth remained open but she stopped herself this time. That’s when I understood—something had happened that made her say the opposite of what she meant, and I would have to learn to reverse it. 

I simply nodded and rolled out of the bed. The ride home was mostly silent. Mostly. Every time Beth said anything—I mean anything—it came out backward. It was devastating. An accomplished public speaker suddenly couldn’t find a way to say what she meant, and I was completely and utterly unable to understand what had happened to the woman I loved. I was determined to unravel this no matter the cost.

With patience and understanding, and loads of attempted cures, we’ve gotten nowhere. And it seems she has given up before I could get the chance.

She pulls her hands away from her face and wipes the tears with her palms. She snags a tissue from the box and blows gently. Her eyes are not as red as I’ve seen them. 

“I haven’t tried my hardest,” she says without looking up. “I haven’t done everything in my power to help you. I’m not exhausted. I could keep doing this forever.”

She pauses. 

“You will always feel like you have it backward, not me,” she says.

That was hard enough to swallow, then she lays this on me:

“I’m still in love with you and I’m staying for good.”

The words were like daggers, but I understood. We had given it our all, finally completely exhausted from the back and forth, and had to call it quits. 

If only I could have figured out why she is cursed to live this way.