seems to satisfy her. Smiling, she turns, and I watch her go
before returning to my own car, clinging to the journal she kept for me.
Before I start the engine, I check my phone and sure enough,
there’s a message from Monica: WELL? HOW DID IT GO? TEXT
ME ASAP! I consider going over to her house to dig deeper
into the journal entries. What an amazing gift, one I’ll share
with Monica eventually. But not tonight. The initial exploration is something I must do on my own.
I don’t text. I call, to fortify myself with the sound of her voice.
I let her know things are okay, invite her to a late lunch tomorrow with my mom and her wife, and
the lightning thought strikes that I just might have someone I can confess to about my love for mi bella novia Monica. “Buenas noches, mi amor.
Dulces sue?os.” Good night, my love.
Sweet dreams. I need alone time to process way too much
information, both good and terrible.
I point the Focus back toward
the house, no longer home, but home is not a building. It’s a harbor.
As I Drive
Images flurry, a hint of snow before the blizzard.
Maya’s hand, tentatively reaching for mine
across the table, nervous in its desire for connection.
Monica’s hand, sensuously tracing the outline of my face, the peaks and valleys of my anxious body.
Dad’s hand, a lightning strike against my cheek, an outburst of rage, undeserved, unnecessary.
Garrett’s hand, viciously snapping my head back in his grotesque bid to prove I’m straight.
Killers.
Rapists.
Justice.
I doubt I can find justice by reporting an attempted assault that’s a week old, but I think I have to try.
If not for me, for the next girl Garrett decides needs convincing.
At the very least, if I go public, I’ll have done what I can to prevent a repeat performance.
The idea of confrontation scares the hell out of me.
For my entire life,
I’ve been coached
to keep my mouth shut about things I knew were wrong.
Enough.
It’s time to stand
up for what’s right.
I can’t do it alone.
I’ll lose my nerve.
But I’ve got people
in my corner who’ll help.
Tomorrow.
Tonight I dive into
chapters of my history I believed were lost to me.
I Read for Hours
Reread. Return again to many passages.
Learn a lot I didn’t know and more I never expected.
Absorb information.
Build knowledge about myself.
My mother.
Her wife.
And my father.
Much I still find hard to believe.
Who.
What.
When.
Where.
And most of all, why.
Taped on a page, beneath an entry dated December 2001, is a letter from Jason to Maya.
Maya, Maya, Maya,
You conniving whore. Well, fuck you and your dyke lover, too. You thought I didn’t know, that I didn’t see you kissing her in our living room, with little Casey sleeping right there on the floor? You’re disgusting.
I saw you, and I heard you talking, too. Did you really believe you could desert me, run off with your “best friend,” the one I can just see you finger banging? And you didn’t even let me in on the fun. Oh, that would be a picture, wouldn’t it? You and me and lezzie makes three?
I get it now. Marrying me was a farce, a way out of your miserable childhood. I guess I gave you that much, didn’t I? Not to mention a home, a paycheck, and a baby girl. Well, guess what? You won’t see her again. I’ll be damned if I’ll ever let you near me or my daughter.
I bet you hoped they’d send me over there to that hellhole, didn’t you? I bet you hoped they’d send me back home zipped inside a body bag. Well, bitch, I’m not going over there again, and it will be a cold day in hell before you find a trace of Casey or me. Or the damn dog, either.
Boo
Oh my God.
I remember now!
Boo.
Sweet little Boo.
She traveled
with us for a while.
Dad always bitched about having to feed her and the messes she made.
But I loved Boo.
She was all I had left of Mommy.
I must’ve said that too many times because one day Dad let her out of the car to pee.
He drove off
without her.
I cried and cried.
But he said it was best for her because dogs belonged running free, and wasn’t I just a selfish little girl to want to keep a puppy cooped up?
The Sudden Insight
Zaps me like a stun gun.
Freezes in certainty a watery concept
recently introduced to me: gaslighting.
I go back to a paragraph that won’t let go of me: Oh, to be given the gifts of the chameleon! Not only the ability to match the appropriate facade to circumstance at will, but also the capacity to look in two directions simultaneously. How much gentler our time on this planet would be.
I think most people are chameleons,
hiding pain and anger beneath a mask of civility.
We call those who
aren’t afraid to disguise it dangerous, but I wonder if hiding behind the facade is not, in fact, the more perilous pursuit.
I have lots of time to dissect the past fifteen years of my life, look for clues to the man behind Dad’s veneer.
I Close My Journal