Conflicting Hearts (18 page)

“I never thought that I was rescuing you.” His voice is
defensive. “Besides, you’re a wonderful woman, but you just don’t see your
value. I don’t want anyone else.”

“Okay, I get it, Ian, but in my heart I don’t understand
it.” I hesitate for a moment feeling it shatter in my chest. “I’m sorry, but I
have to go.”

“Rach, keep in touch. Don’t drop off the face of the earth,”
he begs.

“Bye Ian.” I start to cry and end the call. “I love you
too,” I say, looking at the phone. I wish I would have told him.

After a few minutes of struggling whether to call him back,
I lay down my cell phone. Most of what I had written on my cue paper never got
out of my mouth, but a least the important parts did. Frankly, I don’t know how
I’ll handle three months without him.

Suddenly, I feel stupid, like I shot myself in the foot or
something. Second thoughts flood my mind as to the wisdom in this counseling
thing, but my heart tells me that I have to do this.

I go to my computer and click on his page so I can look at
his pictures and blubber. As soon as I do, I see a new comment on my wall.

“I’ll be watching for you in my rearview mirror. Love you
always, sweets, Ian.”

That’s it. I’m back on another crying jag.

Chapter 18

Confronting Demons

It’s been two months since I started therapy, and I feel
like chopped liver. Each time I walk into Dr. Grayson’s office, I see chain
saws and shovels. It’s a damn torture chamber. As soon as I sit down, I wonder
what pain she’ll put me through during the session. It irritates me even
further that I have to pay for this torment!

The process usually starts with the chain saw. Dr. Grayson
pulls that damn cord, and then I hear the roar of the engine and the smell of
gasoline and smoke. She starts with slicing into my mind and bombarding me with
stupid-ass questions.

“Tell me about that.”

“How did that make you feel?

“Why do you think you reacted that way?”

“Have you forgiven your abuser?”

Blah, blah, blah. She stands and knocks on the door where I
have my inner child locked up and demands a conversation with my five-year-old
self. She’s trespassing where I’ve never let another soul, and frankly it just
plain hurts.

When the interrogation ends, she turns to my heart and
attempts to shovel out the shit I’ve buried there. At times, I want to leap to
my feet and say, “fuck this crap” and slam the door on my way out. To my
chagrin, something keeps me tied as if I’m bound in invisible duct tape. I
blame Ian. As soon as that thought is articulated, Dr. Grayson reminds me I
should be doing this for my sake, not his. I hate the woman.

To top it off, it’s been too long since I’ve spoken to Ian,
and I’m dying inside. The out of sight, out of mind torment is keeping me up at
night. I have visions of him slipping away.

Every day I check cars in front of me on the Sunset Highway
looking for his spiffy car. I want to talk to him, but I’m afraid and
vulnerable. He hasn’t posted anything on my page, or his, for that matter,
since the day we parted.

On top of that, I’d really like to get laid, even if I don’t
have an orgasm. Just feeling him being part of who I am would be comforting.
After our last tryst, though, I don’t think he’s going to be too keen on
banging me again for pleasure anytime soon.

To feed my frenzy, I’ve printed out one of his photographs
with his bare chest from his online photo album. I had no guilt whatsoever
using the color printer at the office to do so. I cut it to size and hid it
underneath my mouse pad on my desk. When I’m feeling lonely, I lift the corner
up and drool over him, get lost in his dark eyes, and wonder if I’ll ever seen
him again in the flesh.

Then it happens. I get caught one day gawking at him with
tears in my eyes, and everything turns upside down. Julie catches me in the
act.

“What’s this?” She grabs the picture right from under the
pad. “Ooh, nice picture. Great body.”

Swiftly, I try to snatch the photo back. “Yeah, great body.”
I miss it,
I think to myself.

“I thought that you broke up with him, right?”

“Well,” I say, looking at the image and crying inside.
“We’re taking a break.”

“Let me see that again,” she says, snatching it back.

“Do you mind?” My voice is terse, but she’s staring at the
picture and poking her finger at it.

“I could swear I saw this guy last weekend.”

“Where?” I blurt out. Suddenly, I’m a captive audience.

“At that Italian Restaurant a couple of blocks down on
Fourth. I was there with my boyfriend having dinner.”

She looks at me with a smug look like she’s one up on me
having a date. “Oh, that’s nice.” My scatterbrained answer makes me feel
insecure when I see Julie’s face.

“I don’t know if I should tell you or not.”

“Tell me what?”

“Are you sure you want to hear this?”

“Yes, tell me.” I grab her arm and give it a little squeeze.

“He was having dinner with a really pretty blonde.”

My heart flies out of my chest and plops upon my desk bleeding.
Instantly, I close my eyes and see him with another woman. I’m shocked.

“Were…were they friendly?” My eyes plead for the right
answer.

“Oh, yeah, friendly, all right. I noticed them right away,
because she giggled really loud over something he must have said. I turned and
looked over at their table, and he was holding her hand and smiling.”

My mouth drops open, and I’m devastated. I can’t breathe.
“Excuse me,” I rashly say, rising to my feet.

“I’m sorry, Rachel. Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything.”

My mouth is wired shut. I take the picture away from her and
run off to the ladies’ room. My eyes are stinging with tears. “You fool,” I
berate myself under my breath. “You damn fool.” I knew it would end this way.
It always does. Hurt and rejection.

My hand pushes the restroom door open with a bang, and I run
for the nearest stall and lock myself inside. I head bang against the door as I
lose control over my emotions.

When I hear someone else enter and get into the stall next
to me. I back up to the toilet, lower my pants, and have a seat. I might as
well sit down and get it out of my system. I stay there for a few minutes, numb
and remorseful that I pushed him away. The flushing of the water next to me
reminds me of my life. I’m back in the commode again. After a few minutes, when
the coworker leaves, I’ve made my mind up.

“Screw this,” I mumble. I pull my pants up and open the
door. I look down at my hand and realize my fist has crunched Ian’s picture up
into a little ball. The wastepaper basket beckons, so I throw it in and walk
out the door. There is no way I can continue to look at that picture.

I pass Julie’s desk, and she glances at me, seriously
concerned. As soon as I sit down, she’s back over beside me.

“Listen, Rachel, I’m so sorry. I feel terrible. Maybe you
should call him. It could have been his sister or something and not some new
girlfriend.”

I swallow the lump in my throat. I’m wondering if that
blonde was his ex-wife. “He doesn’t have a sister,” I mutter.

“Oh, well sorry, Rachel.”

Julie returns to her cube, and I sit and stare at my
computer screen. I have a terrible urge to call Ian. The clock ticks closer to
that three-thirty hour when we’ve talked before. My cell phone flies out of my
purse, and I go over to the employee lounge and hit the speed dial for his
number. It rings four times, and I’m trying to decide whether to leave a
message or not. At last he picks up.

“Rachel.”

His caller ID alerted my arrival, no doubt. There is no
excitement in his voice, but rather an awkward tone speaking a name from his
past.

“Ian.”

Silence.

“Is this a bad time?” My voice quivers.

“Um, no. Hold on, while I close my office door.”

I grip the chair in front of me for support. In the
background, I hear a door close. His breathing sounds heavy, and finally he
speaks again.

“Hey, how have you been?”

His half-hearted question stabs me in my heart. My throat
closes, but I try my best to squeak out an answer.

“Fine,” I answer in a high-pitched tone. “Been thinking
about you a lot. How have you been?”

“Uh, busy, as usual. Work, you know.”

Not too busy to go out to dinner with some blonde broad
,
I rail inside
.
“Sorry,” I reply with no emotion. I’m lost for words.

“How are you? You still in counseling?” His tone sounds a
tad more interested in my welfare.

“Yes.”

“Is it helping any with your issues?”

Oh, crap. Now I have issues?
I bite my tongue wanting
to say something snarky, but I don’t. “Yes, seems to be helping.”

“Good, I’m glad to hear that.”

“Can I see you?” I blurt out. The ice beneath my feet is thin,
and I hold my breath waiting to fall into the cold waters.

“Uh, yeah, maybe. I’ve got a pretty busy schedule this
week.” His lackadaisical answer sucks.

“You don’t sound very keen on getting together.” Even I
surprise myself as the words come out of my mouth. I hear a deadly silence at
the other end of the line. “I guess that answers my question.” I’m about to end
the call when he speaks.

“No, it’s not that. It’s just things going on in my life
right now. Kind of bad timing.”

“Well, I don’t want to pressure you, Ian. Maybe all this
time apart has cooled us both off. I understand. I should leave you alone.”

“How about Thursday night? I could have a quick drink with
you after work. We probably should talk.”

Now I don’t know what to say. It’s obvious what the talk
will be about. Nice knowing you. You’re too screwed up to be bothered with.
I’ve found a normal, beautiful woman, and I’m moving on. I can hardly bring
myself to agree to meet him, because I already feel the pain of rejection
inside my heart.

“Having second thoughts?” he asks. My silence must have
gotten to him, because I hear a pang of sadness in his voice.

“No, just afraid to see you.” I might as well admit what I’m
feeling.

“If you’re not ready…”

“No, Ian. After work Thursday is fine. Meet you in the lobby
of my building?”

“Sure. Like old times when we first met.”

“Yes, like old times. See you then.”

I don’t wait for him to say anything else. The call ends,
and I look down at my hand. My poor fingernails are bent from grabbing the back
of the chair. Instead of going back to my desk, I pull the chair out and sit
down. My head buries itself in my palms as I contemplate our meeting. It’s too
much to handle alone, so I call Dr. Grayson.

“You’ve reached…”  Blah, blah, blah, the message plays.
“It’s Rachel. I need to talk to you ASAP. I’m losing it.”

My voice cracks. I end the call, and lower my head upon the
table and try to control the feeling of being out of control.
Being a woman
sucks. I wish that I had been born a man,
I complain to myself. Men always
have the upper hand in every situation. Whatever he says, I’ll be at his mercy,
whether I like it or not.

* * * *

Dr. Grayson hands me the box of tissues and patiently waits
for me to blow my nose. “I feel so stupid,” I growl.

“Why?”

“I should have known this would happen!”

“I don’t think you know anything at this point, Rachel,
except that you’re having a drink with him Thursday night.”

“Yeah, he’s so nice he’s going to dump me face-to-face. He’s
not the telephone, text, or email type. Always treating me with kindness.”

A sly smile curls her lips, she looks down, and jots
something on that damn notepad of hers. She probably penning, “
Patient
doesn’t have the ability to receive courteous treatment.”
She lifts her
eyes and looks at me after my snide remark.

“Is that another conjecture on your part, or something
you’ve realized on your own?”

“He’s a man. Men leave me. Men hurt me. Men use me.”

“You must not think very highly of Ian then, if you think
he’s another one in a long line of abusers.”

Now, I feel like a fool. I inhale a deep breath. “I think
very highly of him.”

“Why?”

“Because he is the only man who has ever treated me with
respect, except for that one night when I asked him to be someone he wasn’t.”

“Don’t you think you should give him the benefit of the
doubt that he intends to continue that kind treatment, no matter what he has to
talk to you about?”

My lips pull off to the side while I feel self-conscious
over my overreacting. “You’re right. I’m sure if he’s found someone else, he
will tell me kindly, and probably apologize profusely while doing it.”

“Have you thought about how you’ll handle that, if he does
have someone else?”

“Oh, probably crawl under the table, grab his legs, and beg
for him not to go.”

“You don’t really mean that, do you, Rachel?”

She narrows her eyes at me and scowls. It reminds me of my
mother scolding me as a child. I sit and think about how pathetic I would look
if I did act out. It will justify his need to leave the crazy lady behind, and
I don’t want him to see me being unstable.

“No. I want to be mature about it. Wish him the best of
luck, and leave like a gracious woman. Then I’ll go home and cry in private.”

“You know what the right thing to do is, and I have faith in
you that you’ll be strong, no matter what the outcome.”

“I am not confident right now, Dr. Grayson. I’m beginning to
think I should give up this counseling gig and forget about it. I was happier
with my cat. Now that I realize how much I love Ian, I’m miserable.”

“I don’t think you really want to give it up, Rachel.
Frankly, I think your love for this man inspired you to return and get help.
You’ve come to a point of wanting a healthy relationship with a healthy man. In
the end, it may not be him that you end up with. If it isn’t, by the time you
meet Mr. Right, you’ll be ready to be loved and love in return.”

She’s a freaking romantic pie-in-the-sky person, and I know
it. “You’re just saying that so I’ll come back next week.”

“Well, I hope you do. I’ll be interested in finding out what
happened when you have your drink with Ian.”

“My Coke, you mean.”

“I hope so. Alcohol and—”

“Anti-depressants don’t mix. Yeah, I know.”

She smiles, and so do I.