LIFE AFTER LIFE
By Gale Perry-Crawford
On my
fortieth birthday I tried desperately not to participate in my life. My husband Mel, his adult twin
daughters, and my parents had been assured not to count on my presence for this
monumental leap into the downhill slide of the aging process. I’d planned to be unavailable. Dodging the ties that bind was an art
form my independent nature had developed and perfected during my teenage
years. I was a practiced artist.
The
ultimate life avoidance tactic was, of course, shopping. I fiddled around at the office, where I
was a bookkeeper by trade, as late as possible without drawing too much
attention to myself, then off I went to the largest shopping mall in North San
Diego County, North County Fair.
Once there, I wandered aimlessly, well after all the shops had closed.
A cocky
but well-meaning young security guard finally approached me. I guess he assumed a disoriented middle
age woman, alone late at night, most probably had lost her car in the parking
maze. He expressed concern and
offered his help. Embarrassed, I
assured him that although I was obviously aging my memory remained in tact. Quickly, I tottered off to my full size
white Dodge van, a monolith in the nearly empty parking lot, started for home,
dreading my fate.
Pulling
into the driveway, the tempo of my heart stepped up. All but the porch light were out and the house seemed
quiet. The hope of my beloved
family respecting my wishes dwindled, however, as I approached the front door
and heard muffled chuckles coming from the other side. In the entry, through those double
wooden doors I was positive a "Happy 40th Birthday" cake,
black candles ablaze, loomed with my name on it. I opened the door.
There it was. The family
had gathered in a display of senseless cruelty, the cake cradled in the hands
of taunting people who claimed to love me.
The room was peppered with an abundance
of ashen balloons. As if that
wasn't sufficiently depressing, a button with the words "40 with the body
of a 39 year old" was pinned on my blouse, a birthday version of the
“Scarlet Letter”. Reluctantly I
celebrated and everybody was happy.
Well, almost.
When I was twenty-five, Mel and I
married in a civil ceremony.
That’s how I would describe our relationship, for most of our fifteen
years, very civil. It was the
second marriage for each of us. I
was childless but he had twin daughters living in Los Angeles. He was very strong and handsome, in a
Don Quixote kind of way, rugged, aggressive, and used to being in charge. A general contractor by trade, he had
an artistic flare that was very popular with well-to-do Southern California
clients looking for uniqueness. His
business was “the other woman” in our relationship, but in all fairness, he did
put forth great efforts to help me fit into his lifestyle.
Together, we were like a peanut
butter sandwich. He was the bread;
half of him facing outward, crumbs falling away. I was wedged between his desires and his responsibilities,
stuck, unable to spread any further. My first priority was taking care of him while
household duties came second.
The remainder of my time was split between a part time bookkeeping job
and the care and training of my horses.
My love of horses had shadowed me
throughout life, beginning as a toddler.
I was infatuated from the first moment I saw one and this passion
consumed my childhood fantasies and playtime activities. Finally, at the age of
twenty-six, I realized my youthful dream and bought my first horse, Jaady. He was a sixteen-year old Arabian
gelding who taught me the equine ropes with a great deal of tolerance. I spent all my spare time studying the
care, training, and breeding of Arabian horses. For years my interest in Arabians sustained me, filling the
empty days and the lonely nights.
Mel’s schedule was as unpredictable
as winning big in Lotto. Dinner
could be served anytime from 5 PM to midnight or not at all. Frequently, he went out with his drinking
buddies after work and I wouldn’t see or hear from him until bedtime. I was alone, occupying a fat house that
I didn’t want and sharing a relationship that left me feeling hungry. Frequently while I slept, my
imagination took extended road trips, analyzing Mel’s cuisine.
------------
I was on my hands and knees in the
blue tiled master bath scrubbing the grime from the sides of the bathtub when I
first heard the argument. It was
coming from my next-door neighbor's house. Initially, I didn't think anything of it.
My neighbor Roland was probably
working in the garage, I thought, and his wife Julie got mad. He spent a lot of time there. Julie got mad a lot. Very annoying. All too frequently, her shrill voice
echoed throughout the neighborhood.
Poor Roland, I thought. I
nosily glanced up through the large bathroom window separating us and witnessed
the exchange. Suddenly, Roland hit
his wife with whatever was in his hand.
She went down. He took the
object and reamed it into her face. I gasped.
My breathing stopped as Roland
turned around and looked at me through the glass, face crimson, eyes on fire.
He began walking towards my house.
“Oh shit!”
I got to my feet, scrambled to the
front door and secured the dead bolt.
I hurried to the sliding glass door in the family room and pressed the
lock. As I started securing the
windows I heard footsteps at the side gate to the backyard. Rushing to the kitchen, I picked up the
phone and dialed 911. The line was
dead. My mind raced and my heart
pounded out of control. I reached
for the drawer left of the refrigerator where I kept my sharp knives...nothing
larger that a paring knife.
"Shit, shit!"
My eyes darted across the room to
the dishwasher. I heard glass
breaking in one of the back bedrooms near the gate. I ran to the dishwasher, opened the door and pulled out a
dirty carving knife with last nights roast chicken still smeared on it. Then, I crouched down behind the
breakfast bar, shaking, too terrified to think or to move as I heard him enter
the house.
The back bedroom door creaked
open. I listened as footsteps came
down the hallway and continued to the front door. Hearing a hammering noise followed by a clunk, I figured
something had dropped on the entryway’s tile floor, but what? The sound of footsteps moved toward the
kitchen. I sunk to the floor, squeezed
between two barstools, my pointed weapon ready to strike. Roland appeared at the edge of the
breakfast bar with a bloodied hammer in his hand. He lunged at me. Holding the knife in my right hand, I
jumped up and struck back. He
swung the deadly hammer and connected with my arm. The pain from the blow forced me to release my grip on the
knife and it dropped.
Wild-eyed, Roland swung again. But this time, using superhuman
strength, I picked up one of the barstools with my left hand and blocked the
hammer. Instinctively, I jammed
the barstool into his chest then ran past him toward the front door. I fumbled with the dead bolt. In my panic, it took me a few seconds
to realize Roland had jammed the lock. The latch had been pounded off and it
lie on the tile. Roland was
closing in, again. Grabbing a
nearby crystal lamp, I threw it at Roland and smashed it on his head. He stumbled back. To my elation I heard my husband’s
truck pull into the driveway and the engine stop. I scrambled to the adjacent picture window and screamed.
"Help! Mel! Help! Roland's
gone crazy! He's trying to kill
me! Mel, Mel, help me!”
Mel stood in the driveway next to
his truck and glanced into the living room's mirror-coated plate glass
window. I watched him scratch his
head. He looked perplexed as if he
thought he heard something, but just wasn't sure. Then he pivoted and walked away from the house, down to our
mailbox perched on a post at the street.
I began to pound on the window,
desperate to get Mel’s attention.
Roland was regaining his equilibrium and lurked behind me. I screamed again. Mel turned around. I could see his mouth moved as his neck
muscles tightened. His face
looked...well, irritated. I read
his lips as he shouted.
"What’d you say?” pause,
“What? I can’t hear you,
Jill. Just hang on. I’ll be there in a few minutes for Gods
sake!”
I felt
a heavy thump on the back of my head, then another. Everything went dark.
---------------------
It was just a bad dream, but when I
woke up I felt like I had swallowed a boulder. Looking back, that nocturnal revelation was all too
representative of my communicative deficiencies with Mel. We had always led separate lives. He was rarely there when I needed him
and I'm sure he felt the same about me.
Mel loved the ocean and his
yacht. I, on the other hand,
couldn't even sit on the dock and watch the boats moored without getting
seasick. As they moved with the mild
swells, so would my stomach. I
loved the mountains, my dogs, and my horses. Mel would take the obligatory annual camping trip with our
friends and even ride a horse every now and then but his heart wasn't in
it. For days after the ride I
would hear him complain.
"My ass still hurts!"
Over the years, we had learned to
pursue our own interests with an unspoken agreement not to interfere with each
other. We didn’t even eat
together, partly because of our schedules and partly because of our
preferences. Mel was a steak,
potatoes, ice cream, and beer man, lots of beer. I lived on poultry, whole grains, salads and wine. Well, I liked ice cream, too. On those occasions when we did share a
meal, I spent most of the time watching the back of Mel’s head as it twisted to
get a better view of the Channel 10, six o'clock evening news.
In retrospect, it was amazing we
lasted fifteen years. I guess it
shouldn't have been all that surprising when I decided to take a hike. Unfortunately, my parents didn't see it
that way.
My parents thought I was crazy to
leave such a cushy life for an uncertain future. I countered that the future was always uncertain. They tried and tried to talk me out of
it, siding with Mel on every issue except for one. Mel drank too much, and when he drank he could be very
unpredictable. I played that card,
reminding them of the time a drunken Mel crawled out the upstairs bedroom
window after we had a spat so he didn’t have to walk through the living room
where my parents were seated to get to his truck. Or the time I broke my rib and had to call a friend to take
me to the hospital because Mel hadn’t come home after work and I didn’t know
what bar he might be at.
In the end, we agreed to disagree
about the divorce. I dropped my
security blanket, my marriage license, and my life in the trash.
Chapter 2
The transition was complicated. Mel clung to me like a praying mantis
to a vine, disbelieving I could walk away from our life. He rallied my parents, his children,
and my friends to his aide. I was
suffocating with the good intentions of his well-meaning allies who were smothering
me with advice.
For a while I struggled without success to keep treasured
friendships. The last conversation
I had with my best friend, Trish, was ominous.
“Are
you crazy? Mel has
everything a woman could want. He
makes good money, he’s good looking, and he loves you to pieces. Why are you doing this?” Trish blasted me.
“He
doesn’t have everything this woman wants!” I defended. “Having a custom home in the suburbs
was never my dream, it was Mel’s.
The yacht in the harbor, the new car every other year, that’s Mel’s
definition of success. I’m tired
of living Mel’s life. I want
mine! A horse boarding/training
facility in the country with endless trails and cleaner air, these are my
dreams. I’m forty years old and
time is running out!”
“What about me, your best
friend? You’re leaving me,
too!” Trish had gutted the fish on
the table. The offensive odor permeated the air.
Guilt became my constant companion,
isolation my only true friend. I
became a leper to all my former contacts.
They distanced themselves, worrying that my circumstance might somehow
be contagious. These were women
with whom I had shared my innermost private thoughts, my confidences. But I quickly learned that married
women preferred married female friends and I was no longer welcome in the
matrimonial circle. Becoming a
single woman was more than dumping a spouse. The process also dissolved friendships quicker than an acid bath! I felt more alone than ever, frantic to
find just one human being who didn’t hate me. Then one day I stumbled across Annie.
Chapter 3
Annie’s
story was right out of TV’s “Desperate Housewives”. A stunning young woman and fresh from college graduation,
she had married a wealthy prince (really a shrewd businessman) then settled in
to be well-tended for the rest of her perfect life. Of course life isn’t perfect and a few years and two
children later, feeling unappreciated and alone too much, she fell for a
sweet-talking attorney, walked away from her family, and went to live happily
ever after with the new guy.
The
new prince, Bob, turned out to be an unethical snake. He cheated his clients, didn’t pay his taxes, and there were
even allegations that he stole money from our riding club while acting as
president. The IRS was on his tale
and the regulatory board was monitoring mal-practice issues. Bob frequented nudie bars, a behavior
hidden until the divorce process was in full swing, cheated on Annie, and kept
her in financial darkness.
After
eleven years of marriage he announced he was in love with a mutual friend, a
nurse, and he was leaving Annie for her. Once he slithered away, so did Annie’s cash flow. He threw her enough loose change to
feed herself, but not enough make the mortgage or her car payment.
I spent a lot
of time, day and night, obsessing over Annie’s situation. It was so much easier to do that than
address my own pathetic midlife crisis.
Weird little dreams disturbed my sleep.
---------------
The woman gracefully eased onto the
bar stool and rested her left elbow on the counter. Her right arm stayed pressed to her side concealing the
outline of a weapon hidden inside her jacket. A few slightly overweight middle-aged men sitting at the
back corner table drooled over the leggy brunette as she sat alone.
She fidgeted as if excited, then
glanced over the counter at her reflection in the mirror of the elegant young
woman staring back at her. With
long silky dark hair tucked into her derby, the checkered lapels of her oversized
chocolate colored wool jacket highlighted her mysterious, exotic face. She appeared to be using the mirror to
view the front door, not wanting to face it directly.
"May I get you something,
miss", the bartender inquired as he dried a long stemmed wine glass and
stacked it on a lower shelf behind the bar.
"Scotch straight up,
please". She placed a bill on
the counter top.
Her attention sparked as the beveled glass on the
swinging wooden doors flashed in the mirror. A customer entered.
Handsome, medium height, and
muscular, a brown haired man in a dark business suit walked passed the tables
where the men were still goggling and sat at the bar. It was Annie’s husband, Bob Blake. The woman facing the mirror glanced at her watch and
thought, “Right on time”. She did
not look directly at him but continued to eye his reflection closely.
She seemed to be tracing the
outline of his clean-shaven face, while her slender hand slipped into the fold
of the leather shoulder bag at her side searching for something. Slowly a photograph appeared. After studying the photo discretely,
she lifted her eyes to view the man's reflection one more time. She had a satisfied look on her face.
Swinging her shapely legs around, she positioned herself with
a frontal view of Blake. As she
did, she reached her left hand into the fold of her bulky jacket and held it
there. Blake, sitting at the bar,
eyed the long-legged beauty facing him with more than a casual interest. He grinned like a shark circling a
tasty meal. The exotic woman
seductively smiled back.
He was just about to get up and
move closer when she edged off of her bar stool and glided toward him. He dropped his hands to his lap.
"I certainly won't be needing
this!" He began to twist off
his wedding band.
The mystery woman closed in,
smiling, amused at the stranger’s attempt to deceive her. As she walked toward him, she wrapped
her hand around the 38 tucked in her deep pocket, and readied it for
action. A microsecond before she
was in position to shoot, the bar doors swung open, again, and her attention was
diverted. Suddenly a middle aged,
well-dressed, hysterical woman thundered through the bar's swinging doors and
rushed to her husband's side.
Blake finally got his ring off and
looked up just in time to see his wife Annie bolting toward him. He had a surprised “I’m screwed” look
all over his face. Annie's Blake’s
frightened blue eyes dashed back and forth between her husband and the baffled
hit-woman in the brown wool jacket.
She looked at Bob, then back at his wife. Annie stared, pleadingly into the would-be killer’s eyes.
"I've changed my mind. I just love him too much. Stop this now and just keep the money.”
she whispered, dropping her head in shame.
Good ole’ Bob was still fumbling
around trying to get his gold band back on his finger and completely missed the
exchange between the two women.
The assassin acknowledged the decision of a distraught Annie Blake,
nodded, turned towards the bar’s entrance, and left.
-----------------
My neighbor's car backfired as he
warmed it up for his commute. It
was a ritual I had come to rely on as my weekday morning alarm clock since
moving away from Mel. The pit in
my stomach reminded me of my strange dream about Annie. Oh, Annie. Why did she think she needed that asshole anyway? Why do any of us do what we do in the
name of Love. I put on a pot of
coffee, dialed the phone, and listened.
"Hello.
This' is Annie. I can't
come to the phone right now.
Please, leave your name and phone number. I’ll call you back.
Thanks."
“Hi, Annie. Had a strange dream ‘bout you and
Bob. Thought I’d share. Call me”. I hung up the phone.
I'd known Annie for years, but I
never knew her. We were both
dressage riders and members of the Poway Valley Riders Club, merely casual
acquaintances. Last year we
crossed paths while I was out riding and she was walking her dog. She was a mess. Her attorney-snake husband had just
left her for another woman.
I shared with her the events of my topsy-turvy life following my fortieth birthday just a year before. We became bonded by pain. Annie was drowning in the divorce process. Mine was complete, as much as it ever would be. I'd already sucked in enough water to be declared legally dead, my past life gone, rebirth a daily struggle.
At forty-four, my friend was still
a very striking woman. Tall and
slender, educated, the elegance of a professional model, and a perfect blond
coiffure just above the collar accented her beautiful, sad face. In contrast, my long-legged, medium
frame was topped with a shaggy brown mop reflecting my reckless attitude about
love and life. I worried for
Annie.
In a conversation she revealed, "Things have gotten a
lot easier since I gave up hope. I
no longer drive myself mad trying to figure out how to get my life back. I never will and it's a little easier
knowing that." Then she
stared into space.
I made a mental note to try
reaching her again later and grabbed my mug. The computer waited for my daily entry. Sitting at my desk, I booted it up then
chugged some java for inspiration, motivation, and/or agitation. Last year I began writing at the
recommendation of an acquaintance, a well-meaning, depression-feeding,
psychology student. She suggested
I write a journal expressing my daily thoughts and feelings. This process, she assured me, would
help sort out some of the confusion and disappointments in my life. A nifty little theory, but what was I
suppose to do with the disk of darkness once I’d poured out my soul? Re-read it? Now that was a happy thought! I began to write.
Dear Disk,
What is the key to happiness? Is Annie right? Must we simply give up hope of ever
finding peace within ourselves?
Will that release our anxiety allowing peace to come? Perhaps happiness is buried underneath
all traces of expectations we apply to our lives and to our loved one's
lives. Maybe disappointment cannot
exist without hope.
With that dispiriting task complete, I pushed away
from my desk and glanced down.
“What shall we have for breakfast
today, guys?” Six hopeful sets of
beady eyes attached to wagging canine tails followed my every move.
I reached up to the top of my
cluttered desk and opened the cabinet door. Browsing through the sparse
selection of delicacies, I decided on a stale, opened bag of nacho flavored
Doritos. Grabbing a handful for myself,
I poured the rest on the floor for the dogs. As I sipped coffee and ate my share of the Doritos, I
studied my depressing quarters.
I lived in a room over a
garage. Although it was attached
to the main house by a narrow L-shaped stairway, I rarely descended to interact
with my roommates. There was
another exit on the outside of the garage portion of the house, a staircase
connecting the backyard to my "room, sweet room". It gave the dogs and me private access
through a four-foot wide side gate opening to the front, leading to the
driveway. My kitchenette was
neatly tucked away in one corner of the boxy area sharing space with a chaotic,
4'x 6', almost oak, put-together-by-number desk jammed in the corner. There was enough space remaining to
squeeze in an antique maple dresser that I'd had since I was twelve and a queen
size sofa bed. Photographs of dogs
and horses I'd owned and vacation spots I'd visited cluttered the walls. What a contrast to my old life.
A year ago, before I threw away my
life, I was living in an elegant 4-bedroom, 3-bath Spanish style custom home
with a pool and a spectacular view on an acre of land. Mel and I built it and lived there for
nearly fifteen years. We had
what most our friends and my parents thought was a great relationship. We even had a family, of sorts. His twin teenage daughters from a
previous marriage had moved in with us permanently when I was in my early
thirties. But, shortly after I’d
turned forty, with the kids grown and gone, I’d woken up from a deep sleep and
realized I was dead inside. Now,
all I had was a bank account padded by the division of marital assets and no
ambition to do anything besides wallow in self-pity and what-if scenarios. My old friends had faded like a pair of
over-washed jeans. Annie
temporarily filled my deep well of emotional need.
Annie
was a survivor. Once she realized
she was in irreversible trouble, she took another look at Dick, her first
husband, who was unhappily married to a woman on an extended vacation in
England, solo. Of course, Dick and
Annie had remained in contact over the years because of their two children and
she poured her heart out to his eager ears. He had always loved her, even though she left him for
another man over a decade before.
Now a multi-millionaire, Dick offered to help in a big way. Annie swore to him she would repay him
when she got back on her feet…and eventually, in her way, I guess she did.
Initially,
Annie thought she would try “working for a living”. With a degree in education, she signed up at the local
school district as a substitute teacher.
I believe she lasted two days in the classroom. We celebrated the end of her career in education
with poolside margaritas at her soon-to-be foreclosed on home and a discussion
of her financial options.
She
had recently started dating an airline pilot, at first more as an amusement
than true love. As her finances
dwindled, she decided to put extra effort into the relationship, hoping for
another stay-at-home wife role. He
was having none of it! They
vacationed in Cancun, Colorado, Hawaii, etc. and she really liked that life but
he stuck firm with his bachelor status.
She grounded the pilot and searched for alternate transportation to
security. Meanwhile her first ex
was waiting in the wings, wallet out, salivating.
A
small part of her hadn’t completely given up on Bob coming to his senses until
the day her attorney called reporting that Bob had been arrested for
misappropriation of client funds.
A jailed husband was of little or no use, but she did get an enormous
amount of satisfaction knowing he wasn’t bedded down with Florence Nightingale,
at least for the time being.
One
day, pounding on my computer and in the chronic throws of self-loathing, I
heard a horn blast from the driveway below. I peered through the blinds of the sliding glass door in my
quarters above the garage to see who was interrupting my depression. I saw Annie sticking her head through
the sunroof of a brand new silver-blue Acura!
“Where
did you steal that?” I joked.
“Dick
bought it for me. They repossessed
my car on Tuesday and he was worried I wouldn’t have any transportation. Let’s go for a ride”.
Grabbing
my purse and a pony tale band, I trotted down the stairs and jumped into her
brand new wheels. She began
backing out of the driveway as I ran a brush through my hair and tied it up.
“What’s
up with the ex?” I questioned.
“Well,
I hadn’t told you before, but we started seeing each other again after I dumped
the pilot. He’s been really
sweet.”
“And
generous”, I quipped.
“That’s
not all. He’s even paying to have
my breast implants redone. They’ve
been hardening for years!”
That
was a little more information than I wanted but I smiled, “What does his wife
think about all this?”
“He
told me she has a boyfriend in England and she doesn’t plan to come home. They’re getting a divorce.”
That
will change, I thought to myself, as soon as she finds out about Annie’s
comeback. His vacationing wife
will be on a plane in a heartbeat to make sure she gets her share of the
substantial assets before Dick spends any more courting bucks on his
ex-wife. Annie had finally found
her cash cow, or should I say bull.
We drifted apart after that.
Chapter 5
I'd been in love twice in forty-one
years. Although I'd loved many people in my time, I had escaped the madness of
being "in love" most of my life. I was only fourteen the first time I
fell. My high school sweetheart
was two years older than I. Much
later, when I grew up, I attributed the gut retching, heart stopping, out of
control desperate feeling to my inexperience. But after dating for throughout high school and my boyfriend
getting shipped off to Vietnam, I was a hopelessly lovesick teenager.
We dated throughout high school
then he was drafted after graduation.
After boot camp he was sent to Vietnam and I thought I might never see
him alive again. Desperate to
spend as much time together as possible, we got married while he was on leave
between Vietnam assignments.
Marriage seemed to cure the psychological seizure of anxiety and need
for both of us. We fought bitterly
as if it were the only way to sustain life. By nineteen I had divorced this emotional wasteland and
pledged I would never, ever let anyone touch my heart so deeply again. The second time I fell madly in love was twenty-two years
later.
A year after my fortieth birthday and my separation from Mel, I made a decision to send my very talented but headstrong young grey Arabian mare, dangerous by anybody’s standards, to a professional trainer. It was also the day I made a conscious choice to crawl through fire blindfolded with two broken legs.
On Sunday morning I saddled up my
"easy rider" horse, a big bay Arabian gelding named L.S. (aka, Little
Shit), and headed for the Stern ranch across town. It was such a beautiful day I thought it would be a pleasant
ride on horseback so I left my car at home. Through the equine grapevine I had heard about a sensational
trainer, Mark Sayers from Montana, working out at Sterns Arabian Ranch. Bill Stern was a casual acquaintance
from the horse community. I was
thinking about giving his horse trainer, Sayers, a shot at my homicidal mare
and rode over to check him out. As
L.S. and I ambled up the dirt road to the ranch, I saw Bill Stern on the front
patio talking with a few cowboy types.
"Hi, Bill". I waved.
“Well, hello Jill! What brings you out this way?”
I explained my problem with the mare and asked about
the horse trainer working for him.
"He's around somewhere. I was just getting ready to show a video
of him on my stallion. Why don’t
you come in and watch it with us."
I hesitated. L.S., my favorite ride, had one
itsy bitsy peculiarity. He could untie any knot I could make, in half the time
it took me to create it. I dismissed
the thought of him running off, though, because I really wanted to see if this
trainer guy was as good as I had heard.
So pushing better judgment aside, I dismounted, twisted his reins up
tightly to the hitching post, and went inside.
We all found places to sit and Bill
began the video for the group.
About five minutes into the film, I heard the front door open, then
close. Without even looking up, I
felt an ominous foreboding. My
heart beat faster as every vein in my body began to tingle with
electricity. I swear, I thought I
might explode. From the corner of
my eye I saw a shape approach me, but still, I did not look up. As the figure closed in, my heart raced
faster and I became more unsettled.
Wrangler jeans and spurs passed in
front of my eyes, and sat down just inches away but my attention stayed glued
to the TV. Inside, I was jumping
out of my skin, but my body remained stone. Suddenly, there was a big commotion outside.
"Oh, no! L.S.! Shit!"
I just knew my Houdini horse had
untied himself. I scrambled to my feet
and flew out the front door just in time to see the hindquarters of my
transportation home galloping along the outside fence line of Stern’s opened
gate, moving full speed towards the sage covered hillside.
Mr. Wrangler jeans ran passed
me. He sprinted toward a big
palomino quarter horse, the kind whose hindquarters are set up for racing,
saddled and tied to the hitching post near the porch. As he mounted the palomino, he hollered to a dark-haired
boy about twelve years old standing by the tack shed.
"Collin! Throw me that catch
rope. Now!"
The boy moved quickly. Within seconds I saw a left
hand reach up and connect with the flying lariat. Spurs dug into the palomino’s
sides and the cowboy galloped off.
By this time everyone from the house had rushed out to see all the
excitement.
"God! I hope he can catch him." I whispered softly as I wrung my hands
together.
Bill stood next to me. "Jill, don't you worry about a
thing. This guy can ride better
than anyone I know. That's Mark
Sayers. He'll bring your horse
back."
In the distance we watched as the
gap closed between Mark and my runaway climbing the hill. Just as we were about
to lose sight of them, we watched Mark raise and swing the lariat as he topped
the hill. Both L. S. and the
palomino dropped from view over the ridge.
"Please, don't
miss!" I held my breath, sat
down on the wooden patio stairs, propped my head in my sweaty hands, and
waited. Helpless, I stared into
the distance where they had disappeared.
Suddenly, I saw movement.
At first all I could see was a cowboy hat popping over the
ridgeline. Seconds later two
equine heads were clearly visible.
Everybody cheered. I
watched intently as Mark rode back to the ranch, my horse’s reins dallied
around his saddle horn.
I
studied Mark Sayers. He appeared
to be about medium height with broad shoulders and a trim waistline. I guessed him to be in his early
forties. He rode up to the porch
where all of us were gathered.
"Nice roping Mark!" A small heavyset man, wearing jeans a
little to long for his stubby legs grinned as he tipped his hat to the cowboy.
"Wow! That was cool!" Collin shouted as he ran up to the
cowboy. "Would you teach me
how to do that? Please, please
Mark!"
"Sure will, we can start this
afternoon.” The cowboy swung his
right leg over the saddle and slid down, I couldn’t help but noticed how well
developed his backside and thigh muscles were. My pulse raced and my face flushed.
“Collin,
would you please cool him out for me?” Mark handed the palomino’s reins to the boy. Then his attention turned toward
me. Slowly he approached with L.S.
"Is this your horse,
Ma’am?" He stared through me
with penetrating sky blue eyes, amused.
Embarrassed by the whole situation, I stood up, lowered my head, and
held my hand out for Houdini’s reins.
"Thank you so much. I don't
know what I would have done had you not gone after him." Boy that sounded stupid, I thought to
myself and then smiled meekly. His
hand brushed mine during the exchange.
My knees weakened as we touched.
Bill Stern stepped up. "Mark,
this is Jill Parker. Jill, Mark
Sayers." I acknowledge the
official greeting with a nod.
"She's here to talk about
putting one of her mares in training with you", Bill explained to Mark as
he waved one of the migrant ranch hands over to where we stood. Bill adjusted his belt buckle as he
shifted his gaze to me. "Let
Juan put your horse up in a stall and the three of us can talk."
Stern motioned for us to sit at the
picnic table on the porch. My
stomach continued to play leapfrog as I stared over the table’s surface at the
infamous Mark Sayers. A strong jaw
outlined his handsome clean-shaven face.
Wavy strawberry blond hair poked out from under his cowboy hat. Robert Redford had nothing on this
guy! Miraculously, I managed to
conduct myself in a professional manner by disconnecting my brain from the
chaos in my body.
Mark, Bill, and I agreed that the
mare’s training would begin in two weeks.
The details were finalized and I shook hands, first with Bill and then
with Mark. Back flips,
summersaults, I couldn't keep my stomach still. Bill had my horse brought to me. I climbed into the saddle and headed home.
"I can handle this
attraction." I confidently
told myself as L.S. and I walked down the dusty trail.
"Oh God! I'm in trouble now!" I would
counter just as certainly.
"No, no. I'm an adult. I can simply acknowledge the chemistry, but I don't have to
act on it. I'll be OK." I continued this futile argument with
myself all the way home. That was
the beginning of my decent into hell.
Chapter 6
I’ve always been a firm
believer that sending an animal to a trainer does very little good if the owner
doesn’t learn the same lessons.
This was one of the things in the back of my mind when I requested to be
present for all training sessions between Mark and my mare. He seemed please, and agreed with my
philosophy.
The first two training
sessions were difficult for me as an owner, and a woman. He was very hard on the mare,
unforgiving. He explained to
me that he had to establish pecking order with her and he got results. Little did I know at the time, he
applied the same philosophy with women in his life. A month later we began a steamy affair from which it
would take years to recover.
I guess the first clue
that he might have some “bad habits” was with his confession to having been
married four times: two wives with
children left behind, a third marriage that lasted six months, and a fourth
lasting only three days. When I
questioned him about the three day marriage he was vague but suggested she
simply would not follow his rules, (whatever they were). The second hint was when he told
me how his best friend, a middle-aged wannabe cowboy, had written a steamy “what
I’d like to do to you naked” love note to Mark’s high school aged daughter who
was visiting from Montana for the summer.
But, Mark defended, that was all straightened out now.
Although little alarms
sounded in my head, they weren’t nearly as loud as the pangs of infatuation and
lightening bolts of desire shooting throughout my body. Once the affair began, we simply could
not get enough of one another. My
head was spinning with passion, not only for this man, but also for the
lifestyle he represented. I was
fascinated with horse training, riding, and the cowboy life.
Shortly after we took
up together, he was offered a position at a larger, more exclusive stable in
Valley Center about sixty miles away.
The position included a furnished apartment and he asked me to move in with
him. Silly me, I said yes. I gave a 30-day notice to the owner of
my rented room, made temporary arrangements for the care of my dogs and horses,
and packed my things. On the drive
to our new digs, I noticed a shift in his mood.
“Are you feeling OK
about this?” I asked. “Maybe we
should wait a little while before moving in together.”
“No, I said we would do
this, and we will.” He countered.
Silence fell like the
sun at the end of the day. When we
got to the apartment, he set off to inspect his new charges while I unpacked the
car. I didn’t see him again until nightfall. When he did finally return I had
dinner waiting for him.
“I’ve already eaten”,
he said, then settled in a chair and picked up the TV’s remote control. My mood and my stomach became
stone. Unable to eat, I just put
his dinner plate in the fridge and threw my food away. We celebrated the first night in our
new home by not talking or touching.
Come to think of it, that’s how we celebrated the entire first week.
My stomach problems
escalated as the relationship deescalated and I found I couldn’t eat at
all. I dropped ten pounds in as
many days. When stress related
tunnel vision began, I made an emergency appointment to see my physician. Immediately, he gave me an EKG to
assess the damage done to my heart from such rapid weight loss. He recommended I check into a hospital
until I could get my eating under control and before my heart was damaged. Using the “heart” word forced me to pay
attention. I agreed, admitted
myself into a psych hospital, and began the difficult journey back from
terminal love.
The separation from
Mark was exactly what I needed to get my wits about me and gather psychological
and physical strength. Ten days in hospital, and I was emotionally ready to
move out of the apartment. Fortunately,
my old room was still paid for through the end of the month and my landlord had
not re-rented it. I drove up to
the ranch to get my belongings from Mark’s. I packed my things quickly, but not
fast enough to avoid a confrontation.
He accused me of quitting, not understanding him, blah, blah, blah.
“I’m sorry Mark, I am
not willing to die for you”, I answered, although my heart was breaking and I
really thought I would die anyway.
That should have been the end of it, but it wasn’t.
After I moved back into
my rented room, Mark made surprise visits and late night phone calls, checking
to see what I was up to.
“Oh, not again”, I thought waking
up to the phone ringing and glancing at the alarm; 1:15 AM. “Hello.”
The deep, sexy,
familiar voice on the other end chuckled, “Are you awake?”
“Hi Mark. No, I was asleep. Why are you calling?” I asked although I really didn’t want
the answer.
“I heard a new country
song on the radio just now and it made me think of you”.
It crossed my mind I
was being baited but, still struggling to make some sense out of the senseless,
I hit the hook anyway. “What was
the name of it?”
“Here’s a Quarter Call
Someone Who Cares”.
Satisfied with the hurt reflected in my silence, he paused just long
enough to enjoy my disappointment then invited me to a training forum he was
conducting at the ranch. My
healing wounds had been scraped open, again. I spent the rest of the night tossing and turning in my
sleep, trying to stop the bleeding.
---------------------------
He’d
been gone a long time, too long.
Months had passed since he’d galloped off in a fury leaving her to fend
for herself. Food supplies had
dwindled and the well was beginning to smell bad. Strength fading, she sat on the wooden step outside their
isolated, one-room dwelling and stared, as she did every day, toward the
horizon, hoping he might return.
It was a stifling hot summer day on the western prairie. She had shed the petticoat under her
dirty, ragged, long-sleeved dress, hoping for some relief from the unbearable
summer temperatures, relief from the hardships of her lonely life.
In
the distance she thought she saw movement on the distant hilltop. Intense heat rose from the ground
creating the illusion of horizontal waves, distorting the image. Staring intently, she became
excited. “He’s back!” she cried as
she stood up, raised the front of her tattered dress slightly, and began
rushing toward the mirage. The
deadly heat overcame her as she raced across the dry earth. She stumbled and collapsed, dead in the
dust.
--------------------------------
That’s how I felt when
I awoke, face down in the dirt. My
dreams about a life with Mark were dying painfully slow. I wrestled with the soundness of the
idea of going back up to the ranch, wondering if I could resist the temptation
of him. Stupidly and in a moment
of weakness, I went. Staying
completely in character, he ignored me the entire day. It was very clear that he didn’t want
me, but he didn’t want anybody else to have me, either. Mark was a glass of poison. Every time I took a little sip, I came
closer to death.
Chapter 7
It was the weekend of my
forty-second birthday, nearly two years since I had dumped my life with
Mel. A few days before, an
unexpected call from him shook me to my toes.
“Hi Jill, what’s up?” Mel was in a particularly good mood.
“Not much, what’s with you these
days?” I asked. He never called anymore. I was dying to know why today was
different.
“Well, ugh, I just wanted to know
if you wanted any of the pictures hanging in the hall?
The family Hall of Shame, as I
frequently referred to it, displayed pictures of my life with Mel and his
girls, my parents, his parents, etc.
I had left the reminders and the relationships behind two years ago,
preferring not to deal with the family pressures of the divorce.
“If you’re planning to throw them
out, just box them up and I’ll stop by and sort through them”. What was this all about, I
wondered.
“OK, but call first. I, ugh, have been dating a gal I met
through my sister and she, ugh, spends a lot of time here”. I could always tell when Mel wasn’t
being completely honest.
“Mel, what’s going on,
really?” My curiosity was raging.
“We’re getting married.”
The truth was out and my heart flatlined. Quickly finishing up the conversation,
I promised him no surprise visits.
I was enraged, disappointed, and hurt without understanding
why. After all, I was the one who
left him. To escape my foul mood I
decided to spend my birthday weekend horse camping in the mountains with riding
buddies. Still fighting the
hopelessness that haunted me, I thought a change of scenery would elevate my
spirits. I was wrong. The morning of my birthday, I left my
horse in the camp corral and hiked off before dawn, alone.
My plan was trekking to
the top of the state park lookout, spending a quiet moment watching the
sunrise, reflecting on my pathetic life since my divorce, and maybe if the mood
hit me, throwing myself off the mountain.
I had even slipped a pen and notepad in my daypack just in case I
decided to write a goodbye note.
It was a steep,
grueling hike. Once at the top, I
sat down and surveyed the peak’s mountainous 360-degree view. Taking a deep breath, I listened to the
wind, the birds, and an occasional fly buzzing in my ear. All alone and morbidly depressed, I
considered my options. The sun
peered over the distant ridge, rising, blinding, beautiful. I loved the sun, the mountains,
and the fresh air. I would miss
these things. Comfortable with my
solitude, I pulled the writing pad from my pocket and began gathering my last
thoughts.
There was an unusual, faint sound in the distance, not the wind, not a bird, not even a fly, but someone kind of…screaming. Screaming, there it was again, only this time other muffled voices joined in the background. More screaming, I heard several voices this time. Quite alarmed and confused, I stood up and scanned the rocky peak for a place to hide.
Giggling. Did I hear giggling? More giggling. Out of nowhere, a troop of young girl
scouts came bouncing up the trail to the summit. For an hour or more I watched the carefree youngsters
laughing, playing, full of life and hope, completely unconcerned with my
presence or my petty little problems.
I smiled remembering a time when I, too, felt that way. Easing myself back down on the ground,
I studied the notepad in my hand and began to write.
1.
Call
a real estate agent start looking for horse property
2.
Move
out of the creepy, depressing, little dump over the garage
3.
Start
my own horse boarding and training business
4.
Reconnect
with parents
5.
Invite
the twins to lunch