Abuse (21 page)

“The most eloquent poet could never express with language the trust, respect, selflessness and adoration as one silent act of love.”

— André Chevalier

~~~

Renata Koreman

André glances up at me and his eyes flash in what appears to be frustration… or muted fury. “Tell me what you are feeling
right now
,” he demands.

I’m used to this “attitude and emotion” game; André’s taught me how to play. For a moment, my thoughts turn inward and I easily reply, “Guilty. Stupid. As if everything is all my fault, and I’m a failure.”

André’s instant grin is bright and wide. The shadows in his eyes disappear as if a noonday sun’s come out from a cloud. I told him the
exact truth
and I also told it
succinctly.
This always pleases him. He pats the couch beside him once more, so I sit down.

“Ma petite
, is it customary for an adult to behave as Grant has done? To share such an intimate act and then to flee without even a simple
au revoir?”

I shake my head.

“For him,
oui, oui,
there was a reason, but
we
do not know it. Nevertheless, people do not typically act in this manner. It could be said to be most unusual. Even irrational, no?”

“Yes,” I have to agree.

He nods his head. “
Bon.
Grant has acted as a crazy man, running away from a generous and beautiful woman.” His dark eyes blaze. “But
you!
You blame yourself for his illogical behavior. Now, I ask you, which of the two of you is acting more irrationally?”

Wow.
There’s an unwelcome, yet spot on idea.

I keep falling back into my old pattern of blaming myself for everything.

André nods when he sees I understand what he’s getting at. His expression becomes grave. “It is a risk, a very great risk to allow you to be Grant Wilkinson’s surrogate,” he says quietly.

His words surprise me.
What risk? What’s he talking about?

André’s lips thin and he shakes his head. “And still, I have done what I have done. But pay attention, if you please,” he says in a deceptively soft tone that holds an undoubted trace of menace. “It can be undone at any time, yes?”

Shit.
My eyes widen and my breath hitches.

He’s talking about taking me off of Grant’s case.

No! I couldn’t bear it!

Everything I have wells up inside of me in a rush of protest, but I manage to keep my mouth shut.

There’s an edge to André’s voice. He has that displeased and all-powerful Dom look in his dark eyes, as if he’d like to discipline me for forgetting that I’d been working in a professional capacity. He’s furious and disappointed. After all this time, and his extensive training, I should be able to control myself better.

“I believe we understand each other?” he asks in a low growl that’s hard as iron. It’s a no-nonsense voice, a tone he rarely uses with me. I find it unnerving as hell.

“Yes, Sir. I’m sorry, Sir.”

The title slips out automatically and I struggle to meet his eyes. I desperately want to avert my gaze in shame. André’s my best friend and he’s literally, my savior. He means more to me than anyone else in the world. But right now he’s my boss, and I’ve let him down.

He dips his head subtly, the tiniest nod, accepting my apology.

I can’t help but consider the manner of it is somewhat regal. I know he’s granting me amnesty—but just this once. He’s the king of his world and I’m merely a pawn. And still, he often treats me with the deference of royalty.

“Renata,” he says, and I withhold a cringe—he rarely calls me by my name. “Listen to me very carefully. I have chosen to place two damaged people together in the hope they may heal each other.”

His eyes glower in sudden, passionate fury. “Regrettably, healing cannot occur unless at least
one
of you can remain rational!”

He stands up to make his point. “You cannot
both
be the client!
Non!
Such can be of no help to either. It is for
you
to be the capable, professional woman I know you are. Your attention
must
be on him!” he raises his arms. “Your focus on him! Listen, look, and learn
from him.”

André’s pissed and I can’t blame him. He’s right. I lost track of why I was there.

When he speaks again, his voice lowers. “Grant is attempting to communicate with everything he does. He wants your help, yes! Even now, when he has run away, it is a cry for help. Every word, every action—all is a valid form of communication.”

Hands locked together behind his back, André strides back and forth in front of me. “You did well this morning. You caused a major reaction. This is very good! Something has changed. Did Grant plan to run? No! I do not doubt he has surprised and embarrassed himself.”

He swings to face me and there is fury in his eyes. “Tell me, if you please. If you take every illogical step he makes personally, who will be there with Grant to help him address his issues? Not the counselor—
non!
For she will be responding to her own triggers! She will be stuck in her own mind, reliving and repeating
her
past in a misguided effort to change it!
This must not be!
Push your own case away while you are with him. Act as the counselor must act.
Be
the counselor! I expect nothing less from the intelligent woman I’ve trained!”

We stare at each other for a long moment.

“I understand, André,” I say meekly. “I screwed up. I see exactly how it happened. I’ll be on guard in the future. I promise.”

I blink, shake my head, and look across the room toward one of André’s French impressionist paintings. I see the picture, but don’t really
see
it. My thoughts are with Grant. I don’t think I’ve ever been as engaged with a client.

My gaze returns to meet André’s dark eyes.

“I wasn’t prepared,” I say. “Grant…surprised me. There’s something about him. I know he was overwhelmed, but he turned my whole world upside-down too.”

André nods. “
Oui, oui,
je comprends très bien
, but as the counselor, you do not have the luxury of reacting. You do not have a heart of stone, and I do not ask you to. Do you imagine that I never fight this battle? That I find it easy, at all times, to remain calm and quiet when a client speaks of atrocities?
Je t'assure,
oh, many, many times I struggle. Why? Because for me also, there is a past.”

“Oh,” I say weakly.

I’ve never once considered this—the idea that André might’ve had a less than perfect childhood. For all I know he’s an orphan as he’s never talked of parents or siblings. The man is always so sensible, wise and well-adjusted. How could I guess he might have triggers of his own?

“If you feel you are responding to your own memories, if you feel you are losing control, excuse yourself as best you can. Come to me and we will address your issues,” he says quietly. “Just remember, your client deserves the best you can be.”

“I will, André.”

“You did not fail when you were with
Monsieur
Wilkinson and for this I am most grateful,” he says in a mollifying tone. “You acted with empathy and love—yes, love!”

My eyes widen in surprise. How does he know about the love thing, when I’ve hardly begun to figure it out myself?

He shrugs a shoulder. “You are naturally caring and compassionate. It makes you a most excellent surrogate,” he explains, answering my question before I ask it.

“Oh.”

“Grant,” he says, “has never known feelings of love from another without treacherous or self-serving strings attached. You gave to him willingly with no other motive than to help.”

I nod because it’s true. Is that what happened? Poor Grant. Maybe that explains my overpowering rush of inexplicable love for the man.

Leaning forward, his dark eyes brighten with sudden curiosity. “You tell me you touched him?” he asks with strong interest. “You caressed the scars?”

“Yes. It seemed the right thing to do.”

Face gleaming with pleasure, he kisses his fingers and flings them outward in a gesture of perfection.
“Magnifique! Ah! Mon Dieu,
I wish I had been there to see it! Our little mouse faced the monster and he was not oh-so monstrous after all. He was very angry, yet under such tenderness, even fury must fade, no?”

I frown. “I never once considered he was mad at me. Isn’t that strange? When I’m usually so frightened by angry people, especially big angry men?”

“But of course! Grant was never angry with
you.
Intuitively, you knew this.” There’s warm approval in his eyes. “This is one of the many things I adore very much about women. They are born with insight and intuition. It is a sensitivity most men lack.”

I don’t know what to say about that, so I say nothing.

André’s brows furrow. “The man dislikes himself. It is a tragedy that with time we shall remedy.” His face lifts suddenly, and he smiles an angelic, self-satisfied grin. “Hate vanishes and walls cannot stand against the strength of love. You disarmed
Monsieur
Wilkinson with kindness,
n’est-ce-pas?
That was very well done.”

“Merci. Merci beaucoup,
André.”

“Il n'est rien de réel que le rêve et l'amour,”
he adds, and cocks a whimsical eyebrow.

I smile when I recognize the quote from the famous French poet, Anna de Noailles:
Nothing is real but dreams and love.
It’s a nice idea, and who knows? Maybe it’s even true.

“One more thing,
ma petite souris.”

“Yes?”

“Together, you have forged a connection,” he says. “Grant is an intelligent man, who has endured much.” His gaze fixes on me. “Have you noticed how those who have suffered, recognize suffering in others? As a man with his own scars, Grant will not be blind to yours.”

Huh.
I hadn’t thought of this.

André nods when he can tell I appreciate what he’s saying. He continues, “Your own issues, at some point
will
affect him—yes! But they must not
negatively
affect him.”

“I understand,” I say.

If we continue to spend time together, Grant will become aware of my circumstances and my past. André expects this. Yet, I can’t allow my problems to mess up his therapeutic journey. I must remain mindful of this.

My thoughts go back to something else André said.
I have chosen to place two damaged people together in the hope they may heal each other
.

What did he mean by that? Was he… could he be…
matchmaking?

We’re both surprised when André’s phone rings.

He takes it from his pocket and checks caller ID. I watch his sensual lips curve up in a slow smile.

“Voilà!
Our lost sheep is calling,” he says, slanting me a playful look. “Me? I am not at all surprised. Do you think
Monsieur
Wilkinson wishes to return to the fold?”

“Courage is being scared to death... and saddling up anyway.”

— John Wayne

~~~

Grant Wilkinson

I stand in the shower of my hotel room, my head bent down under the icy spray, my palms flat against the tiles.

My mind replays my time with Renata, over and over again.

Renata was amazing. Sex with her… well, that wasn’t just sex. That was something else—something I don’t even know the word for. In fact, maybe in all the dictionaries, in all the languages, in the world, there
is
no word for it.

Heaven, exoneration, freedom, connection—reason and purpose for living—all of these things come close to the exhilaration and satisfaction in my heart and soul.

But I screwed up.

I lost it. Why did I panic?

I feel so stupid, embarrassed and ashamed of myself.

In a sudden masochistic impulse, I turn the hot water tap off altogether. The ice-cold water hits my skin in an agony of goose bumps and trembling flesh. I refuse to move or turn the hot water back on. I deserve to suffer for such stupidity.

I wonder if I can manage to freeze myself to death.

Right now, it seems tremendously appealing.

Renata sounded upset. As the elevator door closed, I heard her voice. I was surprised to hear her stutter. Maybe she only stutters when she’s off balance. Well, no wonder. My discourteous behavior would’ve distressed anyone.

Why couldn’t I have stayed and at least said “thank you,” “nice to meet you,” or almost anything? Instead I mumbled something about having to go.

Dumb ass.

It’s not right. I’m pretty sure that’s the crux of the matter. Open, sweet and giving—Renata’s way too good for me. Why couldn’t the sexual therapist have been old and ugly? Someone who’d appreciate a younger man, even if he was damaged and disfigured? Someone less… perfect.

Yet, my thoughts rebel with this idea. I don’t want anyone else. I
want
Renata.

My skin has taken on a slight tinge of blue and my teeth chatter. I turn off the water, resolved with the fact that I’ll live. I dry myself, get dressed and check my phone. To my surprise, there’s a message from André. Why has he called? Is he pissed at me for so rudely running off like that?

Knowing André as I do, I figured he’d shrug indifferently at my boorish behavior, then wait until I called him. He’s told me countless times that our sessions are my choice. Why did he call?

I hit playback and hear Renata’s voice. She clears her throat. “Grant, it’s Renata here.” A long moment passes. “I enjoyed meeting you very much, and would appreciate you returning my call.”

Then she hangs up.

Hm.

Not André, and that pleasant message was fine. Renata doesn’t sound angry or upset with me. In fact, she said she was glad to meet me. I sit down on the bed and stare at the phone. My teeth are still chattering, so I can’t talk to her until I warm up.

I shut my eyes and lay back on my bed, pulling the covers over me. André would tell me to discover what situation or circumstance I’m trying to avoid. Once I found a possible problem, he’d advise me to face up to it.

Ordinarily, I keep away from other people, particularly women. What am I so afraid of? A list of answers comes instantly into my head: Wrecking Renata’s life. Contaminating her. Disgusting her. Hurting her. Ruining her perfection.

André gave me Susan Forward’s book about adult children of incest. They feel dirty, damaged and different. That’s certainly the case with me.

Yet, I felt none of those things when I was actually
with
Renata.

Images of my time with her fill my mind. I see her expression, as her soft fingers trace my scars—so gentle, so kind and moving. The sight of her trembling hands as she slipped out of her robe. Her perfect curvy body. The feel of her wrapped tight around me. The slick heat between her legs. The sight, the smell, the feel and the taste of her. The sound of her sighs, moans and whimpers as they grew louder and louder.

Everything was completely different with her. What did I feel? My mind goes back, seeking to understand until I know the answer: Powerful, euphoric and… most surprisingly, normal.

I felt changed, yet myself—as if maybe that person, that liberated person was the real me. As if everything else is bullshit.

Normal.

I want that feeling back.

I want to be like that all the time.

My teeth have stopped chattering. I’m warmed up. No excuse now. I have to call. I hit speed dial on my phone.

“Bonjour, mon ami.”

“Hello, André?”

“Oui,”
he replies, but he says nothing more.

I called him, so I need to talk first. I know the bastard will happily wait for me to speak forever. The long pause in our conversation seems interminable.

“André, I’m sorry,” I finally say, breaking the silence. “I can’t…I mean… I just…” I blow out a loud exhale of breath. “I freaked out.”

“Do not concern yourself, my friend. All unfolds as it should.”

There’s another long pause while I try to decipher this rather cryptic comment. At least he’s not pissed.

“I’m sorry.”

“Do not be. Of a certainty, it truly is nothing.”

“What… happens now?”

“What happens now will be exactly as you wish, nothing more. You were powerless as a child. As an adult, I wish for you to have all the power you need. You desired to leave earlier today, and this was your choice. I applaud your decision. It was for the best. It is my professional opinion, you are doing very well.”

Very well? Not likely.

My sardonic snicker turns into a full-throated laugh. I don’t know if he’s trying to be funny, but he is.

When André doesn’t say anything, I sigh and ask, “Do you want me to come back?”

“You did not sleep well last night?”

“No.”
I didn’t sleep at all.

“Then I do not wish for you to return today. All is well. Indeed, I was most pleased with the time you spent with your surrogate. You, however, may have a different opinion. Do you wish me to find you another sexual therapist?”

“No,” I snap back instantly.

My reply is instinctive and comes out somewhat harsh. I don’t want to go through all that uncertainty and anxiety with someone else. Also, I liked Renata. I liked her too much, really. Right now, if I’m allowed to keep her as my therapist, I don’t want to let her go.

“
Bon,”
he says calmly, not at all disturbed by my curt reply. “This afternoon and this evening, I suggest for you, physical exercise. Go to the gym; go for a run. Exhaust yourself. After a respectable amount of sleep, write in your journal of your attitudes, emotions and feelings. Go over what happened and observe your behavior today as you have learned to do.”

“OK.”

“You take the supplements and follow my other instructions?”

“To the letter.”

I swear I can hear the pleased smile in his voice. “
C'est bon.
Do you recall our first meeting at the Ghostbar?”

“Of course.”

“I told you that when one wishes to go to the highest floor of a building, they must enter initially from the ground floor, yes? An individual travels from the ground floor to the first floor and so on. This is merely common sense.”

“OK.”

“When it comes to women, conceivably, you should begin with a date. This, for you, is the ground floor. You must become comfortable with conversation, and then? Perhaps hold hands. You do not have experience in dating?”

“No.”

“You spoke to me of second base in high school.”

“Only a few stolen moments in the dark behind the bleachers, André. I never dated.”

“Merde.
Pardonne-moi.
Forgive me. At times I am very stupid. Tomorrow, if it is acceptable, I would like you to take Renata out on a date. Stay with her as long or as short a time as you wish. Ask or answer any questions you wish, avoid any subjects you wish. It is my desire that you enjoy yourself.”

“Sounds good.”

“Très bien.
Go someplace you would like to go. Do something you want to do. Why? We lower the gradient to the most basic of beginnings. You must enter at the ground floor, no? Every day this week, I would like you to spend time with Renata. Learn to accept and enjoy the company of this most beautiful and understanding woman. Can you do this? Do you wish to?”

I draw in a deep breath. “Yes.”

“Very well.”

“Renata will be OK with that?”

“But of course.”

More silence.

“Is Renata still there?”

“Oui, oui
, she is here and wishes to speak with you. Tomorrow, you will not see me for I have another engagement. For now, please make your arrangements with Renata. I will make myself available by phone if there is a problem, but I do not envision a problem. Renata is most capable.”

More silence, a few words spoken in French, and then I hear Renata’s cheerful, musical lilt over the phone. “Hello, Grant?”

“I’m sorry for running out on you,” I manage to say.

“No need to apologize. You’re facing a truckload of childhood shit. That’s hard to do and I admire you for it.”

Her words calm me. I don’t know how to take this unexpected compliment, so I file it away to consider later. There’s another long silence.

“Did I… upset you?”

I hear the sound of a heavy sigh. “Yes. It’s embarrassing to admit, but I was upset.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong.”

She giggles. “Well, you nailed that didn’t you? That’s exactly why I was upset. I figured I must’ve screwed up somehow.”

“No.”

How could she think that? Renata is perfect. My throat goes very dry as I remember the look on her face when she touched my scars.
That
was when she got me
. That
was when she captured my heart and set me free.

“No?” she says.

“You were… great,” I manage to choke out.

“Good. I may be your sexual therapist, but just like everyone else, I have crap of my own to deal with. You need to understand that, Grant.” She snickers. “If you’re looking for perfection, you’d better look in another direction.”

I burst out laughing from her little poem, and it surprises me. Renata’s honest and lighthearted. In admitting she makes mistakes, it makes it easier for me to feel better about my own screw ups.

“I’ll remember that,” I say, grinning.

“Also, I should warn you. Although I have experience and I've got some game, I’m not fully qualified.”

“You coulda fooled me,” I say gruffly.

Man, I really mean that. Something happened when I was with her. My eyes burn and a knot of emotion constricts my throat. I felt separate from the darkness inside of me—for those short eternal moments, she freed me from myself. I’d like to tell her this, but I can’t. I don’t know how.

After a long silence, she says quietly, “Thank you, Grant.”

She’s doing it again. How does she do that? How does she read me so clearly even when we aren’t even in the same room? Renata seems to understand how I feel. And you know what’s really amazing? Despite my vulnerability and an unpleasant sense of exposure—I don’t mind her knowing.

I take down her phone number and we arrange to meet. I’ll pick her up at her home tomorrow morning. I can do this. I know I’ll sleep well tonight because I’m not afraid anymore. I don’t deserve it, but I have Renata to look forward to. André told me to only do what I feel comfortable doing.

A peculiar wave of panic, excitement and exhilaration runs through me.

I’m going to see Renata again tomorrow.