Abuse (3 page)

“One day at a time, sweet Jesus. Whoever wrote that one hadn’t a clue. A day is a fuckin’ eternity.”

— Roddy DoyleIf

~~~

I tuck my journal in the pouch of the seat in front of me, cross my arms over my chest and shut my eyes.

André. He’s such a scheming bastard.

He knows when I’m avoiding an issue. He also knows
I
know that he knows, when I’m avoiding the issue. With tacit mutual agreement, he lets me get away with it.

But we both understand in the end, I’ll tell him everything.

Everything except how I got these scars.

The oddity about my unconventional therapist, is that André never reacts as one expects. I speak of horrible things and before you know it, he says or does something that makes us both laugh.

“
Mon Dieu.
Me? I can travel upon any road when in the right company,” he explains as we bump over the awkward and difficult terrain of my past.

I have to agree.

I sure as hell wouldn’t be able to go down this land-mined, cliff-riddled trail of self-examination without him.

I’ll never forget the first moment I met André Chevalier. Relaxed and sleepy, lulled by the steady hum of the plane, my mind goes back to that time, all those months ago.

~~~

I have an appointment to meet my counselor at the Palms Casino at 8 p.m. Travelling up the Ivory Tower elevator to the fifty-fifth level, I get off at the Ghostbar.

When a woman moves to enter the bar, I hold the door open and stand aside to let her pass through before me. I’m a southern gentleman, born and bred. Respect and consideration toward women is instinctive and quite honestly, a pleasure.

“Ma’am,” I say with a nod. If I were wearing a hat, I’d tip it.

She looks up at me with a big smile—then the smile cracks. She can’t hide her horror, her embarrassment and lastly her pity.

“Thank you,” she murmurs, quickly averting her gaze and scurrying inside as quickly as possible.

The responses people have to the disaster that is my face are still fresh and hurtful. People try not to look at me and they avoid me. Maybe my thin skin just needs more time to toughen.

I can’t help but feel sorry for anyone who is born butt-ugly. I never considered their plight. How do they continue to walk out into public every day of their lives? I’m just not used to that kind of rejection.

I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to it.

My badly scarred features have certainly enlarged my experience.

For a moment, I consider all of the crippled, damaged or ugly people who I’ve avoided in glances and in person throughout my life and I regret my ignorance.

I know no one is trying to be mean. Mostly people are simply caught off guard and embarrassed. They can’t prevent their shocked expressions and don’t know how to react.

What does one say to someone who has a face like mine? “Damn, that must have hurt?” or perhaps, “Shit! You frightened the crap out of me?” How about, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to look at you as if you were a monster?”

I stare up at the fourteen-foot floor-to-ceiling windows and take in the color scheme of white, black and fuchsia. Wow. This ain’t no redneck sports bar, that’s for damn sure. I’m glad I dressed in quality clothes, a comfortable sophisticated dark suit with a crisp, white, open-neck button down shirt.

I gaze across the lowered lighting to the corner of the room and immediately spot the man I’m here to see. I don’t know how I know it’s him—I just do.

Our eyes meet.

Confident and self-assured, the gentleman in question recognizes me too, and stands up. Something in his manner commands attention. Maybe it’s his bearing, which almost seems regal. His good-natured smile is welcoming.

That’s a relief.

I'm surprised as his friendly expression doesn’t change. He isn’t disturbed by my scars in the least. No trace of shock, or revulsion—no pity. Hell, from his lack of reaction, it's as if he doesn't notice them at all.

Why is that? I didn’t tell him about my facial injuries.

Remaining still as he approaches, I watch him openly inspect me as he closes the distance between us. His alert eyes move from my brown hair, to my slate blue eyes, and trail down to my clothes right to boots. He boldly studies me with keen interest and no judgment in his expression.

I wonder if he sees the dark circles under my eyes or the lines in my face, evidence of chronic anxiety, stress and strain.

I’ve always been muscular, almost stocky and solid through my chest and shoulders, but I’ve lost a lot of bulk and conditioning since my accident. At five foot eleven inches tall, I weigh only one hundred and sixty-five pounds—fifteen pounds less than normal. My clothes sit loosely on my frame.

He notices.

Does he also see the quick, efficient killer the Army trained me to be?

With one look, I can tell that André Chevalier is a man who sleeps well. He’s my age, about six-foot, maybe one hundred and eighty pounds. He looks good. Healthy. His dark eyes and expression are candid.

The guy isn’t what I expected.

He’s fitter. Tougher. There’s nothing soft about him.

Chevalier’s got a flat stomach, narrow hips and the broad shoulders of a fighter. His hair is darker than mine is, cut short around his neck and ears and his complexion is tan. He looks like an athlete, not a psychologist.

And he specializes in sexual therapy.

Recommended or not, I don’t trust easily. He could be some sort of deviant, after all.

His well-manicured hand stretches out toward me.

I take it. His palm is warm and dry. We both have a firm grip. This guy is strong, but I’m stronger. There’s gym fit and combat fit. If it comes to a fight, combat fit wins every time. But this man isn’t just gym fit. Maybe he plays some sort of vigorous, aerobic sport, like soccer?

Either way, I can take him.

This impulsive thought surprises me and I wonder where it comes from. I had a lot of suppressed rage throughout my teenage years. Tense, suspicious and not much of a talker, my form of communication back then frequently came from my fists.

I seriously reconsidered this aggressive attitude when, at sixteen years old, Eli Matthews unexpectedly attacked me from behind with a baseball bat, putting me in the hospital with a well-deserved case of concussion.

Matthews did me a favor. Until then, I don’t think I was aware of what a scary asshole I was to my more emotionally stable classmates.

The main thing is that no man gets to the position I held in the Army without working out his testosterone issues. A sniper prone to pissing contests is a really bad idea. Back then, a baseball bat to the head was just what I needed. It knocked some sense into me.

“Grant Wilkinson,” he says cheerfully, in a melodic voice that is thick with a French accent. “It is a pleasure to meet you. I am André Chevalier. Please come with me, where we sit privately and be comfortable.”

“OK,” I say.

The guy walks with self-assurance. Is he a boxer? Perhaps he’s experienced in martial arts? He absolutely oozes top dog, alpha male confidence.

I can still take him, I reassure myself.

Damned if I know why that’s important to me, but it is.

The counselor’s clothes are pure style; he’s dressed in casual elegance—better than one of my father’s buddies. Like a US Senator or the CEO of some big company. Silk suit for sure. Those garments certainly weren’t bought off the rack.

I follow him to a booth where we have an incredible view of the night sky and the Las Vegas strip below. It’s intimate and it feels somewhat sensual, kind of like a date. Why the hell did he meet me here?

André and I sit down across from each other. I have the view. Usually I try to sit in a corner so people don’t have to see my scars. The way the lounge is set up, the counselor’s just going to have to deal.

“You have been here before?” he asks.

“No.”

He grins. “
Tres bon.
I thought you may like it.” He turns and gazes out at the night-lights of Vegas
. “Quelle belle vue.
What a beautiful view. It is pretty, no?”

“Sure.” The outlook over the city is amazing.

I know “
tres bon”
is French for very good. It’s similar to the Spanish,
¡Muy bien!
Thanks to Maria, the mothering Mexican housekeeper we had as we grew up, I’m fluent in Spanish. When I have a suntan, I easily pass as Mexican.

This hot shot place isn’t busy at the moment. I suspect it’s too early in the evening for partygoers, but will heat up later.

A pert, redhead with a great rack and a top that reveals a significant amount of cleavage, brings us menus. “Can I get you gentleman anything?” she inquires.

“For me,
mademoiselle,
I will have whisky, I think,” André says. “For you my friend?”

“Whisky sounds about right for me, too.”

When he orders a bottle of thirty-year-old Scotch, I raise my eyebrows.

“It is a celebration,” he explains.

This is a weird way to meet my therapist—not that I’ve met any therapists before now. Why I’m not in some ritzy office is anybody’s guess.

“
Mon ami
,” André says. “You have left the Armed Forces, yes?”

“Yes,” I say and I steel myself for what comes next.

“Thank you for your service” is usually the subsequent comment. It’s nice sentiment with good intentions, I guess. When they thank me, I always answer, “You’re welcome.” But that’s it. That’s the end of the conversation.

I mean, where can I go from there?

When a soldier first returns to the States, they feel isolated and out of place. They don’t know how to talk to people or even what to talk about. They feel uncomfortable around noncombatants and I was no exception.

It would be good if the civilian population made up for the deficit. ‘Thank you for your service,’ goes nowhere toward a real exchange of dialogue. From my experience, people don’t know how to talk to a newly returned soldier. But who can blame them? What
can
they talk about?

Sometimes people get up the nerve and ask if I killed anyone. Unfortunately, that’s also a conversation stopper.

“So tell me, if you please,” André says, his face bright with interest. “In the Army, what is the cuisine like when one is in such a place? American servicemen and women eat well, no?”

I lean back into the lounge and laugh with surprise.

That’s the first time anyone’s asked me that. With relief, I begin to answer. His next question is about sports and activities during downtime, another easy one. Damned if he doesn’t keep going.

There are no awkward silences in our conversation.

Usually, I go through life with my mouth shut. I’m a loner, mainly because I’m more comfortable alone. Since I’m from a rich and influential family, many people think I’m proud and stuck up.

That’s not it at all. I’m an introvert who gets edgy and uptight around others. I found a certain amount of welcome acceptance in the army, and I have friends, but I don’t ever get
really
close to anyone.

I’ve never been chatty.

André seems to know exactly what to say to help me relax and open up. I find I’m surprisingly comfortable around him. He gets me started, and soon I’m the only one talking.

It’s extremely out of character for me, but with Andre, I find that I talk,
a lot.

The waitress brings a bottle of the best Scotch, pouring us each a glass with one cube of ice. She leaves a bucket of ice on the table.

I had dinner earlier, but didn’t eat much. Ever since my injury, my ability to eat has been a little touch and go—probably because I’m always wound up. It’s nerves, I guess. Part of the shit that’s been troubling me.

Drinking however, I can do.

Unfortunately, I just can’t
stop
doing it.

“If we couldn't laugh we would all go insane.”

— Robert Frost

~~~

Alcohol floods my veins. I’m in such a comfortable, happy buzz.

I don’t think I’ve said this much since I came back to the good ol’ USA. Actually, I don’t think I’ve talked this much
ever.
André makes it easy. At least two hours fly by. The whole time we converse about Army life… and I finish most of the bottle.

We discuss everything. Food, women (or lack of), humor, my buddies and the games we played when we had time off.

He laughs heartily and so do I when I describe some of the superstitions that many soldiers have, like the guy who survived an assault and decided it was because he didn’t shave. From then on, he never shaved if he was going on mission.

André’s laugh makes me smile. It’s rich and uninhibited and his chest and shoulders shake with open pleasure. Unlike me, he isn’t guarded or secretive. He’s the kind of guy who doesn’t have to fake anything. I bet he’s comfortable around all sorts of different people.

I wish I was.

I tell him about another guy who survived a firefight in a torn pair of trousers. After that, before any engagement, the guy intentionally tore every pair he had in exactly the same place.

Occasionally, a sensitive subject surfaces, darkening my mood.

André steers the conversation, helping me dance around anything painful. He guides me so carefully. I feel like I’m walking through a minefield with complete impunity. He’s right there by my side, directing me.

I know what he’s doing, and I really appreciate it.

I can’t face much of anything right now.

I just can’t.

There’s something calming about André’s voice. It’s deep and velvet smooth, like eighteen year old Glenfiddich Scotch. His French accent is incredibly appealing. I could shut my eyes and listen to him talk all night long.

As time passes, I feel more and more relaxed and happy. I sit back in the lounge and look out over the bright lights of Vegas. My lips tug up into a slow, easy grin.

I can’t recall when I last enjoyed
anyone’s
company to this degree. Why is that? Is it because he’s of a similar age? Or because I’ve always felt more at ease around men? Frankly, I’m uncomfortable around people in general, but with André, it’s different. It must be that as a trained counselor, he knows how to get his clients to talk.

I’m glad I’m going to be spending more time with him.

“Do you know you’re the first person I’ve actually discussed Army life with?” I ask.

André gives me a half bow. “
Merci beaucoup
. I am honored. This has been a delightful evening. You are a most interesting companion with stories
par excellence
. I thank you.”

“Tell me,” I ask. “What sport do you play?”

His thick dark eyebrows lift in query.

“I mean, you’ve got to be doing something. You’re fit. Those aren’t gym muscles.”

“Ah! But I do use the gym,” he says. “And also I train in Brazilian jiu jitsu. But my favorite sport? It is polo.”

When I smile, the hardened scars on my face pull tight. I’m grinning so broadly, I feel as if my skin might tear. I must look like a freak, but I don’t give a shit.

André doesn’t care either. He sees past my scars.

I shake my head. Polo. The sport of Kings. Of course, I should have guessed. André’s a Prince. The guy gallops back and forth trying to hit a little white ball. It’s pretty funny.

“You any good at it?” I ask, already knowing the answer.

It’s his turn to grin. “I am a champion,” he says, without the slightest trace of modesty.

Why is this so funny? I laugh so hard it hurts. Somehow, that was
exactly
what I expected him to say. What am I? Psychic? Maybe drinking and talking together like this is a form of male bonding. For some strange reason, I really
get
this offbeat Frenchman.

I’ve no idea how long I’ve been here, but we’ve finished the bottle.

More specifically,
I’ve
finished the bottle. But I’m not even drunk. I can hold my liquor. Alcohol is like food to my body now—I don’t get drunk anymore.

When we stand to leave, André picks up the tab.

“Aren’t I supposed to be paying you?”

“You are not. Not yet.”

“Why not?” I ask as we walk out toward the elevator. No one is around.

“
Mon ami,”
he says. “When one goes to the top floor of a building, they must first enter from the ground floor.” He shrugs. “Unless of course, one has wings and is able to fly. They then may enter the building on any floor they choose,
comprenez-vous?
”

Nope. That sailed right over my head.

At my blank look, he explains.

“Grant,
je regrette,
but I fear you are an alcoholic. Rehabilitation from alcohol abuse is a specialized area and not my field of expertise.”

He hands me a business card. “I recommend you attend this facility. For you, rehab
is the ground floor.
This
must be your first step. Once you are in control of this small problem, then you will come to me to address the larger ones.”

Fuck.

My mind goes into instant overdrive.

I don’t know if I
can
quit drinking. How will I cope? More importantly, how will I
sleep?
I remember my father’s ongoing issues with alcohol, not to mention my sister’s.

Thinking of my father sends my mood even lower.
The last thing I want is to have anything in common with him!

Now, I’m in a total tailspin. What the hell was I thinking? I can’t possibly talk about my problems to anyone.

My whole family’s fucked up. I’m fucked up too.

Everything’s fucked.

I go from a rare, relaxed, euphoric high, right down to Hell in the gutter with one fell swoop.

André’s expression softens to unbearable kindness at my obvious dismay. I meet those dark knowing eyes of his and quickly look away. His awareness of my unspeakable inner pain, simultaneously soothes something inside of me, yet burns like fire.

I see one possible future and it frightens me. Why did I start this? Didn’t I realize I’d lose it? This man is way too insightful—he knows too much already. If I somehow manage to stop drinking, will André get me to expose my secrets?

I gasp in a ragged, tearless sob as my courage breaks. Curbing a near overwhelming desire to scream, I tense into a wall of unmoving energy. I want to run as fast and as far as I can, mindlessly fleeing until I drop from exhaustion.

My entire body trembles. I can’t stand the thought of
anyone
knowing who and what I am.

Not to mention what I’ve
done.

A shiver runs through me. I don’t think I can take it.

André reaches out and his firm hand grasps my arm, grounding me from that moment of near hysteria. Shutting my eyes for a moment, I absorb his touch, holding on to the heat and calming energy of him.

He feels like a lifeline.

“Take heart, my friend,” he says quietly, in his soothing velvet voice. “Do not despair. You simply move one step and then another. You keep going. Before you know it,” he snaps his fingers. “
Voila
. You have arrived. It took more than one day for you to arrive at this dark place, no? It will take more than one day to escape from here.”

The elevator arrives. Guiding me, supporting me, he wraps an arm around my shoulder. Two men, one normal and one crazy, we walk into it together like the best of bosom buddies.

“Be strong,
mon ami
. I can help you and I will.”

He puts his hand on his heart dramatically, like pledging allegiance, but it doesn’t seem foolish. It looks as if he’s making me a promise.

“Together we will triumph,” he says. “I swear this is so. Grant, you have faced countless enemies in your life.
Oui, oui,
many dangers and difficult circumstances I do not doubt. And yet, here you are. You have overcome them all.”

“I’ve tried…” I start to say, but my voice cracks. My eyes start to burn. I haven’t cried much throughout my life, even as a child. I was taught only pussies do that—but right now, I feel like crying.

Ah, Christ.

Can I get any lower?

At twenty-nine years old, I’m a pathetic, maudlin and often bitter alcoholic; that’s what I’ve become. Now, I have to add cowardice to that list.

“With help, you will succeed,” he assures me, patting my back consolingly. He meets my eyes then and frowns gravely. “But it is of the greatest importance that you begin in alcohol rehabilitation immediately,” he says with a serious air.

Is it?

André’s been carefree over everything I’ve talked about tonight. Nothing’s fazed him. Now his voice is so solemn. I frown while my muddled mind wonders just what else I have to worry about.

“Why?” I ask.

“Oh,” André says blithely. “It is a selfishness, I fear. To me, you are a most interesting case. I have no wish to wait. Go through rehabilitation quickly and come to me, for I very much look forward to working with you.”

It takes more than a moment for me to get that oddball joke.

I finally notice the mischievous sparkle in his dark eyes. André grins the second he sees that I
get
it. At that exact instant, we both burst out laughing.

Is this French humor?

André’s so off the wall. I laugh and laugh until my gut hurts. We point at each other and he laughs too. It’s not really not
that
funny… but it is.

If I didn’t laugh, I’d cry.

I’m pretty sure André knows that.

It’s why he made me laugh.

André’s not some dumb ass playing mind games and
thinking
he knows what he’s doing. He really
does
know what he’s doing.

I trust this crazy, unconventional Frenchman. It’s then I realize that with his help, I can get through this. I won’t lose my mind. Despite all this madness, I’m
not
going insane.

With his help, maybe I can pull myself out of this mess.