by Toni Draper
Isa disentangled herself just long enough to stand and push in a CD before reaching for Mena, to pull her up off the floor. The sexy, seductive, and sensual moves of Isa’s body as they kept time with Shakira’s “Chantaje” were more than a weakening Mena could resist. A growing desire had her returning the fire, as her pent-up passion exploded.
“Yeah, that’s it, baby. That’s how I like it. Show me what I know you’re made of.” Now it was Mena who was intoxicated, not by drink, but by lustful desire. She allowed Isa to lead her to the sofa, where she sat her—gently but firmly—down and stoked the flame with the help of a downward gyration of her body in a lap dance that teased, stopping only inches short of touch. The feeling Mena was experiencing was teetering on the brink between pleasure and torture.
Just when Mena thought she couldn’t stand it anymore. Isa leaned over her face and danced faster. Her unbound breasts shook provocatively beneath the cotton blend of her top. Mena, now a willing participant in this seductive game, moved her hands up to cup and caress Isa’s tits. Using her thumbs, she circled what proved to be generously responsive and hardening nipples. One by one, Isa tantalized her by slowly undoing the buttons of her blouse and shaking her beautiful, firm, and full breasts close to but not quite within reach of Mena’s salivating mouth, leaving her quietly moaning with the ache of desire.
Once in bed, however, it was Mena who pinned Isa down, rolled on top, and took charge. She wasn’t sure when it had happened, but in her mind, it was Sydney who lay beneath her, whose clothes she slowly removed, whose legs she gently spread and entered, and around whose hardened nipples her tongue now feverishly swirled.
As daylight dawned, a guilt-stricken Mena, her face wet with tears and her soul drowning in shame and sorrow, stared at Isa on the bed beside her. Feeling like she’d somehow broken a promise to herself and betrayed the one she still very much loved, she silently dressed and quietly slipped out the door.
Chapter 9
At the same time Mena was closing that door, Sydney was opening another. The first thing she noticed was that the wooden plaque on the wall beside it was a slightly lighter shade of blue than she recalled. Perhaps it’s been painted since then, she thought. It had been a while since she’d last been there. Elizabeth M. Sheldon, LCSW it read. She let her fingers feel the coarse texture of the burned inlay letters before turning the knob.
Entering the foyer, she felt oddly comforted, like she was coming home.
As she listened to the peaceful, calming sounds of Enya’s “Only Time” mixed with the soothing fall of a fountain’s water, a figure appeared at the top of the stairs.
“Sydney?” Liz’s voice floated down toward her as she descended with sparkling eyes and a broad smile. “I want to say it’s good to see you. Unfortunately, the nature of my profession usually only brings familiar faces my way during times of trouble. Still, it is good to see you.” Liz extended her hand in greeting, pulled Sydney into the warmth of a friendly hug, and invited, “C’mon up.”
Sydney followed behind, recalling the trouble she’d once had finding a counselor with whom she felt comfortable. Sometimes she truly believed in fate, for it just so happened that she’d found Liz’s photo in an article on her and the therapies she offered in the newspaper as part of a series that ran during mental health awareness month. Her practice was part of a group of four women who offered the perfect combination of mind-body health services. Some, like Liz, were even lesbians. Thank God! Straight women just couldn’t comprehend why it was so important to find someone who could relate personally to the special circumstances of a double dose of estrogen when two women were in love.
The stars had lined up for her the day she happened upon that feature story. Her time and prior work with Liz had done her wonders. Even her distant sister, Jules, had noticed the change in her and told her so. If only Sydney could have succeeded in convincing Jules to give counseling a chance herself. After all, she’d been around the same lecherous uncle in her youth, so who knew? Although Jules loved Sydney in her way, when Sydney had finally summoned the courage to come out to her, she had been hurtfully disappointed when her sibling’s response had been, “Just please don’t talk about it. I don’t want to know.” More recently, after Sydney had contacted her for validation of a therapeutic revelation, instead of supporting her, Jules had riled at her for airing the family’s dirty laundry with a stranger and told her to “Let it go.” How could she make her understand that’s what she was trying to do by bringing it up?
Such were the many musings in her mind as the two of them reached their destination on the second floor.
Sydney chose the chair she’d always sat in, awaiting her cue for when and where to start. Liz helped her out. “You told me a little about why you wanted to see me when you called the other day. I must admit, I was somewhat surprised when I picked up your message. Although, I did feel like we hadn’t quite finished our work together when we ended last time.” Sydney nodded and Liz prompted her, “Can you tell me more?”
She started by telling her about the thoughts and memories plaguing her, about how they were keeping her from concentrating, and her increasing inability to focus on her work and writing. Liz listened intently, nodded her head, stopped her when she needed clarification, and occasionally took notes as Sydney filled in the gap that had since been her life.
When she finished telling her story, Liz responded, “There are many paths we could take with our exploration, but it sounds to me like what you’re most interested in is freeing yourself from the memories that are, for whatever reason, returning to and flooding your mind. Am I right? I think you know, however, that for that to happen, we’re going to have to look at each of them carefully and try to figure out what’s really troubling you. By the way, how are you sleeping?”
Sydney honestly responded, “Mostly, I’m not.”
“So I guess there are no insightful dreams to offer grist for the mill with which we can start?”
Ah, now Sydney understood. Given the importance of their previous discovery by way of interpretation, it made sense why Liz would inquire. What she referred to was how, during their first time together, it had taken Sydney six months of counseling and a dream for her to connect her past to her present and overcome the anxiety that had threatened her sanity to the point of her being a basket case of worries and hypochondria. Tied up neatly with stress, nerves, and phobias, together the mental marauders had her with 911 on her speed dial.
Relaxing into the comforting familiarity of the environment, Sydney willingly stepped back in time and closed her eyes, recalling the revelation as she had shared it with Liz, in detail, the morning after it had visited her the first time.
I was walking on the grounds of a country carnival, hand in hand with a little girl, when I realized she was no longer with me. She had vanished, disappeared, gone. Frantically, I began looking for her, circling and circling the enormous field. I ran into others I knew and recognized, asking if they’d seen her. Exhausted by my search, I stopped and looked around. There, in the visible distance, stood a house. Hidden and out of place, it was tucked away in the tree line behind the food tents and Ferris wheel, far from the noisy midway where the carnies and crowds roamed. I rang the bell, and the girl answered the door. She was older, naked, except for a towel wrapped around her hair and another that covered most of her small and fragile body.
“Are you okay?” I immediately asked her. “What are you doing here?”
“They did things to me,” is how she responded, all she would say.
Liz’s eyes grew big at this revelation, while Sydney seemed completely unaware of the screaming of her mind. She continued to recount in incredible detail, allowing the cloaked memory, never before known to her, to naturally unfold.
When she had finished sharing all she could remember, Liz told her about a theory of dream interpretation that could best be described with the statement, “We ar
e everyone in our dreams.” As Sydney attempted to absorb this new perception, Liz asked, “What if you were the little girl in the dream? Did someone, at some time, maybe do something painful, making it hard for you to remember, to you?”
After allowing the question and that way of looking at the meaning of the dream to come more clearly into focus, Sydney told Liz about an incident in her past, a childhood trauma, a true story she’d never shared with anyone. Not because she’d ever forgotten it. She simply hadn’t mentioned the molestation because she couldn’t see how it had anything to do with what was happening here and now.
“You must have been so afraid.”
Sydney, who had never really allowed herself to acknowledge just how alone she had felt, how frightened and ashamed, moved uncomfortably in her chair.
Together, they would later discuss how the abuse had likely been responsible for Sydney’s overwhelming need to feel safe, how it was a normal and natural response, and how often abuse manifested itself in a need for control. On that same day, Liz had given her a copy of a workbook entitled The Courage to Heal, for adult survivors of child sexual abuse.
Facing the reality of what she had endured and knowing that so many others had been victims too, that she was not alone in her pain and suffering, had helped her enormously in the understanding of herself. She had seen Liz weekly for a period of about two years before finding herself completely free of the anxiety that had robbed her of precious moments and quality of life before. Not knowing what more to talk about, and feeling like she was spinning her wheels and wasting her money and time, she decided to take a break from counseling.
Leaving her memory behind, Sydney said, “No, I’m afraid not. If I do dream, I don’t remember it.”
Liz smiled. “Okay, so tell me exactly why you’re here today, why you’ve come, how I can help.”
Sydney settled in the chair and let out a breath she hadn’t even known she was holding and began, “I met someone.”
Liz cocked her head and pressed her lips together in a quizzical smile. “Tell me about her.”
Sydney looked down. “She’s gone now. I let her go. Maybe even pushed her out.”
This time with a sad smile and brows pulled together, Liz changed one word in her previous sentence and said, “Tell me about it.”
And Sydney did. She told her everything. Beginning to end.
When she was finished, Liz said, “I’m so sorry, Sydney. Why didn’t you come to see me sooner? Before—”
“I didn’t know there was a problem. Until it blew up in my face.”
“Well, let’s see if we can’t pick up the pieces. Even if it’s too late for you and Mena, if we look closely at each of them, you’ll be better prepared for the next time you meet someone.”
As usual, Sydney left her weekly session feeling energized, excited, and full of hope.
Just being in Liz’s space always forced her to look at herself, see reflection from a different angle and in a new light. With what came up today, she was beginning to see her part in all that had taken place, her role in her relationship’s demise. It was a formidable feat Mena had often tried to accomplish, to no avail. Maybe she’d finally had a breakthrough, or at least a discovery that would derail what she feared would be a total breakdown.
Hitting the remote door lock, she made her way to her Mazda’s driver’s side. Amazingly, the sky had opened up once again, and what had been merely a shower of sprinkles was turning into a downpour of pelting drops. On a pretty day, she loved the drive. Just outside of the limits of the growing town, still relatively small, there were stables of beautiful quarter horses between her land and the city’s end, marked by the red roof of the Pizza Hut.
On dreary, gray days like this, she preferred to be at home; not that she had an aversion to getting wet, but because she enjoyed the rain’s ability to wash over her defenses while in the solitude of her private haven, where she was better able to simply let it.
She carried her briefcase to the study, where she found Jenny curled up in her bed. “What? I’m too familiar for even a greeting these days?”
The dog’s response was a thump of her tail on the floor, but she didn’t even raise her head. Odd, Sydney thought. Maybe she’s tired. She shrugged off the out of the ordinary behavior and settled in the chair with the best view of the backyard, a place to where she often retreated both physically and mentally when she needed to write, think, or be alone.
The wind whistled, then howled, as it blew more intensely through the treetops, causing the willow’s branches to tangle in their sway, rustling and scattering what remained of fall’s detritus on the ground. Drained and devoid of all life and color, the leaves danced mournfully across the grass as the hollow tubes of the chimes sang more loudly their own sorrowful song.
Sydney stood and walked to the patio door. When Jenny followed, she slid it open and stepped out. She turned to find Jenny still inside, hesitating.
“C’mon, girl. You better go now, before it storms.”
Jenny sniffed at the air and slowly pawed her way across the carpet. Once she was outside, her fear subsided as she saw and chased a gray squirrel.
Chilled by a sudden and unseasonably cool breeze, Sydney crossed her arms over her breasts and stared vacantly over the fence to a place where her thoughts had come to rest, far beyond the springtime’s earlier warmth and thawing caress at a winter’s eve not long ago.
Mena smiled at her from across the room as she closed the door and moved toward the fire, shaking the snow from her hair while removing her coat and gloves. Squatting before the flames, she rubbed her hands together and gave them a warming blow.
So caught up in her writing, Sydney failed to notice Mena had abandoned her place by the fire. She soon became aware as Mena, who had sneaked up behind her, pulled back the neck of her sweater and began to shake down the remaining ice crystals from one of her thawing gloves.
“Mena!” Sydney squealed as she shivered and squirmed away from her lover’s icy touch.
“What, honey? You looked so hot sitting over here, all cozy and covered up, I just thought I’d cool you off.” Mena bent over Sydney’s shoulder and, with a wink and a seductive grin, kissed Sydney passionately on the neck, ears, and throat, eliciting both a throb of desire from deep within her, as well as an audible moan.
A loud clap of thunder brought Sydney and her thoughts back to the present. She quickly followed Mother Nature’s lead and, bringing her hands together three times, startled even herself as she realized that had been Mena’s way of calling the dog home. The sheltie was a gift to her from her former lover. She’d come home with the adorable tri-color pup shortly after reading a book of the love letters exchanged between a former first lady and her reporter friend. Jenny came bounding across the yard, as if expecting to see her other mother waiting in her usual place in the hammock. Not surprisingly, the canine seemed confused to find Sydney smiling sadly at her from the deck, all alone.
Giving a whine and a whimper, the dog looked perplexed. With a pained expression of her own, Sydney stooped to scoop up Jenny. Turning her face skyward to a band of dark clouds that had rolled in, she gently rubbed her face against the dog’s soft muzzle and whispered quietly, “I love you so.”
She had no sooner closed the sliding patio door when the wind picked up. Sheets of rain poured down as thunder boomed and lightning danced all around. Jenny, hypersensitive to atmospheric disturbances, trembled nervously and leaped out of Sydney’s protective arms to pace the room. To distract the distraught dog—and herself—Sydney led her up the carpeted stairs to the main level of the house, pausing in the living room to turn on some lamps and, by way of artificial light, hopefully drive away the encroaching gloom and her tormenting mental ghosts.
She stopped at the entertainment center, where she opened the unit’s door and perused her CD collection. It was Thursday, paella night. Even her dinn
ers were marked by routine, and thus, it was the Spanish tenor Plácido Domingo whose music she sought. However, the disc her fingers landed upon, she realized, was not the one she sought. It must have been one of Mena’s, one she’d apparently left behind, forgotten. She couldn’t place the sound by sight, so she put the digital recording into the player and waited for the music to jostle her memory.
“Oh, Mena,” Sydney exclaimed as she shook her head with a smile on her face. “I wonder if you’ve changed at all.” She’d often teased that she was only happy when she was sad, and while she didn’t understand every word of the Spanish song, she understood enough to know the music had been left behind as a message for her. Mena often expressed herself in such a way, and Sydney loved that about her.
After putting water on to boil, removing the ingredients she’d need for the Spanish dish from the pantry and refrigerator, preparing a salad to chill, and choosing a wine, she sat in the breakfast nook, where she’d taken all her meals since Mena had left. Looking out through the bay window’s glass over the wooden rail of the second-story deck, she sipped the rioja and thought about how the house she’d shared with Mena had come to be a haven for her: filled, if only for a brief while, with such warmth and profound happiness.
She’d loved it from the moment she’d set eyes on it. They both had. A split-level with beautifully cared for hardwood floors, large windows of various types that let in lots of natural light, a gourmet chef’s JennAir island dream kitchen, fireplaces both up and down, and French doors that led to a great room perfect for writing. The place would have charmed anyone. The realtor had told her as she signed the papers, though she was already sold, that the former owner had been an artist, a painter. From where they received their inspiration clearly showed. Since Sydney had been expressly hoping to find a place in which she might one day retire, repose, and write, she took that as a good sign. She’d found it around Thanksgiving, when the trees in the backyard were still stubbornly in possession of a few colorful leaves, thanks to a mid-Atlantic Indian summer that had lingered well into autumn that year.
