Adam Haslett - Imagine Me Gone

In summer, when there was more daylight, I used the track in the park, at the old polo grounds with their crumbling bleachers and weedy track. There, at least, I had a discrete lane and a clear shot. But in winter, I settled for a dead-end street nearby with barely any traffic. It would have been simpler to take up distance running, but I’d never got in the habit, or felt the satisfaction of it. I ran to move as fast as I could, to the point of no more speed to give, not just once at the end of a long run, but over and over in a rhythm: sprint, release, jog back to the line; sprint, release, jog, until my legs gave out and my chest hurt. I’d been timing myself for too long to give up the stopwatch, but I didn’t run to hit a number anymore, it just let me know how hard I could still press. There was no audience. I didn’t do meets. I wasn’t even running against my own best time, though I could have.

I kept it brief, knowing Paul was cooking, bursting hard and early on hundred-yard dashes, and running back to the line faster than my usual recovery speed. I quickened my pace the more tired I got, holding up only for the occasional passing car, or people crossing the street on their way home, a few of whom were used to me now and nodded or waved. The lamps high up the electric poles lit the street in a yellow brightness, no trees to block their glare, just the two rows of parked cars, the wide sidewalks, the barely indented strips of curb in front of the garage doors with the No Parking signs, and the shaded windows above — a couple of blocks of the Outer Sunset never more than Sunday quiet.

Eventually, my muscles gave out, and I got to that deep, whole-body fatigue that made the pain worth it.

These were the moments of the week when my mind was clearest. When the internal nagging stopped, I noticed the air and the sound of the city, and things became simple again.

I wasn’t happy. This much came as no great revelation. But my unhappiness had become mired in a routine that obscured the obvious choice, which I kept trying to avoid. I had to quit my job. Kids like Jasper didn’t get work because we hit the ratio, as my boss called it, of clients to applications, like hitting a monthly sales figure, all to ensure the state would renew our contract. If they found jobs it was because, mostly without our help, they managed not to feel so shitty about themselves for long enough to actually want a life. And that’s what I wanted to be a part of. Their feeling better.

San Francisco was lousy with therapists and social workers, but if I registered with Medi-Cal, and got the agency to give me some of their overflow of counseling referrals, I’d have as many people as I was willing to take, albeit for a pittance. I could make it on my own, if I took on enough clients. And if Paul went back to working full-time.

The fog off the ocean cloaked the lights only a few blocks ahead as I began walking home, and soon encompassed me in a cool drizzle. When I got upstairs, I went straight into the shower, and stayed under the hot water awhile.

Paul had made a vegetable stir-fry with peanut sauce, and, in a rare flourish, broiled chicken to go with it. I asked him about his good day, about how much revision he thought the new act would require, and how he wanted to move forward from here, listening to him think it out aloud, which I knew he found useful, and seemed tonight to even enjoy. I wished he would share these things more with his friends, but he’d always been hesitant about it, and counted on me as a sounding board more than anyone else. I listened for a good while, glad to sense his mood lifting.

At some point, after a pause, I mentioned what I’d been thinking about on my run.

The first thing he said was “When?”

Before I could answer, the phone rang in the living room. Our eyes met, but neither of us moved. We remained like that for a moment, as the phone rang a second and then a third time, frozen in another little episode of our ongoing struggle to control the disposition of each other’s bodies. The daily tussle of two people in a small space, opening and closing doors, navigating a kitchen and bathroom, nudging and reaching over and gently pushing, often with affection but often too with this petty resistance.

After the third ring, Paul was the one who stood, and walked into the other room. He told whoever it was to hold on. Then he returned to the kitchen, took his seat opposite me, and, picking up his knife and fork with great deliberation, said, “Michael.”

“I told you about her — Bethany — from the record store, the Aphex Twin fan, we had the drink at the Middle East last week, and I called her the next day and we had pizza that night in Kenmore? I told you about it, that we were together for five hours and she told me everything, about just getting out of the hospital, and her parents not wanting to talk to her, but that her mother was sick and she needed to go back to Cleveland to see her, remember?

“It was like we were in a relationship right away, she trusted me that much, and she said she thought she might love me, and I told her all about Dad and Caleigh, and she said she wished I could come to Cleveland with her, but that her parents think everyone she’s met in Boston is part of the problem, and that she just needs to go back and get into school there. But then after that, after I talked to you, I’ve seen her every day since then, except Tuesday — I had a temp gig. And she told me she wasn’t going to be leaving right away, which was obviously a huge relief, because she needed to get her rent money together first, so I felt relieved, like we weren’t racing toward some kind of deadline.

“Because at that point we still hadn’t really said anything official to each other, and we hadn’t slept together, because I didn’t want to pressure her, she’s obviously in a transitional state. And I didn’t want to bring her back to Ben’s anyway, because then he’d ask questions about her, and I just didn’t want to deal with all that. But I did take her home on the T to Allston not last night but the night before. With no ulterior motive. But we were still talking when we got there, and she asked me up to her place, and I did actually end up spending the night, not in her bed, on the floor, on her roommate’s air mattress, and obviously I didn’t sleep, but around dawn, she did reach out and take my hand, and we actually did end up getting together that night. Or that morning. Which, I didn’t even know if that would happen, because she’s been mostly with women, but she said I was different, and that she was so glad we’d met, that no one had ever listened to her the way I did, and we went out afterwards for bagels, and spent the rest of the morning together until I went home to get meds. Which was yesterday.

“And then we were supposed to get together tonight in Central Square at seven o’clock, and I called her to confirm but there was no answer. Not for hours. And when I finally got her roommate, her roommate said she was out and she didn’t know where she was. Which is when I tried you at work. But anyway, obviously I just went to where we’d agreed to meet, and I waited two and a half hours figuring she was just late, but she never showed up, she just didn’t show up. And when I call her roommate’s now I get the answering machine — I’ve left three messages already — but I don’t have any other number for her, so I’m thinking of going over there now, but it’s close to midnight, and by the time I walk to the T, get over there, and figure out what’s going on, I’d miss the last train back, but I don’t know what else to do. What should I do?”

Across the street, a young couple with a fancy stroller passed under the streetlight, returning home from dinner at one of the places up on Irving, and it struck me our mother would never have been out this late with a baby.