Miles Away

Short Story by Caitlin Hites

I met him at just the right time in my life. It was a time when everything else was going wrong. I was pushing against every expectation, disappointing my friends and family with every action I took. I was ruining my life. So he fit right in.

It was a Thursday. It was January. Cold, heavy. My hair was not cooperating. I didn’t care. I was waiting for the subway after work. Looking back on it now, I sort of wish I had been reflecting on my life. I wish I had been wondering when my prince would come. When I had thought about meeting him, before now, I think I had tricked myself into thinking that all of those clichés were running through my mind.

But they weren’t. And I remember that now. I was probably thinking about which of the three TV dinners in my freezer would be my feast that evening.

In the days before now, I maybe thought the first time I looked at him was wildly romantic. I used to think maybe I flipped my hair just right, looking over my left shoulder, pushing out my collarbone, pursing my lips and mysteriously batting my eyelashes a couple of times, when he first saw me. What really happened was much less fabulous, I’m sure now. I had glanced over my shoulder, noticing a tall man, maybe twenty-five, wearing tan corduroy pants, standing with his hands stuffed in the pockets of a forest green vest that he wore over the top of a maroon jacket. He was looking at me. I wasn’t immediately sure why. It could have been one of those awkward situations where he just happened to be spacing out while waiting for a subway and his eyes had just happened to land on me, looking away quickly when I spotted him, like a guilty dog after you shake the chewed up toilet paper roll in his face. But he wasn’t, and he didn’t look away. Instead, he kept a calm expression, and continued to stare.

I don’t really do people. I don’t really do confrontation, positive or negative. I would have normally looked away uncomfortably. But something made me continue staring at him, as he was staring at me.

Looking back now, I wonder what he was thinking. Could have been anything, really. I think about it now and realize that the way he was studying me, like he had known me all his life, meant that’s probably what he was thinking. I was an old friend. Someone he had created, and I was unlucky enough to fit the mold.

The subway came, finally, after what seemed like hours. Or minutes. Maybe it was 20 or 30 seconds in reality. It came to a fast stop, doors opening. He took his first step forward, peeling his eyes away from me finally after the second step, walking confidently into the car. The way he had turned his head away from me had seemed like an invitation, and uncharacteristically, I took it.

I ran over to his entrance, instead of taking the one directly in front of where I had been leaning on the wall. My satchel bounced on my hip, the cardboard cup of coffee sloshing as I tried to steady it. As soon as I took a step into the car, the doors clicked shut. I looked down. His legs were crossed, hands still deep inside of his pockets. His body was facing toward me and the entrance, but his face was turned ninety degrees to the right. I sat down, leaving one cold purple seat between us. He didn’t move. I looked down at my bony legs, covered by thick black tights, crossed awkwardly, and tried to shift into a more flattering position, quietly, but my fake leather brown boots squeaked so I stayed in my uncomfortable tangle.

In the times since, when I’ve thought about this first meeting, I have thought that he looked handsome and mysterious, staring off into the distance, which wasn’t distant at all since we were in a claustrophobically small subway car. Really, though, I had been beginning to think that following him was silly, and that this would be the end of our subway ride, as well as the beginning. Getting off without another glance, the eye contact being nothing more than a coincidence. Strangers at first, and strangers when we parted.

But as soon as the subway jolted forward, he smoothly turned his head to face me. He was handsome, that part I was right about. Stubble covered his cheeks and chin. I inhaled the aroma of strong coffee and stale cigarettes. He smiled finally, and I smiled back, looking shyly at my hands, and back up at him. In the times since our first meeting, I’ve thought that was the moment I fell in love with him. And it was.

* * *

I roll over on my side, looking at Miles now, seeing that he’s so much different from the person I saw standing on the subway platform in those brown pants. Now I see the baggage he carries. The baggage that I didn’t see him holding while he was there, with the artificial wind from the subways blowing his hair to the side of his face.

I lay there, unblinking, wrapped up in low thread count red sheets and a tan suede comforter pulled to the side of my body, my face resting on both hands. He stood to the entrance of the bathroom, rubbing his wet head with a towel. He pulled on a five-times-worn pair of dark Levis over his plaid boxers, and reached in the back pocket before he had even buttoned them.

He shook a cigarette out of the pack and lit it, taking a long drag. He walked to the edge of the bed, pushing my cat, Muriel, to the side for a place to sit while he smoked.

“You really shouldn’t smoke in here,” I said.

He took another drag and slowly blew out the smoke, saying sharply, “It’s not like we’re ever getting our deposit back anyway.”

I said nothing. He stood up, putting the cigarette out on an ash tray on the dresser, which had formerly been a cereal bowl. He put on a green flannel shirt, buttoned his pants, and kneeled down in front of me. He kissed the top of my head, lingering for a moment. His hand moved over my face, and he looked into me. “I love you Isabel.”

I looked back at him, and for a moment I saw the younger man waiting for the subway. “I love you, too.”

Sometimes I wonder if he really loved me when he said it. I guess the definition of love can be different for anyone, but Miles makes up his own definitions to everything, and there is a large disconnect between his and any others I’ve heard of. His definitions to our life, a definition to our past. I wondered if he heard me when I told him I loved him. I know he heard other things.  That I had cheated on him. I hated him. He wasn’t competent and he wasn’t a good enough lover. I didn’t want to be with him, really, just felt bad for him. These things which I never said or felt, but which he heard nonetheless.

He stood up, and walked out of the room. I could hear a cabinet shut, the coffee pot being taken off and put back on the burner, the rustling of jackets, and eventually the door open and shut.

After a moment more, I sat up in bed, looking at the faded blue tank top strap that had fallen carelessly off my right shoulder. I pulled it back up, as I did my left hand grazed over my arm. I closed my eyes tightly, ignoring that which tainted my pale white skin. I rolled out of bed, ran to the bathroom, and threw up.

When Miles got home from work that day, I was in the living room. I had pushed the couch aside and laid a tarp out, where I had put my easel. I wore one of Miles’ old gray v-necks, hitting me loosely on my thighs covering an old pair of cotton shorts. I was holding a color palette and a paint brush, staring at a canvas that held all the disappointment from both of my lawyer mother and investor father. I cocked my head to the side, and I liked what I saw.

At 4:35, the door clicked and I turned around. He stood in the doorway holding a bunch of orange and pink daisies tied together with a yellow ribbon. He had a guilty look on his face, and I let one corner of my mouth turn up. I walked to him slowly, seeing tears welling in his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he mouthed at me, hardly whispering. I nodded, and let myself become enveloped in his arms, his apology, and his lie.

Over the shoulder of his hug, I saw the calendar, marked with an appointment for Miles at 4:30 that day.

* * *

The first time he did it, I was shocked. I didn’t know how to react the moment his body interacted with mine in a violent manner. Most of the time, when I look back on that moment, my heart races as I think about all of the things I could have should have would have done had it happened again. Leaving, being the primary option, with no chance of ever going back. But then I remember that it did happen again, many times. And I never did anything but stay.

If it had been anyone else, I would have left, but my job wasn’t to leave. By falling in love with a sick man, my job was to heal, as counterproductive as it may have seemed.

We were out that night, at a bar, just the two of us. It was March. He had a little too much to drink, like most nights, and wanted to take the subway. I didn’t feel like it, it was too late, and I wanted to take a cab. Of course, a taxi is more expensive than the subway, which irritated Miles.

“Money doesn’t fuckin’ fall from the sky, Bel,” his words were slurred. I ignored him, annoyed at this excuse after he had just spent a week’s wages on beer, and hailed the cab. The driver was an impatient gentleman in his forties, like many generic cab drivers seemed to be. But Miles was convinced he was coming on to me. Again, I didn’t think much of it. He was accusatory when he was drunk. It was dismissed.

When we made it back to the apartment, I assumed we were over the accusations. I walked in first, leading the way to the bedroom in the dark. I turned on a lamp and turned to him,  swaying and smiling, and was met immediately with the forceful back of a hand to my face. I turned away, shocked from the blow, stumbling onto the bed. I turned around, holding my throbbing cheek, and looked at him, my eyes wide and mouth hanging open. His expression was similar to mine. Mouth open, but he was looking down at his angry hand. He looked up into my eyes and rushed toward me with his arms extended. I flinched, and he began to cry, angry cries, anger at himself. He grabbed me tightly and we stood together like that, him embracing me, shouting apologies and promises that it would never happen again. I said nothing, my arm tucked up, holding my cheek still with my hand, and nodded my head.

I remember thinking later that I shouldn’t have bought it, but I did, and it became my life.

* * *

Before I left for work, I looked at the calendar. January 12th. It had been a year since I had first laid my eyes on Miles. I looked at him sitting at the couch, nursing a hangover with a cup of coffee and Tylenol, looking over Rolling Stone in his lap. I thought about how far our love had come in the year we had been together. My eyes smiled, but the rest of my face was too tired.

I kissed Miles before I left for work that morning. Looking back on it now, I try to remember exactly what that kiss was like. Sometimes I try to convince myself that it was the most spectacular kiss of all time. I pretend that it was like magic, like nothing anyone had ever felt, and I was the only one who could feel love like that. But I know it wasn’t magic. It was just a kiss and another apology, and the truth is, it wasn’t memorable enough to feel anymore.

When I got to work, I immediately rushed to the bathroom to throw up. When I walked out, I put a stick of gum in my mouth in an attempt to cover up the smell of vomit. I tied my green apron around my waist, breathed in the smell of coffee beans. As I was walking over to the counter, I saw a tall, thin woman standing awkwardly off to the side, looking over the menu. She was out of place, in a gray pencil skirt and black blazer with black pumps, surrounded by peg leg jeans and ugly cardigans with ballet flats and boots.

“Mother?”

The woman looked up abruptly, but she wasn’t surprised to see me. “Isabel.”

“Why…” I trailed off, unsure of what to even ask her at this point. It had been nearly a year and a half since I had spoken to her, my father, or anyone else in my family. The day I had dropped out of Columbia and took up the occupation of “the struggling artist” as a choice, a few months before I had met Miles.

Her face was softer than I had ever seen it before, and she covered her mouth with her hand. I imagined how much different I must have looked to her. My hair was longer, a different color. We were both thinner, older.

But she took her hand from her face, and in a strong voice, said, “There’s a lot we need to talk about. What’s a good time for you?”

I nodded my head, confused, and fumbled with a pen and receipt paper to write down my address and apartment number. “Seven o’ clock is fine.”

She took the paper from my hand and nodded her head, leaving without ordering. I watched her. My mother was a proud person, which is why I was worried for the rest of the day as to why she would find out where I worked, show up, and become so vulnerable to me.

Looking back on it now, I don’t know if I remember seeing the absence of the extravagant wedding ring on her finger that my father had bought her all those years ago. I also don’t remember if I noticed that the diamond necklace my father had bought her as a Valentine’s Day gift several years ago was not around her neck. I don’t remember if I saw any trace of her marriage. Events later told me I must not have. But I don’t remember.

I walked home from the subway that evening, my mother weighing heavy on my mind. I knew Miles would be home when I got there. He would have gotten off work two hours before. He would have already started drinking. I hoped that I could catch him before he got too drunk, to beg him to please stop. To ask him to please just hold it together for a couple hours. To act normally to please my mother and trick her into thinking I was in a normal relationship. Or maybe to convince him to leave for a while until she left. I hoped that I could get home and make sure I didn’t do anything to upset him. To make sure he didn’t try to do anything to me before she got there, because I didn’t have much time, and certainly not enough to pull myself together if he did. I looked at my watch. My mother would be arriving in forty-four minutes. She was never late. The more I thought about Miles, the more I was beginning to think that asking her to come to my apartment was a poor choice. I could have easily met her at a restaurant. A coffee shop much fancier than the one I worked at, perhaps. But it was too late at that point to change the plans.

When I walked into the apartment, Miles was sitting on a bar stool with a glass in his hand. “Where the fuck you been?” His words weren’t slurred. He wasn’t too drunk yet. If I could just get the drink out of his hand, it might be okay.

“Work, baby,” I tried to smile, tried to pretend that his question had been innocent and non-accusatory. “I have something to talk to you about.”

He looked down in his glass, rolling the liquid around and around. I wasn’t sure exactly what he was drinking, but I knew it wasn’t juice and it was too damn early to be drinking anything as hard as what it was. There was no response. He just stood up, drink in hand, and walked out of the room. I heard the water start and the door to the bathroom slam. I looked at my watch. Thirty-three minutes until my mother would buzz my door. I looked around the kitchen. Aside from a few dishes in the sink, there was nothing I could do about the clutter. It was a natural thing, to expect a small apartment littered with half-finished projects to be a little untidy. Nothing unmanageable. Very different from my mother’s clean white house, but it wasn’t a concern. My concern was somehow communicating with Miles and telling him that my mother, a woman who he had not even met, would be there soon to talk to me about something which was obviously extremely serious.

I paced around, listening to the steady flow of water coming from the bathroom. I took off my work clothes and pulled on a large, loose short sleeved shirt, black leggings, and brown boots. I rolled up the ponytail I had worn to work into a bun and looked in the mirror. Three brown bruises lined my collarbone, and there was a larger, more purple colored bruise on my right shoulder. I traced the marks on my collarbone with my left finger, and when I did, noticed four faint bruises on my forearm where his hands had gripped me tight.

I looked at my watch, and as I did, I heard the loud buzz from the front room. She was seven minutes early. I glanced to the bathroom, where the water stopped abruptly. I rushed to the living room, and pushed the open button. It would take my mother approximately three minutes to reach my floor and knock on my door. I ran back into the bedroom, and began rifling through my drawers for a sweater to cover evidence of anger on my arms and chest. “Miles,” I shouted desperately, through the door. It swung open, steam infiltrating into the room. I breathed in a mixture of Irish Spring and Jack Daniels, and cigarettes as he stood in front of me, blowing smoke slowly through his mouth.

“Why the fuck didn’t you answer me when I called earlier?”

“I was at work, Miles,” I glanced toward the front door, trying to make my voice soft and sweet. He chuckled and looked down, closing his eyes, chilling my skin. I turned slowly toward him. “Please don’t be upset.”

He walked toward me, and I backed up with nothing but the dresser behind me, knocking over a bottle of perfume Miles had bought me as a gift the morning after spraining my wrist a few months ago. He grabbed my right arm, squeezing tightly. “Please Miles, not now,” I whispered. I guessed I had two minutes? Maybe a little bit more, considering the hall numbers could be confusing at first, and she might go the wrong way, buying me a minute or so.  

“Stop lying to me you whore!” Miles shouted at me, and I shrieked, ducking under his first hit.

“Please Miles, you don’t understand,” I was becoming frantic. He reached toward me again and grabbed my sleeve this time, ripping the opening to the neck twice as wide as it already was. The shirt fell off of my shoulder, and for the first time in the rollercoaster of our relationship, I swung an arm back at him. Less than two minutes now. Probably closer to 90 seconds. I immediately realized the swing was a mistake, but I couldn’t care about that right then. My hand clumsily landed near his eye, and shocked, he pulled away. I stood awkwardly, unsure of what to do. It was the eye of the storm, him standing there, looking at me. I could almost see the anger bubbling up inside of him, ready for steam to blow out of his ears. In that moment, I tried to think of what I could possibly do. I turned toward the living room and started to run. He reached out and grabbed my arm, leaving me unsuccessful yet again. He whipped me back around to face him, and through cries I shouted continuous apologies. But it didn’t matter, because he knew what he was going to do, and no apology was going to stop him.

He screamed, his disease twisting his thoughts into my actions and the actions I had never acted upon. Why had I fucked that bartender? He knew I had. Saw it with his own eyes. Walked in on it last night. Heard about it from a friend. A friend who didn’t exist.

He lifted his right arm, and I glanced toward the unlocked door, hearing clicking footsteps down the linoleum floor leading to my door. I screamed loudly as Miles swung. He swung again, and again, punching me in the face, the arms, the chest, and wherever his intoxicated arms could reach. After the second or third punch, I collapsed to the ground.

As I landed, I heard the door open, loud cries from a woman much stronger than me, and Miles backing away, falling into the two person dining table.

That’s the last thing I remember. Noises of the downfall. Looking back now, I wish the last thing I remembered was something else. I wish I would have seen the concluding acts of what happened. Maybe I would have seen his face, one last time, instead of just feeling his hateful touch. As far-fetched as it is, I actually wish the last time I saw Miles, he would have been smiling. Or maybe just looking away distantly as his hair blew sideways, his only care being when he would get to smoke his next cigarette.

I only heard about what really happened. I know my mother was there. I know she immediately called the police, and that I was taken to the hospital in an ambulance. I know that Miles had backed away, crying on the ground, pulling his hair out, screaming that he loved me. But I don’t remember that. I hardly remember what it sounded like when he said the word “love”.

The next thing I do remember was waking up, drifting in and out of sleep in a hospital bed. My mother was by my side sometimes; sometimes she was talking to the doctors or nurses. I remember hearing small bits of conversation, “They’re lucky they made it,” and “God was with them.” I didn’t understand much of anything. My father was there, too, eventually, as a separate entity from my mother. She was the one who never left. I didn’t have any friends left to visit me, but I wouldn’t have wanted their pity anyway, as they looked down on me, wondering where my life had gone and how it got there, glad that they were going back to their safe neighborhoods on Long Island with their nice husbands and children or fiancés or boyfriends to take care of.

* * *

It’s been twenty-eight days since Miles left. My mother had made the executive decision while I was in the hospital to file a restraining order against him, so I had never gotten a proper goodbye. She had also insisted that I move in with her for awhile, but I had declined the offer. The apartment is lonely, now, with no one but Muriel to keep me company.

Because of the restraining order, I don’t hear from Miles. My mother told me that he got the help he needed. He was somewhere, locked in a room, where people would be able to teach him to control the voices inside of his head. In a room, receiving medication by a syringe.

No longer do I worry about if he made it to the doctor’s appointment which I knew he wouldn’t attend. I don’t think about him going to the therapist whose office he had never been to. I don’t even have to worry about fucking the bartender, which I never did, never will do.

Periodically, I find bits of Miles around, when I least expect it. Sometimes, I find those bits when I most expect it, when I force myself to find an old picture or t-shirt, to remind myself that he’s still real. Missing Miles is a contradictory feeling. It’s not right to miss him, I know, but sometimes I just can’t help it. What’s familiar is easiest to love, it seems. In every way, though, his absence is a good thing. My bruises have faded away, and I’m left with few external scars.

Sometimes when I think about Miles, I feel numb, empty. But as I rub my swelling stomach, I know that a piece of him will forever be very much with me, and I hope those voices which haunted him do not reach my new life.