by Andrea Lena DiMaggio

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Joan had driven up from Virginia Beach for a visit and Dave feared the worst, even though his sister was in a relationship with another woman. At one time he might have expected that she of all people would understand, but now he was not sure at all. He was, as they say, selling his sister short. If anyone would understand what he had to say, she would. But after decades of being only half himself, who in his position wouldn't be fearful?

"So what's so damned mysterious that you couldn't have told your baby sister over the phone?

"I've wanted to tell you in person, but I've been scared for so long.... I never told Lauren in all the years we were married."

"Dave, it's been long enough. She's gone, and from my perspective she's probably happier right now that she ever was down here." Lauren succumbed to breast cancer nearly four years ago. Joan stood over Dave at the kitchen table with a mug of coffee in her hand, fussing in a teasing way with his hair, like she did when they were kids.

"No disrespect intended, but what gives Dave? We've been close for a long time, and nothing you could tell me could ever scare me away."

Dave just sat there, wishing he had never told his sister there was something he wanted to discuss, and felt almost that since they hadn't talked about anything important for a long time, this part of their relationship was not going to restore itself without some fear and trepidation on his part. Once again he sold his sister short and feared the worst.

"If it'll make you feel any better, I can tell you something about myself you don't know." She continued to fuss with his hair; something he barely tolerated as a child, but made him nervous now sitting down in front of his younger sister.

"Please...Joan, come on...stop that." He made a half-hearted attempt to brush her hand away from his head, and her ministrations continued even as she resumed talking.

"It's something only me and Marta know...." she trailed off, trying to seem mysterious, but the upswing of the pitch in her voice at the end made her sound just like when they were kids; you know, “Davey, you're in trouble...I'm telling Mo-om," with mom receiving the ominous 'you're in trouble" two-syllable inflection.

Nothing she could say at this point could be any bigger than what he had to share, he thought, but the tone of her voice, apart from the "I'm telling mo-om" made him feel that she was being sincere and even vulnerable; something that said to him in spite of his fears, "Listen...this is going to help you." Not her real voice, of course, but the idea of knowing that Joan was putting herself out there for him, that she wanted to help.

He sighed and said reluctantly, "Okay...you first." It was something they had done back and forth since they were little. She would normally follow, "No....YOOOU first." stretching out the "you" playfully. But no back and forth today...she brought it up, so it was her responsibility to lead things off.

"Okay....Dave...I'm not a lesbian." She stopped playing with his hair, making the moment seem almost serious but for the conspiratorial grin on her face that said...."I really do have a secret." She had tried not to grin, but she knew what she said, why she said it, and just what it was that was so funny.

Dave actually stood up from the table, almost as if he was “sangry,” the word Joan made up to say when Dave would get sad and angry when they were kids. He almost whined, but we can forgive him that. He wanted to tell his sister something so important, and even almost so shameful and embarrassing that he had not even told his late wife.

"I thought you were going to be serious. Joan, this is important to me, and this isn't funny at all." He protested, and he walked to the sink, pouring out the remainder of his coffee.

"It wasn't meant to be funny and I'm telling the truth....I'm...not a lesbian." Joan had been together with Marta for seven years. He saw the way they held hands; the soft brush on the nape of the neck. Kisses on the cheek that lingered. Nothing else, but that was enough, he felt, to indicate that they were something more than just roommates or friends.

By now, he was actually getting angry, as well as disappointed and even a little sad, feeling his sister wasn't taking him seriously. He had held off telling her anything on the phone, and a letter or an email would have been worse. He walked toward the back door to go out on the deck, but she grabbed his arm.

"Davey....I'm serious...and I'm sorry if it sounded like I wasn't, but I am not a lesbian."

Why would she even deny anything like that; something they had never talked about, something that was never a subject of discussion before...out of the blue? By now, Dave was torn between storming out of his own house and collapsing in tears. He actually did both. He walked through the door and out on the deck, where he turned his back away from her. Joan quickly followed him out and tried to connect. She put her hand on his shoulder, which he tried to shrug off. She quickly turned him around and hugged him, even as he resisted her.

"Why is he so angry?" she thought, even as he tried to push away. She held on, as if he would run away if she let go, wondering what was eating at him. He would actually have run off the deck and out of the yard down the street, just like when they were little. The neighborhood kids used to make fun of him, like in Forest Gump...you know? “Run, Davey, run!” His face reddened in embarrassment and shame, and tears flowed down his cheeks.

She noticed something she hadn't seen before; something so subtle that most people would have missed. His eyes were closed tight as he wept; almost as if he wasn't just upset...he actually couldn't face her. As he wept, years of frustration and guilt spilled out in a torrent of emotion. And she saw just a hint of something that shouldn't be there....on his lids…copper...or bronze...in the fold of his eyelids.

All she could think to herself was..."Nice color." Her observation was silly and playful, like the accepting adoring sister she was.

All he could think was, "I wish I were dead." Not the altogether self-pitying embarrassed "I really wish I were somewhere else." The color on his eyelids was maybe an indication, but not the cause of the shame and mortification...the absolute despair for his own self that really wanted to die, since the secret he needed to share had nothing to do with her suspicions about his nature or preference as we all might have guessed. It had entirely to do with the secret he held in his heart since they were kids that threatened finally to tear his whole being in two. He thought back to his last meeting with his counselor.

Only a few days before, Dave had sat in Bonnie’s office, her fox terrier yipping playfully just outside the door. She reached over and handed him a box of tissues, trying to help staunch the flow of tears that seemed to have no end.

“Tell me,” she said softly, “What’s that about?” She smiled with a welcome and assurance to give him a feeling of safety, allowing him to continue.”

“What if she’s just here to help me get through this? I’m not sure I could handle it; it would be like watching someone die.” He wiped his tears, but they kept coming. He was convinced that he’d never ever cry this hard again. He was going to find out sometime later that he was sadly and painfully mistaken.

“Let me ask you this…what do you think…when you really think about it…is she going to go away? Bonnie smiled softly, as nice a smile as you might imagine, more like a friend or sister than therapist. She was a friend of sorts, but only just so far. Dave needed understanding friends to be sure, but Bonnie was here, now, more as a facilitator and helper than as a friend; asking questions that hopefully would evoke the answers Dave needed, rather than providing her own answers. Like a caterpillar, he needed to push and pull and tug with his own answers in order to grow; helping him too much would stunt the process and he would never expand his "wings" and fail to become the butterfly, so to speak, staying stuck in the same place. So her questions caused him to really think about how he felt about “her.” Who was she really, and was she going to stay once Dave got better?

“I think she’s a part of me…” He said this hesitantly, as if seeking permission or confirmation. Bonnie could provide neither, nor should she have given the answer. It was his alone; her answer would be her direction and then he wouldn’t own the ultimate decision.

“Go on,” she said, her simple nudge causing him to reflect.

“She is a very important part of me.”

“I think so as well,” she said, only after he came to his own conclusion. “Why do you think she’s important?”

“I’m not sure…” He hesitated once again, wanting to be right but more desperately afraid he was wrong.

“Let me make an observation first and then see if it helps answer that question, okay.”
Dave nodded, finally getting a handle on his crying, wiping the last few tears while hoping that they indeed were the last tears shed in an already too painful session.

“You were telling me about the blog…her blog, right?” She looked at him and smiled, as if to express her acknowledgment of the importance of what she knew he was about to say.

“Yes.”

“She helps…doesn’t she?” She smiled once again, evoking a soft but hesitant smile from Dave, who still feared his rejection as well as Karen’s demise.

“Yes…I think so.” He looked away, as if to seek confirmation for his desperate hope.

“So Karen’s blog is helpful to her readers. Why do you think that’s so? What does her blog do…what does Karen do for others?” Bonnie continued to reflect her acceptance while maintaining neutrality. Again, Dave needed to see for himself how important and vital his answers were to his own questions more than the questions Bonnie asked, as important as they also were.

“I think it…I think she makes her reader feel accepted.” He paused, but still felt nervous enough to begin to tear up once again.

“Dave…Remember…you’re in a safe place… no judgment, okay?” Her smile, while comforting, did nothing to diminish his apprehension. She had provided him time after time with support; he wanted an assurance she could not and should not provide; that Karen would still be “around” once he experienced a breakthrough in their work. He knew he had been molested; five other counselors and his late wife suspected as much because of things he said and did over the course of a life time. It was the “who” that remained unknown, and once that came to light, his worst fears would be realized; he was convinced that once he knew who his abuser was, Karen would simply melt away like snow in the spring; a lovely metaphor but a terrifying thought after a half a lifetime for his closest “friend” besides his sister Joan.

And so he was in a no-win situation. He feared that if he discovered somehow who had hurt him so badly, his lifetime companion, as it were, would simply disappear, leaving him disjointed and all alone, since he lived three hundred and sixty three miles away from his sister and had no friends to speak of where he lived. But if he never discovered his abuser’s identity, would he still suffer the overwhelming guilt and shame that already had risen to crash through the wall that had almost built itself against the pain and sorrow, some of which he was already feeling. And would Karen be enough to help him bear up under the increasing burden of the disgust and shame he already fought. Could they together fight this demon, or would both succumb to it, both dying slow deaths as the man who was the boy perished while his compassionate feminine half stood by unable to help? An answer was soon to arrive in an unlikely way, providing safety and hope and peace, but would it be at the cost of the part of him he loved more than himself. Would Karen have to die for David to live?

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Next - The Worst Day of Their Lives