by N. K. Smith
I wasn’t mad at her.
I thought everyone would understand that when you saw your mother hold a gun to her head, and you looked in her eyes and saw the moment she made the decision to actually pull the trigger, it ruined you for shedding tears for other people. Kate was in my life for a short time and it didn’t matter how impactful it was, she was not my mother and her exit from this world was so much less meaningful to me than the exit of my flesh-and-blood mother.
If that made me callous, so be it.
I walked up to where Sophie was sitting with Jane and Trent and said nothing. She hopped off the half-wall and I took her hand, leading her to my car.
We drove around for a while, neither one of us having a pressing need to get home. It was a lovely day out. It had drizzled in the morning, but the sun was shining now.
I stopped the car down at a scenic overlook of the Potomac. We sat looking at the fast moving water. My mind moved with the river, turning and twisting. I didn’t know why, but I was feeling overwhelmed. My thoughts were broken and quick, like fast water over rock.
She was talking and I knew I should’ve been paying attention to her, but I couldn’t focus. My session with Dr. Emmanuel was dancing through my head, a whirlwind of the basement and Sophie and music all muddled up.
I could feel her hands on me, her lips on my neck. I knew what she was doing. I knew that she was instigating physical touching in the hope that it would lead somewhere. Everything felt great. My body felt perfect, but it was my head that couldn’t wrap around what was going on.
My father would think she was a whore. My father would punish me for even being in the car with her right now. My father would force me to recite verse after verse about immoral women and my back would burn with the reminder of my sins.
When she pulled the lever that slid my seat back and moved to straddle me, I reacted instinctually, grabbing her hips as she pressed herself against me. I wanted to see her face, to recognize the expression. I wanted to smile at her; to see her smile back. I wanted to be present, but I couldn’t.
My body reacted to hers and I knew she was enjoying it, but my father’s voice took me away. What I was doing with Sophie was wrong. It was evil. It was impure and unclean. I would never earn the favor of the Lord like this.
I was tense as my mind narrowed its focus and zeroed in on her body moving against mine. She needed to stop because I wanted her to. I kept thinking it over and over and over in my mind, but she kept going. Her body kept moving, trying to excite and entice me. I gritted my teeth and when it was finally too much, I snapped and pushed her back.
She grunted as her lower back met the steering wheel. Warring thoughts competed for dominance in my mind. I wanted to make sure she was all right and apologize for hurting her, but her behavior was befitting a harlot. Beyond all of that, my own sense of self-loathing and defectiveness assaulted me. How could she really love me? Once she knew everything, she wouldn’t. Once she saw everything, she couldn’t. Everything was wrong. I loved Sophie and she loved me, but I was seized by terror and panic.
She was waiting for me to say something after I moved her off of me and returned my seat to the correct position, but I had nothing to say. If I opened my mouth, something horrible would come out and at some point she would stop being so understanding about the Biblical programming of my mind.
When we got home, I was thankful it was Friday and I flew up the stairs to Stephen’s study. When I opened the door, Dr. Emmanuel wasn’t in his seat yet, and the sight of him standing next to Stephen’s desk caught me off guard. In all of our sessions, he always remained seated.
I couldn’t let a small thing like that stop me because I needed his help with all of the stuff in my head. I sat quickly and waited for him to do the same.
“You’re agitated,” he said as he sat.
It took me nearly ten minutes to work up the courage to spit out the words. “I-I-I-I c-c-c-can’t hhhhhave ssssex w-with hhher.”
“Why?”
I looked up at him. His expression was passive.
“B-b-because i-it’s sssssinful and w-w-wrong and I-I-I-I’m nnnnnot good at it and ssssshe is and I-I-I-I-I-I d-d-don’t kn-know hhhhhhhow to...” I let my voice trail off because my mouth could no longer keep up with my mind and I was frustrated.
He folded his hands in his lap. “I’m not going to touch the question of morality right now, but let’s talk about the rest. How do you know she’s good at it?”
“Sssshe’s hhhhhad a-a-a-a lllllot of ssssex.” I didn’t want to add it, but I felt it was vital information, so I said, “W-w-w-wwwwith a-a-a lllot of mmmmen.”
“She’s your age?”
I didn’t understand why the question was important, but I nodded anyway.
“So that’s intimidating?”
I nodded again.
“What’s the rest of the reason, Elliott?”
My tongue was tied.
“Because you also said that you didn’t know how and that you weren’t good at it.”
Hearing my own words from his mouth made me nervous. My index finger was now between my teeth and I bit down on it.
“First, please stop doing that. It’s not constructive and quite frankly, those around you are uncomfortable with that particular coping mechanism.”
My hand fell to my lap. “I-I-I c-c-can’t help it.”
“You can. Choose not to do it. Do something else when the anxiety becomes too much.”
I started punching my thigh.
“Something that doesn’t involve pain.”
I couldn’t think of anything to do with my hands that didn’t involve some form of hurting them, so I tucked them under my legs.
“Good.” Dr. Emmanuel paused and took off his glasses, perching them on his knee before continuing. “Now, we need to talk about the sexual issues you seem to be experiencing.”
At his use of the word “sexual,” I cringed. Why had I brought this up? How did I think I was comfortable enough with him to discuss this? Why did I have to have “sexual issues” at all?
“W-w-w-w-w,” I tried and then, “b-b-b-b-b...”
“Sex seems to be a very uncomfortable topic for you. Can you tell me why?”
“M-m-mm-mmmy d-d-d, fffather sssssaid...” I couldn’t finish.
“Would you like to write it down?”
I shook my head. “Ssssex is w-w-wrong. I-it’s ssssinful.”
He nodded and then put his glasses back on. “I understand that your father’s use of religion would give you that perspective, but I can’t help but feel there is something more to it.”
I refused to say anything. He waited in silence. I wondered how long he would actually sit there.
Just as I was about to say something to change the subject, Dr. Emmanuel said, “Fine. We’ll come back to that later, but if we’re not going to discuss that now, I’d like to hear about your brother.”
I instantly felt tired. I didn’t want to talk about Joseph, but I had to talk about something because this was therapy and it was expected.
“Hhhhhe w-was sssick... ffffor a long time.” He knew some of this, which actually made it easier for me to say. “My d-d-d, ffffather... w-when hhhe... put him in the b-b-basement, hhhhe w-w-wouldn’t c-c-call anyone t-to t-t-take... the b-body.”
Again, I looked up and he seemed satisfied. “The sc-school d-d-didn’t kn-know where J-J-J-JJJJJJoseph and I w-w-were, sssso the llllady c-came llllooking for him.”
“Many times people harbor guilt when a loved one dies. You obviously have guilt stemming from what your father instilled in you about being wicked while Joseph was righteous. Do you feel that your guilt is associated with anything else? Do you feel something you did or didn’t do led to your brother’s death?”
I knew I was at least partially respons
ible for his death. If I were being honest, I was one hundred percent responsible. He had taken my beating.
I stopped thinking about it, but nodded my answer because Dr. Emmanuel was waiting.
“Is that something you would like to talk about?”
I shook my head.
“Can you tell me how you feel about Joseph?”
I shook my head again.
“Why not?
“I d-d-don’t kn-know.” I had no idea how I really felt about Joseph.
“Do you love your brother?”
I nodded.
“Did you look up to him?”
Of course I did. He was God’s goodness on Earth and he helped me when he didn’t have to.
I nodded.
“Did you sometimes hate him?”
Very slowly, I nodded again. I was lost in a remembered moment back in Chicago.
“Please? Don’t I help you when you need it?”
Joseph always helped me, even when it earned him more lashes.
“I-I-I d-d-d-d-don’t www-ww-w-w-want t-t-to.”
“Please? It’s the only thing that helps. Please?”
I shivered because he looked really sick and he said that I saved him. I didn’t want him to die, but I really didn’t want to do what he was asking. “B-b-b-b-b-but D-D-D-D-D...”
“Dad reads it wrong,” he whispered. “The Bible says to help people. God would want you to help me.”
I was almost thankful when a lesson interrupted our conversation, but it just started up again after my father was finished.
“I’ll clean your back and make sure none of them are infected. Please?” he asked again in a heavy breath.
I felt like crying.
“Don’t let me die.”
“Elliott?”
I blinked and looked back up at Dr. Emmanuel. It was clear from his expression he was concerned.
“He ssssaid he w-would die,” I whispered, shocking myself as I did.
Before he could ask anything else, I grabbed the pen and paper next to my chair and wrote quickly, not thinking about the words at all, not thinking about what it all meant, but just writing it down. He would want me to tell him, and something inside of me said that someone other than me needed to know. Someone needed to know by my own words, not some old file.
Without giving myself time to panic or reconsider, I shoved the pad of paper out to him. He took it, his eyes scanning the yellow page quickly.
He returned the pad of paper to me without saying anything until I was holding it again. “I want to be clear about what happened. Please write what he wanted from you in order to feel better.”
I wanted so badly to run away. I wanted to go down to Sophie and lay my head in her lap so that she could run her fingers through my hair and make everything okay again, but I was here with Dr. Emmanuel because I was horribly confused.
I wrote down terrifying and unspeakable words and practically threw the paper at him to avoid the rising panic within me that was swelling into a full-blown attack.
He wrote something down and then passed it back to me.
I read:
“When and how did it start?”
I didn’t want to think about any of this. I wanted to run out of this room and lock myself in my bedroom where all my things were. I wanted to close the door and lock the rest of the world away because it didn’t hurt so much when I was by myself.
The things Dr. Emmanuel needed to know about were shameful, hurtful, sinful things.
The pen shook in my hand, but I pressed the ballpoint down onto the paper. I watched how my hand almost robotically started scripting words, the black ink contrasting harshly against the soft yellow of the paper.
I wrote:
“It started the night my mom” I nearly wrote “died,” but instead wrote, “went back to God.”
“He was really upset and said it would help him. He was sick a lot after, because my mom used to take care of him. My dad didn’t allow us to take any medicine, but my mom would sneak it to him. Joseph would get mad, but she did it anyway.”
“But after she” I couldn’t finish it. I couldn’t write that she was dead, so I just continued. The doctor would know what I meant.
“There was no more medicine and it was the only thing that made him feel better.”
When I was finished writing, I left the pen and paper on the arm of the chair. I knew Dr. Emmanuel was waiting for me to hand it to him, but I couldn’t.
I propelled myself out of the chair. When I was at the door, I asked without turning around, “W-w-w-will y-y-y-you ssssh-ssssh-sssshred it?”
“Of course.”
My feet carried me quickly to my room.
I didn’t go down for group.
When Sophie came up, I didn’t let her in. I ignored her voice as I pushed in my earbuds and covered my head with my pillow. I was thankful tomorrow was Saturday and I could stay in my room all day.
All night I thought about what I had revealed to Dr. Emmanuel. All night I thought about the things that made me incapable of truly being a good person, a good son, a good brother, a good boyfriend.
I thought of Sophie. She would hate me now and I wouldn’t blame her.
I hadn’t spoken to her all day. I hadn’t looked at her either.
She had gone home and probably thought I hated her.
I was so tired of being incapable.
I was so tired of being wicked.
I was tired of being weak.
I was tired of being sinful.
On Friday night, I tried very hard not to think about Elliott. He didn’t talk to me all day, and he didn’t even bother coming back down after his session. Obviously he was upset and therapy might have messed him up even more, but he could’ve at least made sure I had a ride home. Thankfully Andrea drove me, but I was worried about him. I had no idea what the hell had happened to cause his behavior, but I knew he was basically shoving me to the side.
I realized he shut down like this when the world became too much, but that didn’t mean it hurt me any less when he did.
Once again, I must’ve messed up because I didn’t know what I’d done.
Damn, smoking a little pot sounded good.
I’d backed off sexually, but then he started being all overtly sexual sometimes, and now we were back to this screwed-up state of limbo, filled with misunderstandings.
I barely slept. My mind kept me awake most of the night thinking about Elliott. I wondered what he was doing. I wondered what he was feeling. My mind spun all sorts of theories and plans to make things work between us where sex was concerned, but in the end, I realized that no matter how much I thought about it, things with Elliott might always be this stressed.
Gone were the days of quick and easy sex. I was supposed to make stuff like that meaningful now and while it was frustrating as hell, I saw the value in it. Wallace told me that sex didn’t equate to worth, and said that sex wasn’t the key to connecting.
Elliott proved her theory by the way he treated me.
He loved me.
He’d said he loved me quite a few times.
He always treated me with respect and didn’t demand anything from me.
But he wouldn’t talk to me today. He completely closed the door on me and shut me out. I could drive myself insane thinking about it, but thankfully pure emotional exhaustion conquered me and I slept.
On Saturday I worked at the Quickshop, the small grocery store in town. I went in early and I stayed late. I did my job and spoke to as few people as possible. My coworker Brody tried to make me laugh, but his efforts failed. I left him stocking ketchup to go sit in the break room during my fifteen-minute break.
I didn’t know what I would do if Elliott never spoke to me
again. I couldn’t even imagine how much that shit would hurt.
I wanted to get high.
I needed him.
When Tom picked me up, he made me eat dinner with him. He told me that I’d been looking better now that I was eating right and exercising. He said he was happy that I was managing my diabetes and how worried he’d been before, when he’d had to remind me to eat.
I had a hard time focusing on what he was saying.
“Elliott and I had a fight... or something.”
“Did he hurt you?”
I looked up at Tom. “God, no, of course not.”
Leave it to my father to assume the worst. “He just... hasn’t talked to me in like two days and I don’t understand.”
“Have you called him?”
I sighed. “He’s not a talker. He hates using the phone.”
“Well, what about that instant message crap on the Internet? You use that, don’t you?”
“But he’s not talking to me and I don’t know what I’m supposed to say to get him to.”
He took a bite of his steak. “Invite him over, Sophie. Cook him something. I’ve seen that kid eat your food; even if he’s mad, he’ll still come over to eat.”
It was obvious that my father didn’t understand, but I couldn’t get mad at him because he didn’t have all the facts.
In the end I took his advice and got on the instant messaging system when I got home. Elliott wasn’t online, so I sent him an e-mail instead.
Elliott,
I’m sorry if you’re mad at me. Please tell me why. Come over for dinner tomorrow. Please? Tom said that he’d try curry. I found a recipe that’s not hot and won’t burn my tongue. I’ll make it for you. Maybe it won’t be as good as Kate’s, but it might turn out okay.
Will you come over tomorrow?
I don’t like not talking to you.
Would you please talk to me?
S.
I hated the entire e-mail, but clicked send anyway. I didn’t know what to say, especially since I thought he hated me. I could think of no other reason why he wouldn’t talk to me.
Sunday sucked. I went about my day in a trance waiting for him. I worked for five hours and did nothing but think about him. I thought of all the things I needed to say. He had to know how I felt about shit. When I came home, I used the elliptical for a half-hour and started prepping for dinner.
