Tripping on Tears (10 page)

“I consider the psychic question to be infinitely the most important thing in the world. All modern inventions and discoveries will sink into insignificance besides those psychic facts which will force themselves within a few years upon the universal human mind.”

“Spiritualism is nothing more or less than mental intoxication; intoxication of any sort when it becomes a habit is injurious to the body, but intoxicating of the mind is always fatal to the mind.”

I stared at these two quotes on my desk. The first was from Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and the second from Harry Houdini. They were two quotes that inspired me regarding the topic I was writing about.

The fact that Conan Doyle had embraced Spiritualism fascinated me; especially considering his literary invention, Sherlock Holmes, was so practical and logical. Everything could be proven with concrete evidence – this type of evidence didn’t exist in the spiritual world.

Doyle first applied to join the Society of Psychical Research, a committee of academics seriously studying Spiritualism in 1893, after the death of his father, and very shortly after that his wife, who had been diagnosed with tuberculosis, was given only months to live. Both events placed the author into a deep depression. In the long run, his first wife, Louisa held on until 1906 before succumbing to her affliction. It seemed tragedy was never far from Conan Doyle, however, as his son Kingsley died in World War I, followed quickly after the war by the death of his brother Innes, two brother-in-laws and two nephews. Conan Doyle, who had killed off Sherlock Holmes in 1893, so that he could focus on more serious concerns, although in later years he did bring back the detective a few times for more adventures, had dedicated the later part of his life in support of Spiritualism.

It was not uncommon during the times in which Conan Doyle lived for individuals to grasp on to something like Spiritualism as a way of trying to make heads or tails out of the losses in their lives. Times of war, like World War I are often a boom time for Spiritualism. At these times, death is not uncommon and those who survive are looking for answers and comfort. Spiritualism thrived during the 19
th
Century in America especially during and after the American Civil War. The amount of death during that conflict was unprecedented. Spiritual photography also blossomed at that time, in which individuals would pose for a photo and when it was developed there would be the image of the deceased loved one over one of their shoulders as if they were looking down on them – a guardian angel. Photography was still in its infancy, although those who practiced it did know a thing or two about double exposures, and used this technique to take advantage of those in a grieving state. I believe there is even a famous photo of Mary Todd Lincoln in mourning wear with the ghostly image of her husband, Abraham Lincoln, looking down on her – comforting her by being with her even in death.

So it’s easy to see why Conan Doyle embraced Spiritualism; it gave him hope, namely that those loved ones who were gone, were in fact, not gone, but still out there somewhere, with the possibility of them all being reunited at some point in the future. With my parents gone, I also wished to believe the same. The thought that one day we might be reunited comforted me.

“I am willing to be convinced; my mind is open, but the proof must be such as to leave no vestige of doubt that what is claimed to be done is accomplished only through or by supernatural power.”

Houdini was willing to be open to the idea that the afterlife existed, but didn’t believe anyone on Earth had communicated with it. Houdini was a bit of a Mama’s boy and when his beloved mother died in 1913 he had set about trying to make contact with her through a series of séances. Along the way, the various tricks these psychics tried to use to fool him that they were in fact in touch with the spirit of his Mother angered him, so much so that he made it his life’s mission to expose fraudulent mediums, and even wanted a law passed to have them jailed for their actions. He was both an escape artist and an illusionist, so he knew all the tricks, and whenever he went to a new town, he’d set up a meeting with the local medium or mediums and expose them. He wrote two books on the matter, two of my most prized possessions, and some believe that the punch that eventually led to his death of peritonitis from a ruptured appendix, believe it or not, on Halloween in a Michigan hospital, was not an innocent punch by a Canadian student in Ottawa, but a punch by a man who was hired by psychics and mediums to take care of Houdini for them. It was believed there was a bounty on his head.

Although Houdini didn’t anticipate dying as young as he did, he and his wife Bess had set up a secret code, known only by them, for Bess to use after his death; a séance was held every year on Halloween with the express purpose of getting in touch with the spirit of Houdini. It was believed that if anyone could escape the confines of death, it would be the escape artist himself. Bess died in 1943, never having made contact with Houdini, and while the code they used is now known, it was never told to Bess by a medium during her lifetime, in all the numerous attempts to make contact with Houdini.

This was the world I was immersed in when I was not on the phone talking to Safia. Thank God for cell phones; obviously I couldn’t phone her at home on her parent’s land line. I called her cell phone and we often burned up the minutes, talking into the wee hours every night. I assume she did so someplace in the home where her parents couldn’t hear her, as they’d no doubt wonder who she was talking to on a nightly basis.

Safia was distracting me from my book, or at least slowing me down, but at the same time I realized there might be a connection between our circumstances and what I was really writing about. Sure I was writing about a friendship that turned to anger based on two men’s staunch beliefs. It was the quote from Houdini, the one about the intoxication of the mind being fatal that really stuck in my mind.

Houdini and Conan Doyle were talking about Spiritualism; and although we don’t see it as such today, Spiritualism in its day was something of a religion. It was enough of a belief that it ruined their friendship. Both men developed a passion for something, Conan Doyle for Spiritualism and Houdini for the debunking of all psychics and mediums – the destruction of the Spiritualism movement. That passion in both of their minds was in fact the intoxication that took something good and pleasant and turned it into animosity. The intoxication of both their minds was fatal to their friendship.

This in many ways was the same for those today who blindly believed in a specific religion. A blind belief in anything can’t be good for anyone; a blind belief in religion forces you to see the world in black and white, however, the world isn’t black and white, but filled with many shades of grey, some of them good and some of them bad. Life was fluid and couldn’t be controlled, but isn’t that what many of these people try to do with their die-hard beliefs - control it? Now, I’m not just talking about the Muslim religion here, but others as well; any religion where someone takes it to heart so much so that they forget life is more than their beliefs and they shouldn’t view it through such a narrow window.

When it comes to Conan Doyle and Houdini, I have to side with Houdini. Intoxication of the mind is fatal; a blind belief in anything is wrong; whether we like it or not, life changes, times change, and people change. We don’t think and act like people in the 19
th
or 18
th
Century, because we have evolved. We’ve enlightened ourselves and grown to appreciate the world around us and its new expectations of us. I can’t say any religion is right or wrong – I don’t know, but to have such a blind belief in one religion it would allow you to turn your back on family, well, that’s not right. And, yes, I know a big part of it is cultural and not religious in many cases, but let’s face it, the lines have blurred and even if you make that argument, the religious belief is always there, close by, a part of it all.

I know I said I was just going to forget it all and go with the relationship – try and stay out of my head; for the most part I have, but I’m still me, and whether I like it or not, sometimes the wheels start turning and I can’t do anything to stop them. In the case of what I was writing, a friendship died because two men were unwilling to appreciate the fact, and respect the fact, that they held different beliefs. Houdini didn’t believe in Spiritualism but Conan Doyle did; and if believing it brought Conan Doyle comfort in his old age, what was the harm in letting him believe? Houdini may have proved a lot of psychics and mediums to be frauds, but who is to say they all were; that what Conan Doyle believed in wasn’t real? Usually in life, nothing is one hundred percent one way or the other, so there was a possibility that while many mediums were frauds, there were a few out there who weren’t. Mathematically, it’s possible.

What Safia’s parents believed in threatened to destroy something real and great between the two of us. Rather than everyone getting along, chances are it would drive a wedge between all of us – a belief creating more harm than good.

As I said, life can be funny; I’d started out writing something, unaware that I was going to meet a woman and that the circumstances of our relationship were going to change my perspective, or at least open my eyes to a new way of looking at my source material and what it all meant. In many ways, not only had I found someone to love, but I had inadvertently discovered a muse.

I’d discovered a muse and she paid the price for it.

Safia was in trouble.

CHAPTER
Nine

I
Really
hadn’t expected Safia to say anything to her parents for quite some time. I knew she didn’t like lying to them, but at the same time, telling them about me wasn’t exactly going to be easy or make her life any easier. I guess she just felt it was something she should do, and secretly hoped that despite their beliefs; in the long run they’d support her.

It was later in the evening and I was working on my book when the call came in. I immediately knew something was wrong; she sounded upset, like she’d been crying. She’d taken refuge in a donut shop; it sounded bad. I also knew that whatever pain or misery she was in at this time was because of me. It wasn’t supposed to be that way.

I, of course, dropped everything and raced to her. I didn’t know what to say to her – she was here because of me. I took a few seconds outside the donut shop to stop and look in the window. She was sitting at a corner table, nursing a drink, I assumed tea as she wasn’t much of a coffee drinker – how’s that irony for you? Tucked under the table was one small suitcase. It didn’t take Sherlock Holmes to figure out how her talk with her parents had gone.

Safia looked deep in thought, no doubt reliving over and over again the events of that evening’s conversation. She was lost in her own world, and hadn’t really been looking out for me. Just looking in the window at her, I could see the hurt on her face. Tonight her entire life had been turned upside down. Deep down in my gut I hurt; just looking at her, seeing what I had caused, it was hard to take; I loved this woman, how could that possibly translate into such pain? Why should it? And, yes, I know, I said ‘I loved this woman,’ no hedging my bets anymore by saying ‘I think I could fall in love with this woman.’ It was official and I was finally not afraid to say so, I loved Safia. It just took me causing her great pain and my reaction in seeing her that way, to truly drive it home to myself. As I took those moments outside the donut shop, I knew I never wanted to see her like this ever again. She deserved happiness – to be happy. She deserved a lot, possibly more than me, so whether I could or couldn’t, I now had to rise to the occasion and become the man who could give that to her. She deserved nothing less.

As I approached her table, Safia attempted a small smile, just for my benefit, but it couldn’t hide the hurt in her eyes. I smiled back reassuringly, but knew it lacked impact.

“Are you okay?” I asked. I didn’t know what to say or where to start. I knew she wasn’t okay, but I also didn’t know where she was emotionally. She had spoken with her parents about me and our relationship, and now, now that the hammer had dropped and her worst fears had been realized, had she been sitting here rethinking us and our relationship? Had it crossed her mind that maybe I wasn’t worth what she was putting herself through? Had I been a mistake?

“I...,” she started to say, but stopped. I sensed she just wanted to break down and cry; let it all out, probably again. Seeing how we were in a very public place, however, she was trying desperately to maintain control.

“Do you want to get out of here?” I asked.

She shook her head, ‘No.’

We sat there in silence. I was smart enough to know that I shouldn’t push her; she’d talk when she was damn good and ready, or she just wouldn’t talk. Either way, my job was just to be there.

“It was bad,” she finally managed to say. “They just wouldn’t listen. I’d never seen my father like that. He scared me. He got so angry; I didn’t know what he might be capable of.”

I wanted to say something, but didn’t. It sounded like things had gotten a little worst than even I expected. I wasn’t quite sure what she meant when she said she didn’t know what he might be capable of, and really didn’t want to push her to elaborate. I got the sense that based on this conversation with her parents; she had witnessed a side to them she’d never experienced before – a shocking side that unnerved her.

“And my brother and sister,” she continued, “They said nothing. They were there. They could have supported me; intervened, but they said nothing. It was unreal; even in the middle of it all; I took a moment, and couldn’t believe this was my family, this was us; that this could possibly be happening.”

“I’m sorry, Safia,” I said.

I didn’t know what else to say. She was still lost in her head; even as she spoke with me, telling me what little she did, I could see that in another part of her mind, she was reliving the scene at her home over and over again. She was in pain.

“Safia,” I said, reaching across the table and taking her two hands into mine. “I meant everything I said.”

She snapped a bit out of her thoughts and looked at me.

“This isn’t the right time to say it, not officially for the first time, but...well...I love you. I meant what I said; you have a home with me. You’re not alone. I love you.”

Nothing about this relationship was normal. While we had danced around the concept of love in the past, the first time you tell a woman you love her shouldn’t be because of an incident like what Safia had gone through tonight. It should be a wonderful, tender moment, with the two of you happy; it should be told to her under the moonlight while walking along the Lakeshore, not in some donut shop with her upset and a suitcase tucked under the table. It was all wrong, but for us, I guess, it was all right; the way it had to be.

“Can we go to your place?” she asked.

“Not my place,” I corrected her, “our place. Home.”

Once again she tried to work up a small smile; it did its best to cut through the hurt, but failed; it was time to go home.

That first night with Safia was tough. There’s something about seeing someone you love in pain, and not being able to do anything about it, that really cuts you to the core. You want to find those magic words that once you utter them they’d take the hurt away. They just don’t exist.

When we first arrived home, Safia seemed tentative – uncomfortable. We sat down at the kitchen table and I made a pot of tea. Slowly she began to tell me about her evening; her parent’s reaction to me. It had gotten pretty ugly between them, a lot being said. It all had ended with her Father kicking her out of her family home; she said she’d just barely been able to throw together some clothes; he had intended to just send her packing with the clothes on her back. These kinds of strong sentiments had never reared their ugly heads before in her family dynamic. It had been shocking and surprising, which might have also accounted for her sister and brother’s silence. I’m sure they didn’t know what to make of it all. What they thought was just going to be another evening together had suddenly turned into, for lack of a better description, a shit storm.

As the evening progressed, Safia lightened up; the initial shock of what had gone on between her and her parents settling in her mind; she was still hurting, but not as badly as she was earlier. I assumed she was starting to accept what had happened.

Safia had gone out on a limb; let’s face it, even though I had told her we could move in together and I wanted to, she had no idea if I was truly sincere. I could just be saying that and when push came to shove I could have very easily changed my mind and walked away. And then where would she have been? Homeless? Alone? She took a big chance, and I’m sure part of what had been weighing heavily on her mind in the donut shop, besides the events of the evening, was seeing me and seeing if I had truly meant what I had said. She had turned to me, but wasn’t sure if I’d rise to the occasion or let her down. The weight of the world and more must have been resting on her shoulders in that donut shop. Now that we were home, she could relax a little bit and talk about what had happened. I’d come through for her. I knew I would, but I’m sure she had her own personal doubts and fears in that regard.

As the evening progressed, I even managed to make her laugh from time to time. The hurt was still there in her eyes, but not as strong as it had been. I’d caused this woman so much pain and it broke my heart. To see her smile again; to hear her laugh, offered me hope that the damage to her being could be repaired.

Safia and I sat at the kitchen table into the wee hours of the morning. We talked and talked; and we finally got around to talking about that one thing that all couples eventually address – sex.

Based on the events of the evening, sex was the last thing on my mind. I never expected the evening would lead to the two of us in bed together; actually, there was no way it could, as I wouldn’t allow it. To make love to Safia that night would be the equivalent of taking advantage of her. In the back of my mind, I’d always believed that I had preyed upon her – using her hurt and distress to get her into bed. It wouldn’t be right – definitely not for our first time.

Obviously, being at my place, she wasn’t sure what I expected. Maybe she thought that if she was going to be staying with me, it would be expected; the price of admission so to speak. For some men it probably would be.

“If I’m going to be staying here with you, I...”

She seemed hesitant. I’m sure she wasn’t sure that what she was about to say was going to change her circumstances and maybe get her kicked out of a second home on this night.

“...well...I’m not ready yet for a physical relationship; I can’t sleep with you. Not yet.”

She was looking at me, desperately trying to gauge my thoughts; trying to determine if she had just lost a place to stay. I smiled.

“I have a guest room. It’s all yours,” I said.

Once again, and probably for the second time that night, the weight of the world left her shoulders and she relaxed a bit more.

“It’s not that I don’t want to, it’s just that...”

I stopped her there.

“There’s no need to explain anything,” I interrupted, “more tea?”

She nodded her head and I got up and refilled both our mugs.

“We’ve never actually talked about this,” I said, as I sat back down, “but, have you ever been with a man? Are you a virgin?”

I’d taken her by surprise. She looked at me, a smile crossing her face.

“You were hoping for a virgin, is that it?”

“No, it’s just that, I don’t know, based on your culture and what not; your strict parents, I assume you really haven’t dated a lot before.”

“I imagine my being a virgin would be one of the selling points if I were to get into an arranged marriage,” she said.

I just looked at her; she wasn’t answering the question.

“No, I’m not a virgin,” she finally said. “Does that bother you?”

“Of course not.”

“How about you?” she asked with a smile.

“No, I can safely say that ship has sailed.”

“How many partners?” she asked.

“Let’s see. About seven or eight, I believe.”

“Seven or eight? You don’t know?”

“I’ve never kept count. Shall I go into the bedroom and count the notches on my headboard?” I asked.

“I thought all guys kept count.”

“A lot do. I don’t know, I was never in it for the sex. Don’t get me wrong the sex was important, but that was never my ultimate goal. I was never the type to just jump into bed with anyone. A few of my friends thought I was weird. I remember one party I was at, around the corner from my friend’s apartment. There was this girl there and she was obviously into me, but although she was nice, I really wasn’t that into her. My buddy, seeing how she was acting offered me the keys to his apartment; he figured I had an easy conquest. You should have seen the look on his face when I turned him down. If I had taken that girl to his place to sleep with her, I would have been just doing so to have sex, or add another notch to my belt. I really wasn’t interested in her, and had no desire to pursue a relationship with her, so it would just be a case of using her for some personal pleasure and then never speaking with her again. I’m sure that wouldn’t be what she was expecting if she came back to that apartment with me. She’d take it as a sign of interest, and then when she discovered the truth, would probably hate herself for sleeping with me. I don’t know where this came from. I guess it was how my Father taught me to be with women. I’m just not looking for a good time, and grabbing it whenever it presents itself.”

“Really?” she said.

“Don’t get me wrong, I’ve thought back to some of those times and kicked myself for not being a horndog. No one wants to be a Boy Scout, they’re boring. Nonetheless, that’s who I am, I guess.”

“What about your first time?” she asked.

“You really want to know?”

She nodded her head, ‘Yes.’

“It’s not that impressive,” I offered.

“You didn’t rock her world?”

I laughed. “To rock someone’s world you really have to know what you were doing. I didn’t. It was when I was a senior in high school. It was a girl I had met at a school dance. A slow song was playing so I asked her dance. When it finished a fast song started up, and that’s when I used my move...”

“You have a move?” she asked, smiling.

“...I do. You see, I can’t fast dance; always thought I looked silly trying to do so, so I also tried to avoid it whenever possible. So when that slow dance turned to a fast dance, and she moved to do that, I grabbed her and continued dancing slow. When she asked me what I was doing, I just explained to her that I didn’t want to stop holding her. Sure, she’s somewhat embarrassed that we’re the only two on the dance floor dancing slow, but that line always melted them; worked every time.”