I need to thank Adam Phillips, author of Crosscurrents (http://archerland.disbelieve.org/adam.htm) for his help with this chapter. Thank you also to Bill for his editing help.
Finally, as always, thank you to my partner. I love you more than words can ever express.
Chapter 16
Erica and work helped me return to the land of the living.
There were a couple of paradoxes here. First of all, Erica had come
into my
life because she was a friend of the man who nearly killed me. That
doesn't
sound like a reasonable description of someone who'd help me heal. For
all
that, though, she was the one person who didn't seem to attach any
pressure to
my recovery.
I should explain that a little. It wasn't that other people were
pressuring me;
it's just that I knew them and loved them; had a history with them.
When it
came out that I liked guys, and now, especially, when they'd seen how I
was
such a loser I allowed myself to get into a gay relationship with a guy
who
treated me like...well, I felt that I had let them down or disgusted
them.
They'd invested a lot in me by accepting me, and when I saw them
hurting as a
result of all this stuff, I saw it as something I'd inflicted on them.
As far
as I was concerned, their emotional distress was all my fault.
Consequently, I
just couldn't face them. But I didn't have quite the same history with
Erica;
it didn't seem to me that I had inflicted any hurt on her. For her
part, it was
clear that she just wanted to be there for me. She'd sit with me, talk
with me
about inconsequential things, let me know in her casual way that I
could rely
on her and that I wouldn't have to deal with any hassle. There was
never any
pressure to open up, and on my end there was never any self-applied
pressure to
make her feel better about things.
In addition to Erica, though, my work, which required me to help people
who'd
been through the kind of experience I'd just had, helped me recover.
I won't say that I got better in no time at all. The aftermath of
Neal's attack
was brutal for me. I was jumpy and stressed as I'd never been before.
Post-traumatic-stress attacks came frequently. In addition, I was
ashamed over
the fact that I'd allowed myself to get into the very same kind of
relationship
I used to counsel people against at work, and I felt guilty for having
tolerated things so long that my friends had been placed at risk. I
think it
was Neal's threats to harm Brian that finally pushed me to get away
from him,
but it made me sick to think I'd let it go so far that my boyfriend had
threatened to drag Brian into his sick world
Being abused by Neal galvanized me to try to make a difference for
other people
who had experienced what I had. In addition to returning to work at the
AIDS
service organization, I started doing rape crisis work in town part
time as
well. There was a men's support group and a teen support group that I
co-facilitated and I did some individual crisis counseling on call and
handled
most of the cases with juveniles. We handled all sexual assaults
in the
state. The legislature had mandated that an advocate be present for any
sexual
assault victim who entered the system. It meant a lot of late
nights in
hospital rooms, but I'd survived a college career that put two jobs on
top of
the demands of studying, so I knew I could deal with the schedule.
However, it
also involved regular contact with the kinds of experiences that had
given me
my post-traumatic stress disorder. Oddly, when I was doing crisis
work
I'd automatically slip into a kind of almost-trance. In that state, my
mind was
entirely engaged, but it was a little as though I was standing outside
myself,
sizing up the situation, and watching myself perform on the job. I
could
analyze what people were saying to me, and empathize on some level, but
it
wasn't altogether engaging emotionally. Occasionally one of the kids
would get
to me, but not often.
Actually, most of my life felt like that. If I was up and
functional at
any given moment, chances were pretty good I was in that
"stand-outside-myself" state. Functioning felt, in effect, like
watching someone else live my life. The numbness ratcheted up
several
levels when I was on the job. Nothing hit me emotionally, because
I
wasn't there to get hit. Occasionally during the course of a day,
I'd
sink down into myself temporarily; this inevitably threw me into the
grips of a
flashback. But my psyche would always provide me an escape route as it
floated
back into that odd sort of self-dislocation from which I'd descended at
the
point of the flashback.
One day, however, work slammed me back into myself, and from then on,
going
completely numb was never again as easy.
I'd been called to the hospital emergency room. A little girl of seven
years
old had been brought in because she'd made an outcry about being
molested by a
friend of the family who was staying at her home.
Katie was short for her age. She was kind of heavy; not truly
overweight, but
not slender, either. Her long, straight, stringy, dark blond hair could
have
used some TLC from her mom; her thick glasses were old-fashioned in
style and
unflattering to her face. He clothes didn't match and didn't fit her:
The shirt
had pink and white stripes and was too small, riding up above her
wrists and
stomach, and the pants were an awful pea green corduroy, and they were
way too
long. It was obvious she was one of those kids who just didn't
fit in. It
was just as obvious that her parents couldn't have cared less.
The hospital staff and the police had both tried to engage Katie in
conversation, but she was painfully shy. I'd been contacted as the
official
advocate for the victim. When I walked in, she was sitting in a
chair in
a cold room in ER; five adults--a police detective, a nurse, and man
and two
women--were standing in the room. The man and one of the two
women--Katie's
parents--were visibly angry. The other woman seemed anxious.
>From the instant I saw her, Katie ripped at my heart. Her face and
posture
registered the kind of pain that I'd been trying to deal with my whole
life. I
hadn't done a very good job of sympathizing with myself, but from
almost the
first point of eye contact with her, I wanted to protect her, and take
her away
from her hurt...which, I knew, was my hurt.
As I introduced myself to the adults, she stood up and came over to me
and took
my hand. Her parents chided her for this unseemly display of affection
and
apologized to me, but I wasn't having any of that. I took her hand,
smiled at
her, and told her my name and explained that I was there to help her.
The other lady in the room--the mother of Katie's cousin--explained to
me that
Katie claimed to have been molested with some frequency by the family
friend.
Apparently she'd never said anything until her cousin had also been
molested as
she was staying over one night. Katie had told her parents on several
previous
occasions that the house guest was hurting her, but they didn't believe
her. It
wasn't until he had touched her cousin that anything happened. The
cousin told
her mother, and the mother immediately called Katie's parents and
demanded that
Katie be taken to ER.
Thank God for Katie's cousin's mom: She was the only reason Katie had
gotten
help. As I began to move into "work mode," Katie seemed to open up to
me almost by reflex. When I sat down to talk to her, she crawled up
into my lap
and began to talk about what the family friend had done to her.
She'd hardly gotten the initial details of her story told before her
father
interrupted her and said, "She's lying. Jack wouldn't do anything like
that. You better shut your mouth, Katie, or when we get home..."
Before he'd gotten the sentence fully out of his mouth, I looked up at
him,
glared, and said, "Stop." I patted Katie on the shoulder and
said, "I need to talk to your parents for just a minute, Katie. Can I
get
up for a minute and take them to another room where they can sit down
and talk
with me? I promise I'll be back soon. You can sit with Mrs. Spencer
here until
I come back, okay?" I nodded in the direction of the young ER
nurse
who was attending.
Katie looked at me apprehensively, the pain of the world--and a trust
that made
me want to sob--radiating from her eyes. She said, quietly, "Okay...and
just you come back, okay?" Her mother glared at her, but before
she
said anything, her cousin's mom said, "Let's go, Michelle," motioning
her and her husband out the door. When they'd made it through the
doorway, she
fell in behind them. I smiled at Katie and said, "I'll be back soon."
The police detective followed along behind me.
I led them into a small conference room where we all sat down.
Her father
began, "This is none of you people's business. Just stay the hell out
of
it and let us go home, or I'll have to get my lawyer down here. Do you
understand how embarrassing it is to have the police here? This little
girl has
been a liar since she was able to talk. She doesn't need police and
doctors.
She needs a good spanking."
"Mr. Hill," I said, hanging onto my patience as tightly as I could,
"Kids don't make this kind of stuff up. Not kids Katie's age."
"That's bullshit," her father said. "I've known Jack since we
were kids and if you people believe this trash from that little liar,
you're
fucking stupid."
The mother of the other girl glared at him and said, "I don't believe
this. You're taking his side against your own daughter?" She
started to argue with Katie's dad, but I intervened. We had business to
take
care of.
I tried to explain the dynamics of traumatization to them. I kept
repeating
that seven-year-olds, unless they had been prematurely and
inappropriately
sexualized, simply weren't in a developmental state to engage their
imaginations along those lines. Over and over I repeated that kids
Katie's age
must be taken seriously when they make outcries of sexual abuse,
because they
didn't even know enough about sexuality to know what to make up.
It was like talking to brick walls. Angry brick walls. Human brick
walls
determined to blame their daughter rather than to accept that she'd
been a
victim. It was, frankly, something I'd experienced before in my own
life. I
understood Katie's pain far too well; the parents of this little girl
were so
much like my parents it was frightening.
It took all my self-control to keep from decking them both. The
detective who
was there was having even more trouble. As this futile, twisted
conversation continued, he kept excusing himself to "take care of
something" just to cool down before he dealt with them again. Finally,
as
it became clear that reasoning wasn't going to do it, he said, "Look,
it
doesn't really matter what you think or say, this is a legal matter
now. She'll
need to come down to the station. I have to get a statement."
The parents were intimidated enough not to respond. I said, "Katie's
been
alone long enough in that room. We need to get back to her." We
returned
to the ER room and Katie ran toward me, grabbing my hand. Her mother
sent
daggers my way with her eyes, but I didn't care. Someone had to be
there for
this child. I sat beside her while the hospital staff examined her,
throughout
the whole ordeal.
After the exam was over, the detective said, "We'll need Katie to make
a
statement. Call tomorrow and set up a time." He looked at the
cousin's mother and said, "We'll need Courtney's statement as well,
ma'am.
It would be best if we could talk to the two girls together."
"Absolutely," Courtney's mom said. "We'll be there."
The interview took place the next week. Katie had called the center and
asked
them not to send any other advocate but me. When I got there, she
insisted on
sitting in my lap, and when the police came to interview her, she
begged me to
be in the room instead of her parents. This caused her parents to heap
all
kinds of cruel verbal assaults on her. Katie's response was to try to
disappear
into my lap. But I managed to be the adult in the room when she was
interviewed
rather than her parents.
Katie's narrative before the police was shy, fragmentary, pained. Her
cousin's
was the polar opposite. Courtney was a pretty girl who spoke with
self-assurance. She was articulate and determined. She was clearly
concerned
about Katie's welfare throughout this whole ordeal; she seemed to want
to take
Katie under her wing and protect her. Her mother was much the same.
She and I left the room briefly as the detective interviewed the two
girls. In
the hall Courtney's mother stopped me and talked to me a little about
her
daughter and about Katie. She told me how hard her sister was on all
their
kids. She told me that if she hadn't insisted, the Hills would never
have taken
Katie to the hospital. As I talked with Courtney's mother, it
became
clear to me that Courtney would be okay. I wasn't at all as sure about
Katie.
After a couple of hours, my work for the evening was done. I left the
police
station that night praying hard that Katie would be okay; I thought
about the
contrast between Katie and myself. I had issues, but as far back as I
can
remember I was a survivor. Although I felt beaten down, I had come to
understand that I was strong. I refused to let anything in my life
break me.
But here was Katie; only seven, and it seemed as though already her
spirit was
broken.
That was the last time I saw her. I couldn't do any follow up
without her
parent's permission. When she left the station that day she
tugged on my
hand until I knelt down at her level. She gave me the tightest hug I
think I've
ever had and slipped a little pink teddy bear eraser into my hand, and
whispered, "thank you". I still have that eraser, some fifteen years
later.
After that, I couldn't quite keep myself numb as easily. Katie
had
switched something on in me, and I couldn't turn it back off. I
still
wasn't entirely "there," but I was never able to go fully numb after
that. In the following weeks, I could feel myself coming alive, maybe
more
fully than I'd been in years. It was akin to that feeling when you get
stitches
and the numbing agent begins to wear off, but its effects are still
lingering:
You can feel where it is going to hurt, and can sense the stitches and
bandage,
but it's not really a "real" sensation; not quite. It feels more as
though you're about to feel. That's the way life felt for me
in the
aftermath of Katie. Sometimes, in the months that followed, even that
semi-numbness would wear off and I'd be left raw and hurting; then the
pain of
my world would overwhelm me again, and I'd float myself above the pain,
but
after Katie, whenever I floated away, I could only get semi-numb.
She
had brought me that far.
* * * * * * * * *
Erica and I were "just friends" all through that summer and into the
fall. Given what she'd seen when she found me lying on the
kitchen floor,
she had to have known what had happened to me. She never made me talk
about it
with her, though. It's difficult to describe how that one little thing
felt so
supportive. I knew that people wanted--almost needed--me to say
something about the whole sordid incident with Neal. With Erica, not
only did
she never ask; I never even felt any pressure to talk about it.
It was easy being with her at first, because we had topics to deal with
together:
I was still helping her with her classes. I'm not sure what possessed
her to go
into engineering; she had difficulty with nearly every course. But the
task at
hand made the content of our communication clear and definite. We
developed a
routine. As she'd study one course, I'd read another of her texts and
when I'd
finished, I'd explain it to her. Gradually, our study sessions began to
end
with a little casual conversation, and before too long, our friendship
had
progressed to the point that we spent lots of time talking about
absolutely
everything under the sun.
Everything except what had happened to me, of course.
She talked plenty about herself: Erica had some personal
familiarity with
problems. She had been addicted to meth in high school. Both of her
parents
were addicts, her father to heroin and her mother to barbiturates. She
had a
younger brother and sister, and they were both in their own heaps of
trouble.
Erica herself was clean then, or at least claimed to be. At the time, I
believed her. In any case, I think her own personal troubles gave her
compassion for mine. She must have had more than her own fill of people
pressuring her, because she seemed to know, almost instinctively, that
the best
thing she could do for me was to let me help her with her schoolwork,
and to
enjoy my company, and to avoid discussion of my troubles.
As the summer faded into fall, I realized both how much I needed her
and how
the Walkers had faded from my life. After a few months of trying to get
me to
talk to him, Brian had backed off. He and Erica had become friends, and
while
I'd stay at home and read or watch TV or spend extra time at work, the
two of
them would frequently go out partying. The only time I ever really saw
him was
when he came by to pick her up. On those occasions we'd say hi to each
other
and make a little small talk, but the encounters were always awkward. I
was
still deeply ashamed that Brian had known what I'd let Neal do to me.
Brian,
for his part, never had much to say to me. The net result was that,
more than
ever, I was convinced he was disgusted with me. Disgusted with me for
having a
sexual relationship with a man, and disgusted with me for being so weak
and
spineless that I'd let a guy do to me what Neal had done.
One Friday evening after Erica had gone out partying with Brian she'd
come home
a little earlier than she usually did on weekends. I was still up
watching TV;
the station's late movie was Field of Dreams.
She came in and sat down beside me. We watched together quietly for a
while,
occasionally commenting on the unfolding story. As the final credits
rolled, I
said, "You have a good time tonight?"
"Yeah, I guess," she said, "At least when I could get Brian's
attention."
"What do you mean?" I asked.
"Oh, nothing," she replied, trying to backpedal a little.
"He...well, he was drinking a little, maybe no more than me, I guess,
but..." She paused briefly. The look on her face suggested that she was
unsure whether to continue that thought out loud.
I wasn't going to let her leave it like that. "But what?" I insisted.
"Oh, nothing, Sam, it's none of my business what he does; we're not
dating...we just party together."
"Look, Erica," I said with intensity, "You were going to say
something. You had a serious look on your face. What did you mean when
you said
you couldn't get him to pay you any attention?"
"He parties real serious, Sam, that's all I was saying. My presence was
optional. And when he did acknowledge I was there, it was
like...well,
he..." She shrugged, wrinkled up her face, and said, "Mehh. Never
mind. Let's talk about your stellar evening instead."
She
laughed, which irritated me no end. She wasn't finished here, as far as
I was
concerned, and we were not going to make this about me.
At least I thought we weren't.
I looked at her and said emphatically, "I wanna know what you meant.
About
the partying and about what you meant when he did act like you
were in
the room."
She sighed in exasperation. "He drinks, Sam. A lot. Every night. I
don't
feel good about it. It looks too familiar. You happy now?"
I looked at her, astonished. Brian had always been a life-of-the-party
guy, and
had sometimes gone too far with the drinking, but it had never been an
every-night binge with him. "What else?" I asked.
"What do you mean?"
"You said that when he did notice you in the room..."
"Oh, that," she said, interrupting me. "Well, all night long it
was all always about you."
My stomach felt as if I'd just dropped two floors in a defective
elevator. I
looked her in the eye and asked, "What do you mean?"
"Well," she answered, "it seemed like whenever he was talking to
me, all he would do was grill me about you. He spent the whole evening
either
drinking or bugging me about what was going on with you."
I felt sick. "Oh, man," I muttered, looking at the floor, "He's
so disgusted with me."
She wrinkled her forehead. "I don't think that's it, Sam. It seemed
more
like..." Her voice trailed off as she looked into my face. I guess what
she saw made her determined to change the subject. "Forget it, Sam.
You're
jumping to wrong conclusions, and we oughta just leave all this alone."
She forced a smile. "I'm not sleepy at all. What else is on TV?"
Frankly, I was sorry I'd asked anything about Brian. I needed a
distraction,
and I'd heard more than enough, so I went with her lame re-direct.
"Well,
if you like the real oldies," I said, "Channel 39 is showing Casablanca
in a half hour. We could get a pizza delivered and stuff our faces and
watch
one more movie."
She smiled. "Good call. Play it, Sam."
"That was awful," I said, as I took one of the throw pillows and
threw it at her. Appropriate, right? It caught her smack in the face.
She
grabbed it and started flogging me over the head with it. I jumped over
the
back of the couch and ran to the phone. "Leave me alone, evil woman, I
gotta order the pizza."
We had so much fun that evening I almost forgot that Brian was grossed
out by
me. Disgusted, apparently; so much so that he'd given her the third
degree all
night so he could find out just how much of a loser I was these days.
* * * * * * * * *
That fall Neal got out of jail, and almost the same day, he started
harassing
me.
His favorite approach had always been psychological intimidation, and
that's
what he went for now that he was out of jail. He'd show up at
well-timed
occasions, just to make sure I'd see him; just to observe my
deer-in-the-headlights panic. Nothing ever came of it; there was
nothing I
could report to the police. But he and I both knew what he was doing.
As time went on I realized that his bullshit came and went in waves. It
would
be awful for a week, then he'd disappear for a while, then he'd be
back.
Whenever he showed up he always managed to rattle me. At those times
whatever
control of my life I'd wrested back completely evaporated.
One of his returns came in late October. I first saw him on my way to
work.
Then I began seeing him every time I looked out my office window. He'd
show up
at the grocery store; I'd run into him on the way home from work.
He
never actually did anything; he didn't need to. He began showing up on
a
Monday; by Friday, I was a wreck. My nerves were shot.
Friday afternoon Erica walked through the door about fifteen minutes
after I'd
gotten home. I was watching a little TV in the den, trying hard to
relax. When
I heard her come in I turned and said, "Hey. How'd your day go?"
"Oh, okay, I guess," she said, walking over to me, "At least
until I saw my asshole ex-friend Neal."
I felt the blood leave my face. I don't know why, but hearing it from
someone
else made my dread increase tenfold. When it was just me seeing him, I
could
somehow get away from the scene and grab a little control. Something
about
someone else seeing him made it more real, though.
I lost it. All I could do was shake.
I can't really describe my emotions. I wasn't hysterical, but my brain
definitely wasn't numb. Still, I couldn't have spoken if my life had
depended
on it. I was embarrassed, too. Hell, what was up with me? It's not like
I
hadn't seen him over and over again since he got out; and yeah, it
shook me up,
but I'd never quite reacted like this. But I was shaking so
much, I
couldn't even walk out of the room for some privacy.
"Oh, Sam, I'm sorry," she said. She came and sat next to
me and held my hand until, gradually, I began to get my act together.
The
terror slowly subsided, and I returned to normal.
I looked into her eyes, silently. Neither of us spoke. She smiled at
me, and I
reached over to give her a hug. I moved in to kiss her on the cheek,
but her
head had turned toward me at the last second, and I ended up kissing
her lips.
To this day I'm not sure whether the move had been deliberate on her
part, and
I never asked.
Kissing her sent a jolt directly to my groin, and when I pulled back it
was as
though I was seeing her for the first time.
I hadn't responded to anyone sexually since things had gotten bad with
Neal
nearly a year before. In the aftermath of that whole disaster, my
sexuality had
simply disappeared. If I ever let myself think about it at all, I
wasn't sure
it would ever return, or for that matter, if I even wanted it to. Even
the
occasional sighting of Brian had ceased to get a physical response from
me, and
that was unusual because even through all I'd faced up to then, Brian
could always
make me melt inside. But no longer. Just the thought of kissing someone
was
enough to turn my stomach. Even my feelings for Brian had lost their
sexual
component.
It stunned me, then, that the desire rose in me so strong and so fast,
sitting
there with Erica, kissing her. As I began to look at her with
what seemed
like new eyes, I realized that she was beautiful. She was barely
five
feet tall, and might have weighed a hundred pounds soaking wet. She was
so
delicate that she looked more like a model for a fairy than a grown
woman. Her
hair was so long she could sit on it, and it was a shade of blond I've
never
seen naturally on anyone else: It may sound like some idiot poem from
middle
English, but it really was the color of flax. Her eyes were huge and
the most
amazing Montana-sky blue; her skin was pale and clear.
She was simply beautiful; not in a sexy, arm-candy way, but more in a
character-from-a-fantasy-tale, not-quite-believable way. And she looked
so
young and innocent, even though I knew she wasn't. At that moment, even
though
I'd been the one who'd just had a panic attack, she called out every
protective
instinct in me; at the same time, I felt very safe with her. As I gazed
at her
I could see the intensity of the encounter mirrored back at me in her
eyes.
Something new and electric crackled in the air. We were tentative at
first;
neither of us really knew what to do with the moment, but my emotions
were
pretty overpowering. It was as though all the pent-up hormones from
nearly a
year of no libido got dumped into my bloodstream at once. I wasn't
shaking any
more. From deep inside, an urgency stepped forward in me and took
control with
certainty.
We kissed again. Tenderly at first, but growing more insistent, more
intense.
It was clear where things were heading. She began unbuttoning my shirt.
I slid
it off my shoulders and let it drop to the couch. We stood up and each
of us
hurriedly undressed the rest of the way. When we were naked, I said to
her,
"Erica, I don't have any..."
"I do," she said. "In my nightstand drawer."
I took her in my arms and hugged her. We kissed, and headed to her
bedroom. She
handed me a condom from the nightstand. I opened the package, rolled it
on, and
climbed into bed to make love to the second woman I'd ever gotten naked
with.
That first time was an intense, wild coupling that was over in minutes
and
didn't really end, but once the initial edge was off, morphed into
something
more gentle. She felt so good in my arms and so right. I'm
not sure
how much of it was about being in love with her, really; in the heat of
the
moment, I felt love for her, but there was too much other emotion
crashing
around that night for our coming-together to have been all about that.
She had
been there for me through the most ugly period of my life, just there,
not
demanding or pushing or anything, simply present. Registering that felt
more
like gratitude than love. But I didn't spend time analyzing it; in the
afterglow, as I held her, everything seemed right with the world for
the first
time in I don't know how long.
That is, until the itching sensation from hell began. Apparently I'd
recently
developed a latex allergy that I hadn't known about. I'll let the
curtain fall
on the remainder of this scene, because it wasn't pretty. And it wasn't
dignified. And it wasn't a memory that lives on as one of my top ten.
I'll
simply close with this thought: A person needs to make sure he's not
allergic
to latex before he puts on a condom. That night I discovered that there
was no
such thing as enough Benadryl.
* * * * * * * * *
That amazing Friday night, Erica and I went from roommates and friends
to
committed couple overnight.
I was convinced I was in love with her. The world, through that one
magical
encounter, had righted itself, and somehow I managed to believe that
nothing
else mattered, that the enchantment between us canceled out anything
bad that
had gone before, had negated any trouble in our present, any threats to
our
future. It's not as though my brain was unaware of trouble and
problems. It's
just that I was completely unwilling to face them. I wasn't going to
let
anything get in the way of the New, Improved, Finally-Happy Sam.
I proposed to her on November 7. I'd bought a ring; it had the tiniest
diamond
I'd ever seen, but it was all I could afford. She accepted, with
tears in
her eyes.
We set the date for the first of December. A Catholic priest who had
been one
of my high school teachers agreed to perform the ceremony at the local
Episcopal church, where I also knew one of the priests. Then, having
arranged
for the place and the priest, I had something else to do.
The second week of November, I stopped by Brian's place. I was on a
mission,
and although I was scared to face him, a little, it was inconceivable
to me
that things should proceed any other way.
He answered the door quickly when I knocked. His eyes opened wide with
surprise
when he saw me. After a few seconds of registering "surprised,"
though, his face broke into a smile.
"Come in, Sam. Man, it's good to see you."
We went inside and sat down at his kitchen table. "Want some coffee?"
he asked. "What's up?"
"Yeah, make us both a cup, and I'll tell ya," I said nervously.
He hauled out a package of ground Folger's and measured
out--roughly--the
required dosage, then dumped some water in and set things to brew. It
was a
small carafe, and things went quickly, which was good, because neither
of us
spoke. As the brewing coffee made its gurgling sound, I worked hard on
getting
past my nervousness.
Finally, the coffee was ready. Brian pulled out a couple of cups out of
a
cabinet, sat them on the table, and poured the coffee.
"Okay, big guy," he said, sitting down next to me, "What's
up?"
"Umm...I guess you know I've been seeing Erica," I said, looking
down.
"Yeah, she told me, Sammy," he said, smiling. "I'm glad,
man."
"Well, things have gotten serious real fast," I said.
He blew on his coffee and took a sip. "Really? How serious?"
"I...we...we're getting married."
His jaw dropped right about the same time that his eyes bugged out. "No
shit," he said, his voice awash in astonishment.
"No shit," I said, smiling at him uncertainly.
He stood up and began pacing a little. I got up and walked with him. He
stroked
his chin, pondering my news. Finally, after an eternity, he said,
"When,
Sammy?"
"First day of December," I said.
The astonishment returned to his face. "Are you kidding me?
Shit!"
I couldn't think of what else to say, so I said, "I thought we agreed
it
was no shit."
He looked at me; his eyes were blank. For an instant the fear began to
rise.
Just as quickly, though, he broke into a laugh.
"Fucking congratulations, Sam! I'm happy for you." He pulled me into
him and gave me a long, tight, hug.
Memories came flooding back into my mind, into my body. His arms, his
smell,
his love, all felt so familiar. So missed. So needed. How could I have
ever
doubted him?
As he held me, all the old feelings I'd ever had for him came coursing
back
into me; the gratitude; the deep love......and the desire.
I realized then that my love for Erica had apparently woken all of
me
up.
I broke the embrace; my enthusiasm for Brian was beginning to have an
effect on
my crotch, and I wasn't anxious to reveal that. I sat down at the table
again,
and motioned for him to sit.
"I got something else," I said as he sat down.
"What is it, Sam?" he asked.
I looked into his face and asked, "Would you...would you be my best
man?"
He paused, and his eyes drilled into mine. Finally, he said, "I'd
fuckin'
hate you forever if I couldn't be." He tried to smile, but
conflicting expressions wrestled for prominence on his face. He turned
away
quickly and took a deep breath. When he turned around, he put his right
hand to
his right eye and wiped his hand down his cheek briefly, dismissively.
He
sniffed lightly, and said, "Thank you, Sam." I looked into his eyes
and saw strength, and peace, and unconditional love for me.
"It could never b-be anyone else," I stuttered, wrestling back a few
tears of my own.
The moment passed, and we talked a little trivia. We finished our
coffee, and I
finished my business with him, and went on my way.
* * * * * * * * *
The weeks went by quickly. Brian had informed me that I was having a
bachelor
party whether I wanted one or not. I resigned myself to the idiocy of
it, but
inside I was warm and squishy with love for my friend.
Sure enough, the night before the wedding, he took me to a hotel. To my
surprise, the party was small and civilized. Guys we'd known from high
school,
a couple of my friends from college, hung out with me, congratulated
me, had a
couple of drinks with me, and then went home.
Brian and I stayed behind. After everybody left, we just sat and
talked. And
talked. And talked.
It was the first time we had done that since before the insanity of my
senior
year, and as we laughed and reminisced, and caught up with each other's
lives,
I could feel a hole in me closing up; an empty place that had needed
his
friendship began to fill, at least for the moment.
Conversation was easy; it felt like the old days. So I was unprepared
when he
turned to me late that night and asked, "Sammy...are you sure
about
this?"
The tone of his voice, the look in his eyes, brought me up short. It
didn't
feel like a challenge; it felt like caring. Some deep place inside of
me said,
"This is what love feels like," and for the first
time--suddenly--I wasn't sure about Erica and me.
But I wasn't about to back out at the eleventh hour. I shook off the
voice and
the feeling that went with it, and looked intently at him as I said, "I
am
sure, Brian."
He searched my eyes with his for what seemed like forever. As he did, I
flashed
back to earlier days: He could always do that; he could always look in
my eyes
and make me feel as though he was sifting through my mind and soul. I
tried to
meet his gaze, tried to show him I was confident, sure of myself, sure
of my
decision.
He didn't answer me. Finally he looked away. Breaking into his
trademark smile,
he said, "Man, this party sucks; I didn't even get drunk. Remember the
first
time you had to rescue me from drunken danger?" Soon, we were rehashing
that first disastrous party back in high school where his blood sugar
had
plummeted. From today's distance, it was something to smile and laugh
about. We
finished the evening in the wash of great memories and great feelings
for each
other.
* * * * * * * * *
The wedding the next day was small. There was only a handful of people
on the
guest list.
It was about twenty minutes before the wedding, and he and I were
standing in
the men's parlor in our rented tuxes. I was trying to get his bow tied
correctly when he grabbed my arms.
"Tell me again, Sammy," he said.
I felt my stomach knot slightly. "What?"
His eyes drilled into mine, as he asked again, "Are you sure?"
At the sound of his voice, and in that moment, I realized for sure that
I wasn't
sure. Not about Erica and me.
I was sure about something, though, and that something was what
was
making it hard for me to answer him:
I was sure I was in love with Brian. Still. And after all these years.
But I was also sure that that was hopeless, and I was also sure I'd
never be
able to find anyone else I felt as strongly for as Erica. So there was
no way I
was turning back now.
I didn't answer, though. I couldn't. He'd know the truth. He'd
hear it in
my voice. He always could. Instead, I smiled at him.
He took my non-response as an answer, looked at his watch, and said,
"Let's do this."
There weren't many in attendance at my wedding: Erica's brother and
sister were
there, but none of the rest of her family. None of my family showed
up.
Brian's family was there, and most of my co-workers came. A few
of Erica's
friends put in an appearance. That was the extent of the guest list.
Erica was beaming; she was surreal in her beauty. The dress was nothing
special--we didn't have the money for anything elegant--but she looked
amazing.
It was one of the happiest days of my life, and I was at peace with the
world.
* * * * * * * * *
The period immediately surrounding my marriage to Erica was a good time
for me;
I was happy, and for the first time ever in my life, that happiness was
not
diluted with fear or anxiety or misgivings. I'm not sure I believed in
my gut
that she was "the one," but I did love her, and anyway, I was pretty
well convinced that I'd let "the one" go when I broke up with Mary. I
thought we would be happy together, and honestly, for the first few
months we
were. The only downside to my life during that period was that Neal
would show
up and stalk me from time to time. While I wasn't as traumatized by it
as I'd
been before, I didn't like it. I needed to get away from my home town;
there
were too many unhappy memories that I didn't want crowding my marriage,
and in
any case I wanted to get away from that psychopath. That winter I was
offered a
job running a group home in the neighboring state. It meant better
hours,
better benefits, and better pay than anything I'd had up to then. I
accepted
the job without reservation and we moved out of state.
We wouldn't be moving alone: Over Christmas, we had arranged for
Erica's
younger sister to live with us. Christina was sixteen, and a recovering
addict.
She was trying desperately to stay clean, and that wasn't possible in
her
mother's house, so we got custody of her, and she moved out of state
with us.
Apparently freed from our past demons and our past ghosts, we made a
new life
together, the three of us. It was good; I loved Erica, and she and I
started to
settle in with Christina.
My latex allergy had made the use of condoms impossible, so Erica went
on birth
control pills. She was never good at staying up with medications of any
kind,
but condoms were definitely a no-go for me. I wasn't sure how I felt
about her
having to put a bunch of hormones in her body, but it seemed the least
problematic birth control alternative. Still, I shouldn't have been
surprised
when, one evening in late January, she said to me over dinner, "Sam, I
went to the doctor today."
I looked at her with concern. "Are you okay?"
"Depends on what you say next," she said. "Sam..."
she paused for such a length of time I thought I was going to go crazy.
Then
she said, quietly, "I'm pregnant."
Of all the things she could have possibly said, I was totally
unprepared for
this. I was tongue-tied. But something inside of me must have had an
opinion,
because I broke into a big smile. When she saw that, tears of
relief
began to fall down her face, and she smiled back at me.
I stood up from the table and walked over to her. She stood up, and I
took her
in my arms and held her and kissed her. I felt as fortunate as I'd felt
miserable little more than a year before.
* * * * * * * * *
My now-charmed life began to run smoothly. Work was good; we were
actually
putting a little money aside and saving up for an addition to the
family, and
in many ways we were the quintessential young American couple. I began
to
breathe easy for the first time in my life. It looked as though my
troubles
were behind me.
Erica's mom still had visitation rights with Christina, and Christina
was
supposed to go back to our hometown for a visit with her mom during
spring
break that March. Erica had planned to go with her, but she had
terrible
problems with morning sickness for a full sixteen weeks, and when it
came time
for Christina to go on spring break, Erica had to cancel. Neither
of us
was crazy about sending Christina back up to her addict-of-a-mother by
herself,
but we didn't see any alternative. We sent her up, reluctantly, on her
own,
making her promise that if she got into any kind of troublesome
situation, she
would call and one of us would come get her.
She didn't call. Instead, she went out partying with a bunch of
"friends," and got picked up by a 35-year-old guy who was drunk and
high on cocaine. He took Christina and an old friend of hers on a ride
in his
convertible at high speeds down winding back roads in the middle of
nowhere at
3 in the morning. He lost control and flipped the car.
He walked away without any injuries; Christina's friend had several
broken
bones.
Christina's neck was broken when the car rolled, and she died at the
scene.
When we were told the news, Erica became came completely
unhinged. She
felt responsible; so did I.
In the immediate aftermath, she ended up in the hospital on suicide
watch.
Twice. I understood her despair personally, from my own past, but I
didn't have
the power to do anything to help her.
Gradually, Erica sank into a depression so dark, there was no reaching
her. I
tried so hard, but whatever we had together wasn't enough to bring her
back. At
this point she would have had to get happier to find the energy to kill
herself.
All I could do was hang on to my work and my sanity, for the sake of my
wife
and my unborn child. I left for work every day, wondering if she'd be
there
when I got home. I tried over and over again to get help for her, but
she
refused to stay in the hospital, and I didn't want to commit her
against her
will.
To make matters worse, her mother had listed the city where we lived in
our hometown
paper's obituary. Neal saw the obituary and promptly showed up in
my new
city to play his psychopathic stalking games.
Throughout it all, I knew I had to be strong for Erica. It would have
helped me
if I'd had some support myself, but none was available. I didn't have
any close
friends yet in my new life. Given my personality, I doubt if I would
have
leaned on anyone anyway, but knowing that it wasn't even an option made
me feel
horribly alone.
I stayed strong, though. I reminded myself constantly of how Erica had
been
there for me when I was at my life's lowest point, and I tried to be
there for
her now that she'd been hit hard. My plan was simply to be there. Not
to push;
just to let her know that I loved her. I knew I could give her time to
heal,
just as she had given me time to heal.
Gradually, she did start to perk up a little. Right on the heels of
that, our
son was born. We named him Christopher, after Erica's sister.
To this day, I'm convinced that when she started to feel better is when
she
started using drugs again.