Chapter 42: Auld Lang Syne

January 4, 1981

I dialed the phone about 12:30pm. Rita needed to know to not pick up Candice.

“Winterford residence?”

“Hi Rita. This is Steve Marshall.”

“Steve! I’m looking forward to seeing you! What’s up?”

“Some bad things, Rita. I’m OK, Angie’s OK. But, um ... look. When you’re going to pick up Jimmy and Connie, well ... Candice won’t be coming.”

“Oh, no! Is she sick?”

“I want to explain it, as much as I can, to everyone at once.”

“Oh! That sounds serious! She’s such a nice girl.”

“She is, Rita. She is.”

“Well, you take care and I’ll see you this afternoon.”

“Thanks Rita!”

“Thank you for calling me.”

We all gathered in the rumpus room, including Rita. Not Candice, not ever. And not Mel.

Angie and I stood together, holding hands. I spoke for us. “Look, everyone. I can’t explain all of this, and you’re all going to know there has to be a lot that’s not being said. But it’s not our place to say it. There’s been a, um ... problem ... and Candice isn’t coming back. Not just to study group, but to school.” There were gasps and shocked expressions, of course.

“She’s ... OK, physically, but she has some real emotional challenges, ones she’ll need help getting past. And I think you all know what the gossip mill would do when a girl vanishes with no explanation, then comes back later.” Nods, especially from the girls. “I don’t think it’s right to skirt things to this group, though. But, Angie and I know things we’ve sworn to keep private, and Candice deserves her privacy. I can’t tell you more, not now. Maybe one day. You can call her parents. I don’t know what they’ll say. Heck, it might be good if you did; the more people who they know care about Candice, the better, though I’m sure they know we all loved her. The only other thing I can say is that it’s nothing that I did, or Angie did, or anyone in this room did that caused any of this. At all. Even indirectly. It’s nothing Candice did either. She’s the victim here. That’s another reason we can’t elaborate. I know you’ll all speculate, and, like I said, it’s good to ask her parents. We just can’t say much more without violating her privacy.”

Rita spoke up first, surprising me. “So you and Candice are... ?”

“Over, yeah. I still love her. I always will. But as a couple? We’re over. I just don’t see any way we could get back together. If we did it’d be years and ... even then...” I shook my head and blinked at a tear, “ ... there’s ... I just don’t see how it’d work. In time and with God all things are possible” - and didn’t I know that better than anyone? - “but no. We’re over. Finished.”

The only way I was holding things together now — those little tears notwithstanding — was all the crying I’d done over the past couple days.

Of course there were questions, but they knew why we couldn’t answer. I hated to just point them to Candice’s parents, but the group would respect that we wouldn’t drag Candice through the mud. None of this was her fault. She deserved for her friends to remember her as she was, the smart, funny, amazing girl we knew. Not as suicidal, not as someone who’d suffered at the hands of a monster who’d warped her mind.

Once they ran out of questions, we just hung out and chatted. No one drew straws. The announcement about Candice had ruined the mood. I felt sorry for that, but I also knew we’d done the right thing.

Late in the evening, I caught up with the Wonder Twins. “Hey guys. Long time no see. How’ve you been?”

“Good.” “Good.” “Missing Emily!” “A lot!” “Happy to be back with her!”

I nodded. “Good vacation?”

“Yeah, it was really great!” “California was a blast!” “We went to Disney,” “and the San Diego Zoo,” “and Universal Studios,” “and San Luis Obispo,” “and Santa Catalina. Mel really loved Disney.” “And Santa Catalina.” “Oh yeah, she loved Santa Catalina.” “And the Zoo.” “Well, she loves animals.”

“How’s she doing?”

“I dunno.” “She does her own thing a lot now.” “She asks about group.” “The news about Candice will bum her out.” “She doesn’t confide in us as much.” “I mean, I think she’s fine, but it’s a little weird.” “It’s like she wants to come back, but she thinks we don’t want her.” “Um, not us, we, but, the group, we.” “Yeah, she knows we love her.” “Anyway, like the thing with Andy fizzed,” “Not with a bang but with a whimper,” “and now, it’s like, most of us are attached,” “except now more aren’t,” “and she feels out of place.” “She’s studying with some other girls but,” “it’s like all different ages,” “which makes no sense,” “because, what do seniors get from hanging around with freshmen, anyway?”

“Oh, and she spends a lot of time on social committee.” “Yeah that.” “We don’t see her that much.” “She’s always out or at a friend’s studying.”

“Well, say hi from me, and tell her we miss her. I mean, all of us do. And that she’s welcome to drop by anytime.”

“Cool!” “We will.” “Good idea!” “We do kind of miss her.” “I mean, we shared a womb and now, sometimes, we don’t know where she is or what she’s up to.” “It’s weird.” “Strange.”

The timing sucked, but what could we do? Towards the end of study group, we produced a cake that Angie had baked and I’d frosted. With advice from Mom, but the two of us did the work.

Everyone joined in singing ‘Happy Birthday’ to Mike. A day early, but that’s normal.

It touched him. And we needed the happy moment. There’s always room for a silver lining in the dark clouds.

January 5, 1981

Another step in the Steve — and Angie — improvement plan. Mom drove the two of us over the YMCA at 5:30 for Beginning Karate. I’d persuaded her by mentioning it was good for arms, legs, butt, etc. Her response was, “Are you saying my butt is fat?”

Fortunately, she was joking. I think. I’m alive, so I think she was.

The self-defense aspects were also a winner.

They issued us each a gi. We learned how to line up and how to perform a proper bow and how to be respectful of the instructor, our classmates, and ourselves. Our instructor — Sensei Ken, a tall, skinny, muscular college student with sandy blonde hair - stressed the defensive nature of karate. Then stressed it again. And again. And not using it to show off.

We learned a couple basic kata and Sensei Ken told us to practice them. It was going to be a long, hard road, but no pain, no gain. The first time around, I was useless in a fight. Not that I was ever in one. But this time I was going to have some idea what to do.

That and be more fit. No fat butts.

I had a lot of negative emotion to work off. Maybe this would help with that, too.

I’d already spent a lot of time crying, and I spent more on my way to sleep tonight. Crying for Candice; hoping she could recover one day. Find happiness, find love. I knew enough to know this wouldn’t be something she could ‘fix’. It would stick with her; if she could learn to manage it, live with it, minimize it, that would be a success.

And crying for myself, too. My heart ached for the lost relationship. Nowhere near what her pain must have been, but this hurt. However one compares pain, I still needed to hurt and to grieve. Part of that would be kicking myself; the missed signs, the times I’d decided to wait and see. I’d almost done that when it had truly mattered, hadn’t I?

A part of me insisted that it wouldn’t have helped; that action could have led to just as much, or more, disaster as inaction. If I’d confronted her ... what? Would she have tearfully admitted the entire sordid story? Of course not. She’d have looked at me as if I was crazy and maybe pulled away from me. Pulling away might well have meant her death. I, and Angie, were the only anchors she had.

What to do? I’d missed the signs that my wife would never be happy during our brief courtship. Once I’d understood things, I’d spent decades trying to fix what I could never fix. Now I’d missed the signs that Candice was hurting and in peril. Had I cost Candice more time trying to fix what she could fix?

How could I do better the next time? That would take a lot of thought. And I’d be crying a lot more along the way.

I’d led a comfortable life for the most part, even including the iffy-to-lousy marriage. Certainly much of the time with my wife was OK, even good; I’d just had to suffer through too many bad parts. But, we’d always had money. Not tons, but enough. Never worried about starving, never worried about being evicted, homeless. None of that.

I’d never had anyone close attempt suicide. Never known anyone that I knew had been abused, except Angie — and that was much more neglect than abuse, I thought — and she’d apparently moved past it this time. And the other time, well, I hadn’t known her, just known of her. It’s certainly possible that I’d known someone who had — but I’d never recognized it, or been told. My friends and acquaintances were mostly well-adjusted and lived their own comfortable lives. Of course I’d known people who’d gotten sick and died, some young — but they’d not been close.

Here we were in high school, a time that’s supposed to be calm and sheltered and safe, living in quiet, conservative suburbia, and my girlfriend was in the hospital wanting to die. And had very nearly succeeded at dying. Looking at the world knowing that some decisions really might be a matter of life or death was different. The stakes had just been raised — or, more, I’d become aware they’d always been higher than I’d understood.

January 6, 1981

School was back. There was no announcement school-wide about Candice, which wasn’t that big a surprise; kids moved all the time. Each teacher that we’d had together announced that Candice Matthews was moving and wouldn’t be attending Memorial anymore, and that the office had a forwarding address if anyone wanted it.

Aside from the empty seat in my classes, and of course the hole in my heart, my day was like any school day, except for my needing to retreat to a quiet place or an empty restroom occasionally to cry. Until seventh period, that is. Fortunately, I had it mostly together by seventh period.

Then, instead of heading to one side of the school for Typing, I headed to the other end for Debate. It was closer; I liked that. But the change of subject was far more important.

I knew far more about Debate, and Ms. Ames, than I should. For every funny anecdote or interesting story I could tell about any other class in High School, I had ten for Debate. It had, literally, been life-changing. I had opined many times that, while I based my livelihood on knowledge of computers, the basis for my life had been Debate. Not because of arguing, but because it’s where I re-learned my love of words, of communicating with people, of handling loss with dignity and winning with grace. Because of all the time spent in buses and cars and libraries and motels and schools with other kids at tournaments.

Study group had given me some of that. I could have gotten other parts from other extracurricular activities. But I loved it, and it had given me so much. And now, I hoped, it would give me even more, and vice versa. Not only that, but I saw ways of adding even more to my new life by finding synergy between my activities.

I timed my arrival late in the class-change period. It wasn’t a class with assigned seats. It wasn’t even a class with desks. Ms. Ames had a bunch of four-person-or-so round tables and a bunch of chairs. Find a seat, plunk your butt down. Simple as that.

But not so simple when you’re the new kid that no one knows and you have no idea if your butt is aiming for someone’s favorite chair.

I walked in with a couple of minutes to go. Twenty heads swiveled towards me.

“Ohmigawd! Steve Marshall! It’s totally you! Radical!” (OK, so I lied about the ‘no one knows’ part.)

“Hey! Janet! Great to see you, and to be here!” I walked over and hugged her. Jaws dropped.

“You got out of typing safely?”

“Yeah. They had to let me go. I out-did the infinite monkeys.”

That drew a laugh from Ms. Ames. Score! She came right over.

“Well, you certainly know how to make an entrance! Welcome to Debate, Steve. I’m Meg Ames. Call me Meg.”

‘Call me Meg’ was ... not a trap. That’s unfair. It was a test. Many things Meg Ames did were tests. That’s not a bad thing, mind you. She wasn’t trying to sneak around and hook your ankle and trip you. Nope. What Ms. Ames wanted was for you to run your brain before words came out of your mouth, but not to run your brain so much that it delayed the words too much. Call her Meg? Great. But call her Meg because you didn’t respect her? Bad idea. Call her Meg just because she told you to? Iffy. Call her Meg because you wanted to? Adequate. But call her Meg because you knew her and what she was about and were on her team? That was the goal. I knew her. I was on her team. But I couldn’t know her yet, and she didn’t know I wasn’t a one-semester dilettante. Which is perhaps even worse than a one-year dilettante — the usual kind.

Some kids come to get involved. To compete. To do the work. Spend hours researching in libraries. Read voraciously. Practice. Think. Understand. And also, to be part of a team, not just lone wolves.

Some kids come because it’s not physical, you get a lot of free time, and it’s not too hard to get an A if you show up and take part and don’t act like an asshole. Those are dilettantes. They’re useless at tournaments, they don’t mesh with the rest of the team, and they suck up resources that could go to kids who want to be there.

Being greeted warmly by Janet Collins was a free shot towards being accepted, but it was just a start. Still, it was probably the only time it’d ever happened for a new kid.

“Thanks, Ms. Ames. I’ve been trying to get into this class for a while, now. It’s a relief to be here.” I swung my backpack down and set it next to an empty seat, then went back over to her desk. I knew she had more to talk about, and I did, too.