by John Lynch
“Nothing much. Just talk.”
Why did I say that? He knows better. I know better. I do this all the time. I lie. No need to—I just do.
And why did I let Carlos lecture me? I don’t do that.
Andy and I are both quiet the rest of the ride to Fenton’s.
I am surprised when he doesn’t make any attempt to set up our next time.
“Thanks, Steven. I know it costs you a lot to give up an afternoon like that. I’m glad you got to meet Cynthia and the gang. Stay in touch.”
As I step out of the Electra and back into my Mercedes it begins to rain. The streets are shiny and slick as I take an old and familiar route from Culver City into El Segundo. And I am alone again, heading back to Marriott room 643. The streets are whispering to me with the sounds of passing cars on wet asphalt. But it’s as if I can’t make out what’s being said. I miss my wife. I miss my daughter. I want to be back in my home. But something is whispering to me. And I don’t know what it is.
It’s a whisper that’s been there all my life.
At a Table a Few Blocks from the Marriott
(Saturday Morning, March 28)
I’m sitting at a table in a restaurant a few blocks from the Marriott. Lindsey will be walking through the door in a few moments. She called Thursday evening to ask if we could get together this morning. We agreed to meet here. We haven’t seen each other in seventeen days. I think this talk is probably about my coming home. None too soon. The housekeeping staff are leaving extra soaps, shampoos, chocolates, and shoeshine cloths, hoping for more tips. Much longer and I’ll need to have a yard sale.
As she walks through the door I feel like a kid on a first date. We are both awkward. I get up to meet her.
“Hello, Steven,” she says, offering a cautious hug.
“I ordered you some coffee,” I say. “It should be here in a moment.”
“Thanks. That’s good.”
“Good. I asked him to bring cream too.”
Listen to us. We sound like foreign students in a class, learning conversational English. I almost expect one of us to ask where the library is.
We sit down and try to make small talk as we consider our menus.
Finally, Lindsey says, “I want this to work, Steven. I really do.”
What’s that supposed to mean?
“Yeah, so do I. I think I’m ready to make it work… I mean, better.”
Our coffees arrive. She methodically stirs in the cream, tapping her spoon on the cup for a long time.
“Steven, I want you to know I love you. I’ve loved you almost since the day we met. That hasn’t changed… . I’ve really been trying to figure out what to do. I want to work this out together, not apart. But I also want to protect our family. I know what we’re doing isn’t a plan. I’m just buying time—”
I interrupt. “Lindsey, I think I can—”
“Please”—she motions with her spoon—“let me finish.”
Okay, this is not going as planned.
“Steven, you need to be getting some help. It doesn’t do any good to just have you staying in a hotel. That’s not going to change anything. I don’t know what you need, or who can help. I’m willing to get help with you, if that’s what we need to do… . I just can’t take the thought of you coming home all nice and apologetic… until it all builds up again, to have you beat me down again. I don’t think I could take that.”
“Lin, I’ve kind of been meeting with someone.”
“You have?”
“Yeah, sort of, I guess.”
“Who is he?”
“Kind of a friend of the family.”
“Is he a therapist? A counselor?”
“Not exactly.” I realize trying to explain Andy might actually work against my case. Andy’s probably not who she has in mind.
This chain-smoking old marina guy started talking to me in a sketchy bar I never told you I went to and offered to drive me around. So we either sit up on a hill in his convertible or we go to this weird beach restaurant called Bo’s.I really think he’s the guy who can help me!
No, that’s not gonna fly.
I shrug my shoulders and mumble, “He’s a friend of the family.”
“Steven,” she says, tapping her spoon again, “I really think I’m trying to say we just need some more time to figure this out.”
This is exactly what I was afraid of hearing.
“How much more time were you thinking?”
“I don’t know. I need to see something different. If you came home right now, it’d be better for a while. But what would change?”
“I really think it’s different this time, Lindsey.”
“That’s what Alan said you’d say.”
“Alan? Who’s Alan?”
“Just a guy I met at the health club. He’s a clinical counselor. He says that men say it’s going to be different when they haven’t dealt with anything but want life back to normal.”
“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard,” I say, my voice starting to rise. I catch myself and try to regain a normal voice level. “Lindsey, so he’s saying you can never say things are different, or you’re faking it? Don’t you see how stupid that sounds?”
It’s quiet. Lindsey’s tapping her spoon again, as if she’s waiting for me to explode.
I look at her, wanting a response. “Well, don’t you?”
She takes a last sip of coffee and says while getting up from her chair, “Steven, this isn’t going right. We probably need to try this later.”
“No, it’s fine, Lin. Let’s just talk.”
“Steven, I’m still scared. I don’t want to go anywhere. I want us back home together. This is not good for any of us. But it can’t be like it was. Something really does have to be different. And I’m not hearing it today. I don’t know what else to say. Let’s talk on the phone about finding someone to help.”
I decide anything I say is only going to make it worse. So I hug her and tell her I love her and let her go as I stay to pay for the coffees.
Ten minutes later I’m sitting in my car in the Marriott parking garage. And for the first time I realize this might not get better. She’s never had the nerve to do this before. Now that she’s risked it, she’s not going to lose this chance. I have no idea what to give her to let her know it’s going to be better. I feel like I’m losing my family. Jennifer probably has about given up on having a dad. I have no idea what she does when she goes to Molly’s or most of the places she goes. When I ask her, she answers with as few syllables as possible. I don’t know how to break into her life after spending so long outside. I feel as if we’re one of those lights Andy talked about when we were up on the hill—a home where the daughter is pulling away though she never would have dreamed of it as a little girl.
And I know my wife. She wouldn’t have brought up this guy Alan except to warn me about something that’s probably already started to happen. My wife’s letting herself fall for someone else.
I shuffle my way up to my room, past the lobby and the huge, clear container of fresh-mint-and-strawberry-infused water, past the smiling employees calling me sir, past the crowd of new guests excitedly drinking the mint water for the first time. Past the elevators with young families dressed for a day at the beach… to my room. I collapse on my bed, staring again at the picture of fruit. I wonder if I could tip someone to get this crappy picture out of my line of sight.
I grab the channel changer and find ESPN 2. It’s early. My only option is nonconference college lacrosse—Akron against George Mason. It dawns on me that all the things I felt deprived of living at home, I can’t drum up interest for now that I’m free to do them. What kind of irony is that? I am an important, sought-after, rising young executive, with enough money to do whatever I want, and I’m lying here on top of my shiny hotel bedcover in the middle of a Saturday watching nonconference college lacrosse.
George Mason wins 7–4.
“Why Do You Enjoy Making Everything I Say
Sound Stupid?”
(Early Afternoon, Thursday, April 2)
Day 22. Lindsey and I have not spoken since our meeting on Saturday. I worked in my room last night so I could justify taking part of the afternoon off today. I’m going to Bo’s. Two months ago, I wouldn’t have gone there on a bet. But for some reason, it seems like where I most need to be right now.
Bo himself greets me at the top of the patio steps. “Well, look what the catfish brung in. What the deal is with you? Better you look in da suit!” He yells out, “Hey everybody, the suit, he is back!”
I lean in toward the big man. “Bo, why are you doing that? Why are you calling me ‘the suit’? I intentionally dressed down so you wouldn’t call me that.”
Bo just laughs, saying, “Suit is as suit does, cher.” He slaps me on the back. “Git on in here now!”
Much of the crowd is the same. But there are some here today I don’t recognize. And I don’t see Carlos or Hank. But there, at the same table, are Cynthia and Andy.
Andy seems genuinely happy, surprised, and flustered to see me. “Steven! Hey, you came. Come here and join us.”
He pulls out a clunky wooden chair and motions for me to sit.
“Welcome back. Did you give Bo your order? Never mind, he’ll bring you what he wants anyway.”
He stops a busboy and orders me an iced tea.
“You remember Cynthia.”
Her flowing skirt is even more colorful than the one she wore last week. Bracelets dance across the table as she reaches for me. She stands and gives me a warm and genuine hug. I smile, feeling more welcome here than I do at the office I’ve been at for years.
“Hello, my dear,” Cynthia says. “So, we didn’t run you off completely, I see. It’s so good to see you.”
“Hello, Cynthia. How’s the book coming?”
“Pamphlet, dear. A trifold pamphlet. And it’s coming along fine.”
These two are not what I’d expect out of mentors. She’s sharp as can be, but neither of them seems very intentional about anything. They wouldn’t last a month in my world.
A busboy distributes iced tea and a fresh glass of ice for Andy.
I look across the table. “So, let me try to piece things together here. Cynthia, whatever it is that Andy’s been trying to do with me, you’ve been doing with him?”
“Something like that, I guess,” she says.
“I’ve got a dozen questions. Andy here seems bent on answering every question except the ones I’m asking.”
“Ask away, my dear,” she says, adjusting her chair. “Ask away.”
“Andy,” I say, peering at him, “you okay with this?”
Andy nods. “It’s actually one of the reasons I brought you here last week. Do you mind if I stay?”
“That’s fine. So, Cynthia. Andy sets up a time to get together. He makes this big deal about us meeting. And I’m thinking we’re really gonna get after some stuff. I don’t know, whatever a counselor-type does. I’ve got some stuff to work on, and a wife who wants me to work on it, let’s say. But Andy won’t bite. It’s like he doesn’t take me seriously. To be honest, it feels like I’m wasting my time. Did you teach him that?”
She tilts her head as though she’s not been asked this before. “Well, maybe a little bit of yes and no. I’d like to think I was probably a little more subtle than Andy can be.” Cynthia gives Andy a knowing wink. “Let me see if this helps. Andy’s really not so concerned right now about your particular issues.”
“Is that so?” I smile sarcastically. “Well I, on the other hand, happen to be kinda concerned about my particular issues at the moment.”
“Yes, I understand,” she answers. “I mean, he’s more listening for a way in, before he tries to approach those issues.”
“Come on. That’s so weak,” I say. “That’s what people in my world say when they don’t know what they’re doing.”
“All right,” she says. “Steven, do you mind if I treat you like a regular?”
I know that language. It means, “I’m about to get in your face.”
“Whatever. I’d just like a straight answer from someone. You’re all aware I have a job and a family, right? These little soirees aren’t built into my schedule. I do have an actual high-pressure career here.”
“Steven, your issues come and go, don’t they, dear?” Cynthia asks. “Some will be with you for the rest of your life. But it’s not like you solve a couple and then you’re done. Two hundred and twenty some are waiting in the wings. Ones you can’t even see or feel yet. You don’t even know they’re problems yet.”
She’s doing that too-close thing again, looking into my eyes as if she can’t go on until she finds some kind of permission in there.
“Do you understand?” she asks. “Andy’s looking for access to the person named Steven. Nobody’s had that for… well…”
“Maybe ever,” I finish, giving Andy a glance. “It’s not the first time it’s been mentioned.”
“Yes, nobody’s had that for maybe ever,” she repeats. “And all of this takes time. It’s maddening if you’re trying to fix this or that before anyone has access. Andy wants to stand with you in your issues. Because he knows nothing will change otherwise. So he’s got to somehow—and here’s the magic—create an environment where you’ll feel safe enough. And I’m guessing that you, Steven, aren’t nearly there yet, are you, dear?”
“Why do you say that?” I ask. “How do you know that? I’m here, aren’t I?”
She puts her hand on mine. “Why don’t you tell me? As much as Andy’s gotten inside the wire on you a couple of times, hasn’t this thought crossed your mind more than once? This has been pretty nice. Maybe just getting away from my world a few times will help clear my head, give me some perspective. But it’s probably the last time I’ll get together with this guy. He’s interesting and even has some insights that might actually help—if I weren’t a rising executive but a marina operator. Hmm?”
After a pause, looking away from Andy, I quietly answer, “Maybe a little.”
She is silent again, still studying me.
“Yeah, maybe. See, Steven, you’re the last person anyone should listen to about solutions for you because you’ve got it all distorted and you’re convinced you’re right. You live twenty-four hours a day in your self-contained world, where everything is about appearances, performance, bottom lines, leverage, and control. But the truth is, as confident as you try to appear, my guess is you don’t feel adequate for the job. Don’t get me wrong, you’re pretty sure you’re all that, but you’re not sure everyone else agrees. So, you’re worried, afraid that you’re failing. You even blame yourself. But VPs aren’t supposed to condemn themselves. “So you create this world where on one hand you hate yourself for what you suspect is true, and on the other hand you idealize yourself and blame others for not acknowledging the brilliance of this idealized person. Both of these make you blind to what God might be trying to tell you. And that’s when the lights go out and you start tripping over end tables.”
“Okay, hold on for a second,” I say, shaking my head. “Cynthia, you’re a lot of work, do you know that?”
“You’re right, Steven. Look at me talking too much.” She starts to get up, restacking pages she’d spread out at the table. “I should be writing. Instead, I’m meddling.”
“No, it’s not that. Please, sit back down.” I wait until she does before saying, “It’s just that I’m realizing it might not be best to drink when I’m with you all.”
We all laugh.
“Steven, may I continue, then? This will only take a couple moments. I’m almost done with everything I know.”
“Swing away,” I say, sweeping my hand in her direction.
“Okay. So, my young friend, I would guess this has been your game plan so far. It’s really quite funny when you step back and look at it. Maybe not so funny when it happens to be you. Anyway, try this on. You take a stab at figuring out your junk. But it doesn’t bring any res
olution. So you rehearse it, over and over. Still nothing. Then you find some allies you can explain your version of reality to. Maybe you get some temporary relief but still no resolution… . See, Steven, this whole resolving-life-issues stuff is not like solving problems at work, is it?”
She waits for a response.
The answer is “No, it’s not.” She reaches over and pats my hand. “Stay with me here, dear.”
We both laugh. How does she do that without making me feeling patronized?
“The solution,” she continues, “isn’t in getting more information. The solution isn’t in getting others to see things your way or even in bringing more diligence to solve it. Now, are you ready, my dear? I’m about to say something harsh, but I don’t mean it to be as rude as it will sound.
“The problem is you’re a highly trained, intelligent, and successful professional, but when it comes to your personal life, you’re a real amateur human being. Honey, you’re as blind as a bat when it comes to you.”
I laugh out loud. “You weren’t kidding about the harsh-sounding part, were you? Cynthia, you blow me away. You’re like this artsy lady about to show me pictures of her grandchildren. But I gotta tell you, my mother never says things like this to me.”
“Honey, you should ask her,” she says, laughing. “Maybe she’d like to!” She leans forward again. “Steven, do you want to know why you are clueless about you? Do you?” She stops again and stares. “Honey, I really need a verbal nod of some sort here.”
“Yes,” I say. “Yes, tell me why.”
“It’s because,” she says slowly and dramatically, “you don’t yet know who you really are. And Steven, you don’t know who you are because you haven’t yet learned grace.”
I stop her before she can continue. “Oh, boy. See, there you go. That’s all gibberish to me. I don’t want to be mean, but you and Carlos, you sound like cult members. Grace. Do you have any idea what that sounds like? It’s right up there with fluffy bunnies and unicorns. You’re aware there’s not a lot of grace talk in my board meetings. Look, I know you may not understand this, but in places where things get done, there’s accountability, and quotas, and deadlines. You know what I think God wants? He wants all of us to take responsibility for what we’re doing. Sorry, Cynthia. I was tracking with you. But if you wanna make sense to me, throw away the religious buzzwords.”
