Criminal by Proxy, page 23
“Do you mean you don’t love her? ’Cause the difference between me and you is you still have a chance. I tried. I lost my chance. But you, you’ll never know. Unless truly, it was only for you?” June remarked.
Christine paused. “It was for me. It was all about me. It always has been with Terrie. It’s always been me first, my feelings over hers. This was a way for me to dwell on myself one more time. I should burn it.”
“If you feel that way, honey, yes. Let’s burn it. Ashes to ashes,” June said. “No use waiting for something that’s not going to come if it’s not meant to be. You told her what you needed to say, and you are right with yourself. That’s all you need. Burn it.” June took small bites from her meal, wiped the corners of her mouth. “Burn it, honey.”
Christine moved to the end table where she’d hidden the letter. She’d gotten it all out, all her emotions, and hid it forever. She lit a candle in the center of the table and put it over a pan. With one swift dip into the flame, it lit on fire, and charred black appeared, crept, covered all of the letter. She burned her dream about Terrie. The wish, as she blew out the candle, was they were back together, twinkling stars, lovers once again. She burned her delusion that it all had never happened. And, now, she was free.
Chapter Thirty-One
Sent
AFTER IT WAS all over, after the letter burned to ashes, Christine went to sleep, commanding herself to start over. It wasn’t so easy though. When she woke up in the morning, it hadn’t started over. She was still the same person with the same feelings, the same need for Terrie.
She couldn’t settle down that morning. She was on the couch and then moved to the kitchen. Chopping fruit for work lunches, she hummed oldies. She read a book for ten whole minutes. She dusted. It bit at her, her regret over Terrie. Busily, she tried to put the rampant thoughts out of her head and forget. She tried to find a place to lock away her feelings, never return to them. It was not an easy task. As soon as her chest hurt and she exhaled hard, almost weeping about her mistakes, she’d get up and move to something different. She ran away.
As she cleaned, June entered the room. She entered like she had something to say, her mouth almost speaking. And she did. Christine rushed around, moving things into particular places. She couldn’t yet find where everything went. Bookends and tchotchkes had to find permanent homes. She moved the flower vase four times in a week.
“People read my letters.” June blurted out the nonsense while Christine paced. “You never know when people will do that, I guess—unsent letters. They can be the death of you. I had this friend, Marty, in prison, and she cared about me. She was more sprite than me, for sure. Well, she stuck up for me,” June said. “I never wanted anyone to read them. They were my way to figure it all out. It was my way to figure out why I was in prison… Why I accepted where I was. It was all for her cause I loved her. You know now, I’m sure. I talk about loving her so much.” She sat on an armchair as Christine buzzed around. Her head faced forward almost as if she spoke a soliloquy on a stage. She was hazy but composed. She was remembering the past and trying to persuade Christine’s future actions.
“Oh, June. You’re welcome here. You know,” Christine chided. She was tapping a pen against the table, wondering where to rest the useless thing. Instead, she went over, sat on a chair, and faced June.
“But listen—Marty knew people on the outside,” June said. “She could’ve made things right for me. But she didn’t. She knew I wouldn’t have wanted it. It would break me. I wouldn’t have any reason to write any more letters. It was the only thing that gave me a will to live.” She tapped her forearms against the arms of the chairs. Her point would never come out.
“Marty read those letters, and she broke in. She exposed my world, my true feelings. It was the most humbling thing anyone could do to me. I hated it. But, in her own way—due to the fact she interpreted the letters her way—it was good. She gave me perspective. What I’m trying to say is—I’m glad I opened up to you and shared my feelings about Rose. No one except Marty knew. Nobody else was even my friend. You have done so much for me, listened to so much from me. I’m so glad to be here with you.”
“June, I’m glad to have you—to do something good, someone who loved Aunt Rose,” Christine said. She got up again. They’d had this conversation so many times.
“What I mean to say is nothing is ever entirely private. Someone will always know. And…if you write it down, it’s never yours. It’s everyone’s, anyone who reads it. It’s never the intent, of course, for it to be read by anyone, just the addressee. But once you do write it down, it’s a record. It means anybody can know. It’s what you feel. It’s what you’ve told the world.”
CHRISTINE DRIFTED ONE more time. She checked Terrie’s name, typed it into Google. She found her profile picture on Facebook. It was not public, but she was still there with her smiling face. Resting her head in her hands, Christine examined it closely, searching for Terrie to know and respond she knew Christine loved her still.
“I miss you,” she pleaded. “Where are you?”
Even if Christine wanted to call Terrie, she couldn’t. Terrie blocked her number. The last time Christine called, by accident, the line was disconnected, or she was blocked. She didn’t know which. Terrie never fully moved in with Christine, but her lease ran out the week of graduation. She would have found a new place either way. Terrie hated what she had. She talked about it as a place, a den for mice and spiders. The plan, never actualized, was for Terrie to move right into Christine’s house.
She missed the surpriser, and the way there were always flowers in the house. She missed Terrie’s random acts of kindness, leaving her stumped and stuck on the words “thank you.” She never repaid her more than that, Christine now reflected. Terrie’s strength and open arms were gone. Her tight cuddles were fading. Christine remembered the bike ride, the way Terrie looked over her bike, over and over again. Had Christine only remembered she left her and went far ahead? Was Terrie’s anger also a heavy memory? Doesn’t everyone get mad sometimes? She was the woman Christine could grow old with. They both discussed it in that very house. The gay dinners supposed to last into their eighties drifted. Visions of Terrie on a ladder and Christine holding it, grey-haired with a light bulb, vanished. Images of long drives to the beach on vacation with the same oversized sunglasses still in her car faded out. Those visions of the future wavered like the air over a gasoline tank on a hot day. She would drive everywhere alone, free of the tumultuous seas of romance, free of a stable relationship, settled and at peace.
Looking down Terrie’s friend's list, she noticed a few people still connected to her. They would know where she was. They would tell Christine. She drafted an email to her friend Lexi. The quick note asked if she would spy on Terrie and see where she was. She needed to find out for Christine since she had some things to say to her.
Christine drafted an email but couldn’t send it. She was spying. Terrie needed to come to her on her own terms. Christine was supposed to wait. She couldn’t push her way into Terrie’s life. Terrie didn’t want anything to do with her. She would become the stalker. The main thing Christine spent her time hating about Terrie over the last few months was her stalking other people. It was so wrong. But was she doing it at all? Christine was the one. She was invading private space, forcing herself on others without their knowledge. In a way, it was assault. Christine was poised to become the things she had come to hate most.
It was too forward. Christine couldn’t look desperate, let alone creepy asking for all that information from Lexi. She was, though, desperate. She needed Terrie. Terrie would understand in the end. Right away, she didn’t want to be suspicious. She didn’t want to come across aggressive. She needed to hide the whole search.
Christine googled for hours looking for an updated address or some piece of information. She was too scared to call the hardware store. They knew her. She found the contact for Terrie at the library information technology office where she had worked several hours a week on campus last year as part of her graduate assistantship. That’s where she and Christine had met. Her name was still there, even though she had left her position.
After lingering around for a while, reading another ten minutes of a book, and finishing the food prep, Christine took a stab at something she was avoiding. In an awkward action, she made a call to the police station that had brought Terrie in. She asked if they had her address would they give it to her. Of course, Christine should have known. They couldn’t give her the address. They said to call 411. It wasn’t Christine’s business. She didn’t deserve to know. She hung up with the police.
At wits’ end, Christine called 411, but they didn’t have the address either. She tried the library and asked for her forwarding address. They weren’t sure what it was. They didn’t have a record of it. They couldn’t give out the information, or they were too lazy to look. It didn’t matter which at that point. That’s what Christine decided.
When Christine called Lexi, Christine told herself it was for love. It was for Terrie. Christine needed to know Terrie’s contact information so she could at least apologize. She needed to offer herself to Terrie or at least make amends. She couldn’t live the rest of her life with the weight of guilt on her.
In Lexi’s opinion, it was weird. That’s what she articulated, weird. It was evident Terrie didn’t want anything to do with her. Lexi knew what had happened. When she found out the police cleared her and they caught someone else, Lexi acted as if Christine wounded her. She was protecting the innocent.
Christine pleaded. She lost all sense of self-respect in her search for Terrie. She was embarrassed and humbled. She told Lexi how she was wrong and needed to see Terrie. Lexi bluntly said Terrie probably didn’t want to see her. She couldn’t give Terrie up. Christine made an analogy. She put the situation in the context of Lexi and her ex. Lexi would never get over her. Christine told Lexi if she found the definitive reason they broke up, the reason their relationship went on the rocks in the first place, wouldn’t she want to discuss it with her ex, to close the book. Lexi gave in.
Terrie hadn’t posted on her Facebook page since a month before the incident. Nothing was updated. Lexi did, however, know some people, and she did Christine one huge favor. Christine promised she would return information if she ran into her ex, get some gossip. Lexi said no thanks and hung up to do some reconnaissance.
The stalker to the innocent, Christine waited for the one she loved. She couldn’t leave her behind. She had become the aggressor, the one breaking boundaries, and the law. She had already looked for love and found it. She needed to keep what she had. The pipe dream of becoming a lawyer faded into practicality.
CHRISTINE LEFT FOR work in the morning several days later. When she got to the intersection, she veered to the left toward their old apartment to see if Terrie was there. Spying on Terrie, the same as old times. She wouldn’t be late. She got up extra early this morning and left knowing she could drive by, but not at all sure until she got to the intersection.
Christine was at an apartment door not too far from their old apartment. Her place was a row home with multiunits. Steps inside the main entrance was a unit door made of thick wood. She entered on the first floor, and the door faced a narrow hallway. A small metal slat took the mail. The mailman would drop folded pieces of paper, held shut with tacky strips, right in the door. Christine couldn’t knock, even though no lights were on. Terrie wasn’t home. She was always up early. She was gone by now.
Christine went and sat in her car. She drafted a letter. It was as close to the same message Christine had held over the candle those few nights ago. She felt the same way. The words were still genuine. Nothing had changed. She would mean those words until the day she died. It was the way she intended them this time. Yes, Christine was recounting her feelings, but it was for Terrie. It was for them both. The purpose, the delivery, the intent for her eyes only, the action was Christine giving love and bravery. She wrote the words exactly as she had written them before.
So many things might happen if her car didn’t turn over, a chain of events. She would wait for Terrie. Ask her to help. Her tears would flow, and it would be all better again. She would be weak with her, vulnerable, so Terrie would go soft and forgive her, let her in. If Terrie acknowledged her pain, helpless, she would need to help, make the one she loved better again.
When Christine finished, she slipped the letter, without an envelope, into the mail slot. She exhaled relief and made her way to the car. She didn’t need to do anything more. Even if Terrie never called the number in the letter, her number, the number Terrie already knew, she would be satisfied. She had said what stabbed at her to say.
THE PHONE RANG six days later, on a hot Sunday in July. She snapped it up. Terrie’s restrained pause before she spoke let Christine know it was her. After breathing five light, hot breaths into the phone, she spoke softly but level-headedly.
“Christine?”
“Terrie…I’m sorry. That’s all I can say.”
“Can you say more? Keep talking. Things other than ‘I’m sorry.’ I want to hear your voice.”
Acknowledgements
I owe a lot of people a lot of things. I’d be remiss if I didn’t at the very least thank everyone who played a part. Support and belief in me and for this collection of words meant so much to me in so many ways. I am indebted most greatly to my wife for her encouragement and at times simple statements and ideas that resonated and carried me this far. A great gratitude goes out to Sharmin, Joe, Jeanine, Carolina, Jackie, Kristin, Chris, Emily, Jeni, Laura, Ashley, Jeanette, Michelle, Ryan, Rae, and everyone who read the whole lot, chapters, or listened and hoped with me all the way.
About S.E. Smyth
S.E. Smyth is a versatile author putting words into the world. The stories she tells are never exactly how they happened. Elusive as she proclaims she is, you can usually find her nose buried in primary sources plotting a story. Despite persisting historical references, she wholeheartedly believes she lives in the present.
She resides in a smaller sort of town in Pennsylvania, carries heavy things for her wife, rubs cat bellies, and can often be seen taking brisk walks. The household is certain there is something odd going on. She and her wife travel when the air is right looking for antique stores, bike trails, and the perfect beach. S.E. rises unnecessarily early and usually falls asleep by 9 p.m.
sesmythauthor@gmail.com
www.facebook.com/sesmythauthor
@SE_Smyth
Website
www.sesmythauthor.com
Coming Soon from S.E. Smyth
Hope for Spring
Five blocks to the main road, in a perfect well-traveled corner outside a quaint neighborhood, I stuck my thumb out. I worked to maintain anonymity. I feared seeing someone I knew, but I had to get to the bus station. A reserved dowdy woman of about fifty-five picked me up. She did not seem to be the typical kind of person that picks up hitchhikers. Likely, she knew my mom, but she wasn’t sure if I was her daughter. She may have been afraid to ask. She kept talking about her book group. “Well, Nancy says the African missionary in the book is bad for society. She totally impresses her views without stepping out of her comfort zone and experiencing their community for what it’s worth. You know, I agree. If someone stepped into our neighborhood and said this is the way things are going to be, well. there’d be a riot.” I nodded and smiled where appropriate. There were some “yeahs” and “totallys.”
The ride to the bus station took about twenty minutes. The frumpy woman drove me right there. The destination, a recourse, however inconvenient, ended up with me getting out at the front entrance. She rolled down the window and waved as I got out and peered into the pit of the car. She said, “It was nice meeting you. Be safe wherever you’re going. Are you sure that sweatshirt is warm enough?” Then she backed out and sped away, still smiling. People here were pleasant, but they were exuberant.
“One ticket for Santa Cruz, California,” I said, still double thinking myself.
“When do you want to leave?” the ticket agent said.
“For the next bus,” I said. When else did Ms. Cashier fucking think I wanted to go?
“The next bus is at 4:35, and it’ll be one hundred and sixty dollars,” she said.
I rolled my eyes; my pockets didn’t have that much money to spare. I had a handful of cash over two hundred dollars. Hell if I know where I got all that. “I don’t have that much. I called earlier, and they said fifty-nine.” I said rolling my eyes.
“That’s for a bus two weeks out. If you want to buy a ticket for two weeks from now, it’ll be that much,” the cashier said.
“Fine, I’ll take the one two weeks from now for fifty-nine dollars,” I said. Scrunching my brows together, I willed a smooth transaction. Returning home wasn’t an option. I’d have to tell my parents I was leaving, or they’d ask challenging questions about my life.
I sat over on one of the seats out of view of the cashier for another hour and fifteen minutes. Over the loudspeaker, they called bus 167 to Pittsburgh, Chicago, Denver, Los Angeles, and other stops in-between. I snuck outside to the boarding area but avoided the cashier. The driver glanced at the tickets, while I bowed my head down closely at mine in my hand and nodded passengers on. I waited for ten or twelve riders to get on and filed in line. He glanced and shrugged as I got on.
