Cake

On her long-ago ex-husband's birthday, Laurie Stone gains new perspective on their relationship, who she was in the '60s, and who she is now.

Twenty-something self-portrait by the author.

Yesterday was the birthday of the man I was once married to. I was 19 and he was 21, and it lasted for five years in the way things can be said to have lasted in those days. I sent him an email, wishing him a happy day, and today he wrote back, thanking me for staying in touch. He said he'd let go of the anger he'd felt toward me. It had drained out. I don't know if I believed him or if he believed it. In mentioning it, he was reminding me of its existence, and it seemed to have a half life, like other substances that exist and you can't see.

I wrote back and said, you know, I can see things from your perspective. Was this the first time I'd said something like that to him? Even if it wasn't, it felt like it was. More and more, I have been able to see myself as others have seen me, and I don't look good. I don’t look good in the way I could forget there were other people in the world.

This is the phrase that came to mind: You used the 1960s to explain yourself. You thought you were the 1960s. These little explosions of insight are like those strips of gun powder "caps" you would buy at the candy store and spark with a rock. For a few seconds, they leave a delicious smell in the air.

He said he'd let go of the anger he'd felt toward me. It had drained out. I don't know if I believed him or if he believed it. In mentioning it, he was reminding me of its existence, and it seemed to have a half life, like other substances that exist and you can't see.

When, in the past, the man I was once married to would tell me things I did that had hurt him and made him unhappy, I would be so disappointed he wasn't glad to hear from me—in the way I was glad to remember him—I would think for fuck's sake, we were young idiots and it was a zillion years ago, and I'm sorry, I'm sorry, did I ever say I'm sorry?

One summer we’re driving around France. It’s 1969 or 1970. I’m at the wheel, and I hit something, and the man I was once married to winds up in the hospital. I have only just learned to drive, and I’m driving a stick, and another time, backing up, I bump into a clay flower pot and crack it, and we have to get out of the car and pay for it. I remember hitting the pot more than what happened to the man I was once married to.

He’s lying in the road. People have come out of their houses to help us while we wait for an ambulance. I don’t remember blood. I don’t remember the way he was hurt. His head? He’s stunned? In the hospital the nurses are nuns with big hats that have wings. I can’t see any horror in me, looking back. Looking back, I might have become afraid of my capacity to drive into things. I might have become afraid the man I was once married to would be better off in another car. I’d slept with a boy in London before we’d met up in France. Had I already told him? Maybe I can’t see horror because of how memory works. Memory works the way life works. If the person you hurt doesn’t die, the blood and guilt are wiped away.

When, in the past, the man I was once married to would tell me things I did that had hurt him and made him unhappy, I would be so disappointed he wasn't glad to hear from me—in the way I was glad to remember him—I would think for fuck's sake, we were young idiots and it was a zillion years ago, and I'm sorry, I'm sorry, did I ever say I'm sorry?

We kept driving around Europe. We were away for months. The man I was once married to had planned the trip, and I was glad to know someone who could lead me into the world. It was exciting in a sexual way not knowing how to do everything. The odd thing about this memory is I don’t see anger in the man I was once married to, not back in France, not driving around after he came out of the hospital. I don’t remember being angry at him. He wasn’t the kind of person who made people angry.

Today I wrote to him to say I have always been a headlong, driven creature with a vague sense of other people, what they need and want, unless I look at them long enough to see. And then, still, the life in my head pulls me back to where I am most peaceful and cause the least harm. Reader, I tell you this with pleasure. It's great seeing what you are. It's great seeing anything you didn't see before. It's great not having to defend yourself. It's great even knowing you probably aren't going to change.

It's great seeing what you are. It's great seeing anything you didn't see before. It's great not having to defend yourself.

There are moving pictures of me when I was one. Even earlier, but let's stay with one. It's my first birthday, and I'm seated behind a whipped cream cake. I look at the camera, and then I grab a piece of the cake. I smush my hand in and grab a giant chunk and eat it. I'm up to my elbow in the cake, and I'm laughing, and my parents are letting me do this, and I can see that freedom has made me very happy as a one-year-old. What is going to happen to the cake after I've finished with it? It's never crossed my mind before to think about that.