Chapter Thirty-Three - Ellie
I am at a loss for words. My mouth opens, closes, then opens again. I feel like a fish gasping for air.
“Ellie?” Mac is staring at me with a worried look on his face. “Ellie? Are you OK?”
I look up. All the faces staring down at me. Stonewall Senior is up there. And Jennifer. And Stephanie and Mr. Sowards.
“Ellie? What’s wrong? Talk to me.”
I shake my head as I let out a long breath. “I can’t.” I really can’t. So I just turn on my heel and walk out the building. Outside it’s bright, and the morning sun is beating down on the parking lot, making me instantly feel much too warm. I press a finger to my temple as I head for my car.
“Ellie!” Mac yells from behind me. “Wait!”
I can’t wait. I can’t deal. None of this makes any sense at all.
“Ellie,” Mac says. He grabs my arm hard enough to pull me to a stop. “Where are you going? Don’t you have anything to say? No comment? Not even a shrug?”
I stop because he makes me, but I don’t turn to look at him. I stare down at my feet. Study the small cracks in the concrete parking lot. Count a few stones.
“Goddammit, Ellie. What the hell is going on with you?”
“You want to know?” I ask softly.
“Yes,” he says loudly. “I’d really like to know.”
I turn to him, willing myself to be strong. Not to cry or appear any more ridiculous than I already am. Mac is so handsome. His face, his body, his suit, his shoes, his car, his apartment. Everything. “I thought you were the one floundering and I had it all figured out. But it turns out I’m a joke in every sense of the word.”
“What?” Mac asks. “What does that even mean? Ellie, you’re not making sense to me right now. What is the deal? Do I need to convince you I’m not guilty of those crimes they accused me of? Or—”
“No,” I say, putting up my hand to stop him. “No. That’s not it, Mac. It’s got nothing at all to do with those ten-year-old accusations, it’s got everything to do with your life since then.”
“I don’t get it,” Mac says. “I don’t understand what you hate about what I’ve been doing with my life, Ellie. Just tell me and I’ll fix it. Whatever it is that’s bothering you, I’ll fix it.”
“You’ll fix it?” I ask, doing my best to stifle a small snort, but not entirely succeeding. “You can’t fix it, Mac. You can’t fix it because it’s not about you, it’s about me.”
“Ellie,” Mac says again, but this time his voice is stern. “I don’t understand.”
“I know,” I say. “I know you don’t. How could you? You are Mr. Perfect. You are accused of a heinous crime and instead of bowing under, you take control. You segregate yourself from society and start feeding the world.”
“What’s so bad about that?” He yells it. His patience is over. “What the fuck is the problem here? I thought you’d be proud of me. I thought you’d be happy to finally find out I really am a good guy and not this asshole you’ve conjured up in your head.”
“I am proud of you, Mac. It’s the perfect turnaround, right? But I’m good at that conjuring. All those delusions and pretend babies.”
“Ellie, just stop, OK? I told you I like that part of you.”
“Maybe,” I say. “But I hate it.”
“What?”
“I hate it. And you know what? You should be proud that you’re Mr. Perfect. You certainly earned the title. Do you know what my biggest contribution to society has been, Mac? Buying designer clothes from a charity shop. Unless you count feeding the egos of celebrities worthwhile. Or pretending that I’m some world-wise woman who can help people sort out their life goals.” I can’t contain my snort this time, it comes barreling out through my nose. “I am so pathetically ridiculous.”
“Ellie,” Mac says, his voice softer. He places his hands on my shoulders. “It’s not a competition. You and I are in different places. I’m able to give the way I do because of money I inherited.”
I sigh and nod my head as I stare at my shoes. “You’re right. We’re in two totally different places. You have arrived and I haven’t even started my journey yet.”
I turn away again and start walking to my car. I don’t look back, but I know Mac isn’t following me. I click my key fob, hoping to slide behind the wheel and get out of here without any more talking. But Mac doesn’t grant me that last wish.
“You know what, Ellie Hatcher? I was right about it all along.”
I glance back at him standing down the aisle, his hands by his side, his posture straight, head high. “About what?” I yell back, lifting the latch on the door and pulling it open. “Me?”
Mac shakes his head and then his shoulders slump a little. “Never appear too perfect. Law 46 was right. People don’t like perfect, they much prefer fake.”
“Well,” I say, a sad final laugh passing my lips, “then maybe that law was a warning to stay away from me, Maclean Callister. Because I invented the fake world, remember? I’m just another sign on the highway of life telling you to move along. I’m not where you belong. I’m not even worth stopping for.”
I get in my car, start it up, and drive away.
He didn’t understand anything I was trying to say back there. Not one thing. And I can’t blame him because I’m not sure that I do either. All I know is that everything feels… wrong. This job, my book, that fake life I dreamed up to numb the emptiness in my heart.
I follow the manicured landscaped roads until I get to my apartment building. Just another reminder of how little I’ve been living since college. How little I’ve accomplished.
Mac gets accused of rape and murder and he goes off to feed the world and make a difference.
I land a cushy job at the number one corporation to work for in America and end up writing delusional text messages to a man who has no interest in me.
Way to go, Hatcher. Your parents would be proud.
That makes me cry. Hard. Tears begin streaming down my face and instead of slowing down to turn into my parking lot, I keep going until I hit the freeway. I enter and drive east. The landscape changes after about twenty minutes, going from suburban city to sprawling horse property, to ranch and farm land. Two hours later I pull off and follow a lonely two-lane highway south until the roads turn to dirt and the grazing land turns to waist-high cornfields.
I stop the car at the top of a hill and get out, the summer wind blowing my hair across my face as I turn my back to the sun and stare down at the farmhouse I grew up in.
It’s half a mile away from where I stand, but I don’t need to be close to it to see what I need. The sprawling front porch. The children playing in the yard. The dogs running around. We had sheep as well as corn when I was a kid. But the new owners never did raise animals. Just crops. They even tore the barn down so they could squeeze every bit of yield out of that land.
I lived here on my grandparents’ farm with my dad after my mom took off. And after my grandparents died, we sold. I was in college anyway. But it made me so sad to sell. This was the one place that felt like home. Where I could be me. How long have I been living my delusional life? Longer than those text messages to Heath, that’s for sure.
I haven’t been me in a very long time. Why did I stay at Stonewall all these years? It’s not the career I ever imagined for myself. I minored in psychology for a reason. I have always wanted to help people and I always had a dream of being a life coach. Getting to know celebrities was supposed to be a stepping stone but instead it became a dead-end road.
I’m glad someone bought the farm. At least it’s not sitting empty. At least it’s got a new family inside those rooms.
And they look happy.
I’m happy for them. I was happy growing up there, that’s for sure.
I wipe the tears from my eyes and get back in my car, my head resting on the steering wheel for a few seconds. I guess this is why I like my delusional world better than my real life. I guess I’m just trying to get back the part of my life I left behind when I left this place. Fill up that hole inside my chest that threatens to come out every time I slow down and have a few minutes to really think about my own life. My own hopes and dreams.
I am such a joke. Why did I ever think I could coach other people through the pitfalls of life when I can’t even face the reality of my own situation?
My phone rings inside my purse. I take it out and then thumb the accept tab. “Hey,” I say.
It’s Ming. “I just heard what happened, Ellie. What’s going on?”
I start crying and Ming does her best to get it out, piece by pathetic piece. I sit on the side of that road and face the facts as I tell her everything. About all the things I wanted out of life, and all the things that never happened.
Ming listens with the patient ear of a best friend, offering me encouragement and soft words to ease my hurt feelings.
“Come back,” Ming says. “You can stay at my house for a while.”
“No,” I say, my breath still hitching from my sobs. “I can’t. I need to figure out what the hell I’m doing, Ming. I need to come to terms with this stuff. I can’t keep pretending that things are good. Hell”—I laugh out one last sob—“they’re not even close to OK.”
“Publish your book, Ells. Just put it up online like we talked about. It’s good.”
“How can it possibly be good?” I say. “How, Ming? My life is a mess. My career. If you could ever even call it that, is over.”
“Your career hasn’t even started yet, Eloise Hatcher. That book is your future. You’re a good life coach. Don’t they always say that? The cobbler’s children go shoeless or some shit like that? Well, you can still find clarity in the lives of others, even if you can’t in your own.”
“It’s fake,” I say. “It’s fake to say I can help people when I can’t even help myself. And I can’t deal with this fake life anymore.”
“Ellie.” Ming sighs. “I like your funny dreams and delusions. Everyone does. Your fantasies make people happy.”
“Well, they don’t make me happy,” I admit. “Not one bit.”
“So change it, Ells,” Ming says softly. “Come home and change it. We’ll do it together.”