RITA IN THAILAND: PART THREE
continued from parts one and two…
This afternoon around 4 PM, I left the parking lot at Publix. I walked to Rita’s building. I stood in the vestibule, across from the awful cookie dough store. I rang the apartment 11 times.
I called Rita, over and over and over.
I stopped ringing and I stopped calling. I stepped into the parking garage. Two royal blue suitcases, one large and one small, hidden mostly out of view beside Rita’s car. Inside the suitcases, every single thing I own.
I walked away from Rita’s building, toward the park. I climbed down a little staircase that leads into the water, a docking point for kayaks. I sat there, smoked a cigarette, until a blonde girl and her dog came down the stairs. I ran back up, passing the girl and her dog quickly, turning my body away. I crossed over the pedestrian bridge, to the Art District, kept walking, to a residential street with beautiful houses, where I sat on a bench, across from a red brick house. I imagined the life I might lead there, with Tom, or someone like Tom.
Eventually two women sat down on benches nearby. They spaced themselves apart. One wore a light pink jacket, one wore a yellow shirt, they were close to Rita’s age, younger than Rita. I stopped dreaming. The women hadn’t seen each other since the first week of March. I tried not to listen to their conversation. I wondered if they thought I was listening. The woman in pink said that she would have to leave soon, and the woman in yellow turned away. Everything shifted. I felt it in my heart. The woman in yellow confessed to harboring hurt feelings. She felt like the woman in pink had been ignoring her for the past few months. She claimed that she’d been trying to get the woman in pink to come out and meet with her, like this, for a very long time, but she felt like there was always an excuse. Before the woman in pink could react, she got a call on her cell phone. She told whoever it was that she’d be right there. The woman in pink hung up the phone and looked at her friend in shock. This wasn’t something normal for this pair, discussing their relationship. After a long pause, the woman in pink spoke. She said she’s been overwhelmed by all that’s happening right now, and said she hasn’t been seeing anybody, and said she’s been absorbing everything and trying to get by, day by day, and hasn’t had the brainpower or the energy or the heart to maintain friendships the way she did three months ago. “I understand,” the woman in yellow repeated, over and over. She understood, but she was still hurt. That’s what I decided. I suddenly felt guilty for witnessing such a private moment. I left.
I walked back over the Tennessee River, across the Veterans Memorial Bridge, as cars rode past me. I walked along Frazier, past Rita’s building, then up Tremont Street, past Aretha Frankenstein’s. I suddenly felt proud of that woman in the yellow shirt, who told her friend how she was feeling. That’s a very vulnerable thing to do, and valuable, and if you feel that way, you should say something, and their friendship will be better because of it, or it won’t and they’ll never speak again, and maybe that will be better too. I turned on Colville Street and walked to Sylvan Park. I walked through the bird sanctuary. I circled the park twice, then walked down Woodland Avenue, past Publix, past the empty condominiums with the bright blue doors. I crossed Frazier. I turned into the vestibule at Rita’s building, rang Rita’s apartment, walked to the parking garage. My bags were still there. Rita’s car was gone. I walked to Cardboard Hill. Kids were sliding down. They were breaking the rules. They were smiling. They were perfect. All I wanted was to join them, to fly down Cardboard Hill myself, to be a child again. I kept going.
I walked over the pedestrian bridge, to Ross’s Landing, where protesters were gathering by the water. I joined the crowd and listened to speeches and songs from five women, and then assembled with the crowd as we moved along the water, finally turning left, winding through the streets of downtown, as a group of ten or so young men ran ahead at every intersection and kneeled down in front of traffic, blocking the way and taking ownership of the moment. We moved up Chestnut Street, and past an outdoor rooftop bar where a few people stood hanging over the railing cheering on the crowd. We moved through Carter Street and turned at West 12th. My mouth was dry and my throat felt hoarse, I needed water but refused to drink, I screamed as loud as I could. We stopped in Sheila Jennings Park, where a young man of about 21 hoisted himself midway up a light post and shouted through his megaphone as the crowd shouted back. We marched through the west side and circled around, back toward downtown. I saw a flash of purple and thought it was Zoe, the supplier rep. I moved toward her but it wasn’t Zoe. We moved down Broad Street, toward Miller Park. I peeled off from the group. I walked alone down a quiet street and searched through my phone. I found the address.
I took three buses to the foot of Lookout Mountain and walked along Ochs Highway, leading up. Cars raced by me. Some cars honked. Maybe I scared them. No one stopped me. I continued walking up, up, up. I saw the house. I found the loose brick that I’d heard mention of, in the column to the left, and underneath the loose brick I found the key. I unlocked the door. I walked through the dark house, through the kitchen, past a small window where I caught a glimpse of an outdoor shower, then through the dining room, through the living room, to the screened-in back porch. I marveled at the view. The shape of the river, the lights in Chattanooga. I moved a chair to the corner of the room. I sat down. I heard movement, in the kitchen. I looked around, looked out at the view. I fell in love too. I heard a loud strike, like an explosion. I felt a pain and a feeling of spinning. I slumped off the chair. I put my hand on my chest, something cold and wet. I saw a figure moving toward me.
“I used to live here.”
A woman in her early 40s. She wore a pale-green nightgown that flowed down at her sides as she moved across the room. A serene image. It must’ve been silk. I closed my eyes.
Light-fingered clouds tuck the moon into bed I feel your lips turn my heart on its head Then comes the ache, again I wake up It shouldn't happen to a...
I hope this woman is the sort of person who appreciates a view. I hope she’s not the sort of person who just appreciates the surface-level things, like high-quality silk nightgowns. I hope she takes walks, and I hope she’s artistic, and I hope she’s open and honest with her friends about what she needs from them, and I hope she throws fabulous parties where everyone stands, and I hope that she won’t ever be alone.