Desecration

It has rained a little. There's a fine mist of droplets on the windshield. My hand is shaking as I insert the key into the ignition. It will be okay, I tell myself. Just get it over with. Like a bad-tasting medicine. Like a painful injection . . . Before you know it, it will be over.

I don't turn on the windshield wipers as I drive. I want my view obscured. It's still daylight. Night has not yet fallen, though I can feel it lurking like a crouching tiger. But I can still navigate the car easily, despite the nebulous forms in front of me. 

In my shorts' pocket is the ring. I have taken it off. My left hand is naked.

*    *    *

His voice on the phone: so happy to hear from me. So surprised that I was calling in the afternoon. "So your parents must be out. Any chance of sneaking out and meeting me? I miss  you. Sneak out before they get back. Tell them you went to Lisa's or something."

He wants me to lie again. See? She's right, I reason. He's no good for me. He makes me lie. He wants me to sneak around. He's turned me into a liar. There was a time before him when I never would have lied to my mother.

But his heart has drawn me in, transformed me into someone I was not. The lying and deceit have become so common now, it is second nature to me. Dishonesty was the only possible means of preserving my happiness. It provided an opportunity to gasp for air through the suffocation.

She's right. What have I become? I'm no longer her daughter. Her hurt and anger are justified. It will be all right now. I just have to get it over with. Then everything will fall back into place. The chaos will become order.

"Actually," I tell him. "I do want to see you."

"I want to see you, too." His voice like velvet: "I miss you."

I squeeze my eyes shut and grip the edge of the kitchen counter so hard, the palm of my hand hurts. His words scald my heart. He doesn't understand.

But she's listening. She's still in the doorway, arms folded across her chest. She will make sure that I don't stray. She will make sure that his words don't turn me inside out again, sending me soaring to the only place that I have ever felt God.

"So . . ." I'm forcing myself onward. I can't back out now. "Are you around tonight?" My voice sounds different. Strained. One pitch too high.

"Uh . . . yeah. God--why? Your parents gone? So we can see each other? Yeah, I'll make sure I'm around." He's so hopeful.

"Okay." I feel like I need air, and realize that I'm holding my breath. I force the air from my lungs, and lean across the counter. I'm suddenly dizzy. "What time?" I manage.

"Whenever you want . . . God," he breathes, "I miss you."

I have to hang up. I have to hurry. I can't hear those three words from him anymore. The pain is devouring me, sucking the oxygen from me. "Like--eight?"

"Okay. Cool! Eight. Eight. What--your parents out tonight or something?"

Actually, my parents are arranging this. I look up at the kitchen window over the sink. A moth is dancing against the glass, trying to escape. Don't tell him anything. "Where do you want to meet?"

"Mm . . . Call it. I don't know. What do you think?"

"The edge of the pine woods by the track, where we always met after school."

"Our special place?"

I haven't said it, he has . . . The pine trees there, that border the track: thick, protective, concealing; with their soft carpet of brown needles. In the moonlight, we became one. Our special place.

"Yeah. That okay?" I force it. It comes out like a squeak. I can't think of anywhere else. Is it wrong to go there now? Is it sacrilege? Desecration? I see his long, lean body naked above mine as he moves inside me, his face cast in shadows. So close. I didn't know it could get so close . . .

"Yeah, cool. Okay . . . Hey, I'm excited to see you," he says it like a question, to elicit a response from me. When I don't respond, he pushes further. "It's been three days. I'm having Sofia Withdrawal." This time, he chuckles a little at the end, prodding me with customary humor; evoking the sacred memories that have bonded us: our first morning kiss, the cure for Sofia Withdrawal, for Michael Withdrawal. The kiss that united our spirits after a long night apart.

"Yeah? Well, I'll see you soon." I don't have the heart to be anymore removed than I've already been.

"I love you," he says hopefully.

And what's the harm in saying it back? "I love you, too." He can know that much. He can take that with him, like the ring, and carry it for the rest of his life; hold it in his heart, and touch it when he needs to. She can't steal that from him.

But she's heard my words, and has come into the room. "Hurry up," she says, though not unkindly. She's happy with me now. I'm doing exactly what she's wanted me to do for the past two years. Her vision of me is materializing. She will soon have her Sofia back. But she doesn't see the point in my telling him I love him now, though. It's all but over.

*    *    *

He is waiting for me as promised. I can see him from across the track--a small, blue form in the distance.

My heart is pounding so forcefully, it is almost painful. As I walk towards him, I fight the urge to break into a run and fling myself in his arms. I fight the knowledge that I am about to commit some horrible mistake, some irreversible misjudgment. It is like inhibiting one's very instincts. It is like flinging oneself in front of an oncoming train.

His face lights up as I approach, and he moves away from the pine trees to greet me. "Hey," he holds out his arms. His dark eyes are dancing, his expression full of joy.

He has something in his right hand. A rose. Oh God . . .

I stop and look up at the sky. It is cloudy, and a huge thunderhead looms to the west, rearing its head above the trees. There is the rumble of thunder in the distance. A remote flicker of lightning.

I feel the sweat prick at my scalp. I cannot look him in the face. He is too beautiful; I love him too much. My hard-won resolve will wither.

And then his arms are around me, his mouth wet with mine. I feel his tongue ever so lightly, like sweet ambrosia.

I pull my face away almost instantly.

"What's wrong?" He's surprised. He takes a step back, his eyes searching, confused.

I clench my jaw and look at the grass. It has made my sneakers wet. It rained a little, earlier. The residual moisture had clouded my view as I drove to him.

"I have to talk to you," I manage. I can feel the tears pressing on me, but I don't succumb.

"What's up?"

I look into his face then. He's frowning. "Let's sit on the bleachers," I suggest.

"Is everything okay?"

I don't answer, but walk toward the metal risers bordering the track, with the pine trees behind them. The breeze, in anticipation of the storm, is moving their branches lightly. They make a wet, whispering sound. I climb up three bleachers. My feet make a hollow metal sound that nearly echoes.

Michael is beside me. "I brought you a flower," he offers. "Because I missed you."

I sit down. The metal is cool and damp against my bare thighs. He's handing me the rose, its petals deep red like satin. "I can't bring this home anymore, though." I take it from him just the same. "My mom will know it's from you. She'll just throw it out."

"That's okay," he says gently. "I just wanted you to have it for a little while. Then you can imagine you have it, like we imagine we're together all the time."

I rotate the stem between my palms. Its thorns have been removed.

"Something's bugging you, huh? I can read you like a book," he prods. His voice is very tender. "What's wrong, Sofie? What's the matter?" He touches a strand of my long dark hair, and pushes it away from my face, studying me.

How will I do this? Oh Jesus, how will I do this? My heart is breaking.

*    *    *

I see my mother's face, contorted in rage, her words scalding. "If you loved me, you would leave him!" she screams. She stands above my bed like a dark angel, presiding over its conscript.

To block her out, I pull the pillow over my head.

She will have none of that. She rips it away and hurls it across the room. It hits my pink plastic earring caddy, which crashes to the floor. "Don't you shut me out," she roars. "You show some respect to me! What kind of respect is that to show your mother? Hmm?"

"Leave me alone," I beg. "Just get out of my room. For once in your life, just leave me alone."

She tries a different approach: the face of despair and desperation. "What am I going to do with you?" Her tone is mournful. "You've disgraced the family. You're killing me. Don't you care? How could I have raised you to be such a slut? Where did I go wrong? You're killing me."

"I love him, Mother! Do you know what love is?" I shriek.

"I know you must not love me . . . How can you love him? He's turned you against your own family. He's made you into a liar. You're a liar! You've gone behind my back. And he's taken you're virginity--"

"Mom!"

"You won't be a virgin when you get married. You know--some men may not even want that," her voice turns to granite. Her face is very close to mine now. She leans into me, fists on the mattress, bracing my body, locking me in. I can feel the spray of her spittle as she continues. "You've ruined yourself for anybody else--"

"You're old-fashioned," I roll my eyes. "This is the eighties!"

"And does what year it is mean you shouldn't be a virgin on your wedding night? Hmm?"

It was because she read my diaries. That was how she'd discovered we were lovers. I turn my head away, and stare at the poster of the Pegasus on my wall. Its image promises magic, freedom, escape . . .

"What man will even want you?" She moves her head with mine, keeping her face in my view. "You've ruined yourself for any other man."

"Oh yeah?" I flash back now. I am not ruined, I am reborn. My anger boils up like hot lava. "It doesn't really matter, 'cause you know what? You know what? I'm almost eighteen, okay? And he's eighteen. He's eighteen already. And you know what else?" I rear away from her, my heels digging into my mattress. "As soon as I'm eighteen, we're going to go elope, okay? We're getting married. He's going to be my husband, so who gives a shit about any other man?"

She lets out a sharp shriek. "No you will not! How dare you think that? What a disgrace to this family you are."

"You can't stop me. I'll be eighteen in a few weeks."

"Look what he's done to you! Look what he's turned you into! He's ruined my baby girl. How can you even think this way?" She stands up then, grabbing handfuls of her own hair, swooning in misery. "What are you doing to me? What are you doing to this family?"

"We've wanted to get married for a year already," I say, very calmly.

She narrows her eyes to slits. "You knew you could never marry a Catholic boy. That's unacceptable to us. How could you even think of that? That was never a possibility for you."

"What the fuck does Catholic have to do with it? This isn't the sixteen-hundreds. He makes me happy. We love each other. That's what's important--"

"And look how you talk to me," she cuts me off. "Where did you learn that dirty language? From him? See what he's done to you?"

*    *    *

What he's done to me is show me that God exists, that Heaven is real and tangible, that everything is beautiful because he is alive with me. He's shown me warm light and deep comfort. He's awakened in me a part of myself that before him, I ever could have envisioned. He's brought me more happiness than I ever knew was possible.

My sole reason for waking each morning was to be with him.

I would wait for him, the adrenaline flooding my veins in anticipation of his presence. As he came to me, I would feel whole again--unceasingly overwhelmed by his beauty--his laughing eyes, his enchanting dimpled smile, his thick shiny dark hair, his strong arms. When they were around me, his body with mine, all was in its right place. There was no possibility of pain, no suffocation; only joy.

That was reality. Nothing else held meaning.

*    *    *

"So what's up?" He nudges me with his right arm, beside me on the bleachers.

I stare at the rose. I'm clenching my jaw so hard that it aches.

"Talk to me, babe. I can tell something's bugging you. What's wrong?" He puts his arm around me then.

I fight the urge to melt into him. Instead, I take a deep breath and plunge in. Over the precipice, I can feel myself falling as the words tumble from my mouth. "I . . . can't . . . see you anymore." Tears flood my eyes. The image of the rose is blurred.

"What?" His voice shoots up. He stiffens, and drops his arm from my back. I feel him pulling into himself. "What are you talking about?"

I turn to him. As hard as it is, the least I can do is face him with this. I struggle to maintain eye contact. "I can't . . ." I shake my head and sniff, and bring the heel of my right hand to my nose. "We can't be together anymore, okay? I have to leave you. We're going away to college anyway--"

"Are you serious?" His expression is one of utter shock, but there is fear in his eyes also. It is something I've never seen before in him. "You're not kidding around, are you?"

I shake my head. My tears spill onto my cheeks as I blink, and I can feel their cold, wet tracks across my face. "It's for the better. You'll see. You'll see. It is. It'll be okay."

Now he clenches his jaw. I can see the muscles tighten beneath the skin of his cheeks. He searches my face and then frowns. "Where is this coming from?" He sounds completely stunned, but his voice has become distant.

I reach into my pocket and withdraw the ring he gave me for my eighteenth birthday two months prior. The diamond catches the fading light and reflects lavender, white, pink. "Here," I manage, offering it to him. My throat is so tight I'm surprised any sound escapes.

He looks down at it for an instant, but doesn't move to take it. "That's yours."

"Michael--I can't. Here. No. Here. Take it, please. Please. God." I grab his right hand and place the ring in his palm, and close his fingers over it. I wrap both of my hands around his and squeeze his fist. "Listen to me, okay? Don't ever blame yourself. Don't. Please. You're such a good person. Some girl will be so lucky to have you. God, yes . . . It just can't be me. I have to move on. I have to go now. I have to . . . I just wanted you to have me for a little while." Then you can just imagine you have me. Like the rose.

"Why?" He searches my face, which is now soaking from my tears. "I don't understand," he nearly whispers. His eyes are suddenly full of pain, like a wounded animal caught in a trap.

"Neither do I," I shake my head. "Please don't hate me."

"I love you," he says quietly. Then he stands up. He is moving to go. Just like that. Our bond--over two years old--snapped like a piece of dry wood.

"Michael," I call.

He turns and looks at me. "I have to be alone now."

I nod, understanding. "I love you too. I'm sorry."

"Then why?" He throws up his hands. The ring falls to the bottom bleacher with a metallic clank, and rolls into the grass. "I don't get it. We had everything planned out." He swallows. I watch his Adam's apple slide in his throat.  thought we were going to get married. Was that all a joke?"

"No--"

"Then . . . I don't get this. I don't understand. You say you love me. Your feelings have changed for me? Or--"

"No. No. I love you. I do love you. Know that, okay? Know that." Yes, my God. I do love you. I love you so much this is breaking me apart.

"Then can you explain? 'Cause I'm--like--lost here. I'm totally lost. I'm . . . not . . ." He's shaking his head, frowning.

"It's just better this way. It's just better."

"How is it better?"

"It's just better, that's all. We're better off apart, that's all. I don't know."

"Bullshit."

"We're going away to college--"

"And? We had that worked out already. Every third weekend, remember? I told you I would get a job and pay for it."

"But you'll want to date other girls." I'm reaching, searching. Trying to justify my sudden cruelty.

"Sofia!" He grabs my left hand, lunging forward, and shakes it for emphasis. "Look at me!"

I look at him. My throat is aching with grief.

"There is nobody else I want. Do you hear me? What are you doing? It's me here. You're talking to me here. You know how much I love you, don't you?"

I begin to cry again. "I have to do this."

"I just have to, that's all. Please."

"But you said you still loved me! Never mind," he drops my hand. "I'm not going to beg you. I won't do that to myself." Now the tears flood his eyes. "Tell me one thing, okay? Just tell me one thing, and . . . I'll never . . . I will never bother you again."

Please bother me! You could never be a bother to me . . .

"Okay," I sigh.

"Just--this," the tears wet his eyelashes, and overflow onto his cheeks. "Is this your mom?"

"What do you mean?"

"I know this is," he almost groans. His pain is tangible, deep. "This is your mom, right?" He's still frowning, through his tears. "This is not coming from you, Sofia. Right? Just tell me that much."

"No. Yes. Yes it is."

He doesn't hear me, but moves ahead. "We're eighteen. Jesus! We're old enough. She has no more control here. I'll marry you. Let's go. I told you. We'll get married. We'll just get married. She has no more power over us. We're adults!"

I sense his desperation, his last attempt at salvation. It makes me want to scream with the agony of seeing him this way, to see what I've done to him. "No. It's not my mom," I lie. Anything to make him stop.

He rears up. "This is your idea?" He whispers. Utter disbelief.

"Yes," I lie again. Will that make the amputation easier?

Instead, it breaks his heart. His face crumples in grief. "Okay." He believes me. He doesn't question. I have never lied to him before. "Fine . . . Just know . . ." He reaches for me one last time and places his hand on my bare calf. The warmth of his fingers, the gentle touch, burns into me like fire, and lingers long after we have parted. "Just know one thing, okay? I will always, always love you. That will never change."

He turns away from me then, and walks into the pine trees.

I watch him disappear. My grief is so heavy that I'm sure it will crush me. It is pain like I have never known. I am ripped in two; I am screaming inside; I am falling, falling, falling into darkness. Is there life without him? I don't remember. I can't find that place. There is no access to that now. I have shed that part of myself. Michael has become everything, and the void left behind is so wide, I can't see across.

The light has gone out of my life. There is no more reason for living.

I leave the rose by the ring in the grass.

*    *    *

It is raining as I drive home. The storm has come. Big, flat, coin-sized drops. Night has fallen. I do not turn on the windshield wipers again. I still don't want to see.

*    *    *

Mother, have I made you happy now? Has everything fallen into place for us? Am I your Sofia again?

But even as I re-enter her circle of approval, nothing is in place.

It is because suddenly I hate her.

The seeds of violation and destruction sown by your hands will haunt me to my grave . . .