Prudence 3

The Sculpture Garden


I did not see her the next day, and I was not myself the next day. I went to my classes, but why did I even bother? The lectures could have been delivered in Greek and I wouldn’t even have noticed.

How was I going to leave things the way they were?

My action and decision were no more than a little kid’s hands trying to cover his eyes and ears, and hoping that scary things or things that he didn’t quite know to handle would just go away. I was trying to make believe that the way things had been had indeed been okay, and that they indeed would remain as they were if we did not venture on any further. But I also realized that what had been developing into this strange relationship of ours was not the norm, despite all my attempt to downplay, to suppress, to deny, and even to reverse, albeit half-hearted and futile, its happening.

To leave things the way they were required the presumption of an irrefutable stability of things as they were.

Yeah, sure. Stability. Undeniable stability.

Even with the most complex denial mechanism that I was deploying, I could not help seeing that what we had was everything but stability. Something was bound to give; someone was bound to breakdown.

She did.

And she sat there with me in that cold night, tears in her eyes, her heart pounding, her lips trembling, her soul displayed, only to go on hearing my continued pretense as if nothing had happened?

Where were all this pretension and denying of mine leading us? What good were they now? What was I doing to myself? To her?

She took a chance and spoke her heart, or at least she was ready to. What about me? Would I speak my heart? Or would I continue on denying myself that chance, too? How long could I continue like this?

Is there Right or Wrong in this matter? And is it Bad to find yourself in what seems like the Wrong setting? Even if you never meant to be in it ? Never wanted to be the key character? to play a major role?

Sometime ago, somewhere, probably in New York, a philosopher had written, "...Life is what happens to you while you're busy making other plans." Shortly after that, he was killed by a crazed man's bullet, leaving behind his wife and his Beautiful Boy, Sean Lennon, to whom he had dedicated the song.

It's no use questioning Life. Either live it, or get out.

That night, I lay in my bed and stared at the ceiling again.

"...Live it, or get out...," I kept hearing myself. "Live it; take control of the situation, or stay the heck away from her, from them."

The two horns of the dilemma became two obvious choices; but that did not mean it was going to be any easier. It only meant that I realized that the ball was now in my court.

It was my turn to face Life; harsh as it may have seemed.


* * *


I was anxious to see her again. But to add to my anxiety and agitation, she was nowhere to be found in the cafeteria, where our pseudorelationship had had its strongest expression, and where I had been at my best and my strongest in our interaction.

The following day, sometime in the afternoon, she came to the reading room and found a seat a few seats away from me. She glanced at me to say hello, as if nothing had happened. I of course had been at the edge of my seat the whole afternoon waiting for her to show up and debating on what I had to say to her.

Shortly after she made herself comfortable, I was at her side.

"Can we talk?" I whispered.

She looked at me, somewhat surprised, and nodded.

We walked to the outside through the main entrance of Powell Library.

It was a sunny Winter afternoon. The air was brisk, and the sun kept us warm if we kept walking. Royce Hall loomed majestically from across the quad, silently witnessing my incredible apprehension as we walked toward Janss Steps.

We sat atop the 87-step red-brick staircase, overlooking the Men's and Women's gyms, the intramural field, Drake Stadium and its track field, and afar, on another hilltop, the dorms.

A few people walked by, but no one took advantage of the steps as we did.

We sat there, silent and motionless. Without movement, it was rather cold.

She waited this time. It was my turn to talk.

"The other night..." I uttered.

She cut me off, "The other night was history. It never happened."

I was taken aback, "What do you mean?" Red lights and "Danger" signs were flashing in my head.

She looked away, "Forget about what happened the other night. As you said, let's just leave things the way they are."

Great! So much for my confused suggestion!

I panicked, "I know I said that. But...I can't do that."

She did not look back toward me, but I felt her attentiveness heavy in my direction. She waited patiently while I struggled with my thoughts.

"I said that because...I do like you. But...you… already have a boyfriend."

She sighed.

I continued, "It hasn't been easy for me. I just don't know how to behave. It's really all up to you. I can't really tell you what to do, or how to feel. However it is you will decide, you'll know what to do."

She sighed again.

After a long pause, she finally said, her voice somewhat trembling, "After the other night, I tried to convince myself that we weren't meant to be together, that I can't be with you in this life."

She paused briefly, then continued, after another sigh, "Mike, I have had much more fun being with you these past two months than with my boyfriend for the past two years."

She had revealed to me more than what I had ever hoped to hear, and she seemed to have accepted the feeble declaration of my affection for her. But what was probably more on her mind now was that she was in no better situation; she already knew that all along. It had been for her only to confront me to admit it. It was an important step, and it was indeed significant that I finally verbally expressed it. But now what?

Now... it was her turn again.

She was deep in her thoughts, and never said anything else.

We finally walked back to the library. I was still feeling incredibly heavy, unrelieved.

Now, it was a different kind of anxiety.

I still could lose her, if I ever did have her.

* * *


A few days later, long and unsettling, with no contact with her in the cafeteria or the library, I found a flower left on my book in the reading room. A note beside it read, "You are right. It's all up to me. And I don't know what to do."

A few hours later, she found me. And we found ourselves at the top of Janss Steps again. It was late in the afternoon.

"He wouldn't let me go..." She said, sighing.

I was at a loss of words. I did not know what to expect when I was walking out here from the library, and I really did not know how to react to that. The only thing that struck me most clearly was that this whole thing had indeed been difficult, and it was not getting any better. Whether we left it alone or not.

Something finally made out of my mouth at the end, "However it'll turn out, I can wait. Even if it will take a couple of years."

What was I saying? I have to try to comprehend my own mind from way back then.

Was I offering to wait for her to break up with her boyfriend, smoothly, without my having anything to do with it? Was I evading the responsibility and the guilt of breaking an existing relationship? I am sure that at least some of my friends then would have pushed me to "go for it." But I wasn't like that; my mind had yet to be exposed to enough of life and love to make such decision.

She was silent, no doubt confused. She didn't seem to fully comprehend what she had heard. Even I now have trouble comprehending the naivete of such statement, and of the mind that had expressed it.

She sighed again. At least hearing her sighs was not as painful as watching her face eclipsed from my insensitivity.

"Let's just be friends."

Classic statement. But not necessarily in a classic setting.

She had expressed as much naivete as I had, proposing the "friendship" as the easiest way out. It was an emergency escape hatch; and here again was the assumption, this time on her part, of an acceptable stability. But it was only a flimsy lid on a roaring inferno that was our mutual feelings for each other.

I agreed to it, sincerely. Or as sincerely as I could be conscious about it. After all, if I were to wait for her for a number of years, I had to be just a friend to her.

That evening, we friendly walked back to the cafeteria for dinner, stirring up friendly conversation, exchanging friendly banter, expressing friendly smiles... behaving in a friendly way altogether.

It was still too fresh to be sitting with our acquaintances in the cafeteria. And we found an empty rectangular table that would have seated eight.

I sat down diagonally across from her, skipping the seat right in front of her.

It would have been too friendly to have sat across from her. Get it??

Thirty seconds into sitting down, I felt awkwardly silly talking to her from an angle.

I coyly remarked, pushing my tray toward the next seat across from her, "This is awkward."

A profound understatement of the decade.

She smiled understandingly.

I loved that smile.


* * *


How long did this friendly relationship last? I don't remember the exact length of time, but I think it was no more than an awkward couple of days.

It was probably during this time that I realized that aside from the fact that we both had openly acknowledged our mutual affection for each other, we really did not make any great stride forward, or backward for that matter, in our pseudorelationship. I still was feeling as miserable as ever, from talking with her, laughing with her, being with her, and knowing that she was not mine.

Sure, we had agreed on a "friendship", but it was just a matter of time before we, or more to the point, I, realized that we could no longer go on pretending that we were happy with our lives the way we were.

I was essentially back to square one. The only difference, and it was an important one, between our situation at that point and before was that I had finally confronted myself and was learning to be a little more decisive and resolute about certain things in this whole interaction.

Still, it was not an easy decision, whatever it might have been. One thing for sure, however, was that I could not go on pretending to be just a friend to her. The ball was back on my court again. The road that I chose came to another fork again, or maybe it was just the same one that I, in my wandering, came across one more time.

I also came to realize that she was having as much difficulty as I in resolving the boyfriend problem. It should have been, and it indeed was, more of a problem for her because she would be more than directly involved – she would be the one to make the decision regarding one man versus the other. As much as I had difficulty dealing with the potential of my causing the break-up, she had even more difficulty doing the breaking up; and from my knowing her, it was understandably so.

Unless, of course, I could give her good reasons to...

Was I ready to make the decision?

And could I live with that decision?

I immersed myself with soul-searching questions constantly during my waking hours, and even in my dreams, as Winter quarter was drawing to an end.


* * *


As finals came looming by, the heat was on. Powell Library was getting more crowded. Even her boyfriend came with her to study one night. In my own Periodical Room.

It was a cold night, and my favorite seat was near the only window left opened. I rather liked having it opened, since the room would have been too stuffy otherwise.

She and her boyfriend were across the room from my seat, facing toward me. She was coughing. A cold?

The silence of the reading room was sprinkled with the sound of page turning and the annoying clicking sound of the numerous four-in-one ballpoint pens as one color was being constantly exchanged for another, and it was occasionally broken with her hacking coughs.

Her boyfriend did not seem to pay any attention to that.

But I did.

Hey! She's suffering!

Then, after another bout of her hacking cough, a seemingly endless one, I got up, unintentionally creating some noise in the process, and turned to close the window.

That took some effort, because I had to get up in a chair in order to reach the window.

A few heads turned toward me. But hers was the one I saw.

Our eyes met, and somehow I had just sent some warmth through that shortest route along our line of sight into her.

She was no longer suffering.

She smiled. And her unspoken "thanks" was as loud and as clear as the soundless expression of her eyes and her smile would carry across the width of that reading room.

Need I even say that I felt absolutely wonderful?

I was her man in that short moment.


* * *


My Gosh! I had never felt like this before. Finals were just a week away, and I didn't seem to care. I constantly thought about her. Before, finals were my life around that time of the quarter. I would eat, sleep, drink, and breathe finals. I would metamorphose into a highly efficient studying machine. But now, she was my life. Every page I turned, I saw her smile; everywhere I went, I heard her laughter; every pony tail I saw, I thought of her.

Okay. So finals needed to be gotten over with – I did want still to pursue medical school, but this part of my life needed to be tended to as well, if not better. How meaningful would my M.D. be without her sharing it with me?

"...Life is what happens to you while you're busy making other plans..."

We had become so close to each other during the past ten weeks; how could I stand seeing her at the dorm, or on campus, walking with her on Bruin Walk, studying with her at the library, without being hers, and her being mine?

How could I continue to pretend to be just friend to her, when all I wanted to do was to embrace her, to hold her tight, and to kiss her whenever we looked at each other?

The choice was obvious. And I had been denying it for so long.


* * *


Dead week – the last week of lectures – marched by, then finals week. I had gotten over with three of my four finals. Friday afternoon, from three to six p.m., the last exam time slot of the last day, would be my Physics final. And as much as I had enjoyed and sailed thru Physics-Mechanics last quarter, Physics-Electricity and Magnetism really threw me for a loop this quarter.

That Wednesday afternoon, I was plugging numbers into formulae and trying to make sense of Electromagnetism. It was an empty day in the Periodical room; half of the campus population probably had finished with their finals and gone home already.

As my fingers were fiddling with the calculator, my mind was filled with images of her. And then, out of the corner of my eyes, I saw her walking by the door and heading toward the Audiovisual room.

I felt my heartbeat suddenly quickened, and this intensified rapidly over the next several seconds. The intensity of each beat began to cause an aching pain in my left chest.

I was, for all intents and purposes of Internal Medicine, having angina.

My heart was beating with such rate and intensity that it was probably needing more blood than it could receive, and part of it was getting suffocated. Whether this was in fact happening physiologically, or psychosomatically caused by overwhelming emotions, I could not really differentiate. But I was sure that if I had glanced down, I could probably see my heartbeat through my chest, although I couldn’t keep my eyes off the doorway.

This kind of electromagnetism could not be elucidated by any physicist, nor could it be explained by any formulation. No number needed to be equated, only feelings expressed. And if no feeling was expressed, all the suppressed energy it generated would explode in the most devastating way. I should know better; because I had been unknowingly experimenting with this dynamitic force for the past ten weeks.

I was about to explode. My chest first, then my mind, then I didn't care about the rest of my body.

I got up out of my seat, my chest aching more than ever with each pounding heartbeat. It could definitely be visualized now; my eyes probably saw it eventhough I kept fixing them at the door as I walked toward it.

(Now I know why Dr. Zhivago died so disappointingly at the end.)

From just inside the entrance to the Audiovisual room, I tiptoed and scouted the room. Each desk was compartmentalized with high sidewalls for privacy and sound insulation, so as to hide the occupant's face. It wasn't hard to spot her in the mostly empty room, even with a headphone on.

She didn't have a language class; what ever could she be listening to?

I came closer to her cubicle. The empty cassette tape holder lying by her arms was “Rubber Soul” by the Beatles.

I recognized that tape, because "Norwegian Wood" was in it.

I had just mentioned that song to her the other night. I did not have one favorite Beatles song – I had many; in fact, almost all of them. But "Norwegian Wood" somehow connected me to her, or her to me.

"...I once had a girl, or should I say, she once had me?"

I approached closer toward her, all the while feeling lightheaded and almost unsteady with my gait, my heart pounding faster and harder than ever. It was like walking a high wire, or at least that was how I would assume high-wire walking would feel like. And there was no safety net.

"...And... when I awoke, I was alone; this bird has flown..."

Don't let this bird fly.

I kneeled down beside her. She wasn't startled.

She slowly turned to me as she removed the headphone, as if she had been expecting me. It was almost surreal.

"It's a very nice song." There was something sad in her eyes as she said it.

I agreed by looking deeply into her eyes.

She stopped looking at me and turned to stare blankly into the back wall of the cubicle, apparently anticipating me to say something yet not needing me to say anything.

"May I talk to you?" I whispered.

"Yes, of course." There was a gleam in her eyes as she looked back toward me.

"When?"

"Now?"

"Of course."

We slowly walked out of the library; we were not in any hurry – we were enjoying each other's company, each deep in each own thoughts.

Outside, a few people were walking by through the quad in front of Royce Hall; a few others studying on the lawn or by the columns of Royce.

"Let's go to the Sculpture Garden." I suggested.

"That'll be nice."

"By the way, there is something I'd like to ask you before we get back."

"What is it?"

"No. Just before we're ready to get back."

"Okay." She didn't push it, because I sounded firm, and she was again deep in her thoughts.

Franklin D. Murphy Sculpture Garden in the north campus was a nice place to stroll, or just to lounge, or to study. I didn’t frequent here much, being a science nerd form the south campus, whereas the northside was home of the liberal arts. I wished it were a bit larger; but still, its gently rolling grass knolls gave it some sense of seclusion, especially if one lay down behind them.

We picked an isolated spot and sat down on the grass.

She had her arms around her knees, one hand toying a blade of grass, her head held slightly down.

She kept silent, anticipating.

I sat down beside her, making sure that I was very comfortable; I did not want to be distracted by anything else right now. I did not start right away, and was still savoring the moment, although somewhat surprised by myself for being so calm and collected.

Finally, I pulled from my pocket and handed her a neatly folded letter that I had written and rewritten until my handwriting was just the way I wanted, and read and reread so many times already. I had to rely on writing because I usually expressed myself better in writing than in words, and I had wanted her to see my thoughts tangibly, and to see them again if she needed to, and for her to have the time to absorb them and think about them.

(I did not use the word "Dear..", one of my fortunately now extinct idiosyncrasies.)

" Jenny,
" It has not been easy. I have come too close to you to continue to repress and ignore what has been going on in my mind.
" I don't want to make you promises. If we get together, sure, there will be differences, but I truly believe that we can learn and grow together, and that we can overcome all hardship.
" I ask whether there is a chance we could be together.
" You owe it to yourself to at least think about this. Whatever your decision, I trust that you will know what to do."
" Love,
" Mike."

It seemed forever since I handed her the letter. Part of me felt relieved that I had delivered the letter; the other part was burning for a reply, or something. Anything. How many times did she read it?

She was still sitting there in the same position, with her arms around her knees, the letter in place of the blade of grass.

Finally, she lowered the letter, drew a long sigh, and muttered, "...I owe it to myself..."

Then there was silence.

I could hear her breathing, slow and regular, somewhat rhythmic. How calm she looked, while I sat there, burning.

Then it was my turn to sigh, "Jenny. It's only a matter of time before I say 'I Love You.'"

I did not lie to her. I wasn't ready to say to her those three words, but they were very, very close. I could just feel them.

I was already in love with her.

She sighed again, softer this time, "It's a very nice letter."

I flushed in acknowledgement of her compliment. She had always been so polite.

I did not expect an answer right there and then, or really, anytime soon. I was sure it was going to take a while before she could make up her mind on such an important decision. But all cues pointed to a favorable response so far.

We remained silent for a time after that.

Words were not necessary at that point. Although each of us was deep in our own thoughts, our minds had just fused and mutually enveloped us in an invisible sphere filled with those warm thoughts.

After a pleasantly long nonverbal communication, we were getting ready to go back. And she remembered.

"You have something to ask me before we leave?"

"Oh yes!" I flushed; I had never really forgotten, because I had been anticipating this moment ever since we left the library.

I paused to compose myself. I was nervous. But it came out more easily than I had thought,

"May I kiss you?"

She was surprised in a subtle way. She blushed, smiled coyly, and slightly lowered her head, all almost simultaneously, and just before a soft whisper, "Yes."

Then she looked up, and our eyes met.

My Gosh! She was beautiful. Her eyes beckoning me to come closer.

I touched her face for the first time. We narrowed the distance, and she slowly closed her eyes.

I laid a soft kiss on her lips.

My first.

There was more of the emotion of kissing than the physical kiss itself, which was too soft and too quick. And I was too nervous.

Nevertheless, what mattered to me was that I asked, she agreed, and we did.

And it was my first.

And with her.

* * *


March 26th, 1981. Drake Stadium

We started back to the library, gathered our stuff, then headed back to the dorm for dinner. We now talked like two birds that just learned how to sing. Our conversation was riddled with spontaneous laughter all the way back to the dorm. We did not hold hands – she had not said yes yet. I was conscious of that and kept my respectful distance.

Along the way back, we briefly stopped by the construction site of the future John Wooden Center. Even the heavy machineries, and the dirt, and the steel beams, and the lumber looked marvelous to us that evening. A large area of dirt had been excavated as part of the construction process, leaving a huge hole in the ground.

"I want to fill that hole with water." I pointed.

"What do you have in mind? Turning it into a swimming pool?" She asked, not a bit surprised by my comment.

I didn't have the slightest idea why on earth I would want to fill that hole with water. If I had to really think about it, it was because it was there, and I was with her.

And everything was right when I was with her.

I came up with a quick answer anyway, "I want to put some alligators in there." I was silly high from being with her.

And we both became hysterical. We laughed until it started hurting, and continued walking back to the dorm.


* * *



Dinner was most interesting. She bombarded me with questions as if she was interviewing me to make a final check on my qualifications.

Did I smoke? Yes, two packs a day, occasional marijuana. She laughed.

Did I drink? Yes, a few shots of whiskey a day, the whole bottle after exams, and I drank beer for water. She laughed.

The laughter and the smiles were nonstop.

We were high. Endorphin was in our blood, and all the receptors were fully saturated.

Love was a good drug. And I didn’t mind the addiction.

How radiant she looked, always beaming a bright smile and breaking up readily in laughter at the smallest and silliest of my jokes.

I felt light, as if I were on the moon's gravitational force. Intense energy filled our lungs with each breaths, and high-voltage electricity flowed through our line of sight; and there were plenty of eyes indulging on eyes.

I was having an ordinary cafeteria dinner with her, but my eyes were feasting on her smiles, and her eyes, and her hair, and her lips. And my ears were drinking the continuous stream of her laughter. And I was swimming in and splashing in her loveliness, her radiance, her presence. Her.

I was having the dinner of my life.

We. Were. In. Love.


* * *

After dinner, she followed me a short distance back to the library. She had finished with her finals, but I still had one more to go.

Descending the west end of Bruin Walk from the dorm, we came to an entrance to Drake Stadium. Unplanned and without a spoken word, we both spontaneously headed toward the seating area high above and overlooking the track field below.

It was dark, and I thought that there was no one else around us, until she pointed to a lone jogger on the track. At least one of us had 20/20 vision.

It was a cool night, but we were warm with our arms around each other. Numerous bright stars were out, and we were admiring them.

She pointed to one, "Look how bright that star is; it looks really close to us."

I lined my sight along her arm, my head brought close to hers.

That star was indeed the brightest, and seemingly closest.

"We are up there at this moment." I whispered into her ear.

She smiled again, blissfully agreeing.

She was the better astronomer of the two. But she did not realize that she was the brightest and closest star in my universe.

I gently touched her cheek and caressed down her chin. She closed her eyes.

We kissed again.

My second.

It was a long, slow, deliberate kiss. And I felt incredibly lightheaded for the duration.

I never realized that kissing was like tasting.

I tasted her.

I inhaled and swallowed everything that was she through her breaths and her lips.

During that moment, we rose above the seats; everything around us faded into emptiness.

There was no more Drake Stadium; no jogger. UCLA just vanished, and the earth just involuted. We were left floating somewhere in space, inseparable through our kiss.

Nothing else seemed to matter. Not the President of the United States; not the Russians, or the Ayatollah, or the Nobel Price. Not the MCAT, or Medical School; not books, not lectures, not finals, not letter grades...

We were unbounded by the earth, already in space; even Time was subject to Relativity. And we would care less about Father Time anyway.

If somehow we could become forever fused with that kiss, hanging there in outerspace, and every cells in our bodies would slowly grind to a halt and deteriorate and decompose over time, I would be perfectly fine with that. I would be in eternal bliss.

But we landed at last. And I finally regained my consciousness.

She gently pushed me away, feigning a terrified look, "Wait! Did I say yes?"

I was caught off-guard. "Oh!..." was all that could come out of my mouth. No doubt I must have looked rather foolish.

She laughed blissfully, drawing me closer once again, "Yes! Yes! Yes! A million yes!"

We were off in space again.

It was a perfect evening.

Drake Stadium, UCLA.

It was Wednesday, March 26, 1981.

***