Heather Lonczak

Prologue

As my body slowly comes to, my mind remains submerged beneath the weight of itself. The fingers on my right hand ache as I flex and squeeze them. I don’t have to look; I know my fingernails will be black with charcoal. And that it will be smudged across my body, even darkening my face. The house will be similarly swathed in the wreckage of my emotional entropy. There will be piles and piles of drawings. As if, at some level, I knew I’d need to stock up—the fall was coming.

Like so many mornings before, I’m dead weight—barely mobile, paralyzed by despair. An invasive, sickening despair that sits somewhere at the base of my throat, spreading its tendrils throughout my bloodstream and organs—rendering me defenseless against a crushing sense of hopelessness.

I slowly open my eyes, noticing the expected carnage throughout the room. The floor is covered with clothing and shoes, glasses and plates are littered about the dresser and nightstand, and charcoal is smeared across the sheets. As I turn my body toward the door, the bed creaks ever so slightly. My eyelids feel inexplicably heavy and, as I begin to let them close, I hear her.

She’s always there, listening and watching. She always knows.

“Mama,” she whispers softly, ever careful with her broken mother.

“Yes, my angel?” I croak, barely audible.

I hear the door squeak as she opens it further. I hear tiptoed footsteps move across the hardwood. I hear dishes being rearranged on the nightstand. I feel soft, slightly sticky fingers touch my face, lightly caress my cheek.

“I brought you a scone,” she says, her little girl voice infiltrating my sickness, reminding me of my absolute failure as a mother. As tears began to fall from the corners of my eyes, tiny fingers wipe them away.

“Don’t cry, Mama.”

I look at my perfect girl. Her dark curls are tangled and wild, and she’s wearing her favorite pink princess nightgown. Her green eyes seem impossibly big, impossibly sad. I notice that she, too, bears the familiar black markings across her arms and forehead. I watch her thick black lashes move up and down as she watches me, hoping to God I’ll act like a mother today. She’s so beautiful, my darling girl. As I look at her, I imagine who she might become. Will she be an artist like me? Or perhaps something more serious like her father? Will she experience pure happiness—that which comes without cost or penalty? Like a thousand times before, I pray to a God I don’t believe in—please let her not be like me.

As the darkness secures its grasp, these thoughts of my beloved girl hold the sickness at bay ever so slightly. Just enough to keep me above the surface, with the slow rhythm of my heart reminding me that I’m still here. And with the feathery touch on my cheek, reminding me of why I must stay.

Chapter 1  Sunny

I often dream of my mother’s dead eyes. There is that familiar falling sensation before I am abruptly plunged back into the conscious world. I used to startle myself out of bed, sometimes landing face down on the floor. My husband had comforted me at the beginning. But eventually my night terrors and odd continence were but another aspect of our unspoken pact—an acceptance of the increasing bounds of normalcy.

Those dreams, which had appeared in various forms throughout my life, intensified as I reached adulthood. When the world shut off, the nights became my bitter nemesis—leaving me face-to-face with my torments. While my memories of my mother remained vague and shadowy—a blur of constant motion and color—I could always sense her there in the corner of my mind, watching. Always watching. To me, she was an enigma—an unearthly presence I could neither grasp nor release. I also found it difficult to disentangle my recollections of her from those of my father. Perhaps in my yearning to know her, I had desperately coveted his memories too.

When I was a little girl, my father’s impenetrable love for my mother was always there—behind his every expression, his every movement. I recall him taking her hand and softly kissing each finger as his eyes never left hers. And gently twisting around strands of her lustrous black hair. And laughing as they danced in the living room, her stockinged feet spinning gracefully on the hardwood. When we went places without her, he often pointed out her favorite songs or foods. And later, once she’d left us, if he saw a woman who resembled her, I would secretly watch his eyes follow her. The longing on his face during those moments flooded my mind with despair. His was a chasm I could not fill.

My dad remarried when I was thirteen. By then, references to my mother had disappeared from his tongue as he focused on his new wife. His new family. He met Linda at Whole Foods of all places (only my charismatic dad could pull that off). She was a kindergarten teacher with a petite frame and shoulder-length wispy blonde hair. She wore almost no makeup and was pretty in a crunchy sort of way. She was soft-spoken, but had a quiet strength about her.

I did my best to dislike Linda—she had taken my father away, after all. I was pouty and insolent, refusing to accept her presence—and she was always around. As a teenager, I remember her trying to hug me as I either recoiled or stood rigid as a board. Sometimes she brought me little gifts like stuffed animals or craft supplies. Yet I always resented her; I resented that she monopolized my dad, I resented her pretense of liking me, I resented her long skirts and unpainted toenails, and I resented her soft, feathery voice. Thinking back now, she really didn’t do anything wrong except that she was not my mother. My mother was all swirling lights and music; Linda was as bland as boiled eggs.

As I got older, I often looked for traces of my mother in the things she loved, like quartz crystals in rose and amethyst, old sequoia trees, and flowers—she so adored flowers. I recall my father bringing home fragrant bouquets that made her squeal with delight as she breathed in their scent. She always displayed the bouquets on the dining room table after arranging them in a cranberry crystal vase I was not allowed to touch. Lilies were her favorite and, despite the headaches they caused my dad, he bought them anyway. He didn’t tell her about the headaches—he was unselfish that way. But I knew. The scent of lilies has always muddled my mind with vague, disjointed images I don’t fully understand, but also with an aching need for my mother—that much is undeniable.

It was my mother’s love of flowers that often propelled me toward the Farmers’ Market during that period of blissful ignorance when I was newly married—when the future seemed feasible. After leaving my office in the evening, I was drawn to the overflowing baskets of vibrant Japanese eggplants, kaleidoscope carrots with the stems attached, and glossy bell peppers in deep red and yellow. And the heady scent of sun-warmed tomatoes still clinging to the vine that reminded me of my grandfather. I would make my way toward Viktor, the stout middle-aged flower vendor who always spotted me from afar, saying, “How is my beautiful Sunshine today?” with a Slavic accent. I was usually too shy to speak more than a few words to him and would blush each time he offered me a single pink rose.

I would head toward home, gazing up at the dingy Citibank clocktower—forever stuck at 2:47—before inhaling the intoxicating sweetness of my favorite European bakery. I purchased muffins there nearly every morning, sometimes giving one to the homeless woman on the corner. Occasionally I also indulged in a soft pretzel or a decadent cinnamon roll I could never finish. The scent of the bakery would be replaced by a nicotine cloud that invariably hovered over the Whistlestop Pub—a favorite hangout of my coworkers that I had never entered. As I dodged the cigarette smoke along with leering eyes of businessmen leaving for the day, I would quicken my pace. Once I passed the small law office with its peeling yellow paint and rickety porch swing, I would sprint up the stairs toward my front porch—unconsciously counting each step—my heart fluttering in anticipation of seeing my beautiful husband, Joshua.

Months later, my mind would often return to that period of innocence, that irreplicable respite just before the storm.

Joshua and I met as juniors at San Diego State University. I could have gone to a better college—maybe even Ivy League, as I had been an honor student my entire life and particularly excelled in English and literature. But SDSU was close to my family, which would make it easy to check in on my grandparents after class. I’d also been jogging near the campus for years and was in love with the white Spanish Mission-style buildings encircled by palm trees. Despite my father’s misgivings, I had dreamed of going to SDSU and didn’t bother to apply anywhere else. It was my one act of underachievement, and I never regretted it.

I had always been bookish and shy, something of a loner—and college was no different. Other students likely found me standoffish and aloof—story of my life. Guys would approach me from time to time, only to be quickly discouraged by my lack of responsiveness. I didn’t much care. Even after learning I was a bit nearsighted freshman year, I rarely wore glasses outside of class—I appreciated the blur; it was like an artificial boundary between me and everyone else. And although my self-constructed fortresses seemed to make everything easier, it was a tradeoff. In truth, I craved being around people. I wanted to go to parties and reveal some semblance of myself. But I just couldn’t seem to get to the other side.

Unlike other guys, Joshua didn’t give up on me. I often saw him glancing at me during the spring of my junior year, quickly looking away when discovered. In the afternoons, students gravitated toward the outside campus—throwing a frisbee or chatting with friends. Sometimes I studied on the lawn with my best friend, Elizabeth. But more often, I sat alone either drawing or reading a book. There were several weeks when I caught Joshua looking my way at least once a day as he walked by. Unlike me, he was never without an entourage of college buddies. I didn’t think much of him at the time; he blended in with the rest of them. Plus, I figured he was just another admirer who would be unimpressed once he got closer, moving on to the next one soon enough.

One particularly sunny afternoon, he decided to approach me. I was sitting beneath a magnolia tree on my dad’s gray NYU sweatshirt, reading Lolita. I was lost in the book when he said hello, causing me to nearly jump out of my skin.

“Oh no, I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to scare you. I just wanted to introduce myself.” I squinted up at him, the sun in my eyes.

“That’s okay, it’s easy to do.”

This moment is, according to Joshua, the most pivotable one in our relationship. He told me later that once he saw my watery blue-green eyes, he knew he was done for.

“My name is Joshua. I believe you’re in English 302 with me. Sylvia?”

“It’s Sunny. I go by Sunny.”

“Nice to meet you, Sunny. That’s a perfect name for you,” he flirted.

Here’s the part where I always seemed to fuck up. I didn’t know what to say next and my mind was spinning as I searched for something clever. I didn’t want to reveal myself as an imposter, but I was at a loss. So I just sat there mutely, like a damned imbecile.

“What are you reading?”

Okay, this is familiar territory. I can answer this question. “Lolita, you know, by Nabakov.”

“I’ve heard of that book. Isn’t he a pedophile?”

I shrugged. “There’s more to it than that.”

“What class is that for?”

“It’s not. I’m reading it on my own. It’s one of my favorites. The way he writes is like, I don’t know…poetry washing over me.” Oh God, did I just say that? “I’ve read it three times so far.”

“Can I see it?”

I handed him the worn copy. He read the first lines: “‘Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul. Lo-lee-ta: the tip of the tongue taking a trip of three steps down the palate to tap, at three, on the teeth. Lo Lee. Ta.’

“Okay, now I’m definitely intrigued. But are you sure he isn’t a pedo?” he asked, handing the book back to me.

“You just need to read it yourself.” Having forgotten my sunglasses that day, I blocked the sun with my hand while looking up at him. I could feel the dull beginnings of a headache.

“Well, then I will!” he said, smiling.

I’ll never forget the first time I saw Joshua smile. His face changed entirely. It’s not that he had perfect teeth; they were pretty, but not completely straight and one front tooth was slightly chipped in the corner—it was the joy his face morphed into when he smiled. What I thought was a smug little frat boy face immediately dissolved into something else altogether. His face was earnest, his smile complete, all the way to his eyes.

Joshua had the type of handsomeness that sneaks up on you. With his brown hair and average height, he could blend into a group. But his eyes sparkled with intelligence and his engaging personality made people feel significant. He even had me believing he truly wanted to read Lolita because I recommended it. I suppose I finally noticed him on this day too.

Joshua slowly crept his way inside my heart. He walked me home from class, holding my sweaty hand and, like something from a 1950s postcard, sometimes even carrying my books. He wrote love notes and slid them under my apartment door or left them on my windshield. He was resolute in his persistence, not at all deterred by my reticence. He didn’t believe me when I said I was shy, insisting it was impossible—that I was far too beautiful. It was a naïve phrase that would normally annoy me, but not with Joshua. And even though it took some time for me to trust him, I found myself actually wanting to. That was a first.

After a few weeks of walking home and studying together, we went to a college bar with live music. Joshua knew the door guy, who didn’t ask for ID. I drank sweet pear cider and felt myself loosening up. I had little experience with alcohol, mostly because my dad had repeatedly warned me of its dangers. More than that though, I feared losing control; control was everything. But I remember how my face tingled and my inhibitions dissolved as that cider took hold of me. I was funny and sarcastic, perhaps even sexy. Joshua leaned over the filthy wooden table and kissed me. Our first kiss. It was soft and gentle, and tasted sweet—leaving me wanting more. We continued to drink and found ourselves dancing and making out. Publicly making out—and I didn’t even care. I was buzzing—soaring far above my usual self-doubt and disquietude. And I remember thinking, Oh, this boy, this man, how I want him.

And so began our love story. It was a love that would be tested and stretched, teetering on the edges of rationality. Yet never lacking.

I wasn’t a virgin when I met Joshua, but I’d never “made love” either. I was used to boys pushing their tongues down my throat, tasting their stale beer breath as they urgently shoved their erections against me. Guiding my head downward, roughly grabbing at my crotch, squeezing my breasts too hard. Leaving angry marks on my neck. This was the “love making” of adolescent boys, and I hated it.

I was seventeen the first time I had sex. I didn’t know the boy well; in fact, I’d only met him that night. Slutty though it was, I just wanted to get it over with. Feeling ashamed of my lack of experience, I wanted to sleep with someone I’d never see again. The sex was quick, but painful. Even worse—it was humiliating. And there was the blood, so much blood. I figured there was yet something else wrong with me. When he finished, I lay there crying and shaking uncontrollably. But at least I was no longer a virgin.

With Joshua, I understood what the great poets were talking about. My heart fluttered at the thought of seeing him. My stomach ached at the thought of losing him. I’d never known this type of pain; it was beautiful in its own way. Lord Byron’s haunting words swirled feverishly in my brain:

When we two parted
In silence and tears,
Half broken-hearted
To sever for years,
Pale grew thy cheek and cold,
Colder thy kiss;
Truly that hour foretold
Sorrow to this …

I could not lose him.

The first time Joshua and I had sex was in my college apartment. It was a small studio overlooking Point Loma. After living in the dorms during my first year at SDSU, then with roommates until I was a junior, I was thrilled to have a place all for myself. It had dark wood floors, a modern kitchen all in white, and was furnished with a desk and queen-sized bed.

We waited for weeks before sleeping together because we wanted it to be right. Morrissey was singing as we sat on my bed drinking cheap champagne. Our connection that night was almost feral, yet deeply human. We explored each other’s every crevice, freckle, and imperfection. We were insatiable. When he was inside me, our eyes never left each other.

We touched souls, Joshua and me.

Our hunger for each other never subsided, it only showed itself in different ways. As we got closer, I gradually exposed more pieces of myself. No guy had ever really known me, and I didn’t want to scare him off. I was convinced there was a deep ugliness about me and would need to tread carefully.

And yet somehow Joshua found me entirely lovable—either not noticing or not concerned with my endless stream of defects and eccentricities. He didn’t comment when I picked my cuticles until they bled, leaving a morbid scattering of flesh across my lap. He didn’t judge my profound sense of inadequacy and awkwardness at parties. He didn’t see me lie wide awake for hours after a social interaction, harshly evaluating my every move, my every word. And he didn’t know about my mother, or the counting, or my grandparents—or any of it. Not yet. He sensed a worthiness in me that I didn’t, and I was petrified by what would happen once the veil was lifted.

Chapter 2  Sunny

We got engaged during our senior year. Joshua dragged me to a college basketball game, saying his buddy was a star player. I’m still not sure how he convinced me to go, I hated the whole scene: organized sports, hard benches, and crowds—the trifecta of irritation. Unlike football, which I especially loathed, at least basketball games were quick. This helped me to cope with the smell of beer, the drunk girl sitting to my left, and the loudmouthed idiots kicking the seat behind me. At halftime, Joshua left his seat for the bathroom; a perfect opportunity for me to take out the paperback I’d stashed in my purse. Five minutes later, I heard his voice on the loudspeaker.

What the fuck?

“Um…good evening, everyone.” The crowd became quiet. “I won’t take up much time, I just have a quick question for my girl.”

Oh. My. God. What is he doing? I could feel my heart in my stomach. I thought I actually might vomit or pass out. I sank down in my seat as I heard my name and saw everyone looking at me. Joshua was on a big screen, getting down on one knee. The crowd became eerily quiet.

“My Beautiful Sunshine, my Sylvia Marie Zielinski, I’ve loved you since the first time we met. And I’ll love you until the day I die. Please say you will spend forever with me and be my wife. Will you marry me?”

All eyes were on me, but I couldn’t speak. I nodded my head.

“Is that a ‘yes?’” he asked.

“YES!” I said as loud as I could muster before sinking back down again.

The crowd exploded. The drunk girl spilled beer on me and I didn’t even care. Being with Joshua was like that. His love was intoxicating and I couldn’t imagine life without him.

We both graduated in June of 2001, a little more than a year after we met. I double-majored in English Literature and Fine Arts, and Joshua majored in Business. We didn’t sit together during the graduation ceremony, as we marched in alphabetical order (Fitzpatrick and Zielinski were worlds apart). Our families waited patiently up in the stands. I was magna cum laude, whereas Joshua slipped through with a 2.6 GPA. He was considerably less disciplined than I, content with mediocrity if it meant he could go to parties and smoke weed. Nonetheless, he received far greater applause than I when his name was called. My family was proud to be sure, especially my father who bragged about me at every opportunity. But they were soft-spoken and chose their words carefully. They couldn’t compete with a rowdy gang of fraternity brothers yelling, “Fitz, Fitz, Fitz…!”