I continued to drive around the city. I drove past the last home I lived in, past the school Gary attended for kindergarten, past the high school my oldest daughter graduated from, past the elementary school my children attended and past the church we all attended. But I never did drive there. I couldn’t. I had stopped going there long before I moved from this desert city. I felt guilty about that even when I still lived here. Now I felt as if I should go there but I can’t seem to direct the car there. I am not exactly sure what will happen if I go there but whatever it is I am afraid of it. There is something about seeing that name etched for all eternity into a stone in the ground that unnerves me. In the past I would start sobbing uncontrollably when I saw it. I have no reason to doubt that would happen now and I don’t want to be so unnerved while on a business trip.
It was 24 years ago when I first saw this city in the desert. I had already decided we were going to move there – the whole family. I had never been here when I made that decision but sadly anything was better than where I was living at the time. I was living in my hometown which was located in the “Rust Belt”. It was 1985.
I always smell the desert before I see it. It is a peaceful smell or I feel peaceful when I smell it. That was the first thing I experienced and came to love was the smell of the desert. It may be what I miss most about the desert. Smells are so much more evocative and memorable than any other sensory experiences. Sometimes the only thing I can remember is the smell. You can’t really describe a smell in words. It is one of those things you have to experience. You just know it when you smell it. Like the smell of the perfume or cologne of a loved one long after they have gone. The smell of the desert is best experienced at night or very early in the morning. I remember smelling it on my very first visit as I explored the city in my rental car at night. In spite of the painful memories I feel peaceful as I drive though the desert at night with the windows of the car rolled down. I feel enveloped in the comforting arms of the desert.
The desert is a beautiful and fascinating place. As you drive you see lights everywhere and then suddenly you see total darkness. This city is huge now. It is ever so much bigger than when I moved here. Then it was a sleepy, little desert town. But in spite of its growth there are still mountains in this desert that defy development. And so I sat on the balcony of my hotel room and looked out over the lights and blackness. I closed my eyes and soaked up the rich smell of the desert.
This desert town is full of beautiful resorts. For some reason I chose to stay at the resort that I had frequented when I lived there. I thought it would have changed so much over the years that it wouldn’t matter. At least I didn’t recognize it in the photos posted on its webpage when I made the reservation. They have excellent amenities and great rates so I booked a room there. After I settled into my room I went to the restaurant to have dinner. I was amazed to discover that it still bears the same name it did 20 years ago. The only thing that has changed is the color scheme. I waited in the lobby for the hostess to seat me. I remembered the last time I was here.
“Can you meet me for lunch at the Pointe,” Brian asked me. “It is too far from the office. I don’t want to take a long lunch today,” I protested. “I really want us to have lunch with my parents today,” Brian pleaded. As usual he persuaded me to do what he wanted. He had a real knack for doing that. When I arrived Brian and his parents were already seated in a booth. It was that one in the corner over there. I saw it when I entered the restaurant this night. His mom and dad were seated in the middle of the booth. I slid into the side across from Brian. We chatted quietly and then I left to go back to the office. It was the last time I saw his mother. She died of heart failure a few days later.
I decided just to eat at the bar. As I sat down on one of the bar stools I remembered that this is where Bill had first introduced Brian and I to his wife. Bill’s company did business with Brian’s company. They had become friends long before I met Brian. Bill called us a lot right after the diagnosis but he too, like Eloise, simply disappeared from our lives when Brian was in the early throes of the illness. Oh he came to the funeral and even to the event at the house after the funeral. I was amazed that he could do that. I forced myself to stop remembering while I ate my dinner. I returned to my room and thankfully fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.
I never really had a plan for my life, at least not consciously. I wanted to be open to all of the possibilities. I didn’t want to be so focused on where I was going that I missed an unexpected opportunity. That was a rather naïve view, to say the least. Without any plan I was buffeted around like a jellyfish in the ocean. You need some sense of direction or purpose I think now. My stubbornness, my obsession to be independent, my craving for affection and my passive rebellion caused me to make choices that I see now were wrong for me. My life, intentionally, did not follow the script set out for women with my background and education. Sometimes I think I just sabotaged myself. Other times I think I just wanted to do the unexpected – to be different and adventurous as much as possible for me.
As I look around I wonder if the people who followed the “script” are really happier than I am. They are in long marriages with grown children living in the same house in the suburbs in which they raised their families. I was, for the most part, following that script in my life with Brian in this desert city. We had a traditional marriage, lived in the suburbs and raised our children there. I remember feeling stifled by all of that at times.
Do the people who followed the script have regrets like I do? From the outside looking in I imagine them to be very content. I will probably never know because for some reason we don’t talk about those things or won’t talk about them honestly. Often I wonder if I am the only person who even thinks about all this stuff. That just adds to my feelings of loneliness and isolation. What are those barriers? Why are we afraid to cross them and open ourselves up to others? What do we think would happen if we did reveal our innermost thoughts and feelings? Are we afraid we would be judged the way we can't seem to stop judging others? How can we connect with others if we don't let our guard down - if we don't let people see who we really are?
