Don't Cry Out (4)
Reaching slowly, I knocked on the door. A voice rose from the other side. A feeble and suffering tone invited me in. I opened the door, and for the first time saw the other woman. On the bed, in a mass of brown hair and tear stained features, sat Sue. I was struck by what I saw. There was a girl just like me. She had no special powers, and she seemed to have no strength. I was defenseless, and so was she. I closed the door behind me and walked over to the bed. I don’t know what she was thinking, but I do know she was lost. I sat down next to her, and pushed my feelings aside. I knew what I was doing was a mistake, and I felt guilty for doing it now. We talked for a short time, but neither of us heard the other. She told me she loved Pat, and wouldn’t let him go. She decided to have the baby, but didn’t know what to do once it was born. I was not the one she needed, and I knew it. I returned to the truck slowly. I was beaten. Pat sat lifeless in the drivers seat, waiting for the news of his fate. Inside her grew the one thing which mattered, and she had the control. I told him she intended to have the baby, but she didn’t know what would happen after. He looked so hollow. I decided to at least do what was right. “She needs you. It is your child she’s carrying. You need to talk with her about what you can both live with. I’m not the answer, but I’ll be here for you if you need me.” He looked at me, reached out his hand to stroke my cheek, then got out of the truck and went to her. It was the right thing to do, and I ached for letting it just happen. Everything inside me was screaming. I sat there stone faced and bitter. A lifetime passed as they talked behind that door. I struggled to keep my head above the waves of emotion that battered me. Finally he came out and we went to get the sofa. We rode in total silence. There simply was nothing left to say. The smell of destruction from the fire was a glowing reminder that in the wreckage lay the past. It was a charred marker of a moment in history, never to be recovered. We drove back to my world, and arrived, as the sun was getting ready to set. Pat helped me carry the sofa up the stairs. I had to do something. Things were wrong. I had to find out the answer to my question. I needed to know if he loved her, and if he did, well, I would deal with it then. We were standing in the fading rays of the sun. Dappled glints of yellow and red filtered through the window. “Would you like to have some coffee and talk?” “Thank you. I’d like that.” I retreated quickly to the kitchen. I wanted to take him in my arms and protect him, but I was the outsider now. I felt the space between us growing, and I was helpless to make it cease. Damn her! Damn what she had done and damn her for doing it! My heart was broken, and the shards of my emotions sliced a rift in my soul. As the coffee brewed I gave in to my feelings and started to cry. Quietly I sat in the corner of the kitchen and let the tears out. By the time I stopped I had no anger left. I poured the coffee and returned to Pat. He sat on the sofa, his face buried in his hands. I took a place next to him. “You’re safe here.” “I don’t know what to do.” “You’ll know when the time is right.” “I don’t know how things got so messed up. Where did everything go wrong?” “It doesn’t matter now. All that matters now is what you do next.” There was a part of me that needed to say it, as much as he needed to hear it. Everything was spinning out of control. Center. The only way to regain control now was to focus on something and make it our center again. He looked up at me, and to my surprise I became his center. Everything around us seemed to fall away. One kiss fell into the next in ever increasing waves of emotion and submission. The heat of our fevered pitch melted away the chill of the day, and pooled the pain into a desire that rushed over us both. Breath, sweat, heat and desire were all that existed now. Tomorrow would never come. Time had stopped its forward motion, pausing to allow us this moment. His arms encircled me, pulling me closer than skin would allow. I was inside his heart, and he was in mine. Never before had kisses on my neck sent flames through my body, but as they traveled, so did the fire. Every inch of me wanted to claim him. Every cell I was willing to give. His touch was gentle and calming, yet energy rose from inside me. He laid me on the carpet, and caressed me tenderly. I slid my hands under his shirt. Slipping it over his head I freed him from its grasp. I could feel his muscles tighten as my fingers traced down his chest. His dark brown eyes were luminous in the phosphorescent glow from outside. Tiny beads of sweat on his body tempted me, but I submitted to the lure of his touch. Kissing me softly he unbuttoned my blouse and descended to my waiting breasts. Cupping one in his hand I moaned, deeply, as his lips grasped my nipple. A shiver ran through my body, and I ached for more of his touch. We bathed in pure passion, and savored each other with greed. I unbuttoned his pants, and he eagerly shed them. Our hands explored each other, unleashing more pleasure with each touch. “Do you want me to stop?” I pulled him closer, kissed him softly and gently whispered my answer. “Please love me. All I want is you. All I want is you.” He made love to me, right there, on the floor, as the soft light of the moon drifted in. Nothing changed outside of the moment, but we managed to wrest a period of utter bliss out of a truly tumultuous time. I didn’t own my destiny, but I did own my mind, and had freely given my heart. Would he take care of it for me? Would he lock it away safe and sound? Did it matter? No. I gave up control, and welcomed it. I would go on no matter what, and I trusted him with the one thing I had to give. Please dear love, take care of my heart. 4 I wanted desperately to make him stay with me, but I had to let him go. He had a life, and a world, that did not include me. As much as it pained me, I had to send him back to it. We laid on the carpet for a long while, enjoying each other’s embrace and the chill of the sweat drying on our bodies, but it was not reality. Reality was waiting for us both, and as much as we may have wanted to believe we could stay on the other side of the looking glass, the white rabbit kept telling us it was too late! “You better get your stuff. Denis will be coming home soon, and I don’t think this is what he should find.” “It can wait. Just a minute or two. It can wait.” I don’t know if he was trying to convince himself, or me, but I truly think neither one of us believed it. I wanted to! I wanted to believe we could stay that way forever, but I knew the truth, and deep down, so did he. I lay there, hoping the clock would stop. I knew what would happen if Denis walked in. I also knew how much we both needed to forget about him, and Sue, and everything else that had happened over the last several months. We needed peace. There wasn’t much time before I heard the sound of the door downstairs opening. Our time was up. We scrambled to our feet, gathering our things as we did, and ran to the back of the house. I’d run the marathon before, and therefore knew I could be dressed and able to walk out without being suspected. I only prayed Pat could do the same. As the door to the living room opened I made my appearance, looking only mildly disheveled. “How was school?” “Not too bad. I see you found a way to get the sofa. How’d you do it?” “Pat drove me.” “I thought I saw his truck. Where is he?” “In the kitchen. He’s getting some coffee. Would you like some?” “Sure.” He then yelled past me, “Hello Pat.” “Hey,” was the response from the kitchen. I had to make sure he’d managed to compose himself before he reentered the room. I quickly turned and walked into the kitchen. I was greatly relieved to find him dressed, and in the process of making a cup of coffee for himself. I made a cup for Denis, and we both went back into the living room. Denis was sitting on the sofa, looking confused. I surveyed the room quickly, and spotted the problem. We had not finished our coffee from earlier. It sat there, cold and telling, on the table. I smiled at Denis and tried to think of a reason for the cold coffee. “We started to have coffee before we left, but decided to head out before it got too late.” Pat had thought faster than I this time. He really wasn’t a very good liar, but it was believable enough. Denis simply nodded and reached for the cup I brought for him. The usual niceties were discussed, such as the weather, sports teams, and current events. Nothing enlightening. A short while later Pat made his excuses and left. I wanted a personal goodbye, but there was no chance of it happening. Denis looked like the conquering hero, his arm draped around me. I managed to get out of answering lots of questions by simply going to bed. It had been a long day. I expected to lay there sleepless for hours, mulling over the wealth of new information, but the memory of Pat’s touch sent me off into a tranquil dream state. The morning was not as easy to deal with. Denis got up with the ringing of the alarm. I went to the kitchen, put on a pot of coffee, and headed into the bathroom to start running water in the tub for my bath. As much as I would have liked to spend the day basking in the glow of the previous evening, I still had bills to pay, and therefore a job to go to. As I stood in front of the mirror, brushing my teeth, I watched Denis’s reflection walk in behind me. He casually walked to the toilet, lifted the seat, and began to relieve himself. When he’d finished he pushed the handle, dropped the seat loudly back into position, and turned to face me. I continued my brushing thinking silently, “upper, lower, clean between.” To this day I do this same chant silently for each tooth, in order. It sometimes makes me smile thinking how many people are planning their days, writing mental grocery lists, and many other brain exercises as I stand there and think, “upper, lower, clean between” over and over again. After staring at me for a little while, he shifted his weight, leaned forward onto the sink a little further, and simply asked, “Well?” I pulled the brush to the corner of my mouth and asked, “Well what?” “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Glibly I replied, “brushing my teeth. What do you think I’m doing?” Feeling quite smart I leaned forward to spit out the toothpaste. I realized too late there was a hand on the back of my neck. If I wasn’t real lucky I was about to be spitting out my teeth themselves. My head came crashing down into the white porcelain. The pain of the faucet hitting above my eye, dividing my eyebrow, was barely even noticed compared to the feeling of my bottom teeth cutting smoothly through my lip. I’d barely even begun to bleed when the same stealthy hand twined itself into my hair and rip my head back upward. I was coughing, with my eyes closed, waiting for the next blow to come. I wasn’t sure what my offence had been in his eyes, but knew what the punishment would be nonetheless. “Want to try again?” he hissed “I’m sorry.” I didn’t know what else to say that wouldn’t result in my teeth plinking onto the floor, or worse. “Not half as sorry as you will be next time you pull that kind of shit on me.” “What? What? I’m sorry! What?” I waited for his answer. How could he have known? How’d he know what I’d done? I was totally at a loss, but I didn’t know how else to explain it. “The money! Where the hell is it? I know I had it before I left! It was in the pocket of my pants. Then last night it suddenly disappeared. What the hell did you do with it?” Money? What money? Last I knew he was flat broke and now he’s asking me about money. “Go take what’s in my purse. That’s all I have. Go take a look!” “It better fuckin’ be there!” He pushed his hand away and as I hit the wall he released his grip on my hair. As he left the room I sank to the floor in a mass of tears and blood. I heard the contents of my purse being unceremoniously dumped onto the floor, while I wriggled as far under the sink as I could get. With a kick, my things skated loudly across the floor. “Don’t ever pull this crap again!” When my black eye faded to an indescribable shade of green, and my lip no longer look like a football, I found his “stolen” money. He’d folded it neatly and placed it in the watch pocked of his jeans. I found it there when I cleaned out his pockets to do the wash. It gave me a sad little chuckle. Everyone has their own way of handling problems. Most choose what they are going to do based on the situation. Each reacts slightly differently. After the incident with the money, I think, most people would have become more careful. Thankfully, I’m not most people. I finished getting ready for work and headed out the door. I knew Denis would be gone when I got home. He had money in his pocket. When I got out the door I checked my purse. Denis had made a habit of taking money from me, so I made a habit of hiding money from him. After I retrieved the ten-dollar bill from behind my license, in my wallet, I crossed the street for cigarettes. It was one of the gas stations you find in most cities. There were 2 gas pumps and a little booth, with a window, where you made your transactions. I don’t recall a name on the place, but everyone around knew where you were talking about when you mentioned it. They carried the basics. Cigarettes, soda pop, and rolling papers were their biggest sellers. I’d seen the man at this station almost every day for months, but this was the first time he asked if I was ok. I don’t think I would have given his question any thought at all, under normal circumstances. I would have simply passed it off as a customer service inquiry, more of a programmed reaction than a real question. “I seem to have lost a fight with my bathroom sink. Thanks for your concern.” “Any time you decide to move that sink out, let me know. I’ll watch out for you when I’m here.” “Thank you. My name is Leanne, what’s your name?” “Emmanuel, but please, call me Manny.” “Thank you Manny. Have a great day.” As I started to walk away I looked into my hand, at my change. I needed a dollar for the bus. Sitting there amid the bills and coins sat a small plastic poker chip. I looked closer to see it had “Sober Six Months” embossed on it. I turned back to Manny. He was standing outside the door to the station with his hands folded in front of him. He looked at me, smiled, and turned to walk back inside. I thought for a minute about what he’d given me, filed the information neatly away in my mind, and headed for the bus stop. Rodger was the first person I saw at work. He scowled at me in his, “I know what’s going on” way of his, and continued on with what he was doing. A few minutes later he walked back in with a stack of empty buckets in his arms, kicked the door closed behind him, dropped the stack in its place, and turned toward me. I’d worked closely with Rodger for several months, but that was the most serious face I’d seen him make, especially toward me. “Before you tell me some lie, because it’s what you think would be easiest, let me tell you I used to hit my wife, and I know what that is.” I don’t know what caught me more off guard. The fact I was a walking poster for abuse was bad enough, but the fact Rodger could do the same thing was just as bad. All I did was shake my head back and forth with my mouth hanging open. “I don’t care what he thinks you did. I don’t care if he says it will never happen again, and I sure as hell don’t care to know if this is a regular thing! What I do want to know is if you’ve had enough yet, or are you willing to risk being taken out in a body bag next time?” Again no words would come, but now I felt as if I’d been punched in the stomach. I could feel the blood draining from my face, and started to suspect I would vomit any moment. How I was feeling must have shown vividly on my face. Rodger walked over, wrapped his arms around me and held me tight. “It’s ok. You can do it. It’s ok.” After about five minutes he let me go, handed me a towel, and told me to wipe my face. “Don’t let a man, any man, raise a hand at you out of anger, ever again! There is never a reason to hit in anger. Ever! No matter what he does, or you do, you have the right to life without bruises.” He grabbed a couple buckets of flowers, and headed out the door. When I had myself composed I followed behind, with a couple buckets myself, and started the day. Rodger never mentioned it to me again. He had a mixed past of his own, and rarely shared any of it. I felt a mixture of gratitude and fear on the occasions when he did share. I rode the bus home after work, and considered what kind of turn my life was making. I knew I didn’t have the strength to leave Denis, but more importantly, I didn’t think I had the strength to make him leave either. I would have to believe in myself a whole lot more before that could happen. Where do you find belief? I found it to be a surprisingly elusive thing. When I got home I made dinner, cleaned up my face a little, put on my jacket, and headed out the door to the pay phone. I called Pat and talked with him briefly. He sounded distracted. I asked if I could see him on Tuesday, after Denis left for class, and he said he’d do his best. I hung up and went back home to get ready for bed. I hadn’t been in bed long when I heard keys in the door. Denis was back. I lay there, very still, and listened. I could tell he was drunk before the door opened by the number of times his keys bounced off the floor. When he finally managed to open the door I took a deep breath, and held it. He stumbled around the living room for a couple minutes, knocking things over as he went. Eventually he navigated himself into the kitchen. I heard the refrigerator open and close, and some things rattling around, before I heard a pan hit the top of the stove. Finally it grew quiet. I was starting to relax and drift off to sleep when I smelled smoke. I jumped up and ran to the kitchen. A single pan sat on the stove belching smoke into the room. I grabbed the handle with a towel and threw it in the sink. After running water in the pan I went to find Denis. He’d started to make something to eat, but ended up passed out in the living room, leaving the pan to burn. I tried for several minutes to wake him, to no avail. I opened a window, to let the smoke out, on my way back to bed. I could have lost everything again. No matter how many times I told myself it didn’t happen, I still couldn’t sleep. Something had to change. In less than a year I’d moved out of my mother’s house, been homeless three times, lost the man I loved for one who used and abused me, started over again, and nearly lost everything again. I’d been through a life of abuse, neglect, mental torment, and suffering. I had to choose. Would I give in to what life dealt me, or could I rise above it? Did I have what it took to make a real change? I’ve heard these moments referred to as epiphanies, but it felt more like dying than an awakening. Never before had I felt so beat down, and alone. Real knowledge isn’t like a light coming on; it’s more like a stick hitting you in the knees. It hurts. What’s even harder though is moving forward knowing more pain lies ahead. If you can move forward, you have real strength.
Copyright © 2003 Sylvia Browne |