She came down the aisles
With champagne and seashells
But offered me
Only peanuts
[Plane Crash] by [Liam Finn & Eliza Jane]
A blight has infested the waters of my brilliant plan to come here and lay out the truth in neat, honest rows. I’ve been pacing the wooden floors of my Copenhagen lodgings for the better part of an hour, obsessive thoughts poisoning my resolve to push ahead into the allegedly impartial account of one of the most important moments of my love story. It is the moment when the lovers finally meet in person, finally glean the missing dimension of their union. I am drunk with panic, because for hours I have been consumed with self-doubt. Right now, with all my heart, I’m convinced that I’m completely full of shit.
My laptop chimes a greeting from Becca, who is connecting with me via video chat. It’s a pitch dark 2am here in Denmark, and my true friend has canceled a promotional interview for her book on [Depth Psychology] to instead talk with me. I run my clawed fingers through my bird’s nest hair and sit down in front of my laptop’s camera. I wipe my nose on the sleeve of the sweatshirt I’ve been wearing for the last two days and quickly drain the last ounce of schnapps from the bottle I’ve been nursing for hours. I don a stupid smile and accept the video transmission. We both know her job is to talk me down from whatever lofty place my anxiety has lifted me – and she’ll get to that – but first she’ll kiss my ass to put me at ease.
“Shelley! My love! You’re so awake so early in the morning,” Becca coos. “How are you, my love muffin?”
I burst into tears.
“Talk to me,” she demands.
The problem now is a lack of digital content between Daniel and me. There is almost nothing to sift through at this juncture in our relationship. I’ve written some semblance of the story – of this crucial part of the story – so many times already. It survives in the words I’ve produced over the years, it exists in the essays and articles and short stories I’ve birthed, and raised, and sent out into mass media to live (and sometimes to die). Being here in [Denmark] is supposed to be about getting to the bottom of the real story. I came here to live among the natives, to live again in the country that rejected me years ago, so that I can determine the microscopic makeup of the sludge caked in the crevices of my memories.
Until now I’ve been able to rely on the tangible evidence – the ghosts that live inside the shoe box – which are my guide into a familiar past. Each printed-up digital conversation, each physical artifact, serves as a milepost in my reconstruction of what really happened during my love affair with Daniel. My narrative is lost without these markers. Without them, I have no words which I know for sure are true – only my imperfect memories. What if I get lost, indefinitely, in this Scandinavian wilderness, thick with unrecorded representations?
I know this is all nonsense – I have slipped into the angst-y artist persona – and Becca knows it too. She also knows that all lies we tell ourselves are born from a single grain of truth: I know my memories are tainted, and that this fact must be taken into account, that it must be taken under consideration. But I have given too much weight to the ghosts in the box, given them flesh and blood and power over the gravity of my stored remunerations. I feel weak and stupid, and so very appreciative to have a friend who won’t tell me to just grow up, to just get over myself – who instead sees reason through my frantic eyes.
“Why don’t you tell me what stuff you do have in the box for this point in the story, and I’ll type it out as you talk,” she said. Her help, which I begged for, and her calmness, which I crave, annoy me. For the umpteenth time in all the years I’ve known Becca I feel blessed that she attached herself to me in our early teenage years, and refused to let go.
“Fuck, Becca. It’s not much. It’s not enough,” I whined. “You want me to just ramble on while you type?”
“Yes! Come on, humor me. Tell me what you have and we’ll go from there.”
My mouth opens and a flood of words escape:
“There are a couple of text messages, a couple of emails, and an instant message conversation asking for sex. I took less than 30 photos during my two weeks living in Denmark – and most are of places or things. One photo was taken during my first day in Copenhagen. A shot of the dismal [view outside the hotel room] that Daniel had rented for us, which looks nothing like the photo on the web site. The rest of the photos are taken in Århus.
“There are some photos of Daniel’s apartment and his stuff: his role-playing games, his tiny hand-painted metal figures, his horror paperbacks. A liquor cabinet that used to belong to his grandfather, stocked with beautiful old liquor glasses and [Bombay Sapphire]. A heavy desk from his grandmother holds Daniel’s flat screen computer monitor, his filled ashtray, his printer, his papers, and my purse. I took a photo of the last of his paintings – he had sold the rest by the time we’d met – a classic decapitated torso in white, creme and marigold oil paint. It’s gorgeous. I liked to touch it while he was away at work. It reminded me of the sketch he was still working on at the time, for Lily, a pencil drawing of many [nude] torsos of women, depicting the range of shapes in bodies and breasts, all stuffed onto the page. He spent hours and hours on that drawing.
“Ha! Here is a photo of his ridiculous pointy-toed [snakeskin boots] – this Dane loved his fashion – and here is one of the [noisy toilet tank] hanging near the ceiling in the tiny bathroom. There’s one of his gray, textured couch with two large, identical, framed [Marilyn Monroe] prints above it, and I see Lily’s famous Red Tree painting on the side wall. In front of the couch is a table with many lit candles and my laptop. I remember now that I had siphoned the Internet from an unsecured signal, and how Daniel was impressed by that. It was so easy to do, and he was impressed. I forgot how easily impressible he was.
“There is a picture of young Ana, her knees crammed into her father’s shoes. She is entertaining me with energetic dancing and metal hair flipping, strumming an air guitar and lip syncing, probably to Rammstein. Oh how I loved this performance! It sent me into fits of laughter, which only increased her antics. Daniel kept poking his head out of the kitchen and giving the two of us stern looks over the frames of his Calvin Klein glasses. His oldest son, Clive, rolled his eyes. I miss those babies.
“And there are two photos of Daniel and me. Just two. In one we are smiling and snuggling on the couch, and in one we are kissing. It’s an awkward angle because I am holding the camera while our lips touch. This is the photo I sent in a mass email to everyone at home, remember? But it is a kiss. His sweet mouth, with the lower lip slightly jutting, sloping at the bottom, is on mine. In both photos we look similar – our coloring and the shape of our faces – and we look like we’ve been together for years. And tired, we look tired. I almost don’t recognize myself nestled in the crook of Daniel’s arm.
“I’ve just remembered that there are at least two photos that I don’t have with me, and won’t see again. Daniel took two photos while I was there, of me and the kids on a picnic, and I don’t have copies of them. I left them in Daniel’s care, thinking that I could have them whenever I wanted, since our love was going to last forever. There aren’t a lot of photos of my first trip to Denmark. I felt like documenting the brief time we lived together would’ve felt forced. Intrusive. At the same time it felt strange not to record some facet of it, but also inconvenient intrusion on our time.”
“Good, Shelley! You have a start of something now,” Becca said. I can see she is still typing. “Now I am writing what you remember next.”
“I don’t have anymore things in the box, that’s it! Anything else is just murky recollection,” I tittered. “And all of it’s all suspect. Not factual, not the hard truth.” My nose is running again, and my sweatshirt’s sleeve sops up the fresh tears and snot. I wish I had more schnapps and I notice that the sky outside my self-imposed prison has become lighter. I now can see the faint, winged outlines of my prison guards fluttering in the trees, discussing my rehabilitation. “Fucking junk birds,” I mutter.
Becca stops typing, and the sudden silence makes my eyes turn to hers. Her warm, soothing chocolate brown orbits soak into my teary bloodshot blue. I am now alert, my self-flagellation dissipating under her gaze. How does she do this?
“Life can only be understood backwards, but must be lived forwards,” she said. “A Dane named [Søren Kierkegaard] said that. Perhaps you’ve heard of him?”
Of course I’ve heard of him, know him well in fact. I researched Kierkegaard well beyond the usual college-level philosophy requirements for a piece I wrote explaining why the citizens of Denmark consistently claim to be the happiest country in the world, year after year. My theory has nothing to do with actually being happy, and boy did I catch hell for that. Becca knew this; she was calling my bullshit.
“Start from the top, and I’ll type it out. [We’ve been over this] so many times, and before you left we discussed it again. Never mind the truth,” Becca said, “this isn’t about truth. Truth is relative. No, this is about resolution. Let’s resolve this.”
“Becca, I –”
“Just start talking,” she interjected. “Lily drove you to catch your plane, didn’t she?
I started talking again:
“Lily drove me up to Seattle to catch a direct flight to Copenhagen, which she insisted on doing. My relationship with Daniel was important to her for many reasons, and she claimed full credit in bringing us together. But at first she was puzzled, remember? She questioned him about his panache for loving women — I’m quite sure she said she did – and, satisfied with his reasons for claiming me for his, told me our love must be the natural result of two like-minds meeting. Two brilliant minds that she had introduced. Ha! Then she was our biggest cheerleader – after you of course, Becca.”
“I loved the two of you together,” said Becca. “I loved what his love did to you, Shelley. You glowed in a sort of angelic shimmer. I feel very different about him now, but I still see that shimmer sometimes. And when you’re done processing and churning, I look forward to seeing it more often. When you come home!”
“Do you need to go now?” I asked. I hoped she would say “yes.” I was suddenly, unbelievably tired.
“No, I’ve got some time. Keep talking,” Becca purred. Damn it. “Now you’re on the plane,” she said.
“On the trip to catch my flight, Lily and I talked about my relationship with Daniel, and my plans for the trip ahead. Daniel would meet me there at [CHP], where we would spend a day and a half, and then we’d catch a bus to the boat which would sail us into the port of [Århus]. This is where I would stay, where I would live as Daniel’s girlfriend in domestic bliss and where I would meet his kids and parents. Oh! We also talked about the guy, that friend of hers from Colorado, who was moving into my house to look after Ryan while I was gone.
“How could I forget that friend from Colorado!” Becca yelped. “Sorry. Go on.”
“I stayed awake on the plane. It was a 10 hour flight and full of blond-haired, taller people who I felt a kinship with for no other reason than the 25% of North Holland in my genes. That, and my 100% Danish lover. I watched movies, I listened to hours of music, our music, I watched the video Daniel sent me of his kids on my mp3 player. Remember that video? Two beautiful Danish children trying out their English. ‘ello, Shelley. ‘ello, Shelley. Giggles. Wiggled fingers saying hello. So cute!
“And I reminded myself that I should not become obsessed with the little dot on the screens embedded in the back of the seats and everywhere else. It was a constant reminder of how far I was going to get myself laid. I tried to give the plane’s navigation only nominal attention as it traveled from [Sea-Tac], across Canada and Greenland and finally to Denmark. Oh, how easily I could have given into watching that little blip make its way slowly toward the exact spot where Daniel promised to be. Instead, I spent my time double-checking the validity of my reasons for traveling 5,000 miles to make love to my online boyfriend. I felt supernaturally calm, wrapped in a secret.
“I also felt a pressing need to pee. I was stuck in the middle of a row, only making it out once to visit the minuscule airplane bathroom, but almost as soon as I sat down again the urge to empty my bladder re-appeared.
“I remember I had no jet lag on this trip. Not getting there, not while being there, not even when I came home. My body never suffered from the travel on this trip. As you know, I have never enjoyed traveling; it is only a chore, a necessity, and so time consuming! I do so much traveling these days you would think I would have accepted its evil, mental anguish by now. I haven’t; it feels me with dread. But this time, this journey, there was none of that neurotic nonsense. Just nonchalant self-reminders to respect my sensory limits, and a transcendental understanding that I was [on my way] to my bliss. I was going for it, and I expected the world to fall at my feet. It was hard, this trip. Not just the traveling, but in loving Daniel. Loving who and what he was, while being who and what I was. Hard. Does that make sense?”
“Totally,” said Becca, her fingers blurring and clicking keys so quickly I heard an orchestra of typing.
“We landed at CPH right on time and I texted Daniel:
I am here! Where are you?? Are you excited?
“I had been in a plane for hours with no sleep and I was about to meet the man I called my true love for the first time, a moment bursting with the potential of a million love stories. I had avoided playing out the scene in my very active imagination in fear of disappointment, and had only brought my faith with me – faith in the flavor and definition of Daniel’s words. Holding me steady were our shared conversations and images and sounds. And promises. But I had no scene blocked out for this initial meeting, or even the next two weeks. I would just pay attention and accept my [new life] as it unfolded.
“I followed the herd of neutral, athletic Scandinavians and got in one of two lines, like everyone else. This was my first International flight, and I was clueless. As the line I was in got me closer to the person encapsulated in the glass box at the front, I noticed the passports in everyone’s hands. Ah, yes. Customs. I took in every detail, I wondered where the bathroom was, I felt beads of sweat on my upper lip.
“Daniel texted back:
Get your luggage. I am right outside waiting for you. Very excited.
“Very excited. That Danish understatement was like blowing an icicle.
“I again followed the crowd of familiar, clear faces I’d spent hours in silence with on the plane. We were in a larger room now, full of even more people who looked similar to me. It was cold and quiet, and no one looked at each other as electronic belts ferried our bags around the room. As I waited for my luggage, another text message arrived from Daniel:
I am right outside the doors. Please hurry. Xoxoxoxo
“That was a better sign. The urgency was there, and so was I. And then my luggage, and it was time. But first I desperately needed to find the bathroom. Not only was I on the verge of wetting myself, I wanted a whore’s bath just in case I would be having sex soon, and for that I needed a sink. I headed out the same door through which the rest of my plane mates exited after retrieving their luggage and then the big double-doors, the main doors, were suddenly right in front of me, but I wasn’t ready yet. Bathroom!
“I halted and was drenched in looks of irritation from the stream of Danes caught behind my trail when I turned to look for my escape. Sticking out from the corridor’s glass wall was the universal sign. What I needed was just around the corner. The bathroom was tiny inside, certainly not any cleaner than an Oregon highway rest stop, and vacant. I washed my hands, armpits, and crotch. I changed into the lavender mesh panties I bought on a shopping trip with you. Remember? I loved those panties. And I wore a black yoga skirt, medium gray turtleneck, and periwinkle blue knit thigh-high stockings. And my beautiful [Copenhagen boots]. I checked my makeup, put on a bit of pomegranate lip balm, and smoothed down my freshly dyed hair. I looked and felt radiant, confident and in love. Deeply in love. I probably practiced my come-hither smile, too…”
As I recount these moments to Becca, they become more and more vivid, one memory following the next. And without even thinking about it, I’ve somehow reached the moment when I saw him in person for the first time. There he was – not right outside the double-doors, mushed in the throng of expectant families, loved ones, and business partners waiting behind a black velvet rope shaped in the arc of the swinging entryway – but a little bit behind this horseshoe crowd, off to the right, at the 2 o’clock position. “Well, since we’re in Denmark, let’s say the 14th hour position,” I say, and Becca laughs. Whatever the time, there he stood under a skylight, awash in a mid-afternoon glow.
I remember how the sight of him bathing in light made me laugh out loud. And I walked towards him, giggling, clumsily pulling my luggage along behind me on the gorgeous, exotic wooden floors of the Copenhagen airport. The effect of the spotlight from above – a perfect round beam of heaven marking the spot where the man I loved stood straddling his leather bag – was fucking hilarious. He looked composed, yet bewildered, as I tripped and stumbled and laughed my way to join him in the light. And he was as handsome as I had pictured he would be. Mother Nature herself turned the demon into an angel with a lighting trick. Just like in the movies.
God, he was beautiful standing there. His eyes, his mouth, his soft black hair. He was wearing his dark blue suede boots and a dark blue sports coat over a cotton and silk blend long-sleeved collared shirt. With mother-of-pearl cuff links! Over the dress shirt was a Kelly green, white and yellow argyle v-neck sweater vest. He wore diamond studs in each ear and light-colored jeans with holes across the knees. Oh, that man loved to look good. He looked movie-star-good, and he was there waiting for me.
He watched me walk over to him, his face expressionless, until I was with him the celestial light. His face was like mine, like looking into a mirror, both of us tall with dark hair, with fair skin and freckles, cheekbones chiseled and blue smokey eyes. But he had that beautiful beard streaked with silver. I wanted to put my cool hand on his face and feel the texture, but instead I stuck out my hand and said, “Hi. I’m Shelley.” I flashed Daniel my most winsome face, my most dimpled sweetheart-smile with sparkling eyes, and looked up into his mood stones from under my black, discreetly fluttering lashes.
He looked at my hand and then shook it casually as he looked down at me, and then pulled me into his arms gently. Lightly. We stayed like that for a couple of breaths, our arms fully enclosing each other. He really was 6’5”. My cheek was resting on his chest, curled into his neck, and I remember I felt intrinsically feminine in a way that average-sized girls could never appreciate. I felt little next to him, like a woman who had found the place her body fit into. Vulnerable, swaddled, protected. He could do whatever he wanted with me. I stepped into Daniel, to be held tighter, and he responded immediately, affirmatively. His bearded cheek rested on my head and I disappeared into his skin. I could hear his heartbeat pounding [that great love sound]. We swayed almost unnoticeably for what might have been seconds, though it felt timeless. It was timeless.
Daniel was suddenly kissing me under heaven’s gaze. Softly, sweetly, soundly. Sugar. I could taste the sweat from my upper lip on his tongue, in my mouth, in his mouth. Salt. He kissed me until I was breathless, and then our first kiss was over. He said We have to catch the train. Shall we go? Then he grabbed his bag and one of mine. He laced his long fingers through mine, and led me into my new life, because he was mine.
“Go to sleep now, Shelley. You’re on your way to finishing this next act of the story,” said Becca. “When you wake up you’ll know what to do next.”
“I love you, Becca,” I sighed. [And I smile].
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The Miracle in July is the work of author Michelle Anderson.
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