by Dave Pelzer
“I may be new here,” Marsha confided, “but I’ve been involved with books all my life. And I gotta tell you, this book is one in a million. I swear to God, I couldn’t put it down. Before I even called you, I believed in this book. With all my heart, I believe in what you are doing.” Raising her voice with excitement, Marsha said, “Do you know how many lives you’re going to change with this? I don’t know you that well, Dave, but I think you’re one incredible person.”
I pressed the phone so hard against my ear that I thought it would bleed. Not being used to compliments, I immediately mocked her. “I bet you say that to all the authors!” A second later, I said, “You believe, I mean, you truly believe I’m doing the right thing?”
After our conversation I sat frozen in my chair. I couldn’t believe my luck. After all these years and endless battles, I was working with someone who had the same values as I did. “She believes!” I said out loud. “Marsha actually believes in me!”
I never intended to cross the relationship between editor and author, but I lost myself as I savored every word of every minute Marsha and I spent on the phone. It was easy for me to become fascinated with her. At the end of editing each page, we would reward ourselves by telling stories and exchanging jokes. I soon became caught up not only in Marsha’s sense of humor, but in her work ethic and her honor. Over time, as she began to tell me about her struggles and disappointments in life, I realized the incredible willpower she had. Marsha never quit. Whenever she applied herself, she gave it her all. We made a pact that we could talk to each other about anything at any time. Marsha became my one true friend.
* * *
Unexpectedly, weeks later after the end of one of our editing sessions, I leaned back in my chair, slowly exhaled as I closed my eyes, and imagined Marsha’s smile and the way she might toss her hair when she laughed. Before I could allow myself any sense of pleasure, I buried my affections. I knew Marsha was way out of my league. She was by far the kindest, most sensitive person I knew, while I was a hyperkinetic geek boy with baggage, hiding my insecurities behind my work and manic sense of humor.
Marsha never gave up on me. Because of the graphic nature of some parts of the book, more than once she broke down and cried on the phone. One day, without thinking, I nearly swallowed the phone as if to get closer to her. “Mar, it’s okay, honey, it’s all right. That was a long time ago. It’s over; it’s over now.” A second after the words slipped out, I backtracked, “Mar, listen, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to . . . I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to seem forward . . . please forget what I just said. Please?”
“It’s okay. Precious,” Marsha sighed, “your book has become my baby. And when someone holds a place in my heart, I protect them. I just wish I could have been there for you. You’re just so precious to me. Please don’t apologize, we’re friends. I’ve been waiting for you to say something to me.”
“I, uh . . .” I paused, thinking of her. “I, uh, just don’t want to hear you cry,” I stammered, still holding back. “I just don’t want you to be sad. Believe me, I’m fine. I don’t want to hurt you, that’s all.”
“Dave, we’ve been working together for some time now. I know what you look like from the back cover of your book, but . . . can you see me?” Marsha whispered.
Hang up the phone! my brain screamed. Before you screw up and say something, hang up! As my grip tightened against the phone, a surge of energy seeped through my heart. “Yeah,” I gasped into the phone—my only lifeline to Marsha. “Sometimes, at night,when everything is still, I’ll walk outside and look up at the stars. . . . I’ll close my eyes . . .” I stopped.
“Dave, please, go on. I know it’s hard. I know you’ve been through a lot with your childhood, all you’re trying to do, your divorce, your son . . . but just say something, say anything. I won’t hurt you. I promise, it’s okay.”
Closing my eyes, I prayed for Marsha to keep talking. Letting out a deep sigh, I said, “Sometimes, at night, before I go to sleep . . . I can see your face. . . .”
We stayed on the phone from nine that evening until three in the morning. Afterward, I strolled out into a swirl of gray fog that had begun to settle in the trees. I knew everything about Marsha, down to the how she breathed. Looking up, I thanked God.
Maybe, I thought to myself, maybe.
Marsha and I began dating on the phone. Four months later, as our friendship and our personal feelings for each other grew stronger, we decided it was time to meet.
I was a nervous wreck the day Marsha was scheduled to fly in. I almost crashed my 4-Runner as I daydreamed about Marsha on the way. Hours later at the airport, I kept readjusting my clothes to look absolutely perfect for her. I felt like a schoolboy on a blind date, fearing she might think I was ugly, or laugh at me if I said the wrong thing. But by far my biggest anxiety was what if, after all our late-night conversations, romantic courtship, and reams of letters and cards we had exchanged, I froze up and never let her get close, just as I had with Patsy? What if I could not break through to how I wanted to feel? For me it was as it always had been: what if I could not open my heart and let Marsha in? I started to panic, and imagined myself fleeing before things became too deep. Part of me wanted to drop the yellow rose I was holding behind my back and run out of the airport terminal. “For God’s sake,” I said to myself, “who are you trying to kid?” With my head bent down, I found myself taking a step backward, then another step. I swallowed hard, thinking that in the end Marsha would understand—she was just too good for me.
As I turned away a sudden shimmer caught my eyes. As the passengers streamed from the terminal gate, one person stood out among the throng of people. Marsha’s alluring eyes and shiny auburn hair almost made me faint. With my mind racing, I imagined myself strolling over to extend my hand to introduce myself properly. I didn’t want to seem too desperate or too forward.
But I threw away my apprehension. To hell with that, I thought to myself.
We awkwardly ran into each other’s open arms. Holding her tight, I could feel Marsha’s heart race. “I can’t believe it,” she cried as tears fell down her face.
Lowering my defenses, I whispered, “Hello, princess.” For a few moments the world stood still. When I finally took a long look at Marsha’s face, rather than kissing her, I closed my eyes and ran my fingers along the side of her face to the base of her neck.
Leaning her face into my hand, she sighed, “Whatever you do, don’t let go.”
“Hardly a chance,” I replied.
Wiping her tears away, Marsha shook her head. “Dave, I’ve dreamed about this day for a long time. Don’t let me go.”
The next several days Marsha and I were inseparable. We spent every waking moment together. While clutching our mugs of coffee, we’d chat outside for hours at a time. As I grew fascinated with her, Marsha seemed to absorb every detail of my life, to the point of insisting to see the summer cabin where I had stayed as a child. Trying to recapture the magic that had captivated me so many years ago as a child, we stood holding each other, watching the sun set beneath the redwood trees as the sky turned from blue to orange. With every passing hour, I found myself stripping away layers of armor that I had worn as my defense from years of internal battle. Marsha became the only person to whom I could bare my soul.
The days passed by too quickly. The day before Marsha had to return home, I began to pull back. For me, the cold reality was that Marsha lived thousands of miles away—with a job, a great family, and a real life. I didn’t want her to become any more entangled in my warped world. As much as every fiber of my being craved to be with her, the only way keep her as a close friend, I thought, was to set her free.
After sitting outside, stirring our coffees that had grown cold in silence, Marsha tossed her hair and asked, “Dave, is it me? Did I get too close?”
With tears beginning to build, I shook my head. “No, it’s not you. It’s just, it’s me,” I stammered before swallowing hard. “I don’t want to hurt you, th
at’s all.”
Reaching out to hold my hand, Marsha probed, “What is it, Dave? What are you so afraid of?”
I clamped my eyes shut. The pressure inside of me was too much for me to hold in any longer. “You!” I fired back. “I’m scared to death of you! I can’t, I can’t even look at you! I can’t do it. I mean, you’re too good, too good for me.” Marsha sat back in her chair, dumbstruck. “For God’s sake, look at you. You’re perfect, a china doll. You’re drop-dead gorgeous! You don’t lie, cheat, or steal. You have no vices. You don’t have a mean streak in your body. You believe in God and in doing your best. You’re educated, you don’t complain or blame others if things don’t turn out. You have no baggage from your past, no skeletons in your closet. Come on. I’m waiting for you to peel off your mask. . . . You’re just too perfect. I know who I am and where I belong. You’re way too good for me. I’m sorry, but I don’t . . . I don’t deserve to be with you.”
“Don’t say that!” Marsha pleaded. “All your life you’ve carried this guilt. Don’t you understand? It’s not your fault! You’re not to blame. I’m an adult. I can take it. I know everything, everything about you, and I’m still here.”
Turning away, I raised my voice at Marsha for the first time. “Don’t you get it? My grandmother hates me, my mother tried to kill me. I drove Patsy to the brink. . . . If you get too close . . . I’ll somehow screw things up for you, too.” With my chest beginning to heave, I murmured, “I’d rather stop before things get too serious and keep you as a friend. I’m just trying to save what we have. You mean that much to me. You’re too important for me to lose. You deserve to be happy, and if you become involved with me—”
“It’s too late. I’m already involved. I know what I’m getting into. I’ve been around the block; I’ve dated plenty of creeps. I’ve never met anyone out there like you. Don’t you see how precious you are to me?”
I shook my head.
“And what about you. Dave? What do you deserve?” Marsha asked me. “My God, all your life you’ve worked your butt off, been taken advantage of; you’ve gotten truckloads of manure thrown at you and you get up, wipe yourself off, and carry on as if nothing happened. You never quit! What about you? You deserve to live a better life. I’ve never seen anybody work as hard as you. Look at how you sacrifice everything for your son. I’ve never seen any parent smother his child with as much love as you do. Okay, you had a bad marriage; but it takes two, two people to ruin something. You were not the only one responsible for the divorce. Maybe you couldn’t love her because she broke your trust. I’m not even going to tell you what I think about her! You’ve been more honorable, forgiving, and self-blaming than you should have. You’re the most broken person I know. What about Dave? When is Dave going to be happy? You deserve, Dave, you deserve to be happy. When is it going to be time for Dave?”
I continued to shake my head. “Some mistakes . . . can never be paid for.”
“It’s her, isn’t it?” Marsha asked. “You can’t stop thinking about her, can you?”
I nodded in agreement. “Every day,” I began, “I try, I really do, but it’s like something pulls me back and I can’t break free—no matter what I do or how hard I try. Sometimes when I’m out there speaking, explaining what happened between Mother and me, it’s like I’m searching, crawling for a fragment of something I could have done, anything to change all that . . . besides Stephen. It’s like, it’s one of the reasons why I’m out there. If I could just find—”
“No!” Marsha broke in. “You’ve got to let her go, it wasn’t your fault that—”
“No. I could have—”
“My God!” Marsha now yelled. “Your mother was nuts! There’s nothing you could have done to stop her!”
With my heart continuing to race, I frantically shook my head. “You’re wrong. I could have . . .”
“Could have done what?” Marsha countered.
“Please,” I begged, “don’t push it. I really don’t want to go there.”
“No! We’re going to confront it!” Marsha demanded. “All you do is give. You’d slit your wrists if you thought it would help someone. Just take a moment and help yourself. I’m here. I’m here for you, honey. There was nothing you could have done.” Marsha leaned closer, to hold me, but before her fingers could touch my shoulders, I pulled away.
“You don’t know, you weren’t there. I could have done something! That’s the worst part of it all. I never said no. I never stood up for myself. Don’t you get it? I could have stopped it. I let it go too far. The day she—she stabbed me, I just stood there, like I was begging for it. My brothers would have never let anything like that happen to them, I could tell by the look in their eyes. But I did. I always did. I swallowed ammonia in front of my dad. When I cleaned the bathroom with that mixture of ammonia and Chlorox my throat was on fire, and all I had to do was dump that stuff down the toilet. I even ate the dog shit when she was in the other room. All I had to do was throw it down the disposal and she’d never know, but I did it, I did everything she wanted. I never stood up for myself. All I had to do was stop her, just one time. Maybe once and that could have changed everything.” A stream of tears began to spatter the wooden deck. “I could have stopped her. I never . . . never said no.”
Marsha began to cry as well. As I covered my face to hide my shame, a wave of anxiety made me slip from my chair and fall forward to the deck. I stayed on my knees as my body shook. “Everyone thinks I’m—I’m so damn courageous for telling my pathetic little tale. Part of me feels like a whore. The truth is, if I’m so brave, why didn’t I have the guts to stop her? I could have left. I had hundreds of chances.” In my mind I envisioned Mother parking her gray station wagon at the local Serramonte Mall. “Whenever she went shopping, when she kept me in the car, my hand would wrap around that door handle . . . sometimes my grip was so tight my entire arm would vibrate. All I had to do was turn the handle, open the door, and walk, just walk away. I could have ended it. It would have all been over. I could have stopped it.” With my eyes clamped shut, I shook my head from side to side, so much so that I could feel myself beginning to pass out.
“Dave,” Marsha cut in, “when you were with Patsy, did you work on your marriage?”
Stopping to look up at her, I shook my head. “Now that I’ve had time to think about it, it was Patsy who really put forth the effort—”
“No!” Marsha boomed, “it’s not just your fault. So, I’m asking: when you were married, did you give it your best?”
“Yeah, I guess so.” I stopped to collect myself. “Sure, I guess so.”
“As a writer, how long did you say it takes you to construct a paragraph?”
“Anywhere from four to maybe six hours. Why?” I asked, feeling intimidated.
Marsha dug further. “Now, don’t think, just answer: Why does it take you so long?” “Because I can’t type, I have no mechanics, because I’m stupid? What are you getting at?”
“No,” Marsha calmly interjected. “Shh, slow down. Tell me, just open up and tell me. Dave. Why?”
I could feel myself about to erupt. “Because . . . I want to do my best, my best in everything I am and do! That’s why!” I shouted.
“As a father, a husband when you were married . . . ?”
“I did my best!” I fired back.
“Flying for the air force, your volunteer work, the way you stack your firewood, fold your shirts, arrange your table when you barbecue dinner . . . ?”
“I try. I try and give everything my all. Stop it!” I begged. “Just let it go.”
“Everything?” Marsha asked in a hushed tone. “You’ve always given everything your all?”
I nodded yes.
“As a son, did you give it your best?”
“Damn straight I did! I always did. The chores, trying to impress her with my work at school, praying every day that I wouldn’t piss her off.”
“And you didn’t quit?” Marsha raised her eyebrows.
“No! I never quit!” I stated with conviction. “I never quit.”
“You told me that when you were in foster care and the air force didn’t want you that it took you years of proving to them that you wanted to fly for them. . . . When you were scammed by that man from Lincoln and left with nothing, you walked away. . . . After everything you’ve been through, why in heaven’s name, why do you push yourself? As a child, Dave, you were a child; why did you . . . ?”
“Because that’s all I had!” I cried. “I got nothing else! It’s all I am! It’s all I’ve ever known. If I quit back then, once, for just a second . . . it could have been all over. I got nothing else, all my life. . . .”
Falling to the deck, Marsha said, “I know, I know, baby, I know.” Reaching over to cradle my head against her chest, she whispered, “You made that choice. Your mother made hers. It’s not your fault. It wasn’t your doing. She gave up on herself a long, long time ago. She quit—on her son, her family, everything she had, she quit. No one could have saved her, least of all her own baby that she treated like an animal. She was a broken woman long before you came into her life. You’ve got to give her up. It’s not your doing. You deserve, Dave, you deserve to be free.”
“I could have—” I protested.
“No!” Marsha shouted. “Tell me, tell yourself, what was the one thing you could have possibly done to prevent her self-destruction?”
“Been a better son? I dunno.” I shook my head. “I just don’t know.”
“You’re a good son now, and you always have been. No matter what happens to us, for your own peace of mind, after all your years of searching, you need to understand, it wasn’t your doing.”
Feeling the pressure beginning to ease, I stammered, “It’s just, I feel my entire—and I mean my entire life, since I was a kid—it’s like I saw everything swirling around me, and somehow I allowed things to take over, to take control of me because I never felt I deserved anything but that. My marriage, the firm in Lincoln, I deserve what I got. That’s why I couldn’t tell Patsy or anyone else. That’s why I tried to bury the dirt; that’s why I eat crap every day of my life. I don’t deserve any better.