Tangled Passions Pt 02 Ch 17 19

Part 2 -TRANSITION

XVII.

Jenn had come from a wealthy family. For the first two years they had dated, she had done her best to keep that fact from Matt, indeed, from anyone. Notwithstanding, she had brought a substantial private income into the marriage. Being raised in a family of means, with abundant domestic help – a butler, a maid, and a nanny – Jenn could very easily and very comfortably have been a woman of leisure. That was really what had been expected of her; but, in looking at her mother, she had decided she wanted something more. She told them that she needed some meaning in her life – college, a profession, and a family that was hers, not the nanny's. They had laughed. "What's wrong with money and privilege?" they had said – still, they humoured her. She had gone after what she wanted with a fierce determination, fed, not by wealth and privilege, but by idealism and pride. If not for the intervention of the cruel hand of fate, she would have been there yet. And now this. Another blow. Another random act of interference dealt her by life – by fate.

When Matt had said, "I have to leave you for a bit..." she couldn't believe it. It felt like one of those dreams that wake you up with an adrenaline rush but make no sense. He was going to leave her? But how? Why? They'd survived so much together. Would she have to be alone? She just couldn't believe it. She just couldn't – although somewhere deeply hidden inside she could. "Do you understand?" he had asked. She wanted to scream "NO! Of course not!! How could I possibly understand something that makes no sense?!?" But she didn't. She stayed silent, trying to control her shivering body. He had just told her that he loved her, and that was, she knew, the truth; "...temporary..." he'd said. So she'd lied, "I think so?"

She thought she might have heard him whisper his love once again as he slipped out of their bed, got dressed, and left with a small bag. He had taken his wedding ring off. What did that mean? He didn't say good-bye – he didn't say a word. He just left – left her there, curled catatonically in the bed, soaking the pillow with her tears.

Still, she didn't actually blame Matt. It was the fault of no one, for no blame can be attached to the meandering machinations of destiny. As the saying goes, "Shit Happens!" And the previous months had been sheer emotional torture. She had been ambushed by Matt's vexation; blind-sided by his careening, unpredictable libido. In some ways, it was almost a relief to get some time off. She wasn't sure how long she could have gone on like that. Yet she was painfully lonely for him right from the moment he left. Funny how that worked. It was just like that old sexist cliché, she thought, "...can't live with 'em; can't live without 'em."

The night Matt left, Jenn cried herself out. She had fallen asleep crying and awoken crying. She cried for herself and she cried for their marriage, yet, she realized, much of her crying was for Matt himself. He had sounded so small and scared. The confusion, the fear, whatever it was had been eating him up from the inside. But she hadn't been able to help – and that made her cry all the more. Her poor Matt. He was mixed up or lost and she had not healed him. She had failed him. She declined work that day and spent the morning lying in bed crying. But by midmorning, there were no more tears. Looking around through red rimmed eyes, she thought about it again and again. No, it wasn't her fault. Granted she hadn't healed him, but he hadn't come to her either. She had tried to respect his right to privacy – his right to grapple with his own demons – and had. His demons had apparently taken the upper hand; nevertheless, if it had had to come to this, that wasn't her fault either.

"If you love something, set it free. If it returns it’s yours. If it doesn't, it never was." Although that wasn't exactly true. Surely, they had belonged to one another during the strong years of their marriage. Regardless, he was gone and life went on. Jenn wanted him to come back so bad it hurt, but she knew that she couldn't just sit and wait. The days of pining away for an errant love were long past. “Open your eyes, girl. Turn the page.”

So she tried to go on in some semblance of normality. Jenn began accepting work again right away – the very next day. A classroom full of someone else's kids is enough to take your mind off a great many things. Well over a year ago, after her dear children were killed, in the numbing aftermath of tragedy, she had been advised to get back into teaching – subbing. She had, at first, though it a daft idea, but the fleeting interactions, the marginal relationships built between a substitute teacher and her school children were just right – therapeutic but not overwhelming. There had only been two nightmarish incidents.

Twice she had, from behind, caught sight of a little blond figure trundling innocently down a hallway. Wearing baggy denim overalls and a bright t-shirt, with hair gathered into a loose ponytail hanging swinging down to the middle of her back, the scrunchie lying at the nape of her neck, matching her shirt. Jenn's blood had frozen in her veins, her lightheaded confusion swirling about her like a dust devil. In the terribly long moments it took to realize that it wasn't Lisa or Lucy walking there before her, her mind raced wildly with irrational hope and joy, only to be crushed by the cold truth of reality. Initially petrified by the excruciating pain of vivid memories re-illuminated, she had dissolved into tears, right there in the school. Everyone was understanding and sympathetic, though no one really understood. Still, it had only happened twice. The third time she had been prepared.

For the most part, there is no time to brood in an active classroom. Her busy time at work completely precluded the luxury or pain of her lonely depression. That was what she wanted. That was what she needed.

She could keep herself busy during the day all right, but it was the nights, echoing about the empty condo, that she hated. Loneliness easily gave way to despair. She found it hard to concentrate on anything she read. She'd watch a video but not be able to remember anything about it. She found that she was masturbating more but with only limited success, as Matt featured in most of the fantasies she conjured up. That was hardly surprising, she reminded herself, as she had never had sex with anyone other than him. It was hard to believe, having grown up in the seventies, but she had been a virgin when they met and had been monogamous ever since. Now she couldn't think of whom to call on for solace, indeed she wasn't sure she wanted anyone's solace. Still, she wasn't about to go down to depression. It had almost got her once before, she'd give it no chance this time.

In the months that had followed her girls' deaths, she had plunged into a depression that had approached catatonia. After having been out for a few hours, Matt would discover her sitting in her housecoat in the kitchen before a cold cup of coffee, staring blankly out the window. When he asked her, she could not remember what she had been thinking about – she could not remember sitting there, not anything. The short, rainy days of Vancouver's winter had covered her with such a suffocating oppression that she began to consider suicide. Seconal – already prescribed; she had looked up in a medical book how many she would need to go to sleep permanently. She had actually checked to see if the hose for the built-in vacuum would fit over the exhaust of her car; it would. She had thought about where to leave the car and her keys when she jumped off Lions Gate Bridge. She had even written a couple drafts of suicide letters, which she had destroyed because even in her despondency she thought they sounded much too melodramatic.

It was as her careful consideration was reaching its ultimatum that Matt had finally insisted, after suggesting it for weeks, that they seek some medical help to combat their deep funk. Although Matt's depression ran more quietly, more subtly, she knew that he too had suffered immensely. Perhaps, he'd thought, they should both get counseling. In retrospect, she could now see, he'd very much needed help, as well. Jenn had always, in the past, been able to elevate his mood with just her usual high level vivacity. Now, she passively accompanied him to their family doctor and let him explain his concerns as a worried spouse. The young doctor, in a flash of astute insight, questioned them about Jenn's state of mind during previous winters. They had wondered what possible relevancy that could have, nonetheless, Matt helped Jenn respond. She had, in fact, never particularly liked Vancouver winters. The best winters they could recall were winters they had taken Christmas vacation in the sunny south or, before kids, when they had skied a lot. Notwithstanding, winter had generally never been a happy season for her. Yearly she had resigned herself to winter as a time of simply keeping busy – staying occupied until spring arrived. This year, of course, her natural grieving had compounded it.

The doctor had suggested they use some full spectrum lighting at home in the evenings to combat what he referred to as, “severe winter depression – technically, Seasonal Affective Disorder or SAD.” The difference a few lights had made was amazing. Her plans of suicide faded like bad dreams. Still sorely grieved by her loss, she was able to tap some inner resilience in order to cope with her days and nights. She never told anyone about her suicidal investigations. She filed the texts of her unused good-byes into a dark back corner of her memory where she might never have to read them again.

Lying out evenings, naked under sun lamps, or visiting spas to lie in their tanning beds Jenn successfully beat down the stiflingly short, dull grey days of midwinter. And even after the pain of grief grew less and less acute, Jenn continued to surround herself with Gro-Lux lights and frequent tanning salons as a matter of course. She had, in the end, been able to give and receive the vital support Matt had wanted so much to share with her. The simple electric remedy had helped them both through – raised them both out of the depths of despair. Her year-round golden tan was just an added bonus.

Jenn decided she would only be able to hold off this depression the same way – lots of activity and lots of light. Their echoing suite seemed to be more – or less – than empty. It felt like a void – a vacuum that sucked away her vitality. She kept the lights on until very late, and made herself bathe in the warmth of the ultraviolet tanning lamps regardless of how she felt. Getting called for work most days helped keep her out of the draining emptiness. Furthermore, she found that she could attend aerobics classes at a local gym every evening, and proceeded to do so. Maybe even more than the lights, aerobics alleviated her gloom. She had always loved dance, so during a grueling hour of pounding, high-stepping, arm flinging exercise, she could escape into the music absolutely.

The instructor, a pretty young blonde with a gorgeously shaped body, was excellent. Although her well-shaped breasts bounced and trembled within their restraint, her muscular body seemed to be taut with an athletic springiness that suggested endurance and determination. Leading the class in increasingly strenuous workouts, she managed everyday to take them all a little further, while keeping their tired muscles just this side of agony. Nothing, other than the steps and the beat tainted Jenn's consciousness as she intently watched the lithe, tireless instructor. The blue of reality retreated very slowly back, for the while, beneath her sweat and panting breath. Delicious exhaustion dulled the pain for hours afterwards. The two-pronged approach – it kept her fit, active and occupied, at the same as it kept her out of her lonely condo.

Nevertheless, there were times when she found herself wandering rudderless about the place, being reminded of Matt's absence constantly by this or that. His dresser still, of course, housed most of his clothing and although, after the first week, none of it filtered through her touch via the laundry, the dresser itself was a sad reminder. She kept his side of the closet closed all the time; still, his lingering scent wafted into her senses as she stood choosing her own outfit. Some mornings she would find herself simply standing there, tears trickling gently down her cheeks, wondering where he was and what he was doing. She had not heard from him except for a message on her machine after the first week. “Sorry;” he had said. “I’m okay. I hope you’re managing all right. Love you,” and that was it.

She was deliberately avoiding his things – not putting on his favourite CDs, or sitting in his favourite chair. “How healthy is that?” Jenn worried. “Like I need to become

more

obsessive!” She paused, considering her behaviour objectively. “Regardless of when he returns, she reminded herself, “I’m alone for now and I'd better accept that pretty damn quick.” Putting things in order in her head, getting her priorities straight is always easier said than done, this was ‘do or die’. She had no desire to founder on these reefs. If she was to survive such a spell of bad weather, she'd better be able to batten down, and push on. Jenn decided that a full frontal attack was best. Gritting her teeth, straightening her back defiantly, she put on

Animals

, Matt's all-time favourite Pink Floyd album, and sat herself down in the recliner – his recliner, with a big glass of his scotch. Closing her eyes, she concentrated on the music.

Whether the glow of good scotch was a catalyst or not, she discovered, to her delight, a warm release that spread like massaging fingers through her tensed body – relaxing, soothing and calming. Feeling better than she had for quite a while, she casually pulled a paperback book from the untouched pile of magazines on the end table. With mild curiosity, she opened it up. Skimming at first, she began to read and was soon completely engaged. It was called

A Victorian Sampler

, and was, indeed, one of those books that she had occasionally seen Matt reading. She had never actually read one herself. This particular one was a compilation of excerpts from various anonymous nineteenth century erotica. The graphic, sensual descriptions were strangely seductive, yet disturbing. Her respiration was elevated, her armpits wet as she carefully returned the book to the rack.

Over the next few days, during moments of inactivity, she looked around for the other editions she knew he had. Regardless of her intentions, for she vaguely tried to delude herself with the idea that any books she found would just be incidental to her general survey of the suite, she was rewarded with the discovery of a fairly large and varied collection of classical erotic literature in paperback. The marred covers and stained pages made her wonder just when Matt had read them all.

Of the stories she read initially, while she considered many to be pulp trash or just plain overkill, a few piqued her interest – titles like

Beatrice

and

Blue Velvet

. Clarissa, the main character in ...

Velvet

infused Jenn with an odd feeling of something resembling envy; although, she thought, how could she, a modern woman be envious of a fictional character in a hazy setting somewhere in the past? It was ridiculous. Still she couldn't help but wonder what it would have been like to be Mrs. Denbigh – to be made to participate in such lewd and lusty experiences. Mind you, Clarissa’s submission was entirely due to her somewhat over-developed sense of duty. Such strength in commitment, Jenn realized, was rather anachronistic. Jenn suspected that she herself would never have the will to take her duty to such extremes, regardless of promises made by either her husband or herself. Despite it being a complete fiction, Jenn found Clarissa's transition from reluctant puppet to skilled manipulator intriguing. Were such remarkable events even possible? Such uninhibited eroticism? Jenn was curious, to say the least, and rereading various passages never failed to leave her slightly agitated.

Notwithstanding, she could neither work, exercise nor read every minute of the day, so in an effort to avoid being at loose ends, as it were – at home with nothing to do – she began striking out on her bicycle, on what she initially thought of as shopping expeditions. Most of the time she had nothing to buy, but she didn't let a blank shopping list discourage her. Even with no pressing needs, Jenn found cruising her mountain bike past the stores – the simple act of window-shopping – to be therapeutic. She had never used the RockHopper much. Matt had bought them all good bikes so they could tour as a family, but it was never to be. She had ridden the bike only occasionally in the past two years. But the light, fully suspended bicycle was very easy and pleasant to ride; hence her trips became longer and more frequent. As she pedaled further and further afield, she basically discarded the shopping pretext. During those rides, Jenn gradually became aware that, despite being alert to the world passing around her, her deep, disturbing troubles seemed to fade into the background. So on days she wasn't called to work, she packed a lunch in her backpack and headed out. She could be gone from the condo for hours – free of her heavy undercurrent for the duration of the ride.

As she rode aimlessly through different areas of town, she discovered all kinds of obscure, esoteric specialty stores. The eclectic nature of big cities was obvious in the myriad of tastes catered to by this entrepreneur or that. In her travels about the metropolis, she saw, not only parts of Vancouver she had never seen before, but goods and services she had never suspected actually existed. The churning, milling crowds of Chinatown scared her at first. It was like suddenly stepping into another land. The alien smells and alien sounds were disorienting, but she persevered and was rewarded with the discovery of several curious and intriguing shops, not the least of which was a seedy looking diner that served the best Chinese food she had ever eaten.

While heading to Stanley Park one day, she walked her bike for a stretch and peered intently into all manner of interesting shop windows along the way. Lost in her own thoughts, she suddenly found herself among the gays and transvestites of Davie Street. It was an interesting subculture, close up, and what she saw was not nearly as strange or frightening as she had once believed. There was a warmth in the air – a comfortable tolerance that made her smile.

Not all of her explorations and adventures were while she was on her bike, either. Returning to her car one night, after taking in a movie on theatre row, she inadvertently cruised a few blocks with the hookers and transsexuals of Seymour Street. Riding SkyTrain, one afternoon, she disembarked underground, at Granville Station, and found herself completely alone in the echoing cavern. The isolation, once the train had left, was thick and cloying. She hurried up the passage towards the surface, her eyes on the floor as she attempted to hold down the irrationally rising panic she felt. Turning the corner at the top of the first escalator, she bumped into a vagrant, who asked in a hollow voice if she had any spare change. Mumbling incoherently, she tossed him a few coins from her pocket before racing past. He didn't know how close she came to screaming. She was trembling and panting when she finally arrived on the street. And in a way, the open platforms of the elevated stations could be just as frightening. Alighting at what she thought was a deserted stop, she caught sight of a gang of young thugs eyeing her appraisingly from the shadowy edges of the station. She hurried off towards her destination, unable to resist looking over her shoulder at them as they casually began to move her way. She felt uncomfortably vulnerable – helpless and exposed for the moments before she descended to the street. It was a curious feeling.