with the counselor, Dr. Fuckboy, as Raina called him. Not that it was doing Darren any good. The man baked all the comfort food for a twelve-year-old—cookies and pies and Rice Krispies treats. He was obviously going through some things he didn’t want to share. In a rare moment, Darren had told me that Dr. Fuckboy had tasked him to write a letter to his grandfather about his feelings.
Maybe I should read the letter?
No, it wasn’t right. He needed to process his feelings. But it was so damn hard to go on not knowing what he was thinking or the state of our marriage. And today of all days, I needed my husband.
Just one peek. It won’t hurt. I glanced at the oven timer. Three p.m. He wouldn’t be home for another three hours at least. I had time.
Decision made, I crept down the creaky steps and then clicked on his computer. The black screen turned bright blue, signaling the computer was on. I logged into his email and typed in his predictable password, his name and date of birth. I’m in.
I gripped the mouse. This was wrong. A heaviness settled in my stomach, and something poked at my conscience. But it’d been four months. Four long months of blank stares, no kisses, no comfort.
I had to know. Searching for Dr. Fuckboy’s name, I found an email. The subject line: Letter to my grandfather.
Grandfather Jeff:
I’m writing this letter because I’m at a crossroads in my life. I understand my parents’ death was tough for you. You lost your son, your only child, and on the very same day gained a toddler. I’m sure at the time I was a handful, and I appreciate you and Grandmother taking me in. But sometimes I felt unloved. You wanted me to be seen and not heard. Smacked me when I was a nuisance, and you and Grandmother flew all over the world, without a thought for your grandson.
Were you running away from me? I get it. When I look in the mirror and compare myself to Dad’s picture, I see that I reminded you of your son. But your choices, your decision that it hurt too much to love me, heavily impacted my life. So much that I don’t how to decipher what real love is.
When I was ten years old, my babysitter, Shanti, touched me. No, she raped me. I must accept the fact that no matter how much I thought I loved her, she, being in her twenties, had no business engaging in a sexual relationship with a child.
But then one day, she left and was replaced by Mrs. Grierson. Not a trace of Shanti. Over the years, I’ve often wondered if you really knew or if she felt guilty and decided to leave.
All I know is that I was distraught. The one person who I thought loved and cared for me abandoned me. Just like my parents.
Just like you.
And here I am, twenty years later, and I don’t know what love is. I don’t even know if I love my wife, or if I ever did.
I don’t expect you to acknowledge this letter, but I’m told it’s a step in the right direction. I need to move on. I need to heal.
Sincerely,
Darren
Like a jagged blade, the words on the page stabbed and twisted in my gut. If I didn’t move, it wouldn’t hurt, I illogically reasoned with myself. I clutched the edge of the desk, an effort to not feel for the wound and stanch the blood that I was sure poured from my belly.
Struck mute, I stared at the screen, my attention zeroing in on a particular line. I don’t even know if I love my wife, or if I ever did.
The words stung—no, they burned. Blazed a fiery path through my veins, incinerating my lungs, eviscerating my heart.
Breathe. Think. He’s in pain.
I’m in pain.
Mama. Squeezing my eyes shut, I played the make-believe game I’d done as a kid. I was curled in Mama’s lap, and her candy-cane sweet scent filled the air. My head rested on her bosom, while her soft and sure hands stroked my hair. “What should I do, Mama?”
“Put yourself in his shoes,” Mama whispered.
I knew he had a tenuous relationship with his grandparents. His grandmother had died before we’d met, and Darren rarely spoke to his grandfather. But I never knew about the sexual abuse. My heart hurt for the sad and confused boy that still lived inside him.