The Boy and Me. 1096 Days.

Three years ago yesterday, I left Chicago and headed down to Sewanee, Tennessee, to meet a boy I thought I'd fallen in love with over the internet. Three years ago today, the boy and I met.

"He's not going to be an axe murderer," I had told my mom, smiling. "I will trust your judgment," she said. "But please be careful." Later, when I talked to the boy, I said, "You're not an axe murderer, are you? Because I promised my mom you're not."

"I'm not," he said.

I'd taken the bar exam a few days before. I don't remember now for sure if the exam was on the 28th & 29th or on the 29th & 30th. I know it was on the 29th, for sure, because it was on my dad's birthday (also Princess Diana's and Prince Charles' wedding day - Celia and I got up at 3 or 4 in the morning that year to watch the wedding live on television). My left arm, stiff from all of my bar exam writing, was starting to loosen up and feel better. I was done with school, possibly forever. After months of preparing for the bar exam, I had no more studying to do. I had no job, but I wasn't worried about that yet. A lot of people I knew were going to Europe or the Bahamas or California or Disney World after they'd taken the bar. I didn't have the money for that. But there was this boy, this boy that I loved but didn't know, this boy who had spent almost his whole life in Nova Scotia, in another country, and he was now in Tennessee. Within driving distance. There might never be a better time to meet him.

The first time he mentioned going to the summer music program in Tennessee and suggested that I come to visit him sometime while he was there, I felt this ball of dread settle in my stomach. It was months before, back in March or April. Or maybe May. The Bitter Ex and I were miserably together in March. In April (or maybe May) we took our "break." By June, the breakup was final and official.

In any case, when the boy suggested I drive down to meet him, it was too soon. I wasn't ready to love him yet. (At that point, I wasn't even ready to stop loving the Bitter Ex.) I knew who he was over the internet and on the phone, but I didn't know who he would be when we weren't separated by 1300 miles of distance. When we were in the same city or the same room. Or the same bed. When we were shoulder to shoulder or arm in arm. Face to face. Nose to nose and chest to chest. Lip to lip and body to body.

It was safer right then to think about how I could love somebody I might never meet. He might not be the same in person. Sometimes, then, when we would talk on the phone, he would be bossy. I was almost 28. He was almost 22. He was too young to be the boss of me. I was too old to keep starting over in these long-shot long-distance relationships. He was too young for me to love. (The whole thing was made even worse by the fact that the last somebody that I'd fallen in love with over the internet was the Bitter Ex. And look how that turned out.)

But he brought it up - his idea that I should come down to Tennessee - and I said maybe, even though at first I meant no, really. Then one day he said he had to know before he bought his plane ticket. And he had to buy his plane ticket right away. He would fly to Tennessee for his five week program. I could drive to Tennessee to meet him. I could bring him home with me (to the apartment where I used to live with the Bitter Ex, where I still lived with Bert, the non-bitter ex), and he could stay with me until days later, when a flight left O'Hare and took him home. He wanted to come. He wanted to meet me. If not now, then when?

And so I agreed. My only excuse for saying no was fear, not that he'd turn out to be an axe murderer, but that he wouldn't be what I hoped he might be, and that the person I'd fallen in love with didn't exist. That kind of fear didn't seem good enough. So I said ok. And then I worried. I might not like him. I would think he was a geek. He might not like me. He would think that I was fat. I would think he was not only young, but too young. He would think that I was old. We would be stuck with each other for a week, pretending that we were satisfied just to meet - that we'd never hoped that we would turn out to be each other's Forevers.

During those weeks when he was in Tennessee we talked on the phone every day. I missed him terribly. I'd never met him. We danced around the topic of Love. We started using code. "I miss you," at the end of conversations, meant "I love you," except that neither of us was willing to make that declaration over the phone. We never admitted to each other, then, that that's what we meant. But it stretched between us, between Chicago and Nova Scotia, and it connected us. We knew without saying it. We counted down the days to July 31st. We talked about the date as if it were magic.

A few days before I went down to Tennessee, I got my hair cut from past my shoulders to above my chin, and suddenly my face was exposed, and I felt vulnerable, and I didn't feel like me. I used Bert's digital camera and took pictures of myself, emailed them to the boy, and waited for confirmation - confirmation that always came (that always comes) - that I was not ugly, that I was still attractive - no, beautiful - that he still wanted to meet me. He did.

I didn't own a car that summer. My own car, a 1985 Toyota Celica that I'd bought for $1500, had died back in March (February? April?) on a trip to Indiana to visit my Mom. Since then, I'd been driving around my mom's friend KJ's car, which she'd loaned me indefinitely.

The car was an aqua-colored Ford Escort. Neither the tape player nor the radio worked, ever since KJ's daughter spilled a cup of Dunkin Donuts coffee into the open mouth of the tape deck. Fizzle and pop and then nothing ever again. I drove around in that car with my portable CD player in the passenger seat, changing CD's while I drove, turning the volume as high as it would go so that I could hear it over the sound of the engine and the wind coming through the windows (no air conditioning, either). It wasn't the best car, but it was in pretty good shape. It was only 4 or 5 years old. It got me where I needed to go.

I didn't want to take KJ's car to Tennessee, though. I was pretty sure that when KJ had loaned me the car for driving to the grocery store and to school, a trip to Tennessee hadn't been part of the deal. I didn't even plan to ask to take her car; instead, I planned to rent a car. I didn't have much money, but I would splurge. I would rent a car. That would be easier.

And then somewhere in there, I told my mom where I was going. If she called me while I was gone to Tennessee, I didn't want her to worry about where I was. More than that, though, I like to tell my mom what I'm up to. I feel bad if she doesn't know what's going on in my life. It was bad enough, my finding a Canadian boy on the internet and falling in love with him without really telling my mom (or anybody, hardly, for that matter) that it was happening. Somehow it seemed like it would be a larger betrayal to keep it from her that I was driving down to meet him in person. 

So I told her, and the first time I told her? She was fine. Not worried a bit. She seemed to think I was a little bit out of my mind, but she didn't seem worried any more than she worries every time I take a road trip by myself. Then she had a chance to talk to her friend Bev, for whom life is a gauntlet of terror and disappointment, who was convinced that my Boy would kill me in my sleep, and who told Mom so. "Bev thinks he might be an axe murderer," my mom told me later. "And oh, Jess, are you sure you'll be ok?" She stopped for a minute. She sounded like she was about to cry. "What would I do if something happened to you?"

I convinced her it would be all right. And then my mother called her friend KJ and told KJ what I was planning to do. And KJ called me and offered to let me take her car. "Don't spend money you don't have on a rental car," she told me. "You're welcome to take my car. That's why I loaned it to you, so you could use it. Drive it to Tennessee! Have your adventure. You deserve it."

I ended up taking KJ's car. I packed up the car with my stuff, and a bunch of CD's, and a CD player. I tried to pick clothes that would keep me comfortable in the un-air conditioned car, but that would also make me feel cute. I wanted to feel cute. And so I headed for Tennessee in a knee length floral flippy skirt that I had sewn for myself, a gray t-shirt top, and sandals. My hair was too short. I tried to pull it straight. I tucked it behind my ears. I wondered what I'd forgotten. And then I left.

The trip to Tennessee was like a bad dream, one of those things that happens to you that is so ridiculous and unbelievable that your sanity is saved mostly by the fact that you know that after it's over and you've survived - if you've survived - this will make A Great Story. (Truth. Stranger than fiction. Your life. Stranger than truth.) I don't remember all of the details of the story, anymore, but I remember the general outline of the trip. It was fine for the first hour and a half or so. Somewhere near Demotte, Indiana, the car started stalling. I pulled over and got to a gas station. As I pulled into the station, the engine sputtered out, and I coasted to a stop. I went into the gas station and told them what had happened, and they called a tow truck for me. I waited for the tow truck. I called the boy in Tennessee and told him what had happened, and that I was stuck, an hour and a half into my 10 hour trip. I called KJ, too, but got her answering machine, so I called my mom to see if we could track her down. I called the boy back, and we spent an hour on the pay phone while I waited for the tow truck to arrive.

The alternator was broken. There was nothing to do but have it fixed. It was undrive-able. I couldn't leave it there. It wasn't my fault, what had happened, so KJ would pay me back, of course, and she was so sorry this had happened. I had no money, really - certainly not enough to pay for a new alternator. I did have a credit card of my mom's, issued to me, that she'd given me for use in emergencies. This seemed like a good time to use it.

The guy who drove the tow truck was friendly, I remember. He offered me a ride to the mechanic's, and chatted with me while I tried not to cry in panic and frustration. I had no idea if I'd make it to Tennessee that day. We got to the station and I sat down to wait. After a few hours, they told me it would be $300 or $400 or $500. I don't remember, and it didn't really matter. I had to say ok. I did. They began the work of replacing the alternator. They told me they'd have me back on the road in a few hours. I waited in a dim side room with the shop owner's kids, where his daughter kept showing me weird abominations of dolls. (He-men heads with Barbie bodies. Barbie bodies with no heads at all. He-men heads on monster torsos with Barbie legs.) When her father announced that the car was ready, she gave me one of her He-men, whose sword had been replaced by a broomstick. I smiled. I thanked her. I was going to get to leave.

And then suddenly the air was filled with the deafening sound of the Escort's alarm, going on and on and on. The remote control for the alarm had only been working sporadically lately; the batteries in it were low, and KJ kept telling me she'd get me some new ones, or that she had some new ones somewhere. On that day, when we tried to shut off the alarm with the remote control, nothing happened. Apparently the batteries had given up completely. The alarm kept sirening. The sound bounced off the garage walls. People were covering their ears. Finally one of the Shop Guys unhooked the battery. The sound stopped.

They weren't sure what I should do now, but we tried the remote again, and it didn't work. They didn't have batteries for me. They could get me some batteries, but not until tomorrow. If I drove to Lafayette myself, I could get some new batteries. Ah, now there's an idea. Maybe if I put the key in the ignition while the battery was disconnected, and then they reconnected the battery while the key was in the ignition, I'd be able to start the car without setting off the alarm, and without the engine cut-off switch activating. Then I could drive to the Ford dealership in Lafayette and buy some new batteries. As long as I left the key in the ignition, I would be able to stop and start the car with no problem. I'd have time to get to Lafayette before 5. I was good to go. 

I paid my bill and got in the car. I put the key in the ignition and turned it part way. Shop Guy hooked up the battery. No alarm. So far, so good. I turned the key all the way, and woo! The engine started. I beamed at Shop Guy. "Thank you," I said. "Which way to Lafayette?"

It took another hour, at least, to get to Lafayette, but I found the Ford dealership without any problem. Once I was there I had to make a decision. Should I leave the key in the ignition and then just walk away from the car for anyone to steal? If I didn't leave the keys in the ignition, what would I do if the dealership didn't have any batteries? I hesitated. And then I left the keys in the ignition and went inside the parts department.

Not only did the friendly helpful Ford dealership parts department folks have batteries for the remote, but they also had a tiny screwdriver that I could use to open up the remote. Not only did they have the batteries and the screwdriver, but I could have them free! They were glad to help me. I thanked them and went back out to the car. I was profoundly relieved. I sat down in the driver's seat and turned the key.

Hmmm. 

Nothing. Good thing they had batteries here, I thought. Otherwise I might have been stuck here. I felt a little ball of worry move around in my stomach. Well, I just needed to turn off the alarm with the remote. I took the remote apart and pulled out the old batteries. I put in the new batteries. I put the remote back together. I pushed the button on it. I turned the key.

Nothing. I started to feel panicky. I pushed the remote again. Nothing. In near desperation, I went back into the parts department and explained to them what had happened, that the car's engine had a cut off switch that had activated itself, and that I couldn't get the car to start. "Oh, Kevin can help you with that," one of them said. "Let's see if we can find him." I thanked him. I followed him to Kevin. Kevin was young. He smiled at me. "Let's see if I can figure this out," Kevin said. I had no faith that he could, but as long as he was trying, it meant I didn't have to panic yet. I smiled at Kevin.

He got into the car and felt around under the dashboard. He crawled around near the floor. He smiled. "Now try it," he said. I turned the key. The engine started. Relief swept over me. "Thank you," I said. "Thank you so much."

"There's a button under there," he said. "In case you need it again."

I thanked him. I drove away. If I left right then, I could maybe make it to Sewanee that day. I thought, for just a minute after I drove away from Kevin, that I should have had him show me where the button was. I should have reached my fingers under there and pushed that button while he watched, so that I could make sure I knew where it was. Oh, well, I thought. He found it easily. I could see where he was reaching. I'm sure it will be fine.

But later, when I was leaning into the car, feeling around near where the driver's feet go, looking for something without knowing exactly what I was looking for, my head deep inside the recesses of the car and my skirt-covered (barely - why the hell had I worn a skirt?) butt up in the air behind me, for all the world at the busy Amoco to see? I wasn't so sure it was fine.

I'd stopped and gotten gas. And then I wanted to go again. Therein lay the problem. The remote didn't work. Obviously something other than the batteries was causing a problem. I couldn't find the button that would let me start the engine. I spent five minutes looking. I looked around the station at the other people there, and waited for somebody to make eye contact with me. If I walk into the Amoco and ask somebody to help me, what will they say? Who would help me?

I left the car sitting at the pump and walked to the pay phone. I called KJ. I told her what had happened. I know there was desperation in my voice. She told me where the button was, and tried to talk me through finding it. There's a red light. If it's blinking, then the alarm system is disarmed. She told me to call her back after I'd found it. And so I wandered back to the car, without much hope of finding any button, but dutifully feeling around under there anyway, pushing on every piece of plastic I felt under there. Could that be a button? How about that? Nothing was a button. My throat tightened, and my head hurt. I felt the same places inside the car over and over. That piece of plastic is not a button. That piece of plastic is not a button. And then, suddenly, in a place removed from the space where I'd been looking, I found a button. I pushed it. I looked under there and saw a small red light blinking, not solid. I started the car. I laughed. 

Somewhere during all of this I called the boy who waited in Tennessee, to tell him where I was, and I found out that he had been panicking, wondering if I had died, since he hadn't heard from me since I pulled over at the gas station after the alternator died. He'd called his parents, just to tell him how worried he was about me. His family was worried, too. He'd call them back and let them know I was all right. "I'm so sorry," I said. "I'm still coming. Only another 5 hours to go. Or so."

The rest of the trip really was pretty uneventful, except that I had to fight to stay awake, and every time I stopped I had to feel around for the button before I could start again. I called him somewhere in Tennessee at 11:30 at night and told him the exit number. Only 50 more miles to go. I got back in the car.

After that, some part of me wanted the time to take longer than it took. Whoop, just like that, only 45 miles to go. Five minutes more, and there were only 40 miles left. I would be there before I knew it. I didn't know if I was ready. I was so tired. I was so nervous.

The air was moist and foggy and warm. I drove right at the speed limit so that the last few miles would take as long as they should take. As long as it took for me to feel ready. My teeth started chattering. I shivered. It was at least eighty degrees. I played a CD - I don't remember what now - and I sang along, but the singing was half-hearted, and was really only an attempt to keep myself from panicking.

Fifteen miles. Ten miles. Two miles.  Suddenly I was following directions to the dorm instead of directions to a city. It was hard to see, and I drove slowly. I watched street signs, but the fog was so thick that I couldn't always read them until after I'd gone too far past them to make the turn. As I crossed the intersection, I saw that the street was the one I was looking for. I turned around and went back, and there, suddenly, there he was, smiling as hard as he could, and I couldn't stand to look at him. He was so young. He was so happy. I was so unsure. Oh, God, he looked so young and so eager. He stuck his smiling happy face in through my open window. I let my forehead rest against his. I couldn't look at him. I didn't know him. "Where should I park?" I asked him. He told me where to go. He loped along behind me as I pulled into a space.

I didn't want to get out of the car. I didn't want to expose my self, my whole self, my whole tired body, to this person who knew all about me but had never seen me. When I did get out, I tried to get up in one smooth movement, so that I could get up and out and next to him immediately, so that he had no chance to really look at me. I got out. I stood next to him. I hugged him. He hugged me back.

We stood there, awkward in the darkness, and after a little while we got my stuff out of the car, and I rolled the windows up, and he grabbed my suitcase to help me carry it, and we walked into the dorm and up to his room. It was a boys' dorm. Women weren't supposed to stay here, but it would be ok, he told me. I am too old to be sneaking into a boy's dorm room at night, I thought. We walked into his room, and there were roses - I saw a vase full of roses there on the desk or the dresser, but I couldn't look at them, and I couldn't mention them, and I couldn't look at him. I could only sit on the bed.

I told him so. "I can't look at you," I said. "I'm sorry. I'm nervous. I'm weird." I smiled. I held my head down. I sat on the edge of the bed and fiddled with the edge of my skirt. I looked away. He sat down next to me. He grabbed my hand, and I looked at our fingers. I could feel how happy he was. I looked at our knees. "You didn't make it here on the 31st," he said. I looked at the clock. It was after 12:30. "It's the 1st." I watched my foot swing back and forth. I looked at the hairs on his legs, and I watched the way his hand held mine. "I'm so glad you're here," he said, I think, or something like that. The roses were glad, too, I guess. "All my love," the card said.

I lay my head down on his lap. "Talk to me," I said. "I know your voice. Your voice is familiar. Just talk to me." He talked to me, and with my eyes shut and his voice open, the boy that I knew from the phone became the boy who was here with me, holding my hand, wishing I could look at him and smile at him and be comfortable with him, and while he was talking and my eyes were closed, I was. "I like your voice," I told him.

He pulled me up at some point, and looked at me, even though I wouldn't look at him. He kissed me, a little bit, and I kissed him back, a little bit, and then I couldn't stand it anymore and I pulled away and lay face down on the bed, hidden but not, like a child who hides by covering her own eyes. He stroked my hair.

"It's too short, isn't it?" I said, into the blanket.

"No. I love your hair." He was quiet for a minute. "Would it be better if I turned the light off? Would that make you feel better?"

I said it would, and so he did. And we met each other in the dark that night, face to face and chest to chest and body to body, and I knew for sure. "I love you," I told him. And I did.

It hasn't all been easy. It was wonderful in Tennessee, dizzy and good, but in Chicago, when we got back, it was awkward. I complained. He got on my nerves. I decided to myself, more than once, that maybe, just maybe, we would never see each other again after he went home to Nova Scotia. I hadn't known it would be so difficult.

But whenever too much time would pass since the last time we spoke (and sometimes too much time was half a day), I would end up calling him, despite my earlier thoughts, desperate for the sound of his voice and yearning for his presence. He was always glad to hear from me. More than glad, I guess. He was desperate for me and my voice, too. For his birthday that year I bought him an alarm clock that could play a recording in the morning instead of a harsh beeping sound. I recorded myself saying, "Good morning! Rise and shine! Up and at 'em!" in a cheery high-pitched voice.

There is so much between then and now, and I can't tell you all of it. I can hardly tell you any of it. I am amazed that it has been three years since we met. It has been forever. It has been a few minutes. I never knew it could be so easy.

I think of myself as strong and independent, and mostly I am. I could get by on my own, if I had to. But what would I do? What would I do without him? Sometimes when I am without him, I become desperate for the sound of his voice. Sometimes when I am without him, I yearn for his presence. I live with him, and I don't get tired of seeing him. He makes me laugh. Sometimes he drives me nuts. But he is my family. When I am with him, I am sure that I belong there.

I am sure that I belong here. I am sure that I am home.

Comments

[Krista]

Oh, I enjoyed reading that. Especially knowing how things would turn out. Thanks for sharing. Love is divine.