Author: Daydreamer
Posted: 3 July 2004

In the Eye

I'm pacing. I've been pacing for hours. I can't believe I'm trapped here in this hotel room, trapped in this city. I can't believe Simon actually put a police guard on me! I've been wondering for the past few hours what exactly would happen if I insisted on leaving. Would he really arrest me? There's no charge they could lay on me that would actually stick. Not wanting to discuss the past with your son is not a crime. Nor is trying to live in the present. I toy briefly with the idea of being arrested, think about all the lawyers I know who would love the opportunity to run to my rescue and even allow myself to think about the money the lawsuit for unlawful detention would bring.

But then I sigh and shake my head. I don't want to do that to my son. No one seems to believe me when I say I don't want to hurt him, don't want to see him hurt. But I don't want to hurt either and don't I have the right to protect myself?

Once upon a time, a long, long time ago, I didn't have any rights and I couldn't protect myself and I got hurt. But I survived and I'm all right and I swore I was never going to let myself be put into a situation where my rights were taken away again. I'm in control of my life and there's nothing wrong with wanting to avoid painful situations.

And yet -- here I am. Trapped in a hotel room, facing yet another confrontation with Blair over something I had no control over. Doesn't anyone understand how young I was, how insecure? I didn't leave Blair just for the hell of it, but I couldn't always deal with the demands of a child -- and he was one demanding child.

I pace some more and slap the closet door, hurting my hand and wondering if it will bruise. I'm very fair -- I bruise easily. The closet door is mirrored and I look first at the smudged handprint I've left on the glass, then beyond that, to see myself. The smudge distorts my image, turning me into something warped and distasteful. I turn away in shame.

For years after my uncle started coming into my room at night, I refused to look in a mirror. I felt dirty, diseased. I was sure if I looked in the mirror, I would see what I had become reflected back at me. And I couldn't bear it. I didn't want to be that way -- twisted and ugly and dirty. He made me that way and no one would help me.

But when I found out I would have a baby, I got out. I wouldn't have survived in that house for another second. My baby certainly wouldn't have survived. I wanted something better for him -- I really did. I didn't want him raised with all the rules and structure that had so stifled me all my life. I tried to keep things free and easy, to recognize that he was a person in his own right and not just some extension of me. And I wanted to have my life, too. I deserved to have my own life. We didn't have to be connected at the hip.

It took me years to find my beauty, my value, my self-worth, and it wasn't something that I could do as someone's daughter, someone's sister, someone's niece. Not even as someone's -- Blair's -- mother. I had to do it on my own. And if Blair got hurt -- it wasn't on purpose. It wasn't my fault.

I know what they want me to do. They want me to tell my son that it was my fault. They want me to make him feel better. I'm sorry he was hurt -- sorry his life wasn't better for him. But what about me? I was hurt, too, and there wasn't anyone rushing to make things better for me. I had to make it on my own -- and with a kid to boot.

I don't know if I can say what they want -- be who they want me to be. I've spent a lot of years becoming my own person and I may have flaws, but I'm me. I've tried and tried to figure out why it is that Jim and Simon -- and Blair, too, I suppose -- feel that I was responsible for things that happened to him when I wasn't even there. It just makes no sense to me.

I did the best I could with the hand I was dealt.

Why doesn't anyone understand that?

I walk over to the window again, still furious that I am being held hostage like this, but this time, I see Simon talking to the pig who wouldn't let me go. I stare for a moment, then step back, ice in my veins, fury in my belly. I need to meditate. I need to avoid these negative energies -- they only disturb me and take away from my beauty. I take a couple of cleansing breaths, peak out the window in time to see the cop car drive away then turn to the mirror to fix my hair.

I can do this. I'll do what I have to do and then I'll get out. I've been in this position before and I can survive.

There's a knock and I turn, staring at it. Part of me wants to run, but I know it's too late now. I glance at the bathroom -- maybe I could hide. No, that never works. There's nothing to do but open the door and get through this and hope in the end that some part of me survives. I take a couple of cleansing breaths then open the door with a smile.

"Simon," I say, willing myself to be glad to see. He's been harsh with me, but he hasn't been like Jim. He's sympathetic, seems to understand that things were hard for me and I don't want him alienated. I'm going to need an ally today. But he doesn't seem very sympathetic now. His voice is curt when he speaks. I step back a few steps and look in the mirror. My hair's gotten mussed -- probably ran my hand through it without thinking. I know better than that. It's a sure sign that my chakras aren't aligned.

"You ready?" Simon asks.

"Of course," I reply. I take a second to fix my hair, then turn and look at the man who had come to take me to my son. I'm serious when I speak and I'm hoping that he realizes that. "Simon, I've had some time to think today." More time than I wanted or planned, but I'm flexible and I've put it too good use. I'm going to do whatever I have to do to survive this little get together with myself intact. "I'm just appalled -- appalled -- at my behavior. I really don't know what's gotten into me."

My admission embarrasses me and I laugh a little and turn my head away. My emotions are conflicted. Truly -- I never wanted my son to be hurt, but I also don't understand why everyone is blaming me. I didn't do anything! Still, he's my son and I love him and I want Simon to understand that. "Blair is my life," I tell him. "I would do anything for him."

Simon looks at me, suspicion on his face. It can't be good for his karma to be that distrustful, but then, he is a cop. He rubs his large hands over his face, fingers going up under his glasses to get to his eyes, then looks at me again. There's still some disbelief in his face, but not as much. He looks -- frustrated, maybe? Is that what he's feeling? Whatever for?

"Good, Naomi," he responds. "That's good."

I check my hair one more time then glance down, still a little embarrassed. This is so hard for me. Not only hard because I'm being forced to do something I don't want to do and something I don't really understand the need for, but hard because I do -- I really do -- want to do what's best for my son. I just happen to think what's best is living in the present, not the past. But I'm not being given a choice, so I have no option but to fall in line. And if I have to do something, however distasteful, I always do my best. I raised my son, didn't I? "I, uh, just wanted you to know that I'm fully on board, Simon," I tell him.

I see Simon's Adam's apple bob as he swallows. "And, again, Naomi, that's good." He looks uncomfortable and I can't imagine why. He hunches his shoulder, puts his hands in his pockets, then pulls them out and straightens. He's tall -- very tall. And more than a little attractive.

"He needs to hear what you have to say, Naomi," Simon says. "I just want to make sure you know what it is that you're going to say."

I'm prepared for this. I've done nothing but think about what I'm going to say since I realized I was going to have to be here to say it. I face him fully and stand up straight. Swami Mehta always said, "When forced to confront something unpleasant, do it on your feet with your back straight and your head held high."

"I'm going to say," I begin, "and Simon, you have to believe me, this is the truth -- I'm going to tell him that I didn't know those horrible things were happening to him. And I didn't." I really, really didn't. Well, I hate being honest with myself. Maybe there was a little bit of me that just didn't want to know, but I never was sure. I was never absolutely, positively certain. Blair was active and it was annoying. I'm sure he needed reprimanding. And he was creative -- how could I know what was a story he invented and what was the truth? How was I supposed to sort it out? And I was so young -- so very young. Why doesn't anyone think about what it was all like for me? I take a deep breath and rush on. "I'd have never left my precious baby, my darling boy, with any of those people if I thought for one moment someone would hurt him." I pull myself even straighter. If no one will defend me, I will defend myself. Whether they believe me or not, I know the truth. "I'm not that kind of mother."

Simon just stares at me, then mutters, "Good. Fine. Whatever."

It's like I haven't even spoken at all. Like he didn't hear a word I said. I'm hurt, and it shows.

He takes a breath, then says, "Naomi, this isn't about what kind of mother you were or weren't. This is about what Blair needs to hear."

Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah. Of course it's about Blair. It's always about Blair. I keep an alert look on my face.

"What will help him. What will make all this crap he's dealing with more -- dealable."

What Blair needs. What will make things easier for Blair. I remember that old woman I used to leave him with, what was her name? Katie something. Morgan? Miller? Mercer -- that was it. Katie Mercer. I listened to more lectures than I care to count from that old woman about what Blair needed. I was happy to have her to dump him on, especially since she never minded and didn't bitch about it the way some of my other friends did. But then she started pushing me to leave him there all the time. Said he needed to go to school. Needed friends. Needed some stability in his life. How could she know what he needed? He was my son. He needed me. Didn't take him back there after that. She spoiled him anyway. Coddled him. Rocking him like he was a baby when he was seven, eight, nine years old. It wasn't good for him. All this races through my head, and I'm hurt. Hurt that everyone seems to feel that I let my son down -- even some crazy old woman in North Carolina. But all that shows on my face is how hurt I am that my words have been so thoughtlessly dismissed.

Simon shakes his head then rubs his face again. I wonder if he's developing a headache? I have this wonderful tea blend ... See, I interrupt my own thoughts. I'm always thinking of others. Then I refocus outward as Simon speaks again.

"If it helps, I do believe that you didn't realize how serious the damage your leaving him would be."

I can't believe that's all he has to say to me. I think this whole upcoming thing just needs to be over. I walk to the bed, grab my bag and ask, "Are we ready?"

Without waiting for an answer, I lead the way out. Simon trails me to the elevator, still not speaking. He's silent as we walk to the car, but he does, at least, open the car door for me. He's apparently not completely without manners. Even the ride to Jim's apartment is quiet. Of course, they don't call it an apartment. No, not prestigious enough for the best pig in town. It's the loft. That sounds so much grander.

We arrive at the loft and I look to Simon for my next instruction. Do I just go up? Who's going to be there? Just Blair? Jim and Blair? I want to ask him if I'll be safe, but I'm scared to. I really think Jim is capable of hurting me. At times, I think he wants to hurt me. I'm sure it's just jealousy that Blair loves me so much. Probably makes him feel threatened. He really should learn to meditate and clear those negative emotions. Still -- I shiver a little. I don't want to be hit. I've been hit enough for three lifetimes. And Jim is big. I cock my head and wonder if Simon would protect me if it came down to it. Maybe I should ask him to come with me. Even if he is annoyed with me -- for whatever reason, I don't know -- he probably wouldn't let Jim hit me.

I take a deep breath to speak, but Simon beats me to it.

"Do you know what you're going to say?" he asks.

I cock my head, still trying to decide if I can depend on Simon to keep me safe. I just don't know. Then I realize he asked me something and he's waiting for an answer. What was it? Oh, yes. What am I going to say? "I want to do what's best for Blair." I close my eyes, offer a silent prayer to all the deities that I can get out of this without being beaten or thrown off that terrace they have up there. I feel like I'm navigating a minefield. There is apparently only one correct answer here and I'm not sure I have it. I'd have done better if they'd given me a script. Been more specific in what they want me to say. But I have to get through this -- I have to. Go up, do whatever, then get out. I'm going straight back to the airport when this is done. I'll spend the night there, sleep in a chair. I just want to get out of this city -- away from all this -- ugliness. I take a deep breath and hope my words are acceptable.

"I don't think I can go in with a prepared speech. Blair needs to talk -- he needs to talk to me." That seems to have been okay. Simon's relaxed a little bit. He looks like he's reconsidering things, so I add, "I'll know what to say based on what he says." Why are they making me do this? This is all so painful for me. "I think -- I think he needs to take the lead."

He nods, his face somewhat softer now, and pulls a cigar out, sticking it in his mouth, unlit. He seems to be considering my words and he reaches out, pats my hand, almost without realizing it, I think.

"I think you're right," he agrees, approval in his voice. "Just make sure you say the right things at the right time. No passing the blame -- suck it up and tell him you should have done better. Tell him you're sorry."

I get out of the car and look up. I hate the climate here. Rain all the time. Even now, the sky is darkly gray as storm clouds gather. I close my eyes for a mini-meditation -- an affirmation. 'I am in the eye of the storm. None of it can touch me.'

I turn and walk briskly toward the door. I'm surprised when Simon follows, catching me as the elevator is about to close. I really thought this would be family. "You're coming up?"

"They're my friends," he says nodding. "I might be needed."

They are his friends. I notice I'm not included in that statement at all.

When we get to the third floor, Simon leads and I follow slowly. The door opens before we can knock and Jim is there.

"I hate it when you do that," Simon says to Jim.

Jim hardly acknowledges me. A brief glance, then he says his name and Simon nods and moves into the loft, crosses the room and settles himself at the table. I'm still standing in the hall. There's a hole in the freshly painted wall and I wonder idly how that happened.

Jim scares me. He steps back minutely and I sidle in, making sure I don't touch him, but not leaving the door. He looks -- furious. I don't know what I've done to make him so angry. I don't understand it at all. I spoke my mind -- spoke up for myself. Don’t I have the right to my own opinions -- my own feelings? I always told Blair: 'Feelings aren't wrong or right -- they just are.'

"Get it right," Jim orders, his voice low and deadly. This is a man who has killed people and he scares me. "Tell him it wasn't his fault."

I nod, feeling the fear grow in my mind. Jim suddenly reminds me of every man that's ever hurt me -- every man who's ever engendered this terror in my soul.

Jim goes on. "Tell him he didn't do anything wrong."

Scared, scared, scared. Don't wanna be here. Don't wanna do this. Please, don't hurt me. I can't speak. Then I force myself to breathe. I'm not going to let another man steal from me again. Never. He's not going to do this to me. Affirmation time: 'I am a beautiful person with beautiful feelings and beautiful thoughts. I have the right to be who I am. No one can take that from me.'

"Lie to him," Jim says, the accusation plain in his voice. I let it wash over me without touching me, without dirtying my beauty. "Tell him you didn't know."

I'm tense, trying to let his words flow over me, beyond me, and not sully me. It's hard and I tense for a moment, ready to bolt. But Jim reaches out and grabs me, his fingers digging cruelly into my tender flesh.

"Convince him, Naomi. Convince him you would never have left him alone like that if you'd really known what was going on."

He lets me go and I stumble a half-step backwards, until I am pressed against the door. This man scares me. My shoulder aches where he has abused me, but I refuse to give him the satisfaction of seeing me rub it.

He stares at me, then commands, "Get yourself together and go to him."

I can do this. I can. I close my eyes and take a few deep breaths. I'm not going to let Jim Ellison know how much he scares me. I know how to survive. If I have to go out there and coddle my son for ten or fifteen minutes in order to be released, that's what I'll do. I love Blair. He's turned into a good person and I had something to do with that, right? Jim loves Blair and I had a lot to do with making him the person that he is. Why can't Jim see that? I breathe one more time, then open my eyes and glance at the balcony where Blair sits -- alone, forlorn -- his usual 'pity me' posture. I'm not going to think about that now. I reach up and pat Jim on the cheek -- that'll confuse him -- and sweep off to the terrace.

I'm not surprised when Jim follows me -- at least as far as the kitchen. I guess I get to talk to my son alone, but I still leave the door slightly open.

The wind has swept leaves onto the balcony. I'm surprised Jim -- the clean freak -- has allowed them to stay. I pluck one from the chair, sit and turn to my son. "Remember when we used to talk?" He does look sad and a little worried. I reach out and play with the curls at the nape of his neck. I love his hair. I'm so glad Mr. Military in there hasn't insisted he cut it. It fits Blair, somehow; it's a vital part of who he is. He used to melt when I would brush his hair, play with the curls. And I'm expecting that again, so I am shocked when he does speak.

"Remember when your words mattered to me?" he says bitterly. "When you mattered?"

He doesn't mean that, not really. He's just angry, afraid. Jim has pushed this issue with abuse so long and so far, and now Blair feels trapped. He wants to please his lover, but he doesn't know how, so he's taking his frustration out on me. I shift my hand, touch his arm gently, and remind him, "They matter." My words -- they matter to him. "I'm important to you, Blair," I tell him and I know that I am. "I matter."

Blair sighs. I can tell that this whole thing has him exhausted. Jim has no right to push him like this. It pains me to see my child suffering so.

"You'll always mean something to me, Naomi," he says. He touches my hand and I pull back. Blair turns to Jim -- for approval? Support? Comfort? But, of course, he doesn't find it. Jim is busy cleaning -- what else? I glance at Simon and he shows more concern for my son than his lover does.

Not finding what he was looking for, Blair turns back to me and struggles on. "But, I'm not the one who screwed up."

Does he really think I screwed up? Or is he just parroting what he's been told by his autocratic partner? I know I made mistakes, but what parent doesn't? And why does everyone seem to feel that Blair has suffered so much more than I have? Why don't my feelings matter?

"You know," Blair continues, "up until a few months ago, I was actually naïve enough to believe that you loved me as much as I love you. How stupid of me to think that nothing would ever touch us."

How can he say such things to me? It must be Jim -- I glance back at him again and see he's still engrossed in his counter cleaning. How typical. I have to reach Blair, have to make him understand. He was -- molested. I understand that. I'm sorry it happened, but I can't undo it. I was -- molested, too. I survived. So did Blair. Shit happens. He needs to understand that nothing in the physical can touch the spiritual. His soul is still pure -- still innocent.

"Nothing," I swear to him, "touched you, honey. You were perfect."

"Nothing touched me?" Blair asked, disbelief in his voice. But I think there's a hint of wanting to believe, wanting to think that it's true. I have to convince him.

"Please, Blair -- we have to try and get through this. I know that I messed up, honey, but you have to believe me when I tell you -- I didn't know..."

I'm interrupted by a fat raindrop that falls heavily onto my cheek. I reach up, brushing it away and glance up at the storm that seems to be breaking. I'm watching the sky, the clouds that dance dark and heavy in the wind and I miss the shift in Blair. I'm taken aback when he speaks again.

"Didn't know?" he asks me, accusation naked in his voice. "Didn't know? Oh, God." He looks sick and I thrust down the image of myself it recalls. Pregnant by my uncle, fifteen, trying to talk to my mother and meeting such cold, hard denial, that it physically made me ill. I was gone that night. He's backed away from me, just as I did from my mother, and worked his way to the door. Jim is holding him, holding him up, holding him close, cradling him protectively as if he needs to be protected from me -- his own mother.

"I can't do this!" he cries. "I can't look at you and know what you did, Naomi."

What I did? What I did? How dare he? I wasn't the one who abused him! I was the one that got him out of a house of abuse before he was even born. I was the one who gave up everything in my life, everything that I could have had, could have done, could have been, because I didn't want him to be abused. How can he say I did anything?

"It sickens me, don't you get it? I've been... doing a lot of thinking since you -- since..."

Since when, Blair? I long to ask. Since Jim started all of this? Since he began to tell you how horrible things had been. Don't you have a good life, son? Aren't you happy? Why do you want to deliberately bring up the bad to tarnish all the good things? Why do we have to do this?

"I've... I've decided I don't want to see you again."

It's like he's slapped me. I can't believe he would say that to me, say it and really mean it. Jim is behind this, I'm sure of it. "Blair!" I cry. Rain is falling -- single, fat drops that splatter heavily onto the concrete terrace. Onto the tables and chair. Onto my face, mixing with the tears that lie there.

His voice is cold, each word a knife to my soul, when he tells me, "I appreciate the fact that you came all the way back here to talk to me, but the truth is, a short delay on your way to somewhere else and a quick apology aren't enough to wipe away what you did!"

His words shake me to my core. He's so angry. Even nature seems to tremble before his fury. The storm breaks and the rain begins to pour.

Jim pulls Blair into the loft. I follow quickly.

My son, my loving, compassionate son, is shaking again. He clings to Jim and I wonder darkly what this older, more experienced man has done to my tender son to make him so dependent.

"This is my safe harbor, Naomi. You aren't -- safe -- for me."

How can he say that? I've always been his safe place. He's always clung to me for security. Whenever I would come back from a weekend away, a short trip, anywhere, he'd be glued to me. He'd never let me out of his sight. He continued to beg to sleep with me years after it was appropriate. And I indulged him when I could. I'd sit with him, read to him. Let him fall asleep in my bed then carry him to his own. Or, when he was too big to carry, let him sleep in my bed, while I'd sleep in his. I'd known he was hurt -- NO! My hand rushes up to cover my mouth. I did not know. I couldn’t have really known. I'd have never allowed it. I just knew something bothered him -- something worried him. I tried to be balm for his troubled soul. I taught him meditation -- taught him to find a quiet place in himself where nothing could touch him. I loved him and I taught him what I knew about how to survive. But I couldn’t completely sacrifice myself to his needs, could I? That wouldn't be healthy. How dare he say I'm not safe for him?

"You didn't keep me safe when I was a child and now, well, now, my emotions, my feelings aren't safe around you."

Jim pulls him closer -- two against one. He glares at me.

"I want to be away from you for awhile, not to be confronted by you and your trite attempts at remorse! You almost destroyed me. Anything we had as mother and child, you've ruined it with your selfishness," he rants.

My selfishness? What is this little diatribe of his if not the ultimate exercise in selfishness? What exactly does anyone think we are accomplishing here?

"Everything we had -- everything that I thought was worth something! You took my life and ripped it to shreds because of your own lack of integrity and that's not something I can live with."

How dare he talk to me about integrity? I've marched for civil rights, the ERA, abortion. I've marched for free speech and prison reform and against the death penalty. I've stormed buildings to save animals from torturous experimentation, chained myself to trees to prevent the complete deforestation of this planet. How can he think to impugn my integrity?

"I won't have a relationship with someone who has so little respect for me."

Jim's eyes blaze and it scares me again. I don't know what he wants me to do. He's told me before that Blair needs me -- so surely he doesn't want me to just walk away. My eyes are full -- I'm so afraid, so unsure of what to do.

I reach out to touch Blair, but pull back at the look in Jim's eyes. "Honey," I say softly, "I can understand you needing space -- but not to see me again? Do we have to be that -- final?" I glance at Simon. He seems to approve of my words so I go on. "You're so important to me, Blair. I tell people all the time how important you are to me."

It's true. I'm not just mouthing words because I need to appease the control master over there who frightens me. My son is important to me. I love him. I care about him. I want him in my life. "I -- I need you," I say haltingly.

And besides, what would I say to people if he suddenly disappeared? Anger of my own washes over me and I cry, "How could you do this to me?"

Blair looks panicked. Jim is speaking to Blair, his head down as he whispers in his ear. Simon looks angry now. I'm not sure what I've done, but something seems off.

Blair pats Jim's arm, then steps away from him and demands, "Don't do this to you? How the hell can you be so incredibly self-absorbed? I didn't abandon you, Mom! I didn't leave you alone to be fucked when you were a child. I didn't look the other way when you were being beaten! And I sure as hell didn't ask you to pretend it never happened!"

Again, I feel as if he struck me. A real physical blow. I struggle to remain standing. I want to scream at him, 'No, you didn't leave me alone to be fucked when I was a child -- but you’re the fucking result!'

"Who was it, Naomi? Who?" Blair asks.

I'm confused. For a moment there, I think he's asking about who raped me, who his father is. I always swore I'd never tell him -- he doesn't need that pain.

"What are you talking about?" I ask.

Blair pushes Jim away and faces me on his own. "Who was it that you had to leave me for?"

Leave him for? What is this crazy child talking about? I didn't leave him? I was always there for him.

"Was it a man? Who, Naomi?" Blair's voice grows increasingly strident. "Was he tall?" He's crying, tears and snot dripping down his face. Blair never could cry without making a mess. "Was he rich? Was he... was he worth it?"

How dare he? It's all getting confused in my head. My uncle, a rich man, leaving, coming home, pain, abuse, rape, sorrow. I want this all to stop! When Blair would do this when he was little, I would .... I raise my flattened hand to slap him, but then drop it. I'm too tired for this. It all hurts too much.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Blair grab a knife and stab himself. I did that, too. When I first found out I was pregnant, I got a knife and cut myself, right where he holds his knife. I still have a little scar there. He's alive because I didn't finish the act.

Blair's mumbling something I can't hear. It rains, it thunders; both are loud in my ears. Even my own blood pounding drowns out the sounds around me. I feel like I'm watching a silent movie in slow motion.

Blair's shirt is turning red and Jim moves forward then stops.

Blair digs the knife in deeper, then Simon, for some reason known only to himself, slaps Jim in the back of the head.

Blair screams and more blood drips. A pool begins to form on the floor.

Jim reaches out, his mouth moves, but I can't hear anything but the sound of my uncle, drunk, heavy, on top of me, grunting in my ear. "Good, baby, good. That's so good."

I close my eyes and ruthlessly shove the sounds, the image away. Affirmation: 'I will live in the present. The past cannot hurt me.'

I look up again, and Simon is holding Blair. Jim is kneeling, looking at his belly. The knife is on the counter that Jim has spent the last fifteen minutes cleaning. He'll hate that.

"It's not too deep," Jim reports.

I sigh in relief.

Simon asks, "Do we need 911?"

But, no, 'Mr. Self-Sufficient, I Can Handle Anything' responds with, "No, I can bandage it myself. Get a towel from the bathroom, will you?"

I take a step then realize he's talking to Simon, not me. Good. I'm done. I'm finished. I'm outta here. I head for the door.

"Don't move," Simon barks at me, and I stop.

I don't know what they want from me. Pictures shift in my head again -- my uncle, the knife, my uncle, the knife. Affirmation: 'I am a person in my own right. I am in control. I can rise above whatever is thrown at me. I am a survivor.'

I open my eyes and see Blair advancing on me, and before I can control it, my traitorous body cringes. I think he's going to hit me. But he takes my hand, my wrist, really, and holds it gently. I realize he must not be too badly hurt to be standing, moving, on his own. I'm glad. I look into his beautiful blue eyes, and whisper, "Blair." I've always loved that name. It's Gaelic and it means 'child of the plains.' I've always seen that as a place of freedom and that’s how I see Blair -- free and untamed. "Blair."

A little half-smile quirks his lips and I know I've been forgiven. Not sure what I've been forgive for, but I know it will be all right now. "Okay," he says as he releases me. "I need some time away from you, but then, later, we can talk."

I can certainly understand needing some space. I mean, it was the fact that I needed space when he was a child that got us to this point to begin with, right? Of course, no one else will be perceptive enough to realize that. So I just tell him, "Thank you."

Blair drops the towel he's holding to his stomach. Jim, of course, flies to his rescue, kneeling before him and applying pressure.

Just Jim's touch seems to turn my son against me. His voice grows cold as he says, "Don't thank me yet. I haven't done anything but stalled what might be inevitable."

I nod. I'm really done now. I can't help the look of success I shoot Simon. I told him I could do this, didn't I?

Simon seems annoyed with me, though, and he takes my arm, pulling me toward the door. I stop him with a tug. "When?" I ask my son. "When can we talk?"

"I don't know," Blair responds as Jim leads him to the couch, settling him there. "I don't know anything right now, except that I want you to leave."

"Right," I say smiling. Space. He needs space. It will all be okay. And I am so ready to be out of here.

Simon stops at the door and asks, "Will you two be okay?"

Jim shrugs, rather an ungrateful response to a man that has just had to sit through more emotional drama than anyone should ever be subjected to.

"Good-bye, Blair," I call over my shoulder as I leave. I am not speaking to Jim. I'll have to meditate quite a bit to remove my negative feelings for him. I just need time. If he's Blair's choice, of course, I will accept it. But he's hurt me and I need my own space to get over that.

Simon doesn't speak in the hall. In the elevator. As we exit the building. I dash through the rain and stop by his car, waiting. He stands in the rain, unmoving. "Simon?" I call.

"Stop," he orders me. "Do not speak to me."

"But what?" I ask, confused again. I did what they wanted, didn't I? And at considerable pain to myself, I might add. And besides, the longer he delays, the wetter I get. I hate this weather. "Unlock the car. We need to get out of the rain."

"Use that," he tells me, his voice cold, his face stony. I turn to look where he's pointing and see a pay phone. "Call a cab."

"Simon? What? Why? I did what you wanted..."

I don't understand...

"Call a cab, Naomi," Simon says again. He sounds tired. "Get out of here. Don't come back unless you are specifically invited."

"But, but, but..."

"No buts. Just go."

I am not standing in the rain. I don't know what is suddenly the matter with Simon, but I am not going to be inconvenienced by whatever it is, not after I have just gone through one of the most emotionally painful events of my life. I need my space. I need quiet and beauty and time to meditate. And I need to get out of this rain. I head back into Jim's building. "I'll go up and use the phone. I can wait in the loft."

But Simon grabs me and fear coils in my belly. He's strong, so much bigger than me, and so angry. Why is he so angry? What did I do?

"Go away, Naomi," he growls at me. "Do not come back."

"But -- it's raining," I point out, still baffled by his behavior.

He shrugs and lets me go. "All the more reason to make that call now. Less time to wait."

He's not going to let me back into the building and he's not going to take me to the airport. I'm on my own. Alone.

I turn and trudge toward the phone on the corner.

Blair has my email addy -- he'll contact me when he's ready.

I've been alone before.

I've been rejected before.

I survived.

Affirmation: 'I am the eye of the storm. None of it can touch me.'