Well, lookee here. I must be training for NaBloPoMo.
So, got the call from my MD today and it's not strep, just a bad viral infection. Which actually, kind of sucks. That means no antibiotics and I just have to let it run its course. Great.
A bit ago I was thinking about deception and how oftentimes we know things, but ignore them. Or, even tell ourselves that we misunderstood when really, there is no way that we could have misunderstood. Is that our psyches protecting us from harsh reality? Or simply copping out?
There was this time, years ago, when I was out with a friend. We were just kicking around town. Bored, not sure what to do. She suggested something spontaneous...how about getting tattoos? I took a pass on that, but went with her while she got one. We'd never discussed a desire to get tattoos before. But, literally, three minutes after she proposed it, we were parked outside the tattoo parlor. (Do they still call them that or do I sound like some kind of Raymond Chandler novel?)
So, in we went. The place was grimey and the tattooist even grimier. I wanted to grab her and run, but I didn't. She chose her design and sat down in the chair. The artist got to work and started gabbing to us. She politely chatted back, dishing about the scandals and secrets of the small town. I kind of tuned out, but became alert after hearing her mention her husband's business. She brought it up as though it were just another place in town, not partly her own. I caught a look from her that said, "Don't say a word". I didn't say anything.
"Oh, John? You know about him and Ellen, right? My girlfriend is good friends with her. They think they're hiding it. Right!"
John was my friend's husband. Ellen was his assistant.
My friend did not react. Honestly, she did not flinch.
She moved right along to the next topic. My face burned and I felt white, hot anger on her behalf. I thought that she must be keeping up appearances. This guy obviously did not know that she was John's wife.
He finished her tattoo and she paid and we walked out the door to her car. It was a summer night, just past twilight and the sky was a vivid, nearly electric blue. The stars gleamed as if they'd just been turned up a notch. I can see that sky as if it were a snapshot thrown before me whenever I remember that night, just like any moment when you learn something that changes your life forever. Those moments are burned into one's brain as a freeze frame. And while this wasn't a life-altering moment for me, it was for her.
I looked to her, ready to catch her or scream with her or just feel with her. And she acted as though nothing had happened. As though we'd just been out for a summer ice cream run and were headed back home to watch movies and drink wine.
I must have stuttered or shook my head or something. And then, I just played right along. We went back to her house and did watch movies and drank wine and had a lovely night.
I thought and thought and thought about it afterwards. I listened for a fight from where my friend and her husband slept in the next room. There wasn't one. I convinced myself that I simply must have misunderstood. How could I have heard what I thought I heard without any kind of reaction being made? I must have been mistaken.
Again, this was many years ago. Today, I know that I heard what I heard. And I know that denial is more than just a river in Egypt. But, maybe that wasn't even it. Maybe it was more about a woman who couldn't share her deepest, most personal hurts with anyone. Not her husband. Not her family. Not her friends. She needed someone to stand next to her while she sussed it out, but she couldn't let anyone in on the aftermath. She had to know the truth of the situation and sought out someone who would know it, but couldn't bring herself to bring on an aftermath.
I know that I heard what I heard. I later learned, from her, about secrets that she kept. Secrets large enough to make me question if I ever knew her or if I ever really would. If I could turn back time, I would stop us in that parking lot, under that brilliant sky and ask her what that tattoo artist meant. Even if she wouldn't or couldn't give me an answer, at least I would have tried.
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