Ethan's arms feel different from any others who have held me. His care feels different. He doesn't tell. He gives options and suggestions. He doesn't force, he inspires. There's no judging. His eyes display acceptance, giving and taking, acknowledgement of an inner me that even I have trouble seeing. Until he leads me into my bedroom, I'm not certain that I haven't conjured a dream man.
Ethan removes my clothes tenderly. Touches me soothingly. Massages my arms and back and neck. He picks me up off my feet and lays me on the wide mattress, then climbs in beside me, still fully clothed. His big hands begin to feather over my skin. Not a touch but a buzz of electricity from his fingers, up and down my legs, over my belly and arms, my breasts, shoulders, head. I feel the tingle in the deepest parts of me. My physical being links with my thoughts.
Then he begins to kiss me and the sensual thrill is like nothing I've ever felt. His lips are a caress, a warm connection that is both a soothing bath and a wash of desire. When we are face-to-face, he looks into my eyes. I see a version of myself that I do not recognize. I gently remove his shirt, his pants, his underwear. It's my choice. He gives himself to me at my request, not as a result of his desire alone. When we join in lovemaking, I feel as though I have entered his skin, tucked myself inside him. I am fully engaged, no longer dismissive and apart.
I suddenly know the meaning of the words, 'and the two shall be as one'. Not subsumed, but made stronger, more complete, better.
When Ice Queen Anne begins to whisper that she is about to OD on sugar, she is suppressed by all five senses, which are awakened and dancing with excitement.
All that night we touch one another, physically and spiritually, passionate and heated, soft and exploring. We take turns sleeping in one another's arms, cocooned and strengthened, comforted and safe. I have never felt so treasured.
For the next few weeks I travel another new landscape. I am still uncertain and shaky. I watch my feet and tread carefully, looking for potholes, enjoying the soft sandy parts between my toes.
It takes a huge burst of courage to reveal some of my secrets. But somehow I know that this is part of the hard work. The end goal will be worth it; a new Anne, a life with love will emerge.
We sit on the couch, facing one another, touching and talking. I decide I have to tell him. I know what I have to do and I don't want to approach it without his support and knowledge. Again, this is a far different Anne that I'm contending with. I'm not sure she knows what she's doing, but I have to trust her. She's the one that this man loves.
"Ethan, I want to show you something."
I pad in my stocking feet into my bedroom and retrieve the packet from under the mattress. Seated back in the living room, I stare down at the thick pile of papers held together with a blue ribbon.
"This is what I found in Karoline's closet. I need you to read the first three."
He spreads his fingers through the papers. Reads. Stabs the pages with his big fingers as though angry with the words and not the writer. When he is finished he looks up at me with anguish in his eyes and fury on his face.
"Have you read them all? Is any of this true?"
"Yes and yes."
"They were in Karoline's closet?"
"Yes. In a trunk she kept there. Some of the letters came in the mail, but even though they were clearly sent to me…"
"…you never knew about them."
It isn't a question and he isn't shocked. I think I should explain. Excuse.
"We had different household duties. Karoline got the mail, mostly because I always forgot and once I misplaced the key. The landlord charged us fifty bucks to replace it."
These last few days I have noticed that Ethan gives me odd looks whenever I speak of Karoline, but until tonight I chose to ignore them. I am afraid of where his insight might lead.
"She never showed any of these to you?"
I shake my head, allowing the tears to slide down my cheeks. I draw in a stuttering breath and try to regain control.
"Never. I found them when she was breaking down. I searched her room, looking for anything that would explain…"
Explain what? Her insanity? The sudden appearance/disappearance of Glenn Simpson? The gradual disappearance of the real Karoline? I'm uncertain about giving him the details. Karoline's incessant scribbling, her mutterings, her days-long absences from the apartment. I grasped at any explanation, finally digging through her trunk, the one she'd buried in her closet years ago. I didn't know what I expected to find, but I definitely did not expect the letters.
A tense silence keeps us immobile for a minute. When he finally speaks Ethan's melodious tones are measured, controlled. He delivers a concise theory that he's clearly thought about for a while.
"Anne, you were in an abusive relationship for years. You became a classic abused spouse, submissive and emotionally crippled. This is the most glaring, most manipulative example."
He stabs the pile of papers once again.
"I'm not happy about what happened to Karoline, don't get me wrong. But I am glad she's gone from your life."
I begin to shake. From the terrible honesty. From the terrible lie.
Ethan doesn't know how complicit I was in shaping my life with my friends. My parents, probably without meaning to, raised me to be a narcissistic Princess, haughty and self-absorbed. They protected me from a world that might've used me. I learned how to use beauty to my own advantage instead.
My mother gave me lessons in how to remain emotionally distant. I went from that overprotected discipline to Karoline's regime. I never really thought about others' feelings except how the consequences related to me.
Like how to deal with the writer in tears who was aghast at the way the screenplay had twisted their main character. Or how to manage the man who lay weeping at my feet when I broke up with him. How to avoid an emotional bond with the guy I'd just slept with. How to replace real discourse with intellectual sparring.
I ignored the fact that my very best friend was disintegrating right in front of me.
From Parris I have started to learn true friendship. From Ethan, real love. But it took the unraveling of Karoline for me to reach out beyond the nest we created. If Karoline's demons hadn't swallowed her, would I ever have noticed my shallow existence? I don't think I would have.
I would describe myself as content, self-absorbed, privileged, coddled. I equated these feelings with happiness. I mistook laughter for joy and arguments for conversation. Saw overprotection and control as love.
I was capable of vicious thoughts, of cold betrayal, of a terrible, final act. Do I still retain that Ice Queen Anne, the one that I was? I must, or surely her voice would have been completely silenced by now. Can a person really change? Or am I a monster hiding under this bandage of love and attention until my wounds heal?
Tears spill down my face. Ethan encircles me. Rocks me like a broken-hearted child. He kisses my wet cheeks, my blubbering lips.
"Anne, I love you," he whispers at my ear, nuzzling my neck, kneading my back.
"I know, but I'm not sure you should," I tell him, anxiety cracking my voice. "You don't really know me."
He doesn't know the complete me. He can't have glimpsed a fully lovable Anne under the layers of odd behaviors and insincerity. Is he like all the others, assuming beauty and goodness because of the surface perfection? What will he do if he ever discovers what I did, what I was, what I might still be?
"And I have only just started to learn what that word really means. You've been teaching me, Ethan, but I still can't trust it."
Or myself. I shake my head, refusing to slip down the mountain into that valley of self-hatred once again. I sit up and hold his eyes with mine, squeeze his hand so he won't stop me from my confession. I must find out.
"I didn't tell her I'd found the letters. Instead, I followed the trails, at least up to a point. I need you to know everything."
I stumble on the last word, aware that there is one secret I cannot tell just yet. Perhaps never.
There are so many missing pieces of myself that must be replaced. I am a crossword with obscure definitions that lead to empty spaces. I am half and half in skin and mind, not whole of anything.
"I can't remember the first four years of my life. It's a blank. The only person who ever knew about that was Karoline. I didn't even ask my mother. I assumed that everyone forgets their early childhood. Until Karoline pointed out that mine is far emptier than most. There are no glimpses, no half-remembered scenes. Nothing. But I never wanted to investigate. Clearly, Karoline did."
It's my turn to stab the letters.
"After I found these letters, I decided to visit my sister Elizabeth. I took a week off work, told Karoline nothing. Disappeared just as she had begun to do."
Dear Diary,
Today I want to talk about trust. The dictionary defines it as, "reliance on the character, ability, strength, or truth of someone or something". For years there was complete trust. Total reliance. Unfortunately, it's the truth part that has begun to fall apart. Fucking assholes. What's that song again? When the truth is found to be lies and all the joy within you dies?
Chapter 11
Although I'd been to the Toronto area several times over the years I'd always arrived with my parents leading the way. There'd been different purposes then. A different feel. The visits were about the birth of a child, a christening or a graduation. I attended ostensibly happy family occasions while half of me remained in California. They were an interruption of my real life, an obligation.
Often Karoline would accompany us, turning the event into a gabfest for two best friends. I realized that this was the first time I'd ever visited my sister on my own. Usually I was on the periphery of my mother and my sister's duo, buzzing around them with Karoline or sauntering off by myself. Not really there. My thoughts ahead or behind. Back in Bell Canyon and later, L.A. Always afraid that if I were gone too long, my world would alter profoundly in my absence.
This time I was fully present. I saw the Canadian skyline with wide-open eyes, navigated the broad roadways with rapt attention. I scrutinized the differences between here and there with a fully engaged mind. Perhaps influenced by my mother's preference for her homeland, and maybe some long-ago childhood memories of my own, I always saw this side of the border as cleaner, smarter, newer. Canadians appeared to either replace the old or scrub them up more often. In Los Angeles we revered the past with an obsession that made the present seem inferior.
Here they used words like maximum speed rather than interstate limit, in that snooty Canadian style. Buckle up became fasten seat belts. Lodging was now accommodation. Of course miles were 'km', which referred to kilometers—with an re. No signs mentioned Chambers of Commerce. Instead there were lovely pieces of art on the roadside, announcing Lake Country with a flourish of blue and white and yellow. Lots of symbols became a kind of universal language telling me where to find gas or food. Though I admired the Canadian sensibility, I loved my American home, our unselfconscious manner, our brashness and assertiveness. Especially the egotistical cocky air of L.A.
I carried California with me in a different way this time. There was no worrying about what I was missing, as though the currents of my life would navigate new territory without me. Move on to levels that I would no longer be able to reach. Switch channels. Those changes had already happened while I was present.
I zipped past the Lester B. Pearson Airport and glimpsed the CN Tower pointing at the sky. Its sister buildings glinted in the distant sunlight. Along the highways, not freeways, I headed east and then north. The rental car was a sleek little grey thing, easy to manage, perfect for a city girl who usually drove a sporty vehicle that fit into any lurking parking spot however small.
At first my heart pounded with the apprehension of so many shocks to my system, leaving my city, heading to unknown territory both physically and emotionally. Navigating customs, the airport, the suitcase and the rental all by myself. No Karoline buffer, no parental guides, no obvious reason to be here.
It was a warm spring day, one of those perfect days that I thought of as Canadian. Fresh air scented with evergreen and burgeoning hay. None of the stifling but familiar smog of my city back home. Fields, miles of them, on either side of the highway. I knew I was traveling at a good time for traffic but I still thought of the road as somehow innocent of congestion. I slid the sunroof open, cranked the music and felt free.
It wasn't until I'd reached the city of Barrie that the anxiety began. Elizabeth had no idea her younger sister was about to enter her contented sphere with questions that might be an earthquake with aftershocks. Would she even admit that she knew the answers? I hadn't warned her I was coming. I didn't want the walls to go up.
I checked into a nice little hotel along Highway 400. The front hall was crowded with friendly people and the echo of children's voices as they romped in the pool. In my room I began to put my clothes away carefully, then suddenly realized that this was Karoline's routine. I took everything out of the drawers and folded them back into my suitcase.
I strolled out into the sunshine in search of food. I had a couple of hours before Elizabeth would be home from work. I was determined not to arrive at her place hungry. Fortunately, I found a big Chinese food buffet restaurant at the top of the hill, where I feasted on salads, shrimp, crab and a myriad of desserts while I contemplated the fish swimming in colorful array behind a huge glass tank.
The walk downhill was somewhat uncomfortable. I had eaten more in those few minutes than I had in months. When I got back to my room I lay down on the bed, undid my jean shorts and promptly fell asleep.
The sun was waning when I awoke. Instead of the grizzly feeling I usually had after a nap, I felt invigorated. I brushed my teeth and set out in my zippy little vehicle once more.
Elizabeth lives on the other side of the highway, just that much removed from the city and its environs. Her career as a surgical nurse is, from all accounts, satisfying and challenging. Right after her marriage at nineteen she had three children. All of them grew up adventurous despite their almost-country upbringing.
They are spread around the world now, collecting memories, doing good works, teaching in foreign countries or going to school in distant languages. I don't know them any better than I know my sister and her husband. When I infrequently think of my two nieces and my nephew, I imagine them as crusading heroes armed with an absolute certainty about who they are and where they are headed.
My brother-in-law, Samuel Cummings, is a tall handsome man who moves with confidence and sensuality. He's a far more outwardly affectionate and gregarious person than his wife. I like him. A computer software designer, his career has been somewhat of a rollercoaster. Though he appears to have hit his stride in his forties.
I turned off Duckworth St. onto the side road that led to the home Sam and Liz have inhabited for over twenty years. Tucked on a hill opposite the Barrie side of Little Lake, the house overlooks a pristine body of water that kisses the air with the promise of cool swims and shiny fish. The long steep driveway leads to a massive two-storey that must echo without children's scampering footsteps. It's a house that combines brick and siding gracefully. A wide porch runs all across the front and along the right side, offering stunning views of the lake.
Bracketed on both sides by forest, the neighbors a comfortable distance away, the Cummings residence has a rural aura, accentuated by the barn-like structure behind it. I say barn-like because it's far too flower-boxed and frilly to be taken seriously. On one visit long ago I'd glimpsed a hayloft, a play area for the kids and four snowmobiles stacked two-by-two inside. I think they even had a pony at one time.
As I pulled up in front of the garage I could see lights in the open windows that graced the living room, though no sign of a living being. It struck me, for the first time, that Elizabeth's house was so familiar not due to past visits, but because it resembled, almost twinned, the house in Bell Canyon. My sister chose a home and a career exactly like our mother's.
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The apprehension flooded back. What if she wasn't home? What if she refused my request? By the time I had mounted the steps and pressed the bell, my mouth was dry.
I looked around at the tasteful decorations. Flowerpots lush with red and white and yellow. A clay chipmunk. A stark white sculpture of a small child with a bright orange, plaster butterfly on its hand. Our mom must have approved wholeheartedly.
The colorful wreath on the door announced gaily, "Welcome Friends". I wondered if that meant relatives, too.
I heard the clicking of her heels on the wooden floor before she yanked the door open, so I had time to brace myself. She stood utterly still, staring at me, her face unemotional, not even registering surprise.
Elizabeth is a lovely woman, though completely different from me. Her pigment is faint as though merely dusted by our black ancestry. Her hair forms a wild curly halo, cut fairly short these days I noted. Her eyes are a wide ordinary brown. A rounded face and pushed-up chin prevent her from being truly beautiful, but she always dresses to heighten her rather drab coloring. A splashy pastel scarf was tossed around her shoulders right now, highlighting the deep blue of her t-shirt, matching her snug jean shorts which showed off long, lean tanned legs.
"Hi, Liz," I said to break the silence. "I'm sorry I didn't call, but…"
Wordlessly she opened the door wide, gesturing with her hand as though I were a casual guest who often popped in for tea.
"Come right in, Anne, for heaven's sake. I was just so startled to see you there. Very unexpected."
She gave me a polite tentative hug, patting my back as she always did, like a baby being burped.
I stepped into the hallway, automatically removing my shoes, placing them on the carpet where others were lined up, just as we'd both been taught. Elizabeth walked ahead of me into the living room, where she perched on the sofa. I sat across from her on a hard-seated chair the shape of a giant half shell.
Sweet Karoline Page 8
