Be It Ever So Humble

by Jenifer Jenkins

  “I... um... I got you something.” John reached for the end table and presented me with a small paper bag.

  I smiled, puzzled, and opened it. “What is it?” I withdrew what looked like a long paper stick with a pink crystal attached to it.

  “It’s rock candy,” he answered. “You’ve never seen...? Of course you haven’t.”

  Taking a second stick out of the bag, I asked, “Well, what does it do?”

  “It doesn’t do anything. It just tastes like... well, it just tastes like sugar, really.”

  I handed him one and peeled the wrapper off my own. “They’re almost too pretty to eat.”

  John already had his rock candy lollipop in his mouth. “Mhmm.”

  I put the beautiful crystalline treat in my mouth. John was right; it was straight-up sugar. At first, the sweetness was cloying, and I wanted to chuck it into the fireplace. But I soon found myself enjoying the candy.

  “Not bad,” I said. “Unsweetened tea in one hand, candy in the other.”

  “Your two basic food groups,” John smiled around the candy tucked into the corner of his mouth.

  I sighed placidly and set my bottle on the end table closest to me. “Thank you for today. It was really nice. Well, after I knew you weren’t trying to elope with me, it was nice.”

  John chuckled softly. “You’re welcome.”

  I took another lick of my lollipop. “Did you get these in the gift shop?”

  “Yeah. I had Tim distract you over by the salt lamps while I bought them.” The proud look on his face was kind of adorable.

  “So that’s where you went. You know he tried to get my number while you were gone? I told him you were very protective of me, like a brother, and that you’d probably kick his ass for even asking.”

  John tilted his head. “Really?”

  “Uh-huh,” I giggled. “He said he wasn’t worried cause he could take you.”

  We laughed until the sound trickled away, and we were quiet again.

  In the silence, I started to overanalyze the conversation. Telling John I’d said he was like a brother to me wasn’t going to give him the wrong idea, was it? Like, he wasn’t going to think I meant it, was he? Or was he starting to think of me as a sister or a cousin?

  He studied my features and asked, “What happened?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Your face changed.”

  Damn, he was observant. I thought of the first subject change I could that would also explain the shift. “I like it here,” I admitted hesitantly. Then I summoned up the courage to admit the rest. “And I like spending time with you.” I felt childish saying it that way—like a schoolgirl with a playground crush.

  John smiled shyly. “Me too.”

  A goofy grin spread across my face. I could feel it. I took the tea bottle and stirred my rock candy in it too casually. The lights were on tonight, so there was no chance he would miss seeing my facial expressions. “I don’t want to go back there,” I continued.

  “To the Bridal Cave?” John’s brow furrowed.

  “No. Back to L.A. I never thought I’d say it, but there it is. I don’t miss it. I like it here.”

  Something about his answering smile filled me with warmth, and I remembered the day I’d seen him coming toward me at the airport. How had I been so scared of him? Now he seemed harmless as a teddy bear. It was refreshing to feel so safe with a man. I don’t know if I’d ever trusted any man before—other than Uncle Kenny, of course.

  My thoughts must have been registering on my face again. John asked, “Hey. Is everything okay? You sort of checked out for a minute there.”

  “I was just thinking... I trust you, you know? I don’t know why.”

  “Oh? Thanks.”

  “Well, I haven’t known you that long.”

  He gave me his trademark side-eye.

  “Well, I haven’t really known you. We were just kids before. But you have a good... aura... or something. I mean, I’m not that new-agey. It’s a vibe I get from you. Once I stopped trying to fight it, I realized you’re a good person. A good man.”

  “Wow. That’s high praise. Not even my mother thinks of me as a man.”

  “Well, she’s your mom. She never will.”

  He nodded. “Ain’t that the truth?” After setting his bottle down and placing the finished rock candy stick in the top, he squared off to face me. “Are you saying you kinda like like me?” he teased.

  That was what I was saying, but I wasn’t ready to put it into those words just yet. John smiled at me, still playful at first. But when he studied my face, I knew my emotions were laid bare. His eyes were earnest as he leaned toward me. John was finally going to kiss me.

  I desperately wanted him to kiss me, but I panicked and starting babbling instead, “I’ve never really had a good male figure in my life. My dad was non-existent. My mother wouldn’t even talk about him. When I was a kid, I used to imagine all sorts of things about who he was and what he did—none of them good. The little I gathered from what she told her friends wasn’t positive. And I mean, I have Uncle Kenny, but I wasn’t around him much. I was only ever around executives and artistic types, and a sprinkling of my mom’s boyfriends. None of them were great role models, of course.” The next part came spilling out of me before I had a chance to stop it. “When I was filming Where’s Rosie, the man who played my adoptive father on the show... he wasn’t a good man. He... did things to me. Things I’ve never told anyone about. Ever. At the time, I was afraid to tell my mom because I thought she’d be mad at me. And he told me to keep it secret. He said everyone would be mad at me if I tattled, so I never did.

  “It didn’t happen often because I got very good at avoiding being alone with him. I would mess up my hair so that I’d be taken to cosmetology, or I’d throw a tantrum so my mother would have to stay with me. He had a substance abuse problem and was eventually fired. They killed off his character. You might have seen that.

  “I never told anyone what he did to me. He died a couple of years ago, and I was... glad. I was relieved he couldn’t do that to anyone else and relieved that no one would find out what he’d done to me.”

  John had turned to stone. He looked like he’d been carved into the couch. He didn’t blink or breathe. For a moment, the irrational part of my brain thought my words had stunned him to death. After the previous night, I guess I’d felt emboldened to tell him all of my secrets, but maybe he wasn’t ready for that yet. He didn’t grab my face in that way he had the night before. I gulped as I wondered if I’d gone too far with my confessional. Minutes earlier, he’d looked like he wanted to kiss me. Now, he looked like he’d been punched in the gut.

  He had processed the fact that I’d tried to commit suicide, but maybe this admission was too much? I mean, how many of my issues had I expected him to listen to and understand? I put my hands over my mouth, the horror of his reaction washing over me. “Oh God,” I gasped. “I shouldn’t have told you, right? You’re not saying anything.”

  John’s mouth twitched, and he finally took a breath. So he was alive, at least. “I don’t know what to say, Chastity. I’m not a therapist.”

  That was not the response I had hoped for, and my mind warred between feelings of anger and anguish. “I know you’re not a therapist. I have a therapist.”

  “Well, what did she say?” he wondered aloud.

  “I don’t know. I’ve never told her.”

  John’s mouth fell open. “You haven’t told your therapist?”

  “No. I can’t. She’s a friend of my mother’s. If I tell her, she might tell my mom, and I don’t want her to know.”

  He looked at me, determined to make eye contact even as I avoided his gaze. His voice was softer again, imploring. “Well, don’t you think you need to speak to a professional about this? This is... really big.”

  “I know,” I whispered, the bigness of the situation hitting me full-force for maybe the first time in my life. I’d never told anyone about this because, deep down,
I didn’t want to admit it’d happened. And admitting it to someone else meant I’d have to admit it to myself.

  Shame and dread mingled within me as I regretted this revelation. Why didn’t I just let John kiss me? I’d wanted him to. Why had I suddenly come down with a case of word vomit?

  “Uh oh,” I winced. It was soon to become a case of real vomit.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  My legs rested on cold, cracked brown bathroom tile, and I prayed that my aunt and uncle had been diligent in cleaning the floors before I’d arrived. John cradled my head in his lap. He’d followed me into the bathroom—I was mortified—and held my hair back as my head heaved into the toilet.

  As he stroked my hair now, he murmured nonsensical phrases like “there, there.” I never understood why people said that. What did it even mean? Where, where?

  I didn’t have the strength to sass him about it now. Not after throwing up. The act always made me weak, and I would cry whether the vomit was induced by emotion or by something I had eaten. It was the ultimate loss of control, and I detested it. I supposed that was why I’d never taken up bulimia. I hated throwing up, and I hated crying. And usually, the two were a package deal for me.

  My mind was a mess of memories I’d been trying to suppress for a lifetime. I didn’t want to remember. I didn’t even know why I’d brought it up just then. Wasn’t John about to kiss me? Why had I ruined such a perfect moment in the most horrible way possible?

  The steady motion of John’s fingers brushing through my hair placated me, and my earlier sobs were lessening to a soft sniffle and an occasional whimper. My hands felt tight and arthritic because I’d been putting the death grip on John’s knee. He didn’t complain. I loosened my fingers and wiggled them to relieve some of the tension.

  “Do you need anything? Some water or crackers or something?” John asked, his voice a shock to my senses in the nearly silent bathroom.

  I pushed myself up into a cross-legged sitting position and nodded once. “I could use some water.”

  I started to stand, and John caught me by the elbow. “Careful,” he said. My legs were wobbly, and my body felt like jelly. “Do you want me to take you to your room?”

  If John had asked to take me to my room an hour ago, I would have been in hog heaven—or whatever the phrase was that these Midwesterners used. Now, however, I was so preoccupied with my shame that I might as well have been in hog hell. I bet that was a terribly stinky place; or, maybe it smelled delicious like bacon—because of the fire. “I’d like to brush my teeth,” I said. “Then I’ll go to my room. I’ll be fine.”

  “I’ll go get you that water.” John placed a supportive hand on my lower back to make sure I’d stabilized before leaving me alone.

  As I brushed my teeth, I stared into the mirror. What was that ghoulish apparition staring back? It looked like one of those Halloween portraits of the skeleton with eyes always following. I definitely hadn’t used the waterproof mascara, and my eyes were ringed in black gunk. My face was pasty but with red splotches. I wondered what John must have thought of me now. Did he hate me? Did he think I was too much drama to ever want to spend time with me again? Maybe after Aunt Martha and Uncle Kenny came back, he would avoid me until I finally got cleared to go back to L.A. That made me very sad. I could no longer imagine my life without John in it. That made me scared, terrified even.

  I splashed cold water on my face before heading into my bedroom. I was beginning to feel numb, which was somehow more painful than feeling sad. Stumbling out of my pants, I kicked them aside and tossed my shirt on the ground. Then I slid under the blankets and pulled them up to my chin.

  John came in with my water just as I’d settled in. I sat up, making sure to keep myself covered as I reached my arm out for the cup. “Thank you,” I rasped, my voice raw from stomach acid.

  “It’s no problem,” John said. “Are you sure you don’t need anything else?”

  I shook my head. “I think I just need to sleep it off.”

  “Okay,” he said, rubbing my arm comfortingly. “I’ll just be on the couch if you need anything.” He kissed the top of my head and turned off the lamp at my bedside. Then he left the room and closed the door behind him.

  His kiss on my head had been so light, but the imprint of its touch stayed with me until exhaustion finally overtook me.

  ***

  The next morning I was groggy. My head throbbed like I was hungover. I massaged my temples and groaned as last night’s events came flooding back into my mind. I was no closer to understanding why I’d made that very personal admission than I was the night before. I didn’t know how to cope. Was there some sort of hole I could crawl into and hide in for the rest of my life?

  My mouth was dry and sandpapery and still tasted of bile. I stood up and reached for the glass of water on my bedside table. It was empty. I groaned again. I was faced with a predicament: should I leave my room to quench my thirst, inevitably encountering John on the way, or should I stay in bed until I died of dehydration? I wondered how long it would take for a person to die from such a thing. I made a compromise with myself and went only as far as the bathroom. There, I brushed my teeth and filled my cup with tap water. With the fresh taste of mint in my mouth, the lukewarm temperature was tolerable. How could the shower water come out slightly less frigid than ice while the sink water came out warmish?

  I washed my face with Aunt Martha’s soap, letting the soothing scent penetrate my discomfited mood. After I patted my face dry, I snuck out of the bathroom and down the hall to my bedroom. I didn’t hear John stirring in the other room and congratulated myself on the stealth mission. Before I could get back into bed, however, a knock startled me. Great. I had celebrated too soon, and it had been a jinx.

  “Chastity?” John’s voice came softly from behind the door. “It’s John.” Then he mumbled, more to himself, I thought, “Of course it’s John.”

  Sighing, I accepted the awkward encounter to come and responded, “Come in.”

  John opened the door slowly, and I got the sense that he was as nervous as I was. “How are you feel—” his voice cut off and then, “Oh, I’m sorry.” His face flushed a vibrant crimson as if the blood in his veins had begun to ooze into the dermis layer just below his facial skin.

  At first I was confused, until I noticed he was making a conscious effort not to look at me. I looked down in horror at my nearly naked body. I’d stripped down to my bra and panties the night before and had completely forgotten when I climbed out of bed.

  “No, I’m sorry.” I tried to cover what I could with my arms. “I forgot... I’ll just put some clothes on.”

  “You don’t have to.”

  Our eyes locked, and I was positive my face was that same shade of deep red.

  “I mean, I can go,” he amended.

  “You don’t have to.”

  Was the room suddenly on fire? My breath caught, and my chest felt heavy as John and I stared at one another. For my part, I was trying to communicate to him that I wanted him. His intentions were harder to read, though. He looked as if he was waging an all-out mental war.

  If one of us stepped forward, I knew that would be it. But neither of us moved. I wasn’t quite sure why I didn’t. It was all I could think of. John’s hands on me, his lips... Was I afraid? Of what?

  John broke the silence with, “I’ll just wait in the living room.”

  He left the room, and instantly the heavy feeling in my chest changed from anxiousness to despair. There was my answer. John didn’t want me. Perhaps he thought I was too complicated. Clearly, my grand confession last night had been damning to my case.

  I felt irritated, angry even. How dare he judge me? I threw on my floor T-shirt and didn’t bother putting on pants. I was too mad, and I needed to spew my rage at him immediately. If I was going to feel this awful, then he should too. I tore open the door and stomped into the living room. John stood, flabbergasted when he saw me coming at him with a pointed finger. My lack of pant
s might have confused him, too.

  “So, you’re judging me for something that I did as a child?” I accused.

  John blinked, trying to catch up with my sudden mood shift. “What? How could you think that?”

  “Well, you wanted to kiss me yesterday before I told you, and now you can’t even look at me.”

  “I can’t look at you because you’re half-naked, and I’m a gentleman.”

  I rolled my eyes. “You and I both know that’s not the reason. You think I’m too messed up... too... I don’t know... too used.”

  “First of all,” he began ticking off a list on his fingers, “it’s not something you ‘did as a child.’ You didn’t do it. It was done to you. You were taken advantage of by someone you trusted. You were a child. Second of all,” another tick, “I’m not judging you. I’m disturbed, and I don’t know what to say or do to make any of this right. I hate that asshole for what he did to you, and I wish I could resurrect him just so I can kill him myself for what he’s done. I mean, honestly, it’s a little unnerving how much I want to kill a dead man right now.”

  Usually, murderous declarations would have been anything but sweet, but John’s desire to kill my abuser was somehow... what? Heartwarming? “But you said I should see a therapist.”

  “No. What I said was I’m not a therapist, and I don’t know the right thing to say or do in this situation. I didn’t say you should see a therapist; although, I do think you should. I’m sorry that sounded the way it did. I knew whatever I said wouldn’t be right. It was precisely the wrong thing to say in that moment.” He ran a hand through his hair as he rambled. “I don’t think you’re messed up, but I do think you’d benefit from talking to someone who knows what to say, how to help. After my dad died, I saw a therapist for a while. It helped me move on—as much as a person can anyway.”

  My jaw dropped. “You have a therapist? I didn’t know people in the middle of the country had problems that bad.”

  “Sure, we do. We might even have worse problems sometimes.”