I am quiet a long while, listening to his sobs, checking to see if they are real. “How can I believe you’re off the drugs, John?”
“You gotta believe me, baby. I want you back. I want our life back. The way it was in the beginning. I just can’t, can’t be without you. I don’t know what to do. I’m so sorry!” I can hear him pull away for a second and blow his nose.
“I gotta go, John. Is Thor okay?”
He clears his throat. “Okay, I understand, baby. You have every right to be mad at me. I fucked up, I know. But it’s the dope. It’s the fucking dope. I’m quitting that shit!”
“Tell Thor I love him. I gotta go.” I hang up. I didn’t like the tone his voice was taking. I’ve heard this shit before.
Berrrrring! Berrrrring!
“Yes?” I know it is him.
“I forgot to tell you. Baby? Dawn…I love you,” he breathes, sounding lonely and sad.
“Yeah,” I whisper and gently place the receiver back on the wall.
John’s apologies are getting to me, and as much as I’ve resisted, I begin to anticipate his calls. Sometimes I answer, and sometimes I don’t. I am enjoying the control I have for a change and a chance to vent some of my anger. In the months to follow, John times his phone calls for the late evenings. He has discovered from my sister what my work hours are and knows when I’ll be home. He also knows that my family will be asleep by then.
So I answer and allow him to speak to me of happier days and take me down his dream road of loving memories. Time is taking the sting out of the horridness of our most recent past. Reminiscing about our love, we slip into soft whispers and knowing silences, relishing the sound of each other’s breath again. We fantasize that those days have never left us, and we live in the past via telephone wire.
“Dawn. I want it back…back to the way it was in the beginning. I want to get out of here, out of LA.”
“But where are you going to go?”
“I don’t know. Anywhere. Somewhere. Somewhere…with you?”
I don’t answer.
“Dawn. Dawn, you’re so beautiful…I miss you so much.”
I hear an odd popping noise in the background, and my skin prickles. “What’s that?” I ask, suspicious.
“What…uh, nothing. It was Thor. Here. Do you want to talk to him?”
A tiny breath sniffs the receiver and I soften, crooning his name to hear his voice. “Thor. Hi, boy. Oh, I miss you.” A faint whining sounds through the phone line and then a yip. John is laughing in the background, and I ache for the laughter we once had.
“It was the drugs before, baby. It wasn’t me.”
“I know.”
“I just want to start over—you and me and Thor. Somewhere new.”
“What about Sharon?”
“Sharon too.”
I think for a moment, trying to picture how John can possibly make it better with Sharon. Then my mind shuts down; the shaping image too painful to visualize. “I gotta go, John.”
He pulls in an injured breath. “I love you, Dawn.”
“I love you too, John.”
Falling into a pattern of a long-distance relationship, John and I speak regularly. I look forward to telling him about my day at the convalescent hospital, the way we used to share our news with Sharon. His days, he lets me know, are dedicated to getting healthy and clearing up his prior arrest for stealing the computer at the Marina.
He wouldn’t be able to call me every night if he’s still on drugs, I rationalize. It has been over five months already, and he’s only missed calling a few times. I’ve even heard the pattering and barking of John L, Pokie, and Thor, so I think, Oh, good. He’s at Sharon’s. He must be telling the truth.
I’m still not comfortable telling my family the whole story of abuse. I am ashamed, and forgetting seems less painful. But the more John sounds like his old self, the more I want to have those moments of earlier times again. I believe, finally, in his sincerity and allow myself to enter into conversations about a future together.
On an almost summer evening, John calls, barely able to contain his excitement.
“Dawn, baby! The best thing has happened!”
“What?”
“There’s a big job coming up…and it will take care of everything! But…but I need you here with me.”
“Why?”
“So we can take off together as soon as it’s done. We can start over again. Go anywhere…the Grand Canyon, maybe? Anywhere you want.”
“Really?”
“Yeah! It’s big, baby! Real big. We’ll be set. I hate this fucking place. I hate these fucking people and their fucking drugs. I just want you back, baby. I just want to start over with you again…like it was in the beginning.”
“Oh, John, I want that too. Really, I do. But…but you gotta…gotta promise me—promise—no more hitting! No more streets. No, no more…abuse, John!”
“I promise, baby. I promise. No more of any of that. I’m so sorry. It was the fucking drugs. I hate the drugs. I just want a new life with you.”
“Yes.”
“Huh? What?”
“Yes. I’ll come back. But just until your job is over. Then we have to leave. I don’t want to be there anymore, John. I can’t.” I stifle a cry. “Is Sharon coming?”
“Yeah? Okay, when? Baby, you won’t be sorry. We’ll start over, I promise, and leave all this shit behind.”
“And Sharon?”
“Yes, baby. I’ll ask her. I’ll tell her you’re coming back and that we can get out of here. This is gonna be it, baby. Finally, finally, we can get out of all this shit!”
I have softened. I miss him—the good times and the love we once shared. I miss Sharon and Thor. Grasping onto hope, I book a flight and quit my job. No one in my family is surprised, but not everyone is happy about it. When my mother has spoken to John, he’s been polite and sweet. Doing what he does best, he’s charmed her. Terry wants to believe the drugs are gone as well. After all, he was so nice before; cocaine has to be to blame. My brother, Wayne, says nothing and slips wordlessly into the background. Looking sad and dejected, he acts like he did when we parted in Carol City, except this time he doesn’t say good-bye.
But I am still crippled; I am still not whole. In my head I hear that fearful voice that says, He’s all I know, and I say yes. Again, for the sake of love, I say yes to him.
My plane touches down at Burbank Airport in the last week of June in 1981. I replay the parting words of my mother as she sees me off at the airport. “Arr you sure you vahnt to do dis, Dawn?”
“He promised, Mom. I believe him.”
“Vell, eff you need something, call me.” She sighs heavily. “I luff you, Dawn.”
“I love you too, Mom.”
She is still helpless. A blue-collar worker all her life, she has limited resources. She’s watched her young daughter leave, get caught up with a porn star and his wife, and run for her life from that same man old enough to be her father. Every step of the way, Mom has been powerless, except to pray. She has prayer, and like Grandma and Aunt Ella in the days in New Jersey so many years ago, she always prays for her children.
John is waiting at the baggage claim. I spot him right away, and my heart pounds. Shyly happy to see him, I walk a bit faster. He is standing with his hands in his pockets, looking fidgety and nervous. As I get closer, I notice how tired and gaunt he is. I keep my pace, getting closer, willing my heart to stay in my chest, and then my smile fades. John sees my reaction and turns his head away.
“Hey, baby!” He bends down to lift me up to him. “Mmmmmm. I missed you so much! Let’s get out of here.” He gives me a big squeeze and kisses me on my lips…but he is unfocused. The conveyor belt rotates, the first of the passengers’ bags roll out, and John stands watching. He circles one arm around me, holding me close.
“That’s mine,” I tell him, pointing to the green duffel bag.
John makes a quick, paranoid sweep of the area and picks up my bag and anoth
er unfamiliar suitcase next to it. “Come on.” He pulls me toward the exit.
“John, that’s…”
“Shhh. Let’s go.”
My heart sinks as I let him lead me out to the waiting Malibu. My God! He lied! He’s high!
The Malibu is waiting, more faded and dirty than I remember. He quickly flings the two bags into the trunk and revs it up. Thor is in the front seat, happily jumping like a Mexican bean in my lap.
Then when John gets in, he instantly crouches low, shying away from him. I hold his frail and shaking figure close to my heart, letting him know I will protect him, and I decide to stay quiet.
Sensing I know he’s high, John acts nervous. He reaches over to hold my hand, his palm sweaty and rough. “I love you,” he says; his speech is awkward and broken like the sound of flipping through radio stations.
“I love you too.” My words are like cardboard and taste stiff in my mouth; my stomach does flip-flops inside of me. Oh, please don’t let this all be bullshit. Please, I pray to whoever will listen and painfully think about the safe and warm home I have just given up…for this!
Checking into a run-down motel on Hollywood Boulevard, John pays for a couple of nights. Saddened and shocked, I watch him begin his old ritual: locking the door, putting the desk chair in front of it, looking out the windows, and checking the bathroom. I know the pipe is next as he sits on the edge of the bed and pops open his briefcase.
What do I say? I ask myself, feeling guarded and at a loss for words. He lied to me! I want to cry, but my body won’t connect the thought with the action.
“Are you okay, baby?” John peeks over at me warily. He knows what I am thinking.
“Yeah, sure.” I shrug, teetering on the edge of fear.
He brings out the pipe and taps out the last of the crumbs from the bottom of the film canister. Melting the drugs down, he hesitates for a moment and then sucks in the thick smoke. Closing his eyes, he holds his breath.
At a moment when he can’t get angry, I speak up. “John, I haven’t done anything since I’ve been gone…just alcohol.”
His eyes open; he chokes a little and nods. The acrid smoke blows in my face, and John falls back on the pillows for a few moments, letting the freebase pump through his body. “I know, baby,” he finally answers. “It’s just a little. To celebrate your coming back.” He pulls himself up, lights the 151-soaked cotton ball, and cooks the pipe once again. Leaning into me, he holds the stem to my mouth and, with his paralyzing blue stare, looks deep into my eyes, freezing me to the spot. “Here, baby. Welcome home.” He flares his nostrils and smiles. “Here—suck!”
I curse myself for being here. I dread falling back into the nightmare I thought I had escaped but swallow and do as he asks, refusing to believe that coming back was a mistake. My mind’s in turmoil. The conflict sears my soul, and I can’t think too much. This doesn’t mean our plans are over. We’re still getting out of here, I tell myself, denying his lies. Then the drugs take over, and I fall into his seductive embrace again, into his mouth again, as we passionately and euphorically taste each other one more time.
The late afternoon summer sun burns streaks through the holes of the shabby drapes. John and I slowly stretch out of bed, laughing at Thor’s playful bathroom dance.
“Just a minute, just a minute.” John smiles, pulling on his pants. “Let’s go get something to eat, huh, Thor? Kentucky Fried Chicken okay with you, baby?”
“Sure. I’m starved.”
John counts out a small amount of cash, grabs Thor, and leans in for a sensual kiss. “Come lock the door, baby. I’ll be right back.”
The second-story room we rented is particularly tiny, damaged, and filthy. Watching John descend the stairs, I notice the garbage, bums, and loiterers crowding the street below…even in broad daylight. Wow. This place is in the thick of things, I think. I know what kind of street this is; a lump grows in my throat that threatens to cut off my air supply, and I get panicky. Calm down, Dawn. It’s gonna be all right. We’ll be out of here soon. Quickly I lock and chain the door, not wanting anyone to see me, and I count the minutes till John’s return.
Evening falls. The clock ticks nearer to midnight. John and I are lounging around watching television and cuddling. Something distracts him, some kind of internal clock, and he gets up to look out the window. Sensing the time is right, he slowly and ritually dresses and packs his briefcase. In the bathroom he fills the sink with cold water and dunks his head. Shaking his wet curls like a dog after a bath, he sprays wet drops across the walls and tiles. His reflection in the mirror freezes him for several long moments. “Hmm,” he grunts. He checks his pockets once, twice, three times…stops, looks at me, and draws in a deep breath. “This is it, baby. I love you!”
I reach up to give him a hug. “I love you too, John. Be careful.” As old words roll off my tongue automatically, the familiarity of seeing him off on a run makes my skin crawl. But this is different, I remind myself again. This is the last time.
“If everything goes right, baby, we’ll be out of here by this time next week.” He is shaking a little as he squeezes me tightly for a long embrace and a kiss. He stares deep into my eyes, traces my lips with his thumb…like the old days. “I love you, baby. I’ll be back by morning.”
The Malibu revs up in the lot below the window for a good ten minutes. I can see John fussing repeatedly with the rearview mirror and visor. Finally he rolls out onto Hollywood Boulevard like…the old days.
Bang, bang, bang! “Hello, miss!” The motel manager is at the door.
“Yes?” The chain pulls tightly as I unlock the door.
“Checkout time! Checkout!”
“Um, yeah, okay. Um, he’s…um, my boyfriend isn’t back yet. Can I wait for him a little while longer?”
“I can’t do that, miss. I’ll get in trouble.”
“Please! I don’t have any money. He’s coming right back!”
He thinks for a moment. “Okay. You got till one o’clock! That’s all I can do!”
“Thanks.”
Holding Thor in my arms, I wait nervously on the bed, my green Army duffel bag packed and ready at my feet. As every minute of the clock ticks excruciatingly by, I will each noise outside to be John’s approaching Chevy. Shadows move behind the thin drapes; the maid and her cleaning cart make me more and more anxious as they wheel closer to my door.
Boom, boom, boom! “Housekeeping!”
I know my time is up. “Coming!” I call. With every minute dragging into two or three more, I pick up my bag and walk outside. Where is he? Oh God, no. He left me! Where do I go? What am I supposed to do now? I panic. Like something forgotten, discarded, I slowly step out of the boundaries of the motel toward a small cement ledge near the sidewalk and flop down.
In the bright afternoon light, the people on the street take notice. Young men with gold chains strut by, again and again, whistling and making comments under their breath. I look away, clutching Thor close to my chest, and can’t help the flood of tears that drenches my cheeks. I can’t think. Where is he? Why hasn’t he come back? Why did I leave Oregon?
A teenage boy looking like a pimp in his white suit and gold chains has been staring at me from across the street. Making a beeline in my direction, he wants to strike up a conversation; I can tell. I hook my foot around my duffel bag and huddle further into myself, wrapping into the safety of my mental walls. Please don’t let him talk to me.
A flood of despair rains down from every inch of the afternoon sky. Drenched with disbelief that I am back here…to this, I break down and weep hysterically.
With no thought of what to do next, I weep uncontrollably, sobs heaving and shaking me down to my bones. I have given up. I think about the warm bed at my mother’s house, my family, Grandma’s rocking chair, and the new friends I made at work and wish with all my heart I could erase the last couple of days. I give in to the despair of being totally lost, abandoned, and terrified for my safety. I weep and weep and weep.
I lift my head. Through a veil of tears, I notice a plain, short-haired, stocky, slightly overweight woman calling down to me from the window of her white Volkswagen van. I wipe my face and nod. “My, my boyfriend…didn’t come back and, and I got kicked out.” My tears rush out again.
“Do you need a ride somewhere? I’m safe. I promise. I run a Christian youth group. Can I take you somewhere? Somewhere safe?” She tilts her head up and down the street.
“Mm, hmm. Yeah! Thanks.” She looks kind, but I’m nervous. Through my blurred tears, I can see a few others seated in the back of her van. I gain my composure and quickly jump through the already open door. God, I hope she is real.
“My name is Sally.”
“I’m Dawn.” I don’t offer any more information.
“So where do you want to go?”
“My mom’s in Oregon…The Glendale bus station, I guess.”
“Do you have a ticket?”
“No. My boyfriend…he left me. He was supposed to be back before checkout, but he…well, didn’t make it.”
“Do you need a place to stay for a while?”
I look at her, suspicious of the offer. “What do you mean?”
“Well, I run a Christian youth group,” she repeats, “and we hire out to help with odd jobs for the elderly. We got extra work if you want to earn money for a bus ticket. You can crash at my place till you do. I assure you it is perfectly legitimate and I’m safe. Really!” She smiles, seeing my cautiousness. “Just ask these guys. They work with me every day. I’m picking them up for a job.” She points to the young, paint-splattered men in the back row of the van.
The Road Through Wonderland: Surviving John Holmes Page 36