Life Is A Foreign Language (12 page)

“I am, if it’s not too difficult.”

“It is difficult, but as they say, ‘No pain, no gain’.” It was a tired cliché, but as she intended, it made them both smile.

Nina closed her eyes and let the images come. “My father loved Mama very much. When I was born I think he saw me as an intruder. From an early age I sensed he resented me and considered me competition for Mama’s love.

“He was cruel to me, but hid it well—he’d beat me, taking care not to leave marks. In Mama’s presence he behaved as if I didn’t exist. He left the room when I entered, insisted I take my meals in the kitchen. I once asked him why he didn’t love me. He looked right through me, saying, ‘What’s there to love? You’re less than nothing to me’.”

Michael gasped, but she went on.

“I thought something must be wrong with
me,
that I was flawed, because my own father didn’t love me. With time I came to understand that he was addicted to painkillers. The addiction didn’t justify his behavior, but it certainly explained it.

“He kept me constantly off balance—I never knew what to expect. Sometimes he was fun, laughing and joking. Then suddenly, without warning he’d change, start brooding and isolate from everybody. In this mood the slightest provocation, real or imagined, triggered his anger.”

Looking at Michael, Nina pulled away from the memories for a moment. She didn’t want to overburden him with this, but compassion showed in his eyes. She continued.

“Dad made sure I had a good education—outward appearances mattered to him. I attended the best private schools, took piano and ballet lessons. When I was old enough, he sent me to a very exclusive boarding school. Mama was desolate, I was her only child and she wanted me home. But she wasn’t able to stand up to him. This was one of the rare times I heard them fight, but Dad was determined to send me away. I like to think he tried to compensate for his lack of emotion by giving me every material comfort.

“As a foreigner he felt inferior and demanded that I be ‘more’ than the average French girl. He made great efforts to fit into society, to be accepted and respected. If I didn’t quite measure up, he thought it reflected negatively on him, that it gave him a bad name. Evidently, it wasn’t true—it was all in his head, his imagination. Drugs warped his perception, making him suspicious and paranoid.” She sighed. “Poor Dad, he was really very sick.”

Michael kept his warm eyes trained on her, deep furrows in his brow. “But your father was a hero, an American who’d fought to liberate France. Didn’t people appreciate him for that?”

“You’re right. When I was a teenager I discovered that people did respect us and held him in high regard, but Dad was unable to see it because of the heavy medication.”

“Obviously. That kind of medication totally distorts perception.” He leaned closer to touch her hand, a gentle caress. “Sorry I interrupted.”

Closing her eyes again, she resumed. “I remember one time when I was eleven or so, I brought home grades he found inferior. He looked at my school card and flew into a rage; he grabbed me and threw me against the wall, breaking my arm. That was the only time his violence left a mark on my body. After that he was more careful—he hit me, but not hard enough to break the skin or fracture a bone.”

“What about your mother? Why didn’t she intervene?”

Tears ran down Nina’s face. “Dad was very astute—when Mama was at home he avoided me if he was in a nasty mood. But when Mama wasn’t at home—those where the times he’d act out toward me.”

“But what about your broken arm? How did he explain that?”

Nina thought for a moment. “This happened a long time ago, but as I recall, we told Mama I broke my arm in a biking accident. Words don’t leave visible marks, but they program you. In the end you see your image in the mirror the parent holds up, and nothing can efface the low self-esteem, the doubt and disgust with self.” She took a sip of tea to soothe the dryness in her mouth, swallowing against the lump in her throat.

“Nina, you don’t have to put yourself through this. It must be so tough to drag it all up.”

She leaned forward, cheek in hand. “It is difficult, but I need to do this. It’s a kind of purge; after I’ve told you I can’t take it back. I’ve shared it so it no longer belongs to me alone.” With a sharp intake of breath she realized that her father had planted the seed of low self-esteem, but she’d fed it by refusing to open up about this part of her life. As a professional she knew her worth, but as a woman her self image was so low it had certainly contributed to her allowing Andre’s womanizing when she should have taken a stand years ago.

“There isn’t much left,” she said. “I lived in this wonderful old house with servants and a doting mother. I was well dressed. When I turned eighteen, Dad gave me a car. Materially speaking, I had everything a girl my age could wish for. I’ve often thought of my life as a fruit—perfect to look at, but rotten inside.

“One particular incident I remember vividly—it was the year I was graduated, so I must have been eighteen. This wonderful boy invited me to the school prom. All the girls were crazy about him, so he could have taken anyone, but he chose me. My mother bought me a beautiful ball gown, high heeled sling-back sandals, and lent me her antique long earrings. When I looked in the mirror I was all grown up and pretty.

“I had a great evening, one of the rare times I dared feel carefree and happy. When I came home after the prom, Dad was waiting for me in the entry hall. I’d never seen him so furious. He screamed at me that I’d been giving my favors to this boy, which wasn’t true at all. My father accused me of being a slut, of giving him a bad name by sleeping around. He dragged me into the kitchen where he hacked off my beautiful long hair with a knife—so men wouldn’t be attracted to me, he said. And he slapped me.” Nina’s voice faltered. She closed her eyes against the memory.

Michael took her hand in his. She gripped it so hard her nails left half-moon marks on his skin.

“He was so inconsistent—he disliked me and ignored me. Yet he demanded that I be perfect, so he would look good in the community.”

“Nina .”

Difficult as it was, she didn’t dare stop now. “The house we lived in was old and sturdy with thick granite walls and solid oak floors. Not a sound filtered from one room to the other. Mama slept through this horror; she didn’t hear a thing. And I never said anything to her, I couldn’t. I loved her and was afraid of hurting her.”

She glanced at him, his eyes soft and misty.

“But didn’t your mother ask about your hair? Why you cut it off?”

“Sure, she did. I just shrugged it off … said it was a whim I indulged.” She sighed. “I don’t know what she knew, how much she guessed.

“After Dad died there were opportunities when we could have talked about it, but I couldn’t bring myself to open up the past. Mama never said anything, and I was content to let it be.”

Nina used a napkins to dab at her eyes and discreetly blow her nose. “While I underwent mandatory psycho-analysis during my studies, I glossed over my early life—never told the full story, not the abuse part. I was so ashamed of it I hid it deep inside. As a professional I should have known better. But we all have our blind spots; mine was that I couldn’t see how important it was to get it out, to talk about it so that I could deal with it. Through working with others I sometimes had flashbacks from this period, but quickly I’d turn away, refusing the memories. Now I understand I can’t construct my future on the ruins of my past if I don’t know what that past is made of.”

Nina brushed hair off her forehead. Breathing deeply, she met Michael’s gaze.

He squeezed her hand. “Was it the back injury that started your dad on painkillers?”

“Yes, the pain was at the root of it all. He began with other painkillers, then took low doses of morphine. As he grew dependent on the drug he needed more and more to dull the pain. The more he took, the worse his behavior.”

Thoughtful, Michael creased his brow and nodded. “Have you met your father’s family?”

“Yes. My father was an only child. I hardly knew my paternal grandfather, he died when I was a teenager. My grandmother passed away only three years ago. She was a joyless, severe woman. I visited her in New York a few times because I had to.” She made a face at the memory.

For a while both sat quiet. Nina was relieved to have unburdened the painful memories. She stood, a little stiff from sitting in the room chilled by the air-conditioning. “There, I’ve said it. You’re a good listener.” She stretched, then lowered herself to the love seat, covering her legs with a throw.

“My God, you must be so angry!”

She shook her head. “Not any more. For many years I was like a bomb looking for a place to explode, but I’ve done a lot of anger work. Occasionally, it flares up and I deal with it immediately before it deals with me.”

“Was your father the reason you became a therapist?”

“Absolutely! I’d suffered from Dad’s addiction, but I also saw him suffering. To the best of my ability I wanted to make a difference to alcoholics and addicts, and their loved ones.”

He smiled at her. “Our experiences tend to leave their marks. The Supreme Being at work in my life helps when I have a load too heavy to carry on my own. Perhaps that thought can help you.”

He’d mentioned the Supreme Being before, but Nina hadn’t paid attention. Now it intrigued her, she wanted to know more. “What is this Supreme Being? Are you religious?”

When he didn’t answer immediately, she regretted asking. “You don’t have to answer … it’s such a personal matter.”

“That’s all right. I understand it’s important or you wouldn’t have asked.”

She nodded. “It is important. All answers don’t necessarily come from rational thinking and therapy. I’ve started questioning if there might be another dimension I haven’t tapped. Whatever your belief, it seems to work for you; you’re so focused, live in the moment. I’m curious what it is, maybe it could help me, too.”

A pause before he answered. “I’m trying to decide how to put this so it makes sense. You’re right, there is something more profound than reason at work in my life. It’s also more immediate than therapy. If you mean going to church and following the tenets of organized religion, in that sense I’m not religious. But I have faith. I trust. My belief is spiritual, not religious.”

His reply surprised her . she expected some quotation from the Bible, a sermon, but what Michael said sounded reasonable.

“My belief isn’t anchored in any particular religion. I don’t try to define a universal God. I believe in God, as I understand Him at different moments in my life. When I was younger, there was a time when I didn’t believe in anything, and I doubted the existence of God. The usual immature nonsense, you know.”

Michael took a chocolate and munched on it, eyes half-closed.

For a long moment neither of them spoke. The things he said touched something deep within her. She’d been searching, but the obligations that organized religion imposed had put her off. The way he explained his faith made it seem accessible, something she could practice. Was this the answer she needed? Maybe faith would set her free from the dark horsemen of loneliness and fear, feelings she grew up with, but which no amount of therapy could erase.

“Where did you learn all this? I mean, did you have an adviser, like a guru?”

He smiled. “Not a guru, but a spiritual adviser. His name is Oren Jones. He’s an old friend, married my sons and baptized the grandchildren. Oren’s seen me through a lot.”

“He sounds interesting,” she said.

“Would you like to meet him? No commitment, just to talk?”

She thought for a moment. “Yes, I’d like that.”

“I’m surprised you’re looking to spirituality for answers. Why not psychotherapy?”

She sighed. “I’ve had all the therapy I can use. Something tells me the answers aren’t within the intellectual sphere.”

“Hmm … you may be right. If you want, I’ll call Oren, arrange a meeting.”

“Please do.”

“You can also attend his weekly meditation group. If you’re interested, that is.”

“I’ll think about it. I’d like to meet him first.”

“I’ll call him and let you know.”

Her eyes met his, and she nodded. “Thanks.”

The late hour, the memories of her past, and his presence—both comforting and disturbing—had taken their toll. Suddenly she was bone weary, spent. She had to blink her eyes to keep them open and tried to suppress a yawn.

Michael stood and took both her hands, pulling her to her feet. “You’re exhausted. I’ll leave you to get some rest.”

Nina nodded, too tired to protest. With her hand in his they walked to the door. She accompanied him outside to his car, wanting to put off the moment when he’d be gone.

“Sleep well,” he said.

“You, too. And thanks for listening.” From habit she brushed her lips against his cheek. She hurried into the house, smiling.
The difference in cultures … in France we kiss, here we don’t.

Chapter 14
 

Rain had been forecast, but when Nina woke the sky was clear and a breathtaking blue. After necessary chores, she found Barry Campbell’s phone number and dialed, gazing through the window in her office while she waited to be connected. The morning sun peeked around the corner of the house, its first rays touching the hibiscus that grew along the pool enclosure.

“Barry Campbell speaking.”

“Hi Barry. This is Nina Brochard.”

“Oh my God, Nina! How are you?” He sounded both surprised and pleased.

She grinned, happy to hear his familiar voice. “I’m well.” They chatted for a while about his work, Nina’s retirement, her writing.

“Would you be free for lunch sometime soon?” she asked. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen you, and I have some professional questions I hope you can answer.”

“Lunch would be great. If I can’t answer your questions, I’ll find somebody who can.”

They agreed to meet at a fish and steak house by the river.

She’d met Barry while she worked on her doctoral thesis, and he was doing research at the Baltimore psychiatric hospital where he interned. He was a man she turned to with implicit trust in his discretion and sensible advice.