He Said, She Said

by John Decure

  Lookie there, it’s the home-wrecker.

  Yeah? That one?

  Oh, hell yeah. She’s the one who enticed a holy man, made him do evil things; brought such grief upon his wife, a fine, upstanding woman in her own right, such grief that she lost touch with the Lord’s loving embrace altogether, left the church and her husband. Mm-mm—girl went and drove her own mother away from God.

  That one, huh? Oh yes, indeed. Destroyed her high school’s varsity football season. Yeah, she’s the one who met that popular boy, the star quarterback, behind the bleachers, janitor comes along and sees them, quarterback on top of her, his pants down around his ankles—

  Well, boys will be boys…

  —and they both get suspended from school, he misses the big game. So much for the team’s chances that season.

  Out of the playoffs.

  That’s a damn shame.

  Ha—no, this woman’s got no shame. Career-wrecker, too, this one. She’s the one threw herself at a top-drawer shrink, had his own TV show. Came to his office, sneaking in after-hours so no one would see her, made a spectacle of herself to get him in her clutches.

  Dirty damn slut.

  You got that right.

  Family-wrecker.

  Got a brown thumb, eh? Everything she touches turns to—

  What else can you say? And I’m just sayin’, here.

  Oh, I know, she is what she is.

  You said she’s a family-wrecker.

  Damn straight. She drags her very own family through a lawsuit against the shrink, just to cash in. Then she spearheads this medical board case? More like a witch hunt to strip the poor guy of his medical license. And you’d never guess who the star witness is for the state.

  Good God, not the slut. Well, that’s government for you, I guess.

  Yup. Husband divorces her for cheating on him; son can’t stand the sight of her; daughter disowns her, and the family…

  That’s how they talk about me. How they’ve always talked.

  That’s the special blend of insecurity and grief that echoes inside my head wherever I go, and will probably follow me to my grave. I can’t always hear the voices clearly, can’t always catch every word, but I’ve pieced together my share of what’s been said, and it’s not hard to fill in the rest. I can also see with my own two eyes the snickering faces, disbelieving shrugs and shakes of the head, those you-disgusting-piece-of-trash stares. I know they don’t know the real me; they can’t grasp how I came to be so helpless at times that I honestly can’t think my way through a problem and stop myself from being a victim before it happens all over again. They shun me—but because they can’t see my side of the story, I tell myself it doesn’t matter. They don’t matter.

  Except, that is, when the people looking down on me are my family. Then it hurts. Cuts me deep, right to the core.

  The divorce should’ve been predictable enough, but it rolled over me like an avalanche. Made me want to end my life and if I’d had the courage to face my maker, I’d have done it. Andy had some painkillers left over from when he got banged up a couple years ago, took a spill test-riding one of his custom hogs, raspberried up his side. He tried a couple of those pills but didn’t care for the way they made him sleepy during the day. When Andy split on me, he was pretty mad and in a hurry to clear his stuff out. Forgot to take inventory of what he left in the bathroom, including that little red bottle on a glass shelf in the medicine cabinet. That first night he was gone I nerved up to do it, and it was like every word printed on that bottle’s white label was egging me on.

  Acetaminophen and oxycodone, for moderate to severe pain. Schedule II narcotic analgesic.

  It seemed the time had come, so I lit some candles, shook the bottle, and counted out sixteen little white capsules on my pillow.

  Take two per day, as needed. Use only as directed. Not to be taken with alcohol; when combined with alcohol may lead to respiratory depression and death.

  Sixteen, I counted—once and then a second time to be sure. More than enough, if mixed with alcohol, to do the job. I’d been hitting the grape all day, but just in case, I poured a big glass of chablis, brought it back to bed, and drank it down to the last drop. Sat back, the candlelight pulsing so pretty, these dripping sheets of gold sliding down the walls; having a good last cry, basking in the false glory of self-pity, my darkest hour coming forth with an empty wineglass and a fistful of pills intended to ease the pain of knowing my life partner despised me. Maybe these little white gems would serve that purpose…

  Closing my eyes so tight it hurt, I searched the blackness. Time passed, and soon enough, I wound up saying a prayer—though I wondered if I even believed anymore. I said: If you are there, Jesus, please tell me You are ready to take me. Show me.

  It was, indeed, the strangest moment in my life. My fist, it had a crushing grip on those pills, but my hand would not open, and I do not know if Jesus spoke to me, or if it was just my fear doing the talking, but all I could say, the only word coming to my lips, was no. Hell no!

  Now Jesus, in his time, was never known to curse. But looking back, I must conclude that I did feel His presence, like a soft, healing touch upon me in that moment, for I arose, rolled off the bed, stumbled into the bathroom, and flushed those sixteen pills down the toilet.

  So yes, I may be a pitiful loser, may have trashed the best years of my life, but then, my time has not yet come. There’s more to do. I don’t know my precise purpose, have no true bead on the future, but I do believe with conviction that He has a plan for me.

  Why else would I be here tonight, in a big LA hospital I never even knew existed, come to see Miss Bradlee Aames, the lawyer that took it to Dr. Don for what he did to me? I’m thinking there has to be a reason, there’s just gotta be a reason…

  * * *

  Listen to me, going on about myself! Poor thing, Miss Aames, she’s fallen on major hardship of her own, shot in the street by a man they say was gunning for that private investigator Andy hired, Deshaun Fellows. Happened right down the block from the courthouse. And to think, I could’ve been there to save her.

  That’s right, Dr. Craig Weaver and me, we were going to go together—back to court, that is, to watch more of the proceedings. Continue to face down my demons, you know, same way as what you do if you come across a bear, you run right at it instead of away from it. Talk about a taking a different tack; this is a groundbreaking change for me, all right, and I owe it all to Dr. Weaver. Wish I could’ve stopped that shooter. Now why, I thought, couldn’t that have been God’s plan?

  But I had a meeting this afternoon and couldn’t get ahold of my AA sponsor to get her okay to miss. My sponsor, Gwen, she’s a no-nonsense type; Gwen did six years in prison for killing her no-account wife-beater bum of a husband, and ever since the day she came out of solitary confinement swearing she’d been graced with God’s forgiveness, she’s not keen on people telling her they can’t do something. Dr. Weaver offered to call her, to get permission, but even though his intentions are good, there’re parts of my life I just don’t want to expose to him. It’s like, if he knew every last thing about me, then what would I do if he were to reject me? I’d just shrivel up into a ball and blow away in the wind like a tumbleweed. Silly for me to think that way, I know, because a therapist is supposed to act in my best interest at all times—but obviously, that hasn’t always been the case in my experience. Anyway, I went to my meeting and Dr. Weaver said he understood.

  Miss Aames—ho! It was awful! She just lay there helpless. She did seem peaceful, though, like an angel. Her eyes were open, but there was nothing behind them, none of that sharpness, that gunfighter’s glint in her eyes that’s a thrill to see when she’s in court. There was a crowd of people around her tonight.

  Mr. Fellows, the investigator, smiled and said hello first. I thought he looked a little lost or sad about something he couldn’t find the words to express.

  “Heard you testified real well, ma’am,” he said.

  I coul
d only shrug. I was too scared to remember much.

  Miss Aames’s boss at work, Mr. Mendibles, was here too, with his wife, a big-boned lady with a knee-length jacket over jeans and a turtleneck sweater. She was very polite, but with that jacket still on, she seemed ready to be anywhere else. Her handshake was like a ghost’s, and that smiling face was verging on cracking into a million pieces.

  “I just want you to know the trial is going well,” Mr. Mendibles told me.

  Do I thank him? I was thinking, but before I could come up with a dumb pleasantry, Mr. Mendibles tilted his head toward Miss Aames, as if to attend to her. And even though it was just a split second, that look of his had longing written all over it. So that was what his wife already knew: that Mr. Mendibles couldn’t hide how torn up he felt about Miss Aames.

  And I don’t mean as a concerned boss for an employee; I mean: as a man feels for a woman.

  Another guy, young handsome fellow named Reeves, was seated bedside with Miss Aames, patting her hand as he said hello to me. Guy resembled an ad in a magazine: nice face, great smile, this perfectly groomed brown hair cut short around the sides and back but longer-looking somehow. His shirt had these curvy white dolphins jumping around and the silver watch he wore had a cluster of tiny gears exposed right in the watch’s face. His waist was skinnier than mine, and his arms were toned like he put in regular time at the gym.

  “Call me Reevesy,” he said. “Everyone else does.”

  Gay as a three-dollar bill, was my private assessment, but I liked his friendly manner and the way his eyes held mine without judgment when we talked.

  “I’m Bradlee’s roomie, a bona fide computer geek. I also happen to be a pro bono cosmetologist and an unpaid fashion consultant for all my hopelessly ungrateful friends, not necessarily in that order.”

  “Sounds pretty rough,” I said.

  “Oh, it is. But don’t mind me! I’ve made an art form out of bitching and whining. Ask Bradlee, now that girl has heard it all…”

  He stopped as if he just remembered she was here, laid up beside us. Next thing, his handsome face wasn’t so handsome.

  “It’s okay,” I said.

  “Is it? Look at her.”

  We both did together. Honestly, she hadn’t changed a whit since I walked in here, but I still felt a little surprised and let down to see her laid out like a living statue.

  “Let me tell you, Rue, if I wasn’t a pacifist, I’d kill the social reject who did this with my bare hands.”

  “Me too,” I said.

  “You’re a pacifist?”

  “Nah. It just sounded good. Given the chance, I think I’d waste the bastard.”

  I covered my mouth, not quite believing what had just come out of it. That made Mr. Reevesy hoot.

  “Rue, we may have just met, but somehow I believe you’d do the same yourself. So no guilt-tripping, please.”

  “Fair enough.”

  Across the bed, Dr. Weaver was leaning over Miss Aames, searching her face as if by force of will he might bring her back from her coma. Mendibles, the lawyer, seemed to be keeping pace with Dr. Weaver’s intentions. Mrs. Mendibles? She was at the foot of the bed, soaking in all this… scene. God, all you could call it is male yearning, and I could tell she’d about had enough. Right about then she clutched her throat like she couldn’t breathe, spun toward Reevesy and me and stamped her foot.

  “Coño!” she said quietly—some curse word in Spanish.

  Mr. Reevesy nodded to me to slide closer to her, and I did. My guess was the best thing to do was to offer a little female companionship.

  “Coffee?”

  “I’d love some,” she said.

  I took her hand and got her out of there. Men, they can be so insensitive, but women don’t miss a beat. And Reevesy, too, he was right on the beam.

  Ten minutes later we returned to Miss Aames and the circle of men at her bedside. Downstairs, I’d learned from Mrs. Mendibles, whose given name is Myrna, that the brain doctor here said the more mental stimulation Miss Aames gets, the better. Which was good. What I learned that was not as good was that she suspected her husband was in love with Miss Aames. She was so concerned—and so deeply hurting over it—that I couldn’t help but lie on instinct, and spectacularly so.

  “Forgive me if I sound too forward,” I said. “But I doubt it’s anything.”

  “Back there,” she said. “You saw him. The recognition was all over your face.”

  “Listen, dear, a lot of men respond to Miss Aames ’cause of her looks. But that’s a far cry from being in love. You’re his wife. That puts you on a whole different level.”

  Which was true. Maybe I was making more sense than I give myself credit for. Where I’d got the confidence to talk to a total stranger like that, I have no idea. But it worked, and she seemed comforted.

  Heading back upstairs to Miss Aames’s room, I had a realization.

  I’m changing. Not so much the victim anymore. Now, I’m more of a helper. And darn, it feels good…

  Miss Aames’s black eyes were open, but she was still unresponsive. That didn’t stop attorney Mendibles, Dr. Weaver, and investigator Fellows from carrying on this big conversation, like she was a part of it all.

  “I don’t know,” Mr. Mendibles said. “Duke Winston is as credentialed as they come.”

  “Man was lying every time he opened his mouth,” said Mr. Fellows. “Said he’d never done a thing like Doctor Don did, not with anyone. Not even close.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” said Attorney Mendibles, “what the defense expert admitted. The burden of proof is mine, and it’s steep. I have no clue whether our case has reached that high a plateau.”

  He looked right at me. Instinctively, I shrunk.

  What could I tell them? That I knew the signs of losing better than just about anyone? That, like a dog, I can smell it coming down the block before anyone else even blinks? My heart felt hard and unfamiliar to me, like a foreign object, a lump of stone buried in my chest. I’d forgotten how to breathe, too. The tears, they sneaked up on me this time—a flash flood, no warning. I couldn’t face the others, but there was nowhere to run or hide. I shielded my eyes with a bare hand, sniffling horribly.

  “I knew it,” I told them in a choked voice. “Good old Doctor Don, way cooler and way more credible than me. He’s gonna get away with it, isn’t he?”

  Mendibles stepped closer to me near the end of the bed, but said nothing. Which, of course, said everything. The whole thing was depressing beyond words.

  “Right,” I said, still too raw to fully show my face. “Sure. None of this is any different than what always happens. Why am I even surprised?”

  “You were a very brave witness, Mrs. Loberg. And credible. But… nevermind.”

  “But what?”

  The lawyer looked at the others, then Ms. Aames, like he was taking an invisible vote, then me. “When you get down to it, it’s still Doctor Fallon’s word against yours.”

  “Honestly, I don’t know what I was thinking,” I said.

  “It doesn’t have to go that way, ma’am,” Mr. Fellows said quietly to me. “Because of the settlement, I can’t go around making disclosures, nor can Mister Loberg. But not you. As I recall, you didn’t sign the agreement, or take any money.”

  “How could I?” I replied way too loudly. “My family was ruined, and it was all my fault!”

  Next thing, Myrna Mendibles had her arm around me and was easing me up from the floor. Guess my knees gave out and I went down.

  Breathe deeply, they told me, so I did. Sat in a chair by the end of the bed. Someone handed me a cup of water, which I drank down fast.

  “We should go,” I heard Craig Weaver say. This was my idea, and what can I say?—it was a mistake.

  He’d been pretty invisible until now, hanging back on purpose to let me have my experience. Now he squatted in front of my chair, his face on the level with me. His skin was a pale yellow in the fluorescent light.

  “Are you well
enough to walk out of here yourself?”

  “I think so.”

  “I can get a wheelchair from the nurse if you like.”

  “No thanks, I got a little woozy but I’m all right now.”

  “I’m terribly sorry I upset you, ma’am,” Deshaun Fellows said. “Truly, I am.”

  “Mrs. Loberg’s been through a lot the last couple days,” Dr. Craig said. “She needs to take it easy.”

  Suddenly, it was like the rest of my life had always turned out: another unhappy ending, everybody disappointed, and me, right at the center of the latest failure. The fly in the ointment, the crack in the dam—that’s me.

  Until I remember my darkest hour, the prayer had said. Well, I’d remembered. And then, by God’s mysterious grace, an answer came to me.

  Waving off my dear-heart therapist, I sat up straighter. Ouch—the curved plastic made me feel like cereal poured into a bowl.

  “My daughter hates me,” I told the whole room. “Swears she’ll never speak to me again. And so far, ever since my husband’s lawsuit settled, she’s kept her promise.”

  No one said a word, so I kept going.

  “Now, Mister Fellows remembers correctly what happened when the lawsuit ended. I took no part in any deal of theirs. I’m free to do as I please. And I intend to, if it’ll help the case.”

  “Mindy was there,” Mr. Fellows said. “I told Ms. Aames that much, right before she was injured.”

  “Mindy could help us big-time,” Mr. Mendibles said to me.

  “I can’t guarantee a thing,” I said. “But I’ll talk to her. And if she grants me the courtesy of listening, I will ask her, from the very bottom of my heart, to help right this wrong.”