Chapter XIII: Paradise & Purgatory

September 24, 2018

I sat upright in the dining room chair. I had spent the day cleaning the condo, all 2,000 square feet of vacuuming and mopping left me aching. My ex had yet to sign the papers to list the property for sale, but I was trying to stay positive; hopeful that eventually he would, and I’d need to clean everything to make it nice enough for showings. I was hopeful my dad’s visit would be enough.

I had previously visualized making new memories in my home. Filling the empty walls with pictures where I had hastily taken down the collage of black and white photographs from our engagement session, wishing they had just been of me; a representation of the lack of color in my life by the end of our time together. I had thrown them in a closet. The closet where a bag full of his disgusting love letters also remained. A reminder of where he, the monster, lived. He was to be kept there; never allowed out and never allowed to hurt me again. Eventually, it would be burned or discarded as trash, I knew. But I kept it as a reminder of the evil. A reminder to never turn my back on it; to never forget, forgive or put my guard down.

I had worked from home that day so I could deep clean fully and, after putting the last of the supplies away, I sat back down at the dining room table. After responding to a few e-mails, I pulled up Amazon to order three items I needed: shampoo, lotion and protein powder; quickly shutting my laptop and sighing a breath of relief that the workday and cleaning day was coming to a close. As I sat there leaning back in my chair, my phone lit up.

“I’ll be over in about an hour. Can’t wait to see you!”

Ben’s simple note made me smile; the only love letter I’d ever need.

As much as I understood his aversion to spending time in a home he once visited to celebrate my ex’s birthday, he knew how much I needed to sleep in my own bed; how soothing it was for me to spend time cuddled up to Paisley and Halsted, a semblance of normalcy in an otherwise foreign home.

***

Ben and I spent many nights in my little galley kitchen. I’d offer to cook elaborate meals and he would entertain my need for this therapy as he sat on the old wooden stool next to the sink. It was our time in the little kitchen where we learned a lot about each other; talking about everything from our friends to our families to our work. He’d laugh and smile with me as I made a mess of the room day in and day out. He even smiled as he ate, saying how good it was, even when I knew all too well something wasn’t cooked to his preference or if one of my culinary experiments went very wrong.

“Are you excited to come see Cincinnati for the first time?” Ben said sitting at the end of the dining room table over his plate of steaming potatoes.

I smiled and nodded, though deep down I was incredibly nervous. I knew I was baggage; a problem. My past would eventually come out and be difficult to explain. Knowing how protective my own mother is of my brother, the youngest, I worried how that would translate into Ben’s family. Would I be accepted, or would I have to hide it all? I felt the familiar struggle ensue; longing for complete honesty yet feeling the need to hide. Hide the deep scarring on my heart, like a cutter wearing long sleeves to hide marks of the wrist.

I struggled internally; wanting to be authentic but hating what had become of myself, my story. It wasn’t the image I’d ever be proud of or want to portray. And as I sat there, I mentally walked the line of paradise with Ben and the tumultuous purgatory of my own self-loathing.

***

Ben and I brought our dishes back into the galley and began to clean the kitchen so we could retire for the night and go to bed at a decent hour. As Ben wiped down the counters, I began to scrub a large pot in the sink. In a matter of moments, the sink began filling with water, refusing to drain. My panic set in and the familiar wave of nausea came over me with a flash flood of dread.

Fuck you, you ungrateful little bitch.

I turned around to Ben, trying to hide my acute anxiety.

“Ben, the sink…. it’s clogged again,” I said feeling the tears start to well up.

“You know what?” He said straight-faced.

I looked at him, still nervous; worrying what he’d say next.

He smiled and paused. “It’s okay!”

He laughed, not understanding why a sink clog could be so traumatic. He gave me a hug and kissed me on the head.

“We’ll fix it tomorrow,” he said, smiling. “Now let’s get in bed.”

***

The chapel. It’s majestic buttresses and four transept spires rear their heads over the small, cobblestone wall I come upon in a field of long, wild grasses. I step up to the antique wall, setting my hands on two large stones to jump my legs over to the right side. Once over, I lean back in a standing sit against the wall, looking at my holy destination off in the distance.

Not a person in sight.

The flagpole near the football field in front of me hangs not its normal drapery of the shield of St. George; our protection. Instead, a large white tapestry in its place, perhaps a foreshadowing surrender to what’s lurking behind this beautiful paradise.

I give up.

The scent in the air is all too familiar; Rhode Island waves pounding on the shore a short distance away. The distinct smell of salt and red tide fills my nostrils as I traverse the long grass fields. The faded paint in the damped green blades, reminiscent of the games that were once held here; the laughter, the joy. In the distance, from the auditorium I suspect, a song; a single piano.

The familiar arpeggios start as a soft murmur, slowly reaching their full crescendo. The notes, I realize, pounding in tandem with the aggressive downpour that is now beating down on my face and hair. I stand motionless, realizing the theme of the tune; my chosen wedding processional. An odd choice for a bride and all at once it dawns on me with the claps of thunder on beat with the pounding of the piano’s base notes that it was a warning; a message I had given myself in my subconscious. Elijah Bossenbroek’s song.

“I Give Up.”

As I take a deep breath in, wanting to reap all the benefits of the beauty and nostalgia, everything goes silent.

Silence, except for a ringing that forcefully takes over my environment. I drop to my knees on the wet grass, cupping my hands over my ears, praying for it to stop. My mouth falls open to let out a scream, yet it is silent. No voice at all, just the piercing audial pain running through my ears and into my aching head. Just as soon as it began, it finally ceases, and silence ensues once again. No sounds remaining but the echoing of my panting; my heaving breaths reverberating across the vast meadowland. I bring my hands back down and face my palms up. Blood. Like a wave toppling over me in a sea of my own nervousness, the thought of what’s behind me is becoming all too clear. I don’t want to look; I know I shouldn’t. I know I should run for the chapel doors that I had set out to reach. I let my head drop down; defeated, frightened and panicked. Don’t look, Lindsay.

I look.

My head starts to turn over my shoulder, I feel my eyes start to well up with tears; for once, not out of sadness, but fear. I brush the wet, windswept hair out of my eyes and squint to make out what I’m seeing; hoping that it can’t possibly be what I fear the most.

Off in the distance, peering over the same cobblestone wall I had climbed over not moments earlier, it starts to emerge. First, its forehead; bald and sickly pale, followed by the bulging almond shaped eyes that haunted my dreams for over 15 years. Dark and foreboding; it’s eyes alone offering no emotion, not even looking at me but off in the distance, taking in his surroundings.

As his full head emerges over the cobblestone wall, I see the familiar mouth and jaw. His chin protrudes outward to a slight point, and his mouth seemingly thin and small, yet as it slowly, eerily turns its head, eyes meeting mine, his lips curl up and the small mouth opens; displaying the long pointed teeth within the insidious smile and, as he did years ago outside my second story dorm room window, he hissed a long, guttural growl and he lunged over the wall towards me.

I ran.

***

October 18th, 2018

My dad got in a cab from his office.

“I’m on my way.”

Ben had called around to my ex’s different office locations, pretending to be a client. He finally pinpointed the office he was at and gave my dad the thumbs up.

My dad showed up in his best suit. The place was empty, and he sat in the waiting area as my ex finished up with a client.

When the lobby manager went to go inform him that he had a visitor, my dad hid behind a pillar. He knew there was a long hallway for my ex to walk down and didn’t want to give himself away until he was front and center; my ex wouldn’t make a scene in the lobby, not in front of the tellers and other colleagues. My dad knew he would be too proud to refuse a meeting.

He heard the monster’s footsteps coming down the long corridor and as my ex entered the lobby, my dad popped out from behind the pillar.

“Hi, Monster. Remember me?”

My dad smiled and forced the two of them to immediately walk back down the hallway and into the monster’s small office.

***

I sat there at my desk. My legs nervously shaking up and down in anticipation of a text from my dad; Ben pacing back and forth next to me. We both just wanted this to be over.

I knew between the two of us, my dad and I, we could end his career. The more he acted out, the more ammunition we had. We wanted to let this go peacefully; be the better people, knowing all too well that karma would have its day without our intervention. My dad went into this wanting nothing more than for me to be free. He didn’t go to demand the money we were owed; he went to demand that my ex sign the listing agreement. He went there to demand that he stopped playing games; that he stopped hurting me, his little girl.

My heart struggled with the conflict. The guilt of needing my dad to endure such an emotionally draining encounter, yet pride knowing how tactical he would be. How he’d violently rip his throat out in his mind, while sternly explaining to the monster exactly how this was going to go, if he signed and if he didn’t sign.

Finally, the text.

“It’s done. I’ll call in a bit. Walking it off.”

I looked up at Ben, not sure if it was good or bad.

***

My dad called 20 minutes later as he walked through the zoo at Lincoln Park. He explained that the monster wanted 24 hours, but that my dad thought he would sign the paperwork. He explained how my ex made up a bullshit excuse of not wanting to sign because it was somehow a trap I had set; that this was my fault.

“Does he know how bad this will be for him if he doesn’t?”

“Yes.”

They had also gone over logistics of furniture and other items that I still had of his; a pathetic attempt in my mind of my ex shifting responsibility.

“He told me when he left, that everything there was mine,” I said confused. Then I realized his game. “I suspect he wants the piano he bought for me.”

My eyes welled up at the thought of this manipulation tactic; him knowing all too well how much I’d use the piano as a source of therapy through the whole ordeal.

“Fuck him,” my dad said, knowing exactly where my head was at. He paused for a moment. “So, I hate to ask, but did you use his credit card?”

I laughed to myself. “Well, not on purpose,” I said. My ex still had his card saved to my Amazon account, and when I had gone to purchase the three items a few weeks ago, I received a dispute notice and realized what had happened.

“I called amazon and took care of it,” I said. “They confirmed that the money was reimbursed, and I already saw the charges on my credit card statement. That was all resolved.”

“Can you prove that?”

I clapped back, almost offended. “Of course. I have the e-mails right here,” I said sternly. “You think I want to give him any more reason to lash out? No thank you.”

“How much was it even for?” my dad asked, almost bewildered.

“Oh, I don’t know. Probably around $190.”

My dad started to laugh, and I followed suit. The absurdity of him being upset over $200 dollars he was reimbursed given the thousands he still owed us. I wasn’t sure if I was laughing or crying, but it felt good to poke fun at him.

“God, he’s such a loser,” we both said simultaneously.

After our laughter died down a bit, an air of seriousness took back over.

“I lost it a bit at the end,” he said.

I understood. I knew it was a lot to ask of my dad. He was a gentle soul and, like me, didn’t prefer having to be the enforcer. Above all, he didn’t like to see me suffer. I was ready for the conversation to be over and so was he, but I had to know one more thing.

“Dad? Did he seem at all upset? At all ashamed? What do you think he was feeling?”

My dad sighed loudly over the phone. I could hear the faint sound of birds chirping in the background against the traffic on Stockton Drive.

“To be honest, Lindsay, he was completely void of emotion.” He paused. “It was actually pretty disturbing.”

***

Running.

Faster than I could have imagined. As I continue towards the large Gothic chapel, it starts to fade away from me like a camera effect out of a horror film. I wasn’t losing control this time.

I started sprinting through the wet grass as lightning sprawled across the dark purple sky overhead. It must have been yards away, yet somehow, I felt its hot breath on my neck as I ran.

I could hear it laughing; not human.

I knew it wasn’t human years ago. I knew it would be easier to sleep at night thinking that it was just a peeping Tom; a townie. I knew it would be easier to tell people that someone must have used a ladder.

I also knew it was a lie.

What they didn’t know was that the girl who lived above me had seen it too. She saw an animal; a large animal below my window that night. And another girl heard whispering outside moments before in an unidentifiable language.

I sprinted towards the doors of the church; grasping at the antique shutter ring handles and slammed the door behind me. I ran down the hall, turning left into the chapel. It’s vastness and long center aisle in front of me. I had always wanted to wear a white dress and walk down this aisle; and despite the panic, the irony set into me like a puzzle piece being put together.

I dashed through the nave and down the long aisle heading towards the altar. My wet footprints trailing behind me, left behind like the tears I had shed. I saw where I would be safe. Above the altar, to the right of the pulpit was 50 feet of scaffolding, leading up to a large hole in the wall near the ceiling; the future home of a new organ.

Leaving behind my acrophobia, I got to the scaffolding and immediately climbed, trying to avoid the clanking sounds of my shoes against the steel poles. Just as I had reached the top landing, I heard the chapel door start to creak open and I quickly ducked into the large, hallowed cave in the wall.

I sat with my back against the Eastern wall, peering down the aisle. I could see it.

It’s skinny, naked body and gaunt face; menacing while surprisingly lifeless. Without taking a single step, it glides down the holy path and its eyes meet mine. I stand up and face it, looking straight at its evil, impish figure below the scaffolding.

“The devil isn’t welcome here,” I said out of false confidence.

It looked up at me and started its slow eerie smile once again. I couldn’t bear to hear the laugh. So, I prayed.

And then the organ started.

The pipes bellowed out melodies. They were songs; my songs, thrusting the organ wind against the demonic creature. I watched as his impish body dissolved around him, leaving for a moment just the face. Face of my nightmares, face of my reality. I looked at it quizzically for a moment.

It was emotionless, stoic. Void of anything.

And in an instant, it disappeared.

It was finally over. I composed myself in the depths of the chapel walls, standing back up and brushing off the dust and debris from my clothes. As I looked up, I was immediately startled. I saw another person standing before me; myself. She was facing me, like looking in a mirror. And with an unwavering confidence I will never forget, she spoke to me.

“If the devil is real, then so is God.”

***