Cuts Like Glass

by Dana Feldman

  CHAPTER THREE

  THE TIMES IN-BETWEEN

  I stare at the man with the stark white shock of hair and dark sunglasses as he hands me the thick manila envelope that I’ve been waiting the better part of a year to read. He sits beside me on the dilapidated wooden bench and avoids direct eye contact at all costs. He’s old school and insisted on meeting in person. He doesn’t send emails with these types of documents, he explains. He doesn’t trust the Internet. It’s quite possible that I’ve met someone even more paranoid than me. Insisting on cash for payment, I hand him the brick of hundred dollar bills that are wrapped up tightly in the Los Angeles Times Sports Section.

  Though surprised at the ten thousand dollar expense of finding any information on Gabe, I’d eagerly paid him the money. I wasn’t able to find any information whatsoever regarding that day on the boat, nor any that followed, no matter how hard I searched. Nothing online and nothing at the registrar’s office proved to be solid evidence that Gabe was either dead or alive, or that he’d ever really existed in the first place. There was no birth certificate or any documentation; nothing about him that I was able to find that was dated before the day we met.

  It’s as if he had never existed prior to 2009. The man is a ghost. Knowing that there had to be answers somewhere, that someone had to know something, I had called a private detective. My attorney had referred me to the man now sitting beside me. “He always comes through,” he’d said, promising me that I’d finally, after all these months, have my answers. “You can’t go back to blissful ignorance once he’s on the job,” he’d warned. I’d informed him that there was no bliss whatsoever in the not knowing. No matter how bad it might be I had wanted to know all of it. I’d let him think that I was simply searching for answers as to what had happened to my beloved husband, not that I was actually trying to dig into his non-existent past.

  “Thank you,” I say as we part ways after a meeting that lasted less than ten minutes. I cling tightly to the package in my hands, afraid of losing it after all this effort in obtaining it.

  “You’re welcome,” he says with a thick Bostonian accent before adding, “and I wish you the best of luck.” He starts to walk away and stops, turning around to face me. Looking me squarely in the eyes he gives me just this one tidbit of information. Everything else, I’d been told, was in the documents I was now holding tightly to my chest.

  “There’s been no activity of any kind with any credit cards in his name. Unless he’s hiding out with a barrel full of cash, there’s no way he’s been able to exist without some help. In my experience, if they’re alive, there’s a money trail somewhere. And since I leave no stone unturned, I think it’s a safe bet that you’re a free woman.”

  At that, he walks away from me. I hope that what he’s saying is true, that I’m wrong, that Gabe is dead.

  I can tell that he has knowledge about marriages like mine, men like Gabe. There are things that I’ve never told anyone, mostly out of the fear of what would happen to me if I ever trusted the wrong person.

  I fully doubt that his name is really Bob Brown but assume that he, like my husband, wishes not to be easily found. The lengths that I had to go through to get him on the phone and set up this meeting would’ve been too much had the subject not have included finding out the truth about Gabe, the now enigma that has taken up far too much space in my head for the past twelve months. My constant reference to this block of time is because I’ve been stuck here, and my sole purpose in life is to get unstuck. My focus is only paralleled by my determination to get to the truth.

  I’m at Runyon Canyon, Bob’s choice of place to meet. Lululemon-clad hipsters walk their designer-collared dogs along the hiking trail situated in the heart of Hollywood. As he leaves, disappearing into the herd, I start to walk but my knees are wobbling, barely supporting my weight.

  Anticipation as to what I hold in my hands is making it difficult to focus. Walking, on top of that, is simply too much. I head towards a large, flattened rock and sit. As I open the envelope and start to read I find only more questions in lieu of the answers I’d hope for. I read just the first few pages. I cannot go any further. I need to let what I’m reading, sink in. I have spent months filling in the blanks as to what happened that day on the boat. Even on my most creative of days, I couldn’t have fathomed this.

  I learn that Gabe had been married twice before. He’d always told me that I was his first and only wife. I also learn that he has a son, a Marine, that’s currently recovering from a tour in Afghanistan. He’s staying at a facility in Santa Barbara. According to the documents in my hand, he’d had no contact with him since he was very young; their relationship had been extremely contentious, and they parted ways long ago.

  I don’t have very long if I want to miss the traffic. I need to speak with my husband’s son. I have no idea how long he’ll be there, or his condition, and I have so many questions for him. I decide to head home and pack. I want to hit the road this afternoon. I’m tired of waiting for answers. I’m going to have to go and get them for myself.

  As I drive towards the marina a sense of calm overcomes me. The boats and the water have always done this for me. I pull underground and park my car in my spot. I head up to my apartment making small talk with a few neighbors along the way, and once inside, throw my suitcase onto the bed and pack.

  I suppose I can stay there for a few nights, I don’t have to see Dr. Bryer again until the end of the week. I quickly grab everything that I think I’ll need for the next few days and zip it up. I take one last look around my place before heading out the door. A quiet rage, mixed in with a hardened disillusion, swim around in my skull.

  I struggle, searching for an understanding as to how this could have happened: How Gabe could’ve kept from me, his wife, the fact that he’d been married twice before and had a grown son. Why would he lie about these things?

  His son’s name is Peter Martin. I’m not surprised that he chose not to keep his father’s last name, considering the fact that he’d wanted nothing to do with him. He’s just four years younger than me. Gabe, at eighteen years my senior, leaves open the possibility that he’d have a son close in age to me. And I know that he’s suffering from both the physical, as well as the emotional, injuries of war.

  I flash back to the early days with Gabe. I naively thought then that all my problems would be dissolved if this man would just love me back. One particular memory always returns; it was the first morning that I woke up in his arms. We’d spent our first night together, and I was already in love with him. I’d snuck downstairs to make him breakfast. I’d planned to surprise him in bed, but he heard the clanking of pots and pans and the beep of the coffeemaker. He walked up quietly behind me, pulling me close, my back against his chest. As his arms wrapped me up tightly into him, I felt the happiest that I’d ever been.

  This was the first time that I’d ever wanted to wake up with a man. I had stared at him for an hour, watching him as he slept, before I even got out of bed. I’d studied and memorized every inch of his face. I saw a future with him, something that I’d never before seen with anyone.

  “You know what I just realized?” he asked, wiping egg batter from my cheek.

  “That I’m a messy chef?” I teased, looking at the mess I’d made of the kitchen.

  “Well, yes, that,” he said, kissing me. “Your right eye is greener and your left is definitely blue.”

  The sun was shining through the window just to my left and all my imperfections were displayed clearly. No candlelight to hide them now. I’d felt so exposed, so unsure of myself.

  I looked down, trying to hide myself from him. Would he now notice the beginnings of crow’s feet and the gray strands of hair slowly growing in number, catching up to the auburn?

  “You’re simply the most stunning woman I’ve ever known,” he said, assuaging my fears and quelling my insecurities at once.

  When he kissed me that day and picked me up in his arms, getting egg batter and flou
r all over the both of us, I knew that I’d marry him. And for the first six months of that marriage I’d never been happier.

  I kept pinching myself, making sure that it was real and not a dream. How could anything be so perfect? How was it possible that I was getting exactly what I’d always wanted?

  By the time I found out that I wasn’t, it was far too late to do much about it. I was trapped. I was in so deep that there was no getting out alive. I knew that so I would wait for the apologies, the promises that things would go back to the way they once were. I knew these things would always come. I just had to learn to live with the times in between.

  I learned to say what I knew he wanted me to say; to do what I knew wouldn’t set him off. I knew how to pretend that everything was good. By pure instinct, I’d learned to decipher and navigate his ever-changing moods. Like walking through a minefield, I had to be careful not to do anything that would test his rage.

  One becomes a master at this when it means the difference between life and death.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  DAMAGED GOODS

  I’ve always enjoyed the drive from Los Angeles to Santa Barbara. I’m on the 101 Freeway heading north. This particular stretch of highway, peppered with views of the ocean on the left and usually blue skies flanked by mountainous ranges on the right has always soothed me. Today the sun is peeking through cotton white clouds that try to extinguish the copper rays as they fight to warm and brighten the Earth below. I open the sunroof and let the wind blow through my hair.

  So many thoughts and questions jumble around my brain. I told the few people I still have in my life that I’m heading out of town to clear my head for a few days. After everything with Gabe, I hibernated as the friends I thought I had became fewer and fewer in number.

  At first my friends stood by me, insisting on my innocence to anyone who would listen. But as the months wore on and speculation mounted at a feverish pitch, they dropped off, one by one. I noticed as my phone rang less and less. Phone calls were at first returned with text messages or emails and then they weren’t returned at all.

  One person stood by me: Chris. He wasn’t so much a shared friend with Gabe as one that I’d made on my own. Gabe never approved. In part, because Chris is so good looking it’s almost a distraction when you first meet him, and the other part was his complete disapproval in the way my husband treated me. He didn’t bother to hide his feelings like everyone else always did.

  Occasionally, I’d run into them, my former friends. There were the expected apologies and excuses of busy lives that left them constantly trying to catch up, and then even those fell by the wayside and were replaced with hurried smiles and waves from afar.

  I, too, would stop trying, stop calling. Solitude became my new best friend. I learned to live this way in my youth and forced myself to go back to my old ways. I even began to like it. Not relying on anyone but me became my way of life once more. Though lonely now that I was used to having people in my world, I felt somewhat free.

  To be truthful, I’d always been on my own and I much preferred it this way. I never knew my parents, was apparently dropped off at a police station when I was just a few days old. No note, nothing. And then I grew up in a series of foster homes. I became accustomed to change, never really attaching myself to anyone, or any place. Until Gabe, that is.

  I glide along the freeway effortlessly. It’s just me and my thoughts to keep me company, just the way I’ve learned to like it. With the traffic somewhat light, I’m able to make good timing. It isn’t long before I’m far enough away from the city and my life there to focus on the reason for the long drive. A cool breeze rejuvenates me, pulling me out of my reverie, reeling me back into reality. I pass a sign that tells me that I’m almost there, just a few more miles to go.

  I enter Santa Barbara within moments. I wonder if Peter looks like his father now. There wasn’t much information about him. He looked strikingly like his father in the one photograph I saw. That was his senior high school photo from almost fourteen years ago. Almost identical bone structure seems to be where the similarities stop. Peter is a former Marine now. He’s also an artist, a sculptor and painter, from what I’ve read about him. I understand why he never contacted his father. Gabe was all about business and money. Oh yes, and power.

  From what I’ve read about him, Peter seems a much more gentle soul. Of course, he must have something else driving him. Joining the Marines is certainly not for the weak. Perhaps he was trying to prove something to himself or his father.

  I pull into the gated grounds where he’s staying. It’s beautiful here at Sanctuary Rehabilitation Center. From my viewpoint, I see palm trees sway gently against azure blue skies that touch mountains trimmed with emerald green grass and majestic Moreton Bay Fig Trees. Perhaps that’s what makes it so lovely here, you almost feel as though you’re pulling into a fine resort for a vacation, rather than a hospital. I pull up to what I think is the main office and park my car. I cannot help but admire the intricate Spanish style buildings and immaculate landscape. A lovely place to heal, I think to myself, as I quickly refresh my makeup in the rearview mirror.

  I enter the foyer and am immediately greeted by a woman named Jane, per her nametag. She explains that she’s the head nurse. “I’ve been here for over twenty years so I suppose you can say that I run the place,” she adds, smiling. She’s warm and I immediately feel a sense of calm around her. She suggests that we go to her office to speak after a few moments of me fumbling with my words. I follow her down a dimly lit hallway.

  “I believe that my step-son is a patient here. His name is Peter Martin,” I nervously start. She looks at me oddly, noting how close in age I am to him. “My husband, I’m a widow,” I begin, “he was quite a bit older than me.”

  “Oh, my dear, I am terribly sorry for your loss,” she says, kindness in her eyes. “Peter is such a lovely young man,” she says, her face suddenly turning serious. “He didn’t mention that his father had passed away or that he had a step-mother coming to visit.”

  “Well, yes, that’s the thing actually. Peter never knew his father nor had any sort of a relationship with him. And he doesn’t know that I’m here, literally or perhaps even figuratively.” She has a puzzled look. “I don’t even know if he’s aware that I exist,” I explain.

  “I see,” she says. Another look crosses her face. This one tells me that she’s had this type of conversation before. “I understand,” she begins. “I’m certainly glad that you came. Here at Sanctuary, we believe that a person’s recovery should be filled with quality care and healing. I also personally feel that healing the heart is equally as important as healing the body.”

  “Yes,” I say, grabbing a tissue from the box sitting on the table beside me. “I have a favor to ask,” I say, clutching my purse tightly to my chest. Jane grabs my hand in hers and looks me square in the eyes.

  “Anything,” she says.

  “I’m not ready to tell him who I am. His father disappeared a year ago,” I explain, fully ready for the look that she’s now giving me. “I’m actively involved in trying to find out what happened to him. It’s fair to say that he’s most likely dead but I just need to know for certain. I said that I was his widow because that’s so much easier than getting into all of this.”

  “I understand,” she comforts. “In this job, I’ve heard it all. Very little surprises me anymore.”

  “He and Peter, they didn’t,” I say. I swallow the lump in my throat and take a moment before continuing. “They didn’t have a traditional father-son relationship, if you know what I mean. They didn’t have a relationship at all if I’m to be completely honest with you. I’m trying to figure out why that is,” I explain. I hold out Peter’s birth certificate and my marriage license in my hand, showing her that I can prove who I am. “I never even knew that Peter existed until this morning.”

  “I see,” she says kindly, looking at the papers shaking in my hand. “What can I do for you?”

  �
�I want to see him. I’m hoping that perhaps through him, I might be able to find out what happened to his father. He might know something, anything that might be of some help. Sometimes, I’ve learned, it’s the smallest things that can make the biggest difference.”

  She takes a moment to think. “Peter has really been progressing well and I don’t want anything to disturb that for him. So I suppose that if you can just be a fly on the wall, that wouldn’t do any harm. Perhaps I can seat you at his table in the cafeteria for lunch tomorrow? Maybe just tell him that you have a relative staying here?” she suggests, as I mull the idea over. “I need to ensure that nothing upsets him. I don’t think that he’s in any position to handle any stress,” she starts, as I look her in the eyes once again.

  “The last thing I want to do is to cause him any grief whatsoever. I just want to speak with him, get to know him a little,” I say, trying to assuage her fears of me in any way disturbing one of her patients.

  “Peter came to us in a very fragile state. He’d been in a hospital in New York before he came here. That was where he received the majority of his physical care.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “I’m not comfortable discussing the details, I can’t legally anyway. I think that Peter should tell the people that he wants to tell. All that I can say is that he was gravely injured. He was in a coma for about three months and when he woke up, he had to learn to do the most basic things again. Walking, feeding and caring for himself, he had a hard time formulating sentences properly. He spent almost six months there. When they’d done all that they could do for him, he came here to us.”

  “What is it that you do here exactly?”

  “We’re more of a mental health care facility for those who’ve been deeply traumatized. That can be from war, or from some horrible life event, anything really.”