South of Forgiveness

by Thordis Elva

  ‘Your suitcase?’

  I sigh. ‘… took off to Tahiti or who knows where.’

  Vidir sits down in a kitchen chair, and I sink into his lap. He gives me a long hug and exhales deeply. ‘I’m so glad you’re home. I’ve been so worried about you … or maybe worried isn’t the right word … but you know.’

  I respond by placing a kiss on his neck.

  ‘Do you feel like you managed to … get what you wanted out of this trip?’ he asks.

  I contemplate my answer. ‘I believe so. The long-term effects have yet to be revealed, but for now, I feel … whole. And … lighter, if that makes sense.’

  My words fall preposterously short of describing the immensity of what I just experienced. Summarizing it in words feels futile, like attempting to explain a concept of philosophy with a stack of Lego. Fortunately, I know Vidir understands. He pulls me closer, and I’m reminded of my intention to make his embrace a part of my daily routine until I run out of days.

  ‘Want to see the rings?’

  He lights up. ‘You bet! You have them?’

  ‘Hand luggage, of course,’ I explain, pleased with myself.

  Vidir opens the box I hand him and is stunned by the ring. ‘It’s amazing,’ he whispers, studying the hypnotizing pattern.

  Haflidi is sitting at the kitchen table, happily munching on banana bread. The girls are laughing in the living room, immersed in the iPad’s wonders. The house is more peaceful than I dared to imagine, and relief at being back overpowers my jetlag.

  I take the box from Vidir’s hand. He looks questioningly at me when I bow down on one knee on the kitchen floor in front of him.

  ‘Vidir Gudmundsson …’

  He smiles in the sharp spring sun that flows in through the window.

  ‘… will you marry me?’

  Our eyes meet when he answers: ‘Yes.’

  ‘Love me and honor me?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘In sickness and in health?’

  ‘Yes.’

  I slide the ring onto his finger and kiss him on the mouth. ‘And don’t you forget it.’

  The weekend is unusual in many ways. Meals and sleep routines are upset due to Mommy’s debilitating jet-lag. The children float around the house, their mouths stuffed with duty-free lollipops. The weirdest thing of all is postponing the travel story. Vidir asks me a thousand unspoken questions every time his eyes fall upon me, all of which are answered silently, in my mind. The result is what we like to call present distance. A distant soul in a present body.

  On Sunday night, after the girls have gone back to their mother in a cloud of vanilla perfume from Florida, we finally have a moment to ourselves. When I’m done putting Haflidi to bed, Vidir is waiting for me in the candlelit living room. Despite his best efforts, his anxiety is palpable. Quavering, I get started on the story, equally nervous after having waited this long. Vidir’s shoulders relax as the story progresses, and he squeezes my hand when I describe the talk I had with Tom in my hotel room, in the eye of the storm.

  It takes me three nights to complete the story, once Haflidi is asleep after long workdays. I would’ve understood Vidir’s need to judge Tom, but I find him doing the opposite when he identifies with him in numerous vulnerable places.

  The silence that ensues once I’m done with the story is warm and saturated. We’re lying in each other’s arms in bed when I reach out to caress Vidir’s cheek.

  ‘It’s an amazing story,’ he says in a hoarse voice. ‘Thank you for telling it to me.’

  ‘Thank you too.’

  We embrace the silence, and I feel how the tree of life wraps its branches around us, rocking us softly. A dim light from a lamp on the bedside table draws shadow puppets on the walls; rhinos, mountains, rocks, turkeys and — if I squint — a smiling Nigel in a well-ironed shirt.

  Sitting up, I turn to Vidir. ‘I have something for you.’

  He looks at me in surprise as I disappear into the hall and return with the card from Tom.

  ‘For me?’ he asks, and studies the handwriting on the envelope.

  I nod. ‘Want me to step outside so you can read it in private?’

  ‘It’s up to you,’ he replies, busy studying the clay animals on the card.

  Tom didn’t ask me to read the card; it was meant for Vidir only. Out of respect for both of them, I wander into the bathroom, where I turn on the faucet and gulp a few mouthfuls of cold water.

  ‘Thordis?’

  Springing up like a jack in the box, I yell ‘Yes?’ while rubbing a stream of water off my chin.

  ‘I don’t understand the handwriting. Can you help me?’

  My heart is pounding in my chest as I enter the bedroom. Sitting down next to Vidir, I take the card from his hands.

  To Vidir,

  Simply

  Thank you.

  This week I have listened to Thordis talk of your loving, trusting and supportive union/relationship/self. I am so … happy that she has you. I deeply wish you and your family a celebratory and soul-nourishing future. Thank you for helping make this time a success.

  Sincerely,

  Tom.

  Dropping the envelope on the bed next to him, Vidir pulls me into a tight hug. Visibly moved, he whispers into my ear: ‘Now you’re finally home.’

  Something tells me he’s right.

  From Tom’s diary

  Thursday

  That blurry smile shared was the last gesture before I turned and started walking towards my departure gate ten meters away. Deep breathing to address the light-headedness felt more important than wiping away those tears, and besides, I felt no need.

  My spine was more vertically aligned than it’s ever been, and I felt … so strong. So incredibly together and strong. Each step was a celebration of movement. Mindful but light movement, because that helium balloon had again been blown up in my ribcage and it was squeezed up against my throat.

  The ten meters were whittled down to five, and I felt an urge to look over my shoulder. It would’ve been nice to celebrate the grand occasion with one more acknowledgement. I thought I could feel her looking at me, but I refrained from turning around. I wanted to honor how complete we have made it all, and nothing felt left to be done. It did feel good to be moving forward.

  I handed the hostess my ticket, smiling and sniffing. She must see lots of men cry, I thought to myself.

  Turning left to enter the glass-lined gangway down to my plane, and before I knew it, I stole a glance over my left shoulder. There she was, walking back towards the waiting area and about to take one last turn before she disappeared.

  My ears opened and I registered the song that was playing over the airport speakers as I watched Thordis walking. Shit. It’s Gloria Gaynor defiantly launching into the disco-laced ‘I’ve got all my life to live, I’ve got all my love to give, and I’ll survive, I will survive.’ Just like a bad 70s Hollywood ending. Now I was teary and on the verge of bursting into laughter. I imagined the credits smoothly appearing at the bottom of the screen.

  She disappeared and a flashing thought bolted across my mind space. Was that the last time maybe?

  I turned to make my way down the glistening ramp and the sun was lighting up its flat surfaces. In the distance I made out a parched northern mountain range gracefully pushing its way upward into the hot sky.

  Right. That’s done it.

  I stretched my hands up above my head, closed my eyes and leant my head back in surging celebration. I put as little distance as I could between my heart and the heavens, and let it out.

  We did it!

  The tears came, again, and they were so very welcome. Side effects of the knowledge that all fears were faced and conquered and everything was released. The light from that once-dark cave was so bright it may as well have been a sunrise.

 
I took a breath, wiping some tears away while handing my ticket stub to the smiling man greeting me at the airlock. Now I’m in my seat, I’ve draped the coarse but comforting throw I purchased for my folks across my legs. I’m soothed by having this small sliver of Cape Town to carry with me.

  I want to record the ocean’s worth of learnings sitting in my head and torso, the dizzying heights and freezing fears I’ve seen and felt this week, to never forget how they have changed and will change me. The blessings and events of these past days have felt like they were guided, and I want to dignify this ethereal force with at least a written memory of what I’ve learned.

  I’m glad to have hours in the air to myself, to spill out onto the page these grand and dramatic notions. An individualized quasi-religious list of the simple lessons I’ve been shown. Life lessons learnt in a week. Lessons for my life at least:

  There is something up there. Don’t be concerned about what shape or form it holds, just be thankful and grateful that your soul is in communication with it. Look up and be humbly thankful. Often.

  Exerting power over another is a display of fear, greed, or self-interest. It is born of fear of what you do not know, cannot control, and is based in an insecurity that is blinding. Greed is psychological, cannot be sated, and is an internal emptiness. Self-interest can be a smothering and selfish narrowing of your humanity, so that you see only yourself in this world.

  With enough shame/guilt and self-judgment, you can block memories, and black out your involvement in past events. But with love and patience you can go back there and uncover yourself.

  Life goes on. Utilize it fully. There is not much that you own, but this one is certainly yours.

  Such lofty attempts at spirituality feel a bit theatrical … but then again, if forgiveness was a religion, I’d be a follower.

  My soul feels free.

  EPILOGUE

  7 April 2016

  There are so many stories to tell. I could start by telling you how upon his return to Australia, Tom fastened the Women’s Shelter button to his surfboard so it would always accompany him on that soul-nourishing exercise. I could tell you how two weeks after I got back to Iceland, I gave a speech in the Westman Islands and used the opportunity to visit the spot where the awful truth was first spoken out loud. How I discovered a monument nearby that shows the tree of life in Norse mythology carved into a rock. I could tell you how I found out through internet research that the tree of life in the paradise of Kirstenbosch was planted there in the winter of 1996, when Tom and I first met. And how the playwright in the sky appreciates wordplay, because a male turkey is apparently called a ‘tom’.

  I could tell you how shortly after he got back home, Tom sat between his parents and told them about our week in Cape Town. How when he described the moment of forgiveness during the picturesque sunset, they each reached for his hand in tears. How his mother stated that finally, finally they’d recovered their son from the incomprehensible darkness he’d resided in all these years. How after Cape Town, it’d be a joy to watch him step out of the shadows and into the light.

  I could tell you about grand victories, like when Tom came to Iceland a year later and I introduced him to Vidir. How two hours after nervously shuffling their feet, unable to look each other in the eye, they were sitting by our kitchen table and patting each other on the back in silent respect. How on midnight leading up to my thirty-fourth birthday, all three of us sat in my backyard by candlelight, feasting on champagne and cheese. How Tom and I marched together in the Slut Walk 2014 along with thousands of others, united under banners against rape. I could tell you how my best friend, who met up with Tom and me in a hostile, defensive mode, caught himself having a heart to heart about sexual violence with Tom later that same night. How he turned to me afterwards, bewildered, and said: ‘This is why you guys need to tell your story to the world — it gets the most guarded of people to talk about these matters.’

  But my favorite thing to tell you would be that my hunch proved to be right. A few weeks after Cape Town, Tom met a woman: Cat. Intelligent, beautiful, and equally concerned about the environment — she turned out to be the love of his life. Three months after they met, he decided to tell her the truth, resulting in the following email exchange between Tom and me:

  I suggested we go up into the park above the Opera House after I had a beer and she had a water. The park sits on the very edge of the harbor looking out over the bridge and Sydney waters. It was guaranteed to be a good sunset, so I somewhat used that as an excuse. I knew there was also a big old fig tree just up in the park.

  So we sat down, commented on how lucky we were and how colored the view was. Then I started with the ominous ‘Cat, I need to open up to you about something’ and of course she became uncomfortable and joked that ‘this doesn’t sound good’. I then spoke around trusting her, getting closer, the fact that on the first date we spoke about vulnerability, and that I have a history that I don’t want to hide from any more, and want to communicate to her plainly.

  I began by telling her that I had lied to her once. When watching a documentary from South Africa she asked if I have been there, and I somewhat automatically said no. That ‘no’ has been sitting uncomfortably with me ever since. At the very end of the conversation, she said being lied to was perhaps the most difficult part to hear.

  I apologized for lying and went on to say I had been to Cape Town with a woman named Thordis Elva at the end of March/beginning of April this year. I then spoke about meeting you in 1996, and then chronologically went through the events of our past.

  I used the word rape. I spoke about my blacking out the choices and my part in that night. I told her about the years since, and our miraculous communication. I then told her about Cape Town and the week of slowly moving through each other’s life story. Robben Island. Kirstenbosch. Camps Bay. That touched and inspired week that we had. I told her that since then my days have been different.

  I obviously trust her implicitly and chose her to be another to be let in to the secret. She listened and leant on me while I spoke. Then as soon as I had finished she began saying that from where she sits it seems like I have taken responsibility for my actions and owned my choices. She spoke around ‘to err is human, to forgive divine’. She said she wasn’t belittling my deed or the hurt I had caused, but said she believed in the capacity of us all to forget our humanity and make horrendous errors. She said I had gone a long way in an attempt to make amends and pay the price for the pain that was in the past. We spoke about the stigma around the label ‘rapist’, after I said you have given me the strength to part with it. I don’t remember her response word for word, Thordis, but it was beautiful. Respectful to us both. The sunset was blazing away at this point, too.

  We walked back over the bridge and since then it’s seemed very comfortable, and even closer. She said she was so glad we could share the ‘good, bad and ugly’ about ourselves.

  Her reaction was of course staggeringly wonderful and exceeded my highest hopes. I’ve got a lightness about me today that means my shoes aren’t even making a sound.

  Thank you for your support, again Thordis. You inspired me to move through any fear and not just to hide or seek cover. We’ve come too far. Trusted too much to not be vulnerable, comfortably.

  I hope this finds you well.

  Hugs,

  Tom.

  Tom,

  Reading your email left me feeling humble and moved. I had hoped that after Cape Town, you would shed the misconception that people couldn’t possibly love you if they found out what you did. I say this because I had the same misconceptions. I thought if I told people about the rape, they would either be overwhelmed by it or render me down to it. I thought nobody could possibly have a normal relationship or friendship with me, if they knew.

  I’ve never been as happy to be wrong.

  When I told my mother nine years ago, it was much l
ike your experience. I sobbed and choked on the words and couldn’t look her in the eye. At the core of my shame was the fact that I had been drinking that night. After all the gut-wrenching worries and sleepless nights my mother had suffered due to my sister’s alcoholism, I felt that my drinking would be the ultimate form of treason. In my mind, kicking her would be kinder. My fears were unfounded as my mother grabbed my hand and squeezed it after I told her the story of what happened that night in ’96. To my great relief, the sorrow written across her face didn’t carry the slightest bit of blame towards me.

  I also told her, years later, that I was corresponding with you in hope of reaching forgiveness and closure. She never asks about these things. Her face has a way of closing up when I talk about them. It’s unlike her and it pains me to think of her mind being occupied with resentment and bitterness on my behalf. I know from experience that such feelings usually end up hurting the person who harbors them far more than the person they’re directed at.

  Earlier today, she came over for coffee. She sat in my kitchen and held her coffee cup with both hands, carefully sipping on the cappuccino I made her, when I decided to brief her.

  ‘Mom,’ I said. ‘Tom told his parents.’

  She didn’t answer.

  ‘He has owned up to what he did.’

  Still no answer.

  ‘He is more sorry than we’ll ever know, Mom.’

  She took another sip of her coffee before meeting my eye, remaining silent.

  ‘Mom?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I want you to consider something.’

  ‘What’s that, dear?’

  ‘To forgive Tom.’

  She drew in a quick breath and put her coffee cup down. This time avoiding my stare.

  ‘Mom?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Do you think you can do that?’

  My mother is one of the strongest people I’ve ever met, equipped with an elastic heart that can stretch to fit any circumstances. She believes in letting go. She believes in the power of beauty and the wisdom of humility. Because of these qualities, she is the family’s mediator and confidante. She’s the only person who can soften my father’s sometimes unwavering stances. For this, she’s had to suffer his criticism for being ‘too lenient’, when in fact it is her leniency that has kept us together all these years.