He said nothing, but there were tear tracks on his cheeks, and it was time to leave.
On the way home, I was surprised to note that I felt no grief yet, only a kind of high-energy state, and thought I was probably maintaining myself in some sort of suspension of emotion -
State of suspended an-emotion. Not bad, for a shattered psyche. Not bad at all.
- some kind of semi-shock state, so that I could drive home with maximum safety. I reminded myself to be extremely attentive to driving details, and not to fall into the trap of getting distracted by thoughts. I kept my adrenalin up by telling myself to be careful, careful, until I had been on the freeways for a good half hour, and decided I was going to be all right. Until I got home, of course. Just keep your attention where it belongs until you get home, I crooned to myself. At home, you can let loose.
Inside my house, I began the grieving. Again. All of it again. And for the last time, I said over and over to myself. No more Mistress Yo-Yo. It had all been my decision, to do what I'd done, but Jesus Aitch Christ, enough is enough is enough. Even the most extraordinary man in the world isn't worth more than - what was it? - two closings of the door and willingness to return.
Three? Basta, as the Italians say.
Finally, the angry inner voice subsided and the tears came. My Observer sighed with relief, knowing that the sobs and aching ribs meant that the beginning of healing wasn't too far off.
CHAPTER 31. VOLCANO
When the children came home from their weekend with Walter, I told them, "I've got some grieving to do. The German lady Ursula is coming to stay, and I personally don't believe it's going to last, but I have to act as if it will, because I don't know. No matter what happens in the future, I have to close the door again on my relationship with Shura. You know how I feel about him -," which they did; I'd been open about it all along, " - so it's hard. I have to go through the ending of this, because everything will be changed in the future, no matter how it comes out. So please be patient with me for the next few days. And don't worry. I'll be okay after a while, I promise."
They nodded, their faces shy, and hugged me hard before going off to bed.
On Monday, I phoned the hospital and said that a family emergency made it necessary for me to take the day off. I spent hours writing in my notebook, which helped me ignore the almost constant stream of wetness flowing down either side of my nose. When I went to the bathroom I avoided the mirror. I opened a can of soup and forgot to put it in a pot until two hours later, and remained generally unaware of the details of what I was doing. Everything was on automatic while I wrote out my feelings and let the waves of pain wash through, my Observer keeping watch like the family doctor. I wrote:
"Surges of grief, stomach tightened and churning. Head tension gradually forcing headache.
Like childbirth in reverse - - the more you cry, the longer the intervals between waves of pain, and the shorter the wave.
"As soon as Ursula is near, he's ready to give me away. He said Dolph and I should get together; it was a joke, but the truth is, he'd be happy to see me with someone else, with another lover. It would give him only relief, because it would lift his feelings of responsibility.
The ultimate rejection is having the person you love hope (and say) that you'll meet someone else and be loved by someone else.
"What did he say in his letter to Ursula? Loss of faith. I'm feeling loss of belief in the validity of what he felt for me. I'm seeing the total absence of love and deep caring, now.
"This is a death I'm grieving for. The death of what has been; of both the good and the not good in our relationship. No matter what Ursula does, he and I will never be the same. I will not have it the same. Because he was so much hers, he was never able to give himself fully to me, and I'll never accept anything like that again. No more triangle, no more half-love, no more withholding. So, either way, the past is past, and dead."
It helped, writing it out.
"Why did I allow this to happen? Because I love him. And it was worth it - worth all the pain and anger. Even three times in one year, which must be a record. And I had love back. Not the words, but very much else. Enough to be unbelievably happy for a while. I have that, and my dignity and pride."
Later in the day, I wrote:
"No appetite. Underneath the pain, I found a knowledge of the rightness of what's happening, and - unexpectedly - a sense of joy! Don't know why, but it's quietly there. Something very far inside me knows all is well, although the rest of me continues to tear itself into bloody strips."
The kids came home from school, glanced at my pink, swollen face and made understanding grimaces. They did their homework quietly and pitched in as usual to set the table for dinner on the long tiled bench. I asked them questions about their school and managed to keep my voice level and my mind reasonably well focused on their answers. They were tuned in to me, I knew, and any effort to pretend what I didn't feel would be detected immediately, so I remained honest in what I said and what I showed in my face, and left it up to them to deal with it as best they could.
Wendy was, as usual. Earth-mother, stroking my head as she passed by, hugging me tightly when it was time for bed. Ann/ who usually talked her way through difficult situations, relying on humor and lightness of spirit - or the appearance of lightness - to carry her over the bumps/ fell into an irresistible sadness, her empathy with my pain overwhelming her. At one point, I put my hands on her shoulders and said, in as down-to-earth a voice as possible, "Don't let yourself tune into my feelings, honey. It'll really be all right in a day or two, believe me. Sorrow doesn't kill, and the wound does heal. It's going to be okay."
Brian, aware at some level that too much closeness to me could disable him, glanced at me now and then with helpless compassion when he had to be near, and for the most part kept himself separate in his room, concentrating on homework.
I went to the hospital Tuesday and told the people in Medical Records a short story about a favorite relative dying unexpectedly of a heart attack. They were sympathetic and left me alone. I made it through the day, escaping from memories and grief for minutes at a time in the need to concentrate on the flood of medical reports pounding into my ears, hour after hour. I typed at full speed and left at 5 o'clock, relieved at having managed to stifle the tears all day, at not having forced my fellow transcribers to pay more than the slightest attention.
They were nice women, all of them, but they weren't close friends, and disturbing them would have been unfair and of no help to me at all.
It wasn't until I was on my way out of the hospital, at a few minutes after 5:00 PM, that the full force of the anger hit.
I stopped in mid-stride on the grey pavement, my car in sight across the parking lot, immobilized by the deep red fury which had suddenly taken over. It was appalling in its intensity. My Observer said, half-humorously, "Uh-oh," and shrugged, knowing that this moment had been inevitable. Then it spoke loudly, reminding me that this kind of anger could get me - or somebody else - killed on the highway, and that I'd better put it under wraps, any way I could manage it, until I got home.
I drove very carefully, paying attention to every move of my own and every other driver around me, as if I were quite drunk and unable to trust my reflexes or my concentration.
At home, I said hello to the children through gritted teeth, aware that I was going to start shaking, and asked them if they would please take care of their own supper, explaining, "I've just gotten hit by lot of anger, all of a sudden - which is a perfectly healthy thing to have happen, by the way - and I need to be by myself for a couple of hours, if that's all right."
They said yes and sure and okay, we'll take care of ourselves, don't worry.
I went to the kitchen and got a glass and a bottle of cranberry juice and took them up to my bedroom. I opened the drawer where I kept the MDMA that Shura had given me for my own use, many months ago, and took out a little envelope marked 120 milligrams and another one marked 50 milligrams, in c
ase a supplement should seem like a good idea. I swallowed the first dose in some juice and lay down on my bed.
The fury was hot and terrible, deep inside my stomach, where I'd held it during the drive home. I gave it permission to come to the surface. The top of the volcano opened/ just above my navel, and a flow of searing, murderous hatred spurted upward like lava. I lay on my back, hands clenched, body trembling, and reminded myself not to scream out loud, because of the children. I was a bit frightened by the rage, by the horrible force of it. It was one thing to know intellectually that it would mellow out to anger, and that the anger, in turn, would soften to acceptance, and that it was all part of the healing process; it was quite another to feel it shaking my body, to realize that it was this kind of sharp, thrusting fury that caused some people to kill other people, just to rid themselves of the ugly pain by putting it into someone else.
I remembered, all over again, the remark about Dolph and me getting together - the insulting pity, the arrogant selfishness of those words - as lava flowed down the sides of the fire mountain, burning trees and fields and Shura and Ursula and everything else in sight, devouring the land to the horizon.
My Observer volunteered a small, tentative thought that the poor guy could be excused, considering the circumstances, for failing to fully appreciate anybody's grief. Come on, for Pete's sake, it said, don't distort your perceptions or your ways of thinking, even though you're feeling murderous. You don't have to justify the rage; it has a right to be there. Just experience it. Let it go through you. You'll stay sane. You'll come out in one piece.
An impulse struck me. I thought of the notebook I'd been writing in since I left him for the last time. I thought of the raw pain, the fresh blood that lay on the most recent pages.
I decided to rip those pages out of the notebook. I imagined putting them into a manila envelope, licking the envelope closed, and addressing it to Dr. Alexander Borodin, and I saw Shura opening it and reading what I had written, and I knew that it was the perfect answer to that last careless, stupid insult. He would never forget what he would read. I knew it wasn't something that could be forgotten. He would carry the gut knowledge of my agony with him for the rest of his life, as I would.
Yes, of course it was my decision to risk all this; of course it was up to me and I saidyes and 1
knew it would mean hurt when it ended. That still doesnt forgive that unconscious message to please take my pain away so his happiness wouldn't be tainted. It doesn't forgive ruining what should have been a loving, graceful goodbye. I was beginning to feel the first effects of the MDMA. There was a corner of quietness inside, just a hint of a pale, cool, dove-grey feeling at the edge of the searing fire.
I was crying again, hard. My body was still trembling.
The tremor's probably the way the body is handling the too much energy of the anger. It's all right. In fact, it feels good.
I closed my eyes and felt the looming, blistering shapes of the emotions churning inside me; there was the rage, the wracking sorrow and loss, there was an element of self-destruction, and something howling for help, for an end to the pain, all mixed together. I relaxed into what I expected would be a good long, thoroughly wrenching experience which should leave me -1
hoped - very much cleansed and maybe hurting a bit less.
The voice came abruptly, without warning. It snapped open my eyes and jolted me upright on the bed. It spoke without sound and its words were absolutely clear in my head. It was a voice of absolute authority, and it most certainly was not my Observer.
It said, "Stop this now Know your anger, get it out, and be rid of it. Forget about sending notebook pages in envelopes. Put aside being sorry for yourself. Shura is about to undergo a heartbreaking. He will need you and everything loving you can possibly be to him, not six months from now, but within a very short time. You must remain his refuge. Be ready. He'll be in touch with you soon and he'll need you."
It was gone. I was left with a serene, gentle, rather strange feeling of something easing out of me. The strangeness, I thought, was perhaps a different dimension of the grief and struggle.
There was still the heaviness in the center of my chest, but it had softened.
I had never before had such an experience.
The message didn't make sense, either, I thought. Ursula was coming in on a plane on Thursday, just a couple of days from now. She was coming. What did the voice mean when it said, Shura would have heartbreak - pain - immediately? Ursula's plane lost in a crash? I didn't want that, I didn't want harm to her. That would be no answer for us. He would be in love with her memory, then. Better an outgrowing, a long-term outgrowing of each other, than something like that.
It mustn't be a tragedy, whatever was going to happen. Could it be that she would not be coming, after all? That simply wasn't believable. She had never, as far as I knew the history of their affair, told Shura she was flying in and failed to arrive when expected.
Sitting on the bed, wondering what the hell that message meant, slightly awed by having had such a thing happen at all, I realized suddenly that there was no anger anywhere. It had vanished. All it left behind was a sob-jump in the throat now and then as I forgot to breathe evenly. There was a sense of utter calm, like a meadow after a violent storm has passed, everything crystal clear and quiet in my chest and stomach, where the fury had boiled a few minutes before.
I was even able to laugh at myself.
Well, whatever that visitation was, it sure cured you for the moment, hey? What're you going to do now? Go downstairs, I decided.
The children were seated in different parts of the living room. Wendy and Brian were scrunched over homework. Ann was watching television with the sound turned way down, so I assumed she'd finished hers. I sat down on the couch and grinned at all three of them in turn and said, "Well, a funny thing happened on the way to my screaming anger fit. I'll interrupt you only long enough to tell you about it, and then I'll shut up. By the way, I'm feeling very all right."
I told them about taking MDMA (they had already heard me talk about my experiences with that particular drug) and the voice like a river of cold water on the hot coals I was clutching to my insides, and what the voice had said. Ann's eyes were round and she laughed with relief.
She was obviously picking up my matter-of-fact pleasantness and the absence of the pain which had filled the house for days now. Wendy said, very softly, "Wow!" Brian smiled widely and said, "Boy, I can't wait to see if it turns out to be true!"
"Well," I said, "Even if it all ends up being imagination and nothing to do with reality, I must admit that the MDMA has given me a great feeling of having gone through the worst of all this and coming out the other side. Maybe it won't last, but I really do feel some healing, some sort of - well, as if the bleeding has stopped, so to speak. And, by the way, thanks to all of you for having been so helpful while I was in this state. I'm very grateful to you and love you very much. End of speech. Continue with homework."
When I had seen them into bed, having hugged each of them with a very good hug, so that they could feel with their body antennae the absence of hurting in me, it was around 10:00
PM.
I looked at the phone and it was clear that I was supposed to pick it up and call Shura and tell him what had happened.
The Observer said. Hey, hold it! Why don't you just keep this one to yourself, for the moment?
I knew it would be sensible and reasonable to do just that; in fact, it made no sense at all to tell him. I would sound like a fool and, moreover, I would probably appear to be trying to ruin his anticipation and joy. But the impulse to share it with him was strong enough to be considered another order from Whomever.
Shura's voice, when he answered, had a hopeful, anxious eagerness that told me he was waiting to hear from Ursula. I let him down as gently as I could.
"Hello, my friend, I felt I had to call you tonight. Do you mind?" "Of course I don't mind. Sweet Alice. In fact, I can't tell you how good it
is to hear your voice."
He sounds as if he really means it, bless his heart. I know he was hoping for Ursula, but he did make that sound like genuine pleasure.
I suddenly knew with absolute sureness that Ursula hadn't phoned since I'd left. It was ridiculous to think such a thing, but I knew it was so. Just to be polite, I asked if he had heard from his lady recently, and did he know what plane to meet?
"No, not yet, but I expect to at any moment."
"Okay," I said, "I feel rather weird about telling you what just happened to me, but for some reason I'm sure I'm supposed to."
I told him the little story about taking the MDMA, leaving out the worst of the rage and saying nothing about manila envelopes and notebooks and revenge. I told him about the voice, remarking that this kind of thing had simply never happened to me before, and I didn't expect it to happen again in the future, and I hadn't the slightest idea what it meant, but it was a powerful experience, and I was deeply impressed.
Shura didn't comment on what I gave him of the voice's message, but after a moment's silence he said, very quietly, "Thank you for telling me about it. I can't offer any explanations, of course, any more than you can. We'll just have to wait and see."
I said, "I'm of course taking into account all the usual causes of such an experience, like stress and escape from this and that, et cetera, but there it is. As you say, the rest is waiting to see whether it turns out to be what it seemed or not."
"What it seemed?" Shura sounded confused.
"Oh, you know - like an ESP thing; something like that. Voice from the future or from the cosmos - whatever" I ended up with a raspy impatience, and told him to go to sleep and forget all about it. I'd had a compulsion to tell him, I had given in to it, and that was that, so "Goodnight and sleep tight and make sure all those various whatchamacallits don't bite."
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