South of Forgiveness

by Thordis Elva

  I accept this casual explanation with a nod, although I can’t help but be reminded of his words about feeling unworthy of love altogether. As a result of what he did to me.

  ‘You seem happy,’ he says.

  My mind goes to Vidir, the kids, and my work, and a genuine smile lights up my face. ‘I am. I’m lucky. I’m loved.’

  ‘I’m happy to hear that,’ he says warmly. Despite being hyper-aware of all the things that can go wrong in the days ahead, a strange bliss spreads through my chest: a mixture of release, humility, and gratitude towards the universe. Thank you for letting me experience this. Thank you for helping me find the strength to face the most corrosive part of my past, no matter how senseless doing so may have seemed.

  When we exit the restaurant, it’s already dark, and insects in nearby trees are praising the African night. All of a sudden, Tom stops and points to a sign ahead: ‘Look!’

  The sign is an advert for one of the daily newspapers in Cape Town. The headline screams at us in capital letters: 12-PAGE BOOKLET ABOUT RAPE WITH TODAY’S PAPER.

  I am yanked back to reality. The beautiful, generous country in which we find ourselves has one of the highest prevalences of rape in the world. And the man beside me gave a face to the crime in a way I’ll never forget.

  ‘I want a copy of that,’ I whisper.

  ‘I do too,’ he says. ‘That’s what we’re here to discuss, after all.’

  The truth quivers in the air, strung between us like a spider web. It is evident that we need to steel ourselves to be able to go where we’re headed in the next few days.

  Under the scab.

  Although adrenaline has given way to jet lag, I find myself suggesting that we have a nightcap. A part of me doesn’t want to leave until I’ve proven to myself — and Tom — that we’re here to talk face to face about the night that changed our lives. A moment later, we’re seated on the patio of a bar around the corner from the Ritz, which cuts through the darkness like a flaming torch. The beer bottle is cool and moist between my fingers, and Tom uses the opportunity to blow cigarette smoke into the night. Just as I’m about to break the silence, a toothless fellow in a dirty sweatshirt comes rushing up to us, asking us to take pity on him as he could really use some change. As much as I’d like to help, I’m painfully aware that nothing we do here and now will solve his problems. Tom shakes his head no, and, as the man gives up and disappears into the night, I stare quietly at my hands, the weight of my privilege like a metal blanket in my lap.

  ‘You OK?’ Tom asks.

  ‘Yes. I’m just negotiating with my comfort zone. We’re going to have to spend a week together in this town. Better find a way to adjust.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  I squint into the darkness. For a moment, neither of us says a word.

  ‘One of my jobs taught me to master the art of stepping out of my comfort zone.’

  ‘Which one was that?’ he asks, drawing back on his cigarette.

  ‘News reporting. Before I started working as a reporter, I would feel intimidated by people I respected or felt were in a position of power. Inferiority complex is the first thing you need to rid yourself of in reporting. By the end of it, I had toughened up to the point where I’d already talked to half of the Cabinet and it wasn’t even lunchtime yet.’

  He nods. ‘Fear can be so toxic and paralyzing …’

  ‘… until you realize that the other person is just as afraid as you.’

  Our eyes meet. The ember of his cigarette hovers above his lips like a firefly. He nods. Instinctively, I look away.

  ‘You’ve changed,’ he says.

  ‘I know.’ I’m no longer the impulsive, self-destructive girl with the cracks running down her entire existence; this much I’m aware of. Yet I don’t know what he’s referring to, or even if it’s a compliment. ‘Is that good or bad?’

  ‘Good,’ he answers. ‘You’re not the same girl I remember from when I returned to Iceland in the summer of 2000.’

  ‘You, however, are exactly the same.’

  ‘I am?’ he asks, surprised.

  ‘When it comes to your looks. Either you sleep in formaldehyde or all that vegetarian food has done you good.’

  ‘You too.’ He strokes his beard. ‘I guess from the outside we look pretty much the same?’

  Gravity is pulling on my limbs with unknown force, and the bench feels like granite beneath my thighs. Realizing that I don’t have the energy to tiptoe around the subject any more, I pull the little orange notebook out of my handbag and place it on the table between us.

  ‘What’s this?’ he asks.

  ‘Square one,’ I say, and flip through the scrawled pages, past shopping lists, doodles, and unfinished poems until I find the original letter to Tom. ‘Look, there aren’t even corrections or strikeouts,’ I say, pointing at the handwritten pages. ‘It just came out perfectly, even though I’d never thought consciously about writing it. I guess my subconscious had been working on it for a while.’

  He studies the book, running his finger across the ballpoint scribbling. The pages are spread before him like white sheets and somewhere in between them, I’m sixteen years old and sprawled on my back. Suddenly, it feels like Tom is leafing through my soul, and I find myself yanking the notebook out of his hands, surprised and frustrated at my reaction. Haven’t you come further than this?

  Wide-eyed, he hesitates before asking: ‘If it’s possible, do you think I could read it one day? As it is the original.’

  ‘Yes. One day,’ I reply, stuffing the notebook back in the bag with trembling hands.

  A little while later, two exhausted people are standing in front of the Ritz, deciding to meet up the following morning. After pulling an all-nighter by Australian time, Tom’s complexion has turned sickly gray. Having watched him disappear into the night, I turn around and walk into the lobby. Here, one of the most fateful moments of my life took place mere hours ago, in front of dozens of people who had no idea that these two anxious individuals were about to rewrite their history.

  My shoulders tense up at the thought that I still don’t know if I’ll succeed in finding closure and forgiveness this week. Taking a deep breath, I remind myself that as far as breaking the ice goes, it went well. I may not have been as cool-headed and prepared as I would’ve liked, but I still managed to conclude the night by broaching the subject we came all this way to discuss. It’ll be tempting to avoid the difficult subjects in the days to come, but giving in to that temptation would be the ultimate betrayal. No more running, I think, and my stomach responds with a pang of anxiety. No more hiding.

  My plans to talk to Vidir on Skype before going to bed crumble when the receptionist tells me that they’ve run out of access codes for the Wi-Fi. ‘But we’ll be getting more codes tomorrow,’ she quickly adds.

  ‘Really, on Good Friday?’ I can’t hide the skepticism in my voice.

  She nods enthusiastically. I swallow the lump of disappointment in my throat and send Vidir a text explaining the situation while riding the elevator up to the twelfth floor. I close my eyes and try to remember his scent. I miss burying my face in his neck and listening to him breathe. My God, what am I doing here?

  Moments later, a disappointed but understanding Vidir replies with news that is both comforting and crucial in its banality: a trip to the swimming pool, grocery shopping, and macaroni soup. Haflidi, he tells me, is managing pretty well considering that his mommy is alternately lost or stuck in a plane, depending on how he’s feeling.

  A bittersweet sting floods my heart. Dearest Haflidi Freyr.

  ‘Tell him that his mommy will NEVER lose him. Let’s talk tomorrow. Love you,’ I reply, blinking away the tears.

  The time is 11pm South African time when I pull the blanket over my shivering body. I let out a loud sigh of relief as I am finally in a horizontal position for the first time in t
wo days. My chest harbors a whirlpool of emotions, and I don’t know whether to be overwhelmed at the thought of the upcoming days or elated about the small victories so far. My last thoughts before sleep takes mercy on me are about a teenage betrayal that morphs into a bowl of macaroni belonging to a blue-eyed toddler holding my heart.

  From Tom’s diary

  Thursday

  My new room has glowing ironed sheets and the crispest, brightest white towels I can recall. I left the backpackers this morning and checked in at the villa, and there is a small sense of guilt around having this pristine, manicured, and private room to myself. Not the typical back of a sandy van or a friend’s futon. It isn’t particularly large, nor opulent by contemporary standards, but there is still something distinctly … excessive and mature about having this space all to myself.

  The justification for staying here was simple — I knew meeting Thordis would be hard, and I’m sure we’ll be walking our way through some strained and thickly guarded places. I knew I’d need a padded space to return to each night, a short walking distance from her hotel.

  I unpacked my bags and took a walk down to Three Anchor Bay after checking in, just trying to relax and get some ocean. But when walking back, my nerves jolted when my phone vibrated in my pocket.

  She’d arrived. And she was on a bus from the airport.

  Some deep slow breaths, spliced with nervously organizing my belongings. I sat down and rubbed the soles of my feet on the polished timber floors, just needing to earth myself and let go a little. The anticipated anxiousness duly arrived and I readied my light long-sleeve shirt and plain thin trousers, items chosen well in advance so as to be cool and not show any sweat marks should I have one of my panic ‘attacks’. I don’t like the powerlessness of the word ‘attack’ and have always tried to word out my episodes internally as something else, like a ‘wave’ or even a panic ‘spike’, so that I’m assured it will swiftly pass. The weather today was thankfully blustery and cool.

  I had my coffee early, smoked my last cigarette an hour before I showered, and even drank half a glass of wine with lunch just to safeguard myself against any undue rushes.

  I hate the fact I’ve just rekindled the old dusty habit of smoking. I’m not a smoker, this I know. I haven’t smoked in a long time. But with the gravity of this week, I can understand why I am again.

  Blended with a bit of frantic was a bit of surrendering. We’ve put so much into this, we know so much already, and so much has been exposed and disarmed. There is also the foundation of unmistakable intent laid beneath us, and I felt confident that any tremors and wobbles would pass. Plus, I know her … albeit from years ago.

  I left with ten minutes to spare and, as I’d walked past the Ritz the day before, I figured I had plenty of time. Two hundred meters down the road, the skies opened so I jogged back to my room and grabbed my jacket. I then had a few minutes less than expected and it was enough to quicken my step and rattle my planned composure. I remember thinking: more deep breaths, slow down the exhalation and lengthen it. It will tell your body there is no threat and it can relax. I was trying to focus on the cool breeze hitting my face, or noticing the texture of the paint on the fence. Anything to slow down my pulse.

  I thought it was going to happen on a beach … I thought there would be privacy and space for emotional outcomes, perhaps salty air and horizons to focus on, and now it was a foyer with the possibility of other people around.

  I walked up the hill and a flight or two of stairs before reaching the rotating doors. It was 5pm exactly. Instead of stopping to measure the moment and practice my calmness, I let the nervous momentum urge me straight into the foyer. Scanning the place, I was satisfied that I didn’t recognize her in the faces present. She hadn’t arrived yet. I dashed into the toilet to dry myself from the rain and steal a few more slow breaths. Looking in the mirror and leaning on the washbasin with both hands, I reminded myself, I’ve come such a long way for this.

  When I left the men’s room and looked across the foyer I saw her. She was speaking to the receptionist and hadn’t seen me yet.

  Long hair. Casual colors and dress. Jeans.

  Jesus.

  It’s truly her.

  I felt like I was looking at an apparition. A chimerical person who had spoken to me in a dream.

  As I walked towards her, my lung capacity was halved and time became weirdly visceral. I felt impelled forward by a bending, internalized history that took no notice of the windy doubt pushing around me.

  She looked at me and motioned with her finger that she needed a moment to finish up with the receptionist.

  She was … Exactly. The. Same.

  A small scar inside my chest received the first bit of blood flow it had had in years and I acknowledged a partially expected yet still surprising jabbing feeling.

  The couch was empty. Perfect. I sat down and tried to imagine what my calm self looked like so that I could produce exactly that. I could feel heat moving up from my thumping heart and into my neck, and thought to myself, it’s okay. Be nervous. She probably is too.

  Shit. Here she comes. She looks so calm!

  Just say hello.

  I did. And so did she.

  A momentous first day. Dangerous and thorny, but some ground was made. I didn’t think I’d be so very tense around her, but I’m hoping that will ease this week.

  When we sat down on the patio tonight it was getting cooler and she had a longer coat on, but I still had an urge to offer her my jacket. I held back though, as wouldn’t that smack of some kind of chivalry and be grossly misplaced? Too intimate.

  She spoke of having to ‘spend a week together’, and that such a prospect was on the edge of her ‘comfort zone’, which kicked off a string of questions for me, and when that gate was opened my mind sprinted.

  Had I done something wrong just now? Was she scared of me?

  I noticed she was composed but obviously ruminating and working her way through something. In an instant she became the familiar strong survivor and voice of our emails. I recalled learning about her PTSD, her numerous trials with psychologists and therapists, the symptoms and side effects of the trauma. I know so much about her, but at that moment I was learning something new.

  While watching her there was a slow shift internally, and I became aware of an unclean feeling in my belly.

  The sunken black box flipped open and a connection was made: novel and complex. I’m the one responsible for what she’s experiencing right now. I’m the individual who lies at the root of her fear, and that’s why she is having to strengthen and monitor herself right now. I was violent with her, and her body remembered me.

  Have I been too hopeful? Did I really think she’d be relaxed around me?

  How on earth are we going to talk things through this week if she seems to be affected by just being near me? Growing out of that worry is the familiar weight of the old chain connected to me, quietly producing its dull metallic sounds as it tensions itself between me and the events of that night.

  I momentarily fall out of love for myself.

  DAY THREE

  29 March 2013

  A barking dog wakes me from a dreamless sleep. I feel blindly in the dark for Vidir, only to sit up with a start when I realize I’m alone. That’s right. South Africa.

  The first sunrays of the day color the curtains with a golden tinge. My phone on the bedside table tells me that it’s six o’clock. For the following hour, the African sunrise strengthens the outline of the room little by little while I convince myself that I’m not completely insane and that this trip isn’t my own version of ‘mission impossible’. Stay focused. Trust your instincts.

  Out of old habit, I reach for my laptop to read the morning news, but alas, no Wi-Fi. Fiddling absentmindedly with the keyboard, I open one of Tom’s emails.

  There is an internal minefield of ‘whys’
to be stepped through, and lots more meditating and revisiting that time in my life, and that horrific night. I don’t doubt I will reach a point whereby I will get some perspective, some insight into my choices. But … I can’t promise you I’ll cleanly or quickly find my way through this, and wouldn’t dare to. I know this is not what you are asking me for. But in saying this communication could ‘bring closure to both of us’, I’m cautious of it being tied in part to me freeing myself, and you assisting me with this.

  I sincerely hope this sentiment doesn’t offend. I guess there is also an element of me that doesn’t want to feel helpless, and wants to offer you something in return. In short, I’m hoping there is a two-way flow, and that this is mutually beneficial, and not dependent upon one side’s healing. I know this has been spoken of before, but it still concerns me and I wanted to be honest with you.

  Just reading what I’ve written … I can see I’m also uncomfortable with the strength I read in your emails, and the vulnerability I display in mine. As uncomfortable as that is to say, it’s apparent. As I’m sitting here pondering, I believe that is due to me wanting to divulge all I can, apologize endlessly and pour out the shame that I feel in the hope that that might make amends. But you don’t need or want for that. You’re stronger than that, and on some unsettling level, I have an issue with that.

  I feel uneasy after communicating that. It reads like I need for some part of you to remain vulnerable. Or like I’m ‘needed’ on some level for your recovery, as if you require my help.

  I quietly contemplate if there is a grain of truth in Tom’s insecure writings. Did I need him to validate my hurt? No, I would’ve found another way to acknowledge my wounds. Not doing so would’ve killed me, of this I’m sure. But had I never contacted Tom again, a part of me would have been beset with relentless questions. I’d wonder whether he realized what he’d done. If he cared. If he was sorry. If he’d done it again to someone else. It would’ve eaten away at the oxygen around me like an open flame. Whether I’d like to admit it or not, his regret was as soothing as aloe vera on a burn wound.