This Is Not My Life

by Diane Schoemperlen

  They were scared too.

  “If they can do this,” Shane said, “they can do anything.”

  I THOUGHT I HAD PLENTY OF TIME, but then the train was late getting into Toronto, and I hadn’t factored in the trouble my taxi would have getting through the construction in front of Union Station. Now I was running around the Lakeshore Campus of Humber College, trying to find first the building in which I’d be staying and then the building in which I’d be delivering my paper in less than an hour. I was clutching a campus map in my teeth, my overnight bag and my briefcase were banging against my legs, and my purse was ringing.

  After checking into my dorm room, changing my clothes, organizing my papers, and charging across the campus to the second building, I had just a few minutes to gather my thoughts before my presentation. I sat down on a bench outside and fished around in my purse for my cigarettes and my phone.

  During April and early May, Shane had had four more dilation procedures on his esophagus. They appeared to be working. He said it now looked like he didn’t have cancer after all. That was good news. He was having another procedure, the sixth, that morning. He’d left a message, and I had to listen to it several times before I could make out the words. His voice was faint and gasping. He said, “I nearly died on the table.”

  I turned off my phone, dropped it back into my purse, put out my cigarette, and went inside.

  I talked for an hour about my new work, an experimental project called By the Book, a collection of stories drawn in various ways from old books from the late-nineteenth and early-twentieth centuries. Putting them together had been like doing a jigsaw puzzle and ending up with a picture entirely different from the one on the front of the box. I was illustrating these stories with full-colour collages, which I showed in a PowerPoint on a large screen behind me while I read from the book.

  Shane had had a hand in the genesis of this unusual project. When he was working at the recycling plant in Peterborough, he’d rescued a book from certain death by pulp and brought it home to me. Published in New York in 1900, it was a guidebook for Italian citizens immigrating to the United States at the turn of the century. He said he thought I might like it. Indeed I did. It so captured my imagination that it became the source book for the first and title story of this new collection.

  Now here I was, four years later, finally bringing the project to an audience, and they were enthusiastic and excited. I was not thinking about Shane or the recycling plant or all that had happened since. I was not thinking about my cell phone silenced in my purse.

  THE EVENING KEYNOTE SPEAKER was the American writer Tim O’Brien, one of my longtime favourite authors, especially for his book The Things They Carried. Published more than twenty years ago, it is now considered a classic work about the Vietnam War—or any war, for that matter. It is also about the process and power of storytelling itself. On the title page, it calls itself A Work of Fiction—but is it? Is it a novel or a book of stories or something else entirely? In the end, it doesn’t matter what you call it. In the end, it is a masterpiece about courage and fear, imagination and memory, truth and reality, loyalty and love—a tour de force of reasons to write and reasons to live.

  The keynote was a public event being held not at Humber but half an hour away at Harbourfront. We were all talking on our phones in the parking lot while waiting for the bus that would take us there and back. Shane called again, said he was feeling better now; maybe he didn’t nearly die on the table, but it sure felt like it. Our bus arrived, a big yellow school bus of the sort I hadn’t ridden since Alex was in Grade 2, and I had accompanied his class on a field trip to the Toronto Zoo.

  At Harbourfront we all found seats in the crowded room, the lights went down, and a small man in faded jeans and a red baseball cap took the stage. As always seems to be the case with someone I’ve admired and looked up to but never met, I had thought he would be much taller. He did not give a lecture, a speech, or a conventional reading. He told us a story—a story, he said, that was hard to tell, a story that still made him squirm even now, more than forty years after the fact.

  It was the story of what had happened after he received his draft notice in June 1968. He was twenty-one years old, had just graduated from college, was still living with his parents in Worthington, Minnesota, working in a meatpacking plant for the summer. He was against the war. He told us the story of how he took his father’s car and drove north that August, north to the Rainy River, which marks the border between Minnesota and Ontario. I know the Rainy River. I’ve been there. It is about four hundred kilometres west of Thunder Bay.

  The entire audience was entranced as he told the story of finding an old fishing lodge in the bush, how the elderly owner let him stay in a cabin for six days, how he kept looking at the Rainy River and across to Canada. He told the story of how on the sixth day, the old man took him out fishing on the river, how he tried to decide what to do, how he cried in the boat. He stayed in the boat, did not swim across to Canada, went back to the lodge with the old man that night, and in the morning, he got back in his father’s car and drove home. And then he went to Vietnam. Many people in the audience, myself included, were tearful now.

  Then Tim O’Brien said none of this really happened. We gasped. This was just a story, he said. In reality, he was drafted; he did not want to go to the war, but he went. This was not an act of courage, he said, but of cowardice. It had been so long since I’d reread The Things They Carried that I hadn’t recognized this story as one from the book: “On the Rainy River.”

  Reality, he said in conclusion, has an important function in the world—of course it does. But it isn’t always sufficient. Sometimes it is only a story that can tell the truth, only a story that can save us.

  Afterwards the applause went on and on. Then there was a crush of people at the book table. I was too shaken to line up with the others to buy a signed book from Tim O’Brien, to perhaps exchange a few words with him. How ridiculous and crazed would I sound if I shuffled up to the table clutching his book to my chest and told him he had just made me see the truth of my own life? The truth I’d been unable or unwilling to face or accept—the truth I’d been avoiding or disregarding for years.

  I made my way through the crowd without speaking to anyone, stood outside, and smoked. Darkness had descended, and the street lights had come on. I got on the empty yellow school bus to wait for the others.

  I sat alone on the bus staring out the window at the passing traffic and at the reflection of my own face in the glass. For the first time in years, I could see myself. That night I finally understood that I was in love with the story of my relationship with Shane. That the story—oh, the story—was so beautiful, tender, and romantic. But the reality was not any of those things. The reality was only abusive, destructive, and unbearable. I knew Tim O’Brien was right when he said stories can save us. I am a writer of stories after all. But now I understood that they can strangle us too. That night I understood that for all those years, I’d been in love with the story—not the reality—of my life joined to Shane’s. The story of myself as the one who could lead him out of the darkness, the one who could make him whole, healthy, happy. The story of myself as the one who could save him.

  TWO DAYS AFTER I RETURNED FROM HUMBER, I had my regular Tuesday appointment with Louise. I told her about the conference, and then, despite my revelation, I found myself going on and on about the same old stuff with Shane. I was inching ever closer to leaving him. I knew I had to do it, had known it for months, had intended to do it right after my residency at Queen’s, but still I’d been dragging my heels, waiting for the right moment—whatever that meant. Trying to break free of any kind of addiction or obsession—be it alcohol, cigarettes, food, heroin, or love—is never a simple or straightforward process. Even when you know you have to. Even when you know your life depends on it.

  I was trying to explain to Louise—again—why I hadn’t done it yet. A month before, at her request, I’d given her a list of
the reasons. Because I didn’t want to admit I’d failed at yet another relationship. Because I didn’t want to be one more person who’d given up on him. Because I was afraid of falling apart the way I had after we broke up the first time. Because I was afraid of what he might do, not to me but to himself. Because I was afraid that the chaos of leaving him would be even bigger than the chaos of staying. Because I still loved him. Yes, despite everything that had happened, I did.

  Suddenly I stopped myself and asked, “Are you getting bored with this?”

  Louise smiled wryly and said, “Are you?”

  At the end of our hour, she wrote down the name of a book she wanted me to read: The Betrayal Bond: Breaking Free of Exploitive Relationships by Patrick Carnes.

  That day I went directly from her office to the prison. I didn’t usually go on Tuesday evenings anymore, but this time, having not seen Shane for ten days because of the conference, I’d booked a visit. He was unpleasant all evening. He wasn’t interested in hearing anything about the conference. When I tried to tell him how encouraging it was, how much they liked my new work, he waved his hand in the direction of my mouth and said, “I thought you would at least whiten your teeth and get rid of your moustache before you went.”

  I finally understood that the only parts of me and my life that mattered to him were those that existed in relation to him. That he could not bear to see me feeling too good, too confident, too happy—if what had caused me to feel that way was not him. That he wanted to divest me of all pride, self-esteem, and self-respect, to knock me down until I was as miserable as he was. That he was afraid I was going to wake up one morning, take a look at my life, and come to my senses—that I was finally going to realize I would be better off without him, that he really was, as he’d often said, an albatross around my neck.

  I said, “Stop it.”

  He said, “What?”

  He said the bottom line was, he needed to know now if I was going to stay with him forever. He said he needed to know for sure before his next parole hearing, which would be in the summer if his appeal was approved.

  I said, “Don’t worry. You’ll know by then.”

  He said if I broke up with him, how was he to know that I wouldn’t show up at another hearing as a victim, like I did back in 2009?

  I said, “Don’t worry. If I break up with you this time, you will never see me again.”

  THE FOLLOWING MORNING, after popping over to Tim Hortons to get my French Vanilla, I came home to find a phone message. “What about that book you’re supposed to be writing?” said Shane in a withering voice.

  I had an appointment in the early afternoon with a woman named Julie, who’d brought her writing to me at Queen’s and had now hired me to continue working with her privately. Shane called again just before I left to meet her. We argued about the earlier message. He demanded to know where I was. I demanded to know why he’d called me during my work time again. He said obviously I wasn’t working, I was out. I reminded him that I always went to Tim Hortons to get a coffee in the morning, had done so for years; it was just part of my routine, and he knew that. He said he wondered about that. What was I really doing, and who was I doing it with?

  Julie had invited me to attend her monthly writing group at an art gallery downtown at five-thirty. Our afternoon meeting ran long, and there seemed no point in going all the way home again before going to her group. Instead I had a sandwich downtown. Shane called, and I told him what I was doing. The writing group wrapped up shortly after nine o’clock. Afterwards, as I got into the car and headed home, my phone began to ring. Of course it did. He seemed to think that because he had a stand-up count at nine o’clock, I did too. I kept driving. The phone kept ringing. When I got home around nine-thirty, I discovered he’d been calling there too—a dozen times in half an hour. He called again. We argued some more.

  The next morning, he had the seventh procedure on his esophagus. In the immediate aftermath of these procedures, he found it difficult to talk, but still he called several times that afternoon. Each time the phone rang, I heard Louise’s voice in my head: Don’t answer it, don’t answer it. But usually I did. Usually he was unpleasant. That was Thursday. Friday was more of the same.

  I was booked to visit on Saturday as usual. I considered not going. But I went. I wanted to say what I had to say one more time and to his face, calmly and firmly and not over the phone.

  Once we got settled at our usual table with our vending machine coffee, I said, “Shane, I love you with all my heart.”

  His eyes filled with tears.

  “And if you keep treating me this way, I will leave you.”

  I might have been still struggling with Louise’s advice not to answer the phone, but finally I had learned her lesson that following the phrase “I love you” with the word “but” cancels out the second part. I finally understood that unconditional love, a concept that had previously made sense to me only in terms of my son, does not mean you have to put up with anything your loved one throws at you. Shane seemed to think unconditional love gave him a licence to do whatever he wanted, and I would stay with him anyway. With Louise’s help, I finally understood that it was the “stay with him anyway” clause that wasn’t true. That I could, in fact, love him and leave him.

  Over and over again, I had stood up to him. Over and over again, I had let him pull me back in. I didn’t know yet that this would be the last visit.

  He said nothing for a long time. Then we went on with our regular Saturday. At home afterwards, I did some yardwork: it was the middle of May, almost time to plant. He called only twice. He was pleasant both times and didn’t mention what I’d said at the beginning of the visit. Late in the evening, I put on my pyjamas and curled up on the couch to begin reading The Betrayal Bond, which I’d purchased as an e-book on my iPad.

  Over time I learned that I bonded with people who were very hurtful to me and remained loyal to them despite betrayal and exploitation. . . . Betrayal. You can’t explain it away anymore. A pattern exists. You know that now. You can no longer return to the way it was (which was never really as it seemed). That would be unbearable. But to move forward means certain pain. No escape. No in-between. Choices have to be made today, not tomorrow.

  I stayed up very late reading.

  The worst is a mind-numbing highly addictive attachment to the people who have hurt you. You may even try to explain and help them understand what they are doing—convert them into nonabusers. You may even blame yourself, your defects, your failed efforts. You strive to do better as your life slips away in the swirl of intensity. These attachments cause you to distrust your own judgment, distort your own realities and place yourself at even greater risk. The great irony? You are bracing yourself against further hurt.

  The result? A guarantee of more pain. These attachments have a name. They are called betrayal bonds.

  ON SUNDAY AND MONDAY, SHANE WAS FINE, but by Tuesday, he was starting again, his voice on the phone sliding into sarcasm and nasty innuendo. I worked in the morning, and, by force of habit, I booked my Saturday visit as usual. I had a late lunch with Brenda, Tammy, and Rosemary from the prison group at our usual Chinese place. He called several times while we were eating. I answered the first time, then I turned it off. I went home to take the dogs out before going to see Louise at five. He called again, suggesting I’d had more in my mouth than Chinese food. I spent my hour with Louise going over my notes from The Betrayal Bond. I wasn’t even halfway through the book, but I had pages and pages of notes.

  On Wednesday he was worse. I had a session with the prison writing group in the morning, then I went to a book launch downtown in the evening. I was home shortly after nine, not because I was trying to obey the curfew he’d imposed on me, but because that was when the book launch ended and everybody left. His phone calls that night were almost an exact duplicate of those the previous Wednesday after I got home from Julie’s writing group.

  Thursday during the day was more of the same. In th
e morning, I worked, and he had an appointment at the Heart Clinic. It seemed there could be problems with his heart again. In the afternoon, I went to the garden centre. It was the twenty-fourth of May, the traditional spring planting day. I whispered a few encouraging words to the bleeding heart plants that were once again coming up in the driveway. I didn’t think about the time Shane and I had done the planting together. I didn’t know whether to be pleased or bothered by the fact that I was now able to carry on around his unpleasant phone calls without even feeling upset.

  He called again in the early evening. He began by saying he knew he wasn’t like all the uptown writers I knew. He went on about being sick and how I said I wouldn’t nurse him. He said I thought he wasn’t good enough for me. He said I thought he wasn’t worthy. He said I thought I was better than him. Again he accused me of being with someone else—a healthy wealthy writer perhaps.

  I warned him. “Remember what I said on Saturday.”

  He said, “How am I supposed to remember what the fuck you said on Saturday? You’re always saying things. You’re always just talking and talking and talking all the fucking time.”

  Then he started going on about everything I’d taken away. The Tuesday evening visits. The Sunday visits. The counselling with Edward Blake. The forty-eight-hour PFVs. Then he said, “What else are you going to take away?”

  Although I hadn’t planned that today would be the day, I said, “I am going to take it all away.”