Wrapped in Plastic

This week, we share a story from writer and photographer Tawnya Gibson.

It was the paint smell I would remember long after that afternoon was behind me. The house, wrapped in plastic, getting a fresh coat of white; an empty, virginal canvas being prepped for the new owners. 

I wasn’t supposed to be there.

He seemed thrilled at this one-off job, bragging to anyone that he found it. An empty home and a flexible time frame. He kept mentioning the upsides to me as I complained about the time he’d spend away from me, that I wouldn’t see him as much. I could come and study as he worked, he said. Bring him dinner. Keep him company, he said. He knew that was against the guidelines laid out by his employer, but he pressured me to break them anyway. He was good at pressuring.

I wasn’t supposed to be there, but that pressure to come and break the rules felt insurmountable. I was 18 and freshly in college. Spineless. Hopeless. Helpless against his quick charm and gorgeous hair. I was so young and would do anything to keep him happy and this new-to-me feeling of love alive. He would do anything to exploit that control. I would make dinner and walk the several blocks down from campus and into town to meet him. He would always be happy to see me. I would ignore homework and friends and my conscience in favor of catering to him. He would joke about me catering to him forever. I would sit on the plastic covering the bathroom counter and let the jokes slide. He would stop painting to eat. I would talk. He would distract. I would share about my day, my classes, my plans. He would ignore my thoughts and substitute his own. I would sit a little taller, speak a little faster. He would put his food down and kiss my neck. I would lose my train of thought and stop talking. He would capitalize on that.

This is where memories become fuzzy. I can see the bathroom vanity in my mind as clearly as I can see anything right in front of me now. It was long and shallow. There were five large, bright bulbs placed just above the mirror, dead center.  But I can’t remember if this was before or after we were engaged. And that matters, in my mind, for some reason. I know it was fall, but I can’t settle on whether it was September or October. I always lean toward September for some reason. Maybe because walking the blocks was still pleasant and not terribly cold. That little northern town is always cold in October, but maybe it was an off-year and warmer than normal. I can’t recall. A quick internet search says that October was the hottest October on record, so maybe it was October, but I still lean September for some reason I can’t put my finger on, exactly. 

I can see the plastic sheeting on the floor of the living room. It was vaguely opaque, paint-splattered from the flecks of white flying off the roller and plopping in the middle. It was stretched thin and taut, struggling to fulfill its purpose with ease. 

But if it was September, was that after we were engaged, and was I still wearing the braided embroidery floss ring he made me in place of anything real, or had we already put our engagement on pause, by that afternoon? If we had already paused, would that make it October? The house windows were covered with plastic, peeking out from behind shrubbery giving the home a nearly haunted feeling. 

Or was that cream-colored ring tucked next to my stuffed bear and family photos and safely into my cedar jewelry box in my dorm room by then? I’m not sure. I want to say yes. I can’t remember wearing it as I made the trip to the house with my grocery bag of food prepared for him. I want to say this was in September, after our engagement but during our engagement pause while trying to come to our senses that our quick relationship might have been an ill-advised mistake and needed time to breathe. I want to say I was thinking and breathing and figuring it out without my braided noose of a ring, but I was there, in that white virginal house when I wasn’t supposed to be.  

I’m not sure. Maybe it was October. 

I can’t remember how I forgave him or how I moved on and took the blame that should have never been mine.

I wasn’t supposed to be there, but there I was, packing up discarded forks and lids and napkins. There he was, not painting but pinning me to the vanity, undoing my packing up. I remember the feeling between us shifted. I remember I laughed, nervously. I remember I kissed him long and hard. I remember I bargained with him that I needed to get home; I had things to do. I remember I wanted to leave. I remember moving to the living room to that taut, paint-speckled plastic on the floor. I remember my sides being seized, my body deftly being turned toward him, dropping my bag. I remember giving in, just a little, assuming that if I did, he’d let me go. Let me leave. Listen. I remember hitting the floor. Or dropping to the floor. Or just being on the floor. But I can’t remember exactly. Did I slide down to try to get out of the way? Did he push me down? I remember him on top of me. I remember the instant panic. I remember him ignoring my struggle. I remember turning my head side to side. I remember trying to push him up. Off. Away.  

I don’t remember saying no.

I wasn’t supposed to be there. That was always a sticking point for how much blame I assumed over the years. More important points of the afternoon were damned and blurred as if under that fresh coat of paint, rollered over and quickly concealed from anyone but my eye knew where to find the flaw pushed into that perfect paint job. “I wasn’t supposed to be there” kept seeping through, neon highlighted and it became the only point I could focus on, then, as I pushed and struggled and later, as I reordered things in my mind to try and make it make sense.

I was lucky. I got away before anything worse happened.  

But I wasn’t supposed to be there.

He was sorry. The flowers were lovely.  

But I wasn’t supposed to be there.

I think I love him, we all make mistakes.  

But I wasn’t supposed to be there.

If it was September, our relationship would last another nearly four months. If it was October, three. Not that one is better than the other, except three months is shorter and it could be argued that shorter is better, in a relationship like that. Except, at that point, I’m hard-pressed to see any difference at all between three or four. Three. Four. I still stayed.

I remember digging a hole in that taut plastic that covered the living room carpet and pushing enough to get up and out. I don’t remember saying goodbye. I remember the walk back toward my dorm was long. I remember I cut through the alleyway hoping to avoid seeing anyone. I remember the last thing I wanted to do was cry. I don’t remember crying at all. I remember walking through the front gates and into the courtyard of dorm number two but instead of turning left and going up the stairs to my apartment, I kept walking straight and right out of the back gates of dorm number two and across the parking lot and into the botanical gardens. I remember I stayed there until people came and then I moved to the student center, out onto the intake grate that few knew about and people watched, just out of sight. 

I can’t remember how long I was gone. I can’t remember what was going through my head. I can’t remember what finally compelled me off of the student center intake grate and back toward dorm number two and in through the gate and up that flight of stairs and into my apartment. I can’t remember if anyone was home or if the phone rang that night or the next. 

I do remember a grand apology in the library, complete with mixed tape and soft words and humbled eyes covered by great hair, but I think that was earlier, in the summer, and not for this offense but another one. I can’t remember if he even acknowledged what had happened or if he explained it away. I can’t remember how I forgave him or how I moved on and took the blame that should have never been mine. 

I wasn’t supposed to be there, but I can never forget that I was. I wasn’t supposed to be there. It took years before I realized that simply didn’t matter and was never the point.

Tawnya Gibson is a freelance writer who grew up in the high desert of southwest New Mexico. She received her degree in journalism and public relations from Utah State University. Her work has appeared in TODAY online, Zibby Mag, Under The Gum Tree, Sky Island Journal, Blue Mountain Review (among others) and she was a longtime contributor to Utah Public Radio. She currently lives and works in the mountains of Northern Utah, but her New Mexican roots still occasionally bleed through her work.