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“Simpler than flipping a switch?” I ask.
“Well, no,” she says, “but it’s not nearly as difficult as you’re making it out to be. All you have to do is get mad. Get angry at her for hurting you. You’ve heard of the five stages of grief, right? You know: denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance.”
“I’ve heard that they’re largely bullshit.”
“They’re not,” she says. “I mean, not everyone goes through every one of them all the time, and there’s not some absolute order to them, but they are a pretty common way that people deal with loss. You, my dear,” she says, “are stuck in depression. Have you even experienced anything else since she left you high and dry without so much as a phone call or a goodbye kiss?”
“I know what you’re trying to do,” I tell her, “but it’s not going to work. I love Leila, and I’m not about to get mad at her for following her dreams.”
“Oh, God, will you stop romanticizing the fact that she got a fucking job and moved to New Jersey?” she asks. “It’s about the least romantic thing there is. It’s just a thing. No, I’m not telling you to be mad at her for ‘following her dreams,’ I’m telling you to get mad at her for not wanting you to be a part of them.”
So far, I’ve been deftl
y avoiding Wrigley’s finer points, but that last part caught me off guard.
“She’ll call,” I tell Wrigley.
“She hasn’t yet,” she answers. “Why do you think that is?”
“She probably wants to make this easier on both of us,” I tell her. “I mean, if we’re not going to be able to be together, isn’t it better to—”
“Closure is better,” Wrigley interrupts. “That’s the one thing I will give you about the bullshit way you decided to stop giving mama the old in-out-in-out: at least you were up-front about it and were firm in your resolve. I’m not saying it’s been easy going back to less compatible man skanks, but at least you didn’t leave me hanging. I mean, that’s just fucked up.”
“Stop it,” I tell her.
“You’ve got to stop idealizing her as this perfect person who could never do wrong, who’s perfectly benevolent and holds the power to make your life better at a whim. That’s why people create gods.”
“What does that have to do with anything?” I ask.
She smiles.
“Nothing,” she says. “I’m just trying to tell you that the longer you put her on that pedestal, the less of her is going to be part of it.”
“What does that mean?” I ask.
“It means that the longer you idealize her, the less real memories you’re going to have to hold onto because they’ll all be slowly replaced by the fantasy. Memories are good, whether they’re of happy times or bad times. They keep things in perspective. If things are shitty, you can pull on a good memory to remind you that things aren’t always going to be shitty. If things are good, you can pull on a bad memory to remind you to keep your focus and not get complaisant.”
“Where do you get this shit?” I ask.
“I’m a social worker,” she says. “There’s a bit of psychological training that goes into that, you know.”
I stop to consider the fact that Wrigley has had substantial psychological training.
“How can I be mad at her, though?” I ask. “I’m just hurt. If anything, I’m mad at myself.”
“Why?” she asks. “Now, don’t get me wrong, I’ve been around you enough to know that you’re pretty good at being stupid when you want to be, but that’s hardly a crime.”
“Thanks.”
“I mean it,” she says. “What did you do that was so terrible to deserve being abandoned the way that Leila abandoned you?”
“Will you stop saying shit like that?” I ask.
“Why?” she smiles. “Is it making you angry?”
“Yeah, it’s making me angry.”
“Good,” Wrigley says.
