Chapter XII: Prick

Arriving home to Chicago, I knew my soul had been cleansed. The future was ahead of me and I had gained back the positive perspective that I had previously felt slowly escaping through my fingers, like fine sand held on the beach of Carmel.

Ben.

It had all come full circle sitting in my tree; like a wave of memories flashing to the center of my brain and center of my being. In an instant, it all made sense. It was as if my strange introversions as a child, sitting in my tree, would bring me back 27 years later to that exact moment; allowing me to sit and reflect and let the universe tell me whatever it was trying to say all these years. Letting me remember and gather all the puzzle pieces of confusion and start to place them together. Even if it looked like it wasn’t right; it was. Even if it felt like life was all wrong, it wasn’t. And sitting there, with Ben, it was as if I was being given a sign, almost embarrassingly obvious; like a clue in a life-long treasure hunt. It was as if the tree had been expecting me to arrive, at that exact moment, so it could whisper in my ear and encourage me that I was on right path and just needed to persevere, grow and conquer.

Ben was the proof I needed. Proof that there was a greater meaning to all of this; proof that someone was watching out for me. Not just him but, perhaps, something else.

***

Reoccurring dreams. My maternal grandmother, Grandma Jane, quietly sits at the table across from me. Blue bicycle playing cards, neatly fanned beneath her old yet soft hands. Grandma Jane was not the sweet old lady many of my friends would depict when they spoke of their relatives. She was direct, no bullshit; born from the depression era. She loved us, especially my brother and I; but she spoke the truth.

And when she did, we listened.

Grandma Jane died many years ago; 2006. In the months following her death, she appeared in my dreams nightly. In them, I knew she was gone and so did she; a silent understanding between us as we placed our cards in the middle of the table back and forth. Conversation was scarce, but the air was warm and the mood soothing. Sometimes my mother was there; sometimes my brother, DJ. They would move around the kitchen doing dishes or eating dinner, but Grandma Jane and I sat at our little table across from each other. Always.

***

August 2018

The swooping sound of cards echoed in my ears as she placed them pointedly on the rustic, wooden table in front of us.

The slap of the card against the table startled me and I looked up.

It always took a few moments to remember I was dreaming, but the realization came every time. A small sense of sadness overtook me as it always did, but it was nevertheless nice to see her. This was just how things had to be now.

“It’s been a long time,” I said smiling at her.

She rarely glanced at me, looking at her cards, contemplatively deciding her next move; humming and rocking her chair back and forth like she always did. I didn’t mind the silence. I knew she heard me, and I knew she was there. Her slight smile as I spoke, the only indicator I needed. Sometimes I wondered if she could see me. In this world, I was the ghost.

We played our hand for a while. I smiled at the fact that we never ran out of cards, a lucid dreamer’s trick I had learned to help make our time together last longer.

As we continued our game, I began to notice that nobody else was there this time. I also didn’t recognize where we were. Not a room, just a space; warm yet empty. I looked up and noticed she was now looking at me. She said not a word.

She looked back down at her cards and back up to me again. Her warm smile had dissipated; a new emotion appearing on her face. I knew I shouldn’t have been scared, but I was. She could be scary when she needed to be.

I could feel heat all around my neck and cheeks as her eyes stared directly into mine. She spoke not a single word as I saw her brow furrow and a look of intensity come over her face.

I had lost all control of my dream; this was now fully her domain.

My mind raced, thinking of what she was going to say, if she’d say anything at all. Did I play out of turn? Was something wrong?

She put her cards down and placed her hands palm down on the table, slowly standing up and over me.

I stood up too; she had somehow allowed it.

She looked me in the eyes. Her intensity never wavering yet turning to a look of anger and worry; not with me but, perhaps, for me.

She opened her mouth and in the sternest voice I had ever heard, she somehow whispered.

“Pay attention…”

***

August 16th, 2018

That summer I had sought legal advice. I didn’t think I’d need it but wanted it as a precaution should any issues arise with the monster. I was waiting on the paperwork that would deed my property to me. I needed that before the refinance paperwork could be submitted.

I waited.

And waited.

Finally it came. Vicki, a title clearing analyst I had been working with, called. The documents were ready for me to sign.

“I’m sending them over to you now,” Vicki said. She hesitated for a moment.

“Pay attention to this document, Miss Damrow.”

Pay Attention.

I refreshed my g-mail and saw her name pop up at the top of my screen. I immediately opened the document and read it top to bottom.

There it was.

Please enter the amount owed to you to be removed from the title.

I could feel my jaw drop and the dread crawl like spiders all over my back and up through my hair.

There it was. His meticulous handwriting; like that of a serial killer.

$15,750

I stood up immediately; the force of my rise sending the dining room chair flying behind me and slamming onto the hardwood floor, the same room we had all sat around laughing during Christmas not six months prior.

“FUCK YOU!” I yelled at the top of my lungs, the tears already streaming down my face as I picked up the phone to call my dad.

He owed my family so much. So much money of ours down the drain. What’s worse, I thought, was that he tried to sneak this payout in. I got not even a phone call or text saying that this would be part of the agreement. He knew. He tried to sneak this in; always games, always manipulations. It would never be over. It wasn’t just the money wasted, but so much time now gone. Wasted time of mine, my family, our friends. He was a thief; stealing our hearts with his deception, making a mockery of the love I thought we shared, and now he was demanding more money; stealing more money. A successful financial advisor by image but, in reality, just a cruel thief who cares for nothing but himself; his own wellbeing, his own reputation. Not a man; a wolf in sheep’s clothing.

“So much he took from us, Dad,” I said through tears on the phone. My voice was quivering, I could feel how pathetic I sounded; hating every second of it. “Was it not enough? Is the pain we’ve endured not enough?”

Was I not enough?

I could feel my father’s rage on the other end of the phone “He owes us over $30,000 yet he wants you to buy him out of the property? Is he out of his God damn mind?”

Blood boiling on both ends of the phone, almost tangible. We had let him into our lives. We loved him, treated him as family; shared our table at holidays, our secrets. We had even naively worried for him as he embarked on his own tragic journey toward unwanted fatherhood.

Despite our kindness, he kept deceiving us at every opportunity. He never loved me, and he never loved us.

In that moment, I wondered if he had heard about Ben and me. If that, perhaps, had made him mad, lash out and do this.

Why wasn’t I allowed to move on? Why wasn’t I allowed to be happy?

“His letter was all bullshit,” I said collecting myself. “He doesn’t want me to ever be happy without him. He wants to control me and make sure I can’t move on.”

My dad went silent on the other end of the phone.

He spoke quietly, his voice now the one trembling, “I know.”

***

There I was, the day after my mother’s birthday, crying alone in a condo I once shared with someone that I thought had my best interests at heart. Throughout the whole ordeal, he treated me like I was the one who got pregnant; as if I had been the one who trapped him into a corner. I was bewildered at the fact that he thought I was the one who ruined his life. I ruined it by being an honest, faithful fiancée. I ruined it by believing and trusting him wholeheartedly. I ruined it by giving him the freedom to come and go as he pleased. I ruined it by throwing him a surprise birthday party. I came to understand that, no matter what, this was going to be my fault in his eyes.

I had heard rumblings from friends that he was claiming infidelity on my part. I laughed every time but now started to wonder about his mental health.

Shit, I thought. If this monster is so manipulative that he could can make even the most skeptical people believe the lies he spewed at us for years, what’s to stop him from believing them himself? Perhaps an odd, psychosomatic side effect to make himself feel better, I thought. After all, he had to know deep down how sickening this all was; how much pain he had caused; he had to be sorry.

I caught myself. I was once again falling into his trap.

Why couldn’t I stop making excuses for him? He didn’t give a shit about me dating someone else; it was about his image. He knew it would be better to portray the image of a faithful fiancé who left his cheating, bitch-of-a-bride because he caught her red-handed with another man. He knew people might forgive him for getting a girl pregnant if he could sell that; sell that I drove him to do it. Sell the baby pictures with his son; portraying him as the now dedicated father.

“God, this asshole needs to be studied,” my friends would say.

He could never prove I was unfaithful because it didn’t happen; however, he didn’t need to. The way he could twist a story in his mind, the details would be so precise and well-rehearsed that I became sure he could make even some of my oldest and most cherished friends believe him. And some did; his word against mine.

At the time, Ben was the only explanation. We had begun dating publicly and that meant something to him, pushed him over the edge. If he couldn’t have me, or in the very least control me, nobody could. While my newfound dating life may have pissed him off, he knew this would work in his favor. He could now use my happiness to sell his fucked-up version of reality and, whether or not he believed it himself, it no longer mattered. All that mattered now was that it supported his narrative.

I was mad at first about the lies he spread. How could I not be? He had done some of the most unthinkable things to me yet turned it around to try and portray me as the villain. I started hating the few friends who believed him. Hate, something not in my typical nature. As time passed; however, the rage in my heart diminished. I missed them and felt sorry for them; knowing all too well how terrible it would feel when they finally realized they’ve made a huge mistake; that he was the liar, the monster.

I knew exactly how he would sell it. He’d bring up the fact that Ben slept over at our condo on one of the nights he was out of town for his bachelor party that April; not two weeks before his confession. He would say that’s when it all began. He knew I could never prove that I had gone out with Ben and friends that night and that Ben had offered to split an Uber with me home. He knew I couldn’t prove that, on the way back, we decided to grab Insomnia Cookies and eat them at my place before Ben continued on to Wrigleyville. He knew I couldn’t prove that nothing happened.

I still can’t help but laugh at the memory of Ben slowly falling asleep on my couch, cookie in hand. I knew he was down for the count. I went to our spare bedroom to make sure the pillowcases were clean and blankets were there for my guest. I went back to the couch to try and move him but to no avail. He was out cold.

The next morning, I woke Ben up; still laughing at the cookie crumbs he had slept in and handed him some Advil.

“I’ll drive you home, kid.” I said smirking, knowing he always took note of the moniker I had given him. “I have to go up to Lake Forest and help my mom pick out her Mother of the Bride dress.”

Ben could tell I was excited.

“Sounds good,” he said smiling, his eyes slightly wincing through the hangover headache that had slowly crept in.

At the time, I didn’t think twice about Ben staying on my couch. Why would I? He was a friend and he had been drinking. Like any other friend who had ever come through my home, I’d welcome them to stay in the guest bed or crash on the couch if it got too late or they passed out.

Even so, I knew my ex would be mad. I knew he wouldn’t believe me; he wouldn’t believe the truth. Every ounce of my being wanted to text him that day and just tell him. I hated secrets; I hated lies. I remember thinking how much this needed to change, that I should be able to have friends. I remember wondering why he didn’t trust me and why he questioned every motive.

Perhaps he the one with something to hide.

He noticed almost immediately upon his arrival home that a pillow had been out of place in the guest bedroom. It was almost as though he went looking for it; wanting to catch me doing something wrong, wanting to lay his claws deep into my skin, piercing it until I had no choice but to surrender completely to his will and control. I should just come clean, I thought, but then I remembered his surprise birthday; I remembered the phone. I remembered the large, dark bruise on my foot that I still had. I remembered how evil he could look; how much stronger he was than me. I remembered holding my foot, crying on the living room floor muttering, “it’s for your birthday…I promise…”

But above all, I remembered the laughing.

He laughed at my pain as he stood over me; monster of my nightmares. The sound of his cackle as haunting as it was simple. Something I can never quite explain, yet something I will never quite forget.

The truth, I realized, was no longer an option.

“Who was here?” he said angrily, glaring at me with those same dark, spiteful eyes of which I had grown so accustom. I saw his fists curl into their typical round shape, and, for a moment, I thought I might throw up.

So, I lied.

I lied.

I lied and I’d do it a million times over.

***

After I hung up the phone with my dad, I pulled open my text messages

I texted him in a fit of rage, demanding to know why he was asking for this money; why he was making any demands at all when he owed my parents and I more than double the number he had craftily written into the document. Looking at his handwriting was still making my skin crawl; feeling the familiar taste of vomit in my mouth and I looked back and forth from the PDF on my computer to the disquieting “…” on my phone as he typed out a response.

He claimed our attorneys had discussed this, me quickly snapping back at him citing his prior disapproving texts claiming my attorney wouldn’t call his back.

“I thought you said my attorney HADN’T talked to her. So, which is it?”

He was always so full of shit.

What’s worse is we had split our initial down payment. I knew it hadn’t been perfectly 50/50; however, he certainly had no right to the full amount back, especially given the debt he owed.

“My parents have been nothing but good to you. They worked very hard to pay for a wedding for us. In the letter you wrote them, you said you would make good on their nonrefundable expenses. Are you not going to honor that?”

“I’m not changing anything.”

***

Panic is a hard thing to explain. A black hole, a large mass of darkness; swirling and twisting its evil force around you anytime you have a moment alone to think. You’re drowning; slowly suffocating in dread, the worst feeling of them all. You know something is coming for you, but you can’t quite see it so you can’t quite prepare to fight it. All you can do is pray to God that, once the evil rears its head and exposes its true form, you are equipped with the proper instruments to fight it or outrun it.

“Do you want to go for a walk?” Ben said quietly behind me at my desk.

“I nodded; too overwhelmed with nausea to utter any words at that moment.”

We walked to Daley Plaza near the office and sat on a bench. He knew what was happening and that I would talk when it was over; when the heart palpitations and irrational fear had subsided, and my breathing slowed back down to a normal pace. I put my head up to the sky to let the warmth of the sun beat down on it; a small but effective prescription I had learned to help ease some of the pain during these episodes.

“I just need to sit here for a bit if that’s okay,” I said feeling the familiar shame creep in as the physical symptoms diminished.

“That’s okay,” Ben said smiling. “I’m just thinking about all the fun stuff we get to do this fall.”

Ben was the social chairman of his friends, always planning trips and fun outings. It was the perfect match for me, an introverted extrovert, who loved a reason to be out of the house but was rarely the one to push the plans on the group. He had scheduled a trip for us to Cincinnati to visit his family for Halloween and a trip back out West to Coos Bay; he knew I missed the ocean.

After a few minutes of us casually talking about our plans, he changed the focus to me.

“Do you want to talk about what’s bothering you?”

He already knew, but I rehashed all of the thoughts that had been swirling in my head for weeks.

***

It was the end of September and my ex has trapped me. He ceased paying his half of the mortgage and assessments, leaving me to pay over $3,000 a month on my own; something I wouldn’t be able to afford for long, considering my savings had all been allocated to our wedding and were gone.

I had wanted him to deed the property to me and call it even. It was a huge risk for me, but he selfishly refused to budge on his demand for $15,750 in exchange for the deed. He was leaving me no choice but to list and sell the property, which I asked my attorney to initiate.

The only problem? I needed his signature to list the condo. Knowing all too well what he was doing, he refused that, too.

Radio silence.

He wanted me to bleed money. He wanted to inflict pain. He watched e-mails come in from me and my attorney, pleading with him to sign the listing agreement, yet, nothing ever came. He wouldn’t pay but he wouldn’t let me leave. He wouldn’t let me move on.

Power.

Looking back, I’m sure he just laughed; loving nothing more than stealing money and making people hurt. He now had a front row seat and starring role in his own, sadistic game.

I sold the ring to stay afloat, shaking my head and holding back the tears when they told me what it was actually worth; a mere quarter of what he constantly bragged about. It would barely help make ends meet and it would never make me whole.

“I don’t know what to do,” I said looking at Ben, painfully wondering how much better off he might be without my problems dragging him down.

As we sat there thinking of other options, my dad texted me.

“Linz, can I meet with you tomorrow in the loop? Name place & time.”

***

Ben and I walked back to the office so I could call my dad and see what was up.

“Hey Dad-everything okay?”

“Yes, I want to have a business meeting to talk about our little friend,” he said in his corporate finance voice. He knew I was trapped and had been thinking about what to do. My dad and I have very similar personalities. We despised conflict but could be ruthless when the situation demanded it.

“What are you thinking?” I said, knowing very well he had devised a plan.

“I’m gonna pay that prick a visit.”

***