Not Your Fault
”Don’t flatter yourself.” That’s all Genie had said when Therese went to see her in the hospital. It had stung like a knife stuck on her chest but she had remained at the foot of her bed anyway bleeding shame, embarrassment, disillusionment. When Genie had drifted to sleep she had wept like a child quietly, inconsolably, holding back sobs threatening to grow too vocal.
They had moved to London five years ago. It seemed like a lifetime now, another dimension and universe altogether. How very different she had been then, so full of life and hope. So very much in love with Genie, she hadn’t thought of a morning or a night without making love to her. They had left for work together and kissed their goodbyes at the Waterloo station. She had used to watch her disappear down the escalator before making her own exit.
When did she stop doing that? When did she just turn away after a quick peck on the cheek and let her mind so easily wander away from her? When did she quit loving the way her auburn hair danced in the air under the stuffy air conditioning?
Don’t flatter yourself. She didn’t. She couldn’t for she blamed herself and even that felt like a cop-out. It’s so bloody easy to accept blame, Dannie had said hearing the news. We all have to take responsibility for ourselves, he had kept on. These profound truths we keep throwing around, Therese thought, what use are they really? Has anyone ever really been consoled by them? Not your fault. Maybe not directly for she should not flatter herself but still, she had been the trigger, the good enough cause for her to attempt it.
It’s not much of a living selling porn books on Old Compton Street if your mind is set on other things. Genie herself had said it though she hadn’t needed to. At the time they’d been so close you couldn’t have fit a straw between the two of them. It had sounded like something to be laughed at in a frivolous fashion. A joke, a lark, even.
And then it changed. Not like it had changed with Richard years before but changed any way. With Richard it had been easy for she couldn’t have cared less one way or another. It had been ugly her pushing him away, leaving him stranded with his feelings for her. All this time Therese hadn’t really given him another thought, not while she was so in love with Genie, but now it all came back violently, mercilessly. She had dumped Richard and she had dumped Genie. Was there a difference unless you counted the number of years? Five years, three good ones, one less than mediocre, the last one cold and unfeeling.
It was so like her to bump into her boss right there at the hospital. The head curator of Tate Modern, Miss Abigail Gerhard. “Therese? Is it really you?” she had said spotting her by the water fountain. “What are you doing here?” And what had she done? She had burst into tears she didn’t even know she had still left in her.
It was a meager living she was making in London but at least it was her own now. It belonged to her and no one else. She had left their home and found a dingy little flat next to Waterloo station close to her job. Walking past the pompous station entrance every morning, she was constantly reminded of it, though. The auburn hair, the kiss, the hope she had no more.
Therese stood by the tiny table in her kitchenette eating her uninspired supper, a salad she’d picked up from a Tesco nearby. She hadn’t even bothered to put it on a plate. It occurred to her how very metaphorical the moment was for wasn’t she also eating her life straight out of the container, not bothering to heat it or to make it presentable in any way? It would’ve tasted the same, she reasoned, flat and uninteresting. Dull and unimportant.
Therese visited Genie every day though she hardly acknowledged her presence. She had nothing to say to her, she had told her in no uncertain terms. Therese saw their past relationship as a crime scene between the two them, a barred, restricted area with their outlines still drawn inside. Do Not Cross was written all over Genie’s face.
“This one was definitely a ballet shoe,” Genie had laughed. “Soft, formless and gentle…” Therese had had a concerned look on her face. “Oh no… are you disappointed? Did you miss it?” she had asked all worried. “I loved it sweetheart – I love how different it can be each time…” Genie had replied kissing her frown away. Watching her curled up in the hospital bed, she recalled their pillow talk, their fun in naming their orgasms, describing them in the most imaginative ways. How would I describe her now, she asked herself. A tumbleweed, a broken window ripped off its hinges? Sorrowful, violent images flooded her mind.
Slipping into routines kills one’s soul, extinguishes life force, everything that ever meant anything. It turns off the sweet music and replaces it with boring thuds of repetition. Seeking connection became mere fumbling for release, for a moment of calm at the center of the storm which was us, Therese realized. She couldn’t remember the first time they’d lain in bed after making love feeling like perfect strangers but Therese did remember one moment when she was suddenly aware she wasn’t paying attention anymore. Let’s get this over and done with.
Had she really thought so touching her, pleasuring her? If so, Genie must have noticed. But no, she hadn’t, she herself had said so throwing things on the floor, breaking them into dozens of rude shards shooting across the distance they had created. It had made Therese think of Saint Sebastian shot full of arrows as an urchin, left for dead.
Every day Therese was by her bed though she didn’t want her there. She would spend her lunch hour first running to the Waterloo tube station, on to the Northern line and off at King’s Cross, then sitting at the foot of Genie’s bed for half an hour. When she got back to the museum, she’d already overstayed but she was welcome to do so. “Take all the time you need”, Miss Gerhard had told her. She was grateful to her, since she had to go during the day. Genie’s mother who always came by later couldn’t stand the sight of her, the unhealthy influence she had over her daughter.
Therese went upstairs like she did every afternoon after her visit. She drew a deep breath before entering her sanctuary, The Rothko Room. Once again she longed to see the Seagram murals which created the immersive environment so vital for her right now. The works, at first sight mere immaterial painterly surfaces, had grown on her. They had revealed themselves to her slowly yet unforgettably. Their surfaces, splatters and drips had followed Therese into dreams which had almost resembled happiness.
As always, the light in the room was dim but not to the extent that she wouldn’t have seen the one person she shared her sacred ground with. The woman was there as well, sitting on the bench deep in thought. Like Therese, she came in every day like a somber character out of an Edward Hopper painting. Therese never wanted to disturb her quiet contemplation so she remained on the background her back blocking the doorway, hoping to discourage others from entering their silent space.