If You Loved Me

by Marilyn Reynolds

  “Tell me about it,” Amber sighs.

  “Besides, Tyler and I. . . I mean, it’s not exactly . . .”

  “I know,” Amber says. “You’re one of the ‘everything but’ girls. I wish I’d been.”

  “OKAY! EVERYBODY ON THE COURT! CHOP-CHOP!” Coach Terry yells.

  We run onto the court for warm-ups and then the Hacienda Hills team arrives. Play starts and I don’t think about anything but volleyball. Not sex. Not a little red Honda. Not anything but the game—blocking the net, spiking, banging the serve, return, return, return. Slam the ball. Slam my Marcia. The power of anger. Use the power. Keep it on the court.

  Our team celebrates the win at Barb ’n Edie’s and then Amber drops me off back at Tyler’s. I stretch out on Tyler’s bed and take up reading in Jane Eyre where I left off yesterday. I love Tyler’s room, his things, the scent of him. I know I’m the only girl who has ever been in here and I feel special, knowing I hold an important, one-of-a-kind place in Tyler’s life.

  When I count pages I see that I can be caught up tomorrow. That’s good. I’ve decided to get things in order so I can maintain decent grades. This first month of school I’ve been a flake, but now I’m getting serious. If I want to be a journalist I’ve got plenty of years of school left, so I’d better get with it. It’s true I’d still rather be reading Angela’s Ashes, but Jane Eyre’s turning out to be a good story. Already I’ve copied down a whole bunch of words I want to remember to use in my own writing. Words like “indomitable,” and “rapture,” “goad,” “abhor,” and a lot more.

  “Don’t just live. Think about your life. Don’t just read. Think about what you read.” That’s what Harper always tells us. Sometimes I don’t pay much attention to what teachers have to say, but I listen to Harper because I have so much respect for him. So I’m trying to think about Jane Eyre.

  One thing I like about Jane Eyre is that she holds to her principles. In a way I’m doing that too, by staying a virgin until I get married.

  One big way Jane and I are different is that she loved her dead mother. She even loved the aunt who was so mean to her. She didn’t seem to hold any anger toward anyone. She probably wouldn’t have made a good volleyball player.

  I’m reading away, pondering these things, lost in another world, when I hear this loud, peace-shattering yell.

  “LAUREN! LAUREN!”

  I jump to the floor, my heart pounding.

  “What?” I yell, running toward the sound of Tyler’s voice.

  We meet in the hallway.

  “Lauren,” he says, throwing his arms around me and holding me close. “Are you okay?” He is breathing hard, trembling.

  “I’m fine! What’s wrong??”

  “I saw the car. I saw the man. I thought, what if he’d hurt you? What if he’d killed you?”

  Tyler buries his head in my shoulder, slows his breathing, relaxes.

  “God. I was so scared,” he says.

  We sit on the bed and he tells me, “I was coming home from work, maybe a little worried that you were here by yourself, I don’t know. And I saw the car, the red Honda, parked down the street. And the guy in the car was peering at my house, not moving, just watching.

  “I pulled right up next to him and stopped, so I could get a good look inside his car. Like what if he was kidnapping you or something? He seemed startled, then he quickly started the engine and hurried away. But not before I got a really good look at him.”

  “What did he look like?”

  “He looked mean, and menacing. A big black guy with evil eyes.”

  Tyler pauses, shakes his head, then runs the back of his fingers along my cheek.

  “I thought you might be dead.”

  “I didn’t see anything, or hear anything,” I say.

  “You never see or hear anything if you’re reading a book.”

  “I’d have noticed if someone was trying to get in, or was prowling around.”

  “Well, that guy was out there and he was watching this house. That big black guy in his little red Honda.”

  “Why do you keep saying he’s black, like that’s a big deal?”

  “Oh, come on, Lauren. You know the statistics, how many black men are in jail. They had to do something to get there.”

  “I can’t believe you’re saying this! I’m black, you think I’m going to end up in jail?”

  “Lauren! None of this is the point. Some guy is stalking you, and you’re going to get mad at me because I noticed he’s black?”

  “No. Just answer my question. Do you think I’m going to end up in jail?”

  “I’m worried you’re going to end up dead! That’s what’s got me worried . . . Besides, you’re not really black. You’re not even half black.”

  “In this country, any fraction of black is black!”

  I’m crying now, and I don’t even know why, except I can’t believe Tyler’s attitude and I keep thinking about stalking. Someone might be stalking me.

  “Sometimes I don’t get you, Lauren. The thing we’ve got to worry about now is this guy, whatever color he is, who is hanging around, watching you. People don’t usually do that with good intentions, you know?”

  I lean against Tyler’s chest and let the tears come.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “I love you . . . I know you’re not racist.” I wipe at my eyes, and my runny nose. I’m not pretty when I cry but I can’t help it. Tyler holds me tight.

  “I was so scared. I love you so much. Oh, Lauren, what if one of us dies before we make love? I mean really make love. The real way.”

  I sit up straight.

  “You were worried I’d die before we had the total sex thing? I can’t believe you! Is that all in the world you want from me?”

  “You know me better than that, Lauren. God, why do you have to misinterpret everything I say?”

  “Why do you have to keep bringing everything back to sex?”

  Tyler stomps out of the bedroom into the living room. I hear the TV come on. Why are we mad? I don’t even know, exactly. But I feel it, and I feel Tyler’s absence from the room. I open Jane Eyre again and try to concentrate. After reading a chapter and not being able to remember any of it, I go out to the living room and sit next to Tyler.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “I don’t want us to be mad at each other.”

  “I don’t, either,” he says. “But you put me down so bad. You know sex isn’t all I think about. It’s a lot, but it’s not all.”

  “But I want you to love me enough that you’ll wait—you know, that ‘true love waits’ thing.”

  “I know,” he sighs.

  We sit together for a long time, watching TV, or pretending to watch TV, I’m not sure. I’m thinking about the red Honda again.

  “Did you get the license number of the car?” I ask.

  Tyler shakes his head.

  “I only paid attention to the guy. No way will I forget what he looks like. But I missed the license number—didn’t even think about it until the car had turned the corner.”

  Tyler turns all the living room lights out, goes to the window and peeks through the blinds.

  “Nothing out there now,” he says.

  We get some snacks from the kitchen and settle back in front of the TV. I’m pretty sure neither of us is interested, but it’s easier than talking. After a while I go back to the bedroom and read. When Tyler comes in it is late. We sleep side by side, close to each other, but when I try to give him more than a peck, he moves away. In the morning, though, he is cheerful again, and we do what we do, not all that Tyler wants, but what we always do. Then we get up and fix a big batch of bacon and eggs. We take our plates outside and eat on the back steps. Tyler goes once out front to look for the red car, but it’s not there.

  “We should file a report,” he says.

  “But I really don’t want Grams to know I’ve been here this weekend.”

  “Just tell the cops you want it all kept confidential.”

  “Right. L
ike that’s going to happen. Listen, maybe it was all coincidence. Maybe the guy is new in your neighborhood and had a reason to be there.”

  “Yeah. And maybe he’s the San Gabriel Valley Strangler escaped from prison and up to his old tricks. Remember that guy? Stalk a teenaged girl for a while, learn her patterns, and then find her where he knew she’d be alone and kill her.”

  “Tyler,” I gasp. “That scares me!”

  “It scares me, too. You should be scared.”

  Chapter

  12

  October 10, 8:30 p.m.

  Dear Journal,

  I love Tyler so much! He ended up telling me he would stop pressuring me about sex. He said if I was sure I wanted to wait until marriage to have intercourse, he’d be satisfied with “outercourse.” I am so relieved!

  I couldn’t stand to lose him over the sex thing, and I couldn’t stand to go back on my word—the whole thing was making me crazy.

  My grams didn’t call Amber’s house, so Amber didn’t have to lie. I haven’t seen the red Honda around for two days. And I’m all caught up with the Jane Eyre reading assignments and Mr. Snyder gave my Angela’s Ashes back to me. He even said he read it over the weekend and approved of my outside reading. Everything’s so cool right now. — Love, Me.

  I look back over my journal entry, dig out my list of words from Jane Eyre, then work on my writing vocabulary.

  Dear Journal,

  My love for Tyler is indomitable. He told me he agreed that we should wait to have sexual relations until we’re married. All of my worries now are alleviated. I couldn’t bear to have him forsake me over the issue of sexual congress. How dreary my world would be without him, yet how I would have abhorred going back on my word—the whole thing was driving me to despair. But now, I am in a rapture of happiness.

  All is well with my grandmother. Amber didn’t have to tell a falsehood for my sake. The red Honda is gone and my reading goals are accomplished. Happiness and well­being prevail. — Fondest regards, Me.

  Better. Much better. I’m going to keep doing that until I have a vocabulary the size of Webster’s dictionary. After all, that’s what a writer needs—words. Charlotte Bronte sure had a lot of words when she wrote Jane Eyre.

  “Lauren?”

  Grams is standing at my door, a bunch of pamphlets in her hand. Even though it’s my grams’ own house, she never comes into my room unless I invite her. Tyler is right, I have the coolest gramma in the world.

  “Come on in, Grams,” I say, closing my journal.

  She leans against the wall, by my desk, and hands me the pamphlets. I glance at what she’s given me—information from Planned Parenthood about protection from pregnancy and dis­ease—even a pamphlet about abortion.

  “I know I’m old, but I’m not blind,” she says. “I know you and Tyler are . . . close.”

  I leaf through one of the booklets.

  “We got all this stuff in health ed,” I tell her, not making eye contact.

  “It’s good for you to have reference material,” Grams says.

  There’s a diagram of the proper way to put on a condom. I quick close the pamphlet. My hands are all sweaty. I don’t know why. I glance up at Grams. I bet her hands are all sweaty, too.

  “Look, Lauren, this isn’t easy for me. When I was growing up, no adult ever told me about anything. The only words of wisdom related to sex that I got from my mother came the day I married your grampa. Just as she was straightening my wedding veil she got all teary-eyed and told me, ‘I only hope he doesn’t hurt you too much.’”

  “Really?” I say.

  She nods. “I’m sure she meant well. And I meant well with your mother and Claudia. I was much more informative than my mother had been, but it was difficult for me to be entirely forthright. It seemed almost unnatural to be talking with my daughters about such personal things.”

  I flip through another of the pamphlets, this time coming to a diagram of the female reproductive system. Grams looks over my shoulder.

  “I was nearly forty before I knew the names of all those parts,” she says, pointing to the picture.

  “We learn that in school,” I tell her, turning the page, wishing we could change the subject.

  “Well, I want you to be informed,” she tells me. “And I want you to know you can come to me with any question . . .”

  She pauses, then laughs. “I suppose you know more than I do, anyway,” she says.

  I laugh, too, but can think of nothing to say.

  After a while Grams says, “I don’t want to pry into your private life, but I see how important you and Tyler are to each other, and it’s only natural to want to express your love sexually, but if you were to get pregnant . . .”

  “Grams! I decided a long time ago not to have sex until I’m married. Remember?”

  “I remember. But I know a lot can change between fourteen and seventeen . . .”

  Grams gets the look on her face that tells me she’s thinking of Marcia.

  “I’m not my mother!” I shout.

  Grams takes a step back, away from my desk where the pamphlets are spread out.

  “Of course you’re not,” she says, in that calm way she has.

  “Just because my mother messed up doesn’t mean I’m going to!”

  I don’t mean to shout, but I know my words are coming out really loud.

  “Lauren, please . . .”

  Like a fool, I start crying. “I hate how everyone thinks I’ll end up like my mother . . .”

  “Whatever gave you that idea?” Grams says, coming to me and putting her arms around me.

  I sob into her sweatshirt while she holds me close.

  “Lauren, try, oh please, try to see things as they are. Even now you’ve gone farther in school than your mother ever did. She was already addicted by the time she was your age. That’s not you.”

  I look up into my grandmother’s tender face.

  “I’m sorry I yelled at you,” I say, catching my breath, trying to stop crying.

  Grams sits on the bed. “I didn’t mean to insult you by bringing this information to you. I’m not accusing you of anything.”

  “I know,” I say.

  “I’m sure this is an old-fashioned view, but in my experience, sex can be a beautiful thing between people who love each other. If there’s not love, or mutual respect, it can be ugly as death. I trust you not to get involved in something ugly. And I also expect that you and Tyler are doing more than holding hands.”

  “Grams . . .”

  “Yes, Sweetheart?”

  I look away from her. “I’m sorry I lied to you about staying at Amber’s when I was really staying at Tyler’s.”

  “You’re not a very good liar,” Grams says.

  “You knew?”

  “Let’s just say I had a feeling.”

  “Did you check with Amber’s mom or something?”

  “You know me better than that. Any worries I have with you are with you, not Amber’s mom.”

  I nod my head, feeling small that my grams is so straight on with me, and that I lied to her.

  “Are you mad at me?”

  Grams sighs. “I want us always to be honest with each other, Lauren, that’s all.”

  “I won’t lie to you again, Grams. I promise.”

  Grams nods, turns to leave, then changes her mind.

  “Lauren?”

  I look up at her.

  “I’ve been thinking about the talk we had about your anger, and now, tonight, the business about you thinking that you could turn out like your mother . . . Betty was telling me about a psychologist who was very helpful to her grandson and . . .”

  “You think I’m a nut case, don’t you?”

  “No. But I think life can seem overwhelming at times, and it’s good to get help.”

  “Did you ever get help?” I say, all sarcastic.

  “As a matter of fact, I did.”

  She gives me a long look, like she’s not sure whether or not she
wants to say more, then she continues.

  “Shortly after your grampa died, I was so lonely. Claudia had already moved east, and your mother was lost to drugs. I sat in the house with the blinds closed. For days at a time I wouldn’t bother to get out of my bathrobe.”

  I can hardly believe what I’m hearing from my grams, who’s up at six every morning, bouncing around with energy and enthusiasm.

  “Finally Millie sat me down for a long talk, about how there was more to life than feeling sorry for myself, and what would Ray think if he could see me. So I called my doctor, who recommended a psychologist.”

  “And you went?”

  “I went once a week, for about six months.”

  “What did he do?”

  “She. The psychologist was a woman. She helped me figure out why I was so depressed. I thought I was depressed because Ray died so suddenly and I missed him so much. But there was more to it than that.”

  “Did she do tests on you, or hypnotize you, or what?”

  Grams fluffs the pillow on my bed and smooths the spread back over it. She picks at pieces of lint until I wonder if she’s going to answer my questions or not. Finally, after what seems like a long time, she continues.

  “Dr. Pratt and I just talked, but she knew the right questions to ask—questions I’d avoided asking myself.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like how I felt about your mother, and Claudia, and Ray. She helped me see that depression is a kind of anger turned inward.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “I didn’t get it at first, either. But once I did, I wasn’t burdened with grief or depression any more.”

  “But . . . ?”

  “Unconsciously, I was very angry with your mother, for one thing. We’d been the best parents we knew how to be. What went wrong? I’ll never understand it. Why would she even experiment with drugs? She knew better. She threw her life away for what? A quick thrill? . . . I blamed her for Ray’s sudden death. He worried so much about her. She’d been his baby and the thought of her on the streets . . . it was too much for him.”