Chapter Two

Version 1

I grew up on the west side of the state of Michigan in a little town called Niles, not far from the better known Kalamazoo.  I’m the classic middle child, as I have an older brother and a younger sister, each of us spaced almost five years apart.  I asked my mother once why that happened, if it was a deliberate decision or not, and she was equivocal.

“I don’t know, son,” she said.  “It was just God’s plan, I suppose.  You’ll be happier in life if you don’t question why so much, Jeremy.  Accept God’s plan.”

We were in the car driving somewhere, the store or something, and she took her eyes off the road and glanced sideways in my direction, but just for a moment before looking straight ahead once more. Her expression suggested to me, even at that young age - I was maybe 9 or 10 years old - that she had not fully accepted God’s plan, whatever that was.

Later, Nica used to say things that reminded me of my mother this way, only she attributed the plan to “the Universe.”  Things work out the way they are supposed to, she often said.  Tell that to parents whose kid gets cancer, I used to think but not say out loud.

Everyone has shit - I learned that long before I met Nica, though our trauma collided in spectacular fashion. Still, you never know the burden the man carries who you walk past at the mall.  You’ll never see the inner turmoil of your kid’s kindergarten teacher, or the psychological pain of the woman behind the counter at the DMV.  Despite your ignorance, they carry it nonetheless, more painful in its own way than a bag of rocks strapped upon their shoulders.

And if that’s true for individuals, then it’s just as true for families.  Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina principle states that every happy family is alike, while unhappy families are unhappy in their own way.  But I always felt like the vast majority of families are neither all one or the other.  Most have happy moments - some more than others, of course.  But each has shit, too.  Each has dysfunction and pain.

This was no less true for Nica and me.  I wouldn’t understand the importance of that for many years.  Long after we parted ways, actually.  I wouldn’t see how both our connection and our dysfunction was set in motion years before by things that happened to us long before our paths intersected.  

My mother’s expression in the car that day betrayed her unyielding efforts to hide her dissatisfaction. It was an unhappiness, I would discover later, owing in large part to the fact she didn’t really love my father.  For his part, my father loved her truly, if not deeply, though it was hard to tell sometimes.  They rarely displayed affection for each other, physically, certainly.  I don’t think I ever saw them kiss for more than a peck on the cheek, no loving caress of the shoulders, nothing like that.

When I was in college I came home for a visit while my father was away on a fishing trip with his buddies from work.  He was an inside salesman for a plumbing supply company, working his way up from driving a forklift in the warehouse.  It was a company he’d worked for since he graduated high school, and though he was somewhat of a loner without many close friends, he had come to know a few of the guys he worked with and would take trips with them occasionally.

I was having dinner with my mother and we were drinking wine and discussing politics and poetry, family gossip and philosophy.  It was something we shared uniquely.  She didn’t ever do this in quite the same way with either of my siblings or my father, that’s for sure.  It made us close in a way that they would take note of, a hint of admiration mixed with jealousy apparent in their comments.

It was during this particular dinner she shared with me her theory about the inequity of transactional relationships, as she termed it.  I don’t know if she got that from an article she read in Psychology Today or something, but she didn’t cite any sources.  Anyway, she claimed that in any relationship, be it family, friends, but especially romantic ones, the two parties never love each other equally.  One person always loves the other more and this, in turn, creates a power dynamic that favors the one who is loved more.  He or she has power, if you will, over the other.

“What does one do with power like that, son?” she asked rhetorically.  “Use it?  Or abuse it?” she added.  “The choice a person makes in that position will tell you something about their character.”

I was a little older now, not greatly experienced in the ways of love, but more than I had been as a teenager when these types of subjects might arise from time to time.  Even so, it didn’t take a therapist to recognize she was talking about my father and her.  Maybe it was because he was away; maybe the wine was flowing just a little more than usual, but she seemed, not only in a reflective mood, but a sharing one.

“What accounts for two people getting married?” she continued, not wanting an answer from me but getting ready to supply her own. I knew her that way, knew her that well, knew her in ways my father did not. “It’s not love, son,” she added, raising her eyebrows for emphasis. “At least not only love.”

“Sure,” I said.  “You mean practical considerations like money, family background, stability? You’re not going to want to marry someone who is addicted to drugs and can’t support themselves.”

“I’m not sure you’re right there,” she said. “I”ve seen people - women mostly - hitch their wagon to some real losers.”

I didn’t ask her if she was talking about my father.  I didn’t really want to know.

“But of course you’re right about that, too,” she said.  “Many people do consider those kinds of things. It’s only logical but, still, I’m not sure they’re the most important - at least not for most people.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, the dutiful, inquisitive son.  She was imparting wisdom now and it was my job to receive it.  This was probably a big part of why she liked talking with me so much.  I knew my role.

“Most people see their lives as a kind of movie in which they are, of course, the star,” she said.  “And they are constantly seeking out people to be supporting actors in that movie, some playing a bigger part than others.  Your friends, your co-workers, your neighbors - they usually play smaller supporting roles.  Your spouse, your family of origin, your kids, they play bigger parts.”

Most people, I thought?  You do mother ...you see your life as a movie with you as the star.

“And your spouse?” she said, “They play the biggest supporting role, so you want to find someone who fills your needs this way, I suppose is a way to put it.  Who helps address something you want or need, whether it’s giving you the love or security your parents never did,  or tells you how attractive you are and helps the insecurities you’ve always had about your looks.”

I took a sip of wine and struggled with whether or not to ask the question hanging obtrusively in the air.

“Or whatever,” she added.

Like diving into the cold water in the deep end of the pool, I spit out the words before I could chicken out.

“So what needs of yours did Dad fill?” I asked. “Or still fills?”

She was, of course, ready for me. 

“Not me, son,” she said.  “Most people ...but not me.  I’m not most people” she added, holding up her wine glass to her mouth in a jaunty, showy manner before taking a long sip.

“So you and Dad getting married was part of God’s plan?” I asked, mustering my best troublemaker smirk.  “And I gather you’ve accepted God’s plan that way?”

I had a contradictory relationship with my mother.  I adored her and was clearly one of the supporting actors in her life’s movie.  And it was something we both knew even though we never spoke of it and, in fact, a transaction we were both satisfied with, to use her term.  But I could also give as good as she could, was as sharp and witty as she was, would absolutely challenge her.  Not all the time.  I had to pick and choose my spots.  But I could call her out - not with anger in my voice but a playful smile on my face.  Or, as in this case, a playful smirk.

“Clever boy,” she said, with a smirk on her face almost exactly the same as mine.

******

“So you fell in love with Nica because she reminded you of your mother?” asked Justin.  “My mom says you look for a partner that reminds you of your father if you’re a woman and your mom if you’re a man.”

“I knew you’d think that,” I said.  “But like most things in life, Justin, it’s not that simple.” 

“Maybe it is,” he replied, his toothy smile once again taking over his whole, pale face.  “Did you guys ever get married?”

I took some time to think about how much backstory to tell this young stranger. I had married a wonderful woman in my late thirties about six years after Nica and I broke up for the last time.  She was the sister of a woman who clerked for my business.  Her name was Lauren, which I loved.  The clerk, whose name was Barbara - which I didn’t love - was always telling me I should let her set up a date with her sister and I always put her off, saying I was too busy.  One day, just to be polite, really, I asked her to tell me a little bit about her, which she did.

“What’s her name?” I asked.

“Lauren,” she said.  “And don’t call her Laurie, by the way,” she added. “It’s Lauren.”

We were married for twenty years, but she died from breast cancer when I was 53 and she was 51.  I’ve been on my own for ten years now and don’t even think about dating anymore, or even female companionship, if I’m being honest.  I figure I’ve had my two great loves, and how many men can say that?

We dated for less than a year before getting married.  I loved her, but not like Nica.  Of course, she gave me things Nica could not.  I often thought of my mother’s theory of transactional relationships while dating both Nica and Lauren.  What did each one give me that I needed or wanted?  What did I give them?  

Lauren had two children, a boy and a girl.  She was eight years younger than me, so her kids - they were from a previous marriage - they were little, maybe 5 and 7 years old or something like that when we first started seeing each other.  They never really warmed up to me, partly because Lauren didn’t try very hard in that regard for reasons I don’t think she fully understood. We used to fight about it, sometimes fiercely, but I eventually gave up and accepted the situation for what it was.  Her kids and I get in touch around birthdays and holidays now, but we still aren’t close.

“No,” I said to Justin. “We were together for ten years or so, off and on, but we never came close to getting married.  We used to talk about it all the time, though, and right from the beginning.  We were going to get married near the ocean and wear white shirts and jeans, do something unconventional.”

I stopped for a minute, the pain I’d lived with for thirty years coming to the fore.  It was amazing to me how, even after all this time, I could feel like crying when I thought of such moments with her.

“Nica was unconventional,” I said.  “Sometimes just for the sake of being so,” I added.