by Meg Farrell
“So when he touched your scar, something came back to you?” she asks.
I nod. “Yeah. You could say that. I haven’t been with a man since it happened. Letting him touch me, let alone see it, it was all too much. I freaked.”
“You need to tell him.”
“Maybe.”
Something occurs to her, and she asks, “So the nightmares?”
“Yeah. They start when I wake up covered in blood. They are always the same. I run from the trailer, through the woods, and out on to the road. They always end with me in a truck begging a stranger for help. I never see his face though. It’s more like I feel him. I feel safe in the truck. So I think that’s when my mind relaxes and I wake up.”
Kate thinks for a minute. “Have you ever considered counseling?”
I shake my head. “Definitely not. You are only the second person in my life to know any of this.”
“Thank you for trusting me, but with the freak out and the nightmares, maybe it’s time to talk to someone.”
“I am. You. I actually feel much better now that you know.”
“One of the girls on my team is a counselor who works with battered women. If you decide you need someone to talk to, I can give you her number. I’ll stay out of it, and she can be totally confidential about it.”
“I really appreciate it. I’m not ready yet, but maybe one day.”
We talk for a while longer, and finish off a few more beers. Then Kate and I wash the dishes. I change into jeans and a T-shirt to go meet up with Justin. As I’m getting ready, I get a text. “Everything okay? Are we still talking tonight?”
I can’t help grinning while I text him back. “A little excited, are we? :) Yeah. Still on. Where?”
His answer is nearly instant. “My place. 330 Vine. When?”
It takes me a few minutes to answer. Do I really want to do this at his place? What could happen? I mean he’ll probably kick me out after I tell him how damaged I am. Nobody wants to deal with this type of baggage. I answer him, “Thirty minutes.”
As I finish dressing, I think through the story and what I should or should not tell him. By the time I’m walking out the front door, I’ve decided the only way this thing can work is to tell him all of it.
5 - Shame
The hardest part of telling Justin is going to be the shame. Unless someone has been through what I’ve been through, they don’t understand the shame and guilt of surviving. The drive to his house is faster than I thought it would be. I had to use the map function on my phone to find it. Turns out his house is in a neighborhood a few miles from ours. I pull in the driveway, and, just like Irma, he steps out onto the porch to greet me. Justin doesn’t stop on the porch, though; he comes to the car, and opens the door for me.
I start to think he’s just chivalrous, but then he nearly pulls me from the car. His embrace is warm and snug. “Come inside, it’s freezing,” he says into the top of my head.
Shaking my head, I mumble into his chest, “It’s not freezing where I am.”
He laughs, releases me, and leads me up the steps to his house. I walk in like a kid exploring. I can’t help but look around like I’ve entered some museum display. It’s a tribute to post-frat, disorganized, modern American male living.
Truly a study in how to survive with a sink full of dishes right up to the cabinet line and clothing piled in lines down the hallways like snow drifts. There are small foot paths that shows someone actually moves around the piles of gross.
Justin doesn’t stop in the common living area he takes me down the laundry-lined hallway all the way to the end.
There are two doors facing each other at the dead end, and double doors at the head of the hallway. I assume, based on most floor plans, this is the unused laundry closet. Justin opens the door on the left, and says proudly, “My room.”
Still in analytical mode, I’m prepared to scrutinize yet more piles of dishes and dirty everything, but I’m more than surprised to see that his room is not only tidy, but immaculate. No dust, shoes are organized in a cubby shelf, hats hang on a rack behind the closet door, and a sweet desk where he has dual monitors setup next to a docked laptop.
“Impressive,” I observe.
He shrugs. “Doesn’t take much to impress when you have to walk through Cameron’s hell to get here.”
I laugh. “True story. So I take it that”—I indicate the living room by throwing my thumb over my shoulder to point at the door—“is all Cameron.”
He raises his eyebrows and purses his lips into a flat line. “You got it. Kid’s a mess.”
“Uh, kid? You guys are the same age.”
He grins. “Physically, not mentally. Certainly not in terms of maturity. Hang on, let me fetch you a chair. Cam doesn’t use his desk chair.”
I start to argue that we could sit on the bed, but then I reconsider because if we sit on that bed, this conversation is over before it can begin. I’m really pissed at myself for not having better self-control around him. It is ridiculous when I think about it. I’m rolling my eyes as I pace his room, and he catches me.
“Rolling your eyes already? We haven’t even started.”
I laugh. “Oh just having a mental conversation with myself. You know self-control and whatnot.”
He nods. “I had the same conversation with myself before you pulled up.” Sliding his desk chair out to me, he takes the one brought in from Cam’s room. I’m grateful because Cam’s chair looks like its seen better days.
I slide my jacket off and lay it on his bed alongside my purse. He waits for me to sit, and then takes his own seat. I can’t make eye contact with him. It’s too awkward. I fidget.
Finally, he reaches out and covers my hands with his own. “Talk to me.”
I take a breath, look at him, and feel a crater open in my chest. I fight the panic and simply say, “I’m trying to figure out where to start.”
“Start at the beginning,” he says by way of solution.
Stinging builds in my eyes, and I know I’m going to cry, despite my efforts to stave it off. “If only it were that easy. There’s a lot.”
Justin looks puzzled, and seems to be thinking of something. He squeezes my hands. “Okay. So let’s start with last night. What happened?”
I shrug. “I, uh, I…panicked. The easiest way to explain it is that I haven’t been with someone for a very long time. I think being drunk, the chemistry we have, the opportunity…I don’t know. It all added up to bad decisions.”
His eyebrows raise. “I’m a bad decision?”
“Oh, God, no! I just mean that maybe it wasn’t a good idea to fall into bed with you on the first day I met you. Especially when I’m drinking. Drinking and taking any guy home is a bad decision. Not you. I think you are the good decision. You were good enough to recognize something wasn’t right. You didn’t take advantage of me or the situation. What I need to tell you about my past is …” I trail off, trying to find the right words. “I’m not sure how you’ll take it.”
He looks away from me, defeated. “So, you’re not even giving me a chance.”
Shock hits me. This is going all wrong. “I am giving you a chance. That’s why I’m here. I think you are worth more than a one-nighter, as Kate calls them. Am I wrong?”
He shakes his head. “Nope. I’m gold, baby. I’m worth being an every-nighter.”
“You certainly don’t lack confidence,” I say sarcastically. We both laugh. “But I think you’re right. That’s why I’m here.”
His eyes soften as his smile fades. “What I don’t understand is why you freaked? I want to understand what happened to send you into all-out physical panic. Baby, you seriously shut down.”
“I need a drink. Do you have anything stronger than beer?”
His mouth twists in a thoughtful expression. “I have vodka in the freezer. Will that work?”
I shake my head. “Getting drunk together didn’t really work out last time.”
“We won’t get drunk. Cam
eron is working a late shift to pick up extra money. The house is ours. We have all night. We’ll sip slowly and only when you need the courage.”
Thinking it over, I nod. “Okay. Better run grab that vodka. We’ll need it.”
As soon as the words leave my mouth he moves like a jack-rabbit leaving the room. I hear cabinets closing, and feet pounding the hall. These old houses have crawlspaces instead of slab foundations, so every footstep resonates. You have to put extra effort into walking quietly. Justin is clearly not into expending the extra energy right now. When he returns, he has a box of cheese crackers, two shot glasses, and a bottle of top-shelf vodka.
“No cheap vodka for you, huh? You’re big time.”
“No, ma’am. If I’m drinking liquor, it’s the best. Plus, the cheap shit burns going down. It tastes like kerosene.” He sets everything on his desk and then kicks his boots off. “You don’t mind if I get comfortable do you?”
Shaking my head, I answer, “Mind if I do the same?”
“Of course not. Make yourself at home.”
Rolling my eyes, I remind him that I’ve only known him like a day and a half. Still, I reach down and untie my boots then slide them off. Taking my socks off, I turn them right side out and place them in my boots for safe-keeping. When I look up, Justin has moved to the bed. I look at him expectantly.
“What? Comfortable. Right?” he answers my unspoken question, then smiles his megawatt smile.
“Right.” I answer.
He pats the bed beside him. “Come on up.” He’s nearly bouncing.
I hesitate, reminding myself that we’ve already had the self-control conversation. Then I decide the fact that we had the conversation means we’re both committed to behaving ourselves and ignoring our baser instincts.
Oh, my God. I think as I walk over and sit on the edge of the bed. As soon as I do, he hands me a shot glass, which he fills with vodka. I take two shots back to back, and give the glass back to him. “Thanks.” I slide up the bed to rest my back against his headboard. I snag one of his pillows and hug it.
I bury my face in it to get my thoughts together. My brain is like an ADHD squirrel right now. I’m waiting for the vodka to give me a little bit of relaxation. The pillow smells like him. It’s not doing anything to help me settle down. Adrenaline is filling my veins as I war with myself. I need to tell him. Trust him. But what if…
The what if is what grips me. What if he wants nothing else to do with me? I’ll be fine. How will it be different than before I met him?
I square my shoulders, and look at him. Then I just blurt it out, “I died.”
Shock is the first look on his face, which resolves to determined patience. “What?”
I nod. “It’s true. You are talking to someone who died and came back from the dead.”
He looks dubious. “I’m going to need you to elaborate on that a bit more.”
“I’m not really Alana Thomas. That’s my name right now, but that’s not who I am.” He looks seriously confused. “Maybe I should start at the beginning now that you have the punchline.”
I shift next to him on the bed and lean my shoulder against his. Looking him in the eye as I tell this story will do nothing but make this harder. I begin, “I got married when I was nineteen. He was older. I was raised in a really strict household. My parents were rigid conservatives. They had a million rules and routines for me to follow. The more they piled on, the more I rebelled. I bet you couldn’t imagine I was a rebellious child.” I smile, and he answers with a shake of his head.
“Not you.” His sarcasm is on point tonight.
“Yeah, I know. Anyway, one night I’m out with my friends. We were hanging out on a bridge that ran over an irrigation ditch on some farm land. There were actually two bridges over that particular ditch. They were about a mile apart. There was the one we were on to drink, and the other was used for, well…you get it. Anyway, we would watch for headlights and hide our beers when we saw a car coming. You see, we were in a dry county, so if the cops caught us drinking, there were two options: the cop could confiscate the beer and run us off, or he could arrest every last one of us. What actually happened was based on the cop who caught us and whether or not he felt like doing paperwork and calling parents.”
“So, we’re out there drinking. We see headlights. Everyone hides their beers. The car parks behind one of ours, and a guy steps out. He announces that he’s not a cop, and then says his name. Turns out one of my guy friends knew him. He graduated with my friend’s older brother. You have to know, I grew up in a really small town in Mississippi. This was normal. Hell, it might still be normal. I haven’t been back for a long while.”
Justin is patiently listening. He’s shifted so he’s lying on his side, looking up at me, his elbow on the bed propping his head up with his hand. Every now and then as I talk, I turn to look at him to gauge his expression.
So far it’s blank, like he’s totally unsurprised by my unremarkable tale of small towns in Mississippi. On the one hand, I like it. On the other, I’m worried he’s a great poker player; hiding his thoughts.
“We all resume our drinking. Some people are dancing and cozying up as the night is prolonged. I’m as drunk as I was last night when my friend introduces me to Kent Walsh.”
Saying his name aloud gives me a chill. I swallow hard, “”We hit it off, I guess. He drove me home because my girlfriend wanted to go to the other bridge for some fun with her boyfriend. Within a week, we were an official item. He met my parents and charmed them. Something seemed off about him, but he was handsome, rich, and charismatic. He managed gain my parents to agreement to let me go on dates when previously they wouldn’t let me out of their sight. I was seventeen years old when we met. What was I supposed to do?”
“Going out with him meant I didn’t have to lie and sneak out anymore. They let me go with him, and at first, he was okay with hanging out with my friends, doing the things we were doing anyway. After a year, things started changing with him. He didn’t want to hang out with my friends anymore. He didn’t want to party. He wanted to take me to dinners with work colleagues. I felt special most nights. He insisted I dress in cocktail attire. My mother was impressed with his resources and his job, so she would go out of her way to make sure I was ready to go out with him. She spent more time, money, and attention on me while I was with Kent than she ever did before. All of a sudden, I was important.”
“So even though I was feeling more distant from Kent most of the time, I sucked it up. My mom was happy. Dad seemed to like him,” I finish, looking down at my hands. I know where this is going and it isn’t happy.
Looking at Justin, he can tell things are ready to take a turn. “Drink?”
I nod. He obliges. Tossing back a shot, I hold the glass out for him to fill again. “Another.”
“But we’re not getting drunk, right?” he confirms.
“Right.” I take another shot. Heat is creeping into my cheeks. The desired fuzzy brain and numb teeth affect is starting to build. I take a deep breath, and continue, “Early on, Kent and I had a great sex life. I wasn’t a virgin when we got together, so it’s not that kind of story. I didn’t stay with him because he was my first or anything like that. I mean, from day one, we had great physical chemistry. It wasn’t until later that our sex life became horrible, but I’ll get to that.”
“A couple of months after my nineteenth birthday, I skipped my period. Kent took me to the pharmacy and then to dinner. I took the pregnancy test in the bathroom of the restaurant to keep it from my parents. It was positive. I’m not sure how long I stayed in the bathroom, crying, but eventually Kent came in to get me.”
“I had contemplated telling him it was negative and finding a way to get an abortion. Who the hell wants to be a wife and mother at the ripe, old age of nineteen? In the end, I couldn’t hide it. I told him. He was excited. Elated even. He and I told my parents together. And you know what?”
Justin looks surprised. “What?”
/> “Those assholes, who had preached abstinence to me for years, were fucking ecstatic I’d gotten knocked up. I lost my mind. I actually stood up and screamed at all of them and then stormed off to my room. Kent stayed another hour talking to my parents.”
“The next day, I was informed by my mother that we were going shopping for a wedding dress. That if we remedied it fast enough, no one at their prestigious church would know I’d gotten pregnant out of wedlock.”
Justin interrupts, “Wait. What? They just up and decided what to do without asking you? They didn’t get your opinion on being married? He didn’t propose?”
“Nope. Getting pregnant made it not my decision in my family’s eyes. Good southern girls who get pregnant out of wedlock, and have parents that have a reputation to uphold, get married. It was a bonus for them that Kent was rich and had an amazing job. The perfect man to make their daughter an honest woman. He was going to settle me down. They were thrilled at the idea that someone might be able to do that.”
Incredulity being the winning expression of the day, Justin says, “So you married him. And you had a baby?”
I nod.
Still working it out, he asks, “How old are you now?”
I smile. “I recently turned twenty-eight.”
“Was it a boy or a girl?” he asks.
“A boy. His name is Ethan. He would be eight now.”
Puzzled he asks, “Would be?”
I nod. “Drink.”
Serving me another shot of vodka, I take a deep breath and stand to pace. “You see, I am the worst mother ever. I left him when he was three. I left him with Kent.”
“I’m sure you had your reasons.”
Once again, he’s right. I had plenty of reasons. Justin is seeing the tip of the iceberg. He wants to believe the best of me, and I think he’s precious for it. I know the truth. I was a coward. My biggest regret in life is that I never stood up to Kent.
“I did. I died. You see, Kent was the worst husband I could have found. To my parents, and the rest of the world, he was an amazing, successful provider. At home, he changed. It all started to shift after we got married. I was four months pregnant when he took me to dinner. Morning sickness was more like all day sickness for me. I made the mistake of getting sick at the restaurant where we were having dinner with some of his colleagues. I spent a good bit of time in the bathroom, and turned down dessert offered by his boss.”
