When my therapist — now our therapist — asked William straight up, he answered straight up. And the truth appeared to surprise him as much as anyone.
So when Mel included your name in that email, you felt betrayed?
Yes.
Do you think of the house as your house?
Yes.
Mel, you have to understand this comes from how William was raised. He was taught not to trust.
She helped us understand William's indoctrination was common to those raised in immigrant households. His parents, who had studied hard and traveled far to a new country to work and raise a family, guarded their money with diligence. They were careful not to get cheated, or even to feel cheated.
William's fears came from a solid foundation in his upbringing. His anxiety about not having enough money, for example, will always be with him. He could have ten million dollars in the bank and still worry. This is how he is.
Mel, you have to work on setting boundaries, and William has to learn to loosen his. The love will do this. Time and knowing yourselves will do this, but you both have to do the work. The trust will be earned by both of you.
Back at the house, we contemplated what we knew about ourselves and what we hated about ourselves. William didn't want to be mistrustful of me. I, on the other hand, had cruised through life willy-nilly, trusting anyone out of fear of being alone. Perhaps it made sense that two people wrestling with trust from different perspectives would meet at a low point.
We had work to do. We did therapy cram sessions, three times a week. Between sessions, I sobbed. William listened as I spilled my anxieties.
I can't do this....I'll leave....I don't want halfway...and I can't not be trusted....I'm angry at myself....I should have known better....This was all too risky and I didn't pay attention....This isn’t even your fault....You are who you are and I didn't see it....Just when I finally figured out being alone, I slipped.
William had tears in his eyes.
I get how you feel, he said. But no matter what you decide to do, I'll keep doing my own work and keep learning why I'm like this.
His sorrow made me even sadder, but I still didn't know what to do. Until...I took one more risk.
At our next session, I handed him a piece of paper listing everything I owned and everything he owned. The house, our cars, bank accounts...everything.
For us to go forward, I said, I want the whole enchilada. Half of everything you own. And you can have half of everything I own....It's not as much, I realize, but it's yours. If you can't agree, I won't hold it against you, but neither will I stay.
Finally calm, I waited. I was done crying and berating myself. I felt love and compassion for William, but I'd already proven I could live a meaningful life alone.
William stared at the paper. And stared. Finally, he looked up.
I agree.
Really?
Yes.
I exhaled, almost crumpling in my seat. We got up and hugged each other.
Are you sure?
Yes. Absolutely.
And thus our leap was taken. The start of a leap, in any case. Over time, we learned the full scope of our trust would have to be cultivated bit by bit, slip-up by slip-up.
Thursday, December 29, 2011
Thursday, December 22, 2011
LOS ANGELES: December, 2001 (Part 3)
You what?
I wrote to "Landscapers' Challenge," but they replied we would have to spend at least ten thousand dollars to even be considered. So don't worry, that's that.
I was folding laundry and didn't see the look on William's face.
And you signed my name to the letter?
I looked up, and in an instant I knew this was a big thing. A small fissure that was actually a chasm. Shit, shit, shit...I've done it again...mistake, mistake, mistake...trapped.
You can’t sign my name to things.
It sounds like you don't trust me.
William started to leave the room.
Just wait. You don't trust me, and you don't think of this as our house, do you? It's your house and I'm just living here, right?
To his credit, William didn't walk away, but neither did he deny the accusation. Deep down, I knew I was fucked. No matter how sincere his desire for us to have a life together...he hadn't made the leap.
The sobs came fast and hard. I fell forward into a pile of sheets and cursed myself for my foolishness. Damn, damn, damn. I'd done it again. I was fine by myself. I was fine in my own apartment. I didn't need this. Why did I take this chance? I cried and cried from a heart broken as shattered china.
Eventually I pulled myself together. William stood motionless. He looked at me, worried, and put his hand on my back. He wanted to comfort me, but both of us knew we had already stepped into a hard truth. Trust.
Before we'd cemented living together, William had an idea that we should try some counseling. I'd spent three years in therapy before we had met and was a fan of my gifted therapist. She worked fast. She didn't allow for whiny jags, stopping me with "Okay, that's enough crying" or "You have no one to be mad at now….It's over." She had helped me get to my story through a combination of compassion and setting boundaries.
Though William had never stepped into a therapist's office, I was pleased he was willing to give it a try. We knew we had to make an appointment quick.
I wrote to "Landscapers' Challenge," but they replied we would have to spend at least ten thousand dollars to even be considered. So don't worry, that's that.
I was folding laundry and didn't see the look on William's face.
And you signed my name to the letter?
I looked up, and in an instant I knew this was a big thing. A small fissure that was actually a chasm. Shit, shit, shit...I've done it again...mistake, mistake, mistake...trapped.
You can’t sign my name to things.
It sounds like you don't trust me.
William started to leave the room.
Just wait. You don't trust me, and you don't think of this as our house, do you? It's your house and I'm just living here, right?
To his credit, William didn't walk away, but neither did he deny the accusation. Deep down, I knew I was fucked. No matter how sincere his desire for us to have a life together...he hadn't made the leap.
The sobs came fast and hard. I fell forward into a pile of sheets and cursed myself for my foolishness. Damn, damn, damn. I'd done it again. I was fine by myself. I was fine in my own apartment. I didn't need this. Why did I take this chance? I cried and cried from a heart broken as shattered china.
Eventually I pulled myself together. William stood motionless. He looked at me, worried, and put his hand on my back. He wanted to comfort me, but both of us knew we had already stepped into a hard truth. Trust.
Before we'd cemented living together, William had an idea that we should try some counseling. I'd spent three years in therapy before we had met and was a fan of my gifted therapist. She worked fast. She didn't allow for whiny jags, stopping me with "Okay, that's enough crying" or "You have no one to be mad at now….It's over." She had helped me get to my story through a combination of compassion and setting boundaries.
Though William had never stepped into a therapist's office, I was pleased he was willing to give it a try. We knew we had to make an appointment quick.
Thursday, December 15, 2011
LOS ANGELES: December, 2001 (Part 2)
Entertaining. A whole new ballgame for William.
I wasn't kidding when I suggested this living together business might be invasive. I had furniture re-covered and new dishes stacked in the cupboards. My cookbooks were lined up, ready for action. Pots dangled, wine glasses sparkled, and candles glowed. The sounds of jazz filled our rooms. Tiny lights twinkled over the deck.
When the construction was done, we had raced from one room to another, admiring the new look. When we awoke after our first night, we had looked at the sunlight pouring through the French door in our bedroom. It's like waking up in a bed and breakfast, William said. Except we don't have to pay the bill and leave.
We were in our house.
We had added a new bathroom with a large clawfoot bathtub. Because William and I are on the short side, we used it as others might use a hot tub. At the end of a hard day, we filled it with hot water and bubbles, climbed in and shared thoughts, worries and ideas.
I'd been creatively sated remodeling the house and preparing for dinner parties, but now what?
Do whatever you want, William offered. Quit that stupid TV show.
I can’t. It's my income.
We can get by on my salary. Quit.
At the time, I was a dialogue coach on a kids' television show. It introduced a new cast of young actors every year and the executive producer had hired me to hone acting their skills and teach on-set etiquette. That producer, however, seemed to be the only one who liked having me there, and over the years my value deteriorated as one director in particular made my job near impossible.
This director needed a lot of control and didn't want me talking to "his actors." As my job was all about talking to actors, our situation became untenable. My sleeping hours were jam-packed with work-related nightmares. I hung on because I simply could not imagine quitting. Plus, in addition to the income, the company covered my health insurance.
So I didn't quit.
We curled up in front of a roaring blaze in the fireplace, our faces lit by red and green lights on the Christmas tree. We spent New Year's Eve with lasagna, red wine and our annual viewing of "The Godfather." We had a dinner party on New Year's Day, toasting each other from across the table. We were grateful to be finished with the construction and wished for our country to mend its wounds as we moved into 2002.
With my head full of renovation ideas, I developed an addiction to the Home & Garden Television network. Oh God, look at that kitchen. William called HGTV "porn for women." And I was hooked.
I was particularly enthralled with a show called "Landscapers' Challenge," where a designer and crew land in a homeowner's yard and whip it into a wonderland in twenty-seven minutes. We should have that, I decided, and wrote an email to the show's producers, hoping they would consider our lackluster backyard for a future episode.
This seemingly trivial act cranked open an unexpected gulf in our home. One of those didn't-see-it-coming moments that can rock a foundation swifter than an earthquake.
I wasn't kidding when I suggested this living together business might be invasive. I had furniture re-covered and new dishes stacked in the cupboards. My cookbooks were lined up, ready for action. Pots dangled, wine glasses sparkled, and candles glowed. The sounds of jazz filled our rooms. Tiny lights twinkled over the deck.
When the construction was done, we had raced from one room to another, admiring the new look. When we awoke after our first night, we had looked at the sunlight pouring through the French door in our bedroom. It's like waking up in a bed and breakfast, William said. Except we don't have to pay the bill and leave.
We were in our house.
We had added a new bathroom with a large clawfoot bathtub. Because William and I are on the short side, we used it as others might use a hot tub. At the end of a hard day, we filled it with hot water and bubbles, climbed in and shared thoughts, worries and ideas.
I'd been creatively sated remodeling the house and preparing for dinner parties, but now what?
Do whatever you want, William offered. Quit that stupid TV show.
I can’t. It's my income.
We can get by on my salary. Quit.
At the time, I was a dialogue coach on a kids' television show. It introduced a new cast of young actors every year and the executive producer had hired me to hone acting their skills and teach on-set etiquette. That producer, however, seemed to be the only one who liked having me there, and over the years my value deteriorated as one director in particular made my job near impossible.
This director needed a lot of control and didn't want me talking to "his actors." As my job was all about talking to actors, our situation became untenable. My sleeping hours were jam-packed with work-related nightmares. I hung on because I simply could not imagine quitting. Plus, in addition to the income, the company covered my health insurance.
So I didn't quit.
We curled up in front of a roaring blaze in the fireplace, our faces lit by red and green lights on the Christmas tree. We spent New Year's Eve with lasagna, red wine and our annual viewing of "The Godfather." We had a dinner party on New Year's Day, toasting each other from across the table. We were grateful to be finished with the construction and wished for our country to mend its wounds as we moved into 2002.
With my head full of renovation ideas, I developed an addiction to the Home & Garden Television network. Oh God, look at that kitchen. William called HGTV "porn for women." And I was hooked.
I was particularly enthralled with a show called "Landscapers' Challenge," where a designer and crew land in a homeowner's yard and whip it into a wonderland in twenty-seven minutes. We should have that, I decided, and wrote an email to the show's producers, hoping they would consider our lackluster backyard for a future episode.
This seemingly trivial act cranked open an unexpected gulf in our home. One of those didn't-see-it-coming moments that can rock a foundation swifter than an earthquake.
Thursday, December 8, 2011
LOS ANGELES: December, 2001 (Part 1)
Two days before Christmas, I pulled my car into the driveway of William's house. Our house. I stepped out of the car, clutching a pet carrier with Spencer mewling inside. The two of us, feline and human, slightly stunned.
This felt like my five-hundredth move in a lifetime of moves, from western Canada to eastern Canada to New York City to Los Angeles. In each location, I'd set up a new living habitat from scratch. Packing, unpacking, signing leases and renting moving trucks. By this point, I'd lived in six places over thirteen years. I was sick and bored with the moving thing. Would this be the restful home I longed for?
William and his dog, a mutt named Stinky, waited in front of the newly painted front door. I'd chosen a dark red for the door. An auspicious color in the Chinese culture.
Welcome home, William said.
And we were. Spencer scurried, fur on end, from one corner to another. Stinky tried his best to sniff the cat's bum. William and I were locked in an embrace. Together. In our house.
Sidebar: the dog's name. When I took Stinky to the dog park, I would often disguise his name by shouting, "Inky! Inky!" Because when I called "Stinky," the strange glances shot my way were intolerable. William had adopted his pup from a shelter months before we met. He lifted the name "Stinky" from a comic book. What can I say? The dog believes his name is a term of endearment, and so it has become one in our home.
On the day Spencer and I moved in, Stinky matured from a puppy to an avuncular presence with the cat. He was nervous and, truth be told, afraid of the cat. One butt-sniff too many resulted in a good bat from Spencer's paw, but the two pets would make their way, over time, to a peaceable kingdom.
William grew to adore Spencer as much as he did Stinky and, believe me, his love for that dog competed with his love for me. Adjusting to a mixed-pet household was not without stumbles and scratches, barks and screeches, but we were determined to make it work. That Christmas, four stockings hung from the mantle.
The house renovation had lasted two months. We added space and color. I tore down the blinds and light filled the previously darkened rooms.
People will see, William said.
No they won't, I assured, and if they do, they won't care. Nobody cares about our business.
The contractor had created an archway connecting the dining room to a den area that led out to double French doors and our new redwood deck.
See, William, when people come over, they'll walk through here, pick up drinks and gather outside for appetizers on the deck. Then back inside to the dining room for dinner. Neat, huh?
What people?
Oh, people.
Who?
You'll see.
This felt like my five-hundredth move in a lifetime of moves, from western Canada to eastern Canada to New York City to Los Angeles. In each location, I'd set up a new living habitat from scratch. Packing, unpacking, signing leases and renting moving trucks. By this point, I'd lived in six places over thirteen years. I was sick and bored with the moving thing. Would this be the restful home I longed for?
William and his dog, a mutt named Stinky, waited in front of the newly painted front door. I'd chosen a dark red for the door. An auspicious color in the Chinese culture.
Welcome home, William said.
And we were. Spencer scurried, fur on end, from one corner to another. Stinky tried his best to sniff the cat's bum. William and I were locked in an embrace. Together. In our house.
Sidebar: the dog's name. When I took Stinky to the dog park, I would often disguise his name by shouting, "Inky! Inky!" Because when I called "Stinky," the strange glances shot my way were intolerable. William had adopted his pup from a shelter months before we met. He lifted the name "Stinky" from a comic book. What can I say? The dog believes his name is a term of endearment, and so it has become one in our home.
On the day Spencer and I moved in, Stinky matured from a puppy to an avuncular presence with the cat. He was nervous and, truth be told, afraid of the cat. One butt-sniff too many resulted in a good bat from Spencer's paw, but the two pets would make their way, over time, to a peaceable kingdom.
William grew to adore Spencer as much as he did Stinky and, believe me, his love for that dog competed with his love for me. Adjusting to a mixed-pet household was not without stumbles and scratches, barks and screeches, but we were determined to make it work. That Christmas, four stockings hung from the mantle.
The house renovation had lasted two months. We added space and color. I tore down the blinds and light filled the previously darkened rooms.
People will see, William said.
No they won't, I assured, and if they do, they won't care. Nobody cares about our business.
The contractor had created an archway connecting the dining room to a den area that led out to double French doors and our new redwood deck.
See, William, when people come over, they'll walk through here, pick up drinks and gather outside for appetizers on the deck. Then back inside to the dining room for dinner. Neat, huh?
What people?
Oh, people.
Who?
You'll see.
Thursday, December 1, 2011
NEW YORK CITY: October, 2001 (Part 2)
Think we could get tickets to the game? William asked the next morning. The Yankees were playing the Mariners in the American League Championship Series that night.
I doubt it...Really, darling…it's the playoffs and it’s Yankee Stadium.
Yeah, I guess.
But we could go to the Bronx and…you know…walk around and get a feel for it.
And that's what we did. We hopped into a subway car packed with giddy Yankee fans. We skimmed along the rails and mingled as if we belonged. At the Yankee Stadium stop, we hustled outside, shoulder to shoulder, only to discover all the stadium ticket booths locked up tight.
We walked in a giant circle around the stadium. There were no tickets for sale...except...wait a second—
Single seat, single seat! a voice cried out from the one tiny booth left open.
William hatched a plan. We'll buy two separate singles and find a place to sit together.
Scheme in hand, he pulled out a credit card for the pudgy seller. The poor guy, crammed like a sausage into his workspace, shot us an intense look.
Two singles, please.
One! he screamed at us in typical New Yorker fashion. He pounded the seating diagram, his stubby finger landing on the single seat in the entire stadium available for sale. I'm tellin' ya, I have one single ticket. Ya want it or not?
No, but thanks, anyway. We backed away.
Well, it was a nice try, I said. We almost—
You wanna see the game? The voice came from over William's shoulder.
Turning around, we came face to face with a man, standing alone, with two tickets shoved toward us.
Uh, sure—
Here, take these. Have a good time.
It was a command, not a wish. And he was gone. Instantly. Disappeared, vaporized before we could pay or even thank him. Dazed, we looked at the two bleacher seat tickets, then to each other to confirm this wasn't a dream.
And that's how we got into, hands down, the best baseball event of my life. When the national anthem played, we cried. An eagle named Challenger flew from the bleachers to the mound, and we sniffled some more. The crowd stood for every one of Roger Clemens' two-strike counts, and for every Derek Jeter at-bat. We cheered and howled, hot dogs held high, as if we were one of these brave souls and not recently flown-in Angelenos.
The game remained scoreless until the eighth inning, when Bret Boone hit a solo home run and New York worried. Bernie Williams countered with a solo homer in the bottom of the inning and New York rallied. With the game tied and the stadium on its feet in the bottom of the ninth, a 25-year-old rookie, Alfonso Soriano, hit a two-run homer to win the game for the Yankees…and we discovered, in the best way possible, that NYC was going to be A-OK.
Frank Sinatra sang "New York, New York" at the top of his lungs and we screamed until our voices were ragged.
Williams would soon retire, Soriano would eventually be traded, and Joe Torre would end up crossing the country to manage the Dodgers. And on September 21, 2008, a final game was played at Yankee Stadium. But for generations to come, people will tell tales of that stadium. Ours will include a story of the day New York City gave two out-of-towners a big, fat hug and assured us everything was all right.
We drank in the cold October air and laughed like giddy drunks.
I doubt it...Really, darling…it's the playoffs and it’s Yankee Stadium.
Yeah, I guess.
But we could go to the Bronx and…you know…walk around and get a feel for it.
And that's what we did. We hopped into a subway car packed with giddy Yankee fans. We skimmed along the rails and mingled as if we belonged. At the Yankee Stadium stop, we hustled outside, shoulder to shoulder, only to discover all the stadium ticket booths locked up tight.
We walked in a giant circle around the stadium. There were no tickets for sale...except...wait a second—
Single seat, single seat! a voice cried out from the one tiny booth left open.
William hatched a plan. We'll buy two separate singles and find a place to sit together.
Scheme in hand, he pulled out a credit card for the pudgy seller. The poor guy, crammed like a sausage into his workspace, shot us an intense look.
Two singles, please.
One! he screamed at us in typical New Yorker fashion. He pounded the seating diagram, his stubby finger landing on the single seat in the entire stadium available for sale. I'm tellin' ya, I have one single ticket. Ya want it or not?
No, but thanks, anyway. We backed away.
Well, it was a nice try, I said. We almost—
You wanna see the game? The voice came from over William's shoulder.
Turning around, we came face to face with a man, standing alone, with two tickets shoved toward us.
Uh, sure—
Here, take these. Have a good time.
It was a command, not a wish. And he was gone. Instantly. Disappeared, vaporized before we could pay or even thank him. Dazed, we looked at the two bleacher seat tickets, then to each other to confirm this wasn't a dream.
And that's how we got into, hands down, the best baseball event of my life. When the national anthem played, we cried. An eagle named Challenger flew from the bleachers to the mound, and we sniffled some more. The crowd stood for every one of Roger Clemens' two-strike counts, and for every Derek Jeter at-bat. We cheered and howled, hot dogs held high, as if we were one of these brave souls and not recently flown-in Angelenos.
The game remained scoreless until the eighth inning, when Bret Boone hit a solo home run and New York worried. Bernie Williams countered with a solo homer in the bottom of the inning and New York rallied. With the game tied and the stadium on its feet in the bottom of the ninth, a 25-year-old rookie, Alfonso Soriano, hit a two-run homer to win the game for the Yankees…and we discovered, in the best way possible, that NYC was going to be A-OK.
Frank Sinatra sang "New York, New York" at the top of his lungs and we screamed until our voices were ragged.
Williams would soon retire, Soriano would eventually be traded, and Joe Torre would end up crossing the country to manage the Dodgers. And on September 21, 2008, a final game was played at Yankee Stadium. But for generations to come, people will tell tales of that stadium. Ours will include a story of the day New York City gave two out-of-towners a big, fat hug and assured us everything was all right.
We drank in the cold October air and laughed like giddy drunks.
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