Do you remember saying I love you?
You were seventeen; I was fifteen. It was a month into our relationship and I had fallen for you the way most love stories start—head first and unprepared. I was mesmerized by your subtle smirks and goofy giggles. You had the type of confidence I wanted to recreate in myself. You were the parts of me that I didn’t know how to be yet. That’s how I knew that I loved you.
I had contemplated all week on how to tell you. It was going to be my first time saying I love you and I wanted it to be perfect. I even wrote a poem for the occasion. I wanted to speak so eloquently that if you hadn’t known you loved me, then after I spoke you’d realize with complete certainty that you loved me too.
We were watching Lord of the Rings in your room. I was nuzzling my head into your neck, searching for a way to bring up the poem I had written. You smelled like cherry almond lotion, and my heart was drumming to the rhythm of love so loud I couldn’t hear the movie. You seemed to know I wasn’t paying attention; you asked me what was wrong. Fear flashed across my face. It suddenly occurred to me that there was a possibility that you didn’t have the same feelings; I told you I just had some things on my mind. You pulled away from me then, looking concerned. Your favorite grey V-neck t-shirt was falling lower than usual and I could see the paleness of your breasts. I shook the observation out of my head, telling myself it wasn’t what I should be thinking about. You asked what was going on. I started to sweat. I decided that I couldn’t hold back any longer. I told you I had something to say, but I needed you to wait until I was done to respond. Your eyes showed caution, but you nodded. I spoke:
“In everything I do
I have thoughts of you.
From the smile that appears after the first teddy bear
To the kiss we share when we are married.
From that night we get wild
To our first child.
From growing old with age
To living with God on the next page,
I want to forever be with you
So I can lift you
Because Laurie, I love you,
I’ll never put someone above you.”
You kissed me then. You held onto my face and kissed me with the passion of life. I had to pull myself away. I had to ask, “Do you love me back?” You smiled then, the most magnificent smile. “Of course,” you answered.
Do you remember telling me?
You started off by informing me that you hadn’t had your period yet. You told me not to worry—the odds were slim. The next month we sat across from each other at Olive Garden. Our section was practically empty, our basket of breadsticks already devoured. I could feel your hands gripping mine, your eyes searching my face for an answer. You whispered as if you were afraid the waiter would hear our secret. “What are we going to do?” you asked. I glanced around, hoping the waiter would bring out the two Zuppa Toscana soups we ordered; I needed more time. The waiter didn’t come. I remember sounding stronger than I felt. “We’re going to keep it.” It’s the right thing to do. After that, you sat up straighter. Your hands slid from mine. Your eyes broke contact—focused on the fork next to your napkin—your thumb rubbed against its prongs. I watched you in silence, hoping you knew of a way out. You began to nod. Slowly at first, but eventually it grew into full swing. You looked up at me and smiled that smile again. “Of course,” you answered.
Do you remember when we lost Her?
You called me, crying. I couldn’t understand every word but I managed to make out one: Blood. My body tensed. I felt my heart sink into my stomach. I asked you where you were. You let out a moan. You began gasping as if drowning in your own tears. I couldn’t find the air in my lungs. I couldn’t save you. I started a sentence, but I couldn’t finish it. You hung up.
Do you remember therapy?
You started planning our wedding, and I started to see a counselor. You wanted to get married in two years, after I turned eighteen. I wanted to die. You showed me wedding dresses. I pointed to my favorites like you asked me to. We’d fight about why I couldn’t tell you what I talked about with the counselor. I couldn’t tell you that I had wished our baby to death. I couldn’t tell you that I was sixteen and trying to understand how I could feel relief that she had died. I couldn’t tell you that even though I’ve always dreamed of becoming a father I had prayed to God to stop it from happening. I couldn’t tell you how I wanted to love someone else. I couldn’t tell you that looking at you made me want to save you. I couldn’t tell you that I knew what you couldn’t tell me. You couldn’t tell me how conflicting it was that you’d lost something you loved when you’d never really had it in the first place. You couldn’t tell me how ashamed you felt. You couldn’t tell me how scared you were that you might never be able to feel like a full woman. You couldn’t tell me how you saw my eyes change when I looked at you. Instead, you’d ask me how I felt about a June wedding. I’d tell you that sounded warm. You’d ask me what kind of cake we should get. I’d tell you red velvet since I know that’s your favorite. You’d ask me, “Do you still love me?” and I’d answer without looking you in the eyes, “Of course.”
Do you remember the end?
I stopped going to the counselor. I found a woman who didn’t look like you. She had life in her eyes, joy in her laugh, and an innocent smile. I started lying that I had schoolwork so that I could spend time with her. I think you knew. I wasn’t going to stay. When I told you I was leaving, you yelled at me. You weren’t yelling out of anger. Your voice trembled with something else—with pain. You had lost us both.
I need to know, do you remember?
I can’t seem to forget.