Abuse: The Complete Trilogy (20 page)

“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.

Dumbass.

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.

“The meeting
of two personalities is like the contact of two chemical substances: if there
is any reaction, both are transformed.”

― C.G.
Jung

~~~

Renata
Koreman

Grant’s coming to
pick me up this morning at nine. I’m dressed for the outdoors in cut-off jeans,
Nikes and a light blue T-shirt. I even have a hat and sunblock. We’re going
kayaking. I’ve never tried that before, so it should be an adventure.

Anticipation has
my breath coming short. Grant will be here soon. I place my hand on my stomach,
trying to calm the fluttering butterflies. I feel like a teenager experiencing
my first crush.

Mitten rubs
against my legs and stares intently at me. He knows something important is
going on. Cats pick up on everything—they’re psychic like that.

I just
think
of Grant’s savage look of desire, the divine feel of his hard body against mine
and deep within me, and I almost climax. Last night, I masturbated twice while
thinking of
him.
I wouldn't have been able to sleep a wink without that
release of building pressure from nerves and excitement.

Grant’s smoky
blue eyes are beautiful, but they seem so sad. It’s as if he’s seen too much in
life already. I want to chase that sadness away. I want to make him happy.

I wish I
understood what was going on. The best theory I can come up with is I need to
be needed, and Grant needs me. That’s definitely part of what’s happening, but
it’s not the whole truth. The rest of it, I haven't quite figured out.

My friend and
landlord, Diana, is getting in a temp this week. That way, I’ll be available
for the rest of Grant’s vacation. I hope to spend every possible moment with
him.

It’s still early,
yet this morning has already been a day of correspondence.

My grade school
librarian—Mr. Brand—has been on my mind recently; I’m not exactly sure why. I’m
so thankful he was there for me. I’m sure he has no idea of the important part
he played in my life.

Mr. Brand was one
of the few, positive influences during my childhood. He showed me respect and
saw me as a person.

Teachers are like
that, I think. They have the ability to change lives by setting positive
examples of kindness, respect and understanding to the kids they teach. I doubt
if even a small fraction of them have any idea of the wonderful impact they have
on their students.

Yesterday
afternoon I obtained the address and phone number of Santee Elementary School,
where I attended as a child. I phoned and found out Mr. Brand still works
there, but he’s now in the English Literature department. I figure he’s maybe
forty or forty-five years old.

I could’ve
written an email to the school address to be forwarded to him, but I didn’t
want to—not for my first contact.

I wanted
something handwritten; something that showed an effort. So I wrote him an
old-fashioned letter by hand, on André’s best stationary. It's much more
personal and special. He deserves that and more from me.

Dear Mr.
Brand,

I don’t know
if you remember me, but I used to help you in the library for a couple of
years, about ten years ago. I was eleven years old at the time. My name is
Renata Koreman. If you recall a thin, blonde girl who always wore the same
clothes and never spoke, except to occasionally stutter—that was me.

You interacted
with me more than anyone else back then. You’d say, “Thank you, Renata.” Or
“You’re a good girl, Renata.” You didn’t say much, but your smiles and
wholehearted acceptance spoke volumes, warming my heart and giving me hope for
the future.

You must
remember the mousy little girl that used to follow you around endlessly,
offering a pitiful desire to help as much as I could? I look back now and
realize I probably made a pest of myself. It had to be time consuming to teach
me how to do the few small things I could do, rather than simply completing
those tasks yourself.

Yet, you took
time and effort and were always nice. It meant so much to me to feel useful,
wanted and appreciated.

Well, I’m
writing to thank you for your kindness. I must’ve been a weird kid. Let me just
say that my family circumstances were problematic. I rarely felt safe as a
child, but I always felt safe with you in your library. You have no idea what
this meant to the frightened little girl I was.

With the help
of kind, generous and understanding people like yourself, my life is turning
out quite well. So, I find myself sitting here, remembering you, thinking of
you and feeling incredibly grateful.

I’m enclosing
a current photo of me, which might help jog your memory. My phone number and
email address are on the back of this photo.

I very much
hope to hear from you.

Yours in deep
and sincere appreciation,

Renata Koreman

I don’t have a
stamp. I’ll ask Grant to stop by a post office, so I can mail it today. The
thought of meeting Mr. Brand again leaves me with a pleasant tingle of
happiness. I hope to tell him someday, of how I fantasized about marrying him.
I was a kid at the time, so I’m sure that will surprise and amuse him.

Right after I
wrote my letter to Mr. Brand, I received an enthusiastic email from Joshua:

My dearest
Renata,

I know I only
get to write two letters a month, but so much has happened I feel I must write
you immediately. I have so much energy, and I’m bursting with ideas at work. Our
time together has given me new enthusiasm and joy in everything I do.

I never
thought I’d ever need or want a woman in my life. Isn’t that strange?
Consequently, women never came up on my radar. I didn’t notice them. It was as
if I was blind to them. Ha. Ha. (bad joke) But guess what? They’re everywhere!

I want you to
know I’ve asked out a woman and she said yes! Her name is Alice Fredrickson,
and she’s a fellow physicist. I asked one of the men where I work how old she
was. That’s not quite accurate. I told a married colleague, Eric Mann, that
I’ve decided to date. Upon my request, he gave me a list of three names of
available women who work in our building who are of a similar age.

I know age
doesn’t matter, but I considered it best to start with what’s socially expected.
I’m taking Alice out to dinner on Friday night. She generously offered to
drive. Ha. Ha. (another joke). I think she’s more nervous about our date than I
am. How about that? That’s because I’m an experienced man of the world now,
thanks to you. You have no idea what one day with you has done for my
confidence, as well as for how I view the world and my future.

I still think
we’d be good together.

I’m in love
with you, Renata, or at least I feel like I am. I know the way I feel is often
considered first love, or puppy love, but it certainly seems real to me. Love
is the greatest thing in the whole world that can happen to a man. So thank you
for that.

All my love,

Joshua

PS: André
recommended this book to me:
“She Comes First: The thinking man’s guide to
pleasuring a woman.”
I’m reading it right now. You have no idea the things
I’m learning. I’d really like to share them with you sometime! Ha. Ha. (Not
joking).

PPS: Richard
Feynman, a famous quantum physicist said, “Physics is to math what sex is to
masturbation.” I’m here to tell you this is entirely true. Sex with you was a
euphoric cosmic high, similar to (but nothing like!) my joy of physics. I can
never express how grateful I am that you opened my heart, my senses and my soul.
(See how poetic love has made me?)

PPPS: My
father and mother send their love, too. Dad says it was the best money he’s
ever spent. I can only agree. He says he sees my children and his grandchildren
in his future.

I have a wide
grin and a warm wonderful feeling in my heart as I read his letter, but when I
see his comment about grandchildren, I burst into tears.

Joshua’s offered
me undying love and a family.

I tend to be over
emotional when I’m premenstrual and my period is due soon. My tears are both
happy and sad. I’m happy for Joshua, but the thought of babies can make me cry
with a poignant kind of
what-might-have-been
over my little brother
Timmy.

The timing of his
letter is perfect. The universe sometimes has an elegant symmetry. I wrote a
letter to Mr. Brand telling him how grateful I was to have had him in my life
and how he helped me. Immediately, I received a similar letter from Joshua
expressing how grateful he was to me.

From a karmic
point of view, it’s exquisite.

I go to the
bathroom and wash my face. That little cry made me feel better. My emotions
have been building up. It felt good to let them out.

After years of
concealing my every reaction, André has taught me how to express my emotions in
front of others. So much so, that now I sometimes have trouble
hiding
how
I feel. If I told him
he
taught me how to react, he’d disagree. No
matter how fucked up I seemed, André always said I was already perfect.

“
I do not
teach you how to be yourself!” he explained to me once. “Such comes naturally.
You are not lost—only hidden.  In the safety of my home, you are free to find
yourself. In time, you will remember who you are.”

After one more
check in the mirror, I’m pleased to see there’s no evidence of my crying jag.
It came and went quickly.

My thoughts
return to Joshua. He’s so lovely and sincere. He deserves to love and be loved.
I was honored to have shown him the pleasures of sex. The fact I've been
instrumental in him finding his way is fulfilling beyond description. Helping
him makes me feel better about myself, and my place in this world. I can only
hope my letter to Mr. Brand will bring him some of the joy Joshua’s given me.

My phone rings
and I answer. “Hello?”

“Hi, Renata,”
Grant says and I feel a thrill of happiness at his voice. “I’m at the back
entrance of the veterinarian’s office parking lot, knocking on a blue door. Am
I in the right place?”

“Yes, good. I’ll
be right down. Bye.”

I hang up, take a
deep breath and remind myself to stay in the right mindset.
Focus on him. Be
in the present. Be the counselor. This is not about you,
I admonish myself.

But oh, man,
despite all of my good intentions, I can’t help but think this
is
at
least partly about me. The way Grant makes
me feel
is hard to ignore.

Eager and excited,
I run down the stairs and open the door.