Tell Anna She's Safe (27 page)

She was so enraged she picked up a glass from the table and aimed it at him. It went whizzing past him and smashed against the fridge.

Tim pulled her to her feet again, his hand a vice clamped around her wrists. He held her away from him. “Now cool down.” She didn't see him reach for his can of beer. The next minute, she was gasping as cold sticky liquid came pouring over her head and down her face and shirt.

She kicked at him. “Fuck off!”

“You fuck off!” He held her farther away and poured the rest of the beer over her head.

“There—now you don't need to lay into me anymore. You're all calm and cool.” He shoved her away and stormed out the door.

She picked herself up off the floor and took herself into the bathroom. She turned on the shower and stepped in. Water, beer, and tears ran together down the drain. She peeled off her clothes, item by item, and let them fall in a sodden heap in the bottom of the tub. She wished she could keep peeling off the layers, the layers of self-importance, of self-righteousness. She was disgusted with herself—with her sanctimonious attempts at “improving” Tim, her lame wrist-wringing, her holier-than-thou nit-picking. Who was she fooling? It wasn't Tim's behaviour she couldn't stand. It was herself. She wasn't where she wanted to be, or who she wanted to be. This relationship was supposed to get her there, but it only seemed to be getting her further and further away. None of it made sense. She had chosen to be healed through this relationship but didn't want to accept the medicine she was being given.

She gave a sudden yank on the taps, turning the water from hot to extreme cold and made herself stand under it until she had become a numbed mass of ice.

Dressed in clean dry clothes, her insides warmed by a mug of tea, she swept up the glass and got on her hands and knees to mop up the beer. She deserved to have beer poured over her head. She deserved to be cleaning it up. She couldn't believe she was having these thoughts. The realization hit her with a shock: she was being abused.

She wrung out the rag into the bucket one last time, wincing at her sore wrists. She resolved to let Tim be. Not to react to the things that bugged her. To let him speak and act in his own way. It wasn't his fault if he couldn't speak about the more philosophical things in life; he had never had the luxury of such thought. She would focus on the good things: his affection, his optimism about the money he was going to make, his willingness to help out around the house.

Even more, she resolved to be gentle with herself. That was going to be the hardest of all.

19.

T
RISH AND MARNIE SHARED A
condominium in a high-rise on Queen Elizabeth Drive. The condo was spacious and luxurious, with hardwood floors and floor-to-ceiling windows that offered a panoramic view of the canal and the city beyond.

“Marnie's the reason we can be here,” explained Trish when I admired it. “She works for Nortel.”

We smiled knowingly at each other. The high-tech company was doing exceptionally well.

Trish took me through the living room to her massage and counselling rooms. Next to the modern scarcity of furniture in the living room, these were small, intimate, carpeted rooms. Both were decorated in warm colours, with Native art on the walls and New Age music playing softly, with a mild background hiss, on a tape deck in the massage room. The rooms were warm as Trish was warm. I could imagine Lucy coming here to relax (as much as she was able) and bare her soul in safety. There was a vaguely familiar aroma in the air.

“Shall we sit in here?” asked Trish. She gestured to the couch in the counselling room. “If you can forget it's for counselling, I find it the most comfortable room in the house.”

She bade me sit down while she went off to make a pot of tea.

“What's that scent?” I asked when she came back with a tray. “It's driving me crazy. I can't identify it.”

“It's patchouli,” said Trish with a smile. “I used patchouli massage oil on my last client, and it's still permeating the air. I used to use patchouli on Lucy, too; it has relaxing properties in it.” She set the tray down on the coffee table and poured tea into two mugs and handed me one. Her hands were elegant but looked strong.

I thanked her and cupped my hands around the mug. “That's why it smells familiar then. Lucy sometimes had that aroma around her. And it was in her bathroom too. I never knew what it was.”

Trish smiled again. “It's not that common anymore. It was a sixties thing.”

“Lucy was pretty hyper, wasn't she?” I took a sip of the hot tea.

Trish nodded. “She used to tell me she wished she could sit still for five fidgetless minutes. Her coffee-drinking habit didn't help, but she said it woke up her brain and got the ideas crackling. But it got her body crackling too. She had a love-hate relationship with coffee.” She gave a soft laugh. “I sometimes felt like I was doing battle more with the caffeine in Lucy's veins than with Lucy.”

“The stillest moments she ever had were probably right in the next room, lying on your table.”

“I had to work hard to get her to those moments,” said Trish. She herself sat very still, her hands in her lap. She projected the same aura of serenity as she had at the church.

“Was it….” I hesitated. Now that I was here, it didn't feel right to be asking her about Lucy. It felt like it might be breaking a counsellor's confidence. I looked at her. “I have a zillion questions, but I don't want to put you in a compromising position. I'm not sure what's appropriate to ask, or how much you feel you can tell me.”

Trish nodded. “I've been thinking about that since you called. If Lucy were still alive, it would be an entirely different matter, but under the circumstances … well, I know you knew her and it doesn't feel like you've come here to smell out a sensational story.” She angled her head to one side, looking at me. “And now that you're here, I sense it will help
you
in some way to hear about Lucy. So I don't mind telling you what I can.”

Her words echoed Curtis's. Was my need so obvious? And what was behind it anyway? If asked, I wouldn't be able to explain why it all seemed so urgent to me. “I appreciate that. Though I don't know where to start.”

“What were you just about to ask me?” She picked up her mug and took a sip. Then the mug went back to the coffee table and her hands back into her lap.

I shook my head, trying to think. Then I remembered. “Oh, I was going to ask you whether Lucy's jitteriness got worse towards the end—or even after Tim got out? I guess what I really want to know is what happened in that last year. I've been thinking about how stressful it would be to suddenly be sharing your house—your life—with someone who'd lived so many years in prison.”

Trish was nodding. “It was extremely stressful—for both of them. Tim had no idea how to live in the outside world. And by that time Lucy was so used to living alone it would have been an adjustment for her to live with anyone, let alone someone just out of prison. She had to show him how to do everything, even things like using debit machines and bank machines.”

“I remember Lucy telling me. I hadn't thought about how much technology would have changed by the time he got out.”

“A huge adjustment,” nodded Trish. “For Lucy too. I don't think she realized just how huge it would be. They were on completely different schedules. She had no time to meditate or do yoga, which were the main things she did to centre herself. Tim didn't want her out of his sight. He was so insecure and afraid in those first weeks. And they had to keep the light on in the bedroom for a long time. He hadn't slept in the dark in fifteen years. So that deprived her of sleep.”

I shook my head. “It sounds extremely difficult. For both of them. Did she regret it? Did she ever say?”

Trish smiled. “There's a loaded question. She had
moments
of regretting it, like anyone would. But she also strongly believed—I do too—that they were on a very specific journey together. A journey to healing.”

I'm hell-bent on healing the traumas of my past
.

“She was determined to heal all her fears,” I said.

“Yes, and also determined not to run away this time.”

“She told me she was always the one to break up her relationships. She said it was so she wouldn't be abandoned. And I know she was still seeing Curtis when she met Tim.”

Trish was nodding. “That was her safety valve. But with Tim she realized that running wasn't going to get her anywhere. As difficult as it was. She was determined to stay and work it through.”

“And to get Tim to work through his stuff too?”

“Well, not in a forceful way,” she smiled. “He knew he needed help. I saw him a few times too, as a client.”

“You did? I didn't realize that.”

She nodded. “I can't talk to you about what we talked about, except it probably can't hurt to say he suffered a lot of abuse as a child. And he suffered from bouts of serious depression. He checked himself into the Royal Ottawa once. And he was always threatening to turn himself in to the police. It was very upsetting for Lucy. She thought she was failing to provide him with a safe house while he got back on his feet.”

“What about Lucy—did
she
have a safe house?” I was thinking of the violence, the possibility of abuse.

Trish shook her head. “I suggested she go to a shelter once. But she thought I was betraying her. Since I was also encouraging her to be patient with Tim.” She paused. “They were both going through an intense healing crisis.”

“A healing crisis? What's that? It sounds like a contradiction in terms.”

“It's something that can happen when someone is being healed—or afterwards. The healing may bring up emotions and issues that have been buried deep inside, and the healing brings them to the surface in a sudden way that puts the person into emotional—or sometimes even physical—trauma.” She paused. “I can't discuss the details of Tim's healing but I never meant it to come at Lucy's expense.”

“But it sounds like it was—literally,” I said. “I've heard she was thousands of dollars in debt when she died.” I didn't word it as “fraud.” I wasn't sure how much Trish knew.

She compressed her lips into a sad smile. “Money was a huge issue. Money was very important to Lucy. Her
security
was very important. She suffered from panic attacks—you probably know. She needed to create a safe environment for herself, which meant knowing she had enough money, having a rigid schedule, planning ahead. She didn't like surprises or changes in plans. The two years she spent getting Tim out were an incredible test of that, because she couldn't plan anything—since his parole kept getting denied. She learned to let go a little. It was good for her. The handyman business was an even greater test. It meant she had to put out a certain amount of capital before seeing a return. I felt it was a good test for her, to risk an investment like that. To let go of holding on so tight. As a counsellor, I was there to support her decision. It was unfortunate it never paid off.”

Unfortunate, I mused, wasn't the word.

She seemed to read my mind. “I don't know whether all the money she lost was intentional theft by Tim or not. She was becoming more detached about it. But it was a long time before she got there. The more in debt she got, the more stressed out she got. Tim had no concept of how to handle money.” She sighed. “The last time I saw her it seemed like she was getting closer to being ready to move on, even without the money.”

“And then there was Curtis,” I said.

“Curtis. Yes. He was the other big issue. Tim was very jealous that Lucy was still friends with him. I tried to get her to see that. She was very drawn to Curtis again and Tim was afraid he was going to lose her. That may be why he started hurting her.”

“You mean physically.”

She sighed. “Sometime late in the summer she came to me with a badly sprained ankle. She ended up in the hospital. I did a reiki treatment on her the week after.”

“What
is
reiki anyway?” I asked.

Trish smiled. “It's a healing treatment that originated in Japan. It involves moving the body's energy fields around, replacing the negative energy with positive.”

“But how do you move the energy fields around?”

“With my hands. I hold them just over the body, not touching. It helps with physical healing and can improve your emotional well-being. Lucy responded to the treatment really well.”

“Do you know how she got the injury?”

Trish cocked her head, as if trying to remember. “I don't take notes, but I'm pretty sure they fought about Curtis. She'd been to the Gatineaus. Oh, yes.” She looked at me with a smile. “She'd gone up to your house, actually.”

“
My
house?” I was shaking my head. I hadn't had a visit from Lucy the previous summer.

“Yes, I remember she said you weren't there. I think they were supposed to go to the racetrack or somewhere that day. Lucy hated the noise and dust and the crowds. I think she refused to go at the last minute. They had a big fight and he stormed out of the house. And she went up to your place to find some quiet by the river. You apparently gave her an open invitation to go up and use your dock?”

I looked at her in amazement. “I guess I did. I'd forgotten that.”

*

NO ONE ANSWERED THE DOOR.
She was glad. She didn't want to have to tell Ellen about Tim's antics. She remembered where the path was beside the canoe rack. She made her way down to the river.

Only when she had written out the morning's episode could she relax. She looked out over the river. Absorbed its stillness. There was barely a breath of wind. Even so, there was relief from the city's heat. She was glad she wasn't at the Speedway. She doubted Tim had gone on his own. No doubt there would be another fight about it when she got home. But at least she would be fortified by this hour of stillness. Maybe it would keep her calm even if he lost it. Somehow she had to convince him that her needing time alone didn't mean she was rejecting him. She wondered how much longer she could go on living like this. It was getting claustrophobic. Was this progress? To exchange the fear of open spaces and abandonment for the fear of being smothered and controlled?

She thought back to what Trish had said to her the other day—that her energy was different, better. She found it hard to believe. She was in just as fucked-up a relationship as ever. But her digestion was better too. Tangible proof. So what was different? That she wasn't running away? Wasn't distracting herself with other men to avoid the pain? Was facing it head on?

She sighed. She longed to be alone. She could handle being alone now.

The truth was this relationship was not what she had expected. And the rage she felt about that was stronger than anything Tim could direct at her—raging anger at herself that it might be just another painful, unhealthy, dead-end relationship.

She looked out at the river. Who would have thought a river could be so stagnant. But of course it wasn't. The stillness was an illusion. If she threw a stick into the middle it would get downstream, eventually. And somewhere underneath there were currents. Strong currents. Currents people couldn't see. Currents of forgiveness. They were inside her. Somewhere. For Tim. For herself.

She thought about Ellen and Marc's house up on the hill behind her. Did Ellen feel abandoned when he left her every summer? What kind of relationship was it, anyway, when he was away so much?