Noology (11 page)

“It’s magnificent,” I murmur in awe.

“Puts our rooftop garden to shame,
doesn’t it?” Tate replies.

I nod a mute reply, unwilling to shatter
the tranquility by speaking. We sit along the water’s edge, and I remove my
restricting boots, dipping a cautious toe in the lake. It’s freezing and my
foot begins to numb, but I enjoy the sensation and relish in my body’s
self-awareness at this moment.

We lean back against the prickly grass,
and I savor its earthy fragrance. Overhead, the sky morphs into billowing forms
as ominous gray clouds congregate. At some point while we were trekking through
the woods, the weather shifted, replacing radiant sunshine with diaphanous
puffs. The refreshing chill breathes life into my corporeal embodiment, and the
tensions ooze from my body, seeping into the moist soil beneath me to frolic
with the worms.

Abruptly, a fat droplet of rain shatters
across my porcelain cheek. I open my mouth, hoping to catch the next one with
my dry tongue. Instead, the floodgates burst and a deluge saturates my clothing
with condensation. I leap up from beside the lake, scrambling to grab my
belongings and pivot to face the trees. Tate snatches my forearm and steers me
in the opposite direction: towards the waterfall. I am puzzled, but trust his
judgment and jog after him. As we reach the foot of the cascade, we duck into a
cavernous recess on the right.

Once insides the vast cave, we collapse
in a puddle of soaking rags on the stone floor. The light from outside
illuminates the entrance of the cavern, but shadows run rampant across the
walls. When I have stopped heaving, I pause to survey my surroundings. The alcove
is smaller than I had originally suspected, and I draw comfort from the fact
that we are obviously the only living beings present (I have already dealt with
spiders today; I don’t need to add bats to my list).
 
  
 
   

Tate rubs his hands together, generating
friction and blowing on them for extra heat. He encloses my hands within his
own, and their warmth spreads through my extremities, finally reaching my core.

“Well, I guess we will just have to wait
out this downpour,” Tate admits, propping his back up against the wall. We
stare out over the inlet, basking in our paradise despite the unscheduled
torrent of rain. It still inspires beauty.
 

“How did you know about this place?” I
ask as curiousity gets the better of me.

“My dad,” Tate recalls. “He used to bring
me here when I was little. He wasn’t always as addicted to the drugs as he is
now. In the past, he used to be able to spend days or even weeks without taking
any vicodin. We would have amazing adventures, exploring unknown regions and
playing make-believe in the depths of the forests. He always relapsed, but
there were moments where I felt truly loved and cherished. I learned to
treasure these rare outings.

“Eventually, the journeys became less
frequent and more sparse. By the time I entered junior high school, we no
longer spent long weekends sauntering through the woods. My dad became more dependant
on the vicodin, and soon he was unable to fight the demons that tempted him.
Instead of one pill every once in a while, he began consuming a bottle a week.
I lost the friend and confidant I once had. The sociable joker. The ardent
supporter. The cheerful role model.”

Tate pauses, and turns towards the wall
in an effort to hide his face as he furiously lashes out at tears that tumble
from his brimming eyes. I am not sure how to respond. I wait patiently for a
sign as to how to proceed. I don’t want to appear callous by changing the
subject, and at the same time I don’t want to pry and prod this sensitive area
if Tate isn’t ready to discuss it. I settle for tenderly stroking his shoulder
in encouragement.

He opens his mouth to speak, then snaps
it shut again. I can read indecisiveness in his features, and give him time to
decide how he wishes to continue. In the mean time, I gaze somberly across the
cavern and observe the heavy raindrops as they skim along the opening. The
rhythmical drumming on the foliage lulls me into a blissful stupor.

“I.. uh.. This is really hard for me,”
Tate rushes. “I haven’t ever talked about my parents. With anyone. I don’t know
if I should. I just feel like it’s a very personal topic, and it’s my cross to
bear. I don’t want to burden anyone else with the stresses I myself am
subjected to on a regular basis.”

“Tate,” I interrupt sharply. “We are best
friends. You need to let me help you carry the weight of this knowledge.
Please, lighten the load and your heart. Let me in. I want to understand the
pain you have gone through.”

“Here goes nothing,” he whispers,
bolstering his courage. “It’s just been really difficult, living with an
addict. He becomes really angry a lot of times, and he takes it out on my mom
and I. It’s not physical abuse, but rather verbal and emotional abuse. You can
only listen to someone who calls you “hopeless” so many times before you have a
choice: either respect myself enough to walk away or believe the awful things
being said about me. Any little thing can set him off, even in the midst of a
pleasant conversation. It’s a mistake to try and discuss anything at length
when he is in an inebriated state, even though a lot of times that is the only
opportunity you have to talk about critical issues. There will be nights when
my mom attempts to ask him about work, and suddenly a mumbled sentence will
launch a tirade of expletives about how she can’t communicate properly. It
makes me sick, and yet I am powerless to stop the barrage of insults.

“And the nights when he doesn’t abuse us
with his sharp tongue and animalistic temper, he stumbles through the house
like a drunkard, leaving chaos and destruction in his wake. Many of my mother’s
priceless heirlooms and our finest dishes have been shattered because of his
clumsiness in this intoxicated state.

“He threatens to leave us on a daily
basis, but these hollow words are entirely empty and devoid of any real
meaning. If I am being brutally honest, sometimes I wish he would leave. At
least then we would have peace and quiet, and I wouldn’t have to worry about
what the future holds for my poor mother.

“The worst part is he never apologizes,
because when the high wears off he no longer remembers the hurtful slurs he
hurled at us. Each morning, we awake in uncertainty, unsure whether he will
begrudge us the supposed transgressions of the previous night. He never does.
It’s like a slate is wiped clean, and we begin yet another day in this vicious
cycle of normality and violence.
 

“I know you have wondered why we never
visited my house as children. Well, in truth I can’t risk having anyone over
because I never know which personality will be home: the genial lug, or the
malicious ogre. Instead, I live a concealed existence where no one can know the
secrets that lie behind closed doors.

“I worry about word getting out. He has a
respectable job at the hospital, and somehow he still manages to do an
excellent job despite this crippling handicap. I don’t know what would happen
to him or to us if anyone found out about the compulsions that haunt him.”

Tate takes a deep, shuttering breath and
I extend my right hand towards his quivering fingers. He grasps it firmly,
giving it a squeeze. My left hand is hovering over my mouth as I fight to
suppress my expression of shock and horror. I had no idea Tate was so tortured
by the actions of his father, and I feel impotent as I try to find a way to
comfort my distressed companion.

“It’s part of the reason I crack so many
jokes and work so hard to be funny all the time. I put on this mask of
joviality in a desperate attempt to conceal the private anguish that I
experience when I am around my parents. It’s as if I can convince myself that I
am a carefree and happy person by behaving like one. I just want to postitvely
impact other peoples’ lives even if all I can do is offer a witty quip or a sly
grin. I know the power a smile or grimace can hold, so why not be positive?”

How can he be thinking so selflessly in
such a sorrowful environment? I ponder. If this is the case, do I even know the
real Tate? Beneath the façade?

“The worst part is I know how depressed
he is and he is driving himself into an early grave, but there is nothing I can
do to stop him.” Here Tate’s voice cracks, and I feel him begin to waver for
the first time. After a moment’s hesitation, he continues but with less resolve
than before. “I feel like I should be able to do something, be something, that
will motivate him to change. I just can’t figure out who. I don’t want to see
him sullen and unhappy, turning to vicodin as a temporary escape. The hardest
thing is realizing that there is nothing I can do to help him; he has to want to
change and get the necessary help to improve his own situation. Thus, my
response has been to separate myself and shut him out. Anything else is too
painful: a constant reminder that I acknowledge his despair yet am unable to
remedy it. I try to detach myself completely, but I can’t forget the joy he is
capable of spreading. I love the part of him I grew up with that cherished and
supported me as a child, and took me on those imaginative adventures. More and
more, the drugs are ripping him apart, leaving a belligerent husk and
destroying the man I once revered. It’s almost too much to bear. Once the
father I love in my heart is gone, I’ll have no choice but to renounce my
paternal ties. Anything less would be detrimental to my own self-esteem and
future success.”

Following this revelation, Tate buries
his head in his hands and releases a bellowing sigh. The tension leaks out of
his pores as he lets go of the crushing burden he has been charged with.
Slowly, he raises his piercing eyes to mine, laden with expectancy.

“I don’t know what to say,” I stammer.
“Tate, no one deserves to go through that. I am so sorry, but I am here to help
you in any way. Let me lighten your load. I can handle it.”

I cross the space between us and secure
him against my chest, murmuring condolences into his cropped hair. After a long
period huddled together, the rain stops and we cautiously step outside the
cave. Before another torrent hits, we gather our belongings and hike back home
with heavy heads but lighter hearts.
 

The rest of the evening passes rather
uneventfully. We all sit down for another meal of vibrant fruits, abrasive
clumps of grain, and limp vegetables. I am distracted the entire time, thinking
of the words exchanged between Tate and I in the cavern. Glancing across the
table, he seems so relaxed and effervescent. It is hard to believe that this
overly vivacious exterior is a façade, constructed to protect a vulnerable
individual that has been exposed to untold abuse and experienced crippling
emotional pains.

“Is everything okay, sweetheart?” my
mother inquires from my right. A concerned expression clouds her face, and she
reaches for my balled fist.

“Yeah. I’m just not that hungry,” I
respond with a weak assurance. “It has been a long day and I just want to sleep
it off.”

“Okay. Your father and I can do the
dishes if you want to head off to bed,” she offers.

“That would be great, mom. I think I just
need to recuperate from spending the afternoon in the rain. I’m sorry I can’t
be more helpful.”

“Nonsense. You just rest up and we will
see you in the morning.”

With this, I push back from the low table
and mumble a few hurried goodnights to the rest of the group. In a daze, I
tentatively ascend the spiraling staircase as conflicting thoughts swirl in my head.

How could I know so much about Tate and
yet be so blind as to the demons that plague him? How could we be such close
friends and yet it took him until now to trust me with this knowledge? What is
it like to be so tormented by the cyclical patterns of a belligerent addict?
What can I do to help him?

I finally make it to the bedroom at the
end of the tapering hall, and I prepare myself for slumber quickly before the
rest of the household retires. As I draw the scrappily patched comforter over
my gaunt shoulders, my mind hurtles at a breakneck pace through various plans
to assist Tate in carrying this crushing burden. Blowing out the flickering
candle with a sharp exhalation, I roll over to face the peeling wall.

Sleep eludes me as I grapple with this
disturbing information about my companion. After a few hours, I hear him
clamber into the top bunk and his breathing slows as he drifts to sleep.
Listening to his gentle snoring, I can’t help but speculate about the dreams
his unconscious is creating, fleshing them out with magnificent creatures and
splendid scenery.

When I finally awaken the next morning,
the sun is aloft in the pristine blue sky. Meadowlarks chirp in joy beyond the
puckered curtains, still drawn tightly shut. Tate is nowhere to be found, and I
shuffle downstairs for breakfast (or lunch).

Selecting a smattering of slender
carrots, I collapse into a fragile wooden chair resting in the secluded kitchen
corner. I begin to pulverize the crisp orange blades between my molars, looking
up to see my father in the doorway.

“Hi Avey,” he croons in his rich and
silky baritone. “How are you, my angel?”