by Dale Mayer
“It really sends you into a panic attack, doesn’t it,” Weaver asked.
She nodded.
“That’s the big one then. You so have to let that go. The fear will kill you,” he said seriously.
She gazed off into the distance. “But I know what it is, I know what happened, putting that into a project isn’t going to help me – it will traumatize me. And I wasn’t alone. I don’t feel that I can share what happened without breaking a confidence in someone else. They need their privacy too.”
“Use a different name?” Weaver suggested.
“No, he’d still be obvious. You’d know who he was.” She thought about it. “And it’s too big.”
“Big is good,” Weaver said. “It gives you lots to work with.”
“No, like this is huge. I can’t deal with this. It’s too hard.” Paris pleaded.
Silence.
Jenna spoke up, her voice warm and fuzzy, “Then deal with a layer on top. That will make the big issue a little easier for you to access, and yet you’ll feel better for having gotten something done. Some level of pain gone.”
“A top layer?”
“Yes.” Jenna waited a moment. “How about the fear of not being good enough. Not deserving enough to get what you want in life.”
That did it. Frozen again, her breath locked down. Jenna was referring to Paris’s outburst this morning, when she’d almost lost it completely, and didn’t it damn well figure that Jenna would pick up on that one horrible, crippling aspect. She struggled to take a breath, that oh-so-very necessary air into her lungs so she could take another breath – one that would allow her to fight the good fight and keep living for another day.
Heat radiated up her arm as she became aware of fingers gently stroking her skin, soothing her panic, easing back the rough edges of her control.
A gasping, raspy breath escaped.
“Sure,” she heard herself mention sarcastically. “Like that isn’t a big one.”
“Good.” Jenna stood up, deliberately misunderstanding her, and said, “That’s settled. Find a way to visually express your transformation.” And she collected her books and walked out, leaving Paris staring after her.
“Visually?” Weaver said. “Really?”
“That’s what she said. Although how does one visually represent the fear of not being good enough? Not deserving enough have to do with anything?”
“I think she left us some latitude in there, but still.”
Feeling more balanced, Paris shot a look around the room, but no one noticed. They were all packing up to leave. She planned to do that too. Just as soon as she could get her body to move.
*
Weaver had seen several people have panic attacks but hadn’t realized that Paris was crippled so severely by them. Jenna had certainly hit it on the head about what Paris’s big dominating issue was. At least the one that was accessible. And she was right, one had to deal with the little bits and reduce the pain and fear around the big one until it was manageable.
Then when it least surprised you, that one opened up because you came from a position of strength now and it had been weakened. He could hope for such a breakthrough for her. She deserved it.
“What about at your work?” he asked curiously. “Is there anything there that would show you something visual in transforming? You deal with mothers and babies, correct?”
She nodded, a gentle smile on her face. “I do love my work. Helping the women yes, but seeing the babies, working with the ones that have a tough time and seeing them survive and thrive…” Her smile grew misty. “It’s special.”
“And the ones that don’t survive?” he asked. How could she deal with the loss of babies like that? That would be too much for him, he was too big a softie.
“I cry,” she said simply. “A lot. But never there. Never at work. I make it through my day – sad but functioning – then I go home and I cry for them. There’s nothing else I can do. In many cases I have to wonder if it wasn’t a blessing as the poor little things were in such pain and it wasn’t going to get much better, but then I remember some that have struggled so hard and have done well…” she smiled, “and I remember that all we can do is fight. Sometimes we win and sometimes we lose.”
“That’s not a bad way to look at life in general.” Weaver smiled. “Even now, today. We have a project to do. Let’s apply that common sense to making it happen.”
“I don’t have a problem doing the work,” Paris replied, “but once again I don’t know where to start.”
“That’s always the hardest place,” he said, “but the good thing is, in this case, you’ve already started!”
It took a moment for a small frown on her forehead to clear, and then she smiled. “That’s true, but not very helpful.”
He laughed. “Hey, whatever works. Sometimes I do the end of the report because I know that’s where I’m going. I then backtrack to the beginning to lay down the steps required to get there.”
“That’s actually not a bad idea.” Her face brightened. “I’ll have to think about that.”
“Good. In the meantime, how about a walk?” He could see the refusal forming on her face, he jumped in to add, “Nothing long, just out in the gardens or around the dock.” He snagged her elbow. “Let’s go.”
Chapter 9
Paris had no desire to go out, to leave her safety net. Weaver wasn’t giving her a choice. Before she understood what had happened, she was standing outside the hotel in downtown Vancouver, her jacket on, and staring up at the windy gray skies. It matched her mood. The emotions rocking her today were enough to make her tired, depressed. She hated the toll it was taking on her. It’s like someone took all the stuffing out of her and just when she thought the bad stuff was all gone, she realized it was only a drop in the ocean of bad still waiting for her to deal with.
“I wonder if everyone has something major to deal with?”
“Everyone has something to deal with. The term ‘major’ is subjective. Trying to buy a new car and not sure how to could be construed as a major problem in some people’s eyes.”
She snorted. “I wish.”
“Come on, let’s walk.”
It was the last thing she wanted to do, but her feet had a mind of their own and fell into step beside him. The air was cool for a September day. The moist, slightly salty air revitalized her spirits. Normally the spring and fall here were warm and stunningly beautiful with bright blue skies. Today offered the beautiful part, but it wasn’t warm or blue. She stuffed her hands into her jacket pockets and let the world stroll by as she walked.
“We’ll head towards the ocean.”
“Wherever.” She shrugged.
“Are you cold?” he asked in concern. “The breeze has a bite to it.”
“I’m fine,” she murmured. “It’s cool but refreshing.”
They walked in silence until the first glimpses of the sailboats popped into view. She broke into laughter. “They always look so bright and cheerful out there buffeted by the wind and waves.”
“I don’t know how cheerful they are today considering the beating they are taking.”
The breeze that brushed by them was a strong wind out in the bay, but the people in the sailboats looked to be having the time of their lives. Then she caught sight of the kite surfers. “What a sport,” she exclaimed.
“Looks like fun, but so not for me.”
“Not into dangerous sports?” she asked, feeling shivers sliding over her skin. “I’m not either, but men generally like that sort of thing.” Of course her brother didn’t, but in their house, growing up had been a dangerous sport. She smiled, loving the reminder of her brother, and the shivers stopped.
“Not my style.” He gave a harsh laugh and said, “I survived childhood. That was hard enough.”
Shocked, she stopped all of a sudden, then turned to look at him. “I was just thinking the same thing.”
With an understanding look, he moved closer to her. “Our daily
life isn’t like these people.” He pointed out a particularly high-flying kite boarder. “He’s happy to chase after excitement and danger. For most of us who grew up in a violent household, we are looking for the opposite. We want peace and safety now.”
She couldn’t have said it better. The insight into his life, his childhood, made her realize he really had been through the wringer – like the rest of them at the seminar. Holding her breath, she stayed silent, hoping he’d share more. One foot rested on the cement barricade between them and the water, the look on his face distant but calm. As if he’d come to terms with something behind him.
She wished.
There was a world of difference between his childhood and hers, she knew, but for the first time she realized there was also a lot in common.
“Maybe some of those people have been hurt so much they no longer care what happens to them?”
“That’s the other side of the coin, isn’t it?” He glanced at her. “Survival means different things to different people. Some say they survived, but inside they are dead and can’t stand living. Some people do crazy stunts in the hope to kill themselves off because they aren’t strong enough to do it themselves. Sounds horrible, but I’ve seen it.”
“And in some cases, they are so angry inside they turn around and inflict the same abuse on others,” Paris whispered, looking at the black mark his shoe scuffed into the cement barricade. Briefly letting her gaze follow the line of his foot up his leg, remembering how it felt when he had held her.
She didn’t see the same rage in his demeanor or actions she’d seen in other men. He’d never hit anyone for fun. Was she right to trust that assumption? She didn’t really know him. But she wanted to.
“Often those people feel that they have to get their own back. Or feel like if it happened to them, why should you be safe? I knew one male who figured it was his job to go around and attack women because then they wouldn’t be so trusting. They’d take more precautions because now they understood life could be dangerous.”
“Really? That’s a little twisted, isn’t it?” Startled, his words shook her out of her daze. She’d read about a lot of people and their odd reactions to stress and pain, but that was a new one on her.
“There are some very sad cases out there.”
“And here,” she muttered.
“As long as we do what we can.”
“Everyone is doing what they can,” she said quietly. “Even those still locked in that same horrible place they went to during the abuse. And they can’t move out of there because it’s either too painful or fear won’t let them move. Either way, it’s all they can do, too.” Quiet, Paris wondered at what she’d started. What she’d inadvertently shared.
“You’ve been there?” Weaver questioned.
“All my childhood and teen years. I should have run away. Should have gotten help. I couldn’t.” Hands jammed in her pockets, she tried to still the shakes rattling her calm.
“It’s easy to look back. Not so easy to avoid judging.”
“Sometimes I think looking back is all about judging. What we could have done differently. What we should have done differently.”
“Except…” Glancing down at her, their eyes met, “we have to make allowances for the age we were back then. The conditioning we were put through.”
“And when we were older and still allowed the status quo to remain? Then what?” The bitterness in her voice was audible. She bit her lip “I stopped it – finally. I should have done it earlier.”
“And how old were you when you stopped it?”
It took a long time for her to answer, and then with a sigh, she said, “Fifteen.”
His shocked gasp made her look at him sharply, searching for the judgment she expected to see. And there was none. Still she felt she had to explain more, to justify herself. Her actions. “No, I wasn’t very old, but I was old enough. And if I’d done something about it earlier, then someone else wouldn’t have gotten so very badly hurt.”
“You were a child. Before and during. The conditioning you were put through didn’t give you the tools to handle resistance, to defend yourself or to stand up for someone else. We’re usually so broken by the time we get there it takes a major turning point in our lives to make us change. In your case, maybe for this other person.”
She gave him a hooded look. “More book learning?”
“No, life learning.” And this time, it was him that turned away.
Something to think about. She sagged onto the railing and studied his averted face. “Life’s a bitch, isn’t it?”
That surprised a laugh out of him. “Isn’t it though? Or maybe I should say, life used to be a bitch. Now it’s much better.”
“True.” A young couple walked past them, holding hands and lost inside the joy of their young love. Jealousy rose up at the sight of them, and yet at the same time she wasn’t sure she’d ever want to be so naive. She’d never been that innocent. Not like they were. And once you crossed a certain point, there was no going back. “Do you ever look at the people around us and wonder what we missed?” she asked.
“Yes.” He studied the same couple as they passed by, murmuring with their heads close to together. “I’d like to look at it as what we still have waiting for us to experience.”
“So not a missed opportunity, but rather in the future as something to look forward to?” The concept of not having missed anything wasn’t something Paris had considered. But it was a much nicer way to look at the issue. “I can get on board with that.”
The implication of what he’d said dawned on her. Her lips parted to ask him, then she realized how deeply personal a question it was. She closed her mouth.
“Go ahead and ask,” he said simply. “I may or may not answer.”
“That’s fair enough. It’s just what you said, the way you said it, while that couple walked by…”
“And…” His voice tightened just enough to let her know he sensed where she was going.
“Nothing.” Losing the courage to go there, she shrugged and stood up. “Shall we keep walking?”
“Sure.” They headed down the walkway in the opposite direction the couple had gone. Kinda like the way their lives had gone in the opposite direction.
“You were going to ask about the relationships in my life.”
Startled, she glanced at him quickly then seeing his intent gaze, she switched to watching one sailboat trying to come back to shore, and a shiver crawled up her spine. Struggling but winning the war. Prophetic in many ways. “I guess I was. Just trying to figure out how trust works after there is none.”
“It doesn’t. That’s why you have to start from scratch and build new trust in different things. When you’ve been hurt, then you try to avoid being hurt again. When you’ve been broken, you avoid anything that will take you down that path a second time.”
Once again his words hit home. “So true. But that doesn’t allow much room for trust.”
“So you have to trust that people will be people. What you’re really asking me is have I come to the point of trusting other people to not hurt me.”
She winced. “It always comes back to being hurt.”
“Sure. That’s the big lesson in life – to go on even though we’ve been hurt. So trust in little bits. Trust your coworkers to treat you nicely. Trust your boss to be fair. Trust babies to be natural. Natural at that age is to be innocent, but they learn manipulation at a young age.”
“They do at that.” Paris smiled, thinking about the babies at work. “I love that about children. But when they hurt someone, they also feel bad.”
“In most cases.”
“But from there to becoming adults, people change. And that can be a different story.”
“That is their issue. Remember, it’s always about you and your issues.”
“I want a family,” she burst out. “Children.”
Then went silent.
*
The vehemence in her voice sta
rtled him. “Surely that’s not a bad thing?”
She bowed her head.
“I think that would be a dream many women would have,” he offered gently, wondering where this was going.
“Sure they do.” With a shrug of her shoulders, her tone bitter, she added, “But I’m not most women.”
That’s for sure, but he understood. “Maybe adopt if you don’t feel the conventional way would work for you?”
“I’m considering it,” she said slowly. “I’ve seen many single moms come through my ward. Most aren’t in good shape either emotionally or financially. A few are strong and planned this journey to walk alone, but most aren’t as they’ve come from recent breakups or relationships where they couldn’t even remember the father.”
“Not everything in life is so sad,” he said.
“No,” she whispered. “The babies are awesome. They are born so innocent and open to what life has to offer.”
“Do you deal with a lower income level demographic that you see so many upsetting scenarios?”
“Not especially, and money doesn’t protect you from breakups.” Staring down at her hands, she sighed. “There is no guarantee that your relationship or your spouse will survive your children making it to adulthood. Few people go into a relationship expecting to become a single parent. Often they come with the disintegration of their own dreams, a major shift in their reality. Their circumstances.” She raised her gaze. “And sometimes I envy them, regardless.”
“Can’t you have children?” Immediately he winced, wishing he held his tongue when her face paled to the whitest cloud in the sky and those huge eyes swelled with tears.
As she shook her head, he hated himself for not having read the signs. Hell, in her case, he hadn’t been able to read any signs. Something about her blurred his usual logic and calm deference. He’d been lost on that highway like an idiot. “I’m so sorry.”