Parts by Allison Field Bell
In the author’s note for her flash essay, “Parts,” Allison Field Bell writes, “When I write nonfiction, I can externalize a memory so that I can let go of it.” Although “Parts” is written in first person POV, the manifestation of the protagonist as having distinct parts with conflicting interests allows the reader to see them as third-person characters in her externalized memories. Part 1 and Part 2 are equally well-drawn, demonstrating the internal agony that Field Bell felt during a year-long breakup. They don’t just coexist. They interact, and argue, each harboring their own interests and memories. Field Bell writes, “Part 1 wants to leave him this time, but Part 2 begs her. Part 2 says Remember when we were ill? Remember how he didn’t leave us? Part 1 shrugs. Part 2 wins again.”
But there are actually four characters in this flash essay: “strong-willed” Part 1, “open wound” Part 2, Field Bell’s soon-to-be-ex-partner, and the narrator. The narrator, who knows how the story ends, doesn’t recall every detail. Field Bell writes, “We’re fighting about sunflowers again. Or maybe the yard. Or maybe the fact that I left a dish in the sink. Or that I bought charcuterie items on the shared card.” But the narrator masterfully lays out the chronology of events, and tracks Part 1 and Part 2 through their battles and collaboration. “I am and I love both of these parts,” Field Bell tells the reader in her author’s note. And through the meticulous depiction of her internal battle, Field Bell lets the reader get to know her narrator just a bit more intimately.
In her craft essay, “Making yourself a character in your story,” Nicole Breit writes, “In that one-step-removed perspective of witness, we may find we appreciate the challenges we’ve faced with a compassion we may not normally allow ourselves, but would a dear friend.” Allison Field Bell invents herself as not one, but three characters in her story, allowing the parts of herself to live and breathe, all the while letting go of a situation that felt claustrophobic and painful. Her narrator treats both “Parts” of her character with weight, kindness, and tenderness, qualities we very rarely afford ourselves as people. —CRAFT
I.
He tells me my body is deteriorating. Just like that. He says, “Your body is deteriorating.” Part 1 of me says Fuck you. Part 2 of me weeps.
II.
We’re fighting about sunflowers again. Or maybe the yard. Or maybe the fact that I left a dish in the sink. Or that I bought charcuterie items on the shared card. Whatever we’re fighting about, we hit some ceiling in his mind. He says, “I’m done. I’m done with you.” Like I’m a thing to be discarded. A beer bottle or a shoebox. Part 1 of me says Finally. Part 2 of me wants to drop to my knees and beg. Please, Part 2 says. Please please please. Two hours later, he apologizes. He wants to stay together. Part 2 feels grateful for his change of heart. Part 1 says, aloud, “I’ll have to think about it.”
III.
Thinking about it. I’m in Montana for a residency. Part 1 feels free. The high mountain air. A forest full of berries. Puffy afternoon clouds. Feet in the water of a fresh cool stream. Part 2 wonders what he’s doing. Part 2 calls him sometimes when there’s service. Part 2 says “I love you” on the phone.
IV.
Thinking about it still. I’m at a wedding in California. Part 1 relishes the independence. The seaside hotel room all to myself. Part 1 masturbates and thinks nothing of him. Part 2 cries during the vows. Not because of happiness but because Part 2 isn’t sure she’ll ever love someone again. Part 1 thinks Part 2 is pathetic. Part 1 chugs whiskey like it’s her job.
V.
Part 2 wins.
VI.
Six months later, I’m at a conference in Seattle. Ten days on my own. Part 1 says Hell yeah. Part 2 whispers I miss him. I eat oysters and walk around the fish market. I stay up late drinking with strangers. I say clever things and wear black dresses. Part 1 feels smart and desirable. Part 2 feels like a cheater. Emotionally or whatever. Part 2 chastises Part 1 back in the hotel room. Bad bad bad, Part 2 says.
VII.
When I return from Seattle, he has packed his things into his car. He is leaving me for real this time. Part 1 rolls her eyes. This again? Part 2 cries shaking loud sobs. Part 2 is really worked up. She calls all the people she knows. He drives away.
VIII.
He drives back to me. Part 1 cannot forgive him. Part 2 helps him enroll in an outpatient program. Part 2 believes: This is mental illness. Part 1 thinks that’s bullshit. Part 1 wants to leave him this time, but Part 2 begs her. Part 2 says Remember when we were ill? Remember how he didn’t leave us? Part 1 shrugs. Part 2 wins again.
IX.
We’re in France together. Chamonix. The mountains are snowcapped and pink in the sunset. We’re at a restaurant. Michelin-starred. I’m eating foie gras. Decadent. Part 1 is talking about the future. Her ambitions. Her willingness to be patient and her intention to piece something together until she can get a full-time professorship. Part 2 is silent, waiting, scared. He says, “If you don’t get a tenure-track job next year, I will resent you and feel like I wasted four years of my life.”
X.
Part 1 laughs. Part 2 cowers. The restaurant is full of real crystal glasses. The restaurant is dark. There is a river below the restaurant and in it is fastmoving snowmelt water. Part 2 feels like she’s collapsing. Part 1 feels like she’s rising up. This is it, they both realize. No more, they decide. Later that night he and I have sex, but it is a sad sex. Afterward, Parts 1 and 2 say nothing, united at last. There’s quiet. Just the dark Chamonix night, my breath, and his gentle snoring.
ALLISON FIELD BELL is a multi-genre writer from California. She is the author of two forthcoming collections: Bodies of Other Women (fiction) and All That Blue (poetry). She is also the author of three chapbooks: Stitch (forthcoming), Without Woman or Body, and Edge of the Sea. Find her on Twitter @afb16.
Featured image by Alan Jiang, courtesy of Unsplash.
