Fire in Me

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Fire in Me Page 30

by Dawn Mattox


  Like red-hot coals fanned by 1800 CCs, we blazed up the canyon like a firestorm, higher and higher. Truth seekers are always looking for God. For myself, I didn't see how they could miss Him. His presence was both evident and tangible. God was manifest everywhere I looked. At times we road level with the river; some places were calm and the river would sparkle like a string of polished diamonds, and there were times we rode past churning whitewater that foamed and splashed like pearls scattered before the wind. Then there were places where the river would grow so small and distant that the water looked like liquid poured from a crucible into a silver chain that graced the throat of the Feather River Canyon.

  Hours later, Chance eased off the road just above the accident site where my old Harley slept beneath the pounding rapids. I pondered the joy and sadness that it had brought into my life, even as I now considered the new bike that Chance and I were riding together, wondering where it might take us.

  Chance paused for a moment, seemingly lost in thought before killing the engine and motioning for me to dismount. We pulled off helmets and gloves, and the fringe on my leather coat swung in time as I walked toward the edge of the canyon. The leaves on the trees were turning color, and the roar of the water echoed off the steep walls.

  “Why are we stopping—here, of all places?” My stomach knotted like a like a washcloth wrung too tight.

  “This,” said Chance, striding up and standing close to me, “is where it all began.” Reaching over he took my chin, lifting it until we stood face to face. “And this,” he continued, “is where I need to ask your forgiveness.”

  Chance is a big man. A strong man. Solid. Inside and out. Not perfect by any means, but big enough to admit his failures and shortcomings. I am trained, not to look at people, but look into people. And what I saw, as I searched the steady blue gaze of my husband's eyes, was bigness of heart and strength of character. What I saw, was a real man.

  “I’m not asking you to take me back or anything you don’t want to do,” he hurried to assure me.

  Chance placed his hands on my shoulders, and we continued to gaze eye-to-eye and heart to heart.

  “I love you, Sunny, and I don’t want to give up on our marriage. I understand that you’re probably not ready to hear that, but I do hope you’ll hear this: I have hurt you terribly, and I know sorry isn’t enough. I know I have to make a new history and it's going to take time. I know that trust is something that has to be earned.”

  “I can never trust you again. It’s more than what you did with Paige. It’s that you lied to me! I can never be sure of you... of us... again.”

  “That may be so. We can only live one day at a time. I brought you here today to beg for your forgiveness.” He radiated honesty from within, as warm and steady as the heat rising from the heart of the motorcycle.

  I was surprised that he used the same one-day-at-a-time logic I had so recently used to justify having sex with Travis. He was talking forgiveness, while I had been plotting revenge.

  Cars rushed past with bicycles and kayaks strapped to the top of their vehicles. Big rigs shifted through their gears as they slowed into the turns. All they could see was a motorcycle and two people. They couldn’t see the damage or the disillusionment we carried. They could not fathom the risk we had taken by riding up the canyon together. They couldn’t see a future hanging in the balance of indecision.

  “That’s good you understand because I’m not ready to take you back.” Long pause. “But I am willing to ride with you.”

  A smile played across his lips, and his heart shined in his clear blue eyes. “I’m going to be the man you always wanted me to be, but not to try to get you back,” he modified, shaking his head in determination. “I have to do it to get me back to being the man I want to be. I've been in counseling for months. I've been a regular part of a Christian men's group over in Paradise. It's a great group that offers help for any and every issue, from one man's food addiction to another brother recovering from porn addiction. They've asked me to lead the group, and I think I will. Between that and leading our church's Bible study, I've never felt so”—he paused to search for the right word— “so complete.”

  I gave him a quick smile, but I wasn't really listening. I was too busy rehearsing my response. This was the moment I had been waiting for; ever since the day I learned of his deception. The scene was set, the script memorized, and the time was now or never.

  “I forgive you, Chance.”

  I had rehearsed this Christian epithet a dozen times in preparation for the grand moment I would bestow my holier-than-thou grace on him.

  An image of Jesus in a Santa suit keeping a list of who’s naughty and nice popped into my head. I had just lied. Lip service and nothing more. I had not forgiven Chance and now cringed as I visualized the hand of God striking a large check mark under Sunny ~Naughty.

  “But I need to be honest with you,” I continued. About time. “I don't know if we will ever get back together.”

  “Fair enough,” said Chance. “That’s more than I deserve.” He reached over, surprising me as he pulled me into his arms and held me close for a joyful heartbeat, then turned with a smile, cinched down his helmet, mounted and fired up the bike without another word.

  I felt like a flat tire as I rode along without touching him. The miles slid past and it occurred to me that I had won the battle and lost the war. I felt a stab of envy knowing in my heart that Chance had let go of an enormous burden. I guess that is what Mac had meant about anger and bitterness being like lead weights.

  Chance shifted gears and we flew up the canyon; my heart feeling like a tombstone, and his, like a spirit set free from the grave.

  I stopped by Chance's house the next day to pick up some vegetables. He didn't answer the door, so I walked out toward the garden, pausing under a shady oak to observe him as he bent beneath a blazing summer sun, moving methodically between the rows of vegetables. I am jealous of his garden. The rows are perfectly aligned, lush, opulent, and abundant as always, while the two potted plants on my front porch are weather-beaten victims of neglect.

  Chance hummed a tune as the sun beat down, deepening the tan on his bare back and bleaching his hair an even lighter shade of blond.

  He frequently leaves bags of produce on my steps and hauls baskets of surplus to the church and the Rescue Mission.

  A pang of envy struck an arrow in my chest. My husband is a mystery. An enigma. How does he remain so darned happy knowing how I feel? Lord knows I remind him at every opportunity. And he knows I have feelings for Travis. Not to mention that Logan's buddies could be skulking in the woods—even now, lining us up in the crosshairs. Yet, there is Chance, singing along with KLOVE Christian radio and laboring in the garden instead of fishing or watching TV.

  The door to the house was open and I slipped inside to raid the refrigerator and returned with two tall glasses brimming with ice cold lemonade. Chance locked the garden gate, petted Mercy, and brought up a basket filled with various red, green, and orange vegetables. It looks like salad is on the menu.

  “Oh, hey, I didn't hear you come up.”

  “Great watch dog you got there. “Kisses for Mercy,” I cooed, reaching down to rub her finely chiseled head as she wagged her tail.

  “What brings you here?” he asked, happy to see me again so soon after our ride.

  “A question. Why are you are always so darned happy?” I was only half joking. “There’s enough vegetables here to open a produce stand. You must like self- abuse.”

  He laughed and wiped his brow. “I like sitting with you and drinking lemonade and looking at the harvest. How can you look at my tomatoes and not smile?” he chided as he placed a basket in front of me. They were beautiful—full, practically sensuous, and ruby red.

  “Seriously. In all of the years we’ve been together, you’ve always been more happy than not. How do you do it?”

  Chance sat in a chair on the porch and drank deeply, puckering his lips at the tangy taste of s
weet and citrus, and then sucked some frosty drips off his mustache with his lower lip. “Aren't you happy?” He finally asked.

  I rolled my eyes. “What's there to be happy about?”

  Chance gave a sad smile and reached down to stroke Mercy who took up her place in the shade near his feet. “Before I was a Christian, I was like everyone else, going through one boring, repetitious day at a time. Some good, some not. I was existing more than living.” His brows furrowed in thought. “But when I really got that Christ died to save me from another boring day, to give me the fullness of life, I figured the best way to thank God is to be happy and appreciate my time here in spite of my circumstances.

  A wistful sigh escaped. “I wish I had your faith.”

  “Good Lord, No!” Chance laughed. “Never! Why would you want my faith instead of finding your own? Think of all the fun you'd miss out on.”

  “You’ve got a strange concept of fun,” I countered, feeling sad and a little frustrated. “It's just, how do you really know? You and Ashley, Mac and Shane. You are all so sure of yourselves while I am back and forth and up and down, almost moment to moment in my faith.”

  Chance smiled, his eyes holding more sparkle than the frost on our glasses. His full happiness had returned, while mine lay like the shadows beneath our feet. I envied Chance.

  “Well,” he said, “that's where you’re mistaken. Actually, I have no confidence in myself.” He gave a little chuckle. “But I do have faith in Jesus and his promises.”

  “Yeah, but how can you be so sure?” I felt like I was standing on the brink of discovery. So close...

  “When you go to court, what does it take for the law to convict someone?”

  “Evidence.”

  “What's the best evidence?”

  I thought. “Um... eyewitnesses and physical evidence.”

  “Is that enough proof to get a conviction?”

  “Always.”

  Chance nodded. “There you go. It's that simple. Or else it was mass insanity by the thousands of people who ‘eye-witnessed’ countless miracles; dead neighbors rising from their graves, people born blind seeing, people dying of leprosy healed. I don't have all that much faith. Like most people, I needed proof. And I got it. It's documented. You've got your eye-witness, and you have your evidence.”

  Can it be that simple?

  “It's just history, no faith required.” Chance wrapped it up sounding like Mac. “Belief is a choice,” he said, “but the choice will never alter the facts.”

  Mercy got up and whined expectantly. It was about that time. “Hungry?” Chance asked. “How about a salad?”

  Sometimes I think Chance missed his calling and should have been a preacher. He is always preaching to friends, co-workers, and me. While I love it, I sometimes think it was a huge part of my struggle to forgive him. I found the hypocrisy intolerable.

  If Chance had of been a man who bought behind-the-counter girly-magazines, watched seedy X-rated movies, or if I’d caught him sneaking online pornography when no one was looking, I might have seen his adultery coming. But he had always been the complete opposite. He had always held himself out as moral and upright.

  Well, I thought, it just goes to show. You can't trust anyone.

  CHAPTER 30

  Blood from her broken nose was everywhere: sprayed across the kitchen wall, pooled on the cupboard, a splotch on the table, and partial handprint on the back door that slid from the window to the knob. Blood had even soaked Mickey Mouse on her t-shirt that proclaimed Disneyland to be the Happiest Place on Earth, but not for Tinker Bell who fluttered above him. Tink looked like Mickey had fired a round into her head.

  The police had cuffed Rocky-the-perp, and his parole officer had been notified. Rocky wouldn’t be bothering Lannah again for a few years. She would use the time looking for her Next Man. “Like they do on the TV show” she declared. “Kick ‘em to the curb and find someone new.”

  The police had forced entry into the home when they heard Lannah’s screams and the sound of dishes shattering in the kitchen, sounding like a skeet shoot in a china shop. Upon entry, the first thing the police saw was eight-year-old Manny sitting in front of the TV completely oblivious to all the commotion, laughing and cheering the characters in his bloody drug war video game. He worked the controls as if his life depended on it.

  “Yeah! Get him! Kill him! Kill him!” Little Manny, dressed in Sponge Bob PJs and munching from a bag of Doritos was hyper-absorbed in his game, shutting out his dad's bellowing and his mother’s frantic screams. Although his parents’ fighting hadn’t bothered Manny, it had been loud enough to alert the neighbors who had called the police. Amazing but true—Manny didn't even look up when the police cracked the frame on the front door and stormed in.

  After Rocky had been cuffed and loaded in the cruiser, Lannah stood in the front yard telling her story to the police. She told them not to call an ambulance; a girlfriend would drive her to the ER.

  Back inside, a second officer asked Manny three times, “Is there anyone else in the house?” before assuming the boy was deaf and turned off the TV to get his attention. The officer was rewarded with a hateful glare and “My sister, Becca. Her room’s down there,” he said, pointing down the hall before grabbing the remote and turning the TV back on.

  Becca was not in her room, so a systematic search began for the missing three-year-old girl. Under beds, behind doors and in the closets. They finally found little Becca tunneled under an enormous pile of dirty clothes in Manny's bedroom, as if somehow her big brother's suits of armor could protect her.

  I read the report with a kind of morbid fascination before setting an appointment with Lannah. She had blatantly told the police, “It don’t bother them. They hardly ever hear it,” she’d said, referring to her children. I wondered if I was like Manny, blotting out the horror and accepting violence as a normal part of life. Or maybe was I more like Becca, hiding under a pile of dirty work, sheltering from childhood memories.

  “Momeeeee,” I sobbed, as Starla screamed. My world was very small when I was five. I rarely traveled beyond the cabin except to accompany my mother to the grocery store and emergency room.

  I adored my dad who was always loving, tender, and patient with me. That my wonderful father should be hitting my beautiful mother, dragging her by the hair, kicking and screaming across the yard, was beyond horrible. Then he would go away, but not to prison. Starla never called the police on Lefty, and I suppose he must have known that she wouldn't.

  Instead of going to jail, Lefty would be heading for Oakland, running from his past and the powerlessness he had felt as a POW in Vietnam. He had been a three-year guest of the Vietcong in the Hanoi Hilton, a prison that was infamous for inflicting severe systematic torture—not designed to gain information—but to break the collective and individual spirits of the men housed there. Lefty had left Vietnam, but Vietnam had not left him.

  For some users, emotional pain feels as if life has filled a backpack full of stones they must carry until they are finally crushed and buried alive. Each stone bears a name: mom-dad-husband-stranger-friend...poverty-accident-war-fate... Fueled by outrage, the victim pulls those stones out one-by-one and hurls them, not caring who they hit: their children, friends, spouse, a perceived enemy... just to get the damned load off their back, no matter who gets hurt.

  But the empty pack is a lie, for it soon fills up with new stones they put on themselves; guilt, shame, remorse.

  Other perpetrators inflict abuse void of any emotion. They hurl accusations, telling their child to “Man-up!” as they beat them down. With detached observation, they measure their victim's reactions against their own history of abuse. “Did I handle my beating better? was I stronger? am I a winner or a loser?”

  There are adult victims who say, “I hate you,” to their child because they see the child as weak. They despise the little mirror in front of them that reflects their own history of powerlessness.

  Little Becca reminded me of
myself because I mostly hid; although like Manny and many other children, I would sometimes disassociate and completely withdraw into other dimensions through games, books, and fantasy.

  Puberty typically transitions abused children into adults that are hooked on painkillers, alcohol, sex, and drugs. Their addictions result in unwanted pregnancies for girls in need of male love, and juvenile hall for boys in need of attention and direction.

  Like other child survivors of domestic violence, I had grown up knowing that I was different from other kids. I also endured the heartbreaking confusion regarding loyalty. Boys feel guilty that they were unable to protect their mothers, while girls believe abuse is an inescapable part of being female.

  I brought Starla cold washcloths and hot coffee in the morning. Sometimes I would put a wildflower on her pillow. She did not thank me, hug me, or hold me. But I liked to imagine that she loved me all the more for my offerings.

  As for me, I learned to feel guilty early on. I really missed Lefty. I adored my father. When he was gone, I missed the man who would call out “Hey, Baby Girl, how’s my best sweetheart?” and shower me with kisses and hugs.

  No wonder my mother had left me, I thought with another load of guilt. Daddy loved me more than he loved her. I was the beneficiary of all the dreams Starla had envisioned with the man she loved.

  The aroma of French roast wafted into the lobby like a beacon of light drawing the crowd. There was enough caffeine to power a small army, and that is just what it was intended to do. The huge basket next to the coffee pot was pregnant with a cholesterol lover's selection of poppy seed, blueberry, banana nut, and orange muffins. The silver tray next to the pot flaunted tempting slices of cantaloupe arrayed in a sunny orb that hugged bunches of voluptuous grapes and delectable lipstick-red strawberries. Napkins and small colorful paper plates, designed to make even a modest eater look piggy, sat at the head of the table. Bottles of water rested at the far end. The table to the right showcased name tags, sign-in sheets, handouts and blank notebooks laid out in grid-like precision. All this, designed to attract and mollify the employees attending today's seminar.

 

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