It’s the price we pay for opening our hearts and letting people in. We take the risk of experiencing grief when they leave us. Grief is most often associated with death, but it’s also present when we are abandoned, when we lose someone or something we cherish; the loss of a job, our health, our best friend.
I’ve never really experienced grief in the traditional sense. Yes, my grandfather passed away but I was never close to him. Although I did experience grief when my father abandoned me. And I also went through all the five stages of grief. Denial was first, when I convinced myself that he would come back. When the doorbell rang, I’d hop and run to the door, convinced it was him, only to be heartbroken when it wasn’t. Then came anger. I went through a phase when I would scream out loud about how much I hated him. I even ripped the photo of the two of us I had on my dresser. I later glued it back together with Scotch Tape. Then came bargaining. I begged God to bring him back to us. I promised that I’d be a good girl if he did. Depression was next, a dark cloud which followed me all through my high school years. And finally acceptance. I only finally accepted the loss as an adult, when I decided to take my life into my own hands and stop feeling bad for myself.
I wonder how Oscar lived through his grief. I can only imagine what that must have been like for him: the pain, the loss, and the guilt. No one can fully understand someone else’s grief. Every broken heart is unique. It broke my heart to hear his story. I didn’t wonder why he never shared it with me before, because I knew why. Because it hurt too much to share it.
How horrible it must have been to be so powerless in the face of those bullies, to not be able to help his big brother. I can’t even imagine what it must feel like to be so beaten down, that the only viable option is to end your own life. I didn’t have it easy in high school, but not once, did I ever think of ending it all. When I’d get super depressed, I’d binge watch television and stuff my face with junk food.
And Oscar was so young when it happened. I’m sure he didn’t quite understand. He must have struggled for years to understand.
I want to help him, to reach out to him. I want to heal his heart, make it all go away. But I know I can’t. Like the very handsome Keanu Reeves once said… unfortunately, grief is forever.
* * *
“I love you,”I say. The words catch me by surprise. I’ve never really said them before. Yes, there was that time on the plane, when I was half asleep and drowsy from my anti-nausea medicine, but that didn’t really count. He has, but I’ve never had the courage before, always afraid of letting myself be vulnerable, of getting hurt.
He squeezes me tighter. “I’ve wanted to hear those words for a long time.”
“I know.”
“I guess I don’t need to tell you that I love you too. You already know.”
I smile. “I do.”
* * *
I’m excitedat the prospect of going to the Moulin Rouge, one of Paris’ most famous landmarks. I can’t wait to set my eyes on that red windmill and snap a few pics. I pick out a red dress for the occasion, and pair it with some tall chunky heeled red boots. It’s a perfect outfit — comfortable enough for walking, and sexy enough for Moulin Rouge. I wear my hair up in a messy bun, and add the final touch — Mac’s Russian Red lipstick.
When Oscar catches sight of me, he does a double take. “Holy hell, you look amazing.”
He practically pounds on me like a mating cheetah. Next thing you know, we’re both stretched out on the bed, and he’s on top of me, a hand slipping under the skirt of my dress.
And as much as I don’t want to, I swat his hand away. “We have no time, Oscar.”
He pouts like a five-year-old boy who’s been told he can’t have dessert.
We takethe metro to Montmartre again.
I stare at the young couple sitting across from us — they’re shamelessly all over each other. “Have you seen the movie, Amélie?” I ask Oscar. “It was filmed in Montmartre.”
He cocks a brow. “Is that that artsy French movie?”
“Yeah, I love it.” The couple is still going at it — if his tongue were stuck any deeper down her throat, he’d be able to pull out her lunch.
“No, I haven’t had the pleasure,” he says with a smirk.
“We’ll have to watch it when we get back,” I tell him, excited.
“Um…” he says. “And what do I get for selflessly suffering through two hours of foreign cinema?"
I wink at him. “You know what you’ll get.”
He inches closer to me and whispers in my ear. “I know what this guy’s getting. From the looks of it, he’s getting it soon.”
I laugh. “Well, who are we to judge. It’s the city of love, after all.”
We hop on the funicular, up the hill to Sacré Coeur Basilica. It’s not that we’re too lazy to go up the stairs, it’s just that we like the funicular. Truth be told, we’re like two giant kids.
The funicular is jam packed — we’re a tin of sardines. There’s a really dirty man pressed against me and I’m repulsed, but fortunately, I don’t get a pervy vibe from him. I check to see if he’s holding a phone. The last thing I want is to star in one of his crotch videos. Ever since I read that article in Glamour about men secretly shooting pics up women’s skirts on subways, I’ve been paranoid.
We shake our legs out as we exit the funicular. The day is presently sunny and not too cold. I check my phone, which I’d just been taking photos with, like the shameless tourist that I am. We’ve made really good time. “We have some time to kill. Let’s head to the carousel,” I suggest. “I can’t wait to see it.”
He takes my hand. “What the lady wants, the lady gets.”
