“So have you.”
“Well, I suppose I have, but I’ve had a lot of good things happen to me too. One of the things I learned during that week by myself is that the only way you can leave the past behind you is to stop being a victim. When you label yourself as a victim, you’re in essence making the worst thing that ever happened to you the defining event of your life. Victims are people who don’t make choices, but rather live life in response to their pain, their trauma. When Emily Stone was a little girl, there was bad stuff, there was sin, all around her; her life was just a succession of surviving scary things, and being afraid. She learned to keep her guard up, she didn’t trust anybody, she cried a lot, but always quietly and in the dark. That Emily was a victim—she had no power, she had no choice. This Emily doesn’t have to live that way. This Emily loves and trusts, this Emily makes choices. I choose to stop being a victim and start living my own life.”
After a pause, she continued, carefully picking her words, “Brian McClellan was a victim, a victim of the Persian Gulf War, a victim of a demanding father, a victim of sin. Until you decide to go from being a victim to living your own life, it will always hurt, and you’ll never have the life you want. The hard thing is that you never get back the things you lost. Brian McClellan doesn’t get his hand or leg back. Emily Stone doesn’t get a happy childhood. But if that’s what you focus on, you just keep losing. Instead, you first say that you didn’t deserve the things that happened to you. They were not divine retribution, they were not a judgment on you as a person from the Almighty. God didn’t make my father an abusive paranoid, God didn’t send you into war to be wounded. We’re not worthless people who got what we deserved, what happened to us wasn’t fair. It’s a cliché because it’s so true, you know—life isn’t fair. Be thankful that life isn’t fair, Brian, it wasn’t fair that Christ died for the world, either. But that bit of unfairness is the only thing that gives any of this life meaning. Victims, you know, are the quintessential pessimists, they invariably expect the worst. Christians are the world’s optimists, they’re counting on the very best.”
After a brief pause, she smiled and said, “End of sermon.”
“And if you accept that you’re not a victim anymore, does that mean that you don’t get hurt anymore, that there isn’t any more sin?”
“No. there are always new hurts, new sins. People go on sinning against you, you go on sinning against God. But you recognize your own responsibility in it, and you try to do a little better each day than you did the day before. You learn to forgive, and you accept that you are forgiven.”
“It’s a lot to think about. You’ll have to be patient with me, my love.”
“I learned patience from you.”
Brian slept quite soundly until the next morning, when a new round of thunder woke him at dawn. He liked rain as well as anyone, but it was a shame for it to rain throughout the only beach vacation he had taken in twenty years. He had agreed to call Emily early, but he waited until eight.
He knew from her voice that something was wrong. Her normal soprano had been replaced by a weak tenor. She said she thought she had picked up a virus. They decided it would be best to make their way home. It certainly hadn’t been the vacation either of them had imagined, but Brian felt that it had been a turning point in their relationship. There are times when a person doesn’t realize how heavy a load he has been carrying until he puts it down.
Emily dozed off and on all the way home. When they got to Brian’s house, she agreed to stay the night. She slept until late afternoon on the couch. Brian quietly did a few chores, and then sat and watched her sleep. She seemed so young, so innocent that it was almost impossible to imagine the youth that she had spent. It seemed impossible that someone so sweet could have been dealt with so harshly by life. And yet, Brian mused, life saves its worst cruelties for those who least deserve them.
When she woke up, Emily was feeling better and enjoyed a bowl of soup. It was chilly enough, they decided, to have their first fire of the season, and soon a cheery blaze was crackling in the fireplace. Brian sat on the floor leaning on the sofa where Emily reclined. She bent over to kiss his neck and said, “You know, this is a pretty good vacation all by itself.”
“I know I’m enjoying it.”
“Are you?” Something in her tone implied that this was not a rhetorical question.
Brian caught the implication, and was surprised that she really needed to hear an answer. He turned to face her. “Of course I am. You’re an exceptionally good kisser.”
“But it’s not enough, is it?”
Brian knew that he must answer carefully. “If it’s what you’re comfortable with now, then it’s enough for now.”
She pounced on his answer like a prosecuting attorney looking for the loophole in a witness’ alibi. “Are you saying that you’re not the slightest bit frustrated?”
“I didn’t say that. Of course I get frustrated. You’re a beautiful woman, and I love you, so naturally I would enjoy making love with you, or at least expressing myself more physically, but that’s not where you are right now.”
“What if that’s not where I ever am?”
“I don’t know. I can’t answer that question. What makes you ask?”
The by now familiar blush to the roots of her hair reflected Emily’s embarrassment. “That’s what I went to those two therapists about, you know.”
“No, I didn’t know. What exactly did you feel you needed to talk to a professional about?”
“I told them that I’m very much in love with a terrific man, and that I find him extremely attractive, but that when he gets too close, I get scared.”
“What is it that scares you?” As he posed the question, he peered very intently into her face.
With a tone of exasperation, she answered, “If I knew that, I wouldn’t have needed a therapist.”
“Do you think it’s something about me, something perhaps in the way I approach you?”
“No, it’s not you. Brian, I love you. I know you love me. I know there’s nothing to be afraid of with you. It’s almost like panic, a senseless, irrational fear.”
“Emily, do you think it’s possible that some experience from your childhood that you don’t necessarily remember could be causing your fear?” He hated to ask the question, but in a world where depravity and cruelty happen every day, the unthinkable must be considered possible.
“I don’t know, I don’t remember there being much physical contact being displayed in our house. I don’t recall ever seeing my parents kiss one another.”
“Perhaps the bad relationship your parents had with one another is in some way causing your fear,” he suggested.
“I don’t know, I guess that could be it. One thing I do know is that I’m tired of feeling this way. You’re not the only one who’s frustrated. One day last week we were sitting here talking and you were running your fingers up and down my arm, and there were two voices in my head. One of them was saying, ‘Oh, I like that, that’s nice.’ And the other one was saying ‘Don’t do that.’ It’s like a computer with conflicting programming. There’s part of me that operates with the general rule, if it’s pleasant, you don’t deserve it and besides you’ll probably get in trouble for it. Then there’s the part that has the rule, give people what they want. I can’t follow both rules.”
“I don’t like either one of those rules. For one thing, you deserve lots of pleasant things. And more importantly, you don’t have to give people, especially me, what they want. The only thing that matters here is what you want.”
“I don’t know what I want. I’ve never needed to know before. It’s never mattered what I want. I just go plodding along making decisions on the basis of what other people want and what’s least likely to scare me.” The frustration she was feeling was plainly apparent in her voice.
“One thing I’ve noticed is that you don’t seem as nervous about touching me, it’s only when I try to touch you that you get scared, isn’t
it?”
“Yes, that’s true. Maybe it’s one of my control things. I don’t like to be in situations where I’m not in control. When I touch you, it’s something I decide to do, I know exactly what’s going to happen.”
“Do you touch me because you want to, or because you think I want you to?”
“I like touching you.” After a pause, she blurted out, “This whole conversation is dumb. I’m thirty-two years old, you’re forty-six, and we‘re having a conversation about something that most people have outgrown before they hit twenty. I feel like a fool, and I honestly don’t see why you put up with me.”
“Sweetheart,” he said gently, “We’re not talking about what teenagers do while parking in dad’s car up at Inspiration Point. We’re talking about how to express the very adult feelings we have for one another in a way that we can both feel comfortable with. And even though we haven’t gotten it all figured out yet, I’ll tell you quite honestly, the time since I met you has been the most romantic time of my life.” He spoke with a sudden shyness, as a man who was unaccustomed to use such words. “You’re not a fool, and I put up with you because I couldn’t possibly live without you.”
The early fall is usually a very busy time in the public library as school resumes and the assignments given to students prompt an increased volume of circulation. It was on an especially busy day that Janet Barstow got word of a death in her family. She was frantically doing all the necessary tasks in order to make it possible for her to leave the city for two days to attend the funeral. Emily found herself saying, as people so often do, “If there’s anything I can do to help, please let me know.”
She was quite surprised when Janet replied, “If you’re serious about that, there is a big favor I’d like to ask. Could you keep Jessica at your place for the weekend while we’re gone? She really enjoyed the time she spent with you last summer, and I don’t think she’d give you any trouble.”
Emily was at something of a loss as to what to say. She remembered that Jessica Barstow had been a pleasant child, and couldn’t foresee any real difficulties, except for Brian. His words on the occasion of her previous babysitting experience had been abundantly clear. “I don’t do children.”
She replied, “Well, I’d be glad to have her, but I need to check on something first.”
She called the pathology department at the School of Medicine and reached Brian quickly.
“Brian,” she began, “I hope you’re in a good mood. I want to do a favor for a friend, and I need you to be understanding about it.” She went on to explain the situation.
The long silence communicated his displeasure quite clearly. When he finally spoke, it was with a heavy sigh, “It will be difficult to miss you for an entire weekend, but I understand your desire to be helpful to a friend.”
“Why do you have to miss me for an entire weekend? There’s no reason you can’t come over and visit. The child doesn’t bite, and even if she did, I’m sure she’s had all her shots.” Her attempt at a joke went unnoticed. She went on more seriously, “I know, you don’t ‘do children.’ Unless you object strenuously, I’m going to do this favor. They need to drop Jessica after work tomorrow, and they’ll pick her up Sunday before one. You’re still invited to dinner tomorrow night, but I’ll leave it open whether you come or not. All right?” She felt that she should add something, but she didn’t know what.
“All right, Emily,” he said in a rather terse voice, “I’ll think about it.”
It always disturbed Emily when there was conflict between things she felt she ought to do. When two options presented themselves, she was forced to make a decision, and that was often difficult for her. In this case, she felt that helping a friend in time of trouble was the best thing to do, but she sincerely hoped it wasn’t going to be a decision that caused Brian to get angry. She certainly didn’t expect to see him for dinner on Friday evening. She and little Jessica were busy preparing the meal when the doorbell rang, and there he was.
“Well, good evening, sir. I’m glad you decided to come. We’re making a really delicious pot of spaghetti in here. Come on and I’ll introduce you.” Entering the kitchen, she said, “This is Jessica,” and, “Jessica, this is Dr. McClellan, he’s a friend of mine.”
“Hello, Jessica. That dinner you’re making smells delicious.”
“We’re not making it the way my mother does,” she replied. “I’ve seen you at the library before.”
“Have you? That’s nice.” Brian hadn’t the foggiest notion how to carry on a conversation with a child.
“My mother says you got hurt and that’s why your hand is like that.”
Emily’s heart sank. She should have foreseen this. “No wonder he doesn’t do children,” she thought. She was frantically scrambling around in her mind to think of some way to deal with the situation, all the while studiously avoiding looking in Brian’s direction for fear of the anger that she was sure must be clouding his face. Then she heard him reply to the child.
“Yes, I did hurt my hand, but now I have this new one so it’s all right. What are we having for dinner with our spaghetti?” There was no anger in his voice at all, and Emily breathed a deep sigh of relief.
Jessica, in typical six year old style, moved right along to the new topic of conversation. She began to tell him all about the salad they were going to have that was different from her mother’s salad, which she didn’t like. “Miss Emily says we’re going to have a surprise for dessert, but I think I know what it is on account of as how I really like ice cream, and I think that’s what the surprise is.”
The meal was a major success if such things can be measured by how much food is on the youngest guest’s face. After she had a bath supervised by “Miss Emily” she returned to hear her story read. She had brought several of her favorite books from home, and selected Beauty and the Beast because she had seen the movie and it was her favorite movie on account of as how she really liked the Beast and the dancing. She sat very close to Emily on the couch and seemed spell-bound, which amazed Emily since she knew the child must have heard the story many times.
“Miss Emily, you smell real good,” she commented. “I liked the way you read the story. Don’t you like the part about Belle and the Beast dancing? I think that’s the best part.” This last was punctuated by a large yawn.
“Well, Jessica, tell Dr. McClellan good-night and I’ll tuck you in.”
The good nights accomplished, the two ladies retired to the bedroom. Emily emerged shortly. “Fast asleep. Her mouth wound down, and the rest just fell in line.”
She sat next to Brian who smiled and commented as he embraced her, “Miss Emily, you smell real good.”
She kissed him and said, “She’s a sweet child, really, but I don’t know how Janet keeps up with her all the time. I’m going to be exhausted by Sunday.” After a pause, she continued. “Brian, I’m sorry about her comment when you first arrived.”
“Don’t worry about it. Maybe that’s the reason I’m uncomfortable with children, they’re too honest. At least she didn’t act afraid. That reaction has occurred on occasion, and is difficult to take. I was thinking about that when you were reading that story. I empathize a little with the Beast.”
Emily smiled and chuckled a little. “That’s funny, so do I. I heard someone say that every love story ever written is in fact a version of the Beauty and the Beast motif. Perhaps it’s because we all feel at one time or another that we don’t project what we really are and that the love of a good person would somehow bring out the best in us. Perhaps we all think that appearances get in the way of the things that really matter. I imagine that’s why the story appeals to children so much, because they’re honest and they like to see the good, honest Beast triumph in the end and be seen for the noble figure that he is within.”
When a man reaches a certain age, birthdays are very ambivalent times. On the one hand, it’s nice to be the center of attention and to be pampered. It’s good to know that people care enough
about you to wish you a happy birthday. On the other hand, when a man is turning forty-seven and is involved with a woman who is thirty-two and looks even younger, it’s a little uncomfortable to have the milestones added to the load he already lugs around.
Another sometimes uneasy by-product of birthdays is the way they prompt inventory-taking. A man just can’t help surveying his life, climbing up to the top of the road marker and looking at the path thus far traveled. The view from up there can be unkind in its clarity. It’s plain to see that there were a few wrong turns taken, a few picnics where litter was left behind, a few tasks not properly finished, but left discarded at the side of the road. And then when he turns and tries to get a clear picture of the road ahead, the view is suddenly cloudy. Somehow the road ahead seems much shorter than the one behind, and he realizes that he doesn’t have any time to waste if he wants to see all the stops along the way.
Emily’s first inclination on the occasion of his birthday was to throw a big party and invite everybody she and Brian knew. The obstacles to this plan became immediately apparent. Brian’s friends other than Paul were his co-workers, and the same was true for Emily. None of her friends knew any of his, and Brian said it would be very awkward if the library people clumped together and the pathology people clumped together and never the twain meet. Paul had recently started dating someone new, and they decided to invite the two of them and just have a cozy foursome.
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