by Jessica Taylor
I had been in Australia for seven weeks when I finally accepted that Albert wasn’t going to marry me. I followed him to Sydney like a puppy dog, tongue panting, eyes focused lovingly on him. I realize now his gaze never fell on me like that.
I was an uncivilized American (so said he), trying to latch onto his brilliant self who had come to Seattle on a student internship. I was twenty-one, he was twenty, and he lived next-door in a tiny studio apartment bigger than mine. When I felt that pull of attraction, he helped me clean his apartment. He didn’t know how to care for himself or his things and he had never lived away from home. I remember now how much I mothered him.
Albert was just beautiful. Taller than me with long, luxurious black hair and deep, dark brown eyes. He was Burmese; his parents fled Myanmar and met in Sydney in the 1970s. They eventually divorced, Albert staying with his father near Sydney and his sister going with their mother to the Gold Coast. Albert took a while to crack but he turned out to be quite fun and silly. I was his manic-pixie-dream-girl who had moved to Seattle after being released from a psychiatric hospital. He loved that about me, my manias and flighty ideas; he encouraged the highs.
He had taken me from Sydney to meet his mother, then chose to leave me with her and his sister and return to Sydney. His mother hated me, saying I was a “worthless American.” He had said I “lacked manners,” and his sister kept repeating it mockingly. Not wanting to be where I didn’t feel welcome, I grabbed my rolling suitcase and hoofed it down the highway.
I headed away from the water thinking I needed to save money for further adventures. I tried and failed to book a room in a dingy motel with my only card; I had run out of credit. Dejected, frustrated, and angry I turned toward the beach, not really knowing what I was going to do but knowing I’d like to be near the water when I decided. As I got lost on that long, meandering walk I reconciled to leave Australia and Albert. Hours later, I found an ATM and a Marriott Hotel. Choosing to treat myself, I paid cash for a balcony room overlooking the ocean.
After ordering room service and calling my mom, I walked to the beach and sat in the sand, soaking up the blustery wind, the smell of the salt, and the rush of the sea. I imagined pathways opening to me that were better than “marrying an Australian.” I could be more than arm candy.
Twenty-four years later I look at who I was and smile; arm candy manic-pixie-dream-girl is no more. In her place stands a woman with earned wisdom, eighteen years of incredible marriage based on love and collaboration, a fantastic ten-year-old, and endless whispers of opportunity.
Jessica Taylor is an aspiring writer who lives in Albuquerque with her husband, son, and cat.