by Paul Cwalina
“Edmond, you’re going to have to stop calling me that.”
“You will always be da mayor to me,” he said, kindly.
“I think you know as well as I do that Lydia should be the general manager, not me. She has certainly earned it,” I said.
“I know dat,” he said matter-of-factly. “But dis was da only way I could make sure dat you would talk to a pastor.”
I turned my head sharply toward him. “Are you kidding me?”
“No kidding, sir. I am promoting her dis morning,” he said with a smile. Then, still smiling, he said, “You are fired.” Then he laughed.
I smiled at his laughter, relieved that my brief, guilt-fueled career in hospitality was over.
Edmond continued, “I know in my heart you will still do great tings. I tell you, I know dis. But it will not be here in St. Croix. It will be elsewhere.”
The mood was far lighter the rest of the way. I enjoyed that small bit of relief, indeed.
We arrived at the airport and I grab my luggage from the trunk of his car. When I bent down into the car to thank him for the ride and say ‘goodbye’, he pointed at me and said, “Drop da stones.”
Chapter Eighteen
The flight and the taxi ride home from the airport are a complete blur....just too much thinking, grieving and self-criticism.
I arrived at my house. I forgot to cancel the newspaper, so there were about a month’s worth of papers all over the porch, bushes, and yard. Thankfully, the newspaper cancelled the subscription for non-payment at some point.
There was also a package on the porch near the front door. It was from Diane. On the outside of the box, she scrawled the words ‘Two things you should know’.
I opened the door and stepped inside. I set the package down on a table and tossed my bags onto the landing of the stairs. I grabbed the package and walked into the kitchen. I punched in the tape and ripped the box open.
On top was a newspaper folded in a way so as to expose an article and photo. Over the photo, she’d attached a large, memo-pad style post-it note which read, ‘I hope it hurts like hell’. I peeled it off and there were Sarah and Ryan in their engagement photo.
They were holding each other, each smiling widely. There it was in ink; in black and white, her name with his. Her arms around him. His around her. There was the guy I saw outside her door the day she dumped me. There was that feeling in my chest and guts again that I just couldn’t take anymore. Mission accomplished, Diane.
I sat down and tried to read the announcement. My mind, though, was just swimming in bad emotions and bad thoughts. I read it twice without comprehending a single word. I wanted to throw it away, but I couldn’t. I don’t know why. I just set it down on the table.
I reached into the box and pulled out the other item Diane had sent. It was odd, about a foot long, maybe a little longer, and wrapped in bubble wrap. Diane taped a note to the rolled bubble wrap that read:
‘Chelsea didn’t leave a suicide note...at least not a traditional one. Be careful opening this. It’s fragile. This is a piece of the wall next to the bathtub where they found Chelsea. I told the landlord that I would pay to repair the wall if I could cut out this piece of the wall. On a small stand next to the tub we found a small jar of paint and a paintbrush. This is the last thing she painted.’
As carefully as I possibly could, I un-rolled the bubble wrap to expose the back of the piece of drywall. I hesitated because I couldn’t imagine what she would have painted in her last hours. I took a deep breath and exhaled. I turned it over and recognized her writing immediately. She had painted words on walls many times. It was just three words in red paint. It read ‘I’m no Sarah’.
No. No. No. Dear God please no. Did she really know I said that? How could she?
I tried to turn my eyes away from it, but couldn’t. I continued to stare at it as I collapsed into a chair. If I wasn’t at the absolute lowest point in my life, I’m not sure I wanted to be around to see what that could be. How could I even be capable of doing such a thing?
Then I couldn’t help but start to think about ‘how?’ How could she know? Diane must have said that to her. Why would she say something like that to Chelsea? I understood that Diane had her fill of me, but to do this? Why?
When I finally could focus, I sent Diane a text asking her to call me. She responded a minute or so later with ‘No. What do you want?’
‘I opened the package you sent and found what she wrote. Why would she write that?’
‘Why do you think?’
‘She had no way of knowing I said that unless you told her. Why would you do that?’
‘I didn’t’
‘Then how would she know?’
‘Are you sure you want to know?’
‘Yes. Please.’
‘Do you remember a couple weeks ago you were insisting that you sent me a text that read “She’s no Sarah” ? I told you that I never received it. Remember?’
‘Yes...but you know I finally meant that in a good way’
‘Hard to tell that through a text...and you sent it to Chelsea by mistake.’
No. Please tell me that didn’t happen. Please tell me that’s not true. Please, God, tell me I didn’t do that. Please tell me I didn’t do all of these things.
My insides felt like they were hollowed out. I sat on the floor with my back to the wall and ran my hand through my hair, then rested my elbow on my knee and rested my head in my hand. All I wanted to do was to take back that text. I kept going over it my mind. When did I send it? Is she sure it went to Chelsea? Of course it did. That’s why Chelsea painted that on her wall.
I just sat there for several minutes before texting Diane. ‘Please tell me where she’s buried,’ I begged.
She didn’t respond, so again, I pleaded through a text, ‘Please’.
Diane waited almost ten minutes before texting, ‘Sacred Heart...northeast corner. You can’t miss her grave. It’s set apart from the main section between two others.’
‘Thank you.’
‘One thing. She left instructions for a quote to be put on her tombstone. Nobody at the funeral knew what she meant by it. See if you know. Thanks.’
‘I’ll try’
Finally, a few minutes later, she sent ‘Call me if you need to talk’.
I felt a terrible pain in the pit of my stomach thinking about what Chelsea could have possibly asked to be on her tombstone. What she wrote on the wall was devastating. I don’t think I could take much more.
I sat on the floor afraid to go. I was too ashamed to even be in the presence of her grave. I sat there for a few more minutes until I decided it would be best to go the next day after I got some rest and digested all of this.
Chapter Nineteen
I thought I’d be in for a restless night, but I was so emotionally drained from the events of the day and fatigued from the travel, that sleep came easy.
I woke and showered. I began to feel nervous about what I needed to do. I made myself some breakfast, but just poked at it. I tried to waste time to delay the inevitable. I turned on the television, but quickly realized I had disconnected the cable before leaving for St. Croix. I grabbed a dust rag to clean up all the accumulated dust from the past couple months. I wiped one end table and then threw the rag down. This was stupid. Let’s just get this over with. It was time to go to Sacred Heart cemetery.
I had sold my car before going to St. Croix, so all I had was my motorcycle. From the hall closet, I grabbed my leather jacket and stopped cold, thinking about how Chelsea loved to see me wearing this. She said it ‘humanized’ me. She once jokingly demanded that I promise to leave it to her if anything happened to me.
I went into the garage and picked up my helmet, then put it down. I never rode my bike without a helmet, but today I didn’t care if I lived or died, so I left it behind.
The traffic was going to be heavy at this time of day, so I took the back way around the city on a two-lane country road. It would add about ten
minutes to drive, but I had no other plans for that day, so it really didn’t matter and I could use the time to think. It wasn’t long into the ride that I started to understand why there are some who ride motorcycles without a helmet. There is a liberating feel to doing it.
The sun was shining through an opening in the clouds, but I wished it would go away. I didn’t deserve the sun or maybe I just wanted some cover for my shame. Along the way, I thought mostly about my first conversation with Pastor Zee in the restaurant. His words were sharper today than they were when I first heard them. He was right about what I had to do. I had to learn to let go. More importantly, I had to learn the art of forgiveness; the giving and the asking. Mostly, the giving.
As the landscape rushed past me, I thought about all the lives I had poisoned with my anger and my constant drive to ‘get even’. I thought about the prison guard who has to forever live with the fact that he killed someone. The fact that it was accidental was irrelevant. Because of me --- because of my inability to forgive --- his life was forever changed. His conscience may haunt him for the rest of his life; he may never be the same. And it was all because of me, because of my faults. Somehow, I would have to find out who he is and arrange to meet him and beg his forgiveness. I resolved to make it happen when I returned home.
I thought about that prisoner, too, who will never have the chance to rehabilitate his life. I took that away from him to satisfy my own selfish need for revenge. What he needed from me was forgiveness, not spite, not my thirst for blood, not revenge. I couldn’t imagine forgiving him, though. How is it possible to forgive someone whose selfish negligence cut short the lives of my parents, who robbed my future children of grandparents? I tried simply convincing myself to forgive, forcing myself to mouth the words, but they lacked conviction. I did not feel any differently toward him.
I thought about Greg, who will most likely lose his job once the new mayor is comfortable with the transition to power. He had just started his new life with his bride, most likely thinking about starting a family in the near future. He gave me his all during the campaign and during my term in office. He promoted me. He defended me. He took bullets for me. For his trouble and loyalty, I put him in the unenviable position of having to call his bride and tell her he lost his job. Why? Because I couldn’t forgive Sarah or that convict.
Thinking about Greg led to thinking about Yvonne. She had burned some powerful bridges to help advance my career. All of the political capital she poured into me and my career, I emptied into the gutter. She believed in me and had the power to turn that belief into a very special political career and life for me. For her belief in me what did she get? How did I repay her? I put her in a very uncomfortable, difficult position of making reparations, possibly ending her career in the party.
The guilt was becoming unbearable. It was crushing, suffocating.
No one did more for me than Edmond - all that money and time - and not only has he not said a harsh word to me, he was still there to give me a job, even if it was temporary and a cover for getting me to talk with his pastor. Despite everything that transpired, he still believes in me. I will still do great things, he insists to this day. Look what you did to that extraordinarily kind person.
Diane lost her best friend because of me and has to cope with knowing she could have helped Chelsea had she’d seen the signs that night. Diane brought to me a woman who brought light to my life and I refused to see it, or I was too wrapped up in myself to see it. She brought me the only woman I can say truly loved me. I returned nothing but bitterness because I wouldn’t forgive her for not telling me about Sarah and for trying to distance me from Sarah.
Of course, I thought about Sarah and the unending harassment, the guilt and neglect. Mostly, when I thought about Sarah, I thought about that day in my office. I saw the look in her eyes. She never expected that. I saw the photos of the bruises. I closed my eyes and shook my head. How? How could I ever do that?
The more I thought about Sarah, though, I felt a change coming over me. My thoughts began shifting from guilt and the need for forgiveness from all of these people to the need to forgive. Pastor Zee’s words began to have a new clarity for me. I was finally getting what he was trying to tell me. The letting go and the forgiveness were more than concepts now. Their value was becoming increasingly clear. But the stones he said were in my hands felt more like boulders on my back that I had been carrying; burdening myself with them. It was more than the guilt of my transgressions, it was the crushing weight of anger I was keeping with me. Then I realized that anger wasn’t even at the core of the problem. The anger was really just a symptom of self-love, of my vanity. That’s what was at the heart of it --- pure vanity. How dare someone not do what is best for me? How dare someone not submit to what I want? To fit into my plans? To take the blue out of her hair because it would help me politically?
I felt a distinct change in my mind and body. I began to feel a lifting. Suddenly, all I could think of was forgiving Sarah. All I could do now, it seemed, was think of letting go. I wanted to immediately call Sarah, but I obviously couldn’t in that moment. Instead, I worked on what I would say and then I felt a remarkable lifting of the weight I was carrying. I felt an awakening.
I wasn’t even finished processing forgiving Sarah when I thought of the prisoner I had trouble forgiving before and, just as with Sarah, it came easily, now. I had an entirely new perspective and wanted to somehow forgive him. But that was impossible. And that troubled me.
Even so, I felt more weight being lifted. For some reason I began thinking about all of the women from the Good Knight and everywhere else that I knew for just a night or two. I can’t explain why. Something was pushing me to accept that I wronged them, as well. Every part of themselves they thought they were giving away, I was actually stealing. I selfishly turned their need for comfort and understanding into an opportunity to comfort myself. When they needed me to be strong, I gave into my weakness. I helped to cheapen them. I commoditized the most unique gift they had to offer a man. Even though I felt a new wave of guilt, and there would be no way I could ever find these women to ask their forgiveness, my acknowledgement of the need for their forgiveness helped lift more of the weight I was carrying.
The lifting of this weight began to feel so good, I stood up on the motorcycle and even started laughing. Am I losing my mind? I ran through scenarios in my mind; how I would approach each of the people I wronged, whether it was done actively or passively. The words I would use; the nerve it would take. Who would forgive me? Who would reject me?
I noticed a sign for a rest area. I had to get off of the bike and process this. I needed to stop the wind blowing into my face and through my hair. I had to stop the sound of the bike and traffic. I needed silence. I needed to be still.
I pulled off the highway at the rest area and parked my bike. There were only a few cars and one semi in the lot. I walked across a patch of grass to a bench that was set near a large birch tree. It wasn’t enough to shade the bench, but I felt I like I suddenly deserved sunlight for some reason.
I was fairly focused as I made my way to the bench and sat down. I was unaware of my surroundings. First I just looked up to the sky. Again, I just started laughing. I leaned forward and with my elbows on my knees buried my face into my hands. I continued laughing as I saw everyone’s face appear in my mind, one by one. It felt so good to know I would be going to them asking for forgiveness. I rehearsed some lines in my head. It felt even better to know that I would be finally forgiving Sarah and begging for hers. And it didn’t matter if she believed me or accepted it. I had already begun letting it go.
That’s when I felt a sudden sadness and emptiness. Seamlessly, I went from laughing to crying as I saw Chelsea. From whom do I more need forgiveness than her? And there was nothing I could do about that. I could never get her forgiveness. I will never have that chance.
Then I realized the same was true with the prisoner. I had lost my opportunity to settle that. Same for
all those women. I will never find them.