by Chanta Rand
“No, there isn’t. Anyway, why watch sports when I can sit here and watch you single-handedly ruin your life? It shouldn’t take much longer.”
“Back off,” he warned. “I have no reason to leave this house and no reason to change clothes. If you can’t handle it, you know where the door is. Nobody is forcing you to be here.”
“I invited him to stay as long as he wants,” Tristan heard a gruff voice challenge.
He looked up to see his father glaring at him. “Well, then, maybe it’s time for me to go back to my own house,” Tristan suggested. He stood up and prepared to leave.
“No, son. We want you right here so we can talk to you.”
As if on cue, his father’s reinforcements arrived. Nick, Debra, his mother, and Tyrek entered the room. “What is all this?” he demanded.
“It’s an intervention,” Nick told him. “You need our help, Tristan. And we’re not going to abandon you, even if you’re hell-bent on destroying yourself.”
Tristan walked toward the door. “I’m outta here.”
His mother blocked his path. “I don’t think so. You’d better have a seat Tristan Demarius Rexford.”
Tristan stared at her. A disapproving frown was etched into her thin lips. On the field, he could easily crush any opponent. But at home, he was still afraid to talk back to his mother – especially when she used his full name.
“We just want to talk,” his father said. “And you need to listen to what we have to say.”
Tristan sat back down. “So talk. But don’t expect me to say anything.”
“You don’t have to. Your behavior speaks volumes. Since your accident – ”
“Attack.”
“Since your attack,” his father continued, “You’ve been acting like the world has taken a dump on you. You barely eat. You seldom sleep. You sit around this house moping all day and feeling sorry for yourself.”
“So, is that it, Dad? You want me out of your house?”
His father shook his head. “You’re missing the point, son. You are in a destructive downward spiral. You’re not taking ownership of your problems. You refuse to go out in public, and you don’t take anyone’s phone calls. You can’t continue on this path.”
“What’s the big deal?” he retorted. “I keep to myself. I’m not hurting anyone. I’m not on drugs.” He glared at his family members. “Why don’t all of you get off my back?”
“You’re not the Tristan Rexford we know,” Nick butted in. “You’ve changed from a man who takes charge into a pitiful, bitter shell of a person. You hate everybody and you’re blaming everyone for your circumstances.”
“Well, I would blame the guy who stabbed me,” Tristan sneered. “But he’s dead. Any other bright ideas?”
“See, that’s what I’m talking about,” Nick argued. “No one can tell you anything. You have so much rage, it’s eating you up inside. You have to find a productive outlet for that anger.”
Tristan stood up. “How about I take it out on your face?” he yelled.
“Oh God!” his mother cried. “Please don’t fight!”
“Sit down!” his father ordered Tristan. “Nick is not the problem – you are.”
“Man, you need to calm down,” Nick advised. “You’re going off the deep end. And fighting me won’t resolve any of this.”
Tristan took a deep breath before sitting down again. He wanted to tackle somebody. He was angry with all of them for descending upon him like a lynch mob in segregated Alabama. “You don’t know what I’m feeling,” he charged. “Your face wasn’t slashed. Your endorsements weren’t snatched from you.” He pointed his finger in Nick’s face. “You’re not the one who lost a million dollar soft drink contract. Your world hasn’t been turned upside down. So, excuse me, little brother, but I think I have the right to feel bitter!”
“Don’t preach that bull to me,” Nick scowled. “I know all about disappointment. You know I would have played pro ball too, but my leg got busted up. I was depressed for a while, but did you see me shutting out the world? Did I walk around angry all the time? No! I got myself together and changed course. That’s life. Sometimes it ain’t fair.”
“That was your life, Nick. My life is different.”
“You got that right. Your life is very different. You have blessings that you refuse to acknowledge. Instead of being grateful that you have a roof over your head and a phenomenal salary with a great team, you’re obsessed with that damn scar on your face!” He held up his hands in frustration. “Don’t you realize there’s more to you than that scar?”
Tristan measured the full effect of his brother’s words. Nick did have a point. He remembered how impressed he was with his brother’s behavior after he learned he would never play professional football. He admired the way Nick had handled that whole incident. Begrudgingly, Tristan apologized. “I’m sorry, but sometimes I just get so angry, I want to punch a hole in the wall.”
“I know,” Nick told him. “I felt the same way when I first broke my leg.”
“How did you manage to get through it?”
Nick shrugged. “It wasn’t easy. Football was my dream. But I was young and I had so much more going on.” He looked around at the faces assembled. “Plus, I had the love and support of my family. And I had my big brother encouraging me the whole time.”
His father added, “Football doesn’t define you as a man. And being a celebrity doesn’t define you as a person. You were Tristan Rexford long before you were T-Rex.”
“Amen!” Debra quipped.
Nick reached over and hugged him. “You didn’t leave me hanging, and I’m not leaving you, bro.”
“And neither am I,” Tyrek spoke up. “You were there for me when nobody else believed in me. You might not realize it, but you coached me through some of my darkest times. When I came to this team, I had to prove myself to everyone except you. You accepted me for me.”
He was overwhelmed by everyone’s comments. “Wow, that’s deep.”
“Nah man, that’s love. We all care about you and we want to see you out of this funk.”
He believed it. His family wasn’t harassing him. They were just concerned about him. “Okay, I get the point,” he told them. “I’m trying, I really am. It’s not easy.”
His mother snorted. “This coming from the man with the league record for passing. If you can do that, you can accomplish anything.”
He grinned. “Thanks for the vote of confidence. I’ll straighten up. I promise.”
His father jumped in. “Well, I’m glad that’s settled. I was afraid we’d have to resort to Plan B.”
“Plan B? What was that?” Tristan asked.
“Disconnecting the TV and having each of us line up and one by one, slap some sense into you.”
“Ouch,” Tristan grimaced. “That would have been painful.”
“Yes,” his mother agreed. “Besides, violence is never the answer.”
“Oh, I was referring to having the TV disconnected. That would be agony. You know I can’t live without my soap operas.”
His dad chuckled. “Yeah, I know why – because your life is one big soap opera.”
“I’ll vouch for that,” Nick declared. “And so can Tyrek.”
“Oh no,” Tyrek protested. “I’m bound by strict Predator code not to divulge any details of Tristan’s off-field drama. Besides,” he added, “If I do, then all my little dirty secrets will be revealed. And then you’ll be having a intervention for me!”
“Point taken,” Nick conceded.
Debra spoke up. “Okay, everyone, time for a group hug.”
“No thanks,” Tyrek declined. “I save all my hugs for the honies.”
“Yeah,” Lou agreed. “Let’s just settle for high-fives.”
“That works for me,” Debra sighed wistfully. “I’m so happy we’re one big happy family again. And it only took thirty minutes. That’s less time than a Cosby Show re-run.”
“Trust me,” Tristan muttered. “Cosby
ain’t got nothing on this family.”
* * *
Two days later, Tristan had barely recovered from his family’s intervention when Lou stopped by. Lou laughed when he saw Tristan watching TV in the den instead of the living room. “Well, at least you moved to another room,” Lou teased. “And you changed your clothes.”
Tristan was wearing a pair of old Levi’s and a dark t-shirt. His bare feet were propped up on the end of the couch. “This is the first chance I’ve had to relax all day,” he protested. “This morning, I ran errands for mom and I dropped my nieces off at school.”
“What?” Lou looked astonished. “You took the triplets to school?”
“Yep.”
“You went out in public?”
“Of course,” he glared at Lou. “How else would I take them to school? On the Underground Railroad?”
Lou chuckled. “Just checking. Last week, you refused to leave the house. Today, you show up at an elementary school with the kids. That’s a big step for you.”
Tristan shrugged. “The kids like me. They think my face is cool. It’s the adults who are cruel. The ones that don’t stare run away from me like they’re gonna catch whatever I have.” He turned away. “You wouldn’t understand.”
“I think I know someone who will. Take a look at this.”
He watched as Lou pulled a brochure from his back pocket and handed it to him. Tristan briefly scanned the glossy pamphlet. “What’s this?”
“It’s a support group for victims of violent crimes. It’s called Stitches.”
“That’s a stupid name,” he scoffed. “It’s like someone rubbing your injury in your face.”
“It’s private group therapy, led by a psychiatrist named Lynette Morrow. She only takes five or six patients at a time. It’s very personal and very discreet. As a matter of fact, they meet every Tuesday. Oh, looky there,” Tristan saw him glance at the date on his chronograph watch. “Today just happens to be Tuesday.”
Tristan immediately tensed up. There was no way he was going to spill his guts in front of some crying strangers and relive his attack over and over again. His pain was his own private misery. He would deal with it on his own. “I’ll pass.” He tossed the brochure on the couch.
“Why?”
“I have better things to do.”
“Brotha, please,” Lou could barely hide his irritation. “You don’t go anywhere. You don’t talk to anyone. You’re not working. How busy can you possibly be?”
“Look Lou,” he held up his hands as a warning. “I listened to everyone get on my case and tell me how badly I was screwing up. I accepted the feedback and I’m working towards changing my behavior. But I’m doing it my way. I don’t want strangers in my business. I don’t want anybody’s pity. I just want to live my life in peace, fighting my own demons. I don’t need to go see a goddamn shrink.”
“That’s good,” Lou told him. “I don’t want you to have to go anywhere either. That’s why I brought the group to you.”
Tristan’s eyes became narrow slits. “What? I don’t think I heard you correctly.”
Lou smiled, seemingly pleased with himself. “Yep, you heard me just perfect. I knew you’d have a phonebook full of excuses, so I eliminated all of them for you. Lynette is waiting downstairs along with five other group members. They’re expecting you.”
“I told you I didn’t want to do this,” Tristan seethed. “If those people are really downstairs, I’m gonna kick your ass.”
Lou crossed his arms and stood with his legs apart. His grin had disappeared. “Try it, and you’ll find out just how good my skills as a bodyguard are.” He stared defiantly at him. “Your family has gone through a lot of trouble and expense to bring the group here. I’ve convinced Lynette that you are ready to try something new. Is this how you repay a man who saved your life?”
Tristan smirked. “Technically, you were the one who put my life in danger by taking me to JT’s house in the first place.”
If looks could kill, Lou’s venomous glare would be put on trial for murder. “Are you going downstairs or do I have to drag you?” he threatened.
Tristan had never seen Lou so furious. And he’d never seen his anger directed toward him. Lou was tough as a rusty nail and he knew it. The man had taken a bullet and lived to tell about it. And yeah, he had saved Tristan’s life. Even the cops said so. Damn!
Without saying a word, he walked past Lou and made his way downstairs to meet the group. He would do right by his family this time, but this would be his first and last meeting with Stitches. Just because he agreed to one counseling session, didn’t mean he had to like it. There is no way in Hell I’m gonna like it.
* * *
Okay, so he liked it. From the moment he met Lynette, he felt as if a giant chasm within him had been filled. She was kind and sympathetic, but she didn’t take pity on him. She challenged him to open up and talk. The cozy group of six was a balance of three women and three men. All the members had tragic stories to tell, all the members had been disfigured in some way, and all the members were wealthy. Lynette’s services didn’t come cheap.
This meeting was called a Progress Meeting. Members could discuss progress that they’d made while recovering from their psychological scars. Many of the group members had suffered from severe depression as a result of their victimization. He knew that the long fingers of depression could reach out and strangle the life from you. You hurt mentally, physically and emotionally. Lynette told them that anything positive could be considered as a sign of progress, from the simple act of tying your shoes to making your own breakfast. The fact that you actually got out of bed and faced the world was progress in itself.
“Let’s start with you, Tristan,” Lynette said, singling him out. “What progress have you made this week?”
They all sat in the spacious living room of his parents’ home. The tall bay windows welcomed the sunshine, and he felt at ease around his familiar surroundings. “I don’t have any progress to report,” he admitted. “I’m still trying to come to grips with this.”
Lynette nodded in understanding, but she remained quiet. The rest of the group was his captive audience, raptly holding on to his every word. Their silence prodded him to continue. “In fact, some days, I think I’m going backwards instead of forward. My scar has healed, but inside, I still have a long way to go. Men are supposed to be tough, right? We’re taught not to let our emotions show.” He was encouraged by the affirmative nods of the male members. They probably understood him better than anyone else. “If we cry, we’re told to act more manly. If we get angry, we’re told to calm down. I just get really frustrated with everyone telling me how I’m supposed to act.
“Then my frustration turns into rage. Most of the time, I’m either outraged, enraged, or just plain raging.” A few members of the group laughed when he said that. “Part of me is so bitter that this happened to me. And the other part of me feels helpless because I couldn’t stop it from happening. It wasn’t a simple mugging, like a woman getting her purse stolen or a man being pick-pocketed. Those types of crimes haunt you, but you can still walk away and forget about it after a while.” He paused and took a deep breath before continuing. “The crime committed against me was different. That man left a physical mark on me. The whole world can see it. Everybody who looks at my face knows I was involved in a knife attack. They don’t know if I was an innocent bystander or if I deserved it. They just see the end result.
“The hardest thing for me is looking in the mirror. Whenever I do, I’m constantly reminded of that day, and I’m victimized all over again.” He shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He couldn’t believe he’d just tossed a bag of his dirty laundry to complete strangers.
Lynette congratulated him. “I think the fact that you can even talk about this is progress, Tristan. Discussing your ordeal with five people you don’t know takes a lot of courage.”
“I didn’t come on my own,” Tristan admitted. “My family sprang an intervention on
me a few days ago, and I really had no choice but to meet with you guys.”
“At least you have a family who cares about you,” one woman spoke up. “My husband left me after my attack.”
Lynette took over. “Why did he do that?”
“He said I was being cruel to him. It’s true; I blamed him for what happened. He was late picking me up that night. If he’d been there on time, I wouldn’t have been attacked.” She pointed to her eye. “I wouldn’t have been shot and I wouldn’t have to wear this glass eye.”
Tristan watched as the woman sniffled, on the verge of tears. He wanted to do something to comfort her. All he could think of was handing her a tissue from a nearby box of Kleenex.
“That’s a lot of pressure for your spouse to handle,” Lynette told her. “Did you really feel like he was to blame?”
“Yes, at the time.” The woman shook her head sadly. “But I was angry and bitter back then. I couldn’t realize how absurd that idea was. Thank goodness, I know now. I can think clearly and I realize how my actions made the problem worse. He’s forgiven me, but he still filed for divorce six weeks ago.” She gave everyone a brave smile. “But I’m okay with it. In the words of Gloria Gaynor, I will survive.”
“I know you will,” Lynette agreed. “I know you all will.”
* * *
Tristan attended the group sessions for the next several weeks. He looked forward to sharing his experiences with the others and, in turn, learning about their lives. The members in the group had a dark sense of humor that he enjoyed. Laughter brought him out of his melancholy. The group members became his confidants, listening to his feelings and never judging. It felt good to know he wasn’t going through this drama alone.
He began to see himself in a different light. He stopped taking himself so seriously, for one thing. Before counseling, he would look in the mirror and cringe. He would hide from the outside world. He would get angry for no reason. Now, his outlook on life was totally different. He accepted his scar and the trauma that came with it. He no longer shunned public places. When people stared at him, he stared back. Eventually, they got the message, offered him an apologetic smile and went on about their business. He didn’t view their odd stares as looks of pity. He just figured they were curious. Kinda like people who stared at a work of art in a museum. Only, instead of looking like the Mona Lisa, his face was more similar to a Picasso painting. But he was fine with that. Picasso was one hell of an artist!