27 Revelations

by Harlow Hayes

  “My clients are not crazy,” I said in their defense. “They just need a little extra help and aren’t afraid to ask for it.”

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you, my dearest. But are you excited? You should be.”

  He leaned back in the booth as if he owned the place, his arm stretched out across the leather backing. He was arrogant but it made him so attractive.

  “I am,” I said, unsure.

  “What’s the problem?” he asked, his eyes intensely connected to mine. He was actually listening and it was refreshing.

  “It feels like it’s been forever, and I hope I haven’t completely lost my skills or my mind the past couple months.” I wasn’t sure that I wanted to tell him, but it was best to just come out and say it. “I had another blackout last night… It was bad.”

  I braced myself for his response.

  Frankie downed the rest of his drink and sat up at attention. “Elaborate,” he said.

  “I left group and went to call you, and next thing I knew it was the middle of the night and I was at some train station in Oak Brook and—”

  “What the hell, Mara!” People started staring, so he lowered his voice.

  “Why didn’t you call me? Are you all right?” he said, panic streaked across his face.

  “Of course I’m all right. I’m sitting here, aren’t I? And I couldn’t call you because I didn’t have my phone and I hadn’t memorized your new number, so I had to call information to get Rosalina at the hospital. Her parents came and got me. But I’m fine.”

  “What? I mean… Did they figure out why you’ve been having them?”

  “Apparently I have been taking the wrong dosage of medicine and they fixed that, so I’m supposed to be good as new.” I took a sip of my water. I didn’t believe the words as I said them. Good as new. What a joke.

  Frankie’s stunned look faded slightly, but the worry still lingered. I could see it in his eyes.

  “Sir, would like another drink?” the waiter asked, patrolling his section.

  “Yeah, bring me two,” Frankie said, holding up two fingers.

  “Just one is fine. I haven’t finished my wine yet,” I replied.

  “Who said it was for you?” Frankie said. “Two more of these,” he said, pointing to his empty glass that sat on the table.

  “Yes, sir,” the waiter said before walking away.

  “Don’t you think you’re overdoing it a bit? We haven’t even eaten yet and you still have to take me home.”

  He looked up at me, surprised. “I thought you were staying with me tonight?”

  I rolled my eyes. I wanted to be at home in my own bed.

  “Come on, Mara, you always stay, especially today. And I was counting on you to drive us back to my place…”

  I took a deep breath. “You should have told me this earlier. You don’t know what kind of plans I could’ve had.”

  “You had none, that’s what I know,” he said.

  I frowned at him.

  “Look, Mara, I need you to stay. Please stay with me, just this one night. I never ask, but I need you. I can’t be alone, not tonight.”

  I waited to give him a response, just to make him sweat.

  “All right.” I took a sip of wine. He looked relieved, so I left it at that.

  “How’s the group going?” he asked.

  “It’s going,” I said, irritated that he asked. Why would he bring that up?

  “I mean, is it helping you at all? You haven’t said much about it.”

  “It’s group. What do you want me to tell? We sit, they share.” I took another sip of wine. “Your story is sad, mine is tragic, and everyone else’s is horrible. It’s all the same, sad, sad, sad, so there’s not much to tell.”

  “So you don’t share? You don’t talk about it at all?” he asked.

  “No.”

  I braced myself again for the reprimand.

  “You know better than that, Mara. You know it will help you. You dish it to other people but you can’t deal with it yourself.” He shook his head. “I mean, wow, you haven’t even talked to me about it. I know it’s eating at you, so why don’t you—”

  “Jesus, Frankie, stop. Just stop, Frankie. I don’t want to talk about this right now, not here.”

  “No, Mara, you have to stop. You not facing this. This is what got you into trouble in the first place. You’re on edge all the time, and we aren’t sure if these blackouts are under control yet. I mean, seriously, you kicked Jason and Erin’s ass because of the anxiety. I mean, you fucked them up. A grown man and woman, and you think that you’re the exception? That running away from it will work for you? It won’t, and you know it won’t. Just join in and take it with a grain of salt.”

  “It’s not that easy, Frankie. And if you had it your way you’d have me shouting from the rooftops, ‘Mara’s been raped!’” I whispered.

  Frankie hung his head in frustration.

  “That’s not what I’m saying, Mara, and you know it. I just want it to get better. I want you to get better. You aren’t the same. You can’t outrun it; you just have to face it.”

  “Oh, I have to face it?” I could feel my face turning red. “Just like you’re facing Thomas, right? Am I right?” I knew that it was a low blow, but he came for me first. He decided to bring this up at dinner, in a public place, where he didn’t know who was listening in. This conversation didn’t need to happen here; it didn’t need to happen at all.

  “Don’t,” Frankie said, pointing his finger at me. “Mara, don’t bring him into this. They are completely different.”

  “Well, you’re instructing me to face it, so why don’t you face it? You haven’t spoken to him in how long? Why don’t you get over it?” I took another sip of my wine.

  “Mara,” he said, his voice lowered, “Thomas is the reason that Lizzy is dead. You know, buried in the ground? We just left there. That fucking crackhead, methhead, whatever he is, got her killed. If the same thing happens to you, then you can say something to me, but until then I suggest you keep your opinions to yourself.”

  “Frankie,” I said.

  “He is dead to me,” Frankie snapped. “There is no—and there isn’t going to be any—contact between us. He can go rot away in whatever jail, rehab facility, or cardboard box he may be living in. I couldn’t care less.”

  “It’s the same thing, Frankie.”

  “No, it’s not. How is it the same?”

  I paused for a minute to think. Frankie hadn’t been this mad at me in a long time.

  “It’s all pain…”

  The waiter came back to the table with Frankie’s drinks and our food followed immediately after that.

  Frankie kept talking. “What about your father? Huh? I don’t see you extending the hand of forgiveness. Mara, I love you, but you are one of the biggest hypocrites I have ever met. Maybe you get it from him. It’s all pain… good one. I don’t see you buying any of your own bullshit.”

  I looked around to make sure that no one was looking at me, then I leaned over the table and whispered, “You know what, fuck you, Frankie.”

  He was unfazed by my insult. “Yeah, Mara, fuck me,” he said as he salted his food. “You’re just mad because you know I’m right.” He paused to take a bite. “I’m going to pretend that you didn’t say that and continue drinking my drinks and eating my dinner. You are welcome to put your bitterness aside and join me.”

  I was shocked he remained so cool. I wasn’t exactly sure how I wanted to proceed. I looked down at my food and played with it with my fork. I had been called out, told off, and I wasn’t sure how to respond. I didn’t want to edge it on because any more passionate debating would have had us in bed, both of us winning an orgasm, and I didn’t want to go there. I would never admit it to him, but there was something I found enchanting about this carousel we were on, and I didn’t want to get off. I wasn’t ready to. Frankie kept eating, but when I looked down at my pasta again I saw that it was infested with tomatoes.
r />   “There are tomatoes in this…”

  “Did you tell them you were allergic?” Frankie asked, his mouth full with food.

  “No, because I’m not,” I retorted.

  “Of course you’re not. You just tell them that so you get no trace of them.” Frankie shook his head at me again and flagged down the waiter.

  “She’s allergic to tomatoes. Could we get this without the tomatoes?”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “Apparently I can’t read a menu.”

  The waiter smiled at me.

  “Yes, sir, of course,” the waiter said as he took my plate away.

  Frankie sipped on his drink and I stared at him. He wasn’t the same boy that I met seven years ago. He had become soft in ways and harder in others, and I didn’t know if I really knew the person who sat across from me anymore.

  “What?” he asked.

  “Do you want me to stay at my place now?” I asked after recovering my nerve.

  “No, Mara, you can stay at my place. You just always…”

  “I always what?” I asked.

  “Nothing. It’s been a long day. Let’s just enjoy dinner, you know, try to have a good time.”

  “Let’s do that,” I said, confidence fully reinstated.

  “Good. There is something that I wanted to talk to you about,” he said, placing his fork on his plate.

  “Yeah, what?” I asked.

  “I’ve been thinking a lot lately, and I know I’ve fucked up a lot, especially in the past.” He reached across the table for my hand. “I have not been as good to you as you have been to me, and for that I am sorry. All my life I feel like I’ve been such a fuck up.” His thumb grazed back and forth over my knuckles.

  “This is sweet, Frankie, but what’s your point?” I asked, annoyed at the formality.

  “Damn, Mara, I’m sorry. I’m trying to get it out.”

  “Sorry about what?”

  “Everything. The way I acted when you told me you were pregnant, for me getting hammered on your birthday and not being there to protect you, all the girls… I—”

  I put my hand up, urging him to stop.

  “You don’t have to do this. I’ve already gotten these apologies. Look, you are my friend and I love you and even though you do way more messed up stuff than I do, it’s okay.”

  He smiled.

  “When I lost the baby, you were there. When I was in the hospital, you were there, so we’re all right,” I said, assuring him that I had left that in the past.

  “I’m not finished,” he said.

  I looked at him, wondering what more he could say.

  “Mara, I want to give us another try. I want for us to try being together again. You know, start fresh.”

  The look in his eyes was the most sincere look I had ever seen come from him. I froze, unable to speak.

  “Please just think about it,” he said before he returned to eating his food.

  What do you say to that? I wasn’t sure, but we were interrupted by the arrival of my food, and for that I was appreciative. The plate was piping hot, but the guy who brought it wasn’t our waiter. He was familiar to me, but I couldn’t place him no matter how hard I tried. He had on a chef's coat, and his dark hair was pulled back into a perfect man bun. His sleeves were partly rolled up, exposing his forearms, which displayed some detailed tattoos.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt your evening, but I just wanted to apologize for the mix up in the kitchen. Here is your salmon linguine, one hundred percent tomato free.” He had a mild accent, one that I couldn’t quite place.

  “Be careful, the plate is very hot,” he said.

  “Thank you… um…”

  “Sorry, my apologies. Nikolas, Nikolas Almeida. I’m the head chef here. I just wanted to come out and offer my apologies. I hope everything is to your liking.”

  “It looks good, thanks,” I said, unable to take my eyes off of him. Where had I seen him before?

  “Yeah, thanks,” Frankie said, and my concentration broke.

  “You just let me know if you need anything else.” And he smiled and took his leave, walking back toward the kitchen, checking in with other tables on his way.

  I couldn’t stop staring at the man. I knew him from somewhere, but I couldn’t remember, and that made me lose my appetite. I had seen his face before and heard his voice, that strange accent.

  He could be the guy, I thought. The one who ruined my life.

  We finished our dinner, which ended up being free after it was comped by our new mysterious associate the chef, and we headed back to Frankie’s. Frankie was beyond drunk when we got back and I was glad. I just wanted to sleep. After forcing him to drink some water, I put him in the bed then climbed under the sheets next to him. Light from the moon shined through the window on us and I watched him as he slept. I should have been thinking about his “proposal,” but in the silence the only thing I could think about was the chef.

  Where had I seen him and why did I feel that he knew me? I thought about it too long and it made my head ache, so I gave up. The constant paranoia drained me and left my body weak and my mind fried. Then there was Frankie. The man that I shared a bed with, my body with. For years, we had been lovers, friends, enemies, and I was still being exposed to new facets. Pieces of him that were new and forever changing, but I didn’t know if I liked what he was changing into, and I questioned if I’d ever liked what and who he was from the very beginning.

  After an hour lying in the bed, unable to sleep, I tired of listening to Frankie breathe, so I got up and went into the living room. The light from the moon directed my path and I sat on the couch and looked out into the night, into the city. Lights twinkled from the buildings and the traffic in the streets had died down. I couldn’t see the stars here, and it made me sick for home. I imagined the sound of crickets right outside my room, but in return I was rewarded with the sound of a siren. I laid there lethargic, unable to gather my thoughts, overwhelmed by the mess that was my life.

  Was I ever going to be me again? Would I ever feel safe again, unafraid, or genuinely happy? To think about it made me sad, and sad was something that I had become used to, and knowing that made me sadder. I thought my cause was hopeless, but in that moment, I felt my hopelessness for the very first time. The dark places within yourself that you can find and the terrible way they change you when you’re isolated and alone, when your mind is consumed with your troubles; it’s disheartening to say the least. I grabbed a couch pillow and covered my face to muffle my cries. I cried out until my voice went hoarse, but the tears never came. I could only feel the dry heat of my breath radiating from me. They were all gone, my tears had deserted me, or I had used them all up. I didn’t know how much longer I would or could survive the way that I was. It was too much for my mind, too much for my body, and the grief, the anger, the blame, and the fear needed to be expelled someway, if not through tears. I looked across the living room into the kitchen where my bag sat on the counter. I walked over and grabbed the journal from it and sat back down by the window. It didn’t take long for me to find a word, and when I did, the words flowed smoothly from my pen to the paper.

  June 11

  FEAR

  I used to roam around at night, breathing in the night air, soaking up the solidarity and its peace, but I don’t anymore, because I fear it. If I went out and searched, I bet I’d find others that fear the night, too, and I wonder if their story would be the same as mine. Something I used to find beautiful now only reminds me of what happened. Apple martinis remind me, pills remind me, parking garages remind me, hospitals remind me, and anything else I encountered that night reminds me. When will these reminders no longer trigger tightness in my chest and pain in my chest? This rape has ruined not only my nights, but my days, my hours, my minutes. It has ruined my sky, my clear, starry filled sky full of wishes. I used to marvel at the stars and now I can’t even appreciate their placement. The limitless now has a limit in this world of pain, and the stars that once hel
d my wishes have fallen. In the darkness of my night there is no moon, and there are no stars, and when I look up I see nothing and this nothing is only a reflection of what I feel is inside of me. I try to look away, away from myself and the darkness that grows inside of me, because in that darkness the fear lives and I don’t want to face it. I don’t believe that I can face it and survive.

  Chapter 10

  I walked into the office that morning unprepared for what I could possibly encounter. In my first session, I couldn’t stop twirling the pen in my hand, flexing my foot as I sat, but as the day progressed my chair conformed to my body and I felt at ease again. My client cases that day were very textbook, with an array of people who weren’t being appreciated at home and whose lives lacked meaning as their children prepared to leave the nest. There were some people that panicked about whether or not they were good providers or lovers, while some were still processing childhood pain that was severely affecting their relationships now, and I wondered how any of them made it this far.

  Most were just tired of giving so much of themselves. They had lived their whole lives worried about so many other people—parents, spouses, children—that they never stopped to think about what would make them happy, and they continuously ended up disappointed. Having Dr. Abbley as my clinical mentor was a huge help, and she understood my circumstances, so she didn’t give me anything that was too difficult to deal with. I had seen six clients, and I was waiting on the last one to arrive.

  Dr. Abbley’s office was small but comfortable. She didn’t require a receptionist, as she preferred to handle things on her own. She had her large office, and I had a small one that sat right next to hers. It was nice to be busy because my own problems faded away as I immersed myself in my work. There was a rhythm that I had fallen into, one I thought I wouldn’t be able to get back. I did worry that I could collapse under the weight of my own despair, the grief of Dr. Moore’s group, and that of my own clients, but I had survived the day, and for the first time in weeks, I could breathe a little easier.