by Sandra Moran
I grimaced.
“Rebecca, you know that’s not healthy don’t you? Even Adelle is in a stable, healthy relationship.” He had a point and I knew it. But because I had no idea what to say in response, I said nothing.
“Can I ask you a personal question?”
I turned to look at him. He was watching me over the rim of his wine glass.
“Can I stop you?”
“No.” He grinned and then sobered. “Have you ever even really dated? I mean . . . ever?”
“There were a couple of guys in Kansas City that I was interested in,” I lied. “But ultimately I wasn’t what they were looking for or vice versa.”
“Which means you didn’t give them a chance.” Roger raised the glass to his lips and took a sip. “What are you looking for?”
“I’m not looking.”
“I know, but if you were looking.”
“Well, if I was looking,” I said with a smile, “He would have to be smart and sensitive and have a sense of who I am and what I’m about. He would have to . . . understand the things that have happened to me and how that shaped who I am today.”
“Uh huh.” Roger nodded encouragingly.
“And he would have to be respectful of my space and need for privacy.” I shrugged. “Essentially, you, but not gay.”
“It’s true.” He snapped the fingers of his free hand. “I’m fabulous. But in all seriousness, I meet lots of guys who are smart and sensitive. And hopelessly straight. Maybe I should introduce you.”
“Or,” I said as I reached for the wine bottle and poured more into first his glass and then my own, “you could resist playing matchmaker and let me just be Rebecca.”
Later that night as we were preparing for bed, he pulled me into a hug. In a rare moment of weakness, I hugged him back.
“I just want you to be happy,” he said into my hair as he kissed the top of my head.
“I am,” I replied, my tone unconvincing.
We stood that way for a minute before I broke off the embrace.
“Mind if I check my e-mail before I go to bed?” he asked.
I shook my head.
“Nope.” I gestured at the desktop computer. “It’s all set up. It’s a little slow, though. I need to get a new modem.”
As I undressed, I could hear the telltale sound of static and beeps as the computer dialed out and accessed the internet. I could also hear Roger drumming his fingers as he waited for the connection to be made.
“You’ve got mail,” I heard him say in unison with the America Online voice. His imitation was so accurate, I had to laugh.
The next afternoon, as he stood in the extra bedroom I had converted into a studio, making a final decision which canvases he was taking, I asked if he had heard from Gus.
“I did last night,” he said distractedly as he studied the canvases. “He’s in New York right now, so we e-mail rather than talk. He’s looking at spaces for a couple of new clubs.”
“Wow,” I said. “Things are going well.”
“Girl, don’t you know it,” he said as his eyes skipped back and forth between two paintings that were vague renderings of ants. He pointed to the one where the ant was crawling off the page. “This one will be perfect for this new décor we’re doing down in Boystown. It’s going to be very edgy and very dark.”
He looked around the room and noticed several paintings propped up against the wall. Each was turned so that only the back of the canvas was visible. He pointed to the stack.
“What are those?” I followed his gaze.
“Just some things I’m working on. They’re not for sale.”
“Which makes me want to see them all the more.” Roger strode quickly toward the stack. “If they’re off limits, I need to see them.”
“Wait,” I keened. “Please don’t! Please just . . . don’t.”
Roger stopped, turned, and looked at me. Something in my tone or my expression must have resonated because for once, he nodded and stepped back.
“I don’t want to go into it right now,” I began. “It’s just something I’ve been working through that I really don’t want anyone to see. It’s—I don’t even know how to begin to explain it. I don’t want to talk about it.”
What I didn’t want to tell Roger was that the images on those canvases were more disturbing than anything I had painted in the past. Whereas before I had painted images that were in shades of whites, grays, and ice blues, these images were much more vivid and much more violent. Reds and yellows and blacks were mixed with the cooler colors to create nightmarish visions that were angry and hellish.
“Sure,” he said with a nonchalant shrug. “That’s fine. I can respect your privacy.”
I shot him a look of disbelief and he grinned, caught out in his lie.
“Okay,” he admitted and spread his hands. “Maybe not all the time, but some of the time.” He glanced around the room a last time before pointing to the nine canvases he had chosen. “So, I guess that will do it. This seems to get easier for you every time we do it.”
“It is,” I said. “At first, it was like losing a part of myself—showing everybody what a screwed-up mess I am. But I don’t have to see them once they’re gone. And it’s not like I am doing them for any kind of artistic satisfaction. It’s just a means of getting some of this stuff out of my head. And, to be able to live up here—”
Toby’s frantic barking from downstairs prevented me from completing the sentence. It was his “someone’s here/this is my property, dammit/pay attention to me” bark. I raised my eyebrows at Roger and then walked over to the window. In front of the house was a shiny black BMW.
Roger joined me at the window. “Oh, yeah,” he said, his voice cautious. “I may have invited Adelle to come visit.”
“Really?” I asked. It had been too long since I had last seen her. The three of us hadn’t gotten together since college.
He grinned, obviously relieved at my reaction. “I thought it would be fun.”
Outside, Adelle was pulling a suitcase out of her trunk. I tapped on the window and she looked up, saw us, and waved.
“I should go get Toby before he has a fit,” I said and turned to leave. Roger opened the window and shouted down to Adelle. “Hey stranger! Rebecca’s on her way down to prevent Toby from gnawing off your arm.”
As I tromped down the stairs, I could hear Adelle’s laugh and an indecipherable reply. It made me smile and I realized just how much I missed seeing her in person—and how excited I was at having the three of us together again. Toby bounded out the door and immediately reared up on Adelle, who greeted him with affection. She looked up as I came onto the porch and smiled broadly.
“Hi! Surprised?”
“Absolutely,” I said and hurried down the stairs to hug her. Displaced as the center of attention, Toby circled us, tail wagging, barking happily. Behind me, I heard Roger’s voice.
“Don’t I get a hug?”
“In a minute,” Adelle said over my shoulder. “You, I can see anytime. But this one . . .” She squeezed me tightly and rocked me from side to side before breaking the embrace. She held me at arm’s length and studied me. “Girl, you need to eat. You’re skin and bones. But I like the hair.”
I shrugged. “Just thought it would be nice to have a change. Toby likes it.”
She smiled and then shifted her attention to Roger.
“Roger,” she said formally.
“Adelle,” he said with equal levelness and then grinned. “Come here.”
The two hugged and for some reason, I found myself remembering the day Adelle had been raped and how she had not wanted to see Roger at the hospital. I remembered how broken she had seemed—how isolated she had made herself while she healed. And now, watching her smile and move, I could see that she was whole. It made me feel . . . something. Hope? Jealousy?
I stooped, picked up her bag, and started toward the cabin. “Who wants something to drink?”
“Me,” said Adelle. “Aft
er that drive, holy hell. Girl, could you live any more in the boondocks?”
Once inside and settled, Roger built a fire in the fireplace and I opened a couple of bottles of wine—a red and a white. Adelle sat on the couch with Toby, rubbing his ears and smiling into his adoring eyes.
“Traitor,” I said as I set the bottles on the coffee table and started toward the kitchen for glasses.
“Never underestimate the power of a good ear rub,” Adelle said and then laughed loudly at something Roger said.
“What did I miss?” I asked as I came back into the room.
“We were just talking about the value of ear and . . . uh . . . other appendage rubbing,” Roger said.
“Because Roger is a cheap tramp with a trashy mind,” Adelle said.
“Cheap, but not easy,” Roger said flirtatiously. “Certainly not easy.”
Adelle laughed and poured wine into each of the glasses. “A toast.” She picked up one of the glasses. Roger and I followed suit. “To us.”
“To us,” we echoed.
“Very different than the stuff we were drinking in college,” Roger observed after we had all taken a sip and settled into our seats. I lounged on cushions on the floor.
“Well, I would hope so,” Adelle said. “If we were still drinking Boone’s Farm, I’d be a little worried.”
I laughed. “Remember the time Roger had too much and we called the Tipsy Taxi to take him home and he opened the car door onto his head and knocked himself unconscious?”
Adelle laughed and picked up the story. “And we had to have the driver help drag him back inside because he was too heavy,” she said.
“And I woke up the next morning with my face all bloody,” Roger said. “Do you know I still have a scar from where the door cut my face?” He leaned forward and pointed to a small scar near the corner of his eye.
Adelle waved a dismissive hand. “You can barely see it. You should see some of my scars.”
We were suddenly quiet.
“Who wants snacks?” I asked quickly and jumped up. “I’ve got cheese and some hard salami.” I hurried into the kitchen. As I prepared the snacks, I could hear Roger and Adelle talking, their voices indistinguishable soft murmurs.
“—weird,” I heard Roger say as I came back into the room. He saw me and abruptly stopped talking.
“What are you two talking about?” I asked and set the plates of cheese and crackers on the table.
“Nothing,” Roger said. “Just—”
“Roger was telling me about your secret canvases,” Adelle said.
I whirled to face Roger. “I told you those were off limits. You had no right to look at them.”
“I know,” he said quickly. “But—” he looked at Adelle, who nodded encouragingly “—Rebecca, we’re worried about you. We think you need . . .” He looked helplessly at Adelle.
“Sweetheart,” she said, taking over the conversation. “We love you and we want to help.”
“Is that why you’re here?” I glared at each of them. “Is this some sort of intervention?”
Roger and Adelle looked at each other. Neither spoke for several seconds. Finally, Roger sighed. “It’s not an intervention. It’s just a ‘We care about you.’”
“You would do the same thing if we needed you,” Adelle said. “We just . . . you live up here all alone. You never leave. We’re just worried, that’s all.”
“I’m fine,” I said and then looked pointedly at Roger. “Fine!”
“Calm down.” It was Grace. “Don’t act crazy, or you’ll just be playing into their hands. Take a deep breath.”
“Becca,” Roger was saying, “those canvases were disturbing. I . . .” He looked at Adelle. “We,” he amended, “just want to help. You have some issues.”
“You didn’t seem to mind my issues when they were helping your career,” I spat. “Or do I need to remind you about the conversation where you begged me to let you use my paintings?”
Roger reddened. “You’re right.” He held up his hands in a defenseless gesture. “You’re absolutely right. I took advantage of the situation. I did. But I’m also your friend and I think you need professional help.”
“Rebecca, look at it from our point of view,” Adelle interjected. “These past few years, we’ve seen your behavior become more and more . . . strange. It’s not your fault. You suffered a horrific event as a child. You weren’t equipped to handle it and now it’s affecting you as an adult. We’re just suggesting that maybe you need help dealing with it. We just want you to be happy and have a normal life, not holed up in some remote cabin in the mountains, doing tortured paintings.”
I whirled on Roger. “You told her about Grace? Jesus, Roger.”
“Don’t blame him,” Adelle said quickly. “I asked him why you never talked about your childhood, why you never dated. I thought maybe you had been sexually abused or raped. I wanted to help. We both want to help. We love you.”
I looked angrily at both of them. During this last exchange, Roger had moved to sit next to Adelle on the couch. Compassion and worry were written on their faces and as this registered, I felt my anger fade slightly.
“We love you,” Roger echoed. “We’ve just seen you change over the years and it’s reached a point where we think it’s negatively impacting your life. You don’t have to deal with this on your own. You have friends and family who love you—who want to help you.”
I took a deep breath and turned to look into the fire.
“Tell them what they want to hear,” Grace said in my ear. “Tell them that you’ll look into therapy.” I stiffened. “You don’t have to do it,” she said. “Just tell them that you will.”
I turned back to face them. They looked like two owls on a branch, their eyes large and round.
“You’re right,” I said finally. “I don’t sleep. I drink too much and I spend too much time by myself. You’re not telling me anything I don’t already know. I have been thinking about going to see a therapist. Maybe this is the nudge I need to do that.”
Both Adelle and Roger exhaled in relief, and Adelle stood and came over to pull me into a hug.
“Sweetheart, we love you,” she said. “I know how hard it is to be a survivor. And that’s what you are. But you don’t have to keep all that in your head. They have medications you can take. Antidepressants. Antianxiety pills. You can get therapy and work through this. I mean, look at me. I know what it’s like to feel vulnerable and victimized. I know what rape can do. But I worked through it and now I’m healthy. I’m strong. I’m with a man who appreciates who I am and what I’ve been through. My experience made me stronger.”
Roger stood and joined us.
“This isn’t a bad thing,” he said, wrapping his arms around both of us. “Unless it makes you stop painting and then we’ll have to talk.”
I arched back to see if he was joking, and he laughed at my expression.
“Asshole,” Adelle said.
“But seriously,” he continued. “You promise you’ll look into seeing a doctor and a therapist?”
I nodded and then extricated myself from the group hug.
“So, can we talk about something else?” I asked.
Roger and Adelle glanced at each other, seeming to exchange a silent message, though what it was, I couldn’t tell.
“Yes,” Roger said and moved back to the couch, where he picked up his wine glass, leaned back expansively and crossed his legs. “Let’s talk about me.”
The rest of the visit was uneventful. We laughed and ate and discussed everything but the obvious, although Adelle tried twice to talk about Grace’s death. Each time I politely avoided the conversation by saying I didn’t want to talk about it until after I had worked through some of it with a therapist. Both times I said this, Grace’s laugh echoed hollowly in my head.
After Roger and Adelle left, things settled back into their regular routine—working around the property during the day, watching television at night, and painting when I wa
s unable to sleep. Roger typically came twice a year to collect paintings—in the spring and the fall—and so I was used to having the house filled with his energy and then quiet when he left. But having Adelle visit, too, though wonderful, had also been more difficult because it made the usual recalibration that much harder. For the first time in a long time, I felt not just alone but lonely.
I made more of an effort to reach out to Mom, Tara, and Natalie. They always seemed happy to talk or e-mail, but the exchanges were different. They had lives that didn’t really include me. I realized it most when talking to Natalie. After having two more children, she had become increasingly busy and so our conversations were constantly interrupted by questions from the kids, catastrophes in another part of the house, and Pete. Also, there was a palpable unhappiness about her that always left me feeling impotent because I knew of no way to help her. It had started from the moment she told me about her decision to marry Pete and have Meg. But over the years, her unhappiness had become almost a physical burden that she carried with a visible weariness. I didn’t realize how much until the one time she came for a visit.
She had asked if she could come visit—that she needed to get away from Pete and the kids. We hadn’t seen each other since I had moved to La Veta. I almost didn’t recognize the woman who climbed out of her station wagon and walked up the pea gravel walkway to the house. Toby rushed out to greet her, his stiff tail swinging excitedly back and forth.
“Hey,” I said as I came down the porch steps. “How was the drive?”
She grinned tiredly and bent down to cradle Toby’s head in her palms. “Longer than I thought, but good. I got to listen to something other than Barney. In fact, I brought along some of our old cassette tapes. Journey. Boston. It was fun.”
She straightened and opened her arms for a hug. It was only when we embraced that I realized just how thin she had become. As we pulled apart I looked into her face. The shadows under her eyes were still evident and her hair, which was pulled back into a ponytail, was peppered with gray.
“You’ve lost weight,” I said.
“I’ve taken up jogging. It’s a good way to blow off some steam and I can do it around the neighborhood or at the track so I can keep an eye on the kids.”
