Chapter 11 in R.M. Dolin’s novel, “The Dangling Conversation,” April 27, 2024. Completion of the story Kyle started in Chapter 10 Resonance Dissonance
ISABELLE: “Sorry for hijacking your Olivia story the other night, I know it’s hard to open up about that part of your life and what do I do, jump in once you get started with this wild Brad & Mandy story about my stalker-Ex finding me. That’s how our dynamic works though, you say one thing, I counter with something else, and before ya know it, one of us starts unraveling crap that’s been latently waiting to come out. I never shared my stalker story with anyone, not even my mom, guess once I got going, it all just spilled out like a tipped over bucket of water on a slightly sloping floor.
“It’s your turn tonight if you’re up for it, I mean we got to cover this at some point. There’s a huge twenty-year gap in your life that needs to be colored in so I can properly place Nadia in the portrait. You keep talking like she’s the only woman you truly ever loved but my theory is she’s not what matters in the life of Kyle, not after having this long love affair with someone not her.”
KYLE: “I assure you, Nadia’s the quintessential thread stitching together the tapestry of my life. Yes, there are others who I loved deeply but she’s the only one with the power and presence to endure what you call the life of Kyle. There’s no escaping Olivia’s a very important part of my life; I cherish our time together even if things don’t end well. I can’t forget her, it’s not possible; nor does my love for her dissipate. It is possible, ya know, to love more than one person and just because someone you love moves out of your life, it doesn’t mean they take the love you shared with them. You are right though; I rarely talk about her; not even to my kids and this story is as much theirs as mine. People say you should talk about your tragedies, but I don’t know how useful that really is; for one thing, talking doesn’t change a damn thing and certainly can’t prevent it happening again so, what’s the point. At the same time, I see your point and I am a “finish what I start” kind of guy, so there’s that.”
“Starting a difficult story, or in our case finishing one mid-stream, is no small matter; kinda like pushing a heavy piece of furniture up an incline, you try and try to get it going but even giving it all you got it still won’t budge. The odd thing though, is with just a little extra effort it starts moving, and once it does, once you initiate that first incremental motion, it gets easier; mathematically it’s about the difference between the coefficients of static and dynamic friction, but we don’t need to get into that.
“There’s an incident from when my daughter was two that can set the table; she accidentally spills a jar of pennies Olivia’s been collecting all over the living room floor, I mean we’re talking piles of pennies everywhere. Olivia of course is upset, perhaps more than warranted but that’s part of her deal. My daughter, sensing her mom’s anger, starts crying, and the emotions from one feed the other until they’re bouncing back and forth like a Chinese ping pong ball ratcheting up in intensity; that’s pretty much all you need to know about that dynamic.
“Imagine a frightened little girl stoically standing in the center of the room; her head’s down and she’s staring at the scattered pennies as Olivia’s screams at her to pick them up. The louder and angrier Olivia gets, the more my daughter’s frozen in statute stasis, crying not knowing what to do. I’m watching, first in shock over how fast this small forgivable incident has become a conflict between waring nations and second, trying to figure out a way to defuse the escalating tension before things go nuclear. While marveling at the seriousness of this mother-daughter silliness, I begin to understand the core reason behind my daughter’s refusal to do as Olivia demands; it’s not that she’s locked in an epic power struggle, she doesn’t know how to start. She sees a room full of pennies scattered on the floor and the task of picking them up is overwhelming; her little two-year-old brain just can’t fathom a path forward.
“I walk over and kneel in front of her, then gently take the empty jar and wipe away her tears. Calmly I explain, “It’s going to be okay honey. Let me show you how to pick all these pennies up, you see, when something that needs doing seems so hard you don’t know what to do, the only real solution is to start; don’t think of the entire problem all at once, focus on the next step. Let me show you.” With that I pick up a penny and put it in the jar, “You see, honey, it’s not hard to pick up one penny, is it?” She wipes new tears away and slightly nods while keeping her head down and not moving, so I continue, “After you finish the first penny, you move on to the second.” I reach out and grab another penny putting it in the jar. “If you just keep doing this, one penny at a time without thinking about all the other ones, soon the jar is full, and all the pennies have been picked up. Do you think you can do that?”
“I hand her back the jar, but she still just stands there gathering herself, which pushes Olivia’s patience causing her to resume yelling and screaming; causing me to address the opposing side of the conflict. “Olivia please!” I unfortunately shout, “Give the girl a chance to sort things out!” If I accomplish nothing else, I redirect Olivia’s anger on me and away from my daughter. So now, Olivia and I are ratcheting up our emotions and things between us are on the verge of going nuclear when I hear the crisp clean sound of pennies dropping into the glass jar. Olivia and I stand in silence for the five minutes it takes my daughter to pick up all the pennies, neither of us willing to gloat about victory or admit defeat. I'm very proud of the way my daughter works through her intractable problem, Olivia though, storms off muttering something about how I need to teach my daughter discipline.
“You ask me to finish my story about how things end between Olivia and I; no doubt after hearing the penny problem you’ve leaped ahead to obvious outcomes. I can assure you though, life is not so linear. If I had to sum up getting older into anything, it’d be that the more we go along, the harder and more complex things become. Sometimes it seems life is an empty jar in a room of scattered memories; I don’t mean to spill them, but now all I can do is stare at a floor as I wipe away tears, overwhelmed at the impossible task of properly putting them back in a way that doesn’t break my heart. That probably doesn’t make any sense; guess what I’m saying is don’t jump ahead to obvious outcomes because the story matters. In the end, the train may pull into the same station but the path it takes and what it means when it arrives, is the story.
How do I start to explain the end of love, it’s like asking how an overwhelmed two-year-old standing in the middle of a room crying over spilt pennies becomes an amazingly independent, strong-willed woman; the only real answer is incrementally, one small step at a time. The end of love is no different, people say they fall in love, but no one ever says they fell out of love; at least not while honestly understanding and accepting the journey they’ve been on. That’s because real love doesn’t end, it withers, and there’s a difference.”
ISABELLE: “I feel the need to say something but have no words. Do you need a hug? That’s what my Dad does when I’m overwhelmed, he gives me a hug and says everything’s gonna be okay. He never bothers to say how things will be okay but the confident way he speaks suggests it doesn’t really matter. And the crazy part is he’s never been wrong, things always have a way of working out. “You just keep being you Isabelle,” that’s what he says, “and all your problems will find their solution.”
KYLE: “Does he tell you sometimes the solutions end tragically? They do ya know, I guess dads aren’t supposed to say that, but it doesn’t make it any less true. It’s also not true that when love ends, you’re no longer in love, sometimes how things end causes you to be even more hapless. That’s how it is with Olivia, the closer we come to the end, the more in love I am. I can’t control how I feel any more than I can stand in a raging river hoping to alter the water’s flow, mark that down as another pearl of wisdom. There’s no logical or emotional argument you can make to persuade yourself otherwise.
“In retrospect, I should have seen what’s coming from the whole incident with the pennies but don’t; guess I don’t really want to. That’s how it works; being in a moment is no different than reliving memories, we cherry pick what we want and ignore the rest. Of course, Olivia’s angry response is over the top and there’s certainly no rational reason to go off on a two-year-old who’s made a simple mistake; my crime is dismissing the incident as a one-off when in reality it’s anything but. In the moment I miss, or don’t want to see, I fail to connect how the penny incident is tied to earlier events as well as to the ones that come after. Maybe I get used to how things are gradually over time and don’t see the impending disaster. It’s kinda like cooking frogs; if you toss a frog into boiling water, it’ll feel the intensity of the heat and hop right back out. However, when you put a frog in warm water, they’re content; then if you slowly heat the water the frog doesn’t notice until it’s too late and by then, their goose is cooked.
“That’s part & parcel to what I’m saying, as you get older, life takes on increasingly subtle complexities; we’re all just swimming around in a warm pot of water choosing to ignore how hot things are getting. Olivia going from calm to nuclear over spilt pennies is a precursor to something wrong beyond just having a bad hair day as is the way she stops doing art or wanting to go out. Sadness is not the same as depression, one is an emotion and the other an illness. I should do more to help with her sadness, but there isn’t a damn thing I can do about her illness. I take her to a doctor, I beg and plead with her to take her medications but at the end of the day, it comes down to her and what she’s willing to do to heal herself.
“She withdraws incrementally, not just with me, but the kids and friends. It isn’t that I’m blind so much as powerless. I see now I’m in denial, convinced she’ll turn things around if I only give her space. What I’m unprepared for is what I’ll call the destructive stage. I see now the penny incident is the beginning but have no way of seeing the extent to which it foreshadows everything that follows. She starts keeping weird hours, staying up until three or four in the morning and then sleeping well past noon. I don’t know what she’s doing in those lonely hours; guess I’m guilty of not giving it much thought. Bear in mind that while she’s slowly slipping into isolation, I’m picking up all the slack, the kids still need feeding, the house still needs cleaning, there’s groceries to buy, soccer schedules and after school activities that must be managed, bills to be paid and my job at State that can’t be ignored.
“I’m not proud of this, but there are times I’m angry, I mean how fair is it that all this burden and responsibly falls on me. Marriage is supposed to be a partnership not something devolving into a princess lounging around doing nothing all day while I teeter on the edge of exhaustion. I always manage to push past my anger, and like I said, it isn’t my finest hour; nonetheless it is what it is, or was what it was, and there ain’t a damn thing I can do about it now.
“I’m also not proud of how I engaged. At first, I do everything possible to help her help herself. Then I step back and try my best to support her in every way possible so she can work through whatever it is she needs to work through; you know, like taking over more and more household chores. Then, without real awareness and likely due to exhaustion, I take another step back and just stop trying. I mean I keep on with my responsibilities but stop engaging with her. I suppose it’s how I channel the anger I think I have under control. I just reach a point where I’m thinking, “fine, if you want to just mope around feeling sorry for yourself all damn day, then have at it.”
“I know it’s wrong and if God ever grants me a redo, things will be different. In my defense, I’m no farther from the end of my rope than she is from hers and like I said, it’s not my finest hour. As bad as things are though, they only get worse. That’s the thing about life, no matter how far you fall into your personal abyss, there’s always space for further descent, which is exactly what we do. When I say I stop trying, it doesn’t mean I give up; I still manage to persuade her occasionally to go to the kid’s events and do what I can to meet her needs and sprinkle some moments of joy in her life. What I mean is I give up having expectations things will get better but what I don’t fully appreciate, is the extent to which things can still get worse.
“At first, I don’t think about what she might be doing outside on the patio long after everyone’s gone to bed, I assume she’s doing what she does during the day; play video games and read trashy novels on her tablet. Little do I realize she’s slowing constructing a fantasy life. I’m not sure how it starts or whether it’s intentional, but her video games are nothing more than an outlet for escape. I’ve never played, but my son says some of these games never really end, you simply complete one quest then move on to the next. He says they’re often multi-player and that after a while you form bonds with the people on the same quest as you. I think the way it works is that you do your fantasy adventure for a while then have down time where you chat with each other online.
“I can see the appeal; I mean you step outside your life by pretending to be someone having a different life; a life free from all the baggage and constraints of real reality. I even see how bonds are formed and virtual friendships made; what I don’t get is the next step, at least not when you’re in a committed relationship. I don’t know if her promiscuity is intentional or if it just happens based on her need to elude reality. I don’t know if her love for me and our life ends, or if it’s the illness taking over and needing to feel things she feels I’m no longer able to provide. Of course, I’m angry when I find out; angry and hurt, but I can’t find a way to take that next step. Through all of this, I never learn how to stop loving her and become something of an expert in the rare art of rationalization.
“I do of course confront her; you can’t allow something like this to go unchallenged. She doesn’t care though; doesn’t care I find out as much as she doesn’t care to stop, and that hurts, as much if not more than any pain I’ve ever experienced. Seems to me even if you’re not well and going through dark times, if you love someone it should hurt you to hurt them; and it doesn’t, not one iota. At one point, it even somehow becomes my fault; I don’t know if it’s really what she feels or just a feeble attempt to shield herself from responsibility and blame; either way, she starts lashing out. Mostly it’s verbal but there towards the end it even gets physical a time or two; never in front of the kids so I’m at least grateful for that.
“Mental illness is a strange beast, you love someone who doesn’t love you; maybe they do in the healthy part of their brain, but not in the part currently in control. No matter how many affairs she has or how many times she lashes out, I still can’t find it in myself to be angry back; hurt yes, but not so much for what she’s doing as for what her illness is causing her to do.”
ISABELLE: “We’ve established my Ex has issues. I don’t know if narcissism qualifies as a personality disorder or mental illness, not even sure there’s a difference. What I know is after living with him and his, “condition,” far longer than I should have, I’m not like you, I never seek or feel forgiveness toward him. I can’t, he’s such an expert at turning any form of weakness to his advantage, and because he has no empathy at all when it comes to perceiving how his actions hurt others or causes pain, I must always be on guard. I’m of course sad our marriage ended, but not sad toward him, I guess in that sense he taught me how to avoid empathy. I really can’t even say I’m sad my marriage ended because that implies feelings toward him. Probably better to say I have regrets if that makes any sense. There’s the life I thought I’d live, and it’s sad to realize it’s unobtainable, not sad, I mean regrettable. I choose not to be sad, at least not about this.
“He starts out all sweet and kind but over time his skill at hiding who he is can’t be hidden. It’s like discovering your partner’s a spy and leading a double life. He messes around, a lot, but not because he’s unhappy with me or our marriage. It’s weird, he never once says anything’s wrong, he just needs to feed his ego by seducing other women, to believe in his demented mind every woman out there desires him. I like to think he suffers from a social disorder, then I don’t have to forgive him or invent ways to excuse what he does because in my mind, forgiving and excusing makes it okay. Every day I thank myself for having the courage to get out, and the strength to not look back.
“Your situation with Olivia is different. It seems like she’s a genuinely good person who gets sick and then does the crazy ass crap you talk about. It matters you know, the back story feeding the end, it matters as much how it’s written as how it’s told, and how the heroes and villains are portrayed.”
KYLE: “Some stories never get fully written while others run out of landscape and collide with the vastness of finality. In retrospect, I should have seen her infidelities as the final arbitrator for how things end, her silent plea for help. I don’t though, I can’t, I’m too caught up in how it impacts me to see what it’s doing to her. Even now I’m still not past “why”, somehow, I always circle back to the fact it doesn’t much matter. On some level I can’t handle “why” because then I have to assess my role in what happens next and even now, after so much time has passed and so little emotion remains, I don’t trust myself enough to start the necessary cross examination.
“We argue the night things end; don’t know what the hell I’m trying to accomplish but I stay up late needing to find out just what it is she does until three in the morning. I come out to our patio where she’s sitting alone in the dark, her phone illuminates her face in hallow beams of tranquil beauty the same way a full moon gently breathes life into a peaceful mountain meadow. She doesn’t notice me right away, so I’m allowed to watch the light playfully dance patterns of angelic perfection on her face. I should have told her how beautiful she is but instead, I grab her phone and walk off in anger, ready to auger in what she’s doing. Just before closing the patio door, she whispers, “I’m leaving Kyle, I don't love you and can't keep living this lie.”
“I storm into my office too angry to respond, too used to her empty threats to consider their validity. I plop down at my desk in the dark like a pirate with treasured booty and start scrolling through her messages. It doesn’t take long to discover the ones between her and some loser in the next town over. As I read her texts describing how she loves him and can’t wait to be with him, I start to tremble so uncontrollably it’s not possible to read the rest. To say I’m devastated is akin to calling an erupting volcano a quaint campfire. I sit at my desk engulfed in darkness; completely at a loss about what to do. I can’t really describe how one feels after something like that, shock perhaps; my brain just shuts down, no thoughts, no emotions, not even really any conscious awareness of any kind. That’s the mind’s way of protecting the heart, just prevent ugliness from entering; acknowledging its existence requires accepting its reality and the mind knows the heart’s incapable of such calamities.
“Maybe minutes, maybe hours later, I stoically make my way toward the patio. I don’t know what I intend to say, only that we need to talk. I’m in less shock than before but still suppressing emotions; my only real thought is this overwhelming need to talk to her. Forgiveness is not at the forefront, but neither is anger; I just want to talk, to find some way to connect, to spark some glimmer of us from before and confirm there’s still even a small piece of me left inside her soul. It’s starting to rain, that’s the first impression to awaken my mind as I open the patio door, it isn’t so much the sound of drops beating on the parquet brick floor as the smell of mist washing the air; I still feel the way cold drops touch my skin. From the background of distant city lights, I watch the way mist hangs heavy in the air like fog over mountains, stoic and unmoving, or is it uncaring, I can’t really say.
“In the flash of a moment I relive precious memories from the good years; tender moments that can never again be touched. I slowly walk up beside her; she’s sitting in her chair exactly as before, her dark silhouette shadowed by the mist of night filled air. I stand in silence, maybe moments, maybe minutes, I don’t know, just as I don’t know if I’m waiting for something to say or waiting for her to say something. Nothing gets said though, after all that’s happened, how can we both have nothing to say.
“I’m just about to retreat inside when a wisp of wind blows across the patio knocking an empty prescription bottle to the floor, I watch the bottle bounce about the cold hard bricks recognizing it’s what she calls her crazy pills prescription. Just as quickly as seeing the messages to her loser from the next town over, throws my mind into shutdown, seeing that empty bottle bouncing off the bricks snaps my mind into overdrive. Instantly a thousand thoughts seem suddenly clear and comprehensible. I know what’s happening, I know what it means. Frantically I look for pennies, there must be pennies, you can’t just spill a jar like that on the floor and not have something to pick up! I want more than anything to be overwhelmed by the thought of having to refill that bottle, one pill at a time.
“In the next instant I push past pretend and kneel in front of Olivia taking her cold hand in mine. “It’s going to be okay, honey,” I whisper over my tears. “I’ll help you; you just need help.” I brush back the hair from her face and stare into her lifeless eyes seeing the truth I can no longer deny. Gone is the sadness she struggles so hard to escape, she’s free from the regrets that hound her without mercy. In the shadowed whispers of goodbye, I see sorrow’s last look at love.
“I love her deeply and thank God for the time he gave us, she was every dream I dare to dream, all I need for the cherished joy most mortals spend a lifetime hoping to find. Her final words still fill me with angst, if we could have just gotten past them, things might have ended differently. “If only,” the saddest words ever invoked; words that span the infinity of space and are only eclipsed by their empty echoes.
“I stand in the courtyard numb to the paramedics doing what they do knowing full well nothing can be done. I look at my world that should have been, at each window where our kids lay sleeping; where the life that once was, at least for the moment, still exists. I look at her phone clutched in my hand as hard uneven rain soaks inside destroying any trace of what’s being lost. I walk beside her one last time as the stretcher’s loaded into the ambulance that drives away with cold indifference on the same lonely street that for so many years brought me home to her. In my final good-bye I know, the last look at love has to end this way.”
