Jon and I have finally agreed on a plan to save our marriage and sanity.

I think.

One of us is allowed to go out alone, which … includes having sex with someone else. If we want to.

Once a month. 

Then the other takes care of our autistic son who can’t deal with other caretakers right now. (Or has any family close by who can deal with him.)

This month was my turn. So I checked into this discrete hotel in Phoenix and messaged this maybe-could-be-kind-of-nice guy on Tinder.  

And then I couldn’t go through with it. 

I mean, it’s not like I’m particularly ‘pure’ in any sense of the word—hell, no. But when we had agreed where to meet, when to meet and so on, it fell apart. 

So I ghosted him and stayed in the room. 

I did want to have sex, like, for the first time in almost half a year, sure. But I knew there and then that even if this guy gave me what I needed all night and was the sweetest guy ever and all that, he still wasn’t my husband.

And it’s not like Jon and I can’t fool around if we both agree it’s okay, or because it says in the Bible I’ll burn somewhere that’s worse than my present life if I touch another man’s dick. Really. We’re way past that.

To be honest I’m not sure what is going on in my messy head, aside from this overwhelming, numbing yearning for Jon: ‘I wish we could be more together’—not just sexually—but in general.

We had time to talk, to go to the movies, to … just be together, and all that when Emma was little because my Mom helped out, and Emma was, well, the easiest child in the world, I guess. But with Michael … 

It’s really bad now.

He demands almost continuous attention because of all his sensory disorders that makes him confused and afraid of everything that isn’t strictly ordered and predictable.

And he hardly eats. I’m so afraid he will have to be tube-fed. Will he even allow us to do that? His senses are really messed up. If his sock is on the wrong foot, he can break down and cry all afternoon. 

He is also the loveliest kid in the world and he has taught himself to read and write and age 3, even if he can’t talk. Several languages.

Right now he has memorized the ‘Lorem ipsum’ dummy texts in Latin that the advertising people with real jobs, unlike me, use to fill in web pages or brochures before the client decides on the real text. It doesn’t have any real meaning, it just looks like real text.

It’s a stand-in.

And no, Michael at age six can’t talk yet, even if he can read. Nothing except a few words and sounds. Reading and writing don’t go with talking. Yeah, I freaked out, too, when I learned that.

But it’s because they are systems. You can learn systems if you have a brain like my son’s that can remember 12-digit serial numbers on containers he saw a fortnight ago.

Talk, not so much. That’s about meaning and socializing, and that is more difficult if you are a ‘special kid’.

But I digress. I wanted to tell you I have called Jon at home and he sounded kind of relieved, even if I know he has got some ideas of his own about what he wants to do when it’s his turn.

But I can hear his heart isn’t totally in it anymore either. Last time he tried, he had set up a date with Maria from his unit, who probably would marry him in two seconds, if it wasn’t for me.

He came home and said he had broken it off midway and she wouldn’t talk to him for several weeks at work after that. I wonder if I should recommend this hotel to him.

Then we can both take turns to go here and meditate in peace on all the parts of ourselves that we miss. Not the body. The soul parts. The ones that are most forgotten. And also most painful.

What are we going to do?

Michael might never have a normal life. We might never have money or time or strength enough to support him.

We will get older and weaker and the support system for people who aren’t strong and independent here in the U.S. isn’t exactly something to write home about. Most things we’ll have to handle ourselves. 

Like sitting here on this perfect bed and watching TV and scrolling my phone and for once only having the company of my thoughts.

It’s not the best company in the world, but you take what you can get.

Anyway, I scrolled past this far-out article.

It drew me in, even though I know next to nothing about weird physics:

https://www.newscientist.com/article/mg22429944-000-ghost-universes-kill-schrodingers-quantum-cat/

It said that scientists are serious about the possibility that there are other universes just like ours, with the same people, things, particles … but a little bit different. Like in one universe, I could still be single and have no kids—(don’t know why I thought about that!). 

These universes are supposed to be all in the same space at the same time, like ghosts or mists—weaving in and out of each other, without any of us knowing about it in our daily lives. 

Wow, I mean …

And you know, when I checked into the hotel I did feel like another version of myself was there, too, just looking at me and not doing anything. Was that me in a ghost universe?

It’s probably just my messy mind.

But scientists take this seriously. It’s as unbelievable as a six-year-old who can’t talk but who can read and write better than most 10-year-olds.

But I should have met up with Nicolas Collins, 34, electrician, karate trainer, etcetera, and then you-know-what all night and I would probably—probably—have been able to stop thinking. And it would have been better. 

Because when I am in this mood, halfway between depression and worse, I tend to think too much about all kinds of things, when I read weird stuff which somebody in authority says may be … real.

What if there’s another universe, close by, where Michael is all right? Or where my brother didn’t get blown to bits in Afghanistan? Or my best friend from high school didn’t OD herself into becoming a real ghost?

I don’t believe in God, or the Afterlife. I think. But what if crazy science actually … No.

No. I have to stop now. I’m sorry. I’ll go home even if it is in the middle of the night. 

I prefer real people. My real son I can hug, even if he has stolen my life in so many ways. Something you are not allowed to say, I know. But I can also say honestly that I love him.

Ghosts, whether or not scientifically approved, can’t be loved. They are just stand-ins, too.

I prefer real. Even if it hurts.

I think.

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CARRIE, April 2016

End of “Ghost Hearts” part I

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Next up: JON

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Cover photo by Crina Parasca on Unsplash

“Lorem Ipsum Shadow Art” by Absol-Fimbulvetr on DeviantArt

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39-280224.2143

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https://www.lipsum.com/