She's Better Off

In the time it took for Miranda to go grocery shopping and come back, her husband had packed and left.  She noted without conscious acknowledgement that his truck was gone though the idea that he had left on a fire call skimmed across her brain.  Miranda brought in the groceries in two trips.  She unloaded food and goods purchased with her husband in mind.  While unloading the second set of bags, her subconscious mind mentioned she couldn't hear his fire and police scanner, which was always on.  It wasn't until she saw the dust-free rectangle on the side table in the living room that she allowed herself to realize he was gone.  Feet feeling heavier with every step, she trudged upstairs and made herself look at his closet and ill-closed dresser.  She made herself look in the bathroom and saw her own toothbrush missing.  Miranda found it later in the toilet.

Abuse Dynamics

I swore I'd never be the kind of girl who ran behind her boyfriend, crying.  Where the boyfriend stomps on ahead, brow lowered and thrust forward, lips compressed, dropping the door on the girl as she stumbles along, begging for him to stop and just talk for a moment and she's sorry, even if she doesn't know why, and if he would only give her a chance.  The kind of girl who would sob that she wished he would stop and talk, while at the same time knowing and secretly dreading his dead-stop and one-foot pivot, rounding on her like a bear, pointing his finger or even raising his fist.

If you had nothing in life but a three-inch piece of string, what would you do with that piece of string and why?

It was Hera's last walk-through of the house she and Frank had shared for the past four years.  Her last chance to pick up what remained of hers, if anything.  She had been moving out for months before she even told Frank she was leaving.  He took it stoically, but he took everything that way.  Four years wasn't that long, but it was her first marriage and her first house.  It was up to Hera to sell the house--Frank owed her too much money to have a stake in it anymore, and he signed it over easily.  It was all so easy to leave.

Hera creaked up the wooden staircase to the second floor, looking at the lumpy, pale blue walls.  While she had been occupied doing laundry in the basement, Frank started pulling off the cheap wall paneling against her wishes.  By the time she heard the racket, he was too far along to put it back.  Frank left the panels in the hallway and stopped his unwanted project forcing Hera to pound out the tiny nails, haul the panels to the garbage, and pull the remaining panels off the living room, the parlor, and the rest of the stairwell.  Hera had to repair the damaged plaster the panels were hiding--the whole reason she didn't want them off--before sanding, painting, painting and repainting.

The bedrooms on the second floor were empty and smelling of pine floor cleaner.  Hera had to clean up after the ill-advised housemate Frank invited to live with them, only one year after their wedding.  When Peter had finally moved out, he left a pile of garbage, a cat, and a smell that turned out to be impossible to remove completely.

Hera creaked up the final, narrower set of stairs to the attic where she and Frank had their bedroom.  Her steps slowed as she turned the corner and ducked automatically around the angled roof lines.  The room only ever had two temperatures: hot or freezing.  This early evening was hot.  Hera looked around the now empty room.  Frank had taken the bed.  She knew he would, but didn't realize he had.  Remembering the long day they had choosing the king-sized monstrosity hit her harder than expected.  Hera hadn't cried much over the end of their marriage--after all, she had been the one to ask for it--but this final walk-though was so... final.  Their bed, their marriage bed, was gone.

Hera gasped in the close heat and fell to her knees in the middle of the attic room.  She sobbed until her head felt too heavy and she pressed it to the Berber carpet they had chosen, another pale blue that he had liked so much.  The knobby carpet pressed into her knees and elbows and forehead, leaving an impression.  Hera cried until she could barely breathe and lay gasping on her side.  She stared at the blank walls, at the closed windows, and at the expanse of carpet her now ex-husband had chosen.  Underneath, she knew there was a note to any future person who would eventually tear up the carpet.  It was a note commemorating their relationship, their love, their wishes for the future.  Hera ran her hand over the carpet, rubbing it like a mother consoling a crying child.  At her sideways angle, Hera saw a loose loop of carpeting.  Feeling drained and bemused, she pulled on it, and a three-inch piece of carpet came away.

Alternative Version: What is the best advice you could give a younger sibling?

Carmen was quiet on the drive home.  Leanne knew the evening with her family hadn't gone well for her husband, who was tight-lipped through most of it, but she had finally been happy.  "What, Carmen?  What's the matter?"

"How can you let your brother treat you that way?"

Leanne was surprised not only by the statement, but by the heat.  "Treat me what way?"

Carmen's fingers were white on the steering wheel.  "He was mean to you."

She didn't mean to laugh, and clamped down on it quickly as she saw Carmen was serious.  "I'm sorry, Carmen, but I didn't notice."

"How could you not?  He laid hands on you."

"Yeah?  So?"

Carmen's mouth worked, but he was so astonished, he couldn't speak.

"Listen, Carmen.  You're an only child.  You don't understand."  Leanne was getting frustrated at her husband's unhelpful indignation.  She didn't want to have to defend her relationship, especially not to someone who didn't treat her family with respect.  Someone whose own family clamped down on their emotions, hiding their feelings and letting them burn for years.  Leanne always thought that Carmen being an only child had hurt him a lot.  She knew he thought having a younger brother had hurt her, but Carmen was wrong, as he so often was.

When Leanne finally left Carmen and filed for divorce, she knew his not understanding her relationship with her brother, or her whole family for that matter, was at the heart of their problems.

Pageant Question: What is the best advice you could give a younger sibling?

Doug, are you okay?

It was probably high school when Mom started warning me not to "be a Bahre", but did she ever warn you?  You know what I mean, right, about Grandma Bahre?  About Grandma's sisters.  About how that side of the family seemed to be "pleasers" and let themselves be doormats?  It's not exclusive to girls, you know.

Don't think I haven't thought that it could be my fault.  Did I boss you around?  Was it because we could never play together for long without me getting frustrated and walking away that you found that crazy wife of yours?  Was it because Mom praised me for things you weren't doing?  Though I know it's self-centered of me to even think this way, I can't help but feel guilty.  That's a Bahre trait, too.

I was there, Doug.  I found myself in the exact same situation, but I got out.  Nobody helped me, though.  I had to realize it myself.  People whispered, that's for sure.  Mom and Dad yelled at me, but only when I did something wrong.  They never looked behind it to wonder why I had turned away.  It was because I was "being a Bahre".  Abused.  Doug, you're in an abusive relationship.

She's crazy Doug.  Mother of your children or not, it's not good for any of you.  It's not too late to get out.  Leave her.  Take the kids.  You can get Services for yourself--you don't need her for that.  You're not alone, man.  Those people who whispered behind my back were whispering what it took me years to come to terms with: I needed to go.  So do you.

Does she still steal?  Does she still lie?  Does she still threaten you?  Does she still try to get you to hit her so she can have you arrested?

I haven't seen you in a long time.  Have you lost yourself in her abuse?  I lost myself.  I didn't know who I was anymore.  I hated the real me and tried to be what he wanted.  What are you trying to be, Doug?  What do you want to be?

Pageant Question: If you knew that a friend was being abused by a boyfriend, would you report the abuse, even if she asked you not to?

"I can help you."

The voice was soft, genderless.  I kept trying to pinpoint whether it was a man or a woman, but I couldn't decide.  It was insistent.  It wouldn't let me ignore the real issue.

"Get up.  Let me help you."

I couldn't see; my eyes were swollen shut from crying and my nose was closed for business.  I hurt from laying on the floor.  All my muscles seemed sore.

"Tell yourself the truth.  I will help you."

I was sure the people in the other apartments had heard this time.  The walls were so thin, I could hear when the girl in 3 got a kitten.  It mewed constantly when she left for work.  I never saw any of the other tenants.  I knew there was a guy in 2 whose toilet ran every thirty-five seconds.  When I was in the shower, I counted down to when I had to back away from the stream or risk getting burned.  Was the voice one of them?  Did he leave the front door open when he stormed out and somebody came in and saw me on the kitchen floor?

"Now is your chance.  Trust in me to help you."

Pageant Question: When do you feel the most like yourself?

It was the look he gave her that she didn't see.  She wore clothes that he must have chosen because she was uncomfortable in them.  She kept pulling on the skirt and forcing herself to stand up straight.  The purse slid off her shoulder until she finally growled and threw the strap over her head to wear it crosswise.  He stopped her from walking to straighten her shirt and set the purse at a better angle.  She smiled at him, so willing to please and clueless of his disdain that it hurt.  In the mall's food court, a man from the Asian eatery was giving away free samples.  She squeaked with excitement and pointed, her feet wobbling in the heels he had chosen for her.  He gripped her wrist and pulled her back to heel.  She apologized with increasing volume until he hissed at her to be silent.  When she went into her purse for a tissue, he gave her the look.  Disdain.  Disgust.  I wondered what she was like without him.  What had she been?  What would she be without him?

Pageant Question: What is the greatest challenge facing young women today?

Melissa watched her friends make out.  They looked like fish gasping on a hook.  Their eyes were wide open and their heads turned in tiny circles, tongues occasionally pushing out their cheeks.  They were in Peter's basement and Jenna had brought her here, supposedly as support to help her resist Peter's advancements.  It didn't work.  Melissa started humming to cover the sound of Jenna and Peter's desperate lip-lock.  When he put his hands up Jenna's shirt, Mel went upstairs to find a drink of water.

Pageant Question: Which TV program best describes your life?

K: The number one question we are asked is, "Are you guys like this all the time?"

A: The answer is: yes.

Opening montage and theme music to All The Time, a new reality show on A&E Network, now in its third season.

Today's episode finds K and A already awake and in the kitchen of the house they purchased near the end of the second season and have been renovating.  They are making breakfast.

A: (to the tune of the Spider-man cartoon theme) Chai-na-bagel, chai-na-bagel.  Eating breakfast whenever we're able.  Butter is out, steam the soy.  Don't forget my spoon, boy oh boy.

K: (brandishing a soup spoon like The Tick) Spoooon!

Once the spoon is down, K and A start to dance for no apparent reason, kicking off their slippers and sliding their stockinged feet on the floor and singing the theme to Mission Impossible.

Interview:
Producer: Don't you ever get tired?

K: Sure!  Then we go to bed.  Sometimes that takes a while.

Pageant Question: Substance abuse is huge problem among teens. How do you stay drug free? What solutions do you propose to solve this problem?

Vic's house was the first split-level that she had ever seen, and she thought it looked like one of those cool, rich-person's multilevel apartments you might find in New York City.  It was also walking distance from the high school, which she also thought of as cool because she would have gone home every day for lunch.  Lora, however, lived in what had been a "show home" neighborhood back in the 1970s.  As a very fresh freshman, she was only just beginning to think outside her own world view, and it gave her a tingling feeling in the back of her mind that, perhaps, her family was rich, and everyone in Vic's neighborhood was not.

Lora was not Vic's girlfriend, but rather a friend who happened to be a girl.  Cheryl was Vic's girlfriend, and also one of Lora's best friends.  Vic, Chris, and Frankie were buddies.  Lora, Cheryl, Jenny and Barb were besties.  Freshman year was when they all discovered each other and found that boys and girls could mingle.  So far, it was working, and on the night of the Fall Dance, they met up at Vic's split-level to hang out before walking over.

Each of the friends had a secret none of the others knew.  Lora only knew hers: she had fallen for Vic.  Her fall was solidified that night when, in her mind, Vic saved them all from a gang of druggies.

Pageant Question: Where do you see yourself in five years? Ten years?

Even all the way out by the maple tree, Cara could hear her things being broken inside the house.  She used to be extremely attached to her belongings.  Even when she was little, she took good care of her toys.  Not one of her Barbie dolls suffered a horrible haircut.  No Memory game card was drawn upon.  She dusted her knickknacks and even kept her clothes in good condition, not wanting to give them up even if they no longer fit.  Her mother knew better than to try to clear out Cara's room after the crying that ensued after the last purge.  Instead, Cara's mother gave her storage boxes and little-used items were carefully labeled and put into the attic.  But now...

As she had become forcefully detached from her belongings, Cara realized she could live without them.  First, her new husband had demanded she not have so much "crap".  She purged like she never had before, wishing to please him and keep a neat house.  Cara had built up quite a lot of money by selling her childhood online.  Clothes, now called "vintage" were snapped up.  Teen magazines had bidders fighting till the end.  Her toys and trinkets and memorabilia sold, one after the other.  At first, it really hurt and she cried as she listed them, she cried as she packed them up, but eventually, she started to feel better.  Lighter.  Her new husband demanded more.  Cara held on to less and less.  And now...

Another crash from the house and muffled yelling let her know that her husband was not done with his anger.  He was never done.  Burning embers needed little fanning to become a flame.  Simply walking past created enough of a breeze to get them going.  Cara's husband was smashing her remaining belongings.  She pictured him emptying her closet and dresser drawers.  Running an arm across her bookshelf.  Throwing her remaining memories against the wall that would again need patching.  She knew he would tire of the exertion, grab the keys to his truck, and squeal away.  He said he went to his mother's house, but she knew he it wasn't his mother he visited.  Cara had found the emails accidentally and the text messages purposefully.  It was that day that she felt the stranger calling himself her husband had killed the man she married.

The backdoor smashed open and closed.  The truck door squeaked open and closed.  The tires spun on the gravel and squealed on the pavement, heading east.  As soon as she knew he was far enough away, Cara moved into action and, not for the last time, wondered what would happen.

Pageant Question 35: What three qualities constitute a great leader?

The thruway rest stop loomed in the middle of the road, accessible by traffic in either direction, raised high over the fast-moving traffic.  The overpass tunnels from the parking lots glowed in the dark, a long walk for anyone hurrying from a vehicle with a full bladder.

The news and candy shop was closed, as was the souvenir stand, but the diner kept minimally staffed all night.  A janitor was winding up the long cord to the floor polisher, and the large atrium looked the cleanest it ever would.  Emily was heading west, and had left her sleeping boyfriend in the car.  She didn't want to wake him because he would be irritated that she had to stop, again.  She wanted to keep driving, though, and thought she'd pee and pick up a hot chocolate to go.  Which, of course, would make her pee, but she would deal with Rob, and her bladder, again later.

The bathrooms were enormous and automated at every turn.  There were two long rows of stainless steel-colored stalls on the outside walls; eight sinks to each side of the center, mirrored wall; and two baby changing stations.  During the day, this was a very busy place, but at two-thirty in the morning, it was dead, making it blessedly clean and quiet.

Ears still ringing from the turbo-charged automatic hand dryer, Emily took a moment to sit in the atrium and rest her eyes, breathing deeply.  This drive out west, barely begun, had already been extremely stressful, and the nagging worries she had about Rob were becoming too difficult to ignore.  She remembered thinking he was great, but no longer remembered why.  Another deep breath, and thoughts of hot chocolate made her smile.  She was about to see if the diner could make it to-go, when she heard weeping.  It was definite weeping, too, not just a few tears, and it was coming from the men's room.

Emily stood and walked a few steps closer to the passageway into the bathroom, not daring to get too close.  A female voice behind her made her jump.  "It's okay.  He's okay."

"Are you sure?  Should I..."  Emily wasn't sure what she could do, but she wanted to help.  Rob would have been irritated.

The woman was already shaking her head, "No.  Really.  He's fine.  This happens."  Despite the hour, the woman was wearing a very smart pantsuit, the kind that news reporters and politicians would wear.  Older than Emily, she was very well put-together, especially for a quarter to three in the morning, waiting outside a rest stop men's room for some guy to pull himself together.

Now it sounded like someone was retching, followed by more crying.  "Can I... get you anything?"  The man's sobs were echoing in the empty, stainless steel room.

"No."  The woman stood, fished a pack of cigarettes out of her purse, "Wait.  You can do something.  I've got to have a smoke."  She jerked her head at the bathroom, "Tell him when he gets done where I've gone."  Her heels clicked on the polished floor as she strode to the long hallway to the east-bound parking.

Pageant Question 20: What is one thing you wish you had learned in high school?

How to Recognize a Sociopath

My name is Sara, and though I am not a psychologist, I am qualified to tell you the secret to identifying the sociopath in your life.  I consider myself fully qualified because I dated a sociopath in the prime of my socially formative years: from tenth grade through the start of college. Hopefully, you don't have a sociopath in your life, much less as your boyfriend or girlfriend, but if you do, the tell-tale signs will be there.  For ease of readability and because of my personal experience, I have used male pronouns, but the same signs apply to female sociopaths.

1) First glance: he is super-charming.  He is "the life of the party".  He is hilarious.  Others pay attention when he speaks because he's interesting and confident.  Being super-charming does not automatically qualify someone as a sociopath, but it is best if you are aware that these people do not appear as monsters.  This quality will allow you to be drawn in, but here's the important part: do not be blinded!  First impressions stick, but make sure you stay aware when the other signs start to appear.

2) He is self-absorbed.  You can see if he basks in the attention his charm brings him.  Does he allow others to be charming around him?  Does he listen to others' stories and laugh with them?  Does he constantly clamor for attention when it wanes?  These are closer observations you can make during the super-charming faze.  The self-absorption will be revealed in more dramatic ways if you allow yourself to be sucked in, so don't.  Further self-absorption includes: ignoring you, believing others are against him, laughing at other people, making others feel bad for what he does, forcing others to always do what he wants...or else.  The "or else" is frightening, but it is often very subtle at first and, therefore, often dismissed.  It is a true sign of a sociopath, and it is...

3) He has anger management problems.  He lashes out.  He yells.  He pouts.  He is passively aggressive.  He blames others for his problems and will tell them so.  He may throw things, punch walls, and destroy property.  He gets into fights.  The clearest sign is that he hits you, but many sociopaths are smarter than that and the hurts aren't as clear as you might think.  He is emotionally manipulative and he uses guilt to make you do what he wants.  He experiences "road rage", and doesn't even have to be the one driving to have it.  BEWARE: he will apologize.  He will explain it away as his cultural heritage's temperament or his family's temperament.  He will exude his charm like you haven't seen it since you first met, and you will want to fall for it.  This is also insidious because he may seem extremely caring and thoughtful, but if he experiences these uncontrollable outbursts of anger, no matter how justified they seem, you are with a sociopath.

356

Jesse hated living in an apartment complex, but her husband had insisted on renting a two-bedroom in Melody Gardens because it was so close to the thruway he used to get to school and work.  It also, he would point out, had a pool.  Laundromat across the street, another in the basement of each building, a rec room with an old ping-pong table and single racquetball court with a basketball net inside, and ample parking.  The walls were thin, the closets narrow, and everything was beige.

Whenever Rick went to work or school, Jesse would finish dishes or start a load of laundry, then plot their escape from the Beige Hell.  Their second bedroom was an office with a single computer, and that was where she discovered that the man she married, nearly four years ago, was not what she thought he was.  Rick was cheating on her.

In her heart, it felt like Rick, her husband, had died.  No--worse: he had been killed.  Murdered by the stranger who had kissed her goodbye this morning and drove off to...  To where?  Work?  School?  Or Nan's house?  Or to coffee with Janette?  Or was it to meet Marian in a cheap motel room?

342

"When you look back on the story of your life," said my mother, blowing her cigarette smoke out the side of her mouth, "what are you going to be able to say?"  She tapped off the ashes into her vintage, turquoise plastic ashtray using the end of her long, red nail.  "I played a lot of video games," she mocked.  "Will that be it?"  Mother leaned forward, the plastic kitchen chair cushion squeaking, "You need to do something with your life, Martin."  The smell of coffee and cigarettes are the smell of my mother.  I don't smoke and I don't drink coffee, and I never will.

340

I despise keeping the secrets of my ex-boyfriends.  Invariably, they have each confessed something to me, and I hold it in my memory, wishing I could tell someone, but feeling some sort of loyalty to the promise implied by love no longer felt; the promise that I would keep the secrets forever.

I suppose it bothers me because they promised to love me forever, and, clearly, that didn't work out.  To whom should I confess these secrets?  Certainly not a new boyfriend, if there even were one.  He would not understand.  These secrets are big, not in the scope of the world, but rather in terms of their intimacy.  How can I stand to keep their secrets?

I can't.  I will confess two of them now from from the worst boyfriend I ever had.  He was abusive, and I barely escaped him with my self intact.  I was in high school and he was only my second boyfriend ever, so I hope you can forgive me for my idiocy.  We'll call him Peter.  Peter, I can see now, was a sociopath.  He lied, and lied and lied to everyone, and especially to me.  He lied to his mother, he lied to his step-father, and he lied to himself.  He was stupid, but oh, so clever.  He could manipulate.  He had no emotions of his own, but he could twist yours into knots.  He was without remorse, but he could make you feel bad about anything.  He was without conscience and would drag anyone down into the darkness with him because you couldn't believe anyone could be so evil.  He would hold me down when I said no and he'd do it anyway.  He would hit me in the leg, though I wished and wished he'd hit me in the face so I'd have a "valid" excuse to escape.  He followed me and questioned me and lied to the police and stole and lied and separated me from my friends and family.  You can see why I don't feel bad revealing Peter's secrets.

Peter has two related secrets.  One: he once reached into the toilet to squash his own poop with his hands to make it look like diarrhea, so he could get out of going to work at Burger King.  Two: he faked abdominal pain to get out of going to school, but he faked it hard and couldn't back down, so his mother, a nurse, took him to the hospital.  He doubled down on his lie and kept faking for the doctors who performed a needless appendectomy.  Peter was a committed liar.  Pity the poor high school girl, so innocent and desperate to please and be liked.  Pity her carrying the sociopath's secrets and her own hidden hurts.

314

It was firmly set in Jessa's mind that men who behaved badly in cars were not meant to be permanent partners.  The first boyfriend she had when she could drive was clearly a psychopath to everyone but her.  She was with him from high school and into college, standing by him through a series of last straws.  One of the final last straws happened while she was driving, nearing his small house with his mother and stepfather.  Little kids were on a walkway overpass, dropping snowballs on cars.

"When they hit your car, stop and let me out; I'll get them."

"No, it's okay, they're just dumb kids.  I can..."

"Let me out!"

"It's all right, watch..."  Jessa slowed just before the overpass, and after the kid dropped his snowball harmlessly on the road, she sped up and prepared to make the turn to her boyfriend's road.

"I said STOP!"  He grabbed the wheel and jerked it to the side of the road.  She had never felt so mad at him.  She was so mad she yelled, and he punched her in the leg.  She let him out and drove away.  Jessa wished she had never gone back with him after, but she did.  It wasn't quite the last, last straw, but it was the first realization that men who behaved badly in cars were not meant to be permanent.

300

Chara and Boyd basked in the glory of northern summer as they hiked the nearly hidden paths of the Great North Woods.  They had been traveling together for nearly ten years, though the first two were simply as friends in a Gathering.  That particular Gathering had many problems, and Chara in particular had been feeling increasingly troubled.

Gatherings were meant to keep people safe, and there were many that shifted and morphed and quite often disappeared.  There were some that had been around for so many years that they had come up with rules and titles within their Gatherings and often became exclusive, self-important, and sometimes downright dangerous.  Chara was sensing that from the Rhee Gathering, of which she had been a member for a decade before Boyd joined.

Boyd was in his own, very small Gathering, but it was not affording the kind of protection or quality that he needed, so he left for the much larger Rhee.  Chara and Boyd found each other there and formed a quick bond sensed by the leader of the Rhee who was, unfortunately, Chara's betrothed.

Now, Chara and Boyd travelled alone.  Dangerous, but undeniably their best decision yet.

292

She yearned to go dancing.  Not the kind of dancing most men would think, but the kind of dancing where you mostly get to jump and fling your hair and scream.  The kind of dancing where you shove your fellow dancers and bond by bruising your shoulders.  The kind of dancing where you're sweaty and your clothes come loose and your makeup runs and you need to drink, but you don't notice because you're freaking dancing.

Dee couldn't think of a way to tell him, and her insides did a slow burn that dimmed and dimmed, but never quite went out.

283

The candlelight softened his weather-worn features and deep wrinkles until they were only suggestions.  Shadows still haunted his deep-set eyes.  "I am old enough to be your father," he whispered, his knobby, long-fingered hands curling into fists on the table.

"But you're not, Tam."  Cara moved her own hands, not particularly young, but made so in comparison to his own, towards his.  Tam stiffened and made to pull away, but hesitated.  Cara reached further, and he let her lay her hand upon his.  Tam's fist tightened and she felt him quiver in his seat.  The other patrons of the inn's tavern forgotten, Tam let her unfold his hand.