One Way Or Another You Will Pay (2 page)

Bear
is sturdy, wrought iron on the outside, but cotton candy on the inside. A protector by nature, so he is affected when Tom tries to hurt me, even if it’s just verbally.

Me,
I don’t worry about Tom’s threats and I’m not in the least affected by them. I’m more amused at his insults than anything else.

I
mean, victory dance? All those English lessons? Australian
cocks
? Moonshine?

How
can I not chuckle at them?

But,
what alarms me now is that Tom’s sudden cessation of vitriol.

Why?
What the hell is he up to? This is Tom, who talks constantly. Brags. Hell, he even used to talk in his fucking sleep about his prowess!

I’m
so bothered by Tom’s silence; I fabricate an excuse and call his attorney’s office.

“I’ve
had a problem with my post office box recently,” I lie. “So, I’m just checking to see if you have trouble sending …?”

“No,
Ms. Shaw. No letters for you, and nothing returned.”

“O…kay.”

Well, I guess he’s …I don’t know what to guess.

Sleeping
dogs?

****

18 Months Later

13 December

Dear
Arena,

I
have been really ill recently. I’ve had some severe, blinding headaches and have been subjected to a series of tests. Medical tests, that is.

If
I had to guess, I’d say it’s probably nothing serious. My violent headaches could be the results of the concussion I sustained during a recent fight.

During
Exercise Time, two offenders, a serial murderer and an armed robber, for no reason, jumped me and tried to kick the crap out of me.

Of
course, I work out regularly and if you remember, I am incredibly fit, so I let loose on them.

Still,
in spite of that, I received a concussion, a sprained ankle, and some severe bruising on my face and chest.

In
spite of them looking worse than I do, I’m feeling really low right now, and I’m thinking of Warren. It would be really great if I could see him.

I
know you don’t have to, but I would appreciate if you could be kind enough to bring him to see me.

I
miss him so much.

I
miss you too. Two and a half years later, and I still miss you both. In spite of everything.

Guess
I’m more forgiving than I thought.

Anyway,
I’m sorry for my outbursts in my previous letters.

It’s
just prison; it can make a man mad. For a while, I thought I was losing my mind, but I’m okay, just a little blue.

Sincerely,

Tom.

****

What the hell?

Is
this really Tom?

Sounds
…well, it sounds like he’s on some ADHD drug!

Or
he’s genuinely ill.

Partial
lobotomy? (A woman can dream, can’t she?)

Not
only is it eighteen months since I had the pleasure of receiving a venomous letter from him, but he’s writing like we’re fond of each other. Like we’re friends.

No
ranting and raving, no insults about my Australian husband? No mention of my lack of a college education? (Dear Eliza) No reference to the Oxford dictionary or Google?

And
…this is the best part – he
apologizes
!

I
can’t remember Tom apologizing. Maybe he did, but I can’t remember.

I’m
disturbed enough to re-read the letter several times and my conclusion is…WTF?

13
December. Tom’s favorite number since I had him locked up. A numerical passive threat.

Bemused,
I nevertheless do what I always do with Tom’s letters; I tear it up into tiny pieces and throw it in the rubbish bin.

No
use pondering his letter, wasting my precious time on him.

I
have Christmas to think about, and this year, it’s going to be huge.

Right
now, Bear is outside on a ladder, adjusting the hundreds of Christmas lights around our house. He’s like a child when it comes to Christmas and spends hours admiring his lights, scanning for light bulbs that aren’t working or dying, and fixing them so that they outshine the neighbours.

Amy
and Warren, his elves, are equally obsessed with their Christmas lights.

****

13 January

Dear
Arena

Something
terrible has happened. I have been diagnosed with cancer. Bowel cancer.

To
say I was surprised at the diagnosis is an understatement.

After
all, I took good care of myself and always watched my diet. You remember all the healthy foods and antioxidants I consumed, don’t you?

You
used to prepare them just the way I liked them.

I
smile when I think about those wonderful times. Those marvelous weekends when we would spend family time together.

I
remember how you hated Mondays.

Do
you still hate Mondays, Arena?

I
think about other things too when I think about us, but they’re X-rated, if you know what I mean. (Big wink. Really big.)

Anyway,
I’m feeling really grim right now, pretty low actually.

I
don’t fear the cancer. I don’t fear death.

I
just want it to end quickly, that’s all.

But
I constantly think about my son. I would really, really, really like to see him.

Is
it possible for you to bring Warren to see me, please?

I
would really appreciate it if you did.

Regards,

Tom

****

Cancer. Wow!

Maybe
that’s what’s humbled him – his second humble letter.

Cancer.

What do I do now?

I
rush over to my laptop on my kitchen counter and Google bowel cancer.

Colostomy
bag…radiation…chemotherapy…loss of hair…weight loss…crap!

And
I mean
crap
!

Bemused,
I walk into my TV room and flop into a couch. I link my hands behind my head, and as I do, my eyes connect with a large portrait of Sasha on my TV room wall.

We
have photos and portraits of Sasha’s smiling face in just about every room in our house.

She
was a healthy, happy baby, who threw out her arms at complete strangers.

Did
Tom show any mercy to her when
she
was ill?

A
tidal wave of memories, unpleasant ones at that, floods my mind and I shift about in my seat, my breathing becoming erratic.

With
an anguished groan, I jump to my feet, grab the letter, and tear it into a million pieces and throw them in the rubbish bin.

“Go
fuck yourself, you psycho! Die of cancer, I don’t care!”

“Babe?!”

I whirl around to look into Bear’s surprised face. In his arms is thirteen-month-old Savannah. The moment she sees me, she puts her hands out to me and wriggles out of his grasp.

I
take her from Bear and kiss her soft, blonde hair.

Bear’s
eyes dart around the TV room and kitchen. “Who are you talking to?”

I
shake my head.

“Another
one of those letters?”

I
nod.

He
rubs his chin, a look of exasperation on his face. “Insulting again, is he?”

“No,
he’s not, actually. He’s got cancer.”

“Cancer?”
Bear’s head jerks back.

I
nod. “He wants to see Warren.”

Bear
blinks rapidly as he digests this bit of information.

Then
his
eyes fly to Sasha’s portrait. As he looks at her, he shakes his head. “Fuck him!” His eyes glint with anger as he points his index finger at me. “He can die for all I care. And he’s
not
seeing Warren.”

I
nod.

I
mean, Bear’s walked my tragic walk, so he feels everything I do.

Bear’s
right, Tom can go fuck himself.

****

13 March

Dear
Arena

My
cancer treatment is torturous. I am weak and at times, I feel like I have died and come back to life.

I
have seen the Grim Reaper and he’s soulless, I can tell you that much.

In
fact, he never leaves; he just hovers around me like a bat out of hell, waiting for capitulation.

I’m
combative toward him, refusing to surrender, because I want to see my son before I die. I want to make peace with Warren before I leave this earth.

I
think I will go with a smile on my face if I see my son, if I know that my last words to him were, “I love you son and I’m sorry for all I have done.”

If
I don’t see my son, I feel my spirit won’t ever be at ease.

I
want to make peace with you too.

There’s
nothing like dying to bring on clarity. The kind of lucidness you’ve never experienced before.

Sure,
I did wrong but we all do things because of the way we’re wired. Like everyone else, I can’t help the way I am. (As Lady Gaga puts it: I was born this way.)

If
we could, we would change for the better.

(How
do you know Warren isn’t wired like me? Would you stand by him if he’s inherited my demons?)

You’re
the type of person who likes to do the right thing so that you can sleep well at night.

Are
you, Arena? Are you sleeping well knowing that:

a)
I’m in prison for a crime I did not commit and you put me here.

b)
I am dying of cancer. Dying, Arena, dying!

c)
You are able to grant me one last wish, yet you chose not to for whatever reason(s), even though it is a deathbed wish? (Who does that?)

d)
You have turned into a hardened caricature of your former loving self, hardened heart, empty soul. Maybe even as soulless as the Grim Reaper.

e)
You lie to our son that his father does not want him or that his father is not interested in him or whatever – you just lie to your son about me?

The
doctors say I have about three months to live. I really think I will go sooner.

I
shall leave you on that note.

Sleep
tight and don’t let the conscience bite.

Respectfully,

Tom

‘Capitulation’ with no Wikipedia explanation, no spelling it out to me in that famous insulting tone he’s cultivated just for me?

No
PS?

No
PPS?

Wow!
Maybe he really is dying. I take a closer look at the page in my hand. Different handwriting. Curly, lyrical, almost girlish.

My
mind drifts to my mother. She also succumbed to cancer about two years ago. It was terrible watching her fade away.

That’s
what Tom must be going through.

I
cover my eyes with my hands as I struggle to stem my natural instincts – to feel pity for Tom, to care about someone dying of cancer. To care about someone dying of cancer,
alone
and in prison.

Taking
such hard stance or being forced to, does not come easily to me, as I am a nurturer by nature and I find it a chore to
hold
a grudge for long. It’s easier to just forgive. Not
forget
, just forgive.