Past Reflections

It was a foggy October morning when Johnny picked me up for a long weekend getaway to his family’s lake house on Governor’s Island on Lake Winnipesaukee. He had been looking forward to this trip all month long and perfectly planned every detail as if his life depended on it.

As I waited outside my dilapidated Boston apartment, I imagined myself as a cute, perky girlfriend, excited for her boyfriend to pick her up in his pristine, vintage car. But in reality, I am the girlfriend that has bags under her eyes from a lack of sleep, nails bitten down to nubs to cope with past trauma, and a tattered duffle bag filled with nothing but a few t-shirts. Johnny has offered to buy me Luis Vuitton luggage like his for trips like these, but I always decline. Besides, it’s technically his parents’ cash anyway. Got to love old New England money.

When Johnny pulls up to my building, I imagine running away to someplace no one can ever find me. But to abandon the only person who has ever loved me seems cruel, so instead I stand and half-heartedly smile as he gets out of his car.

“I think this trip is going to be really good for us. It will help us get back on track.” Johnny says as he grabs my duffle bag to put in the car.

“Uh huh,” I say, dismissing him.

“Things were always so good for us, and I know certain events have led to you needing some space. I get that, I really do. But I want us to go back to the way things used to be, the good ol’ days.”

“The good ol’ days? What a load of shit.”

“Lena, we were happy together until you found out…”

“Stop,” I yell, cutting him off. “I know we are both stuck in the past, but you choose to live there, while I’m forced to live there. I am sick of my past defining me, defining us... I want a fresh start, a new beginning,” I cry out. Johnny shakes off his initial shock and then gives me a contemplative look. He apologizes before opening the car door for me. Chivalry isn’t dead yet it seems.

Johnny has always romanticized the past. To him, it means fond memories of pumpkin patches and apple orchards. It means carving jack-o-lanterns and then watching with glee has they glow on Halloween night. It means bobbing for apples and laughing hysterically as family members stick their whole head in a bucket of water. It means actually getting gifts on Christmas morning.

Sometimes it seems as though Johnny permanently lives in the past. He wears vintage sweaters and drives vintage cars. When eating dinner, he always wears a blazer and avoids controversial conversation topics. And he still prefers the slow, thoughtful process of hand writing letters to the fast, meaningless exchange of emails and text messages. Maybe that’s what led to our first date over two years ago—a shared obsession with the past. The only difference is that I don’t wear rose-colored glasses.

Driving down the country road, I stare out the window at the orange leaves. Tom Petty plays on the radio. Johnny moves past our initial conversation and sings the lyrics to “Free Falling” so passionately that he almost fools me into thinking this weekend is going to be fun.

“I’m so happy we can get away for a few days,” he says.

“Me too,” I lie.

“How has your last month been?”

“Fine.”

“I missed you.”

I say nothing.

“The weather is supposed to be gorgeous this weekend,” he says to break the silence.

“That’s great.”

After an hour of idle chatting and classic rock radio, we drive up the long paved road to the lake house entrance. Johnny comes from money, and this house certainly screams money. I can’t help but feel slightly resentful at how lavish it all is. Nestled between the trees, it has all the charm of the cabin in “On Golden Pond” with all the square footage of Buckingham Palace. I suppose I should be happy that I also have access to such luxury now. Two years ago, I was a waitress making less than minimum wage. As a child I never knew when my next meal was. Now I’m casually vacationing in a multi-million dollar vacation home. I watch the lake waves glisten in the distance and suddenly feel like a fish out of water. I bite my nails.

“Lena, that’s such a bad habit. You have no need to feel anxious here. Why don’t you go get ready for dinner.”

“I didn’t bring anything else to wear.” He looks me up and down, assessing if my faded jeans and oversized sweatshirt fit the occasion.

“I’ve been thinking a lot about what you’ve said, and I was hoping to make this more of a special occasion dinner. My mother actually has some old clothes in the master closet you could wear. ” I failed his visual test. I pick out a cashmere sweater, plaid skirt and leather-riding boots from a closet as big as my studio apartment.

The sun sets quickly here in October. It is already pitch black by 7 pm. The weekend leading into Columbus Day is usually a little late in the season for lake goers, so we have the whole lake to ourselves. Johnny is prepping dinner while I stand outside with a glass of wine. I take a sip, trying my best to forget about recent events. Suddenly, I hear a cracking sound in the woods. I look over and see a very ominous figure behind a tree. Panic overtakes me and I scream.

“What’s wrong? Is everything okay?” Johnny yells as he comes running outside.

“There’s a man in the woods,” I say, voice shaking.

“Where?”

“Right there.” I point to the tree.

“No one is there,” he says.

“He was just here!”

“You must have seen a deer.”

“It wasn’t a fucking deer!” He stares at me blankly and chooses not to acknowledge my outburst.

“Why don’t you come inside and keep me company while I get the lobsters boiling. I really want tonight to be special. For us.”

As I pour my third glass of wine, Johnny begins chopping vegetables for some fancy salad with some fancy name. I notice how sharp the knife is, effortlessly slicing an onion into little tiny bits.

“I want you to know that I’m always here for you.” He abruptly begins. “And I want you to know that you can always talk to me about what’s going on in your life right now. I know you don’t like to talk about your dad, but it’s got to be tough to watch him get released from prison after what he did…” He trails off. Or maybe I just stopped listening. I have a flash memory of my dad’s boots walking by as I hide from him under my bed. I curl up as small as a six-year-old possibly can and pray he gives up the search.

“Drop it,” I say as I snap back to reality.

“Lena, you have been holed up in your apartment for weeks after learning about his release.”

“I just needed some time to think,” I say as I walk towards the window. As I gaze out at the trees, I see the same shadowy figure of a man and shriek, dropping my wine glass in the process. It shatters like a crushed soul.

“Lena, are you okay?”

“It’s him! I know it’s him! He’s found me and he’s followed me here,” I cry out.

“Whose followed you here?”

“My dad, he’s found me!”

“Lena...”

“Don’t look at me like that! I can’t explain it but I know he’s here.” I become hysterical.

“Lena, your dad is in Florida now. There’s no way he knows you’re here.” Johnny’s attempt to console me only makes me more frustrated. I run out the door towards the lake with a fantasy of swimming far, far away.

As I watch the water glisten under the moonlight, I tell myself that Johnny is right, and that there’s no way my dad would know I’m here. I close my eyes and try to imagine a better future, but past memories creep in. I think about all the times my dad got violent, beating my mom and then me. I remember all the times I would hide, and how he always seemed to find me. I remember the one time I finally found the perfect hiding spot. I was tucked so tightly under my bed that I was invisible to his quick glance under the bed skirt. I remember the sound of his boots walking away after giving up the search for me. I remember the sound of him beating my mom so bad that I no longer had a mom anymore…

As I continue walking farther down memory lane, I feel the smallest breath of air on the back of my neck causing my hair to stand up straight. When I open my eyes, I look at the water and see his reflection standing directly behind me.

I run as fast as I can towards the house, grabbing the knife from the kitchen and running to the master bedroom. I crawl under the bed and curl up as tight as I can, just like I did 25 years ago. I close my eyes and hold my breath wondering how something so awful could still happen in such a highfalutin place, but all the cashmere and pearls in the world can’t save you in the end.

I hear the door open slowly, and then the sound of heavy, deliberate steps on the creaky hardwood floors. Suddenly the footsteps stop, and I open my eyes to see a pale hand pull up the bed skirt. I take the knife and stab the hand straight to the bone, making him fall backwards onto the floor. As I crawl out from under the bed, I grab the knife and continue to stab him over and over again. When I finally grow exhausted from the constant motion, I look down and scream. It wasn’t my dad lying in a pool of blood on the floor. It was Johnny.

I walk into the kitchen in a state of shock. I feel hopeless and tormented and numb and… present. I notice a letter sitting on the mahogany table addressed to me. It reads:

Dear Lena,

I know the past has come back to haunt you, and I know I don’t always help make the situation better, but I love you very much and want to be better. I was thinking about what you said earlier, and you are right. It’s time we finally live for the future, our future.

To new beginnings,

Johnny