Moments of Love

Moments of Love

Love Discovered―New Jersey, May 1956

I thought I’d be struck dead, for sure. A power like lightning just might surge from me and kill us both if I shook his hand.

The idealized photo of a movie star—European-cut jacket; slender torso; broad shoulders; handsomely tan; silky, light brown hair―totally captivating, stood before me. His bright blue eyes and engaging smile grabbed my young heart, and I could only blurt out a weak, “Hello”, but I vividly thought …only fifteen, and next month I’ll be sixteen, we could get married in West Virginia!

Ah, the naiveté of youth and thank goodness, my parents couldn’t read my mind as every boundary of parental warning about dating vanished. James Dean and Marlon Brando were far from my thoughts―Cary Grant and David Niven had replaced them in a moment of time.

His name was John, a best friend of Colin; both nineteen, waiters on board The Queen of Bermuda. Colin as our server, on our cruise to the island earlier that same month, carried on great conversations with my parents, during which he offered to “babysit” by showing me some sights on the island while they were at meetings and with friends. My parents in turn, invited him to our place in New Jersey for a home-cooked meal with her apple pie for desert, if and when he could get time off after another cruise. John, who happened to have a New York driver’s license, and could rent a car for Colin to get to New Jersey, was a last-minute invite the following week. My parents did not mind the extra mouth to feed.

Children and innocents have advantages with pretending; one of them being the wonderful world of imagination. So, there I was, literally and figuratively, in the middle of mine!  This “newly felt love” could be dangerous or fabulous, and both life-changing, from the little I understood.

I called my girlfriend, Helen, and all decided that after dinner we’d go to a drive-in movie. John and Helen sat up front while I sat in the back with Colin. I remember the vehicle was a 1956 Chevrolet Impala, black and white with matching leather upholstery. I watched John’s eyes in the rear view mirror often, and he would glance up and watch me watching him.

It would have been too forward of me to change dates, but I could see Katharine Hepburn making that decision, so instead, I decided to tap John on his shoulder. Could it be true about the power of love’s touch? The miracle moment came for that split-second maneuver; Colin decided to buy popcorn, Helen was engrossed in the movie. I deftly moved my arm, brushing him lightly.

He glanced into the mirror, his eyes met mine and he smiled. I wasn’t sure what would happen next…next hour, next week, or next time. No matter I reasoned, I had ventured forth off the precipice of giving one’s heart away. Nothing more had to be done…no action, no words…just radiate a smile and have some popcorn.

           I do not know if I “wore Mona Lisa’s smile” or “had Betty Davis eyes” that night, but the next Friday, Johnny drove down from New York without Colin. From that day forward, except for the time his ship would go back to England for re-fitting, we were together every chance he sailed into New York, and happy in the young love we had found.

Love Lost―Fall 1959, New York City

But there are times, especially when one is young, life itself is in such confusion, we do not realize how quickly circumstances and other people can change the course of lives.

We were more than best friends for three years, his giving me a promise ring, which I still wear. During my last year in high school, things began to change. We both were reorganizing our lives to a certain extent; doing more things; meeting new people; seeing more of life. He was expanding some business interests and I was switching my major, preparing for graduation, making plans to study in New York City.

           Yet looking back, it almost seemed like there was a conspiracy to separate us—here, there and everywhere, and even from within. Hearsay and stories roamed around like ravenous wolves from people stationed on his ship and from the sister ship. Then there was pressure to “meet new people” from friends and family, and worried mothers on both sides of the ocean fearing we’d leave our own country and they’d never see us again. All combined, they turned the tide of happiness and confidence to insecurity and fear, plunging me into a mind-boggling fog.

           What were truths and what were lies? After a heated argument with John in the city, he was no longer in my life. A heavy, dark cloud of indignation and guilt had crushed emotionally two powerless, frustrated young people. We hadn’t learned to listen or hear each other, or to wait for truth. We found ourselves in an inextricable labyrinth, with many tears shed in not trying to retrace our steps. We were shattered. I was devastated and reacted with callousness and indifference. He reacted with anger and a growing hardness within his heart. That early part of fall, in Manhattan, in a New York moment, love died, and I, confused, scared, and very much alone, falsified a courageous and brave persona, but experienced a deep sorrow that would never leave and never heal.

           My life as I knew it, gone. The only thing left to do was to live the art of pretending. My mind consoled my heart by playing two collusive games; It Doesn’t Matter and then, It Never Happened. I lied, and was empty, so I didn’t care. I dated several people; traveled to New York City to school; met other heart-torn contemporaries, and enjoyed life, less. I was so busy trying to deny my feelings that I was never able to accept them; and those feelings of guilt and regret, scarred and plagued me for years.

I married; he married. Time moved on, and oddly enough, we found out much later that we each had a girl and a boy, and a dog named Scruffy.

           Make-believe, or pretending, is permitted in childhood; if the script for the moment isn’t to our liking, we change it. As adults, if real life for the moment doesn’t work, we imagine we can change it by thinking other thoughts or doing more, or performing great feats with striven perfection. Even mature adults find that they compensate; some by control, some by total indifference, and some by compliance, but there is always, a malevolent secrecy deep within.

           We find ways to protect our “self,” but it still is pretending. In other words, it is the evasion of reality; and with these new methods of pretending, also comes non-communication, or should I say non-dialogue. So we place our hurts and fears and needs and wants very deep, so no one can find them or could understand them. We unknowingly lie to everyone, and in turn, we lie to ourselves as well. People ask, “How are you?” We answer brightly, “Fine!” We become as Chameleons, and far worse, we don’t care about our life and sometimes, not even living.

Love Reclaimed―Spring 1985

I felt even more strangely confused and lost. My relationship with my husband was diminishing; marriage suffered. Counseling was my route to rid the cobwebs in my mind. As soon as the psyche is strong enough, the mind has the freedom to reveal what is buried within. I mentioned in passing the name of “John.” I had to find out why, and by April, missing happenings in my mind began to surface like flash cards...blip, blip, blip; a winter day in Middletown; the hilarious drive to Browns Mills; dinner in Manhattan; each lonely day in New York.

There was only so much that I could do, or un-do, but one thing was certain, I had to get my life and my marriage back on track. I called Bermuda’s overseas information where I thought John might still live. I needed to know one thing, why did he leave? Was I not “good” enough?

I was afraid, since in counseling, I feared what the immediate effects of my call would be for all concerned. I had not spoken to him in over twenty-five years, and I was treading into areas that might reveal more of those locked, memory safe-deposit boxes in my mind, but I had no choice. I had to fix my marriage, and I had to fix me. This way of life of marriage could not continue, so I risked and dialed.

           A woman’s voice answered, stating that John was in England re-settling his mother and step-father, arriving back near the end of May, and could she take a message for him. I didn’t leave my number, but Johnny called me that next morning.

His voice, which sounded irascible and stern asked, “What do you want.” It fractured my calm, “Hello?”

The voice was undeniably Johnny’s with that British accent modulated with the Bermudian lilt. My planned boldness in speaking to him turned to trepidation. I wasn’t even sure if I could talk. Still focusing on repairing my marriage (thinking all was my fault and being such a failure at something that so many other people do so well), and not wanting to inflict any more pain on anyone, I told him that I only wanted to ask one question.

“What.” was his harsh retort.

“Why did you leave me that day in New York City back in 1959?” There was a lengthy pause, one of those, Uh oh, now what have I done, kind.

When I heard his voice again, it was quiet and gentle, “Love―you told me to go to hell, and I’ve been there ever since.”

           The mind works so curiously. All those closed and locked drawers began opening, and pictures, one after another, again and again, appeared in front of my mind’s eye—Radio City in New York, our times at the shore, Pier 95, the diner, the argument, the separation, and those traumatic months following.

The call was short. I took down his business address. He said he’d call again. Many phone calls and letters later, over a period of only a few weeks we agreed to meet in New York City on July seventh. A trip had already been planned to spend time in New Jersey with my parents for my birthday in June, and Dad’s birthday, which was on the fourth of July. From there, I had planned to travel to Connecticut for a needed “selfish” vacation, away from everyone and everything, to think on my own and plan my future such it might be.

Love Found―Summer 1985

I was forty-four when I met Johnny the second time. I had determined to meet him. It was decision time. I needed to speak with him directly.

The seventh of July was a Sunday. We planned to meet outside a pub that catered to the British and Bermudians whenever they were in town, right in the heart of the theater district, near Times Square. From where I stood outside the parking garage, I saw him waiting under the portico at our pre-arranged meeting place. He was looking the opposite way towards Times Square.

           He still kept glancing up towards Broadway. I thought how strange he never looked towards the parking garage where he should have known it was the only place I knew to park. He looked so handsome, still slender, deeply tanned, hair now silver-gray.

           Besides being nervous, I wanted that moment to be a memory forever burned into my mind as were so many other memories of our good times together. I wanted the meeting to be better than any book or movie love story that could be read or shown, just for me. When I was less than twenty feet away, I decided to run to him, high heels and all, calling his name. He turned towards me with his wonderful smile, opened his arms, and I unashamedly threw myself into them. We held each other with his head buried in my neck, and my arms gripping the back of his navy blazer, neither one of us saying anything.

           All I knew was that we fit and we would be incomplete without one another. My heart and soul were at peace and singing together once again. Just holding him, I knew the power. I touched his face, stroked his hair, and hugged him. Like the movie, it’s better “the second time around.” We both were laughing by then, there on the sidewalk in New York, two adults becoming crazy teenagers again, hugging and twirling around, with people stopping, smiling and watching, all secondary actors as in a street play for everyone to enjoy…and perhaps for them, a time to remember when they knew love, especially their own young love.

           We could never say “goodbye” again, for our love hadn’t died those many years ago. It only lay low, dormant, buried under years of pain, waiting for us to recognize the truth of it and free it. There would be no turning back or going back to our lives as we knew them. With many obstacles to overcome, and many more yet unknowns, we took the risk of being together.

           In May of 1986, in the same state where we first met, during the same week that I was in Bermuda thirty years before and married by our minister whom we both knew when we were young. Colin? He was our Best Man.

           Voltaire once said, “Perfection is attained by slow degrees; it requires the hand of time.”