Page 33 of This Is Who I Am

CASS

It’s Saturday morning, and I wake up on the couch, my back sore and a crick in my neck. I had to flee my bed, where Estelle was sleeping so peacefully, in the middle of the night because my body was burning up from the inside. I had to go outside, into the night air, to cool off sufficiently.

Before all that, at the restaurant, I fucked up someone’s order during a brutal hot flash. A customer had to wait double the time for their entrée—inexcusable in my book.

When Estelle turns up in the living room, wearing nothing but a tank top and boxer shorts, the joy the mere sight of her usually awakes in me is very short lived.

I’m crazy about her but I don’t want her to see me like this, all wrinkles and sweaty clothes and just all-encompassing unattractiveness.

“Bad night?” she asks, stretching her arms above her head.

“Yeah,” is all I say.

She just stands there, looking at me with her head tilted as though she’s studying me for research purposes.

“Can I get you anything? A strong cup of coffee? A morning kiss? Both?”

I can’t tell her that I can barely stand to have her— her of all people—in my house right now. I take a breath and try to say, in an even, mature voice, “Coffee would be great.”

I can’t have her kiss me right now. I need at least fifteen minutes under a cold shower, freshly laundered clothes and… I don’t know, some miracle cure to feel better. To not feel this worn-out and ugly and like we are the oddest couple in the universe.

Look at her. She’s breathtaking. And I’m not even allowed to touch her to make my—I stop my train of thought.

I can’t pretend it’s not been a point of contention, that I haven’t gone to war with myself over it too many times by now, but it’s not Estelle’s fault.

I’m the one who, once again—just like with Sarah—falls short.

“Coming right up.” Estelle reads my mood infuriatingly correctly and skips into the kitchen.

Gus jumps into my lap and no matter how awful I feel, I always have affection to spare for him. And he always makes me feel a little better. I can say to him whatever I want and he never takes offense—that only happens when I don’t feed him on time.

I sink into the couch, my cat perched hotly on my thighs, my legs unable to move, not just because I’m held captive by August, but because they feel as though I ran a marathon last night—as if.

“Here you go.” Estelle walks toward me with two mugs of steaming coffee. She hasn’t read the room sufficiently right to make herself scarce—and why would she?

“Thanks,” I barely manage to squeeze out of my throat.

“Hey, um, I was thinking…” She has that look of possibility on her face that I’m so not in the mood for this morning.

Although, to be honest, I’m not in the mood for anything.

“How about, after you’ve woken up properly, obviously…

” She throws in an irritating smile. How can she be so gorgeous and annoying at the same time?

“We go down to the beach together and I give you a private surf lesson?”

“Excuse me?” Estelle has really taken to surfing, spending time in the ocean almost every day. Good for her, of course, but I fail to see what that has to do with me.

“Surfing has helped me with so much and I’ve been thinking that, even though you’re not into it, maybe, if I’m the one teaching you, you could benefit from it as well.”

I can’t believe this. She knows I hate surfing. Most of all because I wouldn’t be caught dead in a wetsuit. But also because a body like mine doesn’t find balance on some flimsy wooden board. That’s just an illusion she must have dreamed up during that wonderful night’s sleep she had.

“Babe, please. No.” I sip from my coffee and she has made it exactly the way I like it but her kindness only stokes my diabolical mood—it’s like waving a red rag at a bull.

“Why not?” she has the audacity to ask. “I’ve been talking to Devon and she believes in surfing being a great therapeutic tool for women in the menopause. Especially women who don’t take hormones. You have to do something to… I don’t know, work through it all, I guess.”

“I would like you to leave now.” I put my cup down.

“What? Why?” She brings her hand to my knee and Gussie takes it as his cue to jump off—and avoid whatever’s coming. “I know you had a bad night. I knew that as soon as I saw you weren’t in bed this morning. It’s okay.”

“It’s not fucking okay.” I huff out some air.

“Everything’s always fucking okay with you.

Well, I don’t feel okay. Putting me on a surfboard is not going to magically change that.

” I shake my head in utter disbelief. “You know I don’t surf.

I don’t understand why you are suggesting this now. This morning of all mornings.”

“I’m just trying to help.” Estelle’s voice grows thinner. Nobody’s patience is endless.

“Help me how? By trying to fix me somehow?” I hear myself, and I know my tone is too harsh, but it’s as though I don’t have the power to stop myself.

“This is who I am. Okay? Take it or leave it.” Stop now, I tell myself.

But I’m in no state to listen to anyone, especially myself—I don’t hold myself in high enough regard for that.

“I have to accept you as you are, so…” I even look her in the eye for the next zinger.

“Why don’t you try doing the same for me?

I know it’s hard, excruciating even, but this is our situation.

” Estelle’s about to say something, but I’m not done yet.

“I can’t sleep. I can’t think straight. And I can’t even touch you. ”

The silence that follows is deafening. I know I’ve gone too far, but, sadly, it’s also the truth.

A truth that can’t be spoken, yet I just did that.

Well, it wasn’t really me, it was a hormonally raging version of myself, but I also know that this fight I picked isn’t only due to a horrible night’s sleep and yet another menopausal meltdown.

Estelle goes quiet. Her expression closes off as she rises and starts to get dressed.

“We can talk about this another time,” she says. She moves as if to kiss me goodbye but catches the look on my face—and stops herself.

I should snap out of it—why haven’t I? This would be the point in the argument where I have behaved so appallingly that pure shame brings me back to my senses. Yet, it’s not happening this morning. My brain is too foggy and my body simply too drained of energy for such a sudden turnaround.

“We’re not going to continue this right now,” Estelle says.

“There’s no point.” Argh. Her level-headedness drives me even more up the wall.

“Call me when you’re ready to have a proper conversation.

” She heads to the hallway. “I truly only wanted to make you feel better,” she says, her voice finally breaking.

Without saying another word, she heads to the door, her movements angular and sharp—a masterclass in wounded body language. All the while, my exhausted, old body remains glued to the goddamn couch.

* * *

It takes me a full twenty-four hours to get it together.

Not only because of the vicious hangover of shame I, deservedly, suffer from, but also because it’s not as simple as showing up at Estelle’s house with a bunch of flowers.

I even, very briefly, considered turning up in a wetsuit, but I own no such monstrosity, and I already look enough of a fool.

Still wordlessly, she lets me in. Her father’s house is nearly empty now, save for a few pieces of essential furniture and some chairs that Bobby has loaned her from his workshop.

“Cass,” she sighs, her elbows leaning on the kitchen counter.

“I’m sorry.” Estelle is the one looking exhausted now.

My behavior must have cost her a night of sleep.

Maybe Suzy was downright incorrect when she predicted that a menopausal and an asexual woman were a match made in heaven.

Maybe Estelle and I are too broken, too bruised by life, to forge a romantic connection.

That’s the sense of defeatism that hangs in the air as I look at her this morning.

Probably because I know that I went too far—that I really screwed things up between us with my out of control midlife fury.

“I’m so sorry.” On the way over, I tried to put together a speech in my head, tried to find something to say that could make things better, but I came up empty.

“The thing is,” Estelle says, still standing and not inviting me to sit. “I’m not sure what that ridiculous fight was actually about. Was it about you or was it about me?”

“It was me.” I step closer, but there’s a kitchen counter between us. “It was all me.”

“You can say that, but I don’t believe you.” She doesn’t sound combative, which worries me. “I’m almost fifty, Cass. I’m done defending myself.”

“You don’t have to defend yourself.”

“Then why do I feel like I have to?”

This conversation is a minefield of potential misunderstandings. I don’t want to make anything worse by not addressing the issue directly.

“I shouldn’t have said that I can’t touch you,” I say, lowering my voice to a whisper.

I can’t say it was below the belt because we’re nowhere near ready for lame jokes yet, an accurate indicator of the dire straits we find ourselves in.

“I shouldn’t have said any of the things I said. It wasn’t me. It was…”

“The hormones?” Compared to mine, Estelle’s voice is loud and clear.

I nod, even though it makes me sound like a broken record—but again, it doesn’t make it any less true.

“But, Cass, there are ways to deal with that. The night sweats. The hot flashes. Medical ways, I mean. Not learning how to surf.”

“I’m aware, but I’ve made my choice regarding that.” Tears prick behind my eyes. “I completely understand that you would, um, choose not to have that in your life.”

“I’m not going to break up with you because you’re in menopause. I can deal with that.”

“But?” I ask.