I went down to my storage locker in the basement yesterday in search of my old Brownie badges (thank you surly). I knew that somewhere buried under old skis and folding chairs and fans was a box full of boxes full of things I’d long forgotten. I wasn’t prepared to really deal with all the junk. I just wanted that little cigar box with my Brownie badges. In a weird twist of fate, it made me think of a long ago OS writing challenge from Wayne Gallant, may he rest in peace. He challenged us to write the back story to Hemmingway’s six word story “For Sale Baby Shoes Never Worn.” The box in my locker was the scene in my post.

As locker rooms go, mine is not at all bad for a 60 year old building. But it was in desperate need of a good cleaning and I was in no mood for that. So after a bit of dismantling, I grabbed the cigar box along with a few other small boxes of things and a pile of letters and pictures, and I stuffed everything else back in the locker.

Soon, I was sitting on my living room floor sorting through the detritus of my life. My old things have a distinct smell. I won’t be so dramatic to call it the smell of failure, but it is distinct. So there I sat, cross-legged and curious and flipping through ancient relics inhaling my own history. And then I came across the tattered envelope.

I didn’t recognize it immediately, and then instantly, I did. My stomach twisted and my extremities turned cold. I recognized the hurried (or was it careless) script and the address as my parent’s house. I had the contents, a single piece of paper, unfolded in my hand before I knew better than to open it.

“Janie, I love you. Please come. John”

Six words, not including my name; the punctuation was implied. It fit, like Hemmingway’s exercise, it fit. Those six words and all the events that preceded and followed the arrival of that letter forever changed who I was and the trajectory of my life.

The letter arrived early January one year. What year, I can’t exactly remember. The timeline of events has jumbled over time. But it was the January that followed the Christmas I planned to spend two weeks in Vancouver with John. It was going to be great; we’d be skiing at Whistler and decorating a tree together for the first time and he’d love the sweater I’d spent 3 months lovingly knitting for him.

We’d patched things up after the previous disastrous summer when I went to live with him in Vancouver. The living together lasted 2 weeks before he lied, and he spent the rest of the summer trying to get me to forgive him. Eventually I did forgive him, but only just before I returned to school in the east.

When I met him, I have to say I was a trusting soul—young, impressionable and swinging through life without a net. Lies and the liars who tell them leave an indelible mark on a life. Pathological liars do all that much better, so the effects are deeper and more insidious. By proxy, they teach others to become super sleuths, to doubt everything, to trust no one. I was only half way through my training.

I was exhausted when I got off the plane that evening after just finishing a grueling week of back to back exams. So I was not impressed and just a little pissed when he insisted we drive to the cabin at Whistler that night. It was a two hour drive along a dangerous mountain road that became deadly at night.

I can’t remember all the details, and I can’t remember if we even skied. But we did fight for two days. I remember that. It started with a long blond hair on his sweater—just like his ex-girlfriend’s hair—the one he’d lied about the summer before. But no, he threw his best friend under the train for that one, claiming it came off his ski jacket despite the fact that Judy, Steven’s girlfriend, had short dark hair and was a friend of both of ours. That was a swell start to the holiday.

After two days of relentless fighting, we agreed it was over while heading down the mountain for his house. I remember crying a good portion of the way and him stopping to make phone calls; this being the days before email and cell phones. After one call, he announced that his house was flooded. Suddenly he had a tenant renting the basement. His tenant had a name, but I didn’t recall ever hearing of that during the last four months of nightly phone calls.

“We can’t go back to the house.”

“Why not?”

“It’s a mess. I don’t know what I’ll find when I get there.”

“Well, I can help.”

“No, I won’t let you. It’s going to be awful. I’ll drop you at Trudy’s.”

I recall getting to Trudy’s later in the evening, so I’ve lost track of time or forgotten something. Trudy wasn’t pleased, but she pulled down the Murphy bed for herself and gave John and I her bedroom. Then John left. “Don’t wait up.” I hardly knew Trudy, and we spent an awkward night together until I finally went to bed. Were her sheets purple? I recall purple.  

John came back around three or four in the morning. Later that morning, I had the all clear to go to the house. But when I got there, I was not permitted to go into the basement. And where was the mysterious tenant? Henry, he called him Henry. These snippets I recall.

The crisis, such as it was, served to repair our relationship. But suddenly there was an issue with his parents. No sooner had we arrived at the house than he announced his parents were dying. Well, not that minute apparently, but his brother who lived in Europe had rented a place outside of Ottawa for a family Christmas while they still could. A family Christmas??? He rarely talked to either of his brothers, he'd disowned his sister, his parents had been divorced for decades, and he referred to his dad as the Colonel  - and not in a nice way.

Within hours of arriving at the house, he had me booked on a flight home to Toronto. I was three days into my two week visit. But I recall being okay with it. I gave him his present and made him promise not to open it before Christmas. I asked him why he didn’t fly with me to Toronto on his way to Ottawa. He told me he was taking a direct flight later that afternoon. He also advised me that the place his brother rented probably didn’t have a phone so not to expect a call from him on Christmas Day. And I was okay with this. After two days of fighting, I was relieved for some reason.

I recall sitting on the stairs. He was telling me how much he loved me with his hands on my knees. I looked him straight in the eye and asked the question.

“Are you going to spend Christmas with Debbie’s family in Invermere (like he’d done for the last ten years)?”

He looked me straight in the eye as he denied it and told me again he loved me. We left for the airport shortly thereafter. That part of the journey, and the flight are a blur. What next rivets my brain is the image of my mother waiting for me on the other side. I was happy. He loved me; I’d swallowed his lies and convinced myself it was all okay. Then I saw her face through the glass. With one look, I knew I’d been had.

When I arrived home, I called his house. He should not have been there, but he was.

“I thought you were taking an early afternoon flight, why are you there?”

“Oh, I’m taking a later flight; couldn’t get on. Thanks for the sweater.”

“You promised not to open it until Christmas.”

“The box wouldn’t fit in my suitcase. I’ll wear it on the plane.”

I was only partway through my training, but I had already learned a few things about sleuthing. The short time I lived in the house the previous summer, I’d found a big box full of his ex-girlfriends letters and stuff. I’d read many of them. It was my conclusion that she was a little unhinged. It would be years before I understood what pushes a woman to that level of self-doubt.

The feeling you get when snooping is unmistakable. It’s gut wrenching and nerve wracking. It is very similar to the feeling you get when you realize you are being lied to, but it has the extra element of intrigue and danger. It makes your blood run cold, your breath shorten and your hands shake. You become hyper aware of how things are placed and in what order. Your hearing peaks and you are prepared to put everything back at the sound of a car door slamming or keys in the lock. You are torn between confirming your worst suspicions and finding out they were groundless. Once confirmed, the floor drops away and you free fall while you re-adjust your reality. I came to know this feeling well.

When I got off the phone with him, I started calling the airlines. Something didn’t ring true. Fortunately, there were only three cross-country airlines in Canada at the time. One by one, they confirmed what I already knew – there were no direct flights from Vancouver to Ottawa. All of them went through Toronto.

I wasn’t supposed to be home, and I was embarrassed to tell my friends I was back, so I slunk around the house feeling sorry for myself and wondering. On Christmas Eve, my parents asked me if I wanted to join them on their annual tour of friends and family. NO. Travelling around with my parents on Christmas Eve like a spinster loser was not how I wanted to remember this Christmas. I told Dad of my doubts.

“I think John’s spending Christmas with his ex-girlfriend and her family in Invermere.”

“So call and find out.”

::thud::

That my parents didn’t like this man who was tearing me apart was a given, but they’d never say that. This was Dad’s not so subtle way of dealing with it.

By the time the door closed behind them, I was on the phone to directory assistance. Invermere is a small town. If they were listed, I had the number. Soon I was squirming with that same feeling I got snooping through his house. Did I have the courage to pull this off? Was I sneaky enough to do it well?

“Hello.”

“Hello, is John there please.”

::pause::

“Pardon?”

“Oh, I’m sorry, I might have the wrong number. I’m looking for John _____.”

::pause::

“Hold on.”

::gut punch::

“Yeah...”

“I want the sweater back.”

::click::

I can’t imagine what sort of turmoil was left in the wake of that phone call. Not so much that he didn’t call me back in a few minutes and proclaim his love for me. It was just lie after lie after lie. There was nothing to discuss. There was no excuse big enough to cover him this time. Once again, my sleuthing paid off – unfortunately.

He must have called fifty times over the next couple of weeks. Each time I refused the call. Finally a mutual friend called me on his behalf.

"Janie, you have to talk to him.” 

“Why? He’s a lying snake.” 

“Well, he’s sorry, and he’s devastated and he’s a total mess. Just talk to him at least.”

Stupidly, I did. I opened the door a crack and the snake slowly slithered back into my life. He begged me to accompany him on a trip to New York to visit friends. He’d pick me up in Toronto. I refused repeatedly. That’s when he sent letter. I don’t recall if it was the letter that worked finally, but it probably was. It was just pathetic and sappy enough to twist my will.

The trip to New York was no picnic. It was a repeat of our time at Whistler. We fought constantly, but we didn’t break up this time.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

Turn About is Fair Play

Pathological liars should by definition not be creatures of habit. But it seems they are, or at least this one was/ is. I knew exactly where and when to find him because that was his pattern. So it should have been no surprise what happened next. When we returned to Toronto, there was no way John was welcome in my parent’s house. So we stayed at his favourite hotel on the waterfront—The Harbour Castle Hilton. It was where he always stayed when in Toronto. 

We’d smoothed out the rifts, and it was our last night together before he flew home. After a week of dining out in New York we chose to stay in. Dinner had just arrived, and the movie we ordered was queued to start when the phone rang. John was in the bathroom, and to this day, I’ll never know why he didn’t grab the phone in there.  

“Hello”

“Is John there?”

::thud::

For his ex (not really ever an ex) girlfriend, that was the last straw. She broke all ties for good after ten years of bullshit. I was younger and more determined (read stupid) and it would take me another couple of years to reach the same conclusion. The total gutting and renovation of my psyche wasn’t complete yet. I still had a smidgen of trust and an ounce of self-respect in me.