If you ever saw how deeply corrupt you really were, all your courage to reform yourself would run away in terror.
JEANNE GUYON
WHEN I EMERGE from the bathroom, eyes swollen and tears spent, at least for the moment, I walk through the bedroom and notice the massage chick left her card and a note tucked into the mirror of my dresser. "Your bill, I assume?"
I pull the card and note from the frame of the mirror and read: Andee, today was on me. Call anytime, I'd love to work with you.
"Thanks for nothing." I crumple the note and stuff it, along with her card, into the pocket of my robe. I go to the living room and stand in front of the plate-glass windows and watch as lights begin to flicker across the city and bay. I look toward Alameda Island and anger, like a herd of charging elephants, crashes through the walls I've constructed.
The view of the island that I determined would remind me where I came from and where I'd never be again, now just agitates. Since the night I told Jason of the rape, the anger has pawed and snorted, and kicked up dust.
Tonight, the stampede rages.
If I hadn't gone home that night . . .
If I'd been stronger, screamed louder, pushed harder . . .
I pound my fists against the thick glass.
Idiot!
Since that fateful night, I determined I'd live strong, scream loud, push hard, demand cooperation, and control circumstances. I'd bully my way through life. And I'd protect myself along the way. Nothing. No one. Would take me down again.
Now, I realize, the one I've bullied the most is myself.
Hot tears run down my cheeks and I pound the glass again and again.
I pushed away what I wanted . . . needed most. I'm an idiot!
I think again of that moment of realization at Gerard's funeral—the moment of recognizing Brigitte's aloneness. Why didn't I learn? No, I was given a glimpse of my future and instead of turning from it and changing, I ran headlong into it.
I turned my anger on myself and sabotaged my life. But not just my own, oh no, I took Jason and his family down with me.
What is wrong with me?
And now, I'm alone.
Who, tonight, is more alone than me?
No one.
I've seen to that.
Brigitte still has Jenna. Under her thumb? Yes, but at least she is a living, breathing presence in her life.
I think of Jason again . . . and the anger turns to an unbearable ache. The lump in my throat burns and my heart shatters like glass. This is the exact pain I've worked so hard to avoid. Yet, the path I forged was a direct route to destruction.
"Idiot!"
Sam hisses from the sofa behind me.
I turn, look at him, and hiss back. "Shut up!" Then I crumple to my knees, my robe spread around me, and I cry. I sob. I fall from my knees and lay facedown on the floor, I turn my head, lay my cheek against the carpet, and soak it with my tears. I pound my fists on the floor and then pull handfuls of the long shag carpet, yanking as hard as I can.
The aching void within screams for attention.
And my soul bleeds.
Nice going, Andee.
After awhile, I quiet.
I lie on the floor and soon I feel Sam's tail brush against my face and then his rough tongue on my cheek as he licks my remaining tears. I roll over on my back and he climbs onto my chest and kneads me with his paws. Then he lies down on my chest and licks my chin.
"Sam, get a grip," I mumble.
He looks at me with those ice blue eyes and begins to purr.
"Seriously, we both really need to get a grip." I bury my hand in his fur and we lie that way until I feel the strength to pull myself up off the floor.
"Way to have a pity party, huh Sam?"
But I know it was more than that. Like a red flag waving, the anger, the tears, the ache of loneliness, they all warn me there are things I need to pay attention to. Finally.
I wander first to the bathroom, where I wash my swollen face. Then to the kitchen, where I start for the espresso maker, but think better of it. Maybe this is my first change. Maybe I need something a little less stimulating. I search my kitchen cabinets and find a box of green antioxidant tea. "That'll do."
I put a mug under the instant hot water spout at my sink, fill it, open the box of tea, and drop a bag into the mug. Then I go sit at my desk. I play with the string on the tea bag, lifting the bag in and out of the water, while I rest my other hand on the computer mouse and watch the screen light up. I pull the tea bag out of the water, wrap the string around it, and squeeze the remaining water into the mug. Then I toss the bag in the wastebasket under my desk. I lift the cup to my lips, take a sip, and . . . spit the tea in an arc of spray across my computer screen and desk. "What is that?" I look into the mug and sniff. "Antioxidant? This'll kill me!" I stomp to the kitchen, dump the contents of the mug down the drain, and head for the espresso maker.
I come back to my desk with a steaming cup of espresso—and a rag to mop up the mess. There's always tomorrow . . . I settle back in, sip my espresso, and stare at the screen on my desk for a long time. Thoughts of Jason continue to nag. I take a deep breath, and this time I force myself to stay with the thoughts.
I recall the thought that came to me like a voice from the cosmos that afternoon in Napa: Jason's a keeper. Hang onto him.
A voice from the cosmos? Or could it have been the voice of God? Like Lightseeker hears? "Yeah, right."
But maybe . . .
What does it matter now? I didn't listen. Hang onto him? No, I betrayed him. I lean my elbows on the desk and put my head in my hands and sigh.
Lightseeker.
I think of her e-mails to me—her willingness to engage. Maybe I'm not alone. Okay, sure, I don't know her, it's not like a real friend, but hey, besides Sam, she may be all I have left.
I lift my head and rest my hand on the mouse again. I move the cursor on the screen to the icon that opens my Internet browser. I tap the icon and then type in the familiar URL: www.iluminar.me. I read her last post:
Loneliness calls my name. It woos me to believe nothing can fill the cavernous void in my soul . . .