Why Not With Me? 

Chapter 34: Neglect 

Chapter Thirty-Four: Neglect

----------------------------------------

“Look at me…

What am I supposed to be?

What am I supposed to be?

Here I am...

What am I supposed to do?

What am I supposed to do?

Here I am…

What can I do for you?

What can I do for you?

Look at me… oh please, my love.

    -From  Look at Me, by John Lennon

---------------------------------------------

I’m sitting in the living room of the loft by myself. Everything is quiet. Justin’s video games are put away and long forgotten. Gus is sleeping soundly.

I’m watching the lights and the people down below on the street. I’m watching them and thinking, is this what everyone does?

How many of them have children? How many have struggled knowing what to do with their children?

How many might have had parents like mine? A childhood like mine?

I don’t think very many people had the kind of childhood that I did. I don’t think Jack and Joanie are a dime a dozen.

Gus has more; much more than I ever did. He has Lindsey, and Mel, and even me, trying to be there for him. In a more extended way, he has Debbie, and Mikey and the Professor. His extended family of people who really do love and care about him.

Who did I have? Who was really looking out for my welfare?

I’d spoken to Dr. Stevenson about this -- or rather, answered his questions about it. Even still, it’s very difficult to think that I had no one.

As a little child -- Gus’s age, and even younger -- I remember doing so many things alone, or sometimes trying to do things with Claire. Making peanut butter and jelly for dinners. Doing homework with Claire on the kitchen table, at home by ourselves.

I remember being sick once in the middle of the night and being unable to rouse my mother or find my father. Throwing up all over the bed. Trying to wash the sheets and blankets before morning so they wouldn’t be mad at me.

I remember on the way to Parent Teacher conferences, my mother was dressed up fancy. And she was sober.

It was December. In the car she asked me what grade I was in now.

I remember getting home late one summer night when I was ten years old -- it had to have been almost eleven  o‘clock; I’d been out racing my bike. I got in and found everyone asleep or passed out. No one had realized I wasn’t home.

Once, at five. Telling Joanie that my shoes hurt for a week. Finally on Saturday when I mentioned it she yelled at me before relenting, going to the store and returning with shoes that were too big.

I once did something like what Gus did. I’d taken out Claire’s Scrabble game while she was at a sleepover, even though I’d been told not to touch her things.

Jack found me, and pulled me out by my leg from where I was hiding under Claire’s canopy bed. I remember the look in his eyes; the flush in his face. The quaver of his voice that I knew meant he was about to lose control.

I don’t  really remember what happened next, but I remember two deep purple scars across my low back the next morning.

I haven’t thought about any of this in years, if ever.

And now, I’ve seen what should have happened. I’ve done for Gus what should have been done for me.

I’ve taken the time to love my son the way he deserves to be loved.

The way that I deserved to be loved, but wasn’t.

The worst part is, it wasn’t that hard. Once I focused and regrouped, being calm was okay. I knew I was right. I know I’m in charge. Everything was fine, once my fears were eased a little.

It was a small effort that was bigger than any my parents had ever made for me.

As I’m sitting here, knowing that with those few minutes tonight, I’ve given Gus a part of what I never had, I can hardly believe it.

First, I’m okay. Just like Dr. Stevenson said and Justin said, I am not my parents. I’m someone else, someone better. Not someone perfect, but someone capable of love. And capable of becoming better.

But something else fills me, too. Something bad..

In the pit of my stomach, it’s like a queasiness. A nausea. A tightness in my chest and a pounding starting in my head.

I glance at the clock and remember that I’d promised Justin I’d call.

----------Justin’s Point of View ---------------

When Brian answers, his voice is flat and tired. I understand as he recounts his day with Gus to me.

I can hear his mild astonishment at Gus’s misbehaviors; it’s a side of Gus that neither of us have seen much of. I can hear the feeling of betrayal when he tells me of Gus’s outright disobedience.

I find myself holding my breath as he tells me about the image of his father that came to him in his anger.

I can feel so much emotion in his voice, so much fear, so much anxiety.

And I am ready to burst with pride when Brian tells me about calling Dr. Stevenson and finishing everything with Gus. I am so happy for him -- so unbelievably proud of his ability to end the cycle of abuse in his family. And of his ability to love. I wish I was there right now; I feel like making circles on the small of his back and kissing down his neck…

Instead I use words; phones are limiting that way.

“That’s wonderful, Brian. I’m proud of you,” I whisper it, I say it soft, just the way I want to touch him, but it’s not the same.

There is silence on the line for a while and I remember suddenly how hard it was before; before I moved back for good.

“What are you thinking about?” I ask after a minute.

His voice seems unfairly distant when he answers.

“Just…my parents.”

God, I wish I was there! I wish I could touch him right now. See his face. His eyes. 

“What about them?” I ask.

He sighs and I know he’s trying to tell me.

“What they did to me,” he says finally, breaking my heart.

I squinch my eyes shut against the sadness I have for him now.

I can’t say anything for a moment.

“I wish I was there,” I say, my hand gripping the phone.

I hear him breathing before he says,

“It’s okay. I’m okay.”

“I’ll be there Monday,” I offer, realizing as I say it that it seems far away.

“I’m okay, Justin,” he says, his voice louder.

“I know,” I answer, knowing that he is okay but still wishing I was there.

“Call me tomorrow,” he says.

“I will.” 

He hangs up.

----------Brian’s Point of View -----------

Right now, all I want is a glass of Jack Daniels.

I get the glass out and almost pull out the bottle before I remember the rules. I put it all back.

For a moment I think about inviting over Mikey so I wouldn’t be drinking alone.

But Mikey will want the whole story; he’ll want to know everything and there is no way I’ll be able to tell him anything, really.

I sit back against the couch and am surprised at how much I want a drink. How the urge to drink is coursing through my veins like my blood.

I take a deep breath and try to remember something Dr. Stevenson said -- something about recognizing the way I feel.

And this is a new one. I guess I’ve never left myself wanting long enough to realize…to realize how much wanting there really is.

I go get myself a glass of water and sip at it slowly. I think about calling Justin back, but I don’t know what to say. I’m sitting here, wanting to drink, so come back?  That would be ridiculous.

A lot of my mind is thinking about that damn liquor. My feet are ready to propel me back to the bottle out on the counter. My body is so ready. So primed. I swear I can almost feel it smooth down my throat, almost feel the glass, chilled from the ice, cool in my hands.

Fuck.

I shut my eyes, hating how hard this fucking is.

How much I want it. How maybe, just maybe, I need it.

I dial Justin’s number again without opening my eyes.

--------Justin’s Point of View ---------

It’s barely fifteen minutes later when he calls again.

I feel a little twinge in my stomach when I see his name on the display again.

“Hi Brian,” I answer, trying to sound as if we didn’t just hang up the phone.

“I’m not drinking,” he says quietly.

My breath stops again for a second. I am stunned. I don’t know what to say. At all.

“I’m glad,” I say when I find my voice.  His breathing sounds a little heavy over the phone.

“I want to drink,” he says, his voice like a confession.

My heart is pounding through my chest.

Why am I not there with him?

Why am I in New York? 

Why can’t I wrap my arms around him and hold him?

And what does it mean that he feels this way?

I don’t answer him for a minute and I hope he knows I’m not hanging up. I’m just trying to focus. Focus. On what Brian needs. On what Brian needs to be safe and comfortable and secure and happy.

“You won’t drink Brian, because it’s against the rules,” I say evenly.

I hear him let out a sigh of relief and I know I said the right thing.

“No, I won’t,” he says, “because it’s against the rules.”

I feel a lump in my throat. Tears are stinging my eyes.

“I want to hold you,” I tell him when I’m calmer. “Let’s do your hour.”

“Okay,” he says, his voice sounding husky.

“Go start a bubble bath,” I tell him. “And no talking.”

I hear the water running and I hear Brian’s breathing, quiet and even now.

I tell him things softly. I tell him what a wonderful father he is. What a role model he is for Gus. How proud I am of him, of his strength and of his love. I tell him he’s overcoming. That he’s triumphing. That he’s winning.

I tell him about an art piece I showed to a gallery, and how it was such a departure. How it had stunned the owner. And how I’d wanted to do that piece for a year, and only had the courage now that I was with him for good.

After about thirty minutes, I tell him to put me on speakerphone.

“I want to be there, Brian. I’d be there, holding you in my arms. Looking at your golden, tanned skin against my pale arms. I’d be kissing your hair. I’d let my right hand reach down to stroke you, soft at first. But not for long. Soon you’d be firm and hot and throbbing in my fist. Are you hard?”  He makes a noise in the affirmative.

“I’d hear those little noises in the back of your throat, and I’d be closing my fist around you -- feel you a little wet. I’d add some more lube, so I could slide both hands along your gorgeous cock, getting faster… I’d want to taste you, fuck, you always taste so good,” I say, closing my eyes and imaging it.

I hear Brian’s breath hitch a little when I say the word “taste.”

“I’d be tasting you along my tongue -- you’d be dripping right in my mouth, making me groan, Brian.” 

---------Brian’s Point of View ------------------

Right now I’m so happy for this bathtub that Justin insisted that I get installed. I’m neck-deep in hot water, touching myself, listening to Justin’s voice. If I close my eyes and ignore the slight echo against the tile, I can imagine he’s here, watching me touch myself.

Listening to him -- imagining him sucking me off. He’s a real master at it -- the way he moves his cheeks, the way he plays with the pressure of his sucking, oh god -- just thinking of it -- coupled with the sighs and heavy breathing from Justin’s end of the phone -- has me right on the edge.

“You could fuck my mouth -- god I love the feeling of you pushing into me, against my lips, and then -- when you come -- feeling that explosion of heat and sucking it all in --”

--------Justin’s Point of View -----------------

I could hear it when he came; I could hear the release of breath, of tension, leave his lungs, chased by soft moans and then I came, too.

Afterward, I kept talking to him.

“You’re okay, Brian. You were so good today. You helped Gus and you helped yourself be the best father you can be.  You’re not going to drink. We decided that already. So relax and rest. Get some sleep.”

“Okay,” he says, voice soft.

“Call me tomorrow,” I say.

“I will…Love you, Justin.”

--------Brian’s Point of View ----------

I went to bed immediately after hanging up with Justin. Laying there, I tried to remember all the things he’d said to me. Especially the part about me winning, triumphing.

The next thing I knew I was dropping Gus off at Mel and Lindsey’s. Right away Gus takes off to show Mel some pictures I took of us at the park, leaving Lindsey and me in the sitting room.

---Lindsey’s Point of View --------

Something is a little different today than most days when Brian drops Gus off. For one thing, he came inside. Furthermore, he’s sipping at a cup of coffee as if he’s not in a rush to leave.

He tells me about his weekend with Gus. At first, a little part of me is happy that Brian finally got to see the “real Gus,” not just the delightful child that he is for a couple hours on those special occasions with his father.

But then Brian’s voice changes; gets a little more deliberate, as he starts telling me about the incident with Justin’s video games. I realize why when he gets to the part about his father.

I’m shocked that he left this part of the story in; I’ve never heard him mention his father before. The story concludes quickly after that, and I have to admit being considerably impressed and very pleased with Brian’s parenting skills. I don’t dwell on it though – I’m still thinking mostly of how Brian actually brought up Jack Kinney.

Then Brian surprises me even more.

“I’ve been… thinking a lot. About when I was Gus’ age.”

I look at him  and can’t miss the slight tremble of his hand as it holds the coffee cup.  He glances down, then meets my eyes.

“It was bad, Wendy,” he says, his voice soft and somber.

Instantly my heart stops and I reach to put my hand on his knee. I feel  ained from the inside, weak all of the sudden, just hearing these words from Brian.

He’s actually here… talking about… his childhood.

His eyes are a little wet.

“I’m sorry, Peter.”

My heart is pounding so hard I can hardly hear anything else. I’ve never seen Brian look so vulnerable. He’s looking back at me, meeting my gaze.

“I want to be good to him,” he says, voice breaking.

I bring my hand to cup his cheek, brushing my thumb along his chiseled features.

“You are.”

---------------Brian’s Point of View -------------

I don’t know what on Earth compelled me to say that to Lindsey.

Now she’s got her arm around my waist and one hand in my hair.

She insists that I stay for the rest of the afternoon, and for dinner. Mel doesn’t even seem to mind too much. Gus spends a lot of time showing me every item in his room, and I even spend a little time pushing JR in their backyard swing.

All in all, it was pretty good.

That night I called Justin as he was apparently packing up his stuff for the return flight.

---------Justin’s Point of View ---------------------

Brian called and I was pleasantly surprised to hear that he’d spent the whole day at Mel and Lindsey’s.

I talk to him for a little while about the gallery owner that I met with today. He’d loved the pieces that I showed and had said that my art had taken off in an “innovative new direction.”

I’d been totally thrilled with that assessment and I could tell that Brian was proud of me, too. He told me he couldn’t wait to see the pieces again when I got back and I assured him I’d be there when he got back from his appointment.

Then, fairly out of the blue, he brings up an old topic.

“So… I helped you with those paintings?” He sounded oddly young when he said it. I’d never heard him seek reassurance in such an obvious way before.

“Yeah; it’s because of you that I can do pieces like this, Brian… It’s because I know I have your support. It’s because I have your influence, your example of how to live life by my own standards and with no regrets. That’s what enables me to paint like this. To be the artist I want to be.”

Brian doesn’t say anything for a second and I listen to his breathing, almost inaudible over the phone.

“I’m glad that I can still… help you somehow,” he says finally.

----------Brian’s Point of View -------------

I don’t know what is wrong with me today; why I can’t control the words that come out of my fucking mouth.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean… I’ve been so… needy lately. I’m glad you’re still getting something out of this. That I can still give you something.”

I hear Justin take a deep breath and I figure I’m in for a lecture.

“Brian… you’ve given me everything. You’ve given me yourself. You’ve trusted me with – with everything about you. And that’s all I need. And more than I ever imagined I could have in life. You’ve given me your love, Beautiful, and that’s everything.”

I wish he could see the tears on my cheeks right now.

-----------The Following Day, Dr. Stevenson’s office, Dr. Stevenson’s Point of View ------

Brian comes into my office, ready to discuss his weekend. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him more anxious to talk and it’s a nice change.

He quickly recaps the weekend up to the point when he called me, and then tells me proudly about how things concluded with Gus.  As usual, I’m impressed with him and how he was able to heed my advice so well.

“You handled that very well; that’s just what Gus needed you to do,” I assure him. He nods and says nothing for a little while.

“How did it feel when Gus came to you afterward and sat with you?”

Brian smiles faintly and looks for a moment out the window before answering.

“It felt… good. I mean, I felt like… I’d done what I needed to do. And he didn’t hate me.”

I was glad to hear that Brian was learning that relationships are more powerful than single events; that a loving relationship will survive a few incidents in the course of time (assuming, of course, that the events don’t constitute unending abuse).

Then he clears his throat as if to add something, but then doesn’t.

I give him a  minute, then decide to prompt him.

“What happened after that?”  Brian looks at me gratefully.

“I started thinking about… my parents. And I really wanted to drink.”

I’m awfully glad I asked, because I’m sure that these topics will prove to be very important for us.

“Okay. Let’s talk about each of those. What sort of things were you thinking about in terms of your parents?” 

“Memories.”  Yeah, I figured that.

“Memories of what sort of events?”  I ask, hoping he can be more specific.

“All sorts of things. My mother not knowing what grade I was in, for example. Or when neither of them noticed that I wasn’t home and they’d gone to bed.  Just little things, mostly.”

----------Brian’s Point of View----------

Dr. Stevenson looks up at me.

“You’re thinking about how they didn’t take any time to do even simple things for you,” he says, somehow nailing exactly what I felt.

“Yeah… I guess I always imagined that maybe parenting always took a huge amount of effort. That it was beyond their grasp to do any of it… but it isn’t. What I did for Gus. It was a little scary, but it really wasn’t that hard. And it was fast. I just can’t believe how they never --- in my whole life – could do what I did in like twenty minutes.”

I feel myself getting angry; I wonder if it shows in my voice.

“They never gave you any attention. They never spent even a small amount of effort to give you what you needed. That angers you, doesn’t it?” his voice is even and quiet compared to mine.

“Yeah, it does! I don’t see how it is… that they can do nothing for me. Nothing. I mean… forget abusing me. But…couldn’t they have cared, too? Just once?”

-----------Dr. Stevenson’s Point of View -----------

I’ve been waiting for this. Waiting for the day when Brian would let himself start to feel the amount of injustice that has been done to him. The actually criminal aspect of the abuse he’s suffered. 

I’ve wanted to see this anger because Brian has to feel it. He has to let himself see what he’s suffered and to acknowledge the horribleness of it. And the fact that he didn’t have to suffer, but he did.

He’s flushed now, and I can hear the anger in his voice, but it’s still controlled. He’s a remarkably controlled person with his emotions, and I wonder if he will ever really let the anger loose.

“It hurts to know how they neglected you. How they deprived you of what you deserved, what you needed. They left you to care for yourself when you were too young to ever do so properly. What they did to you is horrible,” I say, combining for him what he is telling me verbally and nonverbally.

He swallows hard and begins to pace from my desk to my window.

“Horrible. Yeah, it was horrible! But what good is it to say it? Nothing can change what they did,” he says, his voice louder and bitter.

He turns to me and looks me in the eye.

“It does do some good,” I say, taking his question seriously, “so you can move on. And understand. And feel.”

He’s watching me closely and he takes a few steps closer to me.

“But when does it end? Why can they do this all the way back then and I’m still dealing with it now?”

“It isn’t fair,” I say quietly and know that it isn’t enough.

“You’re damn right it isn’t fair! Fuck “not fair”! Not fair is like a fucking traffic ticket. You don’t know how hard it can be,” he says, voice low, angry and accusatory.

------------Brian’s Point of View----------------

God, he can just fucking sit there and say things like he knows. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know how it felt all those years when I was there, fending for myself. He doesn’t know how much this has done to me and Justin. He just sits there and acts like he knows what it is, but he doesn’t fucking know shit.

I don’t know that I’ve ever felt so angry before.

I look at him and wait and suddenly a tiny bit of worry crosses my mind because I have no idea what will happen now.

“No, Brian. I don’t know,” he says, his voice very soft, then turning almost gentle, “but I really want you to tell me.”’

I wasn’t quite expecting that.

“Tell me, Brian,” he says, putting his hand on my shoulder.

--------Dr. Stevenson’s Point of View ------------

He steps away from me, letting my hand fall.

I’m not surprised.

“Tell you what?” he asks, emphasizing the last word.

I smile, happy to hear his anger. His impatience.

“Tell me how it felt – how it felt when you got home at night and you realized that no one knew you were out. That no one cared to know where you were.”

He freezes when I name a specific instance. He roots himself there, his eyes fiery, his face flushed.

“Fuck – it was! It was…” He sighs. “Fuck! God, I got home, actually hoping I would be in trouble! I wanted to be in trouble,” he says, quieter at the repetition.

“You wanted to be in trouble,” I say and he nods.

“Yeah. I wanted to be in trouble! I wanted…” He turns away, his face suddenly tight.

I waited. I knew he had to say it; had to admit it.  I watch him closely. He’s still undeniably angry, but he seems troubled, too. Nervous and perhaps even embarrassed.  His hands are clenching and unclenching, chewing on his lower lip.

“I wanted to be hit,” he finally admits.

“You were hoping to be hit when you got home, and instead no one noticed that you were gone,” I say softly. “How did that feel?”

“Fuck,” he mutters, “I can’t even say. I think it was then that – that I knew. That they didn’t care at all.”

He’s stopped pacing now.

“When they hit you… you felt like at least they cared in some way what you did. When they were all asleep, you felt totally neglected,” I say, thinking of how it must have been for him. To know that being abused was seen as the only evidence of attention… my heart constricts at the thought.

I look over and he’s very near tears.

“I did. I wanted to be hit sometimes,” he says, softly. Anger gone and replaced by fragility. He looks ashamed.

-------------Brian’s Point of View----------------------

“You wanted attention the only way you could get it,” he says gently.

Is that it? Is that… why I sometimes… wanted the yelling? Why I sometimes wanted to feel the pain of Jack’s belt? Or am I… sick?

“But – but… I wanted it sometimes,” I say again, my mind feeling like it was collapsing against the realization that I did want to be hurt. That there were times in my life when I was happy when the beatings started.

Dr. Stevenson takes my hand and brings me back to his desk.

---------Dr. Stevenson’s Point of View -----------

He is looking frightened. Frightened by what he has discovered, by what he is learning about himself and his past.

I want to reassure him, I want to help him see that he’s okay. That his responses are normal, and he is going to be fine.

“Brian, you wanted attention. You wanted proof that you existed in their eyes. You wanted some… indication that they cared about you. About your actions. About your life. About your choices.”

He’s nodding his head and his eyes are now filled with tears.

“You could not get those things in any other way, Brian. You had no other choices. You did not get affection. You did not get love. If you were going to get anything, any acknowledgement of yourself as a person, it was in abuse.” 

The tears are coming down his face now.

“But – but that’s sick. To want to be hit – that’s sick,” he says, voice quavering.

“It’s what you grew up in. It’s the only thing you knew, Brian. It’s what they gave you to live in. It’s normal. You didn’t know anything else. You’re okay,” I say and he’s trying to nod.

He’s trying to get his breathing to come slower; I see him close his eyes for a moment.

“You did not know good treatment. No one had truly treated you with love. You never knew you had that option. That you could have love.” 

I say it as softly as I can, sensing what it might mean to him. He begins to cry again, walking to the window and looking down.

I go to him and rest my hand on his shoulder. He doesn’t pull away this time.

“But Brian… I go to him and rest my hand on his shoulder. He doesn’t pull away this time.

“You can have that. You deserve to have that.”

He nods his head, tears still falling. He doesn’t look at me.

“Do you think you have that?” I ask and I can see his muscles relax a little.

He nods slowly.

“Say it,” I encourage.

“I have it now,” he says after a moment’s hesitation.

“Say, “I have love now.”

Brian sighs and turns toward me quickly, then back out the window.

“I have love now.”

I smile at him and he smiles back.

“Okay. Tell me a little bit about what you have with Justin. Tell me about his reactions, his attention.”

-----Brian’s Point of View --------

I draw my lips into my mouth and take a slow breath. I don’t know where to begin.

“He… seems to pay attention to everything,” I say.

“It seems that way to me, too,” he says in agreement. I’m a little surprised that he’s giving his view.

“Do you ever look forward to his anger? Do you ever want him to abuse you?”

I feel like my heart is beating twice as hard now.

“No – no, of course not.”

“What do you want from him?”

------Dr. Stevenson’s Point of View ---------

“I want to know that he cares,” Brian says slowly, carefully choosing his words.

He’s watching me with caution, wondering what I will say next.

“How does he show you that?”

He takes a deep breath and his eyes are distant.

“He… does a lot of things. He listens. He… asks me things. He is just… always there,” he says, returning his focus to me.

“And how does that? What does he do?”

He sends me an annoyed look for pressing him.

“He…takes care of me. He’s… gentle with me.”

I nod and try not to let my delight at his answer show.

“That is what you want, Brian. You’re okay. You would never choose your parents’ abuse over Justin’s care, would you?”

He grimaces at the thought.

“Fuck no,” he says emphatically.  I nod and he nods back, and I know he understands what I’m trying to say.

He pauses for a long moment and takes a deep breath.

“I didn’t mean to be so angry before,” he says, calmly looking over at me.

----------Brian’s Point of View -----------

He turns to me, his face serious.

“The anger is good, Brian. Don’t back down from it. You need it – we need it, to understand this better. You need to feel that. You have a lot to be angry about. You deserve to finally let yourself be angry,” he says with a serious tone.

“But I shouldn’t have… you never did anything to me,” I say, feeling like I ought to explain myself.

He shakes his head firmly.

“No, Brian. I was happy to see your anger. And it’s safe here to feel like that. It’s good.”

Good? He wants me to be angry here, even though he’s done nothing but help me through all of this?

“But you’ve been helping me,” I try again.

“Letting you be angry is another way I can help,” he says and smiles at me.

-------Dr. Stevenson’s Point of View-----------

Brian is quiet for a little while, thinking.

“I don’t think it’s over, either. But it’s alright, Brian. You’re going to be alright.”

Brian looks at me for a moment, blinks a few times and smiles at me.