A Traitor to Memory

She took up her knife and fork and cut into the chicken. Despite the fact that she'd been in England for several years at this point, I noted that she still ate like an American, with that inefficient shifting about of the knife and the fork from one hand to the other. I was dwelling on this fact when she answered me. “You think I've been with Rock, don't you?”





“I hadn't really … well, you do work for him. And after you and I had that row … I know that it would be only natural to …” I wasn't sure how to complete the thought. She was chewing her chicken slowly, and she was watching me flailing round verbally, perhaps determined not to do a single thing to help me.

She finally spoke. “What you thought was that I was back with Rock, doing what Rock wants me to do. Fucking him, basically, whenever he wants it. And totally putting up with him fucking everyone else he comes across. Right?”





“I know he holds the whip hand, Libby, but since you've been gone, I've been thinking that if you consult a solicitor who specialises in immigration law—”





“Bullshit what you've been thinking,” she scoffed.

“Listen. If your husband is continuing to threaten you with going to the Home Office, we can—”





“It is what you think, isn't it?” She set down her fork. “I wasn't with Rock Peters, Gideon. Sure. It's hard for you to believe. I mean, why wouldn't I go running back to some complete asshole, since that's, like, my basic m.o. In fact, why wouldn't I move right in with him and put up with his shit all over again? I've been doing such a totally good job of putting up with yours.”





“You're still angry, then.” I sighed, frustrated with my inability to communicate with anyone, it seemed. I wanted very much to get us past this, but I didn't know where I wanted to get us to. I couldn't offer Libby what she had blatantly wanted from me for months, and I didn't actually know what else I could offer her that would satisfy, not only at that moment but in the future. But I wanted to offer her something. “Libby, I'm not right,” I said. “You've seen that. You know it. We've not talked about the worst of what's wrong with me, but you know because you've experienced … You've seen … You've been with me … at night.” God, it was excruciating trying to say it outright.

I hadn't taken a seat when she herself had, so I paced across the sitting room to the kitchen and back again. I was waiting for her to rescue me.

Have others done that before? you enquire.

Done … what?

Rescued you, Gideon. Because, you see, often we wait for what we're used to from people. We develop the expectation that one person will give us what we've traditionally received from others.

God knows there have been few enough others, Dr. Rose. There was Beth, of course. But she reacted with wounded silence, which is certainly not what I wanted from Libby.

And from Libby, what was it that you wanted?

Understanding, I suppose. An acceptance that would make further conversation—and a fuller admission—unnecessary. But what I got was a statement that told me clearly she was going to give me none of that.

She said, “Life isn't all about you, Gideon.”





I said, “I'm not implying that it is.”





She said, “Sure you are. I'm gone for three days and you assume I've totally freaked because we can't get something going between us. You figure I've run back to Rock and he and I are bumping woolies all because of you.”





“I wouldn't say that you were having relations with him because of me. But you have to admit that you wouldn't have gone to him in the first place if we hadn't … if things had gone differently for us. For you and me.”





“Jeez. You are, like, deaf as a stone, aren't you? Have you even been listening to me? But then, why would you when we're not discussing you.”





“That's not fair. And I have been listening.”





“Yeah? Well, I said I wasn't with Rock. I saw him, sure. I went to work every day, so I saw him. And I could've gotten back with him if I wanted, but I didn't want. And if he wants to phone the Feds—or whoever it is that you guys phone—then he's going to do it and that'll be it: a one-way ticket to San Francisco. And there is, like, absolutely zilch that I can do about it. And that's the story.”





“There's got to be a compromise. If he wants you as he seems to want you, perhaps you can get some counseling that would enable you to—”





“Are you out of your fucking mind? Or are you just freaked out that I might start wanting something from you?”





“I'm only trying to suggest a solution to the immigration problem. You don't want to be deported. I don't want you to be deported. Clearly, Rock doesn't want you to be deported, because if he did, he would have done something to alert the authorities—it's the Home Office, by the way—and they would have already come for you.”