Long silences don’t usually bother Tristan, which is one of the many things I like about him, but this time his frown deepens with each passing moment. “Please, Sam, say something.”
“I’m thinking.” Or, at least, I’m trying to think. My monkey brain is going too fast for the quieter parts of my mind to keep up.
“Okay.” Standing, Tristan wraps his arms around me from behind, holding on briefly. “I’m going to get us some ice cream for dessert.” I give a mute nod and he moves away.
Sitting alone, I stare out at the lights of Brisbane. Many of those lights come from people’s homes, each representing a person, or even a whole family of people. They’re all out there, going about their lives with no knowledge of my existence, just as I have no real knowledge of theirs.
Being all the way up here makes me feel small, insignificant. Which is liberating in a way. It’s like nothing I do matters, except to those who choose to know me and be a part of my life. Tristan. Yolanda. My students. The Nguyens. Those are the people who matter to me, as I matter to them. The nebulous many shouldn’t hold such sway over my actions. Their opinions shouldn’t matter. They do, but they shouldn’t.
Clarity is easier to come by all the way up here. In the dark, looking down on the multitude of lights. It would be different if the light were shining on me. That’s what a television studio would do. Light me up—my flaws, my fumbles, my fears—for all the world to see. At the same time, it would give me the opportunity to share my passion with the world. I started teaching because I wanted to share, to help people the way my teachers helped me. But sharing requires exposure. I can’t do one without opening myself up to the other. No one can.
Is my desire to share greater than my fear of exposure?
Tristan’s hand slides into my line of vision holding a waffle cone topped with strawberry ice cream. Smiling, I thank him as I accept the treat. Tristan returns to his seat beside me, licking at his own vanilla ice cream.
The silence between us is calmer than before. There are no sidelong glances. Tristan doesn’t appear to be waiting for me to give him an answer to the question he’s posed. He’s fully aware pushing me will only push me in the other direction. Of course, he knows that about me because I opened myself to him. I allowed him to see me as I really am.
If I hadn’t taken the chance, I wouldn’t be here now. Enjoying ice cream on a warm night with a man who makes me want more for myself than I can get from behind a closed door. He needed me to give of myself first, and in a lot of ways, the people out there in the darkness are the same. They need me to come to them.
“I’ll do it.”
I stare at my ice cream, waiting for the world to gasp in shock and horror. It doesn’t.
“Really?” Tristan is staring at me. I can see him out of the corner of my eye.
“Really.”
He slides one arm around my back and leans his forehead against my shoulder. “Okay,” he says with obvious pleasure. “I’ll set it up.”
“You’ll come with me.” I want to hear him say it again. To be sure.
“Cross my heart, hope to—” He stops, partway through using his finger to draw a cross over his heart. “Hope to live a long life.”
Impossibly, I manage to smile. “A long and happy life,” I correct him. “That’s what you need. A long and happy life.”
TWENTY
______
TRISTAN
It’s time.
This doesn’t feel like a conclusion I’ve reached or a decision I’ve made. It’s more like a gradual shift to accepting the path Sam’s been guiding me along from the day we met.
He has become my safety net. His voice is my anchor. This house feels more like home to me than my apartment ever did. Even the other students are familiar now. I’ve watched them give themselves over to this process time and again. Fearlessly. With trust and hope. I’ve seen the odd tear at times, or an unexpected eruption of emotion. Sam has handled it all with skill and compassion. For a man who struggles under the weight of other people’s attention, he seems totally at ease in the presence of their pain.
Sam knows me better than anyone has ever known me. If I do this and I fall, I trust him to catch me.
And so, when he says the words… I follow where he leads.
“Today’s meditation will allow for the clearing and healing of painful memories and negative emotions,” he begins. “You will be asked to recall a memory or situation. Something associated with painful or negative emotions. There is no need to choose your most painful memory. Take note of how you’re feeling this evening, and where you are in your life presently, and choose a memory you feel comfortable working with. Other memories can wait for another time.” He pauses for a long moment, allowing everyone time to make their choice. “Let’s begin.”
This is the third time I’ve been present for this particular meditation. Perhaps it’s coincidence. Perhaps it’s simply part of the rotation Sam has always used. I’m in his class so often now I’m bound to start getting repeats. Or perhaps he’s intentionally bringing me back to this same fork in the path over and over. Each time providing me with the opportunity to choose which direction I take.
The first time I heard him give this introduction, I rolled my eyes at the idea anyone would want to relive something awful. Isn’t going through the crap that fucks you up hard enough the first time? Just because I won’t let myself forget what I did, doesn’t mean I want to go out of my way to remember.
By the time we circled back around, I had a few more classes under my belt and I understood it’s not about reliving the memory so much as processing it—and then releasing the emotions involved. The knowledge made me turn away faster. It sounded too much like learning how to let Claire go.
