Back Bay, Newport Beach, California
My Real Memoir
Ten-year-old me had loved gliding down the street while standing on his bicycle seat. And twenty-year-old me had relished climbing over guard rails and sitting on the edges of tall buildings. I’d trusted myself completely back then.
But not now.
The old me was broken. And the new me couldn’t be trusted. If I didn’t watch myself every moment, I’d go crazy and do something unthinkable. I’d only really slept one night since my melt-down, and I dreaded going home to the windowless cave I called my bedroom.
But then I found it, the napkin that Erica, the classy athlete had written her phone number on three weeks ago–right before my old life ended. “I thought I’d lost it,” I told her. After an epic silence, she replied, “Come for dinner…and don’t lose my address.”
She lived with her mom in an upscale Irvine townhouse. But mom was out of town. So Erica bought a bottle of Mateus Rosé and a package of “easy-fix” pasta primavera. At first, I was anxious and barely present. But I had to laugh when she slam-dunked the hopeless glueball of capellini into the trash. That was what saved our night. She filled our glasses, piled Ritz crackers and cheese on a platter, and said, “Dinner is served!”
The cozy gas fireplace, the wine, and Erica were perfect. I strummed the guitar she’d never learned to play, as we told each other our stories. Mine was about a man who no longer existed–but the glow of the fire turned her hair and my thoughts into gold. I could tell by her kisses that she didn’t want the us that might be to end.
“I don’t do this,” she said as she led me up the stairs. And I knew she meant it. Was I simply using her to escape from myself? I didn’t know. I only knew that, for the moment, being wanted felt like healing.
I awoke with the sun in my eyes. Erica’s presence, like last week’s night under a star-flecked sky, had flooded my mind with moonlight and hope. But now, with her head on the pillow next to mine, she looked less like a healer, and more like someone I might destroy as I crashed around in my brokenness. I can’t be with anyone, I thought, not now. Maybe never. I lied about having an early class, and said, “I’ll call you later.”
The next day, she found me in the Studio Theatre. “I thought maybe we could have lunch, and talk.” Distant and unfocused, I told her I had “something I had to take care of first.”
“Do you mean someone?”
“No, no, I just…I can’t now.”
I never talked to her again.
And I hated myself for it.
Mom called. “Happy 26th, honey!” I’d totally forgotten. Over my birthday dinner, she told me she was finally ready to leave her sister’s (my Aunt Tavia’s) house, and move past the grief of my father’s death.
I wanted to move past the grief of my own death. Mom had found a two-bedroom apartment with a view of Newport Beach’s Back Bay. “What do you think?” she said. “We could be roommates.” Weird, I thought. But then, my whole life was weird, and I’d had roommate issues in the past. Mom I knew, we got along. And the thought of moving out of that windowless cave was irresistible.
Healed or unhealed, it was time to…
Move on with my broken life.
My Real Memoir is a series. To read the next one, click here.
I hope moving back with your mom healed your broken soul.
Not exactly, Iman, but that healing did come in time.
We all have our stories of brokenness . . . and the one that got away. Ah, to have the chance to go back in years and get to do a “re-do”. But, no, we must keep marching forward. Thanks for sharing that.
My privilege, Ray.
Great story
Thank you, L.G.
Existence might feel broken but the life isn’t
Love stories of brokenness to share the beauty of humanness. Thanks for the great share Mitch! ~ Yeka ❤️❤️❤️
My privilege, Yeka.
I think I would have gone mad in that windowless cave too, Mitch. I need light. Did you ever see Erica again?
Maybe from a distance, Sandy.
I enjoy how you weave the past into stories that compel us to consider our own brokenness and healing, as well as the part we play. Thanks for sharing.
Thank you, San. I do want my memoirs to have that effect on people.
Such a good (and real) story, Mitch.
Thank you, Jennie.
You’re welcome, Mitch.
Turning points where we face our unfinished selves. I’m 88 and still facing some, but have survived enough of them to cling to hope and do the inventory needed. Thanks for sharing. I admire, enjoy, relate to, and gain courage from your honesty. There really aren’t better gifts to give.
Bless you, my Anonymous friend.
Thank you so much, ______ (unfortunately, WordPress has labelled you Anonymous).
gees, one night, huh. a different generation. i’m thinking i’m glad it wasn’t mine.
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