by gard, marian
"What was it?"
"A painting. When she was really sick, toward the end, she kept talking about this place in Michigan she went to as a kid. I found some old photos of her there, and I used them to make this painting of her playing on the beach as a little girl."
"Sounds beautiful, and moving. I hope you'll finish it."
I hold my hands out to her. "I worked on it last night."
She takes one in hers. "I like seeing your hands like this, all paint stained." I smile and thread my fingers through hers. "Reba told me that you and your mom had a bad fight right before she died."
I close my eyes. "We did."
"She forgives you, you know," Rachel whispers, and I open my eyes to look at her.
"What makes you think so?"
"Because she loved you, Collin…and fighting about your dad? That was part of your relationship with her. She knew that. You know it, too." She touches my chin gently. "Do you forgive her?"
I shut my eyes again and then force myself to reopen them. Talking about this stuff is so hard for me, but I want to give myself to Rachel, all of me. I locked Leighton out and I hurt her deeply because of it. After my mother died all I could think about were all the things that went unsaid between us. I can't do this anymore. I have to be open with the people I love; no matter how difficult and foreign it feels. I clear my throat. "I think so…most days, anyway. There's a lot I don't understand, but I'm becoming more OK with that, I think. I guess I have to be OK with it, right?" She stares directly into my eyes and I feel that same sense of safety around her I did so many years ago.
"Have you read all the letters from your dad yet?"
"Yeah. Some of them are pretty amazing. I'd like to show you more sometime." She nods enthusiastically. "Other ones…let's just say I understand better why my mom didn't want to give them to me as a kid. When he wasn't doing well, sometimes things got really dark for him. That used to scare me a lot, but now I think I get it more." Saying this aloud makes me think about what Rachel said about forgiving my mom. Acknowledging this much feels like progress.
Rachel's quiet for a moment and then she says, "Everything has its wonders, even darkness and silence, and I learn, whatever state I may be in, therein to be content."
I let her words sink in. "I like that. Who are you quoting?"
"Helen Keller, but I think the message transcends disability. I interpret it more to mean realizing our dark periods, our struggles, they're part of us too, and we have to love all of ourselves."
I think about how much I've feared my own mind betraying me for so much of my life, and it has only been recently that I've come to see it differently.
I look down at our linked fingers. "I've thought about how in some ways my dad's illness was a good thing. I'll never forget it killed him, but not all of it was bad. It helped him to create, too—it wasn't just when he was well that he was brilliant. In fact, some of his best, most interesting paintings were when he was kind of manic."
"Do you still worry about that?"
"Becoming bipolar?"
She nods, her expression solemn.
"Not really. I've been to doctors—that isn't what's going on with me. I've never had a manic episode and I probably would've by now if it were going to happen. You know though, because of everything I've been through, I've come to realize things were different for my dad. There was a long time when no one knew what was wrong, and because of that, he never got help, or medication, and he had very little support. My mom was in total denial. They knew a lot less back then, than they do now. I can't help but think if he'd had any of that, you know, any of what I've had, he'd still be here today."
Rachel nods in agreement. She's never been judgmental when I've talked about my dad and his illness. She doesn't act afraid, like so many people have.
I push myself to tell her more. "I guess I do worry sometimes about getting really depressed again, though. I still have days that are pretty hard, and sometimes I fear they'll stretch into weeks and months, and I'll be right back where I was years ago. If I think about it too much, it scares the shit out of me. Losing Mom has felt like a step back, but I'm hanging in there."
"What's it like when it gets really bad?" Rachel takes her free hand and rubs the top of mine that's joined with hers. Her caress is warm and soft and I ache for more of it. She looks up at me. "Will you tell me about it?"
I pull my lower lip into my mouth and bite down hard, and then give her a slight nod before exhaling a long, slow breath. "When I was younger, before I had a sense of what was wrong, it was just like this ever-present force, like a darkness, sort of. It was with me all the time, and honestly, I can hardly remember a period when it wasn't just there. When I got older, and things got a lot worse it was more, like um, like a parasite." I take a deep breath and she gently squeezes my hand. I tighten my grip in return, holding onto her as I continue. "It was like this thing that lived inside me and no matter what I said, or did, or even thought, it would dominate…like an evil, hateful running commentary on my whole life. I'd try to fight it, but I sort of believed it, you know? It told me I was worthless, and I agreed. Then, over time, it felt like it had sucked the life out of me. It was like everything around me was just muted, the color drained out…and I was tired. God Rachel, I was so fucking tired. I couldn't bring myself to care about anything anymore. To just give into the darkness felt like the least exhausting option; so for a while I did."
"Then Reba and doctors helped you?" she asks.
For some reason this makes me laugh a little, like it could all be that simple, but in a really basic way, I guess it was. If Reba hadn't stepped in, there's no way I'd be here now. I nod and try to put it into words. "It's been a long process." I look away from her and into my kitchen, remembering Reba trying to get me to eat, to talk, to do anything. When she finally did, I think we all felt like some milestone had been reached, but I had just barely crossed the start line.
Rachel is staring at me intently and I continue on. "When I started to feel less tired the first thing I remember experiencing was this wave of anger. It seems so backward to think about it now, but I wanted to blame someone. I felt out of control and scared, and it had to be someone's fault. I had some easy targets in my life, you know?" She nods. "I blamed my dad for dying, my mom for being cold, Victor for being such an asshole…the list goes on and on. Someone was at fault for my depression. That's what I thought, anyway, and I was going to get to the bottom of it. And then one day I had this client who got over-the-top angry about some minor, stupid, forgettable mistake we'd made. I can't even remember what it was, but it was the kind of thing that would've barely warranted a comment from any other client we had. This guy though, man, he was obsessed with blaming a specific person. What seemed to matter most to him was punishment. Someone had to be held accountable. I refused to turn anyone over to this guy, the way he wanted, and in the end we lost the account. Losing the company was…whatever, just business, but I kept thinking and thinking about this guy for weeks, and that's when it hit me—I was him! This constant need to blame was keeping me sicker than just about anything else in my life. I had to stop it somehow."
Rachel gives me a look of rapt interest. "How did you?"
"Well, I'm not perfect about it. I still blame myself a lot, and other people occasionally, when things go wrong—like an instinct, you know? Or a habit, maybe? Anyway, I just try to let go when I can, be forgiving…look for the good," I say, my voice drifting.
I can't help but think how much I sucked at doing that when Mom died, and I almost feel like a fraud telling her this, like I'm pretending to be an expert. Almost as if she's sensing my trepidation, a tiny crease forms between her eyebrows, and I want to extinguish her worry with my words. When I work at it, I feel really good…like I'm free. I've labored so hard to live a life with hope in it, and I'm not giving up. I need her to know that, too.
"My therapist is always telling me while my depression is, you know, part of my biology—on the other hand
, my thoughts are all mine. Positive thinking can be healing, transformative. I've experienced that. So, I keep trying." I say this with the confidence of the truth within it. Our eyes lock.
She reaches up with her free hand and strokes the side of my face. "You amaze me, Collin, over and over again."
I lean forward and kiss her, deep and passionately and she's kissing me back, like it's all she wants. I push my hand up the back of her shirt and pull her closer. Without breaking our kiss she climbs onto my lap, straddling me. There's no way I'm stopping her tonight. I move my kisses to her ear and then her neck and she releases a moan. The sound of it flows through me like a shot of adrenaline. I open my eyes and she does, too. She reaches forward and pulls off my shirt, whisking it over my head and tossing it on the couch beside us. Our lips find each other again and I kiss her hard and urgently and she's kissing me back with equal desperation and passion, her hands raking my back and arms. I feel like we're in perfect sync until I bring my hands to her blouse and begin undoing the buttons. I'm on the third when I feel sure something is wrong. She's still kissing me, but I feel her pulling back just a fraction, and this slight change rings a warning bell in my mind that there's no damned way I'm going to ignore. I've read things wrong before and the consequences were devastating. I can't risk ignoring anything. I remove my hands from her blouse and instead run the back of my hand gently along her cheek before pulling away altogether. Her eyes open slowly and when they meet mine I ask, "Do you not want…?"
Before I can finish she jumps in. "No!" She shakes her head once and then looks up at me, her eye contact intense. "I want." She reaches forward and runs her knuckles along my cheek mimicking my motion from moments before.
My eyes leave hers and follow a path down her blouse to where I left the middle button still fastened. "It's just you…" I gesture subtly, and she nods, moving her gaze to her blouse, as well.
"I'm not…" she shakes her head and falls silent.
"Rachel, it's OK," I whisper. I feel my hand tremble and plant it firmly on my thigh.
"No." She shakes her head one more time. "It's not what you think." Her eyes are fixed in her lap. "I'm not twenty-two anymore, Collin."
That's what this is about? My immediate reaction is a mix of confusion and incredulity that is almost instantly washed over by a tidal wave of relief. Thank God. I place a single finger beneath her chin, which triggers her eyes to meet mine.
"I'm not either, Rachel." She laughs like this simple statement of fact is completely ridiculous.
"It's not the same for you," she insists.
I don't bother to argue this assertion. Between my sister and past girlfriends, I've learned all about the pressures women face when it comes to beauty and aging. Hell, my own mother had enough plastic surgeries over her lifetime to drive that point home. I can't believe this is what is weighing on Rachel, though. If I thought she'd believe me, I'd tell her I find her more beautiful today than I did when we were in college, because I do. She was gorgeous then, and nothing about her beauty has diminished in my eyes, it's only grown.
"Rachel, I won't touch you anywhere you don't want me to, but you have to know there is nothing I want more than to worship you with my hands…" I run the tips of my fingers along her arm and then bring them to rest on her thigh "…and my lips". I lean forward and kiss her just behind her ear and then suck her earlobe into my mouth. I release it in response to her moan. "There isn't an inch of you that I don't find beautiful. I want you…" I swallow and rapidly try to think of the best way to express how the connection I feel to her is far more than physical, without saying something neither one of us is ready for. I plant a line of kisses along her jaw and then once gently on her closed lips. I shut my eyes and whisper, "I want all of you."
She answers me wordlessly by taking my face in her hands and kissing me deeply. In just a moment's time we've returned to the intensity from which we started. I get so lost in the feel of her tongue running over mine, and my hands in her hair, that I don't even realize she's removed the blouse she was too shy to have me unbutton for her. She guides my hand to her now bare breast and I waste no time making good on my promise. She reclines on the sofa and I touch and kiss her until she's breathless and panting. I run my hand up along her side, over each rib and up to her neck. I trace her defined cheekbone and she reaches to cup my chin in her palm. We're both silent and unmoving, just staring deep into each other's eyes. In spite of my stillness, I feel my heart hammering away in my chest, and I'm wishing I could suspend time and just live in this moment forever. Eventually, I lower my lips to hers, keeping my eyes open, as I plant the smallest of kisses on the corner of her mouth.
"Yes, Collin," she whispers, verbalizing her desire and consent in the same breath.
I close my eyes again and slow our pace; carefully listening and responding to everything her body tells me. When I slide my hand between her thighs, she rises to meet me. I can feel she's ready and wanting me, and just the knowledge of this, is a reward beyond anything I could've imagined. I pull her into my arms and carry her to her bedroom. The act of it is an echo of so many years ago.
Some time later, after we've made love, we lie intertwined in the center of her bed. So many thoughts bubble up and dissolve unsaid in my mind…we fit so perfectly…You're safe with me…I'm so glad we've found each other again…I love you. I can't decide which words are right, and I'm too afraid to choose wrong, so I don't choose at all, telling myself that I finally have time, a future even, with Rachel. Exhaustion begins to pull me under and I willingly surrender, replete and content, with her wrapped tightly in my arms.
*** *** ***
I wake in the morning to find myself alone in Rachel's bed. This waking is all too similar to the last time she and I had sex, something isn't right, and I feel dread consume me. I throw my t-shirt and boxers on and stride out to the kitchen to find Rachel seated at the table, sipping coffee and listening to the radio on low.
"Been up awhile?" A small nod is her only reply. She's freaking out. I cautiously approach her as she sits motionless.
I keep my voice calm and even. Everything is riding on this. I can feel it. "Rachel, last night was not a mistake. I know we were both drinking, but this is right. I know it's right."
"How can you know something like that, Collin? How can you know?"
She looks up at me briefly, her eyes big and fearful, and then she stares off into the distance again. The moisture leaves my mouth and I almost feel faint. This cannot happen again. I take a deep breath and sit down beside her, pulling my chair so close to hers that our knees touch. She doesn't react.
"Look at me, please." She raises her eyes to meet mine, they're so beautiful, but right now they're also wet with tears. I want so desperately to erase all her worry, smother every fear, until all that's left is everything good between us. "How do I know, Rachel? I know, because I love you." A tear escapes down her cheek and she inhales a ragged breath. We stare at each other, both silent and still, while my words, my truth, hangs unclaimed in the air between us.
"Can I ask you something?" Her voice is tiny and filled with apprehension. I try to relax mine, while doing my best to ignore the fact that I just told her I love her, and she isn't saying it back.
"Anything, Rachel."
"Why did you wait so long when we were in college?" She continues to stare straight into my eyes. "There were long stretches when I was single and you never did anything then. Why?" I hear her anger and frustration and I'm wishing I could go back in time and throttle twenty year old me.
I run my hands through my hair and take a deep breath. "I don't suppose telling you I was an idiot would do?" I smile at her, but her expression remains serious. I swallow and start again. "Rachel, when we first met and became friends, I didn't really believe in relationships or love, so having that with anyone was just off the table. We were friends and you were so important to me right from the beginning. I didn't want to do anything to screw it up."
She looks back do
wn at the table and I gently place my hand on her arm. "I always thought you were beautiful, though, since day one." She glances up at me as if she's trying to verify this statement and then looks away again. My voice is shaky and I feel so nervous. I'm starting to lose control and I can feel her slipping through my fingers again. It's my instinct to shut down, but I know I shouldn't. I can't, because this could be it. "When I finally admitted to myself that I was in love with you, the timing was horrible and I was just too much of an inarticulate jerk to try to explain what I was feeling. I was terrified you would reject me, and so I handled things the only way I knew how to at the time. It was messed up. I get that now. Back then I really hoped you loved me too and things would just…happen. I'm sorry."
She's silent and my heart is beating so hard in my chest I feel sure she must be able to hear it, too. Finally, she looks up at me again. Her expression is grave and lacks any of the reassurance I so desperately need.
"What if you just think you love me now, because you once did?" She asks. Her voice is tight, and I can hear her struggle, I can see her pain.
"Rachel, love isn't linear. You taught me that. It isn't something that just has a start and an end with some time in between. It blooms and evolves and withers and reignites. It's organic. It's part of us. I know because the love I have for you has surrounded me, drowned me, drained me and consumed me all over again."
Tears start pouring down her face and it is all I can do not to just pull her into my arms, but I have to get through this. I have to say everything I haven't said, all these years. I pull my chair even closer to her and continue.
"When you were no longer in my life there was a part of me that was just…gone. It was with you. I feel that now that you're back, now that we're together. That! That was love." I grab her hand and place it on my heart. "This is love, Rachel. It isn't perfect. It's going to hurt like hell sometimes. It's going to be messy and confusing and incredible. You can decide to leave, but I'm telling you unequivocally my love will go with you." I put my other hand gently on her heart. "My love is with you, Rachel, it always has been." Tears fill my eyes and escape down my cheeks, but I don't give a shit. I would cry in front of every single person we know, if that's what it would take for her to believe me and know this is real.