CHAPTER 17

THE LAST SUPPER

“You don't have to be perfect.
You just have to be WILLING.”

MICAH BLACK LIGHT LAEL

“E LIZABETH!” Chor yelped.

“Yes, Mr. Boogie. How can I serve you, sir?” I’d often answer with sardonic sass when he said my name.

“I need to go to Safeway. Gotta get my food.”

“What? You wanna take me to Paris? Sure, baby,” I teased. I was blowing off steam.

Most of the time I was hearing my name then, it was because he wanted a favor or a ride. He was often effective, though ultimately draining. He didn’t seem to feel the mounting effects of unequal energetic exchanges. Mr. Boogie was not a sustainable crop.

“And hey, can I have that wood panel in the garage that you are not using?”

Somewhere along the way, when our relationship became oh so familiar, I nicknamed him “the Hustler.” He had become a taker more than a giver. And I accepted him in spite of this flaming flaw. Oh, the beauty of love mixed with strange psychological triggers.

The hustler in him synced well with the martyr-mother that ran in my blood. My grandmothers were strong, so strong, too strong. They were well trained to give and give to their husbands, babies, and churches—until their nerves short-circuited, breasts dried up, and bodies broke down. They were self-effacing to the point of being self-erasing. Their personal passions were always the last priorities in the day-to-day business of family life.

I was aware of this ancestral pattern, and I fought to maintain a healthy sense of self. I cultivated rituals of self-care. I clung to my arts for dear life. I remained committed to my big life to-do list. Still, I would often catch myself giving even when I was on empty. I hadn’t yet mastered that balancing act of nurturing self and lover. It was hard for me to say no to my love, even when I really needed to.

I walked over to his desk. He sat hunched over his computer, glowering as he combed over his social media. He’d get so angry about the online politics of followers and likes. He seemed to relish his swear words as he vented, almost foaming at the mouth. He took the game all so personally. His blood pressure and mood depended his numbers on any given day, but it was never enough.

“So...can you take me to Safeway, love?” he said again. “Oh you’re so amazing, yes you are,” he said, with as much sincerity as a wind-up toy.

He didn’t want to own a car, claiming he didn’t need one, but he sure loved to ride in everyone else’s. He also didn’t want to pay the insurance needed to jump behind my wheel; his bad driving record came with a high price. He’d ask me for rides a few times a week when he wasn’t traveling. Once in a while would have been fine, but it had become a steady imposition.

I felt cornered into being the chauffeur in the relationship. I ended up driving for all our errands and dates. I longed to melt into the passenger side at times, but paradoxically, some part of me was relieved to stay in control. It was hard for me to trust him with the big stuff.

So I drove. Again.

We perused the isles at Safeway. This was our first outing since the relapse. Chor was out of heavy withdrawals, and it seemed to be a reasonably low-risk mission, but I’d been so shaken. I was a worried ghost, haunted, barely aware of anything except for Chor. I watched him like a hawk out of the corner of my eye. Would he dart off? Would he swallow a bottle of Robitussin when I wasn’t looking?

He grabbed his chicken nuggets and chips. I grabbed my organic, vegan eats. Though he had often asked me to cook for him, he loathed having to chip in for communal groceries. He complained that my food was too expensive. Good food was something I wasn’t willing to compromise on. “Superfood for superheroes,” I liked to say. So we made peace and simplified things. We just bought separate food.

We made it back to the house alive. Chor collapsed on the couch and chomped on his meal in front of the TV. I prayed over my food and ate slowly—at the table. All separate.

Another night of horror flicks and gloom. I escaped to my room.