The Cubicle Next Door (36 page)

“That’s it, then?”

I nodded because I couldn’t trust myself to speak.

Joe kissed the top of my head and then slid me off his lap.

The problem was I loved him too, even though I knew he deserved someone far better than me. As he walked out the door, I even said it. “I love you too.”

But he didn’t hear it because he’d already gone.

THE CUBICLE NEXT DOOR BLOG

Help me

Help me say yes.

Posted on March 22 in
The Cubicle Next Door | Permalink

Comments

Sometimes, when I have something important to say, I practice saying it in front of a mirror.

Posted by:
NozAll | March 22 at 07:19 PM

Visualize yourself saying yes and then imagine it changing your entire destiny.

Posted by:
philosophie | March 22 at 09:37 PM

Just do it. Say yes. You can always say no later.

Posted by:
justluvmyjob | March 22 at 10:05 PM

If you need help saying it, then you probably aren’t ready to say it.

Posted by:
survivor | March 22 at 10:51 PM

Thirty-Six

Y
ou’d think God would have approved of what I’d told Joe. Approved I’d chosen deliberate, clearheaded decision making over passion. But I kept feeling incredible guilt. Incredible remorse. As if I’d made the wrong decision. Said the wrong thing. As if I’d broken Joe’s heart for no good reason.

But God knew how awful I would have made life for him…so why wasn’t God making me feel any better about it?

Mercifully, spring break was the next week. And Joe was off escorting cadets to Russia. I didn’t have to see him or hear him for a whole week.

But it didn’t stop me from thinking about him.

All the time.

He was torturing me from afar. Stretching me on a rack or pulling out my fingernails or whatever the KGB used to do at Dzerzhinsky Square would have been kinder.

All I could do was tell myself I’d made the right decision. That
I
would never find myself abandoning a child and running away to someplace like India. That
I
would never give myself a chance to be unrespectable. But a voice inside kept shrieking maybe it wanted to make that decision all by itself. And couldn’t I leave well enough alone!

On Tuesday, I walked down to Estelle’s area to check out the department’s printers. I wanted to make sure we had enough print cartridges in stock for the cadet projects that would be due in mid-April.

When I rounded the corner and Estelle’s desk came into view, I saw her dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. Dab again. And again. Saw her finally give up, fold her hands in her lap, and let tears cascade down her cheeks.

“Estelle?”

She looked up toward me, not bothering to wipe the tears away.

“Is there something I can do?”

She shook her head.

“Something I can say?”

She shook her head again.

I stood there for a moment, knowing that now was not the time to test the printers or count the cartridges, but not knowing what I should do. What are you supposed to do when someone cries?

What did I want when I felt like crying?

The firm grip of Grandmother’s hand. Company as I listened to the ticktock of the anniversary clock in the living room. I had wanted to know I wasn’t alone. I had wanted to know somebody had cared enough about me to stay when I needed them.

So I took a chair from its place by the wall and dragged it around Estelle’s desk. I set it right next to hers and sat down on it. And I stayed there for a long while.

“My son just died.”

I’m sorry
didn’t sound quite sorry enough, so I didn’t say anything at all.

“He was supposed to have another two months. I was supposed to fly up next week. I was getting everything ready while everyone here was gone. Getting everything in order.”

I handed her another tissue.

“We knew he was going to die. There wasn’t anything they could do anymore. I just didn’t think he’d die without me there.” She turned toward me, her chin trembling. “I was his mother and I wasn’t there.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“But he needed me. And for the hardest thing in his life I wasn’t there.”

“All he had to do to die was wake up this morning. That wasn’t hard. Death is easy. Living is the hard part. And you were there for that.”

“I just…wanted to say goodbye. One more time. I didn’t want him to go off without knowing I loved him.”

“He knows. Because you spent your whole life telling him, right?”

She looked at me then, mute with tears. But she nodded. Then she grimaced. Swallowed. “Right.” She took an unsteady breath. Then another. Dabbed at her eyes and cheeks. “Right.” Took another breath and stood up. “I have to leave now. I don’t know how the colonel will survive…”

“I’ll take care of him. I can do it.”

She smiled beneath watery eyes and then laughed. “But you can’t even write a memo to the dean.”

I reached down to the tissue box and plucked another from the top. “One more for the road.”

She took it and pressed it to her nose. And then she disappeared down the hall.

I called the colonel’s cell number and left a message.

He called back later in the afternoon and asked me to send flowers for the funeral.

I spent the next two days at Estelle’s desk, answering phones, answering e-mails, and trying to make sense of her filing system. Both electronic and hard copy. But shifting in and out of my consciousness, like sunbeams through the ocean’s waves, were thoughts of Joe.

I tried not to think about him, but that didn’t stop me from feeling things about him and my mind from questioning me about him.

What if?

The fact remained that 15 minutes in a movie theater had left me clutching at his clothing and running my fingers through his hair. I shuddered to think what would happen if I actually started dating him on the record. Became serious about getting to know him.

Maybe the whole episode had been good. Maybe I did need someone in my life. But if that were true, then what I needed was someone with decorum. Someone with restraint. Someone with whom I would have no fear of losing my head. I needed…an Indian-style relationship. A relationship in which I could still keep my virtue.

I did not need a relationship with Joe.

But everything in me longed for him. I harbored longings for him in places I didn’t even know had feelings. I wasn’t used to feelings, outside of impatience, exasperation, and irritation. The spectrum of myself was growing exponentially. And it was so tightly strung, so wire thin, I could feel my heart begin to pound at the thought of Joe, my palms begin to sweat at the memory of his eyes. His hair. His lips. I was becoming completely unlike my normal self. And I didn’t know if I could ever find that original person again.

Frankly, didn’t know if I wanted to.

When that thought crossed my mind, when I actually heard it passing and saw its tracks, followed it to see where it was going, I was floored.

Grandmother and all her friends wanted me to be with Joe. Oliver wanted me to be with Joe. Kate wanted me to be with Joe.

Joe wanted to me to be with Joe.

It appeared the only person who didn’t want me to be with Joe was me. And even then, my body, my thoughts, and my emotions had already gone over to his side. And they had taken both my heart and my head with them.

THE CUBICLE NEXT DOOR BLOG

Love?

Do I like the way your hair waves? The way your eyes glint? The way you smile? The way you laugh? Do I like them? Do I like all of the dozens of things that are you? Those questions are immaterial.

I’m far beyond like or dislike.

I’m in love.

Posted on March 30 in
The Cubicle Next Door | Permalink

Comments

You mean you just now figured that out? Even I knew that.

Posted by:
NozAll | March 31 at 07:15 AM

Bravo. Only in knowing your heart can you know the future.

Posted by:
philosophie | March 31 at 08:23 AM

You’re not going to get all mushy on us, are you?

Posted by:
justluvmyjob | March 31 at 08:48 AM

Is this supposed to be some sort of epiphany?

Posted by:
survivor | March 31 at 09:06 AM

Thirty-Seven

J
oe returned to school the next week.

I was looking forward to seeing him, but I had no idea what I would say to him. His eyes had haunted me over spring break. He had stared at me long and hard right before he’d walked out the door. And I hadn’t talked to him again before he left for Russia. Didn’t know if I’d ever talk to him again. If he’d ever talk to me. I’d made it very clear what I wanted, and it wasn’t him.

Too bad I hadn’t made it clear how I
felt
about him, because that was a whole different story.

I was taking a break from Estelle’s desk and had returned to my own when he finally came in. The sight of him, after a week’s break, was almost too much to bear. I wanted to laugh. I wanted to cry. To…touch him. Something.

He didn’t say anything.

I listened as he booted up his computer. Listened as his mouse began clicking.

When I couldn’t stand the silence any longer, I climbed up on my desk. “So how was it? The trip to Russia?”

He glanced up from his computer, still typing. Glanced back down. “It was fine.”

“Glad to be back?”

“Yeah.”

I waited for him to elaborate, but he didn’t.

“Estelle’s son died last week. She’s on leave. For the funeral and everything. I’m filling in for her.”

Joe’s hands had stilled. “When did it happen?”

“Tuesday morning.”

“Was she there?”

“No. She was here.”

“Alone in the department?”

“I was here.”

“But was she okay?”

“No, she wasn’t.”

“Did anyone send flowers?

“The colonel asked me to. From the department.”

“Does she know when she’ll be back?”

“She didn’t say. I’m sitting in for her until she gets back.”

Joe grunted. “Good luck.” Then his eyes dropped to his keyboard.

No point in sticking around when there’s nothing to talk about. When you’re not wanted. I dove into my cubicle. Finished up my work there.

Ended up eating lunch by myself.

The next day was about the same. I wished I could make things better between us, but that would have required…too much.

Oliver’s words kept ringing through my mind.
No medals
.

The long afternoon hours, a time when we would normally alternate conversation with work, were excruciating. When I was visiting my desk, I finally brought up the one topic that had never failed to solicit a comment from him.

“Have you read the blog lately?”

Joe stopped typing. “No. Too much work to do.”

“Oh. Because she asked for help. Again. She actually admitted she was in love with the guy.”

“Well, good for her.” He started typing again but then stopped mid-cadence. “In love? Are you sure that’s what she said?”

“‘Do I like the way your hair waves? The way your eyes glint? The way you smile? The way you laugh? Do I like them? Do I like all of the dozens of things that make up you? Those questions are immaterial. I’m far beyond like or dislike. I’m in love.’” As I listened to me quote myself, I had the feeling there was much more emotion in my words than I had intended. But I didn’t need to worry. Joe wasn’t listening.

By the time I’d finished talking, he had picked up the phone and started dialing. The only word I caught was “Kate.”

And when he put the phone down, he walked out of the cubicle without saying a word.

THE CUBICLE NEXT DOOR BLOG

I’m sorry

But I don’t know how to tell you that.

Fear made me say things I didn’t want to say. Love wants me to take those words back. But my love has no voice. I’ve never heard it speak out loud before, and I don’t know what it sounds like. It’s whispering to me, telling me to say the craziest things, but I don’t know if I can trust it. Don’t know how those words will sound once they’re said. Don’t quite understand what they will mean.

I’m trying, I really am, but I don’t know what to do. Maybe I’m too late. Maybe what we had is already gone.

Posted on April 03 in
The Cubicle Next Door | Permalink

Comments

Gone? Faint heart never won fair maiden. What is this guy, a big wuss?

Posted by:
theshrink | April 03 at 07:43 PM

There are only two possible responses to “I’m sorry.”

Posted by:
NozAll | April 03 at 08:09 PM

Just say you’re sorry as soon as possible and get it over with.

Posted by:
justluvmyjob | April 03 at 08:10 AM

Try. And keep trying. Love’s voice is the softest, but it’s also the strongest.

Posted by:
philosophie | April 03 at 08:12 PM

Always do the hardest thing first. If it doesn’t kill you, then the rest is cake.

Posted by:
survivor | April 03 at 8:36 PM

Thirty-Eight

I
t came on the last Saturday in April. Grandmother had stopped by the store to do some end-of-season markdowns, so I’d gone home for lunch.

It didn’t even look important. Aside from the foreign stamp. From India.