Rotten Peaches

by Lisa de Nikolits

  I opened the front door and I heard music playing, some schmaltzy song from the fifties and I expected to see my mother sitting next to the record player daydreaming when she should have been vacuuming. But instead I saw my parents slow dancing and my father had his eyes shut and my mother was holding him gently and they were swaying in time to the song.

  I met my mother’s eye and her expression was clear. I closed the front door quietly and crept up the stairs, foregoing my hot water bottle.

  “You and Dad do that often?” I asked later and I could see my mother weighing up the decision whether or not to answer me.

  “It makes him happy. Your father gets the blues you know. He always has.”

  I jerk forward in my chair. “My mother said that my father got the blues, he always had. I never knew that. I just thought he was mean. I never forgave him for making me feel humiliated and I wanted to punish him for what he said.”

  “What did he say?”

  “That I was a dirty little girl.” I take a deep breath and I tell Gerstein about the episode in the woods and therapist nods.

  “That would have been extremely damaging,” she says when I come to the end. “That was unspeakably cruel of him.”

  My eyes flood with tears. “Thank you. I guess, all these years, I wanted somebody to say that. I was so afraid that instead, I’d be told that I was a filthy, disgusting little thing, just like my father said. So, thank you.”

  I blow my nose, wanting to move the conversation away from my father, just in case she wants to explore my emotions about his death, which isn’t a good idea. I don’t want to talk about my mother either.

  “I’m going to be okay,” I say. “I need to learn to communicate better with Dave, I know that. And I need to learn to be more demonstrative. It’s JayRay. He derailed me.”

  “Obsessive love can do that. But, a word of warning. He may not be done with you yet. What you two had was too intense to fade away without some kind of comeback. How does it make you feel, me telling you there still may be hope?”

  “Afraid. I worry I won’t be able to resist him, and I can’t afford to let him back. He’s as toxic as a deadly poison, as lethal. And I know my chemistry.”

  “We’ll equip you with some coping tools,” Gerstein says, and her confidence cheers me up. “Then when he tries his tricks again, you’ll be armed and ready. You’ll have weapons to protect you.”

  “Sounds great!” I’m optimistic. I lean forward. “Let’s visit the armoury, shall we?”

  26.

  IT DOESN’T TAKE LONG TO ARM ME, according to Gerstein anyway. “The first step is awareness. Have you ever had a food addiction? Something you craved, every day?”

  “Not me but a friend of mine had a thing for Cool Whip. She’d buy a can every day on the way home and eat the whole thing. Just Cool Whip, nothing else, piled up like a fluffy cloud in a bowl. And she couldn’t stop. She wanted to but she couldn’t.”

  “Excellent. Not for your friend obviously, but helpful as an example for you. I want you to imagine that JayRay is a can of Cool Whip and you are your friend. And yet, you are also you, and you can see how craving a can of Cool Whip a day isn’t good for you.”

  “Got it.”

  “The first thing you do is notice the craving. Awareness; I am craving JayRay. And then you imagine JayRay with a can of Cool Whip in his hand. JayRay is like the Cool Whip. Now imagine eating a bowl full of Cool Whip. Awful, right? That way, he’ll become negatively associated with Cool Whip, a thing you don’t like, a thing which you know isn’t good for you, a thing which, in excess, will make you sick. And, once you’re at that stage, you pick up your next weapon, which is distraction.”

  “Distract myself how? I’m telling you now, my thoughts will swing back to him.”

  “The mind is like that. We each have as many as fifty to seventy thousand thoughts a day. That’s thirty five to forty eight thoughts a minute. We don’t have an exact count for repeat thoughts, but a high percentage of our thoughts are repeats. Very few of them are new. You don’t have to have new thoughts instead of JayRay thoughts, you can think of anything. Think about work. Or maybe make a grocery list. Or plan something fun you want to do with the kids. Find a new hobby or have a selection of books or magazines that you are reading and think about something you have read in one of them. You need to divert your thoughts and I’m not saying it will be easy. You have to keep at it. It’s like anything in life, nothing comes fully formed the first time you do it, you have to work at it. And your brain and your heart and your mind are in the habit of thinking about him. We all know how hard it is to break even the most simple of habits. So, awareness is the first step. Distraction is the second.”

  “And then?”

  “Breathe. I know it sounds simple, but think about your actions and before you do anything, stop and breathe. Before you do anything, before you turn on a kettle, or pick up the phone, or take any action at all, breathe. Because, be aware and be warned, the smallest action can lead to the biggest disaster. Let’s use an example. Let’s say JayRay texts you. And let’s say he asks, You free for a quick coffee? It’s just coffee and it’s just a text, but the consequence of engaging will most certainly result in the loss of your marriage and the loss of your family. Therefore, breathe and don’t do anything before you list the consequences to yourself. Tell yourself, I will lose everything that matters to me. And it does matter to you, or you wouldn’t be here now.”

  “The smallest thing can lead to the biggest disaster.” I echo. “You’re right. Yes. Okay. JayRay holds the Cool Whip. Cool Whip in a bowl. I will lose everything. Distract my thoughts by focusing on other things. Breathe, don’t do anything, don’t reply, don’t respond. Anything else?”

  “Yes, there’s more but you’ve got a lot to deal with so this will do for now. Do your best and be on your guard. Men like JayRay are more like heroin than Cool Whip. Be careful.”

  “I will, but I’ll be okay. Besides he’s still a newlywed, in love with Iris’s money and not interested in me. I don’t think he will come back, and yes, there’s a part of me that does want him back. A part of me thinks fuck the consequences. I want him to the exclusion of everything else, but I know rationally that I will lose any real chance of happiness if I give into that.”

  “Don’t be hard on yourself for still wanting him. Try not to judge yourself. Don’t accuse and condemn yourself because you want him. We’re not responsible for that which we desire. Don’t see yourself as a failure for it.”

  I exhale and slump into my chair with relief. “I thought that after I told you how nasty he is, that you’d ask me why I’d even want him. I thought you were going to be impatient with me like we’ve resolved this, why haven’t I learned my lesson properly?”

  “No, that would be the voice you learned from your father, the nasty judgmental voice telling you that you are a dirty little girl. That’s not your voice and it doesn’t have to be any voice at all. You can learn methods that will help you to shrug off that internal narrative. You’re not dirty or bad or wrong for loving JayRay. But he will destroy the good in your life, and that’s why we need to focus on extricating him from your life.”

  A double-session and we are out of time. “I’ll see you when I get back,” I say.

  “Text me if you need to,” Gerstein says. “I mean that. You’re not alone in this. You’ll be okay, you can do it.”

  I feel happy after that appointment, confident. There’s hope for me. I say that to myself but I know I’m lying. Gerstein doesn’t know the full truth but of course, I do.

  She doesn’t know how I, at thirteen, flirted quietly and relentlessly with my teacher, a man in his mid-thirties, a man with a young family and good standing in the community. She doesn’t know how I set my sights on this man, forcing him to stay in the classroom alone with me, on the pretext of needing extra math help. Which is a laugh, since I
was shit-hot when it came to math and science, I could have taught the classes myself. She doesn’t know how I started to touch him, slowly seducing him, just to prove to myself that I could have anybody I wanted. And then, once I had him, his morals destroyed by his love for me and his belief that I too loved him, I made sure that we were found together, my blouse unbuttoned, my already full breasts on display, and my flimsy panties on the floor. Oh, the disgrace for the poor man. We were found by the religious studies teacher, a hate-filled spinster whose life had passed her by without so much as a how-do. She chewed on the scandal like a yard dog gnawing a piece of gristle until the teacher was sent off to serve his one-year jail sentence. His wife stood by her man for all of four months, following which she fled back to Kamloops, B.C., her hometown, taking their kids with her.

  This is why my mother rejected me. When I came home, the day Mr. Carlson and I were discovered together, she sat me down at the kitchen table. She stared at me and I met her gaze with steady calm.

  “To look at you,” she said, “one would assume all things good and innocent. So pretty.” She picked up the salt shaker and pushed it to and fro on the table, like a chess piece. “And,” she continued, “I tried to have faith in you. But this? Do you realize what you have done?” She slammed the salt shaker down on the table so hard I jumped. “You have ruined things!” she screamed. “You have ruined my place on the community board, you have ruined my standing in the town. No longer can I show my face. Because what kind of mother brings up a child to do what you did?”

  “It was him,” I began, “he made me do things—”

  “NO!” she screamed. I had never heard my mother raise her voice and something triumphant rose up in my chest and spread its wings. I had provoked this reaction — her anger was my creation. And I felt proud in that moment, proud that I had finally managed to catch her attention. This is what it took, to get a reaction out of her. Sure, she’d help me clean up on that shit-covered day and she’d sent my father to fix things between us but apart from that, it was like I had never existed. She and my father only lived for each other. I was a miscellaneous byproduct, like a side effect indicated in a medication warning list. Possible side effects of marriage could produce unwanted offspring with lasting negative impact on harmonious marital relations. That was me. But I’d finally forced my mother to say the things she never wanted to say. The cards were on the table, there was no turning back.

  “You!” she shouted. “I know it was you. You, Leonie. I’ve watched you. Do you think I didn’t notice? Your small plays for attention, consequences be damned. Even in gradeschool, you were a troublemaker. I was called in, do you know that? Leonie is a shit-disturber.” My mother’s soap-washed mouth pursed as if she had trouble even saying the word shit. “That’s exactly what one of the teachers said to me. She apologized for her language and she said, “I have to be blunt, Leonie is a shit-disturber. She causes the children to turn on one another.” To which I replied, ‘I could report you for using inappropriate language like that about my child.’ But I knew what she said was true and so I asked her, ‘And if she does that, what can be done about it?’ And she and I looked at one another, knowing full well there was nothing to be done. And for many years I hoped she had been wrong. I hoped your father had been wrong. I watched you and tried to steer you in the right direction. But now this. This terrible thing. And you know the worst of it? We cannot fix it. I can’t stand up and tell the world that Don Carlson is a good man, a victim, and that the villain is my thirteen-year-old sociopathic daughter.”

  She looked at me and I controlled my desire to smile. What would my father think of his “dirty little girl” now? The power was glorious. The damage I had done!

  And my mother knew what I was thinking and how I felt. “You are dead to me,” she said and she held the salt shaker upside down and we watched the white grains spill onto the table in a small heap. “To all outward appearances, I will do what needs to be done as a mother. But know that I know the truth about you, and I will never forgive you for what you have done. Never mind Don. You have ruined me and everything I have stood for.” She stood up and with one swift move, she swept the salt off the table, her gesture of disgust and dismissal a seal upon her vow.

  She left the house and I heard her car speeding down the driveway as if she couldn’t rush away from me quickly enough. I sat at the table for a while and the glorious feeling inside of me dimmed, the red heart fading inside a dying coal. I tried to breathe on the memory and stir the ember to life, recapture the fiery satisfaction of my victory, but all I could taste were cold, filthy ashes and the silence of being left utterly alone.

  And, a couple of days later as I set up my stall at The Rocky Mountain Best Gift Show, I’m as alone as the tree that fell silently in the forest, the tree that no one heard or cared about.

  I cannot live with the consequences of destroying my life with my family. They are the only good thing I have. Even although Gerstein doesn’t know the full truth of how damaged I am, perhaps her advice will help me stay afloat. I can change. People can change, I have to believe that.

  JayRay has yet to arrive and I try not to listen for his voice. I try not to be aware of every single person who enters the conference hall who isn’t him.

  Sandi waves to me and I grin back. At least I have Sandi.

  The day passes uneventfully but I know the moment JayRay arrives. He’s still one aisle over but his voice loud and clear and I break out in a sweat. Breathe, breathe. I listen for his deep laugh and his easy banter and the minute the clock signals the day’s end, I pack up and shoot out of the conference hall.

  I journal furiously throughout the day, using a notebook and pen I stole from a vendor who was leaving the circuit. I justified the theft by telling myself that it wasn’t like she needed it any more. I remind myself to tell Gerstein about my stealing; we’ll need to deal with it at some point. But, since the urge to steal increases in direct relation to my anxiety and stress levels, I figure we’re already treating it. Awareness, awareness, it’s all about awareness. I will heal my every ill with awareness.

  That night I closet myself up in my hotel room and I carry on writing. When I look up, three hours have passed and I feel worn out but better.

  I order room service and Skype with the kids and Dave. I have a bath and fall into bed, worn out with having coped so well.

  The next morning, I remind myself that I’m like an alcoholic. I have to see this as the first day of the rest of my life. I can’t for a moment think that I’m all good just because I managed one whole day without having to drug myself senseless or get drunk, even though I did steal the pen and notebook — a minor transgression. This brand-new shiny fucking day means only one thing. I have to start all over again.

  I walk into the breakfast room and there’s JayRay, beaming, holding court, and talking loudly about his honeymoon. Talk about a sucker punch from my sparring partner, life.

  “And it’s not over yet,” he boasts. “That Iris, she’s the best. She’s got more cruises planned for in between the conferences.”

  Bully for JayRay. Fucking fantastic. I fetch a plate of eggs and fruit from the buffet table but the food sticks in my throat and I get up abruptly and leave.

  I find a Starbucks, pick up a muffin and a latte, and head for my stall. I set up for the day, sit down and take out my notebook.

  “Writing your memoirs?” Sandi calls out and I look up and grin.

  “A racy novel based on my life.”

  “Yeah baby, you’re going to make millions and leave me alone in this shit hole of a place.” Sandi leaves her stall and comes over. “Ah, I guess it’s not that bad really. So, how are you, neighbour? We didn’t have the chance to catch up yesterday. You look better than you did at the last carnival.”

  “I am better. Thanks for saving my ass last time.” I find an envelope of cash in my petty cash box. “Here, I saved your share
of the loot for you.”

  But Sandi waves me off. “No, man, that’s what friends do. My mother was a good old hippie gal and she taught me that we look out for our buddies.”

  “Much appreciated.” I put my hands on my hips and look around. “Here we go again, another two days in paradise. But like you say, it’s not so bad.”

  “It’d be better if Mr. I-Married-Iris-Moneybags would shut up. That guy! For some reason the sound of him seems to carry right into my stall.”

  “No, we can all hear him,” I say.

  “Iris is going to land ka-thunk on her ass, you mark my words. Everybody knows about that guy, he’s a scam artist through and through. He pulled a real shit-bag job on a friend of mine. Her husband think’s she cheating, right? Having it on with his best friend in his own house, in his own bed. So, he comes to the show and buys a bunch of cameras and stuff from JayRay. And JayRay’s such a regular stand-up guy that he even installs the equipment for the guy, he goes to his house and everything. Next thing, he’s set up the remote so that he gets a copy of what the video records and he sees my friend having it on with her husband’s best friend. Not that I’m condoning cheating, but my friend’s husband was a real piece of work. And what does JayRay do? He blackmails my friend! He shows her the tape and he blackmails her. She doesn’t have much money, so he works it out so that she pays him what she can every month. It was supposed to be for a year, but it’s already been nearly two. And in return, he wiped the tape clean so the husband didn’t know a thing. JayRay ran a shot of the empty bedroom on a loop. How’s that for disgusting? JayRay doesn’t know that I know her. She came to visit me when we were road-showing in her ’hood and she nearly threw up when she saw JayRay.”

  “Oh my god. Seriously? That’s evil.”

  “That’s JayRay, always in it for the scam. I never liked him. And now Iris is all over him like a rash on a baby’s ass. But watch, that kind of love doesn’t last long. Either he’ll get tired of playing the loving husband toy boy, or she’ll figure him out. Iris isn’t stupid.”