The physics of relations.., p.1
The Physics of Relationships, page 1
Copyright © 2023, Chas Halpern and Guernica Editions Inc.
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and incidents are either the products
of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner.
Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,
or actual events is purely coincidental.
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Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 2023936023
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Title: The physics of relationships : a fictional memoir / Chas Halpern.
Names: Halpern, Chas, author.
Series: Guernica world editions (Series) ; 70.
Description: First edition. | Series statement: Guernica world editions ; 70
Identifiers: Canadiana (print) 20230220282 | Canadiana (ebook) 20230220290 | ISBN 9781771838498 (softcover) | ISBN 9781771838504 (EPUB)
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Table of Contents
Cover
Title page
Copyright
1 Disruption
2 Danielle
3 Withdrawal
4 Attachment
5 Confrontation
6 Meditation
7 Dissension
8 The Gift
9 Amy
10 French Lessons
11 Blind Date
12 Separation
13 Adjustment
14 Accommodation
15 Playmates
16 Tension
17 Seduction
18 Judgment
19 Confusion
20 Re-evaluation
21 Manipulation
22 Courtship
23 Betrayal
24 Decision
25 Abandonment
26 Proposition
27 Solitude
28 Resolve
29 Reappearance
30 Gray
31 Reappraisal
32 Questioning
33 Mind Reading
34 Intention
35 Validation
36 Expectations
37 Physics
38 Sustenance
39 Gathering
40 Conception
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Landmarks
Cover
Half Title Page
Title Page
Copyright Page
Table of Contents
Dedication
Acknowledgments
For Pouké
1
Disruption
“Mom, do you remember Danielle?”
Tasha always expected me to remember every friend and acquaintance she had met over her thirty-two years, even ones I had never actually met in person. And I always felt that I disappointed her if I couldn’t remember, as if I had failed to perform my motherly duty.
“Danielle … you mean … the Danielle … from school?” I was faking it. Buying time.
“Yeah, we used to hang out in high school. She’s the one whose father died in that weird accident.”
That detail jogged my memory. “Right, right. That was so sad.”
“Yeah. So, anyway, she’s been living in New York making jewelry. Now she’s back in town.”
“Wonderful. Are you going to see her?”
“I did. She’s moving back here. She broke up with her boyfriend. And that was the only thing keeping her in New York. She’s looking for a place to stay … temporarily … until she can find something affordable.”
The warning sirens were blaring. First of all, there was nothing affordable in the Bay Area. And second, I knew what was coming next.
“Could she stay with you … just for a while?”
There was a long silence while I contemplated my answer. I was hardly looking for a roommate at the age of sixty-three. And I knew that “a while” could mean a long time. On the other hand, I didn’t want to appear to be mean and uncaring. Sensing my hesitation, Tasha added, “She’ll pay rent. She just can’t afford that much. And she’s a good cook … vegan mostly.”
Raising the topic of food preparation only increased my anxiety. How would we handle meals? Would we each buy food separately and make separate meals? I didn’t want the complication. One of the few pleasures of growing old is that life becomes less complicated. That little pleasure would be stolen from me.
I didn’t even know this young woman. How cooperative would she be? Was she messy? Did she like to listen to loud music? Would she want to have boyfriends over and stay up late?
“Please, Mom. She really needs some help. She’s kind of depressed.”
My daughter—this powerful, generous woman whom I love—was asking for a favor. It was hard to refuse. And, since my husband’s death some months ago, I was living alone in a three-bedroom house with plenty of room for a “temporary” guest. I had no excuse. So, I did what I often do in situations like this. I offered a cowardly compromise.
“Okay, Danielle can stay here for a week. But after that she’ll need to find someplace else. I’m serious.” By adding “I’m serious” as an addendum, I was clearly trying to convince myself more than Tasha.
A troubling memory came back to me. As a young girl, ten or eleven years old, Tasha had the habit of bringing home kittens. We let her keep the first one, a black cat whom she cleverly named Purrsia. We forbade her from bringing home any more kittens. She brought home two more. We kept them. What else could we do? They were so cute, and they needed a home. I feared that Danielle would be the new kitten.
2
Danielle
Danielle walked into the house rolling a medium-sized suitcase and carrying a small backpack. I wondered if this was really all she had. Was it possible that a thirty-one-year-old woman could single-handedly carry her entire belongings with her? On the one hand, it made me feel sorry for her, as if she were a kind of refugee, which, in a sense, she was. On the other hand, I envied her lightness, her freedom from accumulated things.
“Is that all you have?”
“Yeah, pretty much. I left most of my stuff at Austin’s place. And I sent my jewelry-making stuff to my mom’s place.”
I was left to fill in the blanks. Who was Austin? Where was her mother’s place? But I was used to this kind of youthful assumption that, as a mother figure, I would have an omniscient knowledge of her life. After all, her life was of such central importance that she probably assumed Tasha had already told me everything about her.
“Austin is your ex?”
“Yeah, when we broke up, I just wanted to get out. So I wasn’t going to haggle about who owned what … you know what I mean?”
“And your mom lives nearby?”
“No, she lives in Arizona.”
“I’m just curious … you didn’t want to stay with her?”
“Ugh! Arizona,” she said, as if I would understand her disgust, which I did, sort of. When I thought of Arizona, I imagined a hot desert where everyone survived in climate-controlled enclosures, a bit like a Mars colony. That, I’m sure, was a gross exaggeration. But, still, I had a hard time understanding why anyone would voluntarily move to Arizona. Danielle had an answer.
“She married a guy and moved there. I hardly know him. He’s kind of a gun nut. And he drives around the desert in some kind of all-terrain vehicle. I guess she was lonely and willing to compromise.”
“Your mother …”
“Right, sorry.”
I had decided that Danielle would sleep in Tasha’s old bedroom. I had cleaned out most of her young adult stuff, and I was using her bedroom mostly as a place to store office supplies and other accumulated items, like an old fax machine, along with some soap-making supplies Tasha had asked me to store for her. The closet held bulky, winter coats and a large box of Tasha’s childhood things. I’m pretty sure there was her favorite doll (stripped naked) and a blue teddy bear (won at a fair) in the pile, along with some old school yearbooks. I had contemplated clearing out the closet to make room for Danielle. Then I decided against it. I didn’t want to make it too comfortable for her. Tasha’s old bed and hand-painted, blue nightstand were still there. And I changed the bedding. That was enough.
“Oh, wow! This is Tasha’s
“Yes. I thought you’d be comfortable here.” Damn! Why did I mention comfort?
“Absolutely! Thank you so much! It’s like … like I’m your new daughter … or something.”
Danielle gave me a hug as she said this. I could feel my hardened heart melting, as I wrapped my arms around Danielle’s boney, little body. At the same time, I told myself, No! You are NOT going to adopt another stray. Stay strong!
I gave Danielle an extra key. And later that afternoon she left without telling me where she was going. I was a little troubled by this. Where was she going? When would she be back? I knew these concerns were a little silly. I wasn’t responsible for her. She was an independent adult who could do what she wanted, as long as it didn’t intrude on my life. But it still seemed odd. We were starting a little life together, however short-lived it might be. And shouldn’t my “new daughter” have at least told me—her “new mom”—what her plan was? I realized that I didn’t even have her phone number. What if I needed to reach her?
I sat down in the living room to contemplate how to handle the Danielle question. First realization: no matter how relaxed I wanted to be about this new situation, having a roommate was inherently complicated. Second realization: I would need to work out certain things. I would let her know what my daily routine was—mealtimes, reading time, TV time, bed time. And I would tell Danielle that she would need to accommodate my life, not the other way around.
At least, that was my intention. In reality, I dreaded having that conversation. I was not a natural dictator.
When I came back from grocery shopping that evening, there was an unusual odor wafting through the house. I followed my nose into the kitchen to find Danielle busy at the stove, wearing one of my aprons. I was annoyed. This was exactly what I didn’t want. I was hungry. And here she was taking over the kitchen. My annoyance must have shown on my face.
“How was your day?” Danielle asked sympathetically.
“It was fine,” I replied tersely.
“I’m making some veggie burgers for you.”
“Well, I have groceries. And I need to put them away.”
“Sure, I’ll stay out of your way. Let me just flip these burgers.”
Danielle turned back toward the stove. I noticed that she was wearing flannel pajama bottoms with little red hearts on them. It was 6:40 pm. It seemed a little odd to be wearing pajama bottoms. But I supposed that was her usual home wear, which meant that she was making herself comfortable. I was fine with that, as far as it goes. I didn’t want her to feel awkward or uncomfortable. But a little reticence on her part would have been appreciated. Enough reticence, for example, to have talked to me in advance about my meal plans.
On the other hand, the pajamas were kind of cute and a little child-like. That pricked at my heart. Here was a young woman who had been dumped by her boyfriend, who had moved back across the country to her childhood home, but who didn’t actually have a home there anymore. She was an only child. And she was semi-estranged from her mother, who had moved to the planet Arizona to live with an alien. Her father was dead. And she was attempting to make dinner for me. I could hardly scold her. As I put away the groceries, I thanked her for making dinner.
“That was so nice of you to think of that,” I said, and I meant it. But I was still a little angry. The situation threw me back into mother-of-a-teen mode. That is when you have to be careful about every word you utter, lest you instigate either rage or a crying fit. Those, apparently, are the two emotions teen girls experience, at least when dealing with their mothers. Danielle, however, was not a teen. And it irked me that I felt compelled to spare her feelings.
We sat down at the table with our veggie burgers. Danielle had carefully stuffed them with the usual condiments—mayonnaise, ketchup, lettuce, and pickles—all items she pilfered from my refrigerator. I felt petty for thinking that. Sadly, however, that is how our minds work. We have selfish thoughts. And the only difference between evil people and the rest of us is that evil people act on those thoughts.
Danielle watched expectantly as I took a bite of her burger. The veggie patty tasted like ground straw. How far was my forbearance supposed to reach? Was I required to tell her it was delicious? Instead, I opted (as I often do) for the coward’s way out.
“Hmm,” I said, with a neutral inflection. “What exactly is this made of?”
“It’s seed based. Mostly ground flax seeds. Some sunflower seeds. Some lentils for bulk, but not too much or it’ll get soggy.”
A little more moisture would’ve helped, I thought. And maybe some flavor—onions, garlic, salt, and pepper. I kept those thoughts to myself, however, and changed the subject.
“So … here you are back in town. What are your plans?”
“Well, I guess I need to find a job,” she replied, as if it were a sad, but necessary, duty.
“How about your jewelry-making?”
“Oh, that’s going to take a while. First, I need to find a space to set up my workshop.”
Aha! I thought. That will give her an incentive to find a new place. My moment of relief was quickly followed by a terrifying realization. There was plenty of space in my near-empty, three-bedroom house for a jewelry workshop. Was that her plan … to ply me with veggie burgers and worm her way into my heart so she could set up shop here?
“Have you started looking for a jewelry space?” I asked, hoping she would get the hint.
“No, first I need to find a job, so I can make some money. Everything is so expensive here. I think it’s actually worse than New York.”
“Any prospects yet?”
“No, not really. I applied for a job at an art store, but I never heard back from them.”
“Maybe I can help you look for a job.”
“Uh, no, that’s okay. I don’t want to trouble you. I’ve already signed up for three online job listings.”
“There’s a vegan café not far from here. Have you tried them?”
“You mean, just walk in and ask?” She seemed taken aback by this bold concept.
“Yes, that’s what I mean. I’ve gotten jobs that way before.”
“Really? I don’t think that would work now.”
She seemed to be implying that things might have worked that way in a previous century, but that quaint approach was no longer an option today.
“You’d be surprised. There’s nothing like making a personal contact.”
Danielle laughed a little, presumably at my naiveté. “That’s okay. I’m good. I posted that I’m looking for work on Facebook. Somebody might come up with a contact.”
This conversation was not going well. I was avoiding the central issue.
“Tasha told me you would only be staying here for a week … or two … (why did I add that?) … just until you find another place to live.”
“Well, that’s the plan.”
“You know that you can’t stay here indefinitely, right?”
“Oh, of course. I mean, that would be a whole different deal. I would need to pay rent and everything.”
“But I’m not offering that kind of deal. I’m just trying to help you out until you find a place.”
“Right, I know.”
Danielle’s face flushed momentarily, and there was a hint of panic in her eyes. My resolve was weakening. How do you look a stray kitten in the eyes and not take care of it?
“Well … let’s see how it goes. In the meantime, we need to talk a little about the house rules.”
I immediately regretted using the word “rules.” I was starting to sound like some crochety, Victorian boarding house mistress. I think I was overcompensating for my lack of resolve.
“What I mean is … we need to kind of coordinate in terms of meals and … well, just accommodating each other’s needs.”
“Oh, of course.”
“Good.”
I suddenly realized that I hadn’t actually thought through what the “rules” should be. And other than the food and meals (which required some thought), I wasn’t really sure there needed to be any other rules. Simply being respectful would probably be enough.
“Why don’t we think about how to plan the meals. I mean, I appreciate your choice to be vegan, but I’m not vegan. So, we probably won’t be sharing meals that much.”
“Okay.” Danielle nodded, as if she understood.
