Fiona Maazel - Woke Up Lonely

26. It was not a chance encounter, a left turn when I should have gone right; it was exactly as planned, the guy I’d crushed on for five minutes in elementary school, sort of awkward and sad, biggest virgin I ever saw, Thurlow Dan, the pudgy kid, standing on the corner. Only you weren’t so pudgy anymore — a study in alchemy if I ever saw one — but the memory was still there. A funicular over Disneyland. A camping trip in the Angeles National Forest. Glowworms in the leaf litter and a boy silhouetted against the sky, telling stories. Little moments nostalgia does not have to extol, because they were already nice to begin with.

27. I had a plan, and it was this: Do your job, do not have sex. For this plan, I wore a light blue sweater with white plastic buttons down the front, enough to make tedious any effort to undo them, and Keds. White leather Keds. I came to a stop sign. You were at the post. Svelte, almost gangly, and so awkward in your bearing, it was hard to take. In the movies, women like me pity the inexperienced and see in the vanilla putty of lust something to mold and color and fashion. But it’s not really like that. Boys who paw all over you or wait to be told what to do, who cannot find your better parts or your any parts, they are ages twelve to twenty; they are sweet and certainly sweeter than the monsters they often become, but they are not for me. So I was certain that I would not have sex that day, and maybe, on one’s day’s abstinence, I could build another. And from there rebuild a life worth having.

28. We drove into town; I don’t think you said anything the whole way. You sat in my car with hands clutched in your lap. I remember strings of hair playing across your face when I downed the windows. I remember you closing your eyes when the sun came in and squinting when it didn’t.

At the restaurant, we sat outside on a patio under a sun umbrella. It had a wedge pattern, yellow and mint green, and the table wobbled for need of a matchbook you stuffed underfoot. Even now I have to ask why I remember these details — as though I already knew then that this dreamy boy would compass all the unhappy days of my life to come.

And that’s how I still think of you. The boy who dreams.

29. I tried to play catch-up. What had you been doing all these years? You skipped the details, went right for the pitch. From the look of it, the way you were pulled out from the table and sitting with legs crossed at the knee, there was little chance you were addressing me. But I was rapt. The day was getting on, and it seemed that all around you was light, warm and flattering. You said you were so alone. That we all were. And, just listening to you, I was bowed down to the candor of people in pain. To people in solitude — imperious and urgent — and to your claim that we get so few chances to tender empathy as consolation for the trials of our epoch, but that you were looking for these chances every day.

30. I called for the waiter. We ordered gourmet pizzas — all white for you, shrimp and goat cheese for me — but as I ate, I felt my cheeks flush and wizen. My throat, too. Even my teeth started to parch. There was the water in my glass and yours, and three glasses after that, and still it was like trying to wet steel. You figured I was allergic to shellfish, and wanted to call an ambulance because people died from this allergy, it was worse than peanuts. And remember I said no, that I was fine? But the look on your face was tragic, and in your eyes was the desuetude of a life without me. I know it’s strange, but already I could see the wasteland you saw for yourself, more comprehensive than anywhere I’d thought it possible for a man’s loss to take hold.

I settled down. Went to the bathroom and doused my arms and legs with water supplied by the attendant. She was an older woman, from Mexico maybe, who probably issued naysaying prophecies to every girl who stumbled in drunk or high. Only it was daytime, so why was she eight-balling me? I pressed a damp paper towel to my forehead and the back of my neck and just tried to breathe, when this spooky woman spoke a pronouncement just vague enough to seem right on. “Eh, guera,” she said. “You’ve got it bad.”

31. I could not drive. I was exhausted and dizzy. But I wanted to see your place. I remember you lived with two other guys, but they were not there. I took mental notes. No posters or collegiate wall hangings. No incriminating pamphlets or volatile mix of paint thinner, alcohol, and toilet bowl cleaner. Just a couple books about healthy eating, and a navy blue duvet.

You were obviously nervous to have me there. “Want something to drink? Juice or soda? Water? Seltzer? I don’t have any seltzer, but there’s a bodega just down the street.”

I decided to lie down. I slipped off my sneakers, and because I was still warm, and because it was disconcerting to watch you watch me with those giant, incredulous eyes, I did the simple thing of taking off my clothes. I undressed like a child getting ready for bed. And when you asked if I wanted a nap, who wouldn’t have laughed? You were actually willing to turn off the light and let me sleep and probably to stand guard outside. I said, “Shut the door, but come sit here,” and I tapped the mattress.

32. There was something platonic about the way you looked at me. Touched me. No one had ever cupped my elbow. My knees. And then the way you told me a little about your mom, who’d died. Your dad and stepmom. This wasn’t seduction. It was intimate. And then you were back to the loneliness. And how maybe it was not so unassailable after all. And throughout, more and more, I just needed you to stop talking like that . I reached for you, and the rest was what I knew best.

I did not consider the chance I’d get pregnant. It never even crossed my mind. You, the young socialist, were my way back in. The ears of government awaited. I had many years to architect my life before a child would factor into the design, if ever.

33. Naturally, once I found out, I had the same thought every morning: Today I will make the appointment. And after I failed to get money for the procedure, I said: Today I will ask my parents for the money to make the appointment. And then the days went by. I had scruples about abortion unknown to me until then. Or maybe I didn’t have scruples but just would not terminate this cell of a child that was ours. So you see, per usual, my body knew things that I did not. If it’s any consolation, I swear I told my contacts you were clean. And I swear I thought that would be the end of it. I moved to D.C. and kept news of the baby to myself. And when it was impossible to hide, my luck changed. I was pregnant; I spoke Korean. The CIA had just picked up word of an OB and his wife who were newly escaped from the North, settled in New Paltz, and wanting to work for the U.S. government, though they didn’t know it yet. I was the most suitable candidate to recruit the pair.

34. I made contact. Yul and wife appeared willing, though mostly for fear of being returned to North Korea. I got bigger. And in my head, I accorded the growth of my body with the success of my labors. For those first few months, I just didn’t seem to notice I was pregnant at all. I guess I was so terrorized, I couldn’t let out my fear. Not in secret, not in guise. I went about my business, studied photos of the American GIs who’d defected to the North, and deaf-dumbed my way through Yul’s prognoses: Only ten weeks to go, you’re doing great!

35. What can I say about us? When you showed up in New Paltz, I didn’t know what to do. I had no experience with feelings. All I knew was my job, so I called it in. The socialist returns. They said you were good cover and still a person of interest. Stay on him, they said. And I did.

But it was hard going.