I bought books on guitar playing but I would need a teacher. I was at such a beginning level with this that I needed a teacher to fill in some of the gaps. I booked my hotel room for the next few nights and set off in search of a guitar teacher.
Walking along, head down, I thought of Craig. I was no good for him. I loved him, loved him more than I'd ever loved anyone, even myself. But that love was not preventing me from hurting him. Now that I was gone I could admit what I'd done. I'd beaten him. Beaten. I'd seen the scared look in his eyes over and over, those wide eyed stares, his fast breathing, his heart pounding in his chest. All the reactions of fear and terror and I'd caused that. I caused it in my own child, my only child. It was unforgivable.
If I couldn't forgive myself how could he ever forgive me? I knew something of psychology. The father son dynamic. He wanted my approval, seeked it, yearned for it, and I denied it to him. The physical violence made him feel worthless. He was 14. I'd been hurting him like this, true beatings, since he was 11. He wasn't at an age where he could externalize the blame. He probably told people, if anyone asked, that it was his fault. That he caused my anger and my reactions. That he was beaten because he deserved it.
Walking, hearing my footsteps on the sidewalk, feeling the wind in my hair and against my cheeks. Joey was better for him. He was happier with Joey. I didn't know why this was so. Joey was more of a nurturer than I was. Nurturing didn't make up any part of my personality. It was part of the reason I chose surgery as a specialty. Unconscious patients didn't need nurturing. 14 year old children did.
So the faults were my own. And what of these faults had I passed on to Craig? Would he explode in anger at girlfriends, his wife, his children? I hoped not. I hoped he had enough of Julia's gentle nature to prevent that, and perhaps Joey's example could make up for the rest. I wanted him to be successful, happy, all the things he deserved to be despite the roadblock of the abuse. Despite the mistakes I've made.
Strip mall, music stores, advertised teachers. I headed in, feeling old to be studying any discipline now but no matter. I had to. I'd given myself no choice.
"Can I help you, sir?" the store clerk said to me. He was skinny, delicate boned, wearing a striped shirt with a collar.
"Yes. I need a guitar teacher,"
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My guitar teacher, a balding man named Marty, was soft spoken and expressive. We scheduled lessons, three a week.
"New hobby?" he said, and I nodded. It was something like that. He gave me exercises to practice, some easy songs to get me going. I held these like I had held my medical textbooks in college, knowing that they were my future.
Craig. I shook my head, walking back to my hotel. How I had fucked up. It was unbelievable, really. I thought I would have been smarter than that. I really thought so.
I closed myself in my hotel room and started playing. I played all the chord exercises and all the songs I knew, the new one Marty had taught me. I played until my fingers bled. I was going to do this. Play guitar, become at least technically expert. Join a band. Play gigs and survive on that money. That way I could be off the radar. I could stay dead to Craig so he could live, so he could heal and be whole.