Dear Adam (14 page)

"I have scars everywhere."

She tried to think of the most unlikely
place. "Do you have them on your knees?"

"Yes."

"How?"

"When I was a boy, I borrowed my friend's
bike. I rode it really fast, but I fainted so I hit a tree."

"You fainted?"

"From hunger. I hadn't eaten in three
days."

"Why?" Eden's voice shook.

"There wasn't any food at home. My father
cared more for cigarettes and drink than groceries." Again, no
emotion. To him it was just a cold fact, from long ago. Or perhaps
he had learned to not care anymore to survive such neglect.

When Eden opened her mouth a choking sound
started to come out, so she closed it again.

"Oh, Adam," she finally said, not knowing
which was greater, her sadness or her anger.

"Your chest," she asked in a whisper, afraid
of what horror he would next reveal. "You said you would tell
me."

"Yes, I did." His voice had changed. No
longer matter of fact, it was now very dark and forbidding. "First,
I want to know what made you ask me that."

Instantly she realized that up until this
point, he had given her answers easily. This one was difficult for
him. Out of everything she had asked, this topic was the most
sensitive. He sounded almost threatening.

"I don't know."

"What I'm about to tell you is for no one's
ears, but yours. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

He cleared his throat.

"Do you remember when I wrote that I left
home when I was 15?"

"Yes."

"I slept on a bench for two weeks. In those
two weeks, I came to realize two things. One - that I needed to
make money. A lot of it. So that I would never be in that situation
again. Second, for me to achieve that, I couldn't do it the usual
way. That's when Marco found me. He took a special interest in me.
Saw my potential. And he taught me about business so that I could
get started on my own."

"You worked for him."

"Not exactly." He paused. "He mentored me. I
worked with him but I've never worked for him. Or anyone. I've
always worked for myself."

“
What kind of business was
he in?”

It was a few beats of silence before Adam
answered. “The kind of business I cannot speak in detail about by
phone. Only in person.”

“
Why?”

“
I think you can figure out
why.” Eden decided not to press. It was clear from Adam’s tone that
in this, he was intractable. From everything he had told her in his
e-mails and tonight’s conversation, she felt sure now that he’d had
a criminal past.

“
Besides the rest of what I
have to tell you will speak for itself.”

It was a moment before he continued.

"Marco had enemies. About nine years ago, I
was with him when we were attacked. He died that day." For the
first time since they started speaking, Eden felt frightened. Of
Adam. His voice was deadly calm yet chilling.

"And I ended up in the hospital. I was as
close to death as I could be. Eight men had to hold me down, I was
in so much pain. One of them, I knocked his front teeth out before
they gave me enough sedatives to calm me down. I owe everything to
Ashraf, the doctor who operated on me. He gave me a new life."

"Those people," he said, again in that same
frightening voice, "Had a picture of me. When I took care of
things, I found it and took it from them."

She didn't want to ask what he meant by took
care of things. His voice had gone so dark, it seemed to blacken
her room, a world away, with cold rage.

"That's when you stopped letting people take
your picture?"

"Yes. Safer that way. Plus," he said his
voice almost normal again. "The flash. I don't like it."

He fell silent. He sounded as if this story
was one he shared rarely, and that the telling of it had drained
him.

“
That's how I got the scar
on my chest. Right above my heart." She heard a rustling sound, as
though at that moment he was touching his scar. "It's faded a bit.
But I'm very self-conscious of it. I always keep it covered. I'm
never without a vest, even when I sleep."

He stopped speaking but she could hear him
quietly exhaling the smoke from his cigarette.

"Does it still give you pain?"

"Sometimes. But I don't know if I imagine it
or if it's real. I'm used to pain."

“
That … part of your life,”
Eden asked, easily slipping into the vague language Adam used, “Is
it over?”

“
Yes,” he replied without
hesitation. “Has been for years now. When I got offered a second
chance, I took it. Turned my back and left it all
behind.”

He coughed, a racking sound.

"Are you sick?"

"It's nothing," he said hastily, showing some
embarrassment, "I'm just getting over a cold."

"You must be chilly."

"It's freezing, yes. It's hot during the day,
then gets very cold at night."

She imagined a man in shadows, all alone, in
a falling down, ancient house.

"I wish I could make you a cup of hot tea,"
she said impulsively. Her glance fell on the plush throw folded at
the edge of her bed. "And wrap you in a blanket."

He was quiet on the other end for a few
moments, as though speechless with surprise. "I've never met anyone
so compulsively maternal. You can't help it at all, can you?"

"What do you mean?" She sat up, irritated
now, remembering his "mother" comments.

"It's not a criticism. Just an observation.
Not only can you not help it, you're quite proud of being a
mother."

"Yes, I'm proud of it. Should I be ashamed?"
she retorted. "And because I want to make you warm, doesn't mean
I'm being maternal. It means I care."

"I know," he said softly. "It's just very
different from most women."

"That can't be true," she protested. "What
kind of women have you been with?" The "whore" comment he had made
earlier made sense now. "Almost every woman I know is nurturing.
It's innate."

"Nurturing, yes," he mused. "But this is more
than that. Like you wrote, it's part of your identity."

Eden's heart started sinking. He just saw her
as a mother. Which means zero romance. He was so masculine, he
thought her concern for his cough indicated that she saw weakness
in him. But he was right. She couldn't help it. Something about
him, despite his confidence and swagger paradoxically triggered the
need to take care of him.

"You don't like being made a fuss of?"

"I didn't say I didn't like it. Women don't
usually respond that way to me."

She detected a note in his voice. That little
boy hiding beneath the deep-voiced, tough exterior. Untold amount
of hurt buried beneath the surface. "The incurable darkness" he had
written about.

"I don't know," she said. "I want to give you
tea because you're coughing. I want to make you warm because you're
cold. And I want to take all your rough edges, all your scars and
..." She cut herself off. She was being presumptuous.

"And erase them," he finished in a voice so
low she could barely hear him.

"Yes."

They were both quiet.

She heard a tinkle, like metal. "Do you wear
jewelry?"

"A silver ring on my right hand. A silver
bracelet on my right wrist. And a silver necklace with a cross
beneath my shirt. Every day."

"A cross?" There was a reverence when he said
the word and the fact that he kept it hidden spoke of something
significant. It wasn't just for adornment.

"Yes. You should know I'm Catholic." He said
it as though he expected her to challenge him. Though she hadn't
speculated on his religion, if she had prior to the conversation,
she would have guessed he'd be an atheist or Protestant because he
was British. The fact that he lived in Italy made even more
sense.

Something occurred to her. “Did you become a
Catholic after you almost died?”

“
Yes.”

“
And that’s why you … left
the business?”

“
I realized that for the
grace of God, I would have died.”

"I’m Catholic too but I'm lapsed. I have
issues with the Church, primarily having to do with the sexual
abuse cover-ups." She still identified as a Catholic even though it
had been years since she's been to mass, to her parents'
distress.

"I have a problem with that too," he admitted
reluctantly.

"But I admire that you have faith," she said,
not wanting to get in a debate with him, at least during their
first talk. "And respect it. For me, I can't support an
organization which protects child molesters."

"I don't either," he said firmly.

"Or won't let women be priests."

"Completely understandable." He sounded as
though he had guessed she would say so and was smiling on the other
end.

"Or condemn homosexuals."

"I don't believe in that."

She smiled. "I'm glad we feel the same
way."

"No," he said, "I don't believe that
homosexuality is normal. Or right. It's unnatural."

For about the third time that night, Eden was
speechless. Her throat had closed again in pain and her eyes
started to well. But this time it was for a very different
reason.

When she could speak, it was with great
sadness. Her voice sounded very small and shaky. "This isn't going
to work, Adam."

"What?"

"Us. I can tell you're the kind of person
with entrenched beliefs. You feel strongly about certain things.
And once you've made up your mind, it's set. Plus, you’re faithful
to your religion, right?"

"Yes."

"Well, I can't be with someone who believes
that homosexuality is wrong."

"Why not?" His voice had risen, as though he
couldn’t believe what he was hearing. She had caught him completely
off-guard.

"Homosexuality is not a choice, Adam! And
even if it was, it's still not a moral issue of right or wrong! Or
a sin!" Her voice was rising but she didn't want to tone it down.
"It's like, it's like," she stammered, cursing herself for lacking
any eloquence. "It's like saying that black people or Jews aren't
human or shit like that."

He made a sound of outrage. "That's not true.
It's not the same thing! Look," he lowered his voice to normal. "We
can disagree. People disagree all the time and stay together."

"This isn't just a simple disagreement, Adam.
This is fundamental to me and to you."

"It isn't fundamental to me."

"But it is to me. It is the core of who I am
and if I was with you, I'd be condoning your beliefs. It goes
against everything I believe in."

He made a sound of frustration. "This is not
the core of who you are. It can't be. And besides, if you were with
me, it wouldn't be condoning my belief about homosexuality."

"It just won't work, Adam. It won't. We would
fight about it and it would eat at me."

"I don't, I don't believe it." He sounded
dazed. "If you do this, if you cut us off - It's for good, do you
understand? I don't like dragging things out. Just say good-bye and
be done with it then." He sounded harsh, closed off. She had hurt
him.

"Okay," she started before he interrupted
her.

"I can't believe it. I've got no choice but
to think that I was wrong about you and that you're a fickle
woman."

"Fickle! You can think whatever you want to
make yourself feel better. But I am not being fickle. I am being
realistic. And being true to myself."

"Listen, so far we've been dancing around
what we mean to each other."

Eden started to deny it, but said nothing
instead. As usual, he was right.

"Don't throw it away just because we have a
difference of opinion. I know a couple who've been married over 20
years, but get them talking about politics and they get in a
horrible row. But they don’t hold it against each other. It can
work. I know it can. We can work."

She was quiet, trying to form the words. She
didn’t know how to say goodbye to him.

“
I want this so much,” she
whispered. She just had to do it. Just tell him she was sorry and
that she wished him well. And once she did, she would never hear
from him again. That much was clear.

She could hear him fuming on the other
end.

They sat in terse silence for a long time,
neither willing to give in to the other, neither willing to let
go.

“
So is this it then?” he
finally said. “I haven’t got all day.”

A stinging retort started to escape her when
suddenly she saw in her mind’s eye a figure lying prone on a
hospital bed, all alone. Broken.

She knew that she would not be saying
goodbye.

“
Alright,” she said,
resigned. "But I want to be clear that I am in opposition to your
stance on homosexuality."

She could hear him breathe a sigh of relief.
After a moment, he replied, his voice back to being composed and
reasonable.

“
Of course. Now if we do
this, you promise it won’t haunt us later?”

“
I can’t promise that. All
I can promise is that I’ll do everything I can to make it work,
despite a fundamental disagreement.”

He made a noise that sounded suspiciously
triumphant.

“
Why am I the only one
conceding?" she asked, very much irritated. "Why can’t
you?”

“
As a matter of fact, this
whole thing has been a concession.”

“
How so?" she challenged.
She felt like she had just been in an emotional tug of war and just
decided to give in and let go.

“
If it had been any other
person, I would have said, “You don’t agree with me? Fuck
off.”

She stared at her iPod as though looking at
him. This was the strangest conversation she had ever had. “It
hasn’t even been a week yet. Do you realize that?” For lack of
anything better to say.