Something I Can Never Have (2 page)

I’m getting ahead of myself. I think it’s the doubt that you’ve planted in me with our conversations. I shouldn’t doubt. We’re still newlyweds, right? But I guess we’re not really acting like newlyweds, not behind closed doors.

As always, I appreciate your counsel. Thank you for continuing to be my counselor and mentor even after leaving Solitary. You have been like a father to me, as I’ve said a hundred times before, so thank you.

Jeremiah

Dear Dr. Barlow:

I know that it will still be a couple of weeks before our monthly talk on the phone. I know I’ve said in the past that I don’t feel like we need it anymore, but now I’m having second thoughts. I’m wondering if we might be able to have a conversation every other week. I didn’t want to call and alarm you. I’m fine. Really. The medication is still working fine. It’s just—the visions have come back. And Heidi has seen me after a few of them.

I’m not sure what she’s thinking. Twice this past week I woke up in terror. Once I went sleepwalking and wandered outside of our home. A neighbor saw me and called Heidi. I wasn’t wearing anything but my boxers, so that had to be quite the concerned neighbor. I’m glad that it was an elderly man who doesn’t go to our church and who keeps to himself. He probably figured the new youth pastor had a little too much to drink that night. But I don’t drink. You know that.

The worst part of that was the next day. Heidi didn’t say a word. She didn’t ask me how I was feeling or what happened or why I might have sleepwalked. She just went about her business.

It made me think that perhaps she has witnessed it before.

The other thing—the more disturbing thing—the thing that of course I can only tell someone like you (simply because I feel like I’m losing my mind half the time)—was what I saw. I’m not sure because I didn’t want to ask—I was afraid to ask after the stuff that happened when I was sixteen—but I thought I saw bruises on Heidi’s neck. She wore a shirt that tried to cover them, and she wasn’t around me much, but I still saw them.

My first thought was that I did that in my sleep.

The second thought was that someone else did that.

Neither thought was particularly good. Of course that’s why I didn’t want to ask.

The second time I had a nightmare, I swore someone was in our house. Another man. Someone who meant to harm us, especially Heidi. I saw his shape and shadow—an outline in the dark, just hovering there. I got the gun out, and that was when Heidi went off. She knows about our gun, of course, but the fact that I was half dreaming really scared her.

We talked about that the next day. Nothing came out about the past, about my teen years and the trouble and the counseling. And, of course, about my parents … Yet I still wonder if she doesn’t know about you. She’s been more distant than ever. I haven’t needed you to question me about her. I worry myself. And now with those bruises …

That’s all behind me. I know that. I think it’s just the move and the tough time Heidi has been having adjusting that’s affecting me. I’m still managing to do a great job at the church. I know you’ve said I should give this a good year or two just to get some experience under my belt.

I will call in another week if the nights don’t get any better. Maybe I’ll need a different kind of medication. Thanks.

Jeremiah

Dear Dr. Barlow:

Thank you for the prescription. It’s only been two nights, but it’s been helping. Heidi still hasn’t spoken to me about the other night, the night I called you about. I don’t blame her. I don’t want her to leave. Plain and simple.

But I just can’t get into unpacking my past. To try and explain the “bad stuff” to Heidi would be impossible. She would need hours of the transcripts between us, and even that wouldn’t give her the whole picture. She would need to come to Solitary, first of all (and hopefully, that day will be coming sooner than we think). She would have to understand my mother and my stepfather. Along with the others.

Maybe the worst part about all of it was the fact that it happened during a rare intimate moment with us and not during a nightmare. I just—I disappeared again. That’s what scared me the most. I wasn’t dreaming or sleeping. I was making love to my wife and then I just—vanished.

Thank goodness that she only had one bruise around her lip. That was all. And it was a Sunday night, so church for her could wait a whole week.

I told her that I must have taken the wrong dosage of anxiety medication mixed with something else—I told her I actually had some alcohol. But I didn’t, because I know how that’s messing with a fire ready to start blazing at any second. Heidi believes me but now seems to be someone else completely. I know you said give it time, and I will, but this—it was too much. I hate it because we were trying. It was a good night for us and everything was going well. But then it happened again.

I once thought that my paranoia and blackouts were like teenage acne—that I’d eventually outgrow them. Especially since I decided to go into a noble profession—being a pastor and sharing the good of the world with everybody. Even if my own beliefs are a bit different from those of the church, how can I not be doing a good thing? I’m helping people. I’m helping students. And especially since I moved away … all those things should have put an end to the episodes.

Perhaps the medication really can be a solution. I know you say it’s only temporary, that medication is only a Band-Aid. But this Band-aid is working. For now.

Heidi … she’s another story. I will make it up to her and begin to tell her some of my past. Just some. I don’t think she could take everything. I wouldn’t want her to know everything. I can just give her highlights and tell her why the medication is important.

At least it didn’t happen during the supervision of a bunch of teenagers. If anything happened … the thought terrifies me. That’s why I need things to be under control. And why I need the medication to work.

I look forward to our conversation in another couple of weeks. Thank you for being willing to talk more often.

Jeremiah

Dear Mr. Barlow:

You were right, and I’ll be the first to admit when I’m wrong. I did exactly what you said. I took an entire day off just to watch and see for myself. Of course, just as I said, I believed there wouldn’t be anything to see … but I discovered there was a lot to see. I don’t know if there is anything physical going on between them, but I do know that Heidi has a young, good-looking,
male
friend. I wouldn’t call him tall, dark, and handsome, but he is tall and handsome enough to warrant suspicion.

Heidi left the house shortly after lunch and drove to a nearby Starbucks. I watched her go inside, then kept tabs of everybody else who went inside. The young man—probably in his late twenties—arrived shortly after she did. They left at the same time almost two hours later. But just to be sure, I went inside afterwards and pretended I was supposed to be at a meeting with the two of them. Sure enough, the guy behind the counter said they’d been in there talking and laughing like they usually did in the afternoon.
Like they usually did.

On my drive home, I needed to stop and park and just calm down. My head felt like a cantaloupe that had been dropped on hard pavement. I actually couldn’t see for a while (and—slight tangent—I feel like I need to see an eye doctor—I wonder if I need glasses). I parked at a fast food restaurant and just closed my eyes. When I woke up it was hours later. I’m not lying. Hours later. And my right hand was bloody, with the skin of my knuckles torn away.

I thought the worst, but when I got home Heidi asked about me in a way she normally would. She was worried sick and wondered if I was okay. She didn’t notice my hand.

The next day I did the same thing, staying back from work and then following her out to her afternoon rendezvous. I wanted to know if somehow I’d managed to find this guy and damage my fist on his face. But he looked as pleasant and normal as he had the day before, which only made me angrier. Maybe I just went out and tried to beat up a wall.

I know if anybody else heard such craziness, they’d probably call a shrink or the police. That’s why I’m glad I can write to you—to actually handwrite this letter instead of e-mailing something that could be copied and pasted somewhere else. I’m glad to know that you keep our correspondence confidential. You have to, of course. That’s your job and that’s the law.

I don’t know who this guy is or what’s going on with the two of them, but nothing about it can be good. Even if they’re just friends, it’s wrong. I want her to be able to tell me everything. There are bigger things about this world that she doesn’t understand (and perhaps might never understand), and that’s why I keep certain things from her. But I don’t withhold my love and adoration from her. This job I’m in is a steppingstone to something bigger and better, and she needs to understand that I have a job to do. It doesn’t make it any better if I have to take time off from that job to spy on her.

This is a problem, but as you say, problems are hurdles that simply need to be run over in whatever way possible. Even if it’s running through them.

I will share more when I have time. All the best.

Jeremiah

Dear Dr. Barlow:

His name is Cliff Floyd. He’s in his thirties, lives by himself, and works for a cable company. I’m still not sure how they met.

I still haven’t seen any wrongdoing. At least nothing that says they’re having sex. But the secrecy—the fact that Heidi hasn’t told me anything about Cliff. I mean—
Cliff.
What a name. A guy who installs cable at homes.

I have no idea what she’s doing hanging out with him. Maybe he makes her laugh. I don’t know. It’s been awhile since I’ve made Heidi laugh. Or since I’ve made her do much of anything. If this were a girlfriend she was meeting, I’d have no problem. But Heidi would probably tell me if she was going out with a girlfriend.

She doesn’t understand that I don’t need this kind of drama, if that’s what I should call it. Heidi doesn’t realize the heat I took this week from our senior pastor over some remarks I made at a recent Sunday evening service.

I never said that Jesus Christ
wasn’t
the son of God. Never. And that’s what I told the head pastor, that sanctimonious prick. Is he really concerned about the meaning of what I said? Of course not. He’s interested in the couple who got offended, because they’re from an affluent family that gives the church a lot of money. I’m not an idiot. I know how these things go. And just because I happen to question the validity of one man’s assertion that he was indeed the one and only son of God Almighty in front of an arrogant, know-it-all senior in high school who thinks he’s got it all figured out … that gets me in trouble.

That’s why I don’t need Heidi sneaking off. I don’t have time for her games.

I don’t have time to keep track of her.

They’ve been on me about my hours. I know. I haven’t been here long enough to start making such a bad impression. I have to score some points and do some good things. Get the students talking and the parents talking and get the others off my case.

It’s either that, or by God I’ll take a spoon and a fork and gouge their eyes and ears out and put them on a silver platter for the senior pastor to suck up.

I’m still getting used to how flat it can be around here. And the humidity. Not just heat, but brutally intense humidity. But I know I won’t be here long. At least I don’t plan to be here long.

Sometimes I think Heidi might be settling in a bit too much.

I worry about her that way. I worry about her a lot.

We’ll see how that goes. I will continue to keep you posted.

Sincerely,

Jeremiah Marsh

Dear Dr. Barlow:

It’s too soon for things here to start disintegrating. I’ve worked too hard and have come too far with Heidi to have things just suddenly begin to deteriorate. But everything is falling down around me like a hundred flakes of dandruff or dried-up pieces of sunburned skin. I’m no writer or philosopher. Dandruff and sunburn—those are my big insights into my life right here and now in Northbrook.

The other night Heidi didn’t come home. I would like to say that I waited up for her, but … well, I know one thing for certain. I didn’t sleep that night. Maybe she didn’t either. But by the time I came to, I was covered in blood and driving down a street I didn’t recognize with a butcher knife next to me, feeling like I was suddenly transported to a Quentin Tarantino movie.

The pills obviously are not working, and something is about to give. Once again I feared the worst. But Heidi came home the next day and then reminded me that she’d had an overnight function with some of the ladies at church. I didn’t recall any such thing, and nothing I looked up said there was such an event. The good news was that the butcher knife had not been used on her.

Everything in me will use it if I have to but you know that and always have known that, haven’t you?

The next week I searched out Cliff and found him at his job, doing whatever it is that he does. So Cliff is fine as well. I scanned the newspapers and evening news for any kind of story that could explain the blood and the knife, all of which I had to clean up and dispose of. But there was no explanation.

I tried to initiate something with Heidi—something, anything—and she looked scared. She didn’t say no. But holding her felt like holding a comatose person. We used to have passion and heat between us, and real, true love. I know that. I know that for a fact, and yet when I held this woman she felt so hard and so cold and so bony. She’s been losing weight, and I’ve been on her about that. She’s got a reputation to maintain just like I have. She’s got a duty just like I have. She’s got a body just like any woman that’s there for the taking when I need it. So I ignored that cold, lifeless body, and I took it.

I just don’t understand her. She won’t tell me where she comes and goes and she eats meals with me in silence and she just seems limp in every single way. Yet she doesn’t try to leave.