by Susan Fox
Iris’s hand kept up that soft, repetitive stroking. “Go on.”
“You know where this is going. He touched me, got me to touch him. Little stuff at first, and then . . . everything. A part of me was sure it was wrong, but here was this respected adult telling me it was good.”
He squeezed his eyes shut and admitted another horrible secret. “Sometimes it felt good, Iris. Sometimes it hurt like a bastard, but other things felt good. That made me think I was a total perv. Made me question my sexuality. A few years later, when I went to a support group, I learned that even if it’s abuse, it can feel good. Physically and emotionally.”
He didn’t dare look at her, but she hadn’t stopped smoothing her hand over his chest. That gave him the courage to go on. “On the one hand, I felt loved and I experienced pleasure. But on the other hand, there was pain and the conviction that it was wrong. I was so conflicted and there was no one to help me sort it out.”
“You didn’t feel like you could talk to your dad?” she asked quietly, nonjudgmentally.
“I felt ashamed, guilty, but I was also mad and hurt that Forbes was so caught up in his new love that he didn’t notice how miserable I was. In a way, being with Jelinek was like, That’ll show my dad, which makes no sense at all.”
“How could anything possibly make sense in a situation like that? I’m so sorry there was no one who could help you.”
“Sometimes I’d get mad at Jelinek, tell him he was a bad man and I was going to report him.” This is our secret, Julian. “He’d say we loved each other and nothing between us was wrong, but others wouldn’t understand. But there was also this cold, hard edge. He’d remind me I was a troublemaker kid, new to the island, and he was a community leader. He said no one would believe me, that I’d get in trouble and people would hate me.”
Exhausted and depressed, Julian added, “Which was true.” And still would be, in all likelihood. But he couldn’t remain silent.
“That was why you left the island?”
He nodded. “I was fifteen. I couldn’t take it any longer. I hated him, hated the island, actually pretty much hated my dad and Sonia. At school, I felt the other kids watching me and was sure they could see my broken, filthy soul. At home I’d curl up in bed in a fetal ball, utterly miserable, and hear Forbes and Sonia laughing, singing along to music, like I didn’t even exist.”
He shook his head. “I hated that room. After I left the island, I wouldn’t come back to the house until I persuaded them to convert it to a home office for Sonia.”
From down the hall, something buzzed. They both jumped.
“Dryer,” Iris said. “I wish I’d known, Julian. I could have offered you friendship.”
He caressed her shoulder through the soft cotton of her kimono. “Ah, Iris, I doubt I’d have accepted the offer. I was too messed up.”
He took a long breath and let it out again. “The abandoned commune was my sanctuary. I’d cry, scream until my throat was raw, punish my poor guitar by playing out all the fear and shame and anger and hatred. But slowly the serenity of the place would seep into me. Sometimes my muse would venture out from hiding and my fingers would find different notes, notes of pain still, but more expressive. Screaming conveys a message, but meaningful words wrapped around haunting music can convey the story better.”
“Yes, that’s exactly what you do. I’m so glad you had one sanctuary. But it wasn’t enough, I guess, and you had to leave?”
Speaking of leaving, his clothes were dry now. He could climb out of this cozy bed, get dressed, and drive away. He didn’t have to tell her the rest. Except . . . she was Iris and he cared for her. He couldn’t deceive her any longer. Even though, if he revealed himself to her in his full wretchedness, she might well reject him.
He was an onion, peeling himself. This next layer would be difficult, but beneath it was an even fouler one, and ripping it off would feel like flaying himself raw. But first things first. Thrusting her away gently, he held her shoulders and gazed into her eyes. “I left because I intended to kill myself.”
Her body clenched and her eyes went huge. “Julian, no!”
“Jelinek had turned me into something I hated, something I had to destroy. But I didn’t want Forbes to know I’d committed suicide. I was mad at him, but I still loved him. I didn’t want him to blame himself. I decided to run away and disappear, become some nameless street kid in the Downtown Eastside. So when I died, I’d be a John Doe in a morgue. Forbes would wonder where I was, but as time went by and he didn’t hear from me, he’d get over it. Forget about me.”
“He never would have forgotten,” she said, her expression uncharacteristically fierce.
He curved one corner of his mouth. “I know that now. Then, I had no perspective.”
“Did you try to kill yourself? Or did you change your mind?”
“An old lady changed my mind. She, my muse, and the music. I’d been in Vancouver a few days and was trying to figure out how to kill myself: jump off the Lions Gate Bridge, buy some drugs and OD, steal a knife and slit my wrists.”
Iris shuddered, and he said, “Sorry. Anyhow, of course I was driven to play my guitar, so I’d hang out on a downtown street corner, guitar case open to collect change. One afternoon, I was singing an early version of ‘Ache in My Soul.’ This white-haired woman came along, all hunched in on herself as if she felt as shitty as I did. But she stopped, listened, and her shoulders straightened a little.
“Tears trickled down the grooves in her wrinkled face and I felt bad for making her cry, but when I stopped playing, she put a twenty in my guitar case and she thanked me. She said her husband of more than forty years had died and she was feeling so alone, not knowing how she’d survive without him. But she said my song made her realize that she wasn’t the only one who suffered horrible pain and felt afraid, and that realization made her feel better. She also said that my music was a reminder there was still beauty in the world.”
Iris’s eyes were luminous, her own smooth cheeks tear-streaked again. “You gave her a reason to live, and she saved your life with her words. Oh, Julian, I’m so grateful to her.”
A little choked up himself, he cleared his throat and went on. “She made me understand that I wasn’t alone either. And that, no matter how broken I felt, I had something to contribute to the world. So I kept playing and singing. As soon as I’d scraped together enough money, I got the tattoo. It’s the first bars—the original ones—from that song. Long before I reworked it and recorded it.”
“Wow.” It came out hoarse and sniffly.
She reached over to the bedside table and his gaze followed her graceful hand. His wallet, keys, and phone lay there, along with—thank God—the old glued-together guitar pick. His possessions looked utilitarian next to the bowl of shells and stones, her silver-and-gold alarm clock, a hardcover novel with a feminine cover, and a tissue box with a pattern in mauve, blue, and green. Trust Iris, even when she bought something as mundane as tissues, she showed her aesthetic flair. His soul felt a moment’s peace.
She took one of those tissues, wiped her damp cheeks, blew her nose, and then stroked the tattoo on his arm. “That’s an amazing story. You know, when I saw you back then in school, I imagined one of two things happening to you: that you’d self-destruct or you’d do something incredible. I am so, so glad you didn’t commit suicide.” She blotted her eyes. “So there you were, a street musician who had decided to live. What did you do after that?”
“Slowly hauled myself out of the pit of despair,” he said wryly, choosing a cliché he’d never use in a song. “Steps forward, steps back.” Big steps back when it dawned on him that Jelinek wasn’t just his abuser but a pedophile who had most likely found a fresh victim.
“The music kept me going, and the memory of that old lady. I did open-mic nights, got a few gigs at coffee shops and bars—just for tips, but it was something. I made some casual friends. Then I got in touch with Forbes, apologized for running out. I told him I didn’t want
to go to Destiny, so he hopped the ferry to Vancouver now and then, and we hung out. Played together on the street. That was a kick.”
“I bet. He must have been so relieved and happy. But you never told him about Jelinek?”
He shook his head. “Just let him figure I was a troubled teen who was sorting himself out. And I did. Sorted out my sexuality, too. Slept with a couple of my casual female friends. Then I overheard a stranger talking about a support group for victims of abuse, so I asked him about it, and I went for a few months. Finally, I got to the point that I could come back to the island for a day or two, as long as I stuck close to home and avoided Jelinek.”
Iris’s dark eyes glowed. “You’re a strong person, Julian.”
He’d been feeling kind of okay, remembering how he’d pulled himself together, but her words socked him back like a punch to the gut. Literally, because now he was sick to his stomach again. He swallowed against the nausea. “I’m not.” She hadn’t seen it yet, the rest of the horrendous story.
Iris was amazing. Having her in his life felt like a blessing, and blessing wasn’t a word he was in the habit of using. Since he’d first met her, she’d been serenity, sanity, and acceptance. So far tonight, she’d listened to everything he’d said and been on his side. But now . . . When he shed the final layer and revealed the rot at his core, what would she think of him?
Knowing that he might well lose her, he still had to reveal the truth. “A strong person would have reported Jelinek as a pedophile.”
Staring at him, she blinked a couple of times and then said slowly, “I’m not surprised you didn’t. As he said, it would have been your word against his, and he was the credible one.”
“Yeah, probably. But I should have tried. Because it wasn’t just me.”
Her eyes widened again and now he saw it, the dawn of horror in their brown depths.
“I wasn’t the first,” he said. “That man cave had stuff for boys in it, and it wasn’t set up just to seduce me.” The words dropped like stones on a coffin. “I’d bet anything that after me, he raped other boys.”
As had happened at her parents’ house, a toxic mix of anger, loathing, and nausea jolted through his blood, making it impossible to stay still. He jerked away from her, thrust himself out of bed, and paced a few steps. He turned, his hands clenched into fists, his body vibrating with tension. “I’m a selfish, gutless bastard. As long as I stayed away from this fucking island, I did okay. I felt okay. Normal. But normality was a scab over an unhealed wound. Iris, the wound isn’t so much that I was abused, it’s that I didn’t stop him from doing it to other boys.”
Her lovely, gentle eyes were glassy.
“I tried to tell myself that I was the only special one, but deep down I knew there’d be others. It wasn’t like he’d shown remorse. He didn’t acknowledge that what he was doing was wrong. It was fucking love, to him. That’s my wound, the one that never healed. That knowledge. And each time I came back here, the scab started to crack. I’d feel sick, scared, guilty. So I’d run back to my real life and the scab would heal over again. All I let myself care about was that I was okay. I couldn’t go further than that, to imagine other boys suffering through what I had. Because if I did . . .”
Tension made him turn and pace a few steps away. With his back to her, he said, “I’m almost as guilty as he is.”
“Maybe it was just you.” Her voice was soft and uncertain. “Maybe he did love you in some bizarre, perverted way, and it was a unique thing. He’s married, after all.”
Julian turned, seeing that her arms were wrapped around her waist as if she, too, felt nauseous. “Don’t make excuses for me not reporting him.”
“The boy—or boys—before you didn’t tell. Nor the ones after. I’ve never heard a whisper.”
Which didn’t excuse Julian, and she knew it. “He intimidated them, too, broke them down. Or maybe one or two did tell a parent, but no one believed them. Everyone thinks Jelinek is such a great guy.”
He turned away again and walked to the sliding glass door. Iris hadn’t pulled the blinds. The rain had stopped. Julian stared out at blackness dotted with lights. Not only were the stores and restaurants lit up, and the giant tree in the oceanfront park, but the commercial fishing boats also had colored lights strung in their rigging, and one had a big Santa Claus on its deck.
Blue Moon Harbor decked out in holiday style.
Blue Moon Harbor, a place that Jelinek virtually owned. “He keeps adding to that reputation,” he said. “The more power and status he accumulates, like with this Islands Trust thing”—he turned—“the easier it is for him to violate another boy, to intimidate him, to get away with it.”
Iris was hunched over, arms tight around herself, looking almost as miserable as Julian felt. “Yes, I see,” she whispered. “Oh, Julian . . .”
Staring at her in her pink-blossomed kimono, so innocent and beautiful and springlike, he steeled himself to say what had to be said. “When it happened, maybe I had an excuse for not reporting him. I was a terrified, guilt ridden, powerless kid. But since then, I hid from the truth. I enabled the abuse of other boys.” The burden of culpability made his throat ache. “That makes me a shitty person.”
She was still looking toward him, but her eyes were unfocused. She was reflecting, consulting that spirituality of hers. Deciding whether to kick him out of her life. She dropped her face into her spread hands, rested it there for a long moment, and then gazed up at him. “I understand your feelings of guilt.” Her body straightened, her crossed arms dropping. “Reporting him would have been the morally correct thing to do.”
No shit.
She slid off the bed and walked toward him. “But you didn’t, and even though you said you’ve mostly healed, I know how wounded you were. Avoidance was your psyche’s way of protecting you. I know that sometimes doing the right thing can feel impossible.” She stood in front of him, a foot away. Her shoulders rose and tightened and then she took a long breath and dropped them again. “What are you going to do?”
That foot of distance felt ambiguous—so easy to close, but unless she was the one to do it, it might as well have been a hundred miles. Tears ached behind his eyeballs. Unable to face her any longer, he turned again to stare out at the night, his vision blurring as the tears welled up and overflowed.
“Go to the RCMP and tell them everything.” His gut twisted. “First, I have to tell Forbes and Sonia. And Luke. If there’s an investigation . . . that’s not how I want them to find out.”
Chapter Seventeen
A shudder rippled through Iris. She felt raw and shaky, so could only imagine how wrecked Julian must feel. But she was glad he’d finally told her. Trusted her. She was glad he intended to do the right thing—but oh, how hard it was going to be for him.
She stretched her aching neck and gazed at Julian’s naked back, reading his tension in his locked shoulders. Beside him, on the wall beside the patio door, hung her calendar. The December saying, from Horace, was particularly appropriate for Julian’s situation. It was about keeping your mind even, during tough times. Much more easily said than done, of course.
“I can’t imagine,” she said tentatively, “don’t want to imagine what you’ve gone through.” Her eyes welled up again and a tear overflowed. “You survived, that’s the most important thing. Not only survived but brought beautiful music into the world.” She remembered how Eden had described her first impression of him: a tarnished angel.
Iris dared to rest a hand on his bare shoulder and felt his muscles twitch. “You’re going to do the right thing. As for not reporting him before, you shouldn’t blame yourself but forgive. You’re human, Julian, and you suffered a terrible trauma.” For years. That bastard had abused a vulnerable boy for years. Though Iris didn’t believe in violence, she felt an overwhelming urge to punch Jelinek, to castrate him, to somehow make him feel an iota of the pain he’d caused the man who hadn’t moved since she touched him.
“Julian . . .” She
rested her damp cheek against his back. “I’m here for you. I want to help but I don’t know what to do.”
He remained still for a long moment, then began to turn and she lifted her head. She raised her tear-sodden eyes to him, and held out her hands.
Tears streaked his face, too, and when he reached out to take her hands, his own were trembling. “Thank you,” he said shakily, clasping her hands and drawing her to him. “For not rejecting me. It’s more than I deserve, but I’m grateful for it.”
She put her arms around him and his came around her. They held each other loosely as she gazed up into his face.
“As for helping,” he went on. “This helps. So much. You being with me, listening, trying to understand. Touching me rather than stepping away.”
If her heart hadn’t already broken for him, it would have done it then. She managed a wobbly smile. “I would never step away.”
And she knew, this was the time. Their time. Blinking tears from her lashes, she summoned the courage to make her request for the second time. “Make love with me, Julian. Join with me, fully.” They both needed it, to help heal tonight’s pain, to get past the tragic stories and write a verse that was warm and loving.
His blue eyes were starry, tears glazing them and tiny drops dazzling his lashes.
She swallowed. “Please. I want you. Don’t reject me now.”
“I would never reject you.”
Did he realize how his words paralleled the ones she’d just spoken to him? “Good.”
“But, Iris—”
“No.” She broke in with calm firmness. “No buts. Don’t deny me this.” Momentary doubt seized her. “Unless of course you don’t really want me.”
His head went back as if he were in pain. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. “Want you?” His arms tightened around her and he lowered his head again. “I want you more than anything, Iris.”