Life Is A Foreign Language

by Rayne E. Golay

  “What about your mother? Why didn’t she intervene?”

  Tears ran down Nina’s face. “Dad was very astute—when Mama was at home he avoided me if he was in a nasty mood. But when Mama wasn’t at home—those where the times he’d act out toward me.”

  “But what about your broken arm? How did he explain that?”

  Nina thought for a moment. “This happened a long time ago, but as I recall, we told Mama I broke my arm in a biking accident. Words don’t leave visible marks, but they program you. In the end you see your image in the mirror the parent holds up, and nothing can efface the low self-esteem, the doubt and disgust with self.” She took a sip of tea to soothe the dryness in her mouth, swallowing against the lump in her throat.

  “Nina, you don’t have to put yourself through this. It must be so tough to drag it all up.”

  She leaned forward, cheek in hand. “It is difficult, but I need to do this. It’s a kind of purge; after I’ve told you I can’t take it back. I’ve shared it so it no longer belongs to me alone.” With a sharp intake of breath she realized that her father had planted the seed of low self-esteem, but she’d fed it by refusing to open up about this part of her life. As a professional she knew her worth, but as a woman her self image was so low it had certainly contributed to her allowing Andre’s womanizing when she should have taken a stand years ago.

  “There isn’t much left,” she said. “I lived in this wonderful old house with servants and a doting mother. I was well dressed. When I turned eighteen, Dad gave me a car. Materially speaking, I had everything a girl my age could wish for. I’ve often thought of my life as a fruit—perfect to look at, but rotten inside.

  “One particular incident I remember vividly—it was the year I was graduated, so I must have been eighteen. This wonderful boy invited me to the school prom. All the girls were crazy about him, so he could have taken anyone, but he chose me. My mother bought me a beautiful ball gown, high heeled sling-back sandals, and lent me her antique long earrings. When I looked in the mirror I was all grown up and pretty.

  “I had a great evening, one of the rare times I dared feel carefree and happy. When I came home after the prom, Dad was waiting for me in the entry hall. I’d never seen him so furious. He screamed at me that I’d been giving my favors to this boy, which wasn’t true at all. My father accused me of being a slut, of giving him a bad name by sleeping around. He dragged me into the kitchen where he hacked off my beautiful long hair with a knife—so men wouldn’t be attracted to me, he said. And he slapped me.” Nina’s voice faltered. She closed her eyes against the memory.

  Michael took her hand in his. She gripped it so hard her nails left half-moon marks on his skin.

  “He was so inconsistent—he disliked me and ignored me. Yet he demanded that I be perfect, so he would look good in the community.”

  “Nina .”

  Difficult as it was, she didn’t dare stop now. “The house we lived in was old and sturdy with thick granite walls and solid oak floors. Not a sound filtered from one room to the other. Mama slept through this horror; she didn’t hear a thing. And I never said anything to her, I couldn’t. I loved her and was afraid of hurting her.”

  She glanced at him, his eyes soft and misty.

  “But didn’t your mother ask about your hair? Why you cut it off?”

  “Sure, she did. I just shrugged it off … said it was a whim I indulged.” She sighed. “I don’t know what she knew, how much she guessed.

  “After Dad died there were opportunities when we could have talked about it, but I couldn’t bring myself to open up the past. Mama never said anything, and I was content to let it be.”

  Nina used a napkins to dab at her eyes and discreetly blow her nose. “While I underwent mandatory psycho-analysis during my studies, I glossed over my early life—never told the full story, not the abuse part. I was so ashamed of it I hid it deep inside. As a professional I should have known better. But we all have our blind spots; mine was that I couldn’t see how important it was to get it out, to talk about it so that I could deal with it. Through working with others I sometimes had flashbacks from this period, but quickly I’d turn away, refusing the memories. Now I understand I can’t construct my future on the ruins of my past if I don’t know what that past is made of.”

  Nina brushed hair off her forehead. Breathing deeply, she met Michael’s gaze.

  He squeezed her hand. “Was it the back injury that started your dad on painkillers?”

  “Yes, the pain was at the root of it all. He began with other painkillers, then took low doses of morphine. As he grew dependent on the drug he needed more and more to dull the pain. The more he took, the worse his behavior.”

  Thoughtful, Michael creased his brow and nodded. “Have you met your father’s family?”

  “Yes. My father was an only child. I hardly knew my paternal grandfather, he died when I was a teenager. My grandmother passed away only three years ago. She was a joyless, severe woman. I visited her in New York a few times because I had to.” She made a face at the memory.

  For a while both sat quiet. Nina was relieved to have unburdened the painful memories. She stood, a little stiff from sitting in the room chilled by the air-conditioning. “There, I’ve said it. You’re a good listener.” She stretched, then lowered herself to the love seat, covering her legs with a throw.

  “My God, you must be so angry!”

  She shook her head. “Not any more. For many years I was like a bomb looking for a place to explode, but I’ve done a lot of anger work. Occasionally, it flares up and I deal with it immediately before it deals with me.”

  “Was your father the reason you became a therapist?”

  “Absolutely! I’d suffered from Dad’s addiction, but I also saw him suffering. To the best of my ability I wanted to make a difference to alcoholics and addicts, and their loved ones.”

  He smiled at her. “Our experiences tend to leave their marks. The Supreme Being at work in my life helps when I have a load too heavy to carry on my own. Perhaps that thought can help you.”

  He’d mentioned the Supreme Being before, but Nina hadn’t paid attention. Now it intrigued her, she wanted to know more. “What is this Supreme Being? Are you religious?”

  When he didn’t answer immediately, she regretted asking. “You don’t have to answer … it’s such a personal matter.”

  “That’s all right. I understand it’s important or you wouldn’t have asked.”

  She nodded. “It is important. All answers don’t necessarily come from rational thinking and therapy. I’ve started questioning if there might be another dimension I haven’t tapped. Whatever your belief, it seems to work for you; you’re so focused, live in the moment. I’m curious what it is, maybe it could help me, too.”

  A pause before he answered. “I’m trying to decide how to put this so it makes sense. You’re right, there is something more profound than reason at work in my life. It’s also more immediate than therapy. If you mean going to church and following the tenets of organized religion, in that sense I’m not religious. But I have faith. I trust. My belief is spiritual, not religious.”

  His reply surprised her . she expected some quotation from the Bible, a sermon, but what Michael said sounded reasonable.

  “My belief isn’t anchored in any particular religion. I don’t try to define a universal God. I believe in God, as I understand Him at different moments in my life. When I was younger, there was a time when I didn’t believe in anything, and I doubted the existence of God. The usual immature nonsense, you know.”

  Michael took a chocolate and munched on it, eyes half-closed.

  For a long moment neither of them spoke. The things he said touched something deep within her. She’d been searching, but the obligations that organized religion imposed had put her off. The way he explained his faith made i
t seem accessible, something she could practice. Was this the answer she needed? Maybe faith would set her free from the dark horsemen of loneliness and fear, feelings she grew up with, but which no amount of therapy could erase.

  “Where did you learn all this? I mean, did you have an adviser, like a guru?”

  He smiled. “Not a guru, but a spiritual adviser. His name is Oren Jones. He’s an old friend, married my sons and baptized the grandchildren. Oren’s seen me through a lot.”

  “He sounds interesting,” she said.

  “Would you like to meet him? No commitment, just to talk?”

  She thought for a moment. “Yes, I’d like that.”

  “I’m surprised you’re looking to spirituality for answers. Why not psychotherapy?”

  She sighed. “I’ve had all the therapy I can use. Something tells me the answers aren’t within the intellectual sphere.”

  “Hmm … you may be right. If you want, I’ll call Oren, arrange a meeting.”

  “Please do.”

  “You can also attend his weekly meditation group. If you’re interested, that is.”

  “I’ll think about it. I’d like to meet him first.”

  “I’ll call him and let you know.”

  Her eyes met his, and she nodded. “Thanks.”

  The late hour, the memories of her past, and his presence—both comforting and disturbing—had taken their toll. Suddenly she was bone weary, spent. She had to blink her eyes to keep them open and tried to suppress a yawn.

  Michael stood and took both her hands, pulling her to her feet. “You’re exhausted. I’ll leave you to get some rest.”

  Nina nodded, too tired to protest. With her hand in his they walked to the door. She accompanied him outside to his car, wanting to put off the moment when he’d be gone.

  “Sleep well,” he said.

  “You, too. And thanks for listening.” From habit she brushed her lips against his cheek. She hurried into the house, smiling. The difference in cultures … in France we kiss, here we don’t.

  Chapter 14

  Rain had been forecast, but when Nina woke the sky was clear and a breathtaking blue. After necessary chores, she found Barry Campbell’s phone number and dialed, gazing through the window in her office while she waited to be connected. The morning sun peeked around the corner of the house, its first rays touching the hibiscus that grew along the pool enclosure.

  “Barry Campbell speaking.”

  “Hi Barry. This is Nina Brochard.”

  “Oh my God, Nina! How are you?” He sounded both surprised and pleased.

  She grinned, happy to hear his familiar voice. “I’m well.” They chatted for a while about his work, Nina’s retirement, her writing.

  “Would you be free for lunch sometime soon?” she asked. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen you, and I have some professional questions I hope you can answer.”

  “Lunch would be great. If I can’t answer your questions, I’ll find somebody who can.”

  They agreed to meet at a fish and steak house by the river.

  She’d met Barry while she worked on her doctoral thesis, and he was doing research at the Baltimore psychiatric hospital where he interned. He was a man she turned to with implicit trust in his discretion and sensible advice.

  A sound from the direction of the garage brought her back. She cocked her head, listening. When she checked, Michael was unloading cans of paint and brushes and rollers.

  She cleared her throat. “Morning, Michael.”

  He looked up, a can in each hand. “Morning to you, too.” He set the cans in the garage. “I didn’t think you heard me. Would you give me a hand with the furniture on the lanai?”

  She nodded, and together they stacked the chairs, pushing them and the table against the wall under the overhang. Noticing how worn and threadbare the carpet was, Nina resolved to replace it. While Michael painted, she measured the carpet, carefully writing down length and width.

  “You’ll be busy for a while. I’ll go buy a carpet to replace this worn rag, and then I’m meeting Barry for lunch.”

  He glanced at her from his kneeling position in the far corner of the lanai. Her breath caught when she met his blue eyes.

  “Okay. If you ask them in the store, they’ll help you load the carpet in the car.” He wiped his brow with a handkerchief he pulled from his overall pocket. “I’m going over to Brian’s for lunch.”

  She stopped, her hand on the door handle. “I’m sorry, I should have thought about you coming to paint before I decided to have lunch with Barry. I could have fixed us something here.” Flustered, the took a deep breath, exhaling slowly through open mouth.

  “That’s perfectly all right, Nina. It’s important you talk to Barry.” He raised the paint roller in salute. “I’ll see you in the afternoon.”

  She waved and after retrieving her purse, climbed in her car, somewhat embarrassed for leaving Michael. At the same time she was looking forward to seeing Barry again.

  Driving north on Del Prado, she tried several stores before finding what she wanted in a specialty shop. She chose a thick forest green carpet. The salesman cut it to the measurements Nina gave and helped her fit it in the trunk.

  When she arrived at the restaurant shortly after noon, Barry was already seated in a booth, a mug of coffee on the square beer mat in front of him. Seeing her approach, he slid to the side of the booth and stood, his gut making the movement seem laborious. He opened his arms to enfold her in a warm hug

  “Gosh, Nina, it’s good to see you.”

  “You too! It’s been … what? Two years?”

  “Yeah. Too long.”

  Barry gave the overall appearance of roundness: short and stocky, round head with a shock of jet-black hair standing on end, round eyes behind round black-rimmed glasses. His quick movements belied the initial impression of obesity.

  They sat opposite each other on the brown vinyl-covered seats.

  “How’s Paul doing?”

  Barry shrugged. “Paul’s busy. He works the night shift. Hopes to be appointed head of the ER so we can have a normal life. As it is, we meet in the shower . he’s on his way in when I get out.”

  She chuckled. Barry hadn’t always been so open about this relationship. During their student years, his homosexuality was kept well hidden; she was one of the few he’d let in on the secret.

  “It would be fun to get together, all three of us,” she said.

  “It would, and we will. As soon as Paul is on a normal work schedule, I’ll let you know.”

  They studied their menus. The server filled tumblers with ice water and took their order. Nina sipped her drink, answering Barry’s questions about the children and the twins, without getting into the divorce.

  After their food was served, Nina gave him an outline of her novel, describing Jeanette. “Explain to me your clinical experience with this form of personality disorder. I know the diagnostic criteria, but I need to be able to show its manifestations in my character without sounding like a textbook. I don’t want to bore my readers to death.”

  He balanced a fork on his forefinger, thinking. “Okay,” he said at length. “Here’s what you need to show to project an interesting character. She strives to be the center of attention; behaves in a provocative manner, consistently—the emphasis is on consistent—uses physical appearance to draw attention.” He paused, thinking. “Without being aware, she acts out a role, like princess or victim. This should be enough. You could add some exaggerated expression of emotions. For instance, she doesn’t have an ordinary cold, she insists it’s pneumonia, which mobilizes the family and doctors, so she can be the hub of interest.”

  “Such a character is often sexually inappropriate. No need to show that?”

  He chortled. “Not unless you want to
make your novel into a diagnostic manual, in which case you probably won’t get it published anyway. Anything else?”

  “I don’t think so. Mind if I call you if I need anything more?”

  “Not at all. I hope you’ll call me anyway.”

  The server cleared away their plates. Barry ordered a regular coffee, Nina, decaf. After they were served, he leaned his forearms on the table, hands dangling over the edge. “Tell me about you. You look well. But there’s something different. Something new. What?”

  She sighed, shrugging her shoulders. “I’ve left André. I’m getting a divorce, and I’m living here in Cape Coral now.”

  He wiggled his stumpy fingers, encouraging her to keep talking. “Come on. There’s more.”

  She glanced at him, puzzled. “What else do you expect? There’s nothing more.”

  Mischief was in his voice as he spoke in a low, husky voice. “You’ve met somebody, a man. A special man.”

  She leaned back and laughed. “You must be kidding, Barry. I’m hardly rid of André, what would I want with another man? In fact, I haven’t looked at a man in more years than I care to remember.”

  “Aha.”

  “What does that ‘aha’ mean?”

  “So that’s what’s wrong with you. Sexual frustration.” He sounded so sure of himself.

  For a long moment she stared at him, speechless, her mind a whirl. The idea of a man in her life was incongruous. Or was it?

  Barry took her hand and played with the fingers. “Let me tell you this, my Nina. It’s nothing new to you, just a reminder. From what you’re implying, you haven’t had sex in a long time. My experience tells me you’ve met somebody who’s stirred up that hunger you’ve been sitting on—literally.” His round eyes were serious as they fixed on hers. “Now, go do something about it. Get laid. Fall in love. Or perhaps you already are in love. Or in lust. No matter. There are some good years ahead of you, Nina. You’ve sacrificed enough for André. This is your time.”