An excerpt from carmenmmachado’s new memoir, In the Dream House
Photo: chainat prachatree/Getty Images/iStockphoto Dream House As Noir She is not your first female crush, or your first female kiss, or even your first female lover. But she is the first woman who wants you in that way — desire tinged with obsession. She is the first woman who yokes herself to you with the label girlfriend. Who seems proud of that fact. And so when she walks into your office and tells you that this is what it’s like to date a woman, you believe her.
Dream House As House in Iowa In late October, she visits you in Iowa City and decides to be a Dalek for Halloween. You are confused by this, profoundly, because she scorns the most earnest bits of nerd culture for reasons that are never precisely clear. She’s never seen a single episode of Doctor Who. When you tell her you’re going to be a Weeping Angel , you have to explain the villain to her.
You are definitely the most uncool person ever to attend this M.F.A. program. The woman from the Dream House, as a Dalek, can barely move through the crowd. People keep knocking into her costume. You want to tell her a joke — “Start yelling ‘Exterminate!’ People will move!” — but she wouldn’t get it. You watch her down one drink, then another.
Dream House As Inventory She makes you tell her what is wrong with you. This is a favorite activity; even better than her telling you what is wrong with you. Years later, it’s a habit that’s hard to break. You pull away from New Haven alternating between the radio, conversation, and silence. You scoot down through Connecticut and New York. In Pennsylvania the light drops away early, and rain glosses the pavement. Somewhere in the middle of the endless, hilly length of this state, the one you’d grown up in, she interrupts herself midsentence.
Afterward, the drive is framed by the wet, dark mountains. You remember going through Pennsylvania around Christmas the year before and seeing 18-wheelers overturned on the side of these same roads, their engine blocks blackened by extinguished fires. And cars, too, on the highway’s shoulder, casually burning. She goes 80, 90 miles per hour, and you have to look away from the climbing needle. The shadowy shapes of deer pass in front of you through curtains of rain. I am going to die, you think.
When you first came to Bloomington—when you helped her find the Dream House — it was impossibly bright. It was late spring, and the trees were electric, new-growth neon green. Now the leaves burn in red and orange, and brown ones spiral away from the branches. The season is dying and you are going to die too, you are certain, this night.
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