Chapter 8
The Star is a good omen for healing; it represents hope and faith in the future.
CAL
Iam too wired to sleep after talking to Laura, so Marci makes a large pot of coffee and a pan of cream cheese brownies.
We stay up most of the night reminiscing. One of the great things about having long-term friendships is the trust level that develops when you face difficult times together. We have seen each other through some tough times with compassion and devotion and so I take no offence when Marci sits me down for a serious conversation.
“You know I love you dearly and will do anything for you. I’d give you a kidney, a lung, and half a liver.” She takes my hand, “What I’m about to say isn’t easy to hear.
“Jim and Gwen called me today. They, we, have some real concerns about your mental health with all the stress you’ve been under in the last few days. Jim told me about your meltdown in his office.”
I started to protest that I was fine. But I’m not. And I know it. So, I shut up and listen.
“Six years ago, we watched you disintegrate mentally, physically, and emotionally over Paul’s betrayal. We didn’t intervene soon enough, and we almost lost you because we did not realize how sick you were. You had a mental break then and it looks like you might be heading for another one now, sweetie.”
She’s right. I was out of control in Jim’s office. I threw things and broke the glass in one of Jim’s diplomas hanging on the wall. Over Paul. Again.
Then the way I felt today, the sudden attraction to the detective that came out of left field. And what’s with the missing cup? Why was the detective so interested in coffee cups?
“I feel like my life went from grounded to chaos in a matter of days. I am a suspect in Paul’s murder. If even a whiff of that gets out to the news media or the college my reputation is destroyed.
“Everything is spinning out of control and I can’t stop it. Just like before.”
Marci had literally saved my life then. Well, Marci and Jimmy did. Even though Jimmy was already dead at the time.
When I met Paul, I was recovering from a divorce from a well-known minister of a thriving church in metro-Atlanta. John, my first husband, wanted a very submissive “helpmeet.” I was anything but that. I was not meek, silent, or a helpmeet. I was outspoken, irreverent, and according to John, an apostate. I earned that worthy moniker when I came home with a deck of Tarot cards. John ripped them up, burned them in the fireplace, and forbade me to bring any more Satanic devices into our home.
I packed a suitcase and moved out. As I walked out the door, I not only left my husband, but I left his God.
Paul was a breath of fresh air. He had a great sense of humor and most importantly, he did not have a spiritual bone in his body. It didn’t hurt that he was devastatingly handsome and sexy (although Marci thought otherwise).
“What do you see in that little turd? He’s never gonna marry you, you know. He’s a player.”
Marci was wrong. We did marry.
Marci was right. He was a player.
There were many signs and red flags over the years that I ignored. When I returned from an out-of-town book tour and found a black thong in our bed, I confronted Paul. He said it was mine. I’ve never worn butt floss and the last time I was a size small was in the fourth grade. I moved out and filed for divorce. I felt like a failure as a woman, a psychologist, and feminist.
For the first time in my life, I could not find the answers in the traditional psychotherapy I had practiced and taught for decades. I took a three-month long sabbatical from teaching. A week into the sabbatical, at my lowest and most desperate point, I wrote letters to the people I hold dearest and swallowed a handful of sleeping pills.
What happened next is nothing short of a miracle. Maybe not the caliber of the Virgin Birth, but a bona fide miracle, nonetheless.
About the time I swallowed the pills, Marci was awakened in her bedroom by a bright light. It was just a momentary flash, but it scared her. But that wasn’t the scariest thing. She heard a voice call her name. “Marci.” It sounded like Jimmy’s voice, but her husband had died the year before in the line of duty as an Atlanta City police officer.
Marci jumped out of bed and turned on all the lights in the house. She checked the doors. All were locked and chained.
She sat on the living room sofa in her robe and slippers, shaking, trying to make sense of what had happened. “Marci, call Cal.” It was Jimmy’s voice.
Still shaking, she dialed my number. Passed out in my bed in a drug-induced coma, I obviously didn’t answer. She dialed three times more, grabbed her car keys, and raced to my house. When I didn’t answer the door, she broke a window to unlock it.
She found me sprawled on the bed, unconscious. According to Marci, my breathing was shallow, and my pulse was thready. She took note of the pill bottle and a stack of letters on the nightstand. She opened the one on top addressed to her, scanned it, and called 911. Then she called Jim and Gwen.
Tonight, Marci gently takes my face in her hands and says, “Honey, I don’t want a repeat of that night when you tried to…you know.”
“You don’t have to worry.”
I don’t really know what happened that night. Maybe the veil between the afterlife and this life was pierced in some miraculous way. Or maybe Marci imagined the light and the voice. I just know that since then I have a renewed sense of purpose and have developed a deep and meaningful spiritual practice.
Marci and I finally climb into bed around 5 a.m., hoping to catch a few hours’ sleep before my attorney arrives to prep me for the interrogation.
Before she turns out the light she says, “You’ve got a choice. You can either give up or rise up.”
As I listen to Marci’s sweet little puffy snoring, I pray for the strength to rise up. Because it feels like I’m sliding headlong into the black hole once more.