Leaving Me Behind Read online

  I don’t think so, do I?

  “I see.” Low, calm, and pensive…and very much judging.

  I never admitted the point he sought for me to admit, and he never really let it go, but somehow the hour ends with an agreement that even when abroad, we will continue our weekly sessions via Skype almighty. Before I actually leave the masculinity-emanating, wood scented office, he very uncharacteristically gives me a task.

  “I suggest you write a journal of this journey you are taking to, ahem,” he halts, coughs, and grazes his cheek’s sparse growth, “To find yourself.”

  “I don’t write; I am more of a numbers person,” I say lazily, checking the time again.

  “When reality is looking back at you in bold letters, it always makes more sense. It will help you better understand the path you choose and what lies beneath it.”

  “I’m not sure that’s needed. If there’s something about me, it’s that I analyze, constantly, everything. This is how I am wired.” That’s why I am so goddamn good at my job.

  “This is what I am suggesting,” he mutters firmly, in that trait of his that leaves me complying, always. Sometimes I think he really is in it just for the money and if I weren’t paying as much as I was, he would kick my round butt to the curb without as much as a blink.

  “Since I suppose it’s the last time we’ll see each other face to face for a very long time, can I ask a question that you will actually answer?” I ask.

  His brows unite above his rigid stare. He adjusts his glasses to the bridge of his nose and takes a bothered lungful, then nods. Seeming the far opposite of thrilled.

  “Why do you never answer any of my questions?”

  His planes as ever remain straight, but surprisingly, he rewards me with an answer.

  “Explanations won’t change the habits the brain has established. You have to take on the job of changing your patterns yourself. An answer from me won’t get you anywhere; it will just be a waste of your time.”

  Why did I even bother?

  More surprising is the hint of warm expression he gifts me with before I close the door behind me.

  “Two more to go,” I say to myself, leaving Doc Smartass’ place. “The Mentor, aka, boss, and the Firing Squad.”

  . . .

  With Saul, I cut right to the chase. “I’m quitting, Saul.” He raises his face above the screen before him, attentive although with a deep frown. “I’ll be leaving the country in a couple of months. I’m finally going through with it.” I observe him thoughtful as he takes off his trendy, red framed glasses.

  He sets the glasses aside and gazes at me for a while. He scratches his head in an uncomfortable manner and quietly but firmly says, “I am not allowing this.” He pauses long enough to make me squirm, a technique of his that I have grown to know and healthily dislike. I stare back at him quite perplexed.

  “Don’t you want the stars? ‘Cause you’ll be able to pick them in a couple of years.”

  I think for a long beat then shake my head. “No, I don’t want them. I like them right where they are.”

  He sighs. “Here is my offer, Liv. Let’s make a deal. I’m temporarily letting you go and will hire a replacement, but you won’t officially quit and I won’t officially fire you.”

  I start moving uneasily in my chair, removing nonexistent lint from my pants. I’m confused, trying to understand what he is getting at. Why would he of all people make it hard on me?

  Noticing my troubled expression, he hones in on his point. “We will schedule a meeting for a few months from now, and then we’ll discuss your situation. I can’t promise you that your old position will be waiting for you. However, I can assure you that a position suitable for your expertise will be available if and when you decide the adventure has come to an end.” Immediately, he adds, “You know what they say – every journey will eventually lead you back to the beginning.”

  His statement reverberates for an expanse of a moment in my head. I rise up to shake his hand. “It’s a deal.” In return, he gives me a fatherly hug and wishes me the best of luck.

  “It takes courage to follow what you really want for yourself. I am proud of you, kiddo,” he says with a sentimental tone.

  I must admit that deep inside his offer makes me feel a little better and more confident. If this adventure ends up blowing up in my face, I would still have a place waiting for me to crawl back to.

  I leave the familiar building, my second home for more than a decade, feeling as though I am taking the first step toward liberty. Waiting for a taxi, I contact a real estate broker in Spain and rent a two-bedroom beach house in a small and quiet beach town near Barcelona.

  Nonetheless, what I believe will be an exhausting confrontation is yet to come, mockingly waiting for me. Time to face the shooting squad, or more precisely, my mother.

  . . .

  I open the rusty gate with its squeaking sound and a sweet scent greets me. I walk past the perfectly bloomed red roses, her pride and joy. This familiar smell always makes me think of that period in which spring overcomes winter. It’s my favorite time of year here in my hometown, the place I am about to desert in favor of the unknown. I climb up the few stairs to the thick, wooden door that leads to my childhood memories.

  “Mom, Dad?”

  “In here, dear.” My dad’s bass voice echoes from the direction of the dining room.

  I throw my purse in the kitchen and continue further into the house. My mom, clad in casual beige linen, pearl earrings, hair tight in a bun, ladylike straight, welcomes me. She holds her white wine, small drops trailing on the tall glass. My dad grasps a round and hefty crystal tumbler of scotch surrounding a pair of ice cubes. Looking my way, my dad smiles warmly and my mother scrutinizes blatantly.

  “You look tired, dear,” darling Mother says, wiping the corner of her mouth with a lilac cotton napkin, sitting way too straight to even look comfortable.

  “Thanks . . . I work hard, you know.” I start getting into my usual defensive mode when talking to her but quickly decide to hold it back before it gets too tense. Especially with what I am about to drop on her. “I am fine, Mom.” I produce a thin smile, fighting the urge to roll my eyes.

  “Wasn’t this shirt a bit looser on you the last time you wore it? Oh well, maybe it’s just me.”

  Although I’m supposed to be immune to it by now, I still wonder how each and every freaking time she comes up with another creative way of “subtly” asking me whether I’ve gained weight. She’d win the goddamn make-Liv-self-conscious Olympics blindfolded and tied up. Me being the sole fruit of her size 6, Pilates loins, her greatest miss in life. I grew up making the most unfortunate mistake. I didn’t become a perfect little version of her. The consequences of that – a lifetime of criticism and disappointed looks.

  And holy mother of all greatest sins, I am a size twelve.

  Kai gives my dear mother full credit for my weekly head doctor sessions. However, I believe Kai gives my mom too much credit. I know I’ve contributed plenty to my deep scars.

  “You always look amazing, Livy; never let anybody tell you otherwise,” my dad says with a wink. I reciprocate with a genuine loving beam. It’s no secret that I’ve always been my dad’s girl. I join them for a while, listening to them tell me about the week they’ve been having.

  Him. “Can you believe the gas prices?”

  Her. “I swear people in this country have lost the basics of proper etiquette. The other day…”

  Inwardly sighing, I remind myself that these people have raised me and loved me for over thirty years. I repeat the same mantra I always chant in my head during family get-togethers, keep calm and where’s the damn alcohol.

  Next, they tell me about how excited they are for their upcoming trip to Prague; the one they had planned with the Bakers ages ago. Of course, my dad adds how he found the most “attractive” deal. So what if the hotel is under minor construction? It’s just a place to rest your head, right? I nod, fighting my inner devil that�
��s pulling the last cords of my patience.

  I do my best to sit still and look interested, nodding and reacting in all the right places while my message twitches on my lips, leaving me utterly restless. I play with the bun that’s sitting on a small plate next to my dad’s meal. As I eventually bring it to my mouth, my mom freezes, waiting for my next move. I take a bite and I know a piece of her soul just cracked. I take another bite and I can see out of the corner of my eye how she opens her mouth, words jittering on the tip of her tongue. I turn to send her a narrowed eyes stare. She snaps her mouth shut and grimaces.

  I smile around my final bite. Prodigal Carbs Consuming Daughter, where did she go so wrong with me?

  As moments pass by, I become more fidgety, having a hard time holding it in any longer. At a welcome pause, when they both realize there is still food on their plates getting cold, I seize the opportunity to barge in. “Listen, I’ve got something to tell you,” I start. They trade somewhat hopeful glances. Oh for goodness’ sake, it’s not that; do not get your hopes up. Cupid’s arrow hasn’t stabbed my relatively large rear, yet.

  “What is it, princess?” My dad is the first to speak, studying me affectionately. It makes me smile, thinking that even though I am thirty-three, he still calls me princess. I smile at him and can see my mom’s concerned gaze out of the corner of my eye. I deliberately avoid allowing her stare to imprison me.

  “What is it, darling, have you finally met someone?”

  Here we go, again. Her grand wish for me, ranking even higher than me being skinny, is that I’d be saved – be coupled, be taken care of by marriage. It has always been a known fact; my mom’s one true dream for me was that I’d settle down and start popping out descendants (while staying thin, of course). It was never enough that I took care of myself better than anybody could. It wasn’t enough that by a fairly young age, I was financially secure and rocking a stellar career. The lack of a ring on my finger equaled failure in her book.

  It was in one of my sessions with the good shrink that we discussed that the epitome of my resenting the idea of settling down started and ended with mother dearest.

  “No, it is not related to that, Mom. I haven’t,” I say peeved. But for the sake of things to come, I add a fond smile, not willing to give the stage to any additional diversions.

  “I’ve decided to make a change,” I begin, watching their concerned yet curious expressions.

  “Will you,” my mom clears her throat, “start dating ladies now?”

  “What?” God. “No. I’m not.” Not that there’s anything wrong with that, it’s just not my gender of choice. Not taking into account that one drunken, exploratory moment in college, that is. Holding my voice unfazed, I resume. “I’ve decided to move to Spain.” I pause again, letting my words sink in and take a needed breath of valor while organizing my next words and trying to serve them more palatable. My dad starts moving his drink from point A to B and back, while my mom straightens her posture, fiddling with the tablecloth on her lap. Both scan my face, trying to gather some better clarification of the explosive I’ve just dropped.

  “That’s the problem with young people that have more than they need these days. They don’t know what to do anymore,” my mom mutters, still fiddling with the napkin.

  “You did not just tag me in that box. I can’t believe you sometimes,” I say, but quickly work to subordinate the temper tingling all over my skin. I should stick to the purpose I’m here to convey.

  Having put my life on hold for more than ten years to work my ass off is not enough of a reason, I guess. It takes a lot of nerve, but I continue. “I have figured it all out. Well, there’s not exactly much to figure out as I am plainly going to try and live my life there.”

  “What, as a long vacation?” my dad asks.

  “Sort of. First, I plan to just travel around and get to know the country. In a way, have a break after more than a decade of nothing but work.”

  “I see. Are you planning to look for a job there?”

  “Not at first, no.”

  My father’s brows sink in together.

  I go on about the house I have rented, quitting my job – trying to answer in advance all the questions I know full well are about to come.

  “But-” my mom says, and I stop her, raising my hand. “Mom, please let me finish first.” As expected, she disregards my request. Some things never change.

  “But you have such a wonderful life. You have your great job, your lovely apartment, your old friends, and . . .” She takes a moment, clearly adding some dramatic padding to her next words. “And us.” That last part, Oscar material. Like a pro, she ends it with an exaggerated, frustration-infused sigh.

  I return her stare, trying to figure out the best route to continue without escalating to an argument, while getting annoyed quicker than I thought I would. After an extensive monologue in which I spread out my reasons, my dad steps in to help. As always.

  “You do what’s best for you, princess. You are a responsible, smart, accomplished adult. You should know what you are getting yourself into.” He smiles warmly at me and turns to where his fazed wife is scrutinizing him with an eradicating gaze. “Jane, there are planes, phones, the internet; it’s the twenty-first century. One big global village, you know.” His eyes coax her down. “You are connected regardless of your whereabouts.”

  I mouth, “Thank you,” to him. A surge of warmth, contentment, and admiration for this man twirls in my stomach. My stare softens to his smile.

  “Will anything I say make you reconsider?” my mom asks as she wrinkles her nose in clear frustration, and yes, a sprinkle of scorn. Nevertheless, it is clear to us both that nothing she could possibly say would make me change my already made mind.

  “No,” I answer in a firm voice, trying to soften my answer with a thin smile. To emphasize just how unchangeable the situation is, I elaborate on how I’ve already made all the arrangements and about the fact that I’ve paid one year in advance for my new house.

  They don’t seem to fully understand why they were not involved in the decision-making process from the beginning, to which I reason with how I had to make the decision for myself to understand what I really wanted and that I didn’t want anyone’s opinion influencing me in any way.

  “You should leave your apartment as is and not rent it out,” my mom half orders. What she doesn’t say out loud is evident to the three of us. It’s her last try to make sure I don’t completely cut off a connection to home.

  “For the time being, I don’t plan to, but Ma, I do intend to stay there at least for the full year I paid for.” Confidence colors each uttered word with my attempt to convince us both, her and me.

  I stay at my parents’ a while, letting them repeatedly raise their questions and concerns. And just before I take the last step out the door, my dad says, “I really hope it will work for you as you plan, but if it doesn’t, come back with your head held high. I will be waiting here with open arms.”

  A lump swells, thickening my throat as I hug him tightly, utterly touched by his supporting love.

  Not more than a few weeks after this visit, at five a.m. sharp, I lock the door to my home of the past few years, the sanctuary I’ve made for myself. That simple, mundane task of locking the door has such a deep impact on me. I am closing the door on that part of my life.

  Chapter 3

  “This is the Beginning”

  Boy

  Sprawled on an antique bed, I study the room, moving my fingers across the dark mahogany-engraved wood. Still semi-skeptical as to whether the entire situation is indeed real.

  I like this bed. I like this house. I like this place. I can’t freaking believe I’m here.

  I catalog every item as my eyes take a three hundred and sixty-degree tour of the room. My new home, at least for the next three hundred and sixty-four days. At the standing oval mirror, the tour stops, and for a beat, I carefully study myself. Everything about me is . . . undecided. My hair hasn’t decide
d yet if it’s straight or wavy. In the most untamed way, it’s a combination of both. A few out of place waves amid strands of straight clusters of dark blond. My eyes – depends on the hour of the day, my mood, or what I’m wearing – sway between blue, to gray, to something close to the shade of raw asparagus. My mom once called it Laurel green. A color only her and her personal décor consultant would recognize.

  Among all the undecidedness however, there is one thing very blatantly decided about my appearance. These, of course, would be my ever-present curves. I huff and dip my chin deeper onto the mattress.

  This room, with its warm simplicity, induces a wine-in-one-hand-book-in-the-other, mellowing mood, but now it couldn’t be more of a contrast to what my mind and heart are producing.

  Did I make the right decision? Is this person reflected in the mirror across the room a coward, running away from something like the good doctor, so subtly, more than once implied? Or is she a confident, mature woman with a very determined plan?

  Mature and confident, I decide. And uber excited.

  My mind drifts to the day we hung out together, my friends (if you can call work colleagues that) at my place, each with a glass of something made of alcohol and a whole lot of fruity syrup. A group of crackling thirty-somethings, crammed up in my apartment, awaiting my big news. A smile threads to my lips as I conjure the way they were all looking at me as if I was about to validate their longtime premonitions. The keeps for herself blondie has finally lost it. All eyes were on me – a few over the rim of a glass, the rest above slightly dropped jaws.

  “Well, I’ve never been as sure about something as I am about this. I have made my decision, and it is final. And this is an ‘it was lovely working with you’ soirée.” I made sure to send Dorothy and Amy pointed, warning stares, knowing full well these two would be the first to speak their minds.

  “Are you sure?” Chrissie eventually dared to ask, though it seemed the question just flew out of her gloss-coated mouth involuntarily. Chrissie, the quiet one among us, the one who never had an independent thought or ever bothered to speak up. “Is that what you really want?” I just smiled dreamingly and nodded. Surprising herself and the rest of us, she blurted, “Oh, gosh, how many times have I wanted to just not come back home. Just turn the damn car around and disappear.” She blushed, realizing she actually said it out loud. Albeit covertly, there were many silent consenting nods, more than anyone was willing to admit.