by Penny Reid
I shifted from a sitting position to a kneeling position on the bed, inched closer to him. He continued in his stillness and my eyes moved over him, assessing.
The silence was loud, meaningful, and it hurt my heart.
At length he said, “Ask me why.”
“Okay.” I scooted closer; now he was almost within touching distance. “Why don’t you have pajamas?”
“Because I never knew about them when I was growing up. And in prison, you wear the same thing all day and night.”
“What did you wear to bed? Growing up?”
He shrugged; his eyes had a distant look as though he were lost in the memory. “Sometimes I wore the same clothes for several days—to school and to sleep.”
My heart hurt for him, but my brain recalled my training and what I knew of the repercussions of childhood neglect; how important it was for the victim to feel empowered and valued. “You can have pajamas now if you want them.”
His eyes cut to mine, and his previously unfocused expression became sharp and irritated. “Don’t do that.”
“What?”
“Don’t use that voice on me.”
I stared at him, flummoxed, then searched the ceiling for answers. When it gave me none, I let my hands fall to my thighs with a smack. “Alex, you were neglected as a child. I see child neglect cases all the time. How am I supposed to sit by and not try to help?”
“I want your help. But I do not want her help.”
My face fell into my hands and I shook my head. “We are the same person.”
“No. You’re not. You’re my wife, not my therapist. You shouldn’t want to fix me. You should love me as I am.”
“I do love you. But how am I supposed to watch you hurt without trying to help?”
He turned toward me, set my gift aside, and reached for my hand. “Give me yourself; don’t give me psychoanalysis and cognitive restructuring theory.”
I set my jaw and glared at him. “I don’t want to walk on eggshells.”
“And I don’t want to hide my past from you. I want to talk to you about it. But I can’t do that if it’s about fixing me.”
“Hiding the damage isn’t going to help, Alex.”
He paused; frowned at me like I didn’t understand him, his perspective, like he was disappointed in me. Then, abruptly—like a man with a light bulb above his head—something behind his eyes shifted.
When he spoke next, his tone was aloof—almost academic. “I agree that many damaged people want to hide, but I think most just want to be heard, listened to, made to feel important. Those kinds of individuals have found you in the past because you have a remarkable gift for making people feel valued. However, once you’ve filled your role, you’re discarded.”
I stared at him for a long moment. I frowned at his intellectual assessment of my disastrous and painful love life. He sounded like Thomas. Then, a light bulb turned on in my head, and I realized he sounded like me.
“Thank you,” I said, even though his words made me angry. He was right, of course, but labeling the container as truth didn’t make the reality pill any easier to swallow.
Was this his way of telling me that, eventually, when I’d filled my role, I would be discarded? I wanted a partner, not a patient. I didn’t want damaged, but I was the True North to all damaged male magnets. And Alex was textbook broken.
“You’re welcome.” There was a sardonic quality to his voice as if he’d known his words would make me angry.
And because I was angry, I asked before I could stop myself, “And how about you?”
“Me?”
“Which kind are you? Do you want to hide, or are you just looking for someone to listen? And when do you think I will have fulfilled my role?” My fears, which I’d resolved to fight through, were now bubbling to the surface.
He stared at me, searched my expression. I held his gaze and my breath, not quite regretting my words. I needed to know. I’d already plummeted into stupid love with him. It was only fair to know the mechanism of our inevitable separation, his future rejection.
As though he’d at that precise moment decided something of great importance, Alex grabbed me by the shoulders, turned, and pinned me against the bed, my arms trapped. He hovered above me, eyes moving between mine, and shook me a little—just a slight tremor—softly demanding my attention.
“Never, Sandra,” he growled then pressed an achingly gentle kiss to my lips; when he lifted his head, his tone was more beseeching. “I’m not hiding and I’m not seeking affirmation. I just want to be with you.”
My bottom lip quivered, and I hated the gathering moisture in my eyes. “But how is that possible?”
“Believe me.”
“How can I? I see foster kids every day. Yes, there are some exceptions to the rule, but rejection, neglect, abandonment—these are the central truths of who you are. By your own admission, you have no experience with love—with loving or being loved in return. You’re asking me to pretend there isn’t a ticking time bomb between us when I know better. It’s only a matter time before I become your….”
“I was misdiagnosed as a savant when I was five. I’ve been in psychotherapy since I was eight. I don’t like psychiatrists. I’ve told you that. Do you actually think I want to be with you because you’re a shrink? That’s madness. I want to be with you in spite of what you do. Yes, you make me feel valued—but I hope that makes me normal, not pathological. And I hope I make you feel the same.”
“Alex, I….”
“No.” His thumb pressed against my lips. “You need to understand and believe what I’m saying to you. This isn’t about me; this is about us. I’m not going to change, not on purpose, not because you want me to or think I need to. I’m never going to change for the better, never in the way you hope. All the things that piss you off about me—that drive you crazy—those things are only going to get worse with time. I’m going to get on your nerves until you want to tear your hair out. And one day soon, you are going to make me punch holes through the drywall in our apartment because you exasperate the hell out of me.”
I laughed despite my tears and sniffled.
“But I promise you,” Alex lowered his forehead to mine and we briefly touched noses, “I will change in ways that neither of us expects. And so will you. Not because we’ve worked through personal issues and childhood traumas, but because we’ll be changing together. We’ll be growing together. Becoming more, together.”
I heaved a watery sigh, and we lay breathing each other in for a long moment. His grip gentled, became caressing against my cheek. He threaded the fingers of one hand through my hair and settled them on the base of my neck. His eyes were no less savage, but they were entirely unguarded.
To my surprise, there wasn’t vulnerability behind the guarded wall. There was strength.
When he spoke next, his voice was soothing, coaxing, reasonable. “The only thing I ask, the only thing you need to promise me, is that we don’t grow apart. I don’t want to have to learn how to live without you. I understand that there might be times when you need to stand on my shoulders, or I need to stand on yours. You don’t seem to realize, I want to carry you. I look forward to making your burdens mine. And when we cross the finish line we might not both be walking, but we’ll still be side-by-side.”
***
FIONA ARRIVED AT nine to discuss the plan.
The plan was simple. Alex, Quinn, Dan, Fiona, a million lawyers, and several of Quinn’s contacts in the government would meet with the appropriate agency personnel responsible for Alex’s continued surveillance by the NSA and other agencies.
Fiona and Quinn would broker a deal on behalf of Alex. Alex would have to make some concessions—likely help the NSA in some way—but would make demands of his own in return. The first would be no further threats against me, his wife, and immediate release from parole. The second involved working for Quinn and untraced access to computers, the Internet, the whole rodeo. The third was decreased surveillance
by the government.
When it was explained to me, the requests seemed reasonable and logical, and yet I couldn’t comprehend how Quinn was going to convince the super-secret spy police to back off Alex, not with billions of dollars at stake.
Not helping matters was the fact that Alex wouldn’t be able to call me while all of this was afoot. Quinn explained that they couldn’t take the risk of any intercepted conversations derailing discussions.
I recognized that the plan was solid. I trusted Fiona to represent Alex’s best interests. Yet I was plagued with wifely anxiety and worry. I knew worry was worthless. But like an irrational wifely nitwit, I wanted to be the one in Washington, DC with Alex. I wanted to be the one that supported him through this ordeal.
Those were my feelings. I couldn’t help them, stop them, or stem them. In the end, I could only swallow my instinctual absurdity and wear a brave face.
Therefore, I called in to work to let them know I would be late. Wednesdays weren’t typically clinic days; as such, I shifted my important appointments forward to the afternoon and cancelled all non-essential meetings.
Then Quinn arrived at eleven to collect Alex.
I was resigned to the necessity of it. Nevertheless, my brave face wavered and became a sad face after I stepped away from our twelfth, and final, goodbye kiss. However, the sight of Alex wrapped in black cashmere and dressed in one of Quinn’s ridiculously expensive suits was a nice parting gift.
I looked between Quinn and Dan’s backs as the group walked down the hall.
Words burst forth before I could stay them, my heart speaking before my brain was aware of its intent. “Take care of him!”
Quinn glanced over his shoulder, nodded at me once.
Fiona gave me a comforting smile.
Dan turned fully around, walked backwards, and issued me a cheeky grin.smirk, “You should be asking him to take care of us. He’s the genius.”
I stepped into the hall. Alex glanced at Dan’s back as they boarded the elevator, then to me.
“He’s my genius,” I called, “and I want him back!”
Alex’s grin was immense, and it was the last thing I saw before the doors slid shut.
CHAPTER 29
Saturday Horoscope: Just for today, you might want to cut a path through your tangled emotional jungle. Good fortune and happiness are best when shared.
SATURDAY MORNING I donned my Lunch with Thomas T-shirt and made my way to the Blake Hotel. It was the first time in three weeks that neither Thomas nor I had cancelled. I was thankful, because I missed my friend and I needed the distraction.
Fiona had flown back on Thursday night, no longer able to be away from her kids. She was able to provide some information about Alex, but not enough to ease my anxieties.
A deal had been reached quickly. She explained that the NSA had been very keen for Alex to help willingly after so many years of being shut out. Quinn, because he was—as Elizabeth called him—a grumpy, hot wizard, had put pressure on the right people and obtained agreement from the security agencies on all of Alex’s demands.
In return, Alex would be called upon—from time to time—to consult with the NSA and other information technology teams on matters of national security. Alex was still in Washington because he was on his first assignment.
Fiona had no idea how long it would take, but she did know the gist of the task. Alex would be expected to sweep bitcoins from several criminal organizations—specifically drug trafficking and money laundering groups—and place the funds in an NSA-identified account.
I’d be lying if I said I understood the particulars and the risks. I did know that I hadn’t seen or heard directly from Alex in seven days. He hadn’t even sent a letter with Fiona.
Life was not good. In fact, it was shitzterhozen—hozen full of shitzter. I wanted to heckle life.
Boo-o-o and hiss-s-s!
Therefore, I was looking forward to a nice, quirkily normal, staid Thomas lunch to lift my spirits. I walked into the restaurant and spotted him at our normal table. He was in his chair, reading the paper, and I smiled at the sight of him.
But then I frowned, confused, because next to Thomas was a lovely woman with long black hair. My steps slowed as I approached the table, and then I recognized her. It was Shirra Patel from the restaurant. She was sitting next to Thomas, also reading the paper—the same paper. He was holding it, and they were both reading it.
I loitered a bit, hovered a few steps away. Neither made a sign at my approach, which was usual for Thomas. Now that he’d brought company, I didn’t know what to do.
In the end, I gathered an oh-well-whatever breath and sat down in my normal seat at the table.
As usual, I watched him read the paper—his lips moving, his nostrils flaring, his freaky coffee sipping—and wondered at Shirra next to him. She sat as still as a statue, except her eyes moved from left to right under thick black lashes as she read the words.
The waitress approached and I ordered lunch for myself since I didn’t know the new proper protocol now that Shirra was present. Did I order for him? For both of them? We would need to discuss future logistics.
At length, Shirra cleared her throat, and Thomas glanced away from the paper. He blinked at her. Then he smiled at her, and my heart squeezed a little in my chest.
He looked…young, like actually his age…and happy…and in love…and so did she.
Has it only been three weeks?
She tipped her head toward me, then moved just her eyes to my face, her smile never faltering.
“Hi, Sandra, we’ve met before,” she said, her brown eyes extremely friendly. “It’s good to see you. I hope you don’t mind if I join you and Tom for lunch.”
“Oh, no! So glad you’re here.” I tented my fingers so I wouldn’t rub them together like a maniacal villain. I didn’t try to hide the large grin eating my face as my gaze moved to Thomas. I hoped I looked as self-satisfied as I felt, because I knew it would ruffle Tom’s feathers.
Ha! Tom. I would have to start calling him that every once in a while. Excellent.
Thomas gave me a somewhat flustered glower and folded his paper. “Yes. Well.” He sniffed and sighed. “We already ordered before you came.”
I nodded. “How nice.”
“Excuse me, I’ll be right back. I just have to pop to the ladies’.” Shirra squeezed Thomas’s hand and placed a sweet kiss on his cheek. He leaned into her, and his eyes followed her as she walked away. I could tell he was checking out her backside.
“So, Tom,” I said laconically, drawing out his name, dragging his attention back to me. “Done anything lately?”
He inhaled deeply then released it in a huff. “We met at the restaurant, if you must know. After you left with your young man that night—leaving me quite alone for some time, I might add—Shirra took my order. We were the only two left in the restaurant, so I invited her to share my meal.”
“Re-e-eally?”
He pursed his lips, his cheeks tinted pink. “Yes, really.”
“Well, I’m happy for you, Tom.”
“Stop calling me Tom.”
“Is this why you cancelled lunch for the last two weeks?”
He gave me a curt nod.
“Well… is it serious?”
He paused, swallowed, and tented his fingers in front of him. “Sandra….”
“Yes, Tom.”
He scowled, but continued. “I feel I must tell you that, for some months—well, the last few months in particular—I was quite smitten with you.”
My mouth fell open—like catching-flies open—and I stared at him. When I found my voice, I croaked, “Is this a joke?”
“No. I’m afraid not. I didn’t expect that you’d return the feelings. But, you see, you are so terribly easy to fall in love with. I did think it would be prudent to warn you of this effect you have on people, on men. Possibly on women as well, though I’m unsure if women are as susceptible.”
My breath tumbled out of me and I felt
paralyzed. I searched the table for clues on how to continue this conversation.
“But…but….”
“Do calm yourself, Sandra. I’m quite over it.”
My mouth fell open again—like yodeling open—and I didn’t know if I should feel relieved or outraged.
“Really?” I finally said. “? Glad I’m so memorable.”
He smiled; it was almost wistful. “You are a lovely person. But we never would have worked out. I think a part of me always knew that.”
I nodded absentmindedly, knew my face betrayed how completely agitated his confession made me. “Well, then. Okay. Why are you telling me this?”
“It’s Shirra.”
“Shirra? What about Shirra?”
Thomas’s lips thinned and he appeared ready to burst. Then he blurted, “I love her!”
My eyes budged and I leaned back in my chair. “Oh my!”
He was just full of surprises.
“I can’t help it. I’m in love—completely in love!” He sounded like he couldn’t believe it; like he’d been afflicted with an illness instead of finding a partner.
“Bully for you, old boy.” I gave him a single nod, still feeling a bit dazed. “I say go for it.”
He seemed to sag in relief at my words. Perhaps he thought he was crazy—to fall in love with someone after three weeks. He was right. It was crazy. It was crazy awesome and wonderful. He should be shouting it from the rooftops. Heck, I should be shouting it from the rooftops. Perhaps we could take the Blake Hotel elevator to the top floor and begin this afternoon.
I recovered a bit from the whiplash Thomas’s confession had given me and reminded myself to be a good friend and try to be his cheerleader. “She’s always seemed really nice. I think her parents own the building. You could set up practice in one of the other floors.”
“Yes. Then you can just send your dates upstairs when you’re done with them.”
My mouth fell open for a third time—like dental visit open—and Thomas’s snapped shut. The pink tinge on his cheeks turned bright red, a flustered flush. He was embarrassed by his own words. I loved it.
My laugh was long and uncontrolled and therapeutic. At first, he scowled at me disapprovingly; but after a bit, his shoulders loosened and he managed to join me, adding his unfortunate staccato laugh to mine. This only made me laugh harder.