Through the Shadowlands

by Julie Rehmeyer

  When he arrived and I opened the door, it was hard to recognize the lithe and graceful young man I’d known. I immediately knew what had happened: The medication he relied on to keep hold of his mind had brought weight gain. His belly jutted forward farther than his frame seemed designed to accommodate, his upper eyelids had grown sleepy-looking, and his hair was pulled into a thin, graying ponytail. We’d once been a matched set, with long, thick blond hair, squinty eyes, and heavy eyebrows. I almost had to look away: I felt as though my own body were being stretched and aged.

  But when he said hello, his voice snapped him into the person I knew. He hugged me, and although we fit together differently than we had before, he smelled the same.

  I showed him around, studying his face to figure out how he felt, being there for the first time in a decade. He’s brave to come, I thought. Did he get a twinge, seeing the huge, empty bookshelf his math library had lived on? I couldn’t tell. He commented on the mud plaster on the range hood, which had been a plywood box when he’d last seen it, and he stopped in the stairwell, smiling at his sister’s bas relief of our two long-dead dogs. As we walked around, I felt as though we were shadowed by the ghosts of our younger selves, watching us and grieving.

  A couple dozen friends came over the course of the afternoon, sitting under a shade tent on my patio. I watched Geoff’s face as he chatted, and for all the changes, I saw the same compassion and kindness I had loved in him years ago shining through. And I picked up on no bitterness from him that I was living in this house we’d both invested so much in, just pleasure that I was back in it. I chose a good man, all those years ago.

  He hadn’t been in a relationship since we’d broken up, and I felt a pulse of longing that he find someone to love, someone to be loved by. I thought of him lying alone night after night, year after year, when he’d been such a skillful and tender lover to me. I didn’t want to be the one lying beside him, but I wished someone were there.

  I told my friends my stories about how astonishingly ill I had been and how astonishingly I had recovered, and they all seemed to accept them with undoubting delight. I felt myself managing to weave my strange experiences back into ordinary existence. The conversation rolled through a variety of rich topics, the sun warmed the back of my neck, the birds chirped, the cicadas buzzed, the stream burbled, and I felt as though I were expanding beyond the limits of my body, into the house, the land, the community.

  I had a sudden urge to reach out and take Geoff’s hand. When I noticed, I felt a burst of shock, the same feeling I’d had as a small child when I’d reached up toward my mom’s hand, only to realize that the leg next to me led not to my mom but to a stranger. The urge I was feeling, I knew, was arising from how I was wired to share my expansiveness and pleasure with a partner. Since Geoff had once been that partner, the feeling naturally and mistakenly flowed toward him. I put my hands in my lap.

  This pleasure is for me alone, I thought. This is what it feels like to throw a party all by myself. Perhaps someday I’ll share my life with a partner again, but for right now, this is good. It is enough.

  PART 4

  EMERGENCE

  CHAPTER 17

  CONNECTION

  Even though I felt more comfortable being alone than I ever had before, I thought it’d be fun to date a little bit. Nothing serious—my bizarre task of learning to avoid mold left little room for that. But I liked the idea of meeting some new people, maybe going for some hikes, pushing the edges of my little moldie world.

  I wrote up a profile on OkCupid, briefly describing my illness and dramatic improvement and commenting that “I feel, quite literally, like I’ve been reborn.” I said that the experience had brought me “a deep acceptance of the world and appreciation for it, and a quiet joy at being alive that is independent of whether I get what I want.” I felt a little funny “selling” myself by talking about my illness, but not doing so felt misleading. And heck, it’s got to be more interesting than saying I like romantic candlelit dinners.

  I was pleasantly surprised to meet several interesting guys and no creeps—but no romantic prospects either. I quickly ran through OkCupid’s small pool of men in Santa Fe, so I searched Boulder. A weekend fling with some Colorado mountain man could be fun! Maybe in a nice, mold-free tent . . .

  One profile caught my eye, for a man who was a runner, poet, hiker, admirer of Jung, and cook. “I know that I’m responsible for my happiness,” he wrote, “and that I have to know what I need and ask for it.” The words sent a wave of relaxation through me. He was striking too, with silver hair and blazing blue eyes, looking at home in the Rocky Mountain wilderness.

  Soon, we were exchanging long e-mail messages. John had lived in rural New Mexico for five years, had run hundred-mile races, wrote for a living, and practiced Sufism. The latter brought up images in my mind of black-bearded men in long robes whirling ecstatically, but he said his version of it was quiet and internal. “I’m probably most attracted to Sufism because the answers are within, the teacher is within, grace is key, and love is the greatest power. It is also not about gaining anything, but losing everything—an experience I know you have tasted.” I laughed, looking around at my empty house. I’ll bet Sufis don’t usually mean that so literally!

  His e-mail went on: “I feel a steady presence of love in my life, a love beyond me but in me. I try to stay aligned to that every waking moment, remember it is there, feel it through my breath, and in my heart.” I thought of the spaciousness that had bloomed in me in Death Valley. I died out there in the desert. This is all extra, an unearned gift. I felt it within me just as strongly now—through my breath, and in my heart, as John had written. I cradled an emptiness at my core.

  Four days after I first saw his profile, we talked on the phone for nearly two hours. At the end of the call, he said, “I thought about it before I called, and the only time I could come down to Santa Fe in the next three weeks is . . . right now. Could I stay with you tonight?”

  My mind fluttered. Is that safe? Will I be able to get rid of him if I don’t like him? Will he contaminate my house? Will he assume I’m going to have sex with him? But . . . do I really want to wait three weeks to meet him?

  “Um, uh, yeah, I guess so,” I said, and then paused. “But you’ll have to bring a sleeping bag, because I don’t have any beds.”

  He arrived at 11:30 that night. I ushered him straight to the shower—before he came, I’d warned him that would be necessary and asked him to bring unworn clothes to change into. I wished I had clothes I knew were uncontaminated on hand for him, but I didn’t think my clothes would fit him. I just had to hope his house and clothes weren’t moldy.

  We talked into the wee hours of the morning. He told me about growing up in suburban Denver in an upwardly mobile but inwardly hollow family; I told him about being an only child with seven siblings. I studied the curve of his eyebrows, the veins on his hands, the laugh lines around his eyes. I liked him—but I also felt as if my immune system had expanded beyond my body and was on alert against an intruder into my house.

  By the time he ran his fingers through my hair and pressed his lips to mine, though, my only thought was, Soft.

  When we finally went to bed, he unrolled his sleeping bag next to mine. I wondered if I’d be able to sleep—I’d grown uncivilized, waking and sleeping at random hours, cuddling with Frances or flopping about—but when he wrapped his arms around me, my body relaxed, the way it had when I’d read his words about being responsible for his own happiness. I slept, and when I awoke, my apprehensiveness had vanished. My immune system, it seemed, had accepted him.

  I was exhausted after so little sleep. After breakfast, John suggested that I nap, using his lap as a pillow while he read on the couch. When I awoke, he massaged my back and shoulders, moving up to the bare skin on my neck. A shiver traveled from my skin through the core of my body. I sat up to kiss him.

  Then I suggested we go upstairs. I eyed the camping pads with an internal groan. I’d g
otten used to sleeping on mine, but for this purpose . . . I had bought a futon recently, hoping to move up in the world from my camping pad, but over the week I’d slept on it, I’d felt worse and worse and had given it up as moldy. But surely the futon can’t do much to me in just an hour or so . . .

  I pulled John onto it with me, and the exuberance I’d been feeling about life as a whole flowed right into lovemaking. As his body fit with mine, a circuit seemed to snap closed, allowing a flow of energy far bigger than us to travel through us and beyond. And I thought being alive was good when I was all alone in Death Valley! Afterward, I lay with my head on his shoulder as he stroked my hair, feeling as though every cell in my body had settled into its right place.

  But then the feeling shifted, something within subtly not right. Ugh, this futon. I had warned John that the futon might cause me problems, so I knew he wouldn’t be completely shocked if I limped on my way to the shower. But man, what a way to impress a new lover!

  John pulled away slightly and looked at me. “We need to get you off this futon,” he declared. How did he figure that out?

  I nodded and then groaned as I got up and staggered a bit, feeling lightheaded and weak. I hope this isn’t a response to making love! I got to the bathroom counter and braced myself on it while John stroked my back. My head swam and I sagged further, ending up in a fetal position on the floor.

  John kept stroking. “How can I help?” he asked. His voice was calm and steady.

  “I’ll be okay once I shower,” I whispered. “I just have to get up the oomph to get there.” A couple of minutes later, he helped me into the shower, and once again, strength flowed back into me shockingly fast as the water flowed over me.

  John hauled the futon outside for me, took a shower himself, joined me on the camping pads, and made love to me again. Afterward, we hiked up the stream together. Guess it wasn’t the lovemaking that did me in! I thought as I capered up the trail. The trail was too narrow to walk side by side, but we held hands when we could. Each time we paused to admire something, we ended up embracing, and his scent mingled with the familiar oak and pine and earth smells. John goggled at the trees and the stream. He squeezed my hand. “This feels . . . enchanted.”

  After John left, I went to a craft store and bought some Sculpey clay. He had invited me to his birthday party in Boulder a few days later, and I had an idea for a birthday present, inspired by a story of his that had impressed me.

  He’d grown up as a fat kid, he’d told me, and some bit of him that felt unworthy was whispering that I’d reject him. Even having run hundred-mile races through the Colorado high country and knowing that it would take a fine scalpel to scrape any lard off his frame, the fat kid still dominated his own self-image.

  His childhood weight had been all the more agonizing because it came with a mind-fuck: His mom, who had her own food issues, would give him a Metrecal diet shake instead of dinner and then bake a cake he wasn’t allowed to eat—but, bright-eyed, she’d offer him a mixing bowl with icing to lick.

  When he was in eighth grade, he came up with a plan to wriggle out of this emotional trap: He joined the wrestling team. “Sorry, gotta make weight tomorrow!” he’d say, pushing away his plate. He not only lost weight, he found his power. He started getting good grades, gained friends, and became downright skinny. Wow, that kid had strength! I thought. Way to outmaneuver your parents.

  I had the idea of sculpting a model of John as a fat kid as a symbol of my embrace of the child inside the man. I asked him for pictures of himself as a little boy, and then I sculpted him with chubby cheeks and blue eyes, wearing a shirt with huge polka dots like in one of the pictures. Squeezing the clay, I felt like a kid in art class, as though childhood-me had come back to life to make a gift for childhood-John.

  I found myself almost purring as our 19 hours together and our twice-a-day Skype calls rolled through my mind. I kept pondering one particularly amazing thing he’d said: “Even if your health doesn’t get better than this, that’s okay with me.” Could that really be true? I thought. Feeling that way now doesn’t mean he’d feel that way if it happened. Regardless, it sure is an amazing thing to say. I shaped a clay ear as I pondered. But let’s not find out if his statement holds up. I’ll get better instead.

  I drove up to Boulder for his party, bringing my sleeping bag and tent with me so I could camp out in his backyard if his house didn’t work for me. My moldie friends had warned me that I might encounter “mold plumes” as I drove and advised me to put all my belongings in my car in plastic bags just in case. “That’s ridiculous” flicked through my mind, but it was no more than a flick by now. In for a penny, in for a pound. Anyway, it wasn’t much of an imposition: I had no suitcases, so I would have used trash bags even without the threat of mold plumes.

  Fortunately, the precaution seemed unnecessary—I felt fine the whole drive. John greeted me with a dozen red roses and a hug and kiss so huge that I ended up giggling. When I walked into his house, my senses were bristling. Seems okay, I think. I hope.

  Later in the evening, I pulled out his birthday present. As he unwrapped it, I suddenly felt so nervous that I wanted to grab the box, stuff it under my shirt, and pretend I’d never mentioned it. Why didn’t it occur to me what a bad idea this was? He could think it’s ridiculous!

  As he pulled the sculpture out of the box, I started babbling against my will. “It’s you as a fat kid. See his chubby cheeks? I’m not much of an artist or anything, but I don’t know, I just . . . I kind of just wanted to reach back in time and let that kid know that I’m waiting for him.”

  John kissed me, looked again at the sculpture, looked at me. He had tears in his eyes.

  I woke up the next morning feeling awful. Moving my legs in bed was hard.

  My mind spun: I’ve been so stupid! Why didn’t I sleep outside like I’d planned? John had been willing but hesitant—his house was a duplex and he worried about his neighbor’s reaction. He would have agreed if you’d pushed for it. You didn’t take care of yourself the way you should have, Julie.

  Even worse, I’d brought all my clothes into the house, so I had no uncontaminated clothes to put on. And his birthday party was that day. I was going to meet a bunch of John’s friends, along with his dad. Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

  I tried to calm down and strategize. A step at a time, Julie. It wasn’t clear that the problem was John’s house, I realized. I’d eaten dinner on my way at a place with an outside patio, but I’d had to walk through the building, and it had been moldy. I hadn’t been able to shower for some hours afterward. So maybe my clothes weren’t all contaminated from John’s house, and maybe I’d recover just fine.

  Regardless, I needed to deal with the immediate situation, which meant taking a shower and doing detox. But doing a bunch of bizarre things under the eye of a guy I was falling for but still didn’t know all that well . . . Ugh.

  I braced myself, fessed up to John about how awful I was feeling, and ran through my theories about what was going on. I told him I’d probably stagger as I got to the shower and that I’d need to do at least one coffee enema. I spoke in even, matter-of-fact tones to cover up my embarrassment. Then I admitted that I was scared, that I may have really screwed up and didn’t know what it would take for me to recover.

  John listened calmly. If he was shocked to see my slow, painful movements to the shower, he didn’t show it. He just asked if he could make me some coffee.

  The shower and enemas brought me back pretty much fully. Thank god, thank god, thank god.

  I put on the only pretty dress I owned, and John’s friends greeted me with such enthusiasm that I knew he must have been telling them all about me. John showed off the little sculpture I’d made him. His face was shining all afternoon, and I was struck by how much his friends seemed to love him. Just like I’m starting to do.

  Over the next couple of days, I persuaded myself that his house was reasonably okay for me. Not only that, but his car was fine too—amazing, sinc
e the half-dozen used cars I’d tried had all crippled me.

  The mold gods, it seemed, were blessing our union.

  A few days after I returned from Boulder, John came down to spend nine days in Santa Fe with me. He’d already scheduled time off from work to go to a workshop, and he canceled it to spend the week with me.

  “Fruit trees!” John cried, when I mentioned that I wanted some but hadn’t gotten around to landscaping my house. “Let’s plant them while I’m here!” As he dug the holes for them a couple of days later, I laughed to myself. This guy plans to stick around!

  We took a half-day hike off trail through the hills around my house, going places I hadn’t gone in close to a decade. He gave me tips on my running form. We left stores and restaurants over and over when I declared them moldy. We soaked at a Japanese spa. We climbed together at a rock-climbing gym.

  I felt as though there had been a John-shaped hole in my life, and I hadn’t even known it.

  As John packed to go back to Boulder, I told him, teasing, “I just had the crazy idea that I could hop in the car and go with you.”

  John said, not teasing, “You should!”

  So I did.

  We had one challenge we had to work out, though: John had a cat and I had a dog. Frances was very excited about Lao and wanted to be friends, and she had clear ideas about how to do it: “I’ll chase you and it’ll be fun!” Lao, an affectionate, feisty gray tabby with strong opinions, clearly considered this behavior ghastly.

  The first time I brought Frances to John’s house, I closed Lao in a bedroom first. Frances immediately bashed the door in—I apparently hadn’t gotten it properly latched—and chased poor Lao under the bed. As I hauled a scrabbling, yipping Frances away from the bed, I thought, Oh my god, John is going to think my dog is a monster.