Things Change

by Patrick Jones

  "Paul, I don't really have anything; I'm sorry." I was so ashamed. "The only gift I would like to give you is my heart, but you already have that."

  "You could come to Stanford with me next fall," he said, stumbling over the words.

  "Paul, please." I closed my eyes and touched the necklace.

  "I know, but it was worth a shot." Paul smiled, but I knew he was faking it.

  "Let me give you this," I said, "Turn over; let me rub your back."

  "Well, you are, as Brad used to say, the Chief," he said, and then rolled over.

  As my skin merged with his in the dim light in this room, it all came together for me. Just under a year ago, I was this shy girl who took a risk and asked this quirky senior guy to kiss me because he was all I wanted. Now I was the one about to be a senior, and things had changed. He was asking me, not for a kiss, but for something more. This time I was the one saying no.

  "Paul, can I ask you something?" I whispered.

  "On or off the record?" he replied. "Are you taping this? And if so, where could you possibly be hiding a tape recorder? I think I've done a full-body search."

  "Paul, do you love me?" I asked, hesitating with each word.

  "What a silly question." He started to turn around, but I kept my hands pressed against him. I didn't want him to see me wearing his beautiful gift while thinking these ugly thoughts.

  I took a deep breath. "Do you love me, Paul?" I asked again.

  I couldn't keep him down; he turned to face me. "Of course I do."

  "Then why don't you ever tell me that?" Paul only told me he loved me after he hurt me.

  "You know I do." He put his hands on my face, then moved his fingers slowly down my shoulder, then down my arms, passing over the bruises on both.

  I collapsed onto him. I needed to hear those words. I needed to capture the memory of my head resting on his chest, the hairs tickling my nose. I took in the smell, the sound, the touch; I locked it all in.

  "My turn," he said.

  "I love you, Paul." Without hesitation I said it and felt it and lived it.

  "I know you hated me last winter. I don't blame you." Each word sounded like a confession. "I never meant to hurt you. I'm sorry about the stuff that happened between us."

  "That's behind us," I said, trying to convince myself. I knew it was far from behind us. Lying there naked, the evidence was right in front of us on my bruised arms. There had not been a repeat of his savage attack on me, like the one the night of the Valentine's dance, but the pushing, pulling, jabbing, and even name-calling continued. My long sleeves covered the bruises, my excuses hid the truth, and my fear of my heart breaking again stopped us from breaking up.

  "Joha, do you forgive me?" he asked.

  "Of course." Again, I responded without hesitation. "Now it is my turn again."

  "What are you talking about?" he said, stroking my hair.

  "Paul, will you forgive me?" I asked in a whisper.

  "Joha, you haven't done anything," he said just as softly.

  "Just tell me that you forgive me." I was speaking directly into his chest, my words pushing through skin, muscle, and bone to speak directly to his heart. "Now, when we're happy, just tell me that you'll forgive me."

  Paul moved down in the bed, so that we were face to face. He brushed the hair out of my tear-filled eyes, which defied and defined me; I wanted and needed to be strong.

  "I will never hurt you again, Joha." He kissed me, long and soft and tender.

  It was so easy for him to say these words, so hard for him to act upon them. Paul was sorry for how he acted, but he wasn't sorry for who he was. "Say what I want to hear," I begged.

  "Joha, don't cry." He tried kissing away the tears, but there were too many.

  I pressed up so close to him that I couldn't even see him. "Tell me, tell me!"

  "Of course I'll forgive you, but I know you will never hurt me, Joha." He rolled us over, taking us right to the very edge of the bed. We were seconds away from crashing. He kissed me, then whispered into my ear, "You will never hurt me."

  We looked at each other for a long while, our throats and hearts exhausted. After a while Paul got up and moved toward the shower. "Climb in?" he asked, as I watched him disappear into the bathroom.

  "Give me a minute, okay?" I replied. When I heard the water start, I got up and quickly moved over to the desk. I found a pen and some of the hotel stationery. I wiped away the last few tears, making sure not to stain the paper. And I started writing.

  "Dear Paul,"

  THIRTY

  "Hey, good luck tomorrow," Lynne said. Kara and Jackie nodded in agreement.

  With school starting tomorrow, the four of us were enjoying one last mall fast-food-court dinner break together. I had decided to quit my job at the bookstore and concentrate on school, which was starting tomorrow. Getting lousy grades might spite my parents, but it accomplished little else. I had to get my priorities straight.

  "We've got to find you something outrageous to wear for the first day of your senior year," Kara said. "Two months of hanging out with us and you still don't know how to dress!"

  "I know, I know." I said with a laugh. I still didn't have the knack; but then again, wearing long sleeves twenty-four/seven would make anyone look like a fashion idiot.

  "Let's blow your last check and my employee discount in one swell foop!" Kara said, trying to sound happy, but we all knew she was still hurting from Brad leaving.

  "Maybe you should spend some money on clothes for Paul," Lynne said with a grin.

  "Why's that?" I asked.

  "I think Paul's been wearing the same outfit of jeans, T-shirts, and black high-tops as long as we've known him," Lynne said, while Jackie fought back a smirk.

  "He's one of a kind," I said, adding a sigh for comic effect.

  "Not really. I had an ex like that," Jackie said. "You guys remember Dave Hitchings?"

  "I'd rather not," Kara said.

  "Who was that?" I asked. While I was tight with Kara, I still wasn't in the inner circle. I'd yet to gain access to the sharing of ex-boyfriend stories, secrets, and sex histories.

  "This older guy I went out with. I was in ninth grade, and he was a senior," Jackie said, slightly struggling with her words. "When I met him, he already had a girlfriend; but I was young and stupid and all flattered that he paid attention to me. So he cheated on her with me, then finally dumped her, and I was so happy."

  "What happened?" I asked.

  "What do you think happened, Johanna?" Jackie replied sharply. "Within a couple of months, he was cheating on me with somebody else."

  "What a dickhead," Kara said. Lynne nodded in instant agreement.

  "It is the worst feeling in the world being lied to like that," Jackie said, but then let out a small, almost sad laugh. "But I should have known, right? When I met him, he was going out with someone else. I should have known if he would cheat on another girl, he would do the same to me. I didn't see. I didn't want to see it."

  "I'm so sorry." I handed her a napkin to wipe away those angry tears. I wanted to hug her, hold her, and take all the hurt away. Maybe by letting her share it, I was doing that.

  "Don't be so sorry for me. I knew better. That's the worst part." Jackie wrapped her hands around her coffee cup.

  "You were being lied to; how could you know," I said, then noticed that Kara was staring right at me.

  "How could I know?" Jackie just shook her head. "Because he did it before. I guess some people change, but I bet he never did. He's probably telling the same lies to some other girl that he told to me."

  "None of us really get lied to; we mostly just lie to ourselves," Kara said, but I noticed that again, she was looking right at me, not at Jackie.

  "I guess that's the kind of stuff I wish I would have learned in school rather than the hard way," Jackie said as she finished up her coffee.

  "I wonder what that son of a bitch is up to now?" Lynne asked.

  "The same thing, I just know it,
" Jackie said, her voice caught between laughter and tears. "I bet you to this day Dave Hitch­ings is still cheating on his girlfriends, telling them the same stories of how he'll change."

  "If they did it before, they'll do it again," Kara said, once again her eyes fixed on me.

  As Lynne, Jackie, and Kara chatted on, I slumped into my seat. They kept talking, but I wasn't hearing anything; instead, I was gently rubbing my hand over the most recent bruise on my arm and heard Kara's words ring in my head: "If they did it before, they'll do it again."

  After Lynne and Jackie headed back to work, Kara and I headed to the clothing store. Once inside, Kara moved from rack to rack like a whirling dervish. "This is it!"

  "I don't think so," I said, looking at the way too small, way too revealing dress.

  "Come back here with me, and let's try it on." She walked to the dressing rooms in the back of the store and held the door open for me, her foot tapping impatiently.

  "It is not that, but—" I started.

  "Don't you like the dress?" Kara asked. "Don't be afraid to show skin, kid."

  "The dress is fine," I said, then started to cry.

  "What's wrong?" Kara took a step toward me.

  I didn't answer. I stood there with my head down, wanting the carpet to swallow me.

  "Johanna, talk to me. Tell me what's wrong," Kara said. But I wasn't listening to her; instead, I was remembering something she had told me last spring: "If you want to be saved, you need to reach out," and hearing her words from earlier: "If they did it before, they'll do it again."

  I walked inside the dressing room and shut the door behind me. I unbuttoned my shirt and let it fall to the floor as Kara gasped.

  "Did Paul do this?" Kara's words bounced around the small confines of the dressing room. I stood there looking at the floor, my bruised arms exposed for her to examine.

  "Sometimes he gets angry at me or frustrated with his world. He promised when we got back together that it wouldn't happen again, but it didn't last. He misses Brad, he hates when I spend time with you, he hates his job, and he hates that I have a job and I don't see him as much. He's angry and blames me. He pushes, he grabs, he squeezes." I was speaking softly. The people next to us didn't need to know this, even if I finally needed to tell it.

  "No, no." Kara was shaking her head back and forth. She was mad at Paul, but I sensed she was even angrier with me, and I can't say that I blamed her. "Why didn't you tell someone?"

  "I don't know," I said, holding back tears. "I was ashamed, afraid. I just couldn't."

  "Not even your parents?" Kara asked.

  "Especially not them," I replied. "I can't let them know they were right about Paul."

  "What about someone at school? What about Mr. Taylor or one of the counselors?"

  "No, I couldn't tell anyone that someone who supposed to be smart is really so dumb."

  "How could you let him do this?" Kara asked gently.

  "He is so gentle most times, his touch so soft." I felt tears coming, pushing my words faster now. "But other times, he'll grab me so hard, it leaves a mark like this. Or sometimes he'll push me against something."

  "Leave him, now," Kara said, the words clipped. "Damn you, leave him, now."

  "I tried, but I can't; I just can't do it. You know what that is like." I sat down on the small bench; Kara sat down next to me, putting her arms around me. Paul called me star, but he was my sun. I couldn't break free of his pull. "Kara, as bad as this hurts, leaving him would be worse. When we broke up last winter, I thought I was going to die."

  I told her the whole story about the night of the Valentine's Day dance, sparing no details. I told her how I tried to run away, but couldn't.

  "You got back in the car with him?" Kara was growing angrier with each revelation.

  "What else could I do?" I asked her. "If not, he would have just hit me again. If I ran away, it would just be the same scene over and over again."

  Kara hugged me hard, her thumbs pressing softly against Paul's latest anger tattoo. "Do you hear yourself?"

  "What?"

  Kara let go of my arms and tapped on the mirror. "Stand up and look at yourself."

  I did as she said. I stared at my pitiful image in the mirror and hated it.

  "I know, I know." I just shook my head.

  "If you don't run away, then it will play over and over again; you have to know that!"

  I was on automatic pilot. "I know, I know."

  "Put this on." I took the dress from her hands, dropped my jeans, and put the dress on. She'd sized me up. As she zipped it in back I could tell the dress was almost a perfect fit.

  "You look beautiful," Kara said, now standing next to me.

  "You lie," I said.

  "Johanna, what are you going to do?" she whispered.

  "I know what I need to do, but I can't. It's too hard. I love him so much."

  "Johanna, you have to do something," Kara pressed on.

  "You don't understand. I don't even understand." My eyes were closed.

  "You might as well take that dress off, then," Kara said, reaching over to undo the zipper.

  "But you said it looked good!" I protested as the dress fell down around my knees.

  Kara sighed. "You don't need that dress. Unless you do the hard thing, picking out clothes will be easy. It looks like you plan on wearing long sleeves the rest of your life."

  "No, this is just a bad time. I know things will change. Things will get better," I told her, unsure if I believed those lies anymore.

  Kara took a deep breath. She started to speak, but each time she would suck back her words.

  "Kara, what's wrong?" I asked.

  "I suspected," Kara said. She was near tears now. "I need to tell you something."

  "What?"

  "God, I should have told you this a long time ago," Kara continued. "But I couldn't. I couldn't hurt Brad; you know that, don't you?"

  "What are you talking about?"

  "Last year, the prom. I told you that we went with Carla and Paul. I need to tell you about Carla."

  "What about her?" I was almost begging.

  "I saw her the next day. I told Brad about it, but he said I couldn't say anything to you. He wanted to protect Paul. I guess someone should have protected you from him."

  "Kara, what are you trying to say."

  "The day after the prom. The four of us were supposed to get together, but Carla never showed. I wondered what was going on, so I went over to her house."

  "And?"

  "When she came down to answer the door, that's when I saw it," Kara continued.

  "Saw what?"

  "Carla had a black eye," Kara said. The sound of my pulse was shattering my eardrums.

  I ran my hand over my arm, feeling the bruises.

  "I wanted to tell you, but I couldn't betray Brad. I promised him I wouldn't tell you. He said he was for Paul, right or wrong. He said it would be the end of us if I told. And I knew you were smart. I thought you would know what do to," Kara said, her voice choked with emotion.

  "A black eye," I repeated, and I remembered looking in the mirror that night after the Valentine's Day dance.

  "I'm so sorry," Kara said.

  I couldn't speak. I couldn't move.

  "I should have told you. I'm so sorry," Kara repeated. "What are you going to do?"

  "I guess it is like Mr. Taylor told me once. There are two sides to every story," I said after a long silence. "I heard Paul's side; maybe I need to hear Carla's."

  "Use this," Kara said as she handed me her cell phone and left me alone in the changing room. "Her name is Carla Stevenson, and she lives on Long Lake Road."

  I put my glasses back on and took one long last look in the mirror at my bruised arms. This image reflecting back at me wasn't just a picture of my past, and it wasn't just a mirror of my present; it was also a crystal ball of my future.

  THIRTY-ONE

  It was easy to do.

  It took just one phone call.
r />   Carla was still at home; she wasn't going back to college until after Labor Day. She denied it at first, just like I had. But I pressed her, using every journalistic skill in my bag. Using years of lessons on interrogation I had learned by osmosis from my mother. It took a while, but I got her side of the story. I got the story of how Paul would hit her. How he would drink, get angry, and then hit her. Grab her too tight; push her against things. Sometimes, she said, he did it when he didn't drink; she never knew what set him off. She never told anyone, she said. Like me, she lied about her bruises or hid them under layers of clothing. Carla told me of his promises to change, over and over again. That was Carla's story; it was my story, too.

  By the time I was off the phone, it was almost nine o'clock. I ran from the mall and jumped into my mom's Jeep. I almost drove the car off the road as I raced over to Wallie's parking lot. I would wait there until Paul got off at eleven, then confront him. I was just pulling in when I saw Paul get in the Firebird, leaving work two hours early. Damn him.

  He drove so fast that it was hard to follow him. I was just about to give up and decide to meet him at his trailer when I saw him turn off an exit too soon.

  I followed him, my hands shaking on the wheel, my eyes so full with tears and my heart so full of hate that I don't know how I stayed on the road.

  I followed him, watching as he turned the car into the parking lot of the Atlas Mini-Storage, off Telegraph Road. What in bloody hell was he doing here at this hour?

  I drove past, letting him turn in. I did a U-turn and parked across the street at the Pizza Hut. Outside, I heard the noise of people laughing, out on dates, falling in love.

  They were falling in love, but I was just falling. And now I was waiting. Waiting and wanting.

  I waited almost two hours until I saw the headlights of the Firebird come out from behind the security gate. I gunned the engine, my hands shaking like they had fallen on a live wire. I drove across the road and put my car about five feet in front of his in the parking lot of the Atlas Mini-Storage. He was trapped. He wasn't going anywhere.