14. "Don't Go" Part I

14

“Don’t Go” Part I

 

The Sunday after my nineteenth birthday started as any other, certainly as any other of the previous few weeks. I awoke, got dressed and walked to church. Following this, there was a church service; the band played Christian songs and Amare preached a word from the bible. As someone who had lived their life studying analytical, scientific material, I found it hard to buy into some of the sermons and the overall belief system of the Christian faith at first. At the time I found it to be a little too much “I know in my heart” and not enough hard evidence. But the underlying themes of kindness and love appealed to me and were amongst the better ‘self improvement’ advice pieces available.

               I once read a theorem on self-help �" a multi-million pound industry selling five minute fixes for life-long problems, in which the theorist explained that, the subject �" in order to become more confident and successful, should project themselves as “the centre of their own universe.” When I read this, I did what’s known as a mini-sick. If everyone lived in this way we’d have a planet full of selfish, blinkered idiots. We’d have people taking food from those less fortunate and smashing it into their mouths like deranged cookie monsters and all in the name of ‘self-improvement’. What kind of horrible, twisted logic is that? It’s such readings that led the young psychology geek that I was to greatly dislike self-help books or anything remotely similar. Give me Christianity any day, when adhered to properly; it manufactures much better people than the quick fix nonsense you can find in the self-help section of a book shop.

               At the end of Amare’s preaching, there was a time for notices and announcements, Rachel and Andrew got up and stood at the front to announce the news of their departure. It wasn’t a surprise to me as it wasn’t even fresh news but it still made my chest tighten and a lump form in my throat, hearing it for a second time. After the church service, somehow, I managed to get a moment alone with Rachel. It wasn’t a moment I’d contrived, it happened naturally and as a result; I wasn’t overly prepared for it. My brain �" when not being tormented by imaginary blood or projected images of Paul, had been nonstop thinking about her. Thinking about her crying on the phone, about her abusive (or not) fiancé and about how the angel now stood in front of me was poised to leave me forever.

            We stood in a quiet corner of the church, in our own little bubble. Just her and I, my heart fluttered. I felt like my whole life was just a series of paths leading to moments like this. “Stewart,” she began, her eyes were bright and her smile wide. “That food, the other night was incredible. You have to cook for us again before we go.” “Thanks” I replied, a little awkwardly. I’ve never been too adept at receiving compliments.

            I had no idea how long our moment alone together was going to last, so I asked her the question that’d been bothering me most. “Rachel,” I started with more than a hint of trepidation. “A few weeks ago now, you phoned me and you were… crying” The words trickled out, lacking confidence, lacking conviction. Her face changed and she looked around her nervously, checking our bubble was still unbroken. She leaned forward and almost in a whisper said, “Stewart, I’m sorry about that. I really am, don’t let it concern you ok, it was nothing.” The answer didn’t appease me, I don’t know why or even how but the next question blurted out of my mouth, almost unconsciously, unstoppable and tactless. “Did Andrew do something to you?”

                Rachel didn’t say anything but the look she had on her face was answer enough. It was as though I’d just performed an incredible mind-reading trick on her. Her face looked surprised and had that small amount of fear every face gets when it’s owner feels their private thoughts are being invaded. She looked as though her biggest secret had been ousted and without uttering a single syllable she’d told me everything. Before she could answer verbally our private moment was broken by the intrusion of Andrew.  

                He put his arm around her and whilst staring at me kissed her on the side of the head, something I viewed as a repulsive act of possession. “Hi Stewart” he said in the faux confidence he often carried with him. “I hear I missed out on some great food the other night.” I found myself completely sickened by him; I merely muttered “yeah” turned to Rachel and said, “Well, I’ll catch you later Rach.” I then spun and walked away. Just before I was out of earshot I heard Andrew say, “What’s up with him?” Which only repulsed me further. In hindsight, the strength of my reaction was out of context, Andrew had tried to pay me a compliment and I’d been rude to him. I’d reacted like that on a hunch that he might be a bad person, the kind of rash, supercilious behavior I’d usually abhor.  

                The problem with chronic paranoia is that whilst creating absurd �" yet completely believable delusion, it also forces you to question reality. No matter how obviously feasible something is, you find yourself questioning it’s validity, you lose faith in your brain and for days after Rachel’s silent admission of Andrews guilt, I went over it repeatedly. Trying to fathom what I really saw on her face and in her eyes when I’d asked her the question, “Did Andrew do something to you?”

            The next day I’d spent forty minutes walking at increasing speed, believing �" beyond doubt, that DI Allen was trailing me. Only to eventually calm down and find that the person behind me was an old lady with a shopping stroller, and God knows whom else had been behind me before her.

           When your brain is capable of this kind of delusion, when you feel like your mind is slipping away from you it’s easy to question yourself on the basics too. Was the fear on Rachel’s face just a slight horror at the mere suggestion of her loving fiancé hurting her? Was I looking to be her knight in shining armour and save her from something? Something that she didn’t need saving from, clutching at straws and devising a plot line that would ultimately end with her falling in love with me.

            Andrew had previous though and at times I was certain of his guilt. My mind swung from one conclusion to the other, sometimes second by second. My brain would pose me questions like; what if Andrew is actually perfect for Rachel and he can make her truly happy, isn’t that what you’d want? Rachel’s happiness was my number one priority and if moving away would provide her that, then I’d begrudgingly let her go. Then the pendulum would swing again and I’d work myself into a fury because a man that doesn’t deserve her is hurting the woman I love so passionately.

              It wasn’t until the day before Rachel and Andrew were set to leave, my mind was made up, decided by a conversation I had with Amare. The conversation we had wasn’t even about Rachel. It wasn’t about Andrew or domestic abuse or about love, simply a moment of reminiscence from Amare’s archives.

             It was a Monday, I wasn’t at work and decided to go to the church hall and help Amare clean up. Just like the first time I’d met him, he was hoovering when I got there and he stopped to make me a cup of tea. After a brief chat about the preceding day’s church service, Amare began to tell me a story of his youth in a small village, just south of Freetown, the capital of Sierra Leone. The story �" as with most of Amare’s yarns, was humorous and touching in equal measure. I loved his tales of Africa, to my comfortable first world ears they seemed almost unbelievable, as though from a different planet or a million years in the past. Hearing them from the mouth of a man living in my world and time was - and still is, fascinating to me.

           Amare’s story focused on a young man called Nicolas who was a dear friend of his. Nicolas was a sensitive young boy that wore his heart on his sleeve and was widely regarded as a weak person because of this �" such is the culture in western sub-Saharan Africa. The story went that Nicolas saved Amare from drowning in a river when the two teenagers were fishing. Nicolas had never learned to swim properly and the waters were infested with crocodiles but he jumped in without a moment’s hesitation and saved Amare from an early grave.

           Amare told the story well and his eyes always dazzled when he relived his youth but it was one segment in particular that stirred me. He concluded the story by saying, “You see Stewart, Nicolas is the bravest man I’ve ever met. Not because he will risk his life for his friends or jump in with the crocodiles.” Amare’s delivery was slow and methodical. “But because of his openness. His willingness to tell you how he feels and not be afraid to have emotions.” When he said this, I felt the hairs on the back of my neck stand up, a tingling sensation ran up my back. Finally Amare looked at me and said, “Everyone came to see that they had Nicolas wrong, he was not weak for having his heart on his sleeve… he was the best of us, the strongest of us. For it takes a great man to let people into his heart.” He stopped and looked into the mid-distance and drank his brew and we both sat in silence contemplating the story.

           I thought about the correlation, the distinct relationship between bravery and being honest about your feelings. As a species we have a deep desire to ‘fit in’ and because of this, so much of how we feel goes unspoken out of a fear that we might be the only one who feels it. Amare was right; I’d rather jump into crocodile infested waters than tell Rachel I’m in love with her. The fear that she wouldn’t say “I’m in love with you” back was far greater than the fear of being eaten alive but I had almost run out of chances. She leaves tomorrow I remember thinking to myself. If I let her go, without telling her how I feel. I could lose out on happiness because I’ve been too afraid to say anything.

            I thanked Amare for his story and after helping him clean the rest of the church, I left with one dominating thought in my mind. I have to tell Rachel I love her. I walked straight to her flat, a forty-minute walk away. The time it took to get there was spent practicing the conversation in my head. Rehearsing my lines, trying to think of her possible range of reactions and preparing myself for them.

         When I arrived at her door my whole body was shaking, nervous and full of doubt. I kept asking myself what I was doing, telling myself I was being stupid. On the other hand, I was sure she felt something for me too. The night she was crying she’d phoned me, not any of her other friends but me. There was a definite chemistry when we were in the same room together and the previous day she’d singled me out and told me with tears in her eyes, “I’ll really miss you Stewart, I love you and I’ll miss you so much.” I could tell that she meant the words “I love you” and I was about to find out to what extent.

               My heart pounding out of my chest, I rang the doorbell with the number three next to it and inhaled and exhaled, as though about to leap from a cliff with a parachute brand that only had a fifty percent success rate. An age seemed to pass and my heart sank, she wasn’t home and I felt my last chance to tell her I love her had passed. I turned and walked away, back towards the main street. I’d only gone a few steps when I heard the door behind me open, and her angelic voice say “Stewart?”

            Hearing her voice made me freeze for a moment. This is it I told myself, now or never. I took a deep, deep breath and turned to face her, her beauty causing me to lose my bottle a little bit more. “Hi Rach.” I said in an almost exasperated voice. “Stewart, are you ok?” she said cautiously, sensing the anxiety coursing through me. “I’m fine” I replied and I forced a smile, “Is Andrew home?” “No, he’s finishing up the last of his work stuff.” She smiled, I felt light headed, felt committed and the lack of control over the situation was scaring the living daylights out of me. “Can I come up for a minute?” I nodded in the direction of her flat; my voice was hushed and quiet. “There’s something I want to talk to you about.”

         My mind worked over time, looking for signals. Looking for clues as to what her reaction might be. I looked into her eyes and for a split second saw something. A flash of emotion, in that split millionth of a second something told me �" beyond doubt, that she loved me.” Her eyes became glossy as though she was welling up, as though she knew what was about to happen and she smiled at me and said, “Of course, come in.”

         Driving home for my special twenty-fourth birthday dinner, I think about the day I’d took that brave leap. I think about how it changed everything, transformed my life and led to where I am now. At the time, I was so absorbed in the moment I couldn’t think ahead any further than Rachel’s answer. There were no plans beyond the immediate; I didn’t contemplate that my life would change completely from that moment. The moment I said to her, “Rachel, I’m in love with you. Please… don’t go.”    

 

 

 

 

Reviews

[Jennie Baron]

I don't know how often or even if you still visit the Cafe, but I happened to revisit Stewart's story, and this chapter is fantastic. Just as April said, it's one of the best so far, for all the reasons she stated.

[AprilRN1210]

This is a million times better than the last chapter.. I was transported back into the story and got lost in your wonderfully detailed intimate moments and deepest thoughts. I love the way it describes the evolution of how and why he ended up where he is now. It felt more like a "story" than a concentrated block of details. There is a lot of emotion in this chapter and I admit, I love that.

ok, don't shoot me but I do have one minor thing... "I think about the day I’d took that brave leap." (... I would change that to: I think about that day I took that brave leap.)