Disclaimer: Not Mine.
Chapter 19: August 1991
When I returned to Las Vegas, I decided I needed to date. I wasn't going another four and half years not even noticing that I hadn't had sex. And… I didn't want to be a forty year old man, living alone, having never truly loved anyone enough to want them forever.
The lab was still my life—we were making so much progress! We were operating at a level of efficiency and professionalism that I could not help but be proud of, and our solve rate was slowly becoming one of the best in the country. We were in the process of hiring some new lab techs—several had retired, and had decided it was a good opportunity to make the actual lab rats be some of the best in the country. CSIs alone could not elevate the lab to where we wanted it.
But, when I wasn't working… I needed to be socializing. I didn't like the idea of meeting a woman in a bar—not that it would be terrible, Laura had been an amazing woman—but it just didn't seem like the ideal place. But then where? I didn't want to pick up a new hobby just to meet women… I played poker with men, and I hardly expected to meet women at a chess tournament… People didn't really talk at amusement parks, though the idea of meeting a woman on a roller coaster was kind of intriguing… if it were a somewhat tame roller coaster, it could be a strange twist on the mile high club idea…
I shake that idea from my mind. I'm getting a little ahead of myself.
I could meet a woman at a park… at a theatre… at an… art museum. Lots of opportunities, and it would be doing things I enjoy. I wouldn't feel like a creep.
And so, I started looking into shows. There were the big ones, at the big casinos, of course—but I looked into smaller, off-the-strip theatres. Nothing that made me worry I'd end up in a room full of single guys with their hands down their pants—real shows, with credibility, just not 80 bucks a ticket.
And I really enjoyed them—I started to take flyers from the bulletin boards in the entrances, looking for other arts-related events, slipping easily into the fabric of this subgroup of the Vegas community. I started going to old movie theatres, to see classic and silent films. I never missed a low-budget, locally written production, and started recognizing familiar faces in the partially filled theatres. Some of the productions, I must admit, were terrible… but there were shows that I could only describe as mind-blowing. They would leave me contemplating their twists and deeper meanings for weeks—I would fall asleep analyzing the plot line and the character development rather than the cases I was working on at the time… and that was strange, for me.
There was a woman I saw a lot, over that summer—she had long, red-brown curls down her back, and her laugh made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. We had talked, on several occasions, and her take on the psychological states of the characters—her favorite subject to discuss—always made me reevaluate the conclusions I'd come to… in fact, I found myself trying to analyze motivations of criminals and victims and crime scenes in the way that she did—and I realized it gave me a lot more insight. There was a particular scene in which, having done this, I discovered several key pieces of evidence I wasn't sure I would have found if it had not been for this exercise…
That alone convinced me I needed to get to know the woman better. So when the next production rolled around, I was excited and nervous in my anticipation. I wasn't certain she would be there—it was a Sunday afternoon production, and she only attended those once or twice a month. So when I took my seat, I was not looking at the play bill or reading about the actors, or even about the play itself—I was looking around for her. She wasn't there, and as the lights went down, I sighed softly. Ah well, I would still enjoy the show, at least. And it had been a couple weeks since she'd attended a Sunday production… she'll probably be at the next one.
The curtains opened and I tilted my head to the side, taking in the scene—the woman near the back almost looked like...
And then she spoke, beginning the action of the play, setting up the background for the rest of plotline… Rebecca.
It was a good play, and she played the part expertly—expressively—seamlessly. She had gotten better, since Minneapolis, which was remarkable—she had been very good before. I watched the nuance of her words, her movements, her expressions—and I felt with her character deeply. I was suddenly filled with nostalgia… a sad longing for the much simpler life I'd shared with her—worrying over my mother's response to my adultery, my largest griefs in life the numb, distant passing of my father, and the faces I saw in my crime scenes.
It did seem much simpler, much easier.
I debated throughout the play whether to approach her, at the end… she could very well have a lover, or a husband, waiting to greet her with roses. It wasn't that I wanted to be with her again, but I also didn't want to be the long-lost ex-boyfriend who spoils the moment of her success that she wants to share with her current interest. I wondered when she'd come to Vegas, and why… And if she didn't have someone to share that moment with, did I want to approach her? If she lived in Vegas now, what would that mean? I didn't think I wanted to be with her again, though she was certainly as beautiful as ever… I wasn't the same man I had been when we broke up. I had baggage and scars and a little girl who wasn't really mine in Boston.
While I thought that these were not necessarily things that would bar me from entering into a new relationship, I couldn't imagine how they would figure into an old one, in which I had been another person entirely.
But, when the play ended and the applause had died down, I made my way down the stairs, bypassing the people who were leaving, following a steady stream of individuals to where the cast would come out to greet their personal guests. I lingered near the back, partially obscured by a pillar. If she were greeted by a large group, I would just leave.
She came out, but didn't seem to be looking for anyone. She stood by a cast member, shaking hands with the other woman's guests, smiling. I stepped out from the pillar, moving a little closer, and as she turns her head, her eyes catch mine. They're wide, and her mouth falls open, and then she's pushing past the strangers she's just met, moving towards me, and I feel like I did all those years ago, seeing her after her Guthrie performance, as she ran to me after the show. Flashes of the night we'd shared afterwards flicker in my mind, but they feel like they're from another life, too distant to distinguish details.
She stops in front of me, eyes on my face, and she looks like she doesn't believe I'm real. "Gil?"
I chuckle softly. "I was just as surprised when I saw you on stage. …You were incredible, by the way."
She smiles, and then hugs me tightly. "It's been so long. Are you living in Vegas now?"
I nod. "Are you?"
She looks almost regretful. "No, I just had a friend ask me to come stay for the summer, and I've been doing odd plays off and on since then… I fly back in a week, after the production is done."
I nod, and feel the question bubble to my lips. "We could have dinner, before you go back?"
She smiles, happily. "I, uh, have a cast party tonight but… but I can skip it."
I smile, but shake my head. "I have to work tonight, anyway… I work the graveyard shift, but I'm off tomorrow night."
She grins, and hugs me again. "Great! Listen, uh, lemme just get changed, and then I'll get you the number I'm staying at, okay?"
I nod. "Okay."
She starts to leave, but then stops, mid-way, turning back to me. "Oh. …Happy Birthday, Gil."
The corner of my mouth turns up. It had been my birthday yesterday—my mom had called, and Laura and Amber—but this felt different. No one else in Vegas had remembered, and even though Becky wasn't really a part of my Vegas life, even if she was really part of a past life I hardly recognized anymore, it felt really good.
Nightmares
You would think that, having taken care of the unspoken problem, things would have gotten better between Michael and I… and they did, for a little while. He didn't seem upset that I couldn't say it, and he made love to me more confidently than he had in a long time, more passionately… and I had managed to say "me too" several times when, as we had lay exhausted and sweaty, wrapped up in each other, he had said the dreaded words again. It seemed like that helped… that I could tell him in some way, even if the L-word was still too hard.
The problem was that our conversation had dragged a lot of shit back to the surface—forcing me to think about things I'd tried not to think about for over a decade. I started having nightmares again—I hadn't had a really bad one since I was fifteen, and I hadn't had any since I'd moved to Boston. Yet, somehow, all over again, I was reliving every horrible moment of my life in vivid detail each time I closed my eyes for rest.
The first night they came, I relived hiding in a closet, watching through the crack as my father and my brother fought.
He'd knocked my brother unconscious, and then left, probably to go drink some more, and my mom had taken him to the hospital, muttering under her breath as she roused him and forced him to stumble his way to the car, because we couldn't afford an ambulance, about how she'd have to say some kids in the neighborhood had cornered him. She couldn't say he'd walked into a door for a beating like this. She left me in the closet, not even speaking to me before she left.
I had been terrified that my dad would come home. I pictured in my mind, over and over, him coming home and looking for me—or looking for my mother or my brother, his preferred punching bags, and finding me in the closet as well. He was always mad when I hid, but I was too scared to go back to my room and sleep. My mother and brother were gone all night—they'd waited a while in the ER, to be seen, and then they'd wanted to keep him there for all sorts of tests—internal bleeding and punctured lungs and all that… I waited for them to come home. I couldn't sleep until they came home. I thought my brother was dead, or dying, and that my daddy was going to come home and kill me too. Mommy wouldn't be here to drive me to the hospital, and I would die in the closet.
My dad didn't come home until the next night, but my mother and brother returned very early the next morning. I had spent the whole night in the closet, awake because I was afraid to fall asleep, waiting for them. But I couldn't skip Kindergarten the next day, because we couldn't let anyone know that something was wrong. We had to keep Daddy's secret.
When I woke up screaming, tangled in the sheets, Michael looked like he wanted to run, far, far away. He didn't, of course. He held me and calmed me and loved me, but I didn't forget the look in his eyes. I had frightened him, and he wasn't sure if he could handle it.
I didn't stop staying with him, or letting him spend the night, because I wasn't sure if they were back for good, or if the one had been a fluke. After all, though my response to the nightmare had been extreme, the nightmare itself was mild. Maybe they would go away again.
The second one came two nights later, and it was a lot worse.
I was eight, and in my fourth foster home. I didn't like it, but there was an older boy—he was seventeen, he'd been in foster care for a long time, he said—who was really nice to me. When I was sad, or scared, he would make me feel better. But he was a lot older, and he liked to do things with the older kids, and I didn't really talk to anyone else.
There were lots of kids in this home—Ryan, my friend, and a boy a little younger than him… and two girls who were twelve, they were twins, and a baby girl I liked, but wasn't allowed to touch. Hayley. I watched her, even if my foster mom got mad if I got too close. I wasn't going to hurt her, I just thought she was sweet. The only thing I wanted to be in the whole world was a Mommy. I missed my Mommy.
My foster mom was shopping, with Hayley—she always took Hayley with. The older girls were spending the night in supervised visitation with their parents. They did this once a week, and I was always sad when they left. Not that I missed them—it just reminded me that I had no one to visit. My first foster parents had made me visit my Mommy, but now nobody told me to go see her, or asked if I wanted to. She didn't really notice me, when I went there, so I guess it was okay.
Ryan and the other boy, Alex maybe, had just gone to play football in the field across the street with some friends from school. I didn't have any friends at school… I didn't like to talk to people. They made me nervous, and they asked questions that made me cry. My foster dad was home, watching a game on television… I don't know which sport, and because I felt scared in the house when I was alone, I went and sat on the couch next to his chair, and sat really quiet, so I didn't disturb him.
He turned to look at me, slowly, and I was reminded of my Daddy. I tried to get up, to leave the room. Maybe I'd go watch Ryan and his friends… I didn't want to be around people I didn't know, but I wanted Ryan right now, really badly. He made me feel safe. He checked for monsters under my bed, even when the twins laughed at me. When I got up though, he got up, and all of a sudden I was on the floor and I couldn't move. He was holding me down and I kicked and screamed, trying to get up, but he was so big, and my arms hurt from how tight he was squeezing them. He kneeled on top of my legs, so I couldn't kick him anymore, but he was really heavy and he made my tummy hurt.
I was crying and I kept trying to pull myself free, because it hurt and his eyes looked like my Daddy's eyes, and then my shirt ripped… I don't know how, but it scared me more. I was already so scared; I didn't want to be naked too. I was always scared when I had to be naked. I hated baths. I smelled him before I realized how close he was to me. He smelled bad, and I feel like I was going to throw up. I was choking on my tears and I felt him bite me, hard, on my chest. I screamed and cried and kicked, but I couldn't get him off, and it hurt. Really bad.
And then he was gone. I blinked through my tears, trying to be calm enough to figure out where he'd gone, trying to make myself stand up and run. Ryan, my Ryan, had pulled him off me, and now he was hitting him on the ground. I was still scared, and I couldn't stop crying, but I watched. My foster dad hit Ryan back, and he stumbled backwards into the dining table, and then I knew what was going to happen. I'd seen what happened every time my brother had been thrown back like that.
My teacher in school had taught us to call 911 if somebody we loved were really hurt or really in trouble. She had warned us that you couldn't call the number for fun or for little owies, but for big ones you should. I ran to the phone on the little table and pressed the numbers frantically, the little song she'd taught us playing in my head, even as I was crying and shaking.
The lady asked me what was wrong.
"He's hurting Ryan. I'm scared. I don't want Ryan to stop moving, like Jeremy always did. You need to come stop him."
"What's your address?"
"I don't know."
"Do you know what street you live on?"
"Chestnut."
"What are the numbers on the door outside?"
"Um… I don't know. It's a brown house, with lots of steps…"
"Okay, sweety, is there anyone I can talk to who knows the address?"
For the first time since I'd picked up the phone, I look back to the men fighting. At least Ryan looks okay. They both look hurt, but they're still moving. "No."
"Do you know where you live close to?"
"I walk to school in the mornings. It's just down the street."
"What school do you go to?"
"Lincoln. Are you going to come help Ryan?"
"Someone's coming, sweet pea. Are you okay? Is he going to hurt you?"
"He already did. He pushed me, and bited me. That's why Ryan grabbed him. And now he's hurting Ryan!" I wailed in despair, but I can hear sirens, and my teacher at school told me that good people, like police men and fire fighters, had sirens.
I don't hear the woman's response, because all of a sudden there are people everywhere, and they're pulling Ryan and my foster dad apart, and when they look at me, I remember when my daddy died. There were people, like now, in uniforms. And they looked at me the same way—their eyes looked sad, but also like they were looking at something yicky, like a bug or a booger. I don't like to think about when my daddy died.
Someone wraps a blanket around me, and I sit in the ambulance next to Ryan, who keeps looking at me, while the man pokes at him and asks him questions. I remember they made me take the blanket off, at the hospital, and a doctor looked at my bite. Then they gave me a hospital gown, and made me sleep in a room with little kids. I wanted to see Ryan, but they wouldn't let me.
A week later, I was living in a new house, and I never got to tell Ryan thank you for saving me. I never got to tell him that I loved him as much as I loved Jeremy, and that I wished I was his little sister too.
I wake up from this one moaning and muttering, and my whole body is shaking. I'm not screaming, but this response frightens Michael worse. He tries to wrap his arms around me, and I flinch away from his touch like it burns me. He looks hurt, but I don't have it in me to reassure him. My left breast is throbbing like the skin has been broken all over again, and I feel his body, his weight holding me down. I can't stop trembling. He reaches out to me again, but stops before his hand ever makes contact with my shoulder at the look I give him. I mutter something about a shower and tear into the bathroom, turning the water on as hot as it goes and stepping inside immediately.
It burns, but I know from experience with the nightmares that if it doesn't burn, I'll still feel him all over my body. I scrub at my skin until I can't feel it anymore, except for a raw numbness, and then the water starts to get cold. I turn it off, and step out, not wanting to redress in the clothes I had the nightmare in. They feel dirty.
So I wrap a towel around me and step out, knowing that now I will have to face Michael. The lights are all on, and he's sitting in the center of his bed, his hair sticking out at odd angles. I'm not sure if this is from sleep or from running his hands through it over and over—a nervous habit of his. When he sees me though, he leaps to his feet and his eyes look even more concerned.
"Sara, honey, you're all red…" He tries to reach for me, but then stops, seeming uncertain. I move against him, laying my head against his chest.
"I'm sorry if I worried you."
"You're all red." He repeats, and I wonder if the hot water and scrubbing have really left me looking so badly or if it's more that he doesn't know what to say to me.
I nod, regardless. "The… hot water."
There's silence, and then he gently pulls me back to the bed and pulls me in close to him, cradling me against his chest. "Do… you want to talk about it?"
"No." It's the same answer I gave him two nights ago.
He sighs, betraying some of his frustration. "You're obviously upset, Sara. Why don't you let me help you? …Who's Ryan?"
My head snaps up in alarm. "I was talking in my sleep?"
He nods, slowly. "Most of it wasn't really coherent… lots of 'don't's' and 'stops' and… and it sounded like you were in pain. But that was all."
I squeeze my eyes shut tightly. This is too hard. I kiss him, desperately, and he returns the kiss, but breaks it when he senses my intent to deepen it.
"Sara… you can't just change the subject. Please… tell me what's going on."
I shake my head. "Ryan was an older boy who took care of me, when I first started in the foster homes, and he got hurt, because of me." I kiss him again, pushing my body hard against him, hoping that will end our discussion. All I want to do is lose myself, and the visions of my dream that keep replaying in my head, in his soft embrace and his gentle caresses. I want him to make love to me, exhaust me, so that I can sleep through the rest of the night peacefully and not think about it anymore.
For some reason, he doesn't want to give me what I need. He pulls away again, breathless but determined. "Sara…" he warns, but I can feel how much he wants me, pressing against my thigh. I realize it isn't his body that's holding him back, it's his mind. He feels like, if we can sort through some of my issues, if I'll talk to him, that I'll finally be able to tell him I love him.
"Please, just tell me what happened to you? What was in your nightmare?"
And somehow, when I'm no longer protected from my past by my refusal to say those words, when I'm vulnerable as all hell now anyway… it doesn't seem so hard anymore.
"Michael… I… I love you." He eyes lock on mine, and he looks shocked… happy… hopeful. I take advantage, stealing his lips again and letting my hands roam over his body. "Please… just… just help me forget? Let me lose myself in you."
And that's all it takes—the rest of the night is spent in blissful oblivion and deep, contented sleep.
…He thinks he fixed my problem. What he doesn't realize is that I can say it now because he forced me to be vulnerable, whether I said it or not. He hasn't made it so that I'll accept vulnerability, or allow it… he hasn't made me unafraid enough to trust.
I just stop sleeping over, or letting him stay the night, unless we make love. And if we do, I no longer allow quickies or even just a normal stretch of lovemaking… I refuse to stop until we've spent at least two hours exhausting each other, because then I know I'll be too tired to dream. He doesn't seem to mind at first, but he isn't stupid. He starts to ask questions again, even without the nightmares to wake him up… he starts looking for dark circles under my eyes, and I realize that every word and movement is now being analyzed with quick flickers of his eyes.
It hurts worse than Tyler, because Michael doesn't deserve it, and I hate myself more than I can possibly say for hurting him. He begs to know why I'm ending it—why I had finally told him I loved him if I didn't want to be with him.
"I do love you." I say, sadly, looking down. I can't explain the why, and I just hope that he believes me.
I spent my next birthday alone.
