The House of Pain (12 page)

I’ve been waiting for the other shoe to drop; a sign that this isn’t as perfect as I think it is.

The other shoe drops the Friday before Christmas.

I’m on my way to Doug’s. I have his Christmas present in my hand. He flies out tomorrow evening to his folks for Christmas, I leave tomorrow for Tobermory as well. I’m humming under my breath, a Christmas carol that’s stuck in my head.

This week has felt different; more intimate. We went out for dinner on Wednesday night, the first time we’ve been out to dinner together. After, Doug dropped me off at my apartment, and I invited him up, also for the first time. He came in, we had a drink, made out on my bed. I shiver in longing as I remember him pulling me down on his lap, kissing me, claiming me as his.

For the first time in a long time, I dare to be hopeful about this. He seems to enjoy being with me. Perhaps I should just take that at face value.

As I’m walking the brief distance from the subway stop to Doug’s house, I get a phone call. I look at the number – it’s Toni. I make a face. Our last conversation wasn’t exactly pleasant. She had been slightly snide about Doug and there were more than a couple of hints that I was dating Doug for his money. Sigh. Not exactly what you want to hear from someone you consider a good friend.

I almost let the call go to voicemail, but then, I tell myself to grow up, and pick up the call. “Hey, Toni,” I greet.

Her voice is filled with venom, and her words make my heart stop. “Your fucking asshole boyfriend just laid us all off. The entire team. Right before Christmas. Tell him thanks, won’t you, Sara?”

***

My shock is visible on my face when Doug opens his door. “You laid off my team? All my friends?” My voice rises in accusation.

Doug sighs, steps aside so I can come in. I obey automatically, but I’m shaking in shock. He pulls me in to his body, trying to warm me up, but I break free. I glare at him.

“Hello Sara,” he says mildly. But his mildness is fuel to my flame, and I hear my voice rise.

“You laid them off the week before Christmas?” I sound shrill.

Doug sighs again. “Can we discuss this calmly?” he asks me, leading the way to his kitchen island, handing me a drink.

I ignore it. Anger is bubbling inside of me. I feel cheated, lied to. It is as if the warm, caring man I’ve been hanging out with was a fake; what is real is the cool, controlled, ruthless executive. The one who lays off an entire department the week before Christmas.

I shudder as I imagine their reactions.

Jason, soft-spoken, the easiest boss I’ve ever worked for. He’d be shell-shocked but reasonable. He always is. Paul has two kids enrolled in every kind of recreational sport; Adam was saving to head off to Vietnam for a year. Toni, like me, was saving for a down payment on a condo. All their hopes and dreams, derailed by Doug.

Doug hasn’t said anything. He’s watching me carefully, waiting for me to finish raging, to calm down. But I can’t calm down, I can’t stop shaking.

Suddenly a thought strikes me.

“Would you have told me? If I was still there? Would you have warned me I was going to get laid off?”

Doug closes his eyes for a second. “Sara,” he says, and there’s a muted plea in his voice.

“Tell me.” My voice is flat.

“Fine.” Doug’s voice is even. “No, I wouldn’t have warned you. I have a job to do; responsibilities. And with that, sometimes, I have to make hard decisions for the greater good of the company. Things that I don’t enjoy doing, but things that are necessary.”

My eyes are blurred with tears. Shock? Pain? I can’t tell. I’m still shaking. I can feel Doug take a half-step towards me, but I push him away. I feel the bile rise in my throat. I can’t bring myself to look at him. I am so angry right now, I’m going to explode.

I whirl around, leave, slamming the front door shut. I can hear him open it behind me, I can feel him stand in the doorway, though I don’t look back. The tears are falling freely now, coursing down my cheeks.

I hear his voice as I walk away. “Sara,” he says softly. “Come back, please.”

But I keep walking.

***

I read his email when I get home, the email he has sent me while I was on the subway.

Sara,

I’m sorry about the shock the news gave you, but I confess I don’t really understand your reaction. Your friends will be fine – they’ve all received a generous severance package; most of them will come well-recommended by us. The job market is strong – they should all land well.

I’m not going to apologise about the necessity of the action– because it was necessary. We don’t make these decisions lightly, Sara, you should know that.

I’m also not going to apologise about your hypothetical question – would I have told you? No. I am an officer of the company; I’m privy to sensitive information that I can’t disclose.

What you should have known without me needing to state it, that I would be there for you, if you got laid off. I’d review your resume. I’d set up meetings for you. I’d provide any and all support you’d need.

I confess I’m disappointed that you ran at the first sign of trouble. Life’s not always easy or fair, Sara, but I’d hoped, especially after last week, that you were in for the long-haul. Because that’s what I’m looking for; that’s what I’d hoped we were moving towards.

I know you leave tomorrow for Tobermory. Have a safe journey, and a pleasant holiday.

Doug.

I curl up in a ball on my bed, and cry myself to sleep.

***

Needless to say, I don’t have the best Christmas. I cry the entire way to Tobermory, probably risking my own life and everyone else’s on the road. My mother eyes my red, blotchy eyes, but thankfully, she doesn’t comment. She feeds me instead. Food is the White family solution to any problem.

It doesn’t work this time. Doug’s email said he had hoped we were in it for the long haul, but he didn’t say anything about wanting to see me again. I don’t know where that leaves us. I’m too afraid to call him or write to him and ask.

I check my email every five minutes, desperately hoping for another email from Doug. It doesn’t come.

It’s ironic. For the longest time I kept my distance from Doug, because I didn’t want my heart broken. And yet, somehow, my heart got broken anyway. The way of the world.

I dissolve into fresh tears.

***

The nightmare is back. Every night, I’ve fallen into bed, and slipped into the same nightmare.

I’m always at the House of Pain. I’m always terrified, in a way I’ve never been in real life.

Doug moves towards me. His eyes are steely. His mouth a cold, hard line. I gulp, try to take a step back, but I can’t move. I shiver in fear.

He’s holding a cane in his hands. He swings it, laughing at the terror in my eyes as I hear the swish of the cane in the air.

And then, the cane comes down on my breasts. A line of fire lights my skin. Again, and another line appears on my skin, criss-crossing the original. There’s no tenderness in this. This is punishment.

He’s moved behind me, and the cane is moving faster now, raising brutal welts on my sore buttocks. I scream, I can feel each stroke leave a burning trail on my skin, and I am in agony. I struggle in my bindings, try to escape.

“Red, red, red,” I sob, but we are in a place where safewords don’t work; a place where there’s no tenderness or love, only pain.

The cane comes away red now; each stroke is drawing blood. I look into Doug’s eyes, search for any sign of warmth. My eyes are filled with tears, it hurts to breathe; it hurts to exist.

“Doug, please,” I beg. “Please…”

He laughs at me, no emotion in his eyes.

I wake up, desolation in my heart.

***

I’m on the phone with Amanda a couple of days after Christmas. We are talking through details of an event we are organizing the day after New Year, a fancy fundraiser for a cat shelter we both volunteer for. It’s a glitzy scotch tasting event, tickets are expensive, formal attire only, blah, blah, blah. Still, rich people come and give us a lot of money, and it funds a lot of our rescue activities. Both Amanda and I have been scotch aficionados for most of our adult lives, and this is a good way for us to showcase some really good Scotch while raising money for a cause we are both passionate about.

Once we’ve worked out the logistics, Amanda clears her throat.

“Sara,” she says, “you sound really depressed. Is everything ok?” 

I sigh. My eyes fill with tears, yet again. For over eight days, all I’ve done is cry. And eat my mom’s cookies. But mostly cry.

I tell her everything, right from the start. The House of Pain, Doug, our fight, my nightmares. The whole story. It feels good to let it all pour out. She listens without interruption.

“Sara, do you want to know what I think?”

Amanda doesn’t offer a lot of opinions on my dating life in general. “Okay,” I say. I’m prepared to hear criticism of my submission, of my willingness to let Doug whip and dominate me. But Amanda surprises me.

“So, after holding this guy at a distance for four months, you go on your first date on Wednesday, and then have a major fight on Friday?” Her voice is impatient. “Ok, Sara, don’t tell me that’s just a coincidence.”

“What do you mean?”

“Sara, I’ve known you for years now. You are running seriously scared. If it hadn’t been for your friends getting laid off, it would have been something else, wouldn’t it? You are petrified of letting this guy in; letting yourself be vulnerable.”

“Can you blame me?” I ask defensively.

“Sure.” Her reply is prompt. “I know this narrative you have, I’ve heard it before. Guys always break up with you. Blah blah blah. And I always roll my eyes when you start that nonsense, because you’ve written your life story based on two relationships that didn’t work.”

I start to protest, but I shut up. Amanda’s reading me the riot act; a rare thing, and she’s generally pretty insightful. Maybe she’s on to something here?

“And my nightmares, any theories?”

I can almost see her shrug. “Who knows?” she says. “Dreams are weird. They aren’t always about what they appear to be. Have you ever felt frightened when you and Doug are doing the bondage thing?”

My response is instantaneous. “No.” 

“And when things were going well with you two, did you have the nightmares?”

“No,” I mumble again.

Her voice is slightly impatient. “Then, perhaps your fear and pain are more a response to the way you feel when you push Doug away,” she theorizes. “In any case, stop running scared and call him.”

“He might not want me anymore,” I whisper my worst fear.

“After one fight?” Amanda sounds skeptical. “I met Doug, remember? He couldn’t take his eyes off you at your birthday. He seems like a great guy. Call him. Fix this.”

“Ok,” I mutter, and we hang up.

I whistle as I wander around my parents’ house, trying to find my scattered possessions so I can pack to head back to Toronto. I am suddenly hopeful.

***

I’ve tried Doug, but his phone has gone directly to voicemail. I don’t leave a message though; I don’t know what to say. “I’m sorry I’m an idiot,” seems like a good place to start, but instead, I hang up. He’s still on holiday. I’ll call in the New Year.

***

I spend New Year’s Eve with the same group of friends I spent my birthday with. They all make it a point of asking where Doug is, of mentioning how much they liked him. Each word twists a knife in my heart. I have called myself all kinds of an idiot for running scared.

I hope desperately that he hasn’t given up on me.

The first of January finds me and Amanda doing all kinds of running around town, checking that we have enough Scotch for our tasting, setting up the tables, making sure all the donations for the silent auction have come in, having tax receipts ready for the tax-deductible portion of the evening, all the normal last minute one does when throwing an event like this. This is the fifth year I’ve done this, and if it weren’t for the fact that Doug’s phone has yet again gone into voicemail, I’d be enjoying myself tremendously.

Amanda takes a look at my face and tactfully refrains from asking any questions about Doug. Instead, we go over our tasting notes. I’ll be leading the tasting this year while Amanda works the tables and makes sure everyone’s having a good time.

We work hard all day. It is almost 7pm when we are done. I go home, but I can’t face unpacking my bags, so I just drown my sorrows in bad TV, and fall asleep early.

***

The second of January is a Saturday night; the tasting is at 7pm. I head to the bar at 5.30, make sure all the tables are set up correctly, check that place cards are in order, double-check that the wait staff know what sequence to bring out the scotch in. I’ve taken care with my make-up, I’m wearing the same black dress I wore to my birthday. I look good; a confidence booster.

Amanda joins me at about 5.45pm. She flashes me a smile. I’m a little nervous about doing all the talking, and she can sense it. “You’ll be great, Sara,” she tells me confidently.

“I hope so,” I mutter. I fiddle with my notes to expend some nervous energy.

***

The guests start arriving at half-past six. Amanda and I work the room. We greet familiar faces, introduce ourselves to new faces and talk up the cat shelter to everyone in the room.

I sense Doug before I see him. He walks into the room with his familiar air of calm competence. He’s laughing at something the woman next to him has said. They are gazing at each other with affection; his hand is placed protectively in the small of her back, and he leans in as she mutters something that causes him to laugh yet again.

I go deathly pale. It hurts to breathe. My eyes fill with involuntary tears and I fiercely blink them away. Not now, Sara, I mutter. Hold it together. But inside, my heart breaks into a thousand little pieces.

Amanda shoots a quick concerned look at me, starts to walk towards me, but I shake my head. I can’t take her sympathy right now. I’m barely holding it together myself.

It took barely a week to replace me, I think bitterly, and my mind is reeling. Right now, I want to go home and fall into bed. I want to burst into tears, and bury myself in my misery. I don’t do any of that though. I walk forward.

Doug looks up at my approach, there’s surprise in his eyes, but also warmth. “Hello Sara,” he says. I ignore him for a second and turn towards his companion.

“Hi, I’m Sara, I’m one of today’s organizers,” I introduce myself to Doug’s lady friend.

“Hello, Sara, I’m Charlie,” she replies, with a friendly smile. She has a slight French accent. Of course. She radiates chic, in her dress of grey silk, with her hair drawn back in an elegant chignon. She is so much of a better fit in Doug’s world. I can see her in wine bars and fancy restaurants, not in dive bars with big plates of nachos and cheap beer.

“And you already know Doug?” She adds, looking at Doug, a little surprised.

Doug starts to say something, but suddenly, I can’t cope with what he’s going to say. “Yes,” I interject, before he can say anything, “Doug and I used to work together.”

Doug gives me that patented look of his, the one that is considering and expressionless, but I do my best not to react. Right then, Amanda comes to my rescue. “Hello Doug,” she says, “We are almost ready to begin. Can I show you to your table?”

***

The rest of the evening passes by in a blur. I will myself not to look at Doug. Pain stabs at my heart every time I breathe but I go through my notes, lead the group through a tutored Scotch tasting, run the silent auction, and then, finally, I find Amanda, beg her to cover for me and flee.

***

The phone has rung three times Sunday morning. Amanda’s trying to reach me. I’ve ignored the calls. I’m sitting on my bed, staring at the wall, trying to get past the incredible pain.

I cried myself to sleep last night. Today, I’m just numb.

The phone has thankfully, finally gone silent. I just stare at the wall. I have laundry to do, and unpacking, I think, and I try to find the energy to get up and go to the Laundromat. But I can’t, and so I just sit on the bed and stare.

At about eleven in the morning, there is a banging at my door, and I hear Amanda’s voice. She sounds more than a little annoyed. “Sara, I know you are in there, open up.”

Sigh. For a second, I contemplate ignoring the door as well, but then I rethink that. Amanda lives on the east end of town. It must have taken her an hour on transit to get here.

“Coming,” I say, and get up. I’m still wearing the black dress I was wearing last night; I’ve had no energy to change. It is a crumpled mess. My mascara has run down my cheeks in one of my crying fits. I look utterly dreadful, and I don’t care.

Amanda eyes me as she enters my studio apartment and takes a seat on the only chair in the apartment.

“Yup, this is what I was expecting,” she drawls. I stiffen at the tone in her voice. Does she not understand why I would be shattered?

I open my mouth to say that, angrily, but then, I close it. What’s the point of fighting with Amanda anyway? She’s not the person I’m angry at. I’m angry at Doug, for replacing me so quickly and I’m angry at myself for letting myself fall in love with him, and letting myself care. Same old pattern.

“Sara,” Amanda sighs. “I could let you bask in your misery, or I could just tell you that Charlie is Doug’s cousin. Which would you prefer?”

I gape at her. “What?”

“Mmm. After you fled, I went over to talk to Doug. I was going to yell at him. But, yeah. His cousin. Not a girlfriend, or whatever else worst-case scenario you’ve imagined.”

I breathe. Hope blossoms in my chest. “Not a girlfriend?” I repeat, in dawning wonder. Charlie. Short for Charlotte, maybe? The shy girl who was beaten as a child by her father? I can scarcely reconcile that image with the image of the sophisticated, laughing woman yesterday.

“Nope,” she says, her eyes compassionate. “And, also, this would have been a lot easier on me if you’d just picked up your damn phone.” She’s grumbling, but she’s not really angry.

“Amanda, I have to go talk to him,” I say. I’m nervous. This is twice I’ve run. Twice I haven’t listened to Doug. Twice I haven’t allowed him to explain.

“Yes, that’s a good idea,” Amanda agrees. “Ok, girl, I’m going to leave now. You need to shower, change, and then, head over there.”

I glance at the time; a quarter past eleven. If I shower quickly, catch a cab, I can be there by a quarter past noon. Doug’s football game is at one today and I’m assuming he’ll have his friends over as he does every Sunday. I’ll have a half-hour to talk to him, max, but I find I can’t wait till the end of the game. I need to talk to him now, to apologize, to plead for another chance.

***

I’m outside Doug’s door. It is a quarter past noon. I take a deep breath. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, I tell myself. My heart is beating wildly in my chest. I raise my hand and ring the doorbell.

Alia’s volley of barks greets the doorbell. “Coming,” Doug yells out, no doubt thinking I’m one of his football buddies. He opens the door and sees me there.

An instant passes, then another. Finally, he steps aside, gestures me in.

“Can we talk?” I ask him, disconcerted by his silence.

He looks at me, expressionless. “The game’s going to start at one; the gang will be here in twenty minutes.”

I close my eyes, crushed at his words; the rejection contained in them. The pain courses through me, and then, finally, I find within me the same resolve I found when I was being whipped at the House of Pain. I straighten, looked into Doug’s eyes. “Please,” I ask simply.

He eyes me and nods. “Come into the kitchen,” he says. “I have chilli cooking on the stove I need to keep an eye on.”

Okay. A start. In the kitchen, I perch myself on the island, the scene of so many companionable evenings. “Can I help with anything?” I ask.

Doug shakes his head. “I’m fine,” he says. He doesn’t say anything else. He just waits.

I gulp. He is giving me no easy openings here.

“I’m sorry I ran,” I start tentatively. “Both before Christmas, and last night.”

“Why did you run?” Doug’s voice is level. He leans against the kitchen counter, watching me.

“I was afraid,” I mutter.

“Of what?” Again, his voice is level. I’m gazing at my hands, clasped together in my lap, afraid to look at him. Afraid to see rejection in his eyes.

I take a deep breath. Time for the truth, and nothing but the truth.

“I was afraid that I’d fall in love with you, and sooner or later, you’d leave.” My voice is a mere whisper.

“Why would I leave?” His voice is now puzzled.

“Oh come on, Doug. I live in Parkdale; you live in Rosedale. You are way, way out of my league.” My voice rises slightly.

“You think I’m way out of your league?” He sounds incredulous. “Sara, you led a Scotch tasting yesterday. Every single guy in that bar thought you were amazing. You are funny and bright and beautiful. You are braver than I could ever be, why would you think that?”

Oh. I finally dare to look at him. He’s still looking astonished. Just then, the doorbell rings.

“Fuck,” Doug swears; looks at the time. Half-past twelve. “Great day for people to be early,” he mutters.

He looks at me. “In or out, Sara?” he asks. “Staying or going?”

I meet his eyes. There’s no doubt. I’m not sure if there ever really was. For months, I’ve been trying to pretend that Doug does not matter. But I’ve been lying to myself. He matters, more than anything in the world.

“I’m in.” My voice is certain.

“Good,” he smiles at me. “Stay and watch the game with us?”

I nod. That smile has made my heart beat faster, and hope stirs, for the first time since I’ve entered Doug’s house.