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Things I Did Not Tell You; Things That Are Lies


The capital of Pakistan, she thinks to herself, is Islamabad. The capital of Malaysia is Kuala Lumpur. These are two things that are true.

They are two things to think about often. She repeats them in her head, two grounded, grounding, absolute facts. When all else fails her, Penny knows that these things are facts, and you have to start somewhere.

Those, and: matter does not disappear. Everything that ever was is somewhere. Tremendously comforting. Especially at night, especially when lost, especially when looking to recover something that has been lost. But nothing is lost. Everything is exactly where it is. It took her years to really understand that, but when she did, wow. Just wow.

Her hands are gripping the steering wheel too tightly. They hurt. It's raining a little, the kind of sharp, mean rain that looks like little staples hitting the windshield. No big droplet splats. She prefers that wetter kind of rain. I hate this, she thinks. But I am not unhappy.

I have thought about you every day for the past thousand years. Another mantra of sorts, less frequent than The Capital of Pakistan Is Islamabad; The Capital of Malaysia is Kuala Lumpur--and not at all comforting, not like Matter Does Not Disappear, no-- but still fairly frequent. Frequent and intense. Improbable, yes, but the sentiment is accurate. In the shower, in the car. On the beach and while halfheartedly fucking thirteen other guys. Seth, Bobby, Philip, Corey, Andrew, Adam, Antonio, Will, JP, Mike, Danny, Jason, Other Jason, and Edward.


Right now, while driving all the way across the country, to the place he said he was going eight years ago, where he might not be anymore. Three days of driving, because she drives slowly. She cannot help it. I-95 to I-78 to I-81 to I-76 to I-70 to I-55 to--well, she can't remember. She's made it to I-40, though. Texas. It's getting dark. And that dumb little rain.

This is a mission of insanity and she is insane.

He must be married now, with four children. She thinks of this possibility the most, because it suits him and the horribleness of it suits her, gives her a reason to walk around with glaring eyes and a steadfast half-frown. Four children, all his. All with one wife, very averagely pretty, a light, quirky sense of humor, not too dark, not too dirty, she does not Go There. The children: all girls, or maybe one boy. The youngest should be a boy and look just like him. Should be babied, beautiful with curly brown hair and big green eyes.

Maybe he's not married at all. Maybe he's a spinster academic who walks home in the rain every day. He lives in London or Portland, where it rains every day--this kind of rain, too, and it hurts his face, so he winces in that way he does--and he has neither a car nor an umbrella. His snaggle-toothedness is more prominent than usual in this version of his life after her. Men can't be spinsters, her mother told her once, when she elaborated sneeringly about this possibility over a bottle of white wine. We're the spinsters and men are the bachelors and that's why the world we live in is unfair. The world in which we live is unfair, mom, Penny corrected her, and thought another recurring thought, one about what kind of woman names her kid Penelope. Also I don't see why he can't be a spinster. She pouted, her mother laughed. Well he certainly can't be academic, Penny, her mother said. She sipped some wine. He's too fucking stupid. Hasn't read a book in his life. You're mistaken again, Mom, she thought. She didn't say it because there was really no point.

The possibilities run through her mind like stock tickertape.

SKIS. He is a professional skier.

TV. He works at a TV factory during the day and at night goes to titty bars with the guys. He got fat.

GOD. He found God and became a priest. Or he found God and did not become a priest, but became an ordinary man. He goes to church and sits quietly except when he sings. He is engaged to a blonde girl who blushes and has a small-sounding voice. She wears hats and her skirts hit her ankles. Their house has a front yard and a tea kettle. The hand towels in their guest bathroom are embroidered with silhouettes of cats.

TAN: He teaches eighth grade history in the Midwest. His car is tan and boxy. He listens to NPR; he bites his nails while he waits for the water to boil to cook spaghetti for dinner.

UGH: He is a pervert. He masturbates to digital renditions of children. He puts blunt objects into his anus and he cries out in the same voice that he used to have, that he always had, when he cried out while inside of her. This is jarring.

ONO: He lives in a one-room cabin in Montana. He collects guns and writes weird poetry about nature, overusing the word haze. He has developed a thing for Yoko Ono. He drinks too much Diet Coke, wears a lot of plaid flannel, smokes those kind of cigarettes you have to roll yourself.

All of these are too exotic. He is probably dead.

Penny has two notebooks. One is called "Things I Did Not Tell You." This notebook is filled with truths. Mostly afterthoughts, things she wishes she had told him during their time together, things that just never came up, or things that came up but about which she had, for some reason, lied. The other notebook is called "Things that are Lies". This notebook is filled with new lies and old lies. On the first page is taped the piece of paper on which he had written his forwarding address when he left. This is a complicated lie: it may not be a lie at all. The lie may be that it is a lie. She does not know whether this address was ever real. The idea of finding out for sure that it was not--that was too much. She has never tried.

Until now. Now she is going to see.

It's been eight years.

It is an apartment building in Albuquerque. She looked it up on the internet.

Nobody lives in Albuquerque.

He is probably dead.

The day he left, it snowed. It was eight years ago. He did not tell her he was leaving. He left the address and a note. The address and the note were on separate pieces of paper, as though the address were a conciliatory afterthought. The note was not unkind, but she burned it. She regrets this, because she has no other evidence of his handwriting, save the three lines of the address. She left him little notes all the time, but he had never written her a note except to say that he was going. She had burned it on the stove and then she had placed the ashes on a plate and microwaved them, and then she had put them in a bowl with water and had placed the bowl in the freezer, where it still remains. She does not remember why or if there was a why. She occasionally does things like this. She hopes they make her interesting, not crazy or too cute.

Now driving to Albuquerque: that was crazy. Not cute, though. She'd even asked her friend Diana before she left, is it too cute that I am doing this? Eight years later? Too movie-cute? And Diana had been silent for too long before she replied. No, she said. It's not cute at all. And I don't think you should do it. I think it's time to leave him alone. Penny had laughed, sharply. Leave him alone! Leave him alone! I haven't seen him in eight years! I haven't spoken to him at all! More silence, and Diana sighed. You know what I mean, Penny. It's time to stop. It's been too long. Mentally, leave him alone, you know, in your mind. Get some psychic space from him. He's over. Move on.

Diana says things like "psychic space" and thinks she means them. She takes things seriously in a special way. The kind of person they make organic soap stores for, the kind of person who gratefully pays eighteen dollars for interestingly wrapped, cruelty free soap. She really does this.

I guess you don't want to come with me, then, Penny said after awhile. Really, Penny, don't go. Please don't. It's such a bad idea. I really think you need to see someone about this. It's been so long and still. And Penny rolled her eyes and said stop. This is why she hates being friends with women. All conversations between women eventually sound like an advice column from Seventeen Magazine, or like Oprah.

Still, Penny sort of wishes Diana had come along. The drive is intimidating and lonely. She dislikes driving and the car she rented has a radio that doesn't work. Then again, had Diana come, this trip would lack the weight it had taken on.

There is something very weighty about doing this alone, she thinks. She feels heavy. Her legs are made of lead. The atoms in her organs are all plutonium. It is probably time to pull over for the night.

She looks for an exit, but as far as she can see, the road is straight. Two parallel lines converging in a muddled dot too far away. No little offshoots. She feels a panic coming on, but: the capital of Pakistan is Islamabad. The capital of Malaysia is Kuala Lumpur. Matter does not disappear: everything that was always will be. There will be an exit. I have thought about you for the past thousand years.

She will be okay.

Diana has a point. It is probably time. This entire trip is nuts. Penny knows. She knows that he should not matter at all in her life, especially this much, especially now. She knows that once upon a time, he was nobody. He didn't matter. There was a time before she knew him. She tries to remember this to put things in perspective, but it never works. It feels false. I have thought about you every day for the past thousand years: that is better. Still, she pleads with the version of him that lives in her head, return to nobody. Be nobody who means a thing to me.

They had never had a fight.

The note was about nothing. It spoke vaguely of freedom and exploring and youth and it wished her, Penny, the best. It used her name. He never used her name. Now she tries to think back, to what her name sounded like coming through his lips, via his tongue, through the soft, globulous maroon tube of his throat--and there is just nothing.

Things I Did Not Tell You is almost full. She is lax about what can go in this book. She writes daily events in there, sometimes--well, I did not tell you that, she thinks, because this happened yesterday and you left long before yesterday. But I have thought about you every day for the past thousand years. It is a solemn, silent refrain. There are sixteen pages of just that declaration written in different sizes and colors. Do you have any idea how long a thousand years is? It is a very long time. A thousand years ago, there were no computers.

There were no cars, either, thinks the other voice in her head.

There were no trains.

There was no unified Spain.

There was no United States of America.

This was before the Norman conquest of England. This was before the Crusades. This was before Genghis Khan.

There was no atom bomb. There was no pasteurization. There was no Hamlet. I have thought about you every day since the time before Hamlet.

If he knew--and this is the worst--would only shrug.

He will only shrug. I have thought about you every day for the past thousand years. She wonders if he has thought of her once.

She is crying, but she does not know the crisp and sharp reasons why. Only the big generalities and to think of them makes her lost and weary. So she tries not to do it. It is dark, and she has finally pulled off the highway, to an exit with a street boasting motels and low-end family fare restaurants. Denny's, IHOP. Shoney's. It could be any street anywhere. So far, the thing she has noticed the most about the country on her trip across it, is that it is the same, sort of, everywhere.

The motel's desk attendant wears a nametag that says "Vince." He's young, maybe twenty. Jesus hair and Rasputin beard. An eyebrow piercing. Looks completely out-of-place in this fluorescently-lit lobby behind a pink formica countertop that boasts an arrangement of silk flowers in a vase of moss. He has a southern accent when he speaks. Does not flirt with her, and this makes her feel old. She wonders if she finally looks her age. Eight years ago and Vince would have been unable to not flirt with her. Ten years ago and Vince would have probably had to rape her. Fifteen years ago, and--well, no. Fifteen years ago she was sixteen and awkward. She opens Things that Are Lies and writes "Vince raped me." She turns the page and writes "This whole trip is an inside joke with myself."

The motel is without vermin, at least. Walls are that offensively inoffensive mauve floral. Don't touch the bedspread. They never wash the bedspreads. Hundreds of whores have fellated dirty, naked men on this bedspread. She was well aware and was sitting on it anyway. So fucking what.

The bathroom smells like pee. It doesn't stop her from filling the tub and taking a bath. It's funny to take a bath in a motel room in northern Texas. She feels displaced and not entirely real. She feels like those times when you are removed from your senses so that the whole world is more like a movie than a world: buried. She feels buried in her own body, and here she is, in warm water, at the Super 8 Motel, in Texas.

She submerges herself entirely except for her nipples. They stand sentinel like prairie dogs. She thinks of this, laughs underwater, chokes.

She writes about this in Things I Did Not Tell You. She makes it sound more charming. It is unintentionally in the form of a haiku.

Breakfast the next day is weird. Continental means "not much." A few muffins and bagels on plates on a slightly bowed plywood rectangular table reminiscent of those in elementary school cafeterias. There's a coffeepot on a brown vinyl chair in the corner. Three cups are stacked next to it. Penny halfheartedly chews on half a bagel. Morning, miss, says the desk guy. Vince. He is watching cartoons on a small television set behind the desk while spooning cereal into his mouth. He laughs once, largely, and milk runs down his chin and laces through his goatee.

Back en route to Albuquerque.

She is almost there.

She knows that there are several possibilities. She has written them all down in Things That Are Lies,Lies, because as far as she knows, they might as well be. Only one of them can be true, and that one can be in there too because it's just a complicated lie. As complicated as the address she pasted on the first page. A lie that it's a lie. She likes this idea of lies that are lies because they are mislabeled. The possibilities are as thus:

1. He still lives there and she finds him.
a. He welcomes her warmly. He loves her too. The end!
b. He is friendly but noncommittal.
c. He wants her to leave immediately.
2. He still lives there and is not home. In which case she waits, and option 1 a, b, or c will occur.
3. He used to live there.
a. And the people currently do live there direct her to where he has gone. She will go there. She will keep going until there are no more clues.
b. The people who currently live there do not know of him.
c. Nobody currently lives there.
4. He has never lived there.
5. He is dead.

She has resigned herself to all of these possibilities being truths. She is most afraid of 1b. 1b is somehow much more terrifying than 1c. 1c indicates a depth of feeling, even if it is negative; 1b indicates that there is nothing. 1c means that he might think of her; 1b does not mean this at all.

How can he not think of her? Every day, she mouths to herself in the reviewmirror, for the past thousand years. She sometimes writes his name and looks at it just to feel close to him. She sometimes spells his name in sign language to herself in the mirror. She has driven across the country alone, eight years after he left.

Why are you doing this now? Diana had asked her. I mean, why now? Why not last year? Why not five years ago? And Penny couldn't properly explain it. What happened now? Diana probed further. But nothing had. It was more than anything else a building of pressure. This had been long-coming. But such a huge act depends on laws of emotional physics. There had to be enough energy in her to overcome the inertia that kept her in place. The energy had slowly built up. Every time she thought of him it built up a little more. And then, there it was: like a bomb, she had to go.

And there it is, and I am here, she says aloud.

The apartment complex is more run-down than it looked on the internet. Sprinkler-water has created rust stains on the sides of the buildings, which are pinkish stucco. He can't be married. Married people don't live here, she thinks. Possibilities UGH and ONO run through her head. Also TAN. The place is too seedy for GOD. More ideas flood her mind:

SHOES: He works at Payless Shoe Source. He never did "find himself." She likes this idea.

FREE: He has figured out how to scam the system and live indefinitely without having a job.

SAD: He is depressed.

He's probably dead. He can't live here.

She thinks back to how he was and she can't imagine him living here. Nothing about him matches this place, she decides. She isn't really sure why, but she knows. Pictures his face, pictures the time he strolled into her living room with a white towel tied around his waist, after a shower. Asks her if she has any body lotion he can use. His skin is dry. A man who behaves like this cannot live in this apartment complex. She is certain that this one incident defines him. She knows.

She once wrote a page, in Things that Are Lies, about a restaurant where you do not buy the food, but you rent the food. You rent it for a few hours and then you vomit it back up to return it, and then someone else rents out the same food. She had imagined this whole horrific scenario quite vividly in her head, like a movie, before she had written it down, and the precise color of this apartment complex was the color of the rented regurgitations.

She is so nervous that she nearly vomits.

The apartment number is 32. Third floor. Second from the stairwell. This building is set up like a motel. The stairs and hallways are all outdoors. The southwest is weird. No wonder nobody lives here. She hates it. He was probably kidding about moving here. He probably lives in Queens.

His door is green. All the doors are green. There is a small brass "32." A swirly, serify font. The metal could stand to be polished. There is no doorbell. There is no knocker. She tucks her hair behind her ears. She untucks her hair from behind her ears. She stands in a balletic third position. She stands with her feet parallel. She crosses her legs. She tucks her hair behind her ears. She forces herself to feel casual. She breathes. Knocks.

The doorknob is moving.

The door is opening.

It's a woman. Tall, dark curly hair. Glasses. Jeans and a grey tshirt. Alert and curious. Yes?

Hiiiii. Penny is trying so hard. Stop trying. Is, um, Ben home.

The woman looks at her. She must be the girlfriend, the way she's looking at her. Oh god. This is the girlfriend. Sure, she says. Just a minute, let me get him. Ben! She calls into the apartment. There's a woman here to see you. She looks at Penny again. What's your name? She puts out her hand, smiles. I'm Justine. Penny takes her hand. Penny. I'm an old friend of Ben's. Penny, repeats Justine. She must have read a book on how to remember people's names. She calls into the apartment again, It's your friend Penny!

And then there he is. Behind Justine. Penny, Penny hears him say. Pictures his frown. He sounds confused. And here he is, at the door.

He looks the same. His hair is longer. The lines on his forehead are a little more pronounced. The eyes are the same. No, they are not. He's never looked at her like this before. This is new.

Hello? He says. As though he is answering the phone.

She fakes a smile. Ben, she says. She does not say "at last," but she thinks it. Eight years later and this is what they are. I have thought of you every day for the past thousand years. She does not say this either. She says, I was in the neighborhood, so I looked you up.

You were in the neighborhood... he repeats. Is still staring at her in that odd way.

Yes.

Ben, aren't you going to invite your friend in? Justine is friendlier than she is, Penny notes. Prettier and friendlier and younger. You win.

Just a second, Ben says. He is wary. Shakes his head in that way that he always shakes his head. Puts his hand on the doorframe and looks her in the eye. Penny, he says, I am ashamed to admit, I can't quite place you. Remind me.

Can't quite place her.

This is an option she had not considered. This is worse than anything. He is here, and she is here, and they are breathing the same air, the same molecules that were in his lungs one second could be in her lungs the next second, and he can't quite place her.

She doesn't know what to say. New York City, she says. About, oh, eight years ago.

He nods. And?

We, well, we used to see each other. She glances at Justine. She is trying to be delicate. Sort of. Justine is unshaken, more amused than Penny likes.

We did? He looks baffled. Wow. Shakes his head again. She always did hate that little tic. For how long? When? Um.

Well, she says. A bit. Awhile. About eight years ago.

Yes, you said that.

Yes.

Well, I'm terribly embarrassed, but you're really not ringing a bell... He looks suspicious. Maybe he thinks she's a scam artist. How long did we see each other? I'm not in the habit of forgetting my girlfriends. He looks over at Justine, bewildered. Her arms are crossed and she's smiling tight-lippedly, now.

Hm, I don't know. Penny does know, but to say it sounds so small, so ridiculous. She could picture Diana gloating over this moment, and was glad that she had not come along. A few weeks, maybe a month or two. She can hear the desperation in her own voice. It was casual, not a big deal. Um. She scratches her face. Just a fling. Anyway, I just stopped by to say hi, I was in the neighborhood.

Ben nods. A few weeks, or a few months? His hands are on his hips. He is wearing an orange tshirt and pair of grey sweatpants cut off at the knee. I really can't believe that I don't--He runs his hand through his hair, leans against the doorframe. He moves in the same way he's always moved.

It doesn't matter, Penny says, trying to sound airy.

No, it does. I feel terrible.

You feel terrible, Penny thinks. Every day, for the past thousand years. Don't worry about it, she says. Really.

Well, would you like to come in for a drink or something?

Penny laughs, fakely. No, no. I really just stopped by on a lark. And--oh no, she thinks. Don't do this. Don't. And--you left a few books at my house back in the day, and I thought, well, when I was going out to Albuquerque, that I'd bring them along and see if I could return them--

That's very considerate, he says. She can tell he's wondering why she didn't mail them eight years ago. She can tell he's trying to remember if he's missing any books. She can tell he's trying to remember her at all, and is failing.

Not a big deal. Here. And she pulls from her bag Things I Did Not Tell You and Things That Are Lies. She hands them to him.

These are my books?

Yes. Notebooks. You used to write at my house, all the time, she says. This could go in Things That Are Lies. This is a lie. She figures she is entitled, at this point.

I wrote? This is ridiculous to him.

Yes.

Well--he shakes his head in that way again, makes a coughing sound. Well, wow. Thank you, Penny. Penny, right?

Yes.

Are you sure you don't want to come in for a drink? Justine interjects.

I really do have to get going. I was just stopping by--she looks at her watch. You know, places to go, people to see. Penny wants to shoot herself for saying this. She hates people who say things like this. Countries to drive across. She does not say that part. The capital of Pakistan is Islamabad. The capital of Malaysia is Kuala Lumpur. These are things that are true. It is going to be okay.

Okay, then. Well, it was good, uh, seeing you again? He still doesn't believe he knows me, she thinks. I have thought of you every day for the past thousand years and you don't even know my face.

Yes, she replies. She can't stop saying yes. She turns to go, before they can see her cry. But she turns back. Ben? She asks.

Yes?

Are you sure you really don't remember me? Not at all?

Well, he says. Let me try one more time, ok? I feel terrible. He is still holding Things I Did Not Tell You and Things That are Lies. He has not looked at them. Well? She asks. She can't believe how he is the same. Nothing has changed. His hair is the same, just a tiny bit longer. Parted in the center, just hitting his cheekbone. She feels stupid. His eyes focus on her face. She raises her brow encouragingly. Please, she thinks. Please, please, please. He squints, shakes his head slowly. A more lethargic version of his tic. The sun casts a strange shadow on his face. No, he says. At least he is apologetic. At least there is that. He shakes his head again. I'm really sorry, no. I just don't remember. No. [an error occurred while processing this directive]