Sliding

By Jeffrey Birch

Siobhan O'Malley searches in life for a lasting love, friends, and experiencing the loss of both. A somewhat stoic young woman she is undaunted. Her four close friends move on leaving her alone in search of her Mexican mother's family in the Texas border town of Ciudad Juarez across from El Paso. Her search for family takes her to her father's brothers in North Dakota.

In Part Two we meet Dennis Flaherty, a police detective, whose friends, love, and loss mirror that of Siobhan. At the end of the novel Dennis and Siobhan find one another by accident on the park bench, a metaphor symbolic of their lives of searching and that plays a pivotal role in their lives.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: May 25, 2023
• ISBN: 9798350906790

Book preview

Devoid of spouse and children, adult friends can be elevated to status otherwise unafforded to nonfamily relationships, but husbands and wives can come and go, children more permanent. Friends can also come and go, removed from position for many reasons including abandonment. A lonely heart seeks solace in new relationships or descends to unremitting sorrow.

SIOBHAN

___1___

WINDS OF CHANGE BLOW INCONSTANT, strong, and soft in turns. Inconstancy is confusing but I can’t live like this any longer: the off and on, the in and out, the up and down. I’ve reached the breaking point that’s been coming for months. Breakups are hard, made worse by the length of the relationship, the wished-for security of permanence that evaporates with the three words (the opposite three words): We are finished. Yet however long the pain and disappointment last, the end is the denouement. So, in the end, the length of the relationship is irrelevant. I’m rationalizing but firm in my need to sever it, THE RELATIONSHIP permanently. Will I feel better after? I hope so. Will I fail in my resolve face to face? I hope not.

I’m driving on the Crosstown just before I35 splits off south. The Crosstown runs east and west south of, or below on a map by convention, the metro area of Minneapolis. I wonder if some cultures place north at the bottom or the side of a map instead of the top. In my car I can switch the navigation protocol to move the tracking arrow pointing to the bottom of the screen but that seems weird. I always have it pointing up. Anyway, the remodel to the highway took years but it’s still stop and go because the Crosstown is always stop and go and new snow drops speeds to a crawl. Early this year, the snow, right before Thanksgiving. I’m crawling along, mind on what’s to come but keeping a safe distance from the huge pickup with oversized tires in front of me throwing off snow onto my windshield from its ¾" deep treads. The trailer hitch would punch right through my car’s front end, destroying the engine and probably me. I don’t trust pickup drivers. They shoot people in road rage incidents. Not all of them I suppose but it happens, has happened. I’m dreading what’s to come. It’s of my own doing, traveling to him but feeling the petulant child he makes me feel. It’s what I want, what I need but getting through it with Dave will be torture. He’ll make it that way, part of his perversity I abhor. I’m shouldering too much blame. He’s also responsible. Fifty-fifty blame wise. He wouldn’t come to me, not for this. He doesn’t want it, the breakup, he said unconvincingly on the phone. He should. It’s been a year of torment. I could have sent him an email or a cryptic message but that seems the height of cruelty and cowardice. I could write a letter long hand, but nobody does that anymore not since computers and the internet anyway. Besides my left-handed penmanship is like a personal notation system understood only by me. No letter. Thinking more about a dear Dave letter, maybe that would have excused me from doing it in person. Afterall, I’m a professional journalist and chiseled prose is my forte in twelve-point Times Roman each page proofed to perfection with exemplary word choices that evoke precise meaning. It’s a cowardly way out, the letter, and I couldn’t do it, so I’m stuck in traffic on the way to Dave’s big house in Wayzata on one of the countless bays of Lake Minnetonka. I forget the name. He’s home, expecting my visit. I couldn’t tell from his voice on the phone, but he must suspect the purpose of my visit since it’s been a running battle of our differences for twelve grim and painful months. He works from home as do I. His house is north of two mil with on-the-lake property taxes higher than my rent for a year for my efficiency apartment in Bloomington not far from the airport. I could have taken I94 around to County 12 that heads west past the Wayzata exit on fifteen, but the Crosstown is the shorter route and I truly hate driving on I94, too distracting with all the retail strip malls all the way to highway 169 where it swings north to County 12. Stop and go is mindless on the Crosstown. Watching out for lane changers and those exiting and entering is genuinely dangerous on I94. The only good thing about I94 is that it leads to the Mall of America at Cedar avenue, Co. Rd. 77 that runs north and south. The famous mall is a shopper’s paradise and I love shopping. Dave hated it so I always went alone. Two and a half years ago, when we were newish in our relationship, I pleaded with him to come promising sex after in my new nightie and the prospect of lunch at one of the Mall’s numerous nice restaurants, not the food court. At least I thought it sounded alluring, especially the sex part. He caved once and I quickly decided shopping was awful with him. Dave is not patient. He let me know with rolled eyes how bored he was. Never again.

The holidays are just around the corner. Thanksgiving is next week. I always spend that holiday with my dad in St. Paul in the house where I grew up in the Midway District south of the State Fairgrounds, one of the largest state fairs in the nation. I cook. I’m not a great cook but the menu is the same one my mother cooked before she died so I have her recipes, and anybody can follow a recipe. The trick with recipes is to not leave anything out or misinterpret a measurement reading too quickly or thinking you remember every ingredient when you don’t. Dad is kind about it saying, Just like your mother made it. For the past two plus years, the duration of my relationship with Dave, we spent Christmas Eve together at his mansion on the lake. We’d stop at dad’s house on Christmas Day. Dave and my dad never hit it off. Still, those were nice times although last year didn’t go so well. We were on the downside of the relationship. I knew then today was coming. I guess we both put it off. Dave’s parents live in Hawaii. They don’t come and Dave doesn’t like to fly. Facetime is enough apparently. Personally, having grown up in Minnesota, I can’t imagine Christmas in Hawaii.

Dave knows. He’s the coward about it. So, I claim the higher moral ground for the courage to say it: We’re finished, Dave. You know it. I know it. I’m ending the torment. He’ll feign complete ignorance. Cowards do that. It’s not about winning and losing. I figure we both win and lose. It’s about ending the misery. Dave is rich and good looking. If he’s not already cheating on me, he’ll be free to find someone else. I’ve been faithful and I know I’m attractive. I get ogled constantly. So, either of us could have cheated. I know I didn’t. Did he? Truthfully, at this point, I don’t need the ammunition of infidelity or the outrage. We’re finished for other reasons. Too many to list. Maybe I’ll make the list at some point but haven’t yet. Almost one hour later I pull up to Dave’s big house worn out from driving in snow. Salt on the roads makes pavement greasy and even more slippery apart from devouring sheet metal. Cars should be made from something else. It’s planned obsolescence, I suppose. Sucking in a big breath and letting it out slowly, I climb out of my white Beetle. Bad color choice for winter. It blends with snow. Becomes invisible to dreaded pickup trucks.

I also work from home as I mentioned, didn’t I? I’m a science writer with regular features in several science magazines for the science-literate, not professional journals. I have an undergraduate degree in journalism and a master’s degree in molecular biology, but I write on many topics as my editors require. I like research and especially like interviews with scientists about their work. Being a committed environmentalist, I seek to write on that broad subject from different angles. I write about climate change and privately I think meaningful change is hopeless in time. Short term economic stability trumps necessary changes. Food and energy must be affordable. No politician can sell and be elected on seven-dollar gas and milk and beef at greatly higher cost. I’m a vegan, but most people aren’t, and children need nutrition that meat and dairy provide. Or so say the meat and dairy lobbies. The truth is, I’ve researched it, children don’t need cow’s milk past nursing by mothers. So, I’m a pessimist about climate change action in time as I said. Meal preparation for vegans is challenging. A cheeseburger is easy. Fresh veggies get old quickly. McDonalds doesn’t cater to us. Challenging like I said.

I’ve been playing over the coming dialogue in my head, getting my points organized to a hopefully coherent sequence. Sequence, I think. Ending a relationship without histrionics might seem a matter of making points to support an argument. At the end of all the mental wordsmithing it comes down to: We’re finished, Dave. Finished. I want to tell you in person. I feel I owe you that. Goodbye.

He’ll bob his head like he does that drives me crazy. It’s the feigned sincerity that is off putting. Dave is not good at expressing emotions, but I have to say he was a learner when it came to orgasms, mine. He finally figured out what I needed and after that his physical attractiveness became secondary to technique. I mean lying in bed naked under the covers it’s about touch and sensations. I wear glasses so I can’t focus too close without them and who kisses with their eyes open anyway. Nobody. Most couples in my experience don’t prance around naked before getting to it. Maybe they, we should. Anyway, after he realized what pleased me, sex was above average. However, for a big handsome guy into fitness he wasn’t endowed with much in the cock department. Can’t have it all, I guess. To his credit he never complained about my body. I’m pretty face wise with nice skin with some color courtesy of my Mexican mother’s ancestry. My dad is all Irish, so I got wavy jet-black hair that I wore long for years before cutting it to a short bob. Easier to manage. My dad jokingly calls me a Mick and a Spic. Back to body. I’m short at five one. My hips are too narrow, boyish and my boobs aren’t big but firm. Small ones are firm. Big ones often aren’t but I don’t see naked women even at the fitness center because most women aren’t comfortable with something about their bodies, like me. But women notice things about other women, especially at the fitness center because of the outfits. Bosomy women wear super tight sports bras to keep their boobs from bouncing around. I wear one but mine stay right where they are supposed to. Big breasted women seem self-conscious about them. I guess it’s a love hate relationship with their boobs. I never think about my little ones at the fitness center. It’s my hips that I’m self-conscious about. From the waist down, I could be a pubescent boy with a vagina. Guys, at least some of them like big ones, boobs. Some guys are into feet if you can believe that. For many, it’s the pussy that brings their penises to life. In fairness Dave was equal opportunity when it came to body parts. He seemed to like all of me. That part I’ll miss about Dave. Parenthetically perhaps, despite my lack of hips, I have shapely, muscular calves like my mother had. I’m not sure where my diminutive body came from. Mom was taller and stouter.

It seems like I’m always moving past things in my life. I’m moving past Dave and I quit working with one editor because he constantly hit on me. I don’t put up with a lot of shit at thirty-two. Dave wasn’t my first relationship, past tense. Guys are into me for my looks to begin with and I’m a sparkling conversationalist. But eventually real life sets in, and I dumped them all just like I’m dumping Dave. I don’t have this thing about finding Mr. Right. Be nice but a woman gets tired of sex toys at least I do and I’m not into women so having a male in my life is… desirable. Plus, guys like Dave with money, pay. I make enough but I’m not loaded so getting meals and entertainment paid for is appreciated.

I have three girlfriends I hang out with. One was my college roommate, a lawyer; one is an ER nurse, and one works in a bank. I don’t think I can handle more than three, but I appreciate their friendship and our jobs are so different, we don’t compete. All are single. None have ex-husbands, and none have children to worry about. All are in their early thirties, so we have much in common about life in general, our bodies and relationships or the lack thereof.

"Annalise, my ex-roommate, the lawyer, and I kept in touch after college. We get together for life updates. She was friends with Sarah the banker and she was friends with Connie the ER nurse. Once we finally all got together, we realized we liked each other. We have our group bull session about monthly. Maybe because I have more time, I’m the arranger.

I mentioned my dad is Irish and my mother had relatives in Mexico. She got here on her own and marrying my dad kept her here. She eventually achieved citizenship. Breast cancer took her from us. Left a big hole in my heart. I miss her every day. Dad is a cop close to retirement in the St. Paul Police Department. He gets promoted and busted for drinking. A pattern of many years. Right now, he’s in a sober period for which I am grateful. I love my dad and he loves me. I could live at home, move back but I don’t want that although he pleads every year as the yearend holidays roll around. Too many memories of mom. I swear she haunts that house. It doesn’t help that he won’t part with anything she had or even touched. He misses her, too, desperately but I realize I need to let her go so I live alone in my small efficiency apartment furnished mainly by IKEA working at my career. I like what I do but it’s also a life distraction.

Reaching Dave’s house, I pull into the driveway. The snow isn’t deep enough to clear and with temps around freezing might melt. This time of year, weather is unpredictable. Pushing up my glasses that perpetually slide down my small nose, I walk to the door.

Dave approaches hearing me open it. He left it unlocked for me. Considering what is to come, it’s a welcoming gesture. I have a key but tried the door.

No hugs or kisses, thankfully. His hands are deep in the pockets of his expensive jeans. Dave likes expensive, branded clothes. I buy off the rack. He has that hangdog expression I hate. I swear he practices in a mirror. It feels contrived. That’s what I hate about them, his expressions. Emotions and expressions of emotions don’t come easy for him. He needs to manufacture the appearance of them. We sit across from each other. Not close. I don’t want to be close. I’ve spent many nights here. We never went to my apartment for sex, but it’s never felt homey to me. Maybe that was part of the problem. I was always invading his space. I kept nothing here, so I have nothing to collect. I always felt like a prostitute slinking away after servicing the john. He never wanted me to move in. Nor did I. With all the dinners, movies, and theater we attended I do feel like sex was paid for. Presently, I feel dirty, used. I’m working myself into genuine hatred for Dave.

I begin. Dave, I don’t want to belabor this, but I want to do it person. We’re finished. It’s over. Setting the key on the coffee table between us, I stand expecting what? A plea for mercy, begging me not to leave, contrition for being a failure, taking responsibility?

Dave’s head bobs in the annoying way he does. Okay. I’m sorry, Siobhan.

Abruptly, I know. He has another lover. My replacement. I blink uncontrollably feeling the fool standing before him. Expecting more from him there is little to do but shake my head in revulsion and resignation in slow turns side to side, eyes closed denying him…me. I walk numbly through the door to my car, my coat still on. We didn’t discuss it, the breakup. He didn’t beg or plead or worse feign surprise. Did I want that? To discuss it. Part of me did. He closes the door behind me. The finality of it is absolute. It’s like I can touch it, turn it around, examine it from all sides. In the car I think after almost three years, he made no arguments to keep me. If that isn’t proof of the end, I don’t know what is? Yet, in the car, I begin to sob and need to wait in his driveway until I can see through my glasses. He sees, of course through the big picture window, a design throwback to earlier architecture. I hate him knowing I’m bawling over him. But it isn’t him, it is what women do in emotional times in self-defense. Finally, I drive away to my little apartment across town. Another tedious hour after a thirty second goodbye. I feel cheated. I wanted more from him, from me. I wanted the histrionics of anguish and sadness. I’m hollow, nothing inside. I wonder if he feels anything. He’s probably grateful for the brevity and civility of the end. Dave never liked arguing. I wanted over and over to fight but he never would, just bob his head and roll his eyes. I hate him most for not fighting for our relationship, for me.

It took him six months to pronounce my first name right. Maybe I should have used my middle name of Maria that my mother gave me. My first name works well with my last name of O’Malley, but I use my first name professionally and am proud of it. Mom got the middle name, but dad got the first and of course last. An Irish cop named Liam O’Malley. What could be more fitting except maybe being from Boston. Southies. Dad’s parents have passed. Mom’s Mexican relatives are unknown to me. Dad confided once that she sent money to Mexico to them. So, it’s dad and me. He has several brothers in different states with families he’s not close to: Sean, Daniel, and Gabriel, that much I know. Some type of family feud he doesn’t talk about, ever, kept them apart from him, from me. Maybe I’ll look them up one day. Dad is retiring next year. His health is compromised by his drinking and diabetes. He’ll get a pension if he lives long enough to enjoy it. I’m sure it doesn’t pass to me. He has the house in St. Paul and not much more.

I don’t want to be alone in this world. I arrive at my apartment with assignments and deadlines before me. That will take my mind off Dave but I’m already lonely. I need company. It’s Saturday, I call Annalise my ex-roomie in college. She’s my go-to emotional crutch in times of need as I am hers. I pour out my aching heart on the phone.

You are sure, right? Of what you want. Annalise is a good listener. Being a lawyer might require that. Make notes, get it right. No mistakes about what is said but she has an annoying habit of restating what you just said. Not verbatim but the gist of it. Another lawyerly skill I suspect. In law gist is the real point of an action. I looked it up one time but it’s not a word I use with any regularity, just vocabulary building. I’m a high verbal. Math defeats me. Language is my world, my life, well the English language anyway. I was fluent in Spanish before mom died. She spoke it at home when I was a kid, but I’ve forgotten much.

Yes, I’m sure. We’re finished. It’s over the ending part but not the what-now part. I’m under control emotionally with Annalise but on the precipice of total breakdown again as I was in the car in Dave’s driveway.

Meet me at Tommie’s Bar. I can be there in twenty.

I’m on my way, I say. End the call and blubber, I can always count on Annalise. I examine my swollen eyes in the bathroom mirror, work a little makeup onto my face behind my glasses and leave for Tommie’s our regular drinking hangout with Sarah and Connie. But I’m not ready for all three. Tommie’s has food, burgers, chicken wings and the usual bar food. Comfort food. I need comfort but food is the last thing on my mind. I also don’t drink much. Maybe it's my fear of inheriting my dad’s alcoholism genes. I limit myself and drink beer instead of spirits. The volume alone limits consumption in my little body. Annalise will drink a beer with me, but she prefers vodka concoctions I avoid. I’ve been wasted on vodka and whiskey a few times. Never again. The hangovers aren’t worth it, and I get very hung over very easily drinking spirits.

Annalise has a male friend, but they don’t live together…yet. She seems serious, though about Todd. I can’t imagine her married and getting pregnant. Things would change for us, but she talks of her biological clock ticking. Mine can tick away. I’m not sure my little body and boyish hips would withstand a pregnancy. A caesarian scar is not for me. I have an IUD and as an added precaution take a morning after pill if I’m ovulating. Dave and I had sex but not every night. It was about once a week sometimes twice with us. That was often enough for me. He probably wanted more but two fabulous orgasms lasted me. Maybe he turned to porn. We never discussed that. Now, I suspect another lover. I have no interest in pregnancy or raising a child with or without a mate. I feel the same way about marriage. No interest. Companionship, yes but no marriage. I like my independence too much to be somebody’s wife and all that comes with that societally loaded label. Dad would like to see me married but if quizzed really doesn’t know why except he was happily married to mom.

I walk into Tommie’s. Scan the room, see Annalise at the bar and approach. Several guys eyeball me as I walk to her. She’s chatting it up with a guy next to her but turns to me as I sit in the open barstool on her other side. She pats the guy on the sleeve to acknowledge she is done with him. He shrugs and walks to the pool table in the room. We move to a high table. Annalise is attractive and at five seven towers over me especially in heels but today being Saturday, she’s wearing flats. I’m wearing suede booties with a two-inch wedge heel. She has long blonde hair down today but in her lawyer job, she wears it up, bound to her head. We’ve had lunches where we met while she was working. Generally, those are with the four of us. The firm she works for is in Bloomington so not far. Connie works at a hospital also not far away. Sarah, the banker comes the farthest, but she is the branch manager of a large branch and has some freedom over her schedule. So, we all get together about monthly. Enough time in between to have things to catch up on for each of us.

I travel to magazine editors for new opportunities and to interviews with scientists on an expense account but not often. Increasingly though the cost of face-to-face is too high and interviews are done on computers in Facetime or Google’s Meet. I like Google Meet because it has closed captioning to make sure I get all the conversation accurate. My hearing is normal, but it helps since there is no transcript although I take copious notes. The major drawback is if a scientist has a lab that is helpful to see, that is lost.

Annalise shifts on the stool, focuses on me. She’s a good listener as I said. I say, How are things with Todd? I know Todd is a lawyer in her firm she’s been dating. Polite inquiry, ice breaker, something to temper my raw emotions? A respite from all-about-me.

Annalise sighs quietly, looks away briefly. Punctuated words come but slowly, for me but not for me. An invisible divide between us materializes before quickly disappearing as her eyes find me again. Disappointment is evident but Annalise is tough mentally. She’s back with me. I found out yesterday he’s taking a job in our LA office. Nice promotion.

Oh! That is news. Are you, are you joining him? The obvious question.

She shakes her head. Nothing for me in LA.

I hesitate. So, it’s over? Dave crashes into my cerebral cortex from his hidey hole in my brain. Not yet, Dave.

A deep breath is held and released. Long distance is hard and never works for long so probably yes.

Out of the blue you found out…yesterday?

Annalise pulls a wry face. He’s known for a while just didn’t have the balls to tell me, the coward. Tears form in her eyes. Actually, I heard it from his paralegal and confronted him.

I’m astonished but shouldn’t be. You’re shittin’ me.

A wan smile crosses her face.

I’m thinking we both are experiencing the end of relationships at the same time. She rebounds, face brightening, remembering why we’re here, why I called. Abruptly though, selfishness courses through me. She had high hopes for Todd I never understood. But then, few who knew Dave saw us having a future either.

She takes my hand in hers delivering a bonding squeeze. Tell me how you’re doing Siobhan. You sounded pretty bummed on the phone. That’s why we’re here. I’m sorry I got off on Todd. I’m thinking if blubbering tearfully to her is suggestive, yes, I’m bummed but partially hold it together. We’re in public after all.

Still, tears rim my eyes blurring my vision. I’m forced to remove my glasses. I can’t see much without them. That’s a good word for it, bummed. But I’m thinking I feel destroyed, a complete failure accepting all responsibility knowing I shouldn’t.

She leans across the high table to hug me fiercely. I’m so sorry but it’s been coming for a while you said. She knows that of course. It’s been no secret.

Yeah. It has but somehow that’s not much consolation. I know we were both at fault, but I feel responsible. I could have, should have done more.

More? What more? You are not responsible, Siobhan. Relationships end and endings are always painful. You’ll get past this, past Dave as I will Todd.

I wipe my eyes under my glasses I’ve replaced. I know you’re right. But I’m numb and raw inside like an open wound exposed to salt." I marvel at the words we say to ourselves, to others. Words can lie. Feelings are true but my true feelings are conflicted. I’m not sure what I feel moment to moment.

You need a big diversion. Like a trip to Cabo or somewhere warm with tons of sexy guys to take your mind from Dave. You have your Irish and Mexican heritages. You’re beautiful, Siobhan.

Thanks, Annalise. I can always count on you. Be nice to get away, get past it, but I have deadlines and Thanksgiving and Christmas are coming. Dad’s not doing well.

Is he drinking again?

I never know for sure, but I believe not presently. The holidays are a temptation. His diabetes makes it worse, the effects of drinking. I need to spend more time with him going forward.

Annalise smiles warmly, empathetically, totally back with me. She squeezes one of my hands again, the one not cradling the beer bottle. Hand squeezing is one of her empathetic gestures. Companion tears is another. She has a wonderful smile that lights up her face she uses like a weapon at times. It’s off putting when she’s using it thusly. I have straight, white teeth but Annalise has the killer smile. Besides, I’m not a smiler so we don’t compete in the smile department. I notice him, the guy who sat next to her when I arrived presently at the pool table, eyeballing her. I have exceptional peripheral vision although my glasses distort it to the side. Generally, though, I know who’s watching me. She furtively makes eye contact with him that I notice. Maybe getting past Todd won’t be too hard for her. I have no interest in another guy, not now, not yet. I’m sending keep-your-distance signals. I guess grieving for a lost love varies person to person. Or maybe Todd was a convenience who meant little. If her biological clock is ticking, judgements about suitability for marriage and children are quickly made, must be quickly made. I mean she just heard yesterday that he is leaving. Feels to me like she’s already left him but hasn’t done what I did today. Annalise and I are close but we’re not sisters. Some topics are off the table. Challenging her about Todd is one. I met Todd once. We doubled with Dave and me. He didn’t seem like hubby, daddy material to me. He had a phony, corporate smile and dressed to a casual dinner like the lawyer he was. She confided later, self-conscious I guess about his appearance, that he grew up in Charlotte, North Carolina and wore the preppy outfit like armor. De rigueur for all occasions. The navy blazer and khaki slacks are common, but the rep tie and tan saddle shoes were over the top. Probably doesn’t own jeans and T-shirts, I thought then. Annalise, Dave, and I all wore jeans that night. Annalise dresses properly to the occasion as do I in my opinion. I wore fashionable jeans and a wool sweater over a white blouse to give Dave the heave ho earlier today. I could have gone in PJs and snow boots for all that it mattered. Because I’m short all my boots have high heels putting me at five two or three, closer to average in height. High heels are uncomfortable and short women need to wear them more often. I think how nice it would be to be five eight or nine and wear flats most of the time. Today, I wore suede booties I mentioned. Not great in the snow. My height wasn’t relevant. I mean, at Dave’s six four, no way I could make a power statement with even