# 16 - Chapter Sixteen "It Hurts to Say Goodbye"

 

It Hurts to Say Goodbye 

Chapter Sixteen – El Siegel 

I could hear Debbi’s phone ringing. The ringing didn’t stop, just on and on. I had this uncomfortable feeling, not knowing if I wanted her to pick up or not. And while I waited, I knew I had to make the call, because Patrick had asked me to do just one thing for him, call his mother. I couldn’t refuse. 

I was at home in Queen Village. It was a bright, beautiful summer afternoon, not too warm, and there was even a refreshing breeze. I wanted to spend time in our garden under the white blossoms of our wonderful dogwood. But I couldn’t enjoy this simple pleasure feeling guilty, knowing I didn’t even keep my promise to my son. 

That’s the selfish truth. 

Suddenly, I heard Debbi’s voice. Of course, I knew it was her, but she sounded different. And, my introduction was not brilliant. 

“It’s me, El. You have a little time?”

“El, of course I do. What’s on your mind?” 

“I’m just a little embarrassed. I promised Patrick. I promised him I would call you. He came over to pick up some of his things, and he told me he wanted me to do one thing, just one thing. I couldn’t refuse. So, here I am.” As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I knew I said the wrong thing.

Debbi always knew when to ignore my clumsiness. “I’m glad you called,” she said, and then she waited. 

“To be honest, Patrick’s a good, solid kid,” I said. “I wanna start keeping my promises. I don’t know how he could turn out that way, focused, logical. You know the kind of dad I been.”

“El, you know what you always used to say: Don’t criticize yourself, ‘cause other people’ll be there to do that for you.”

“I know, but still,” I said. “I just couldda been a better father.”

“Don’t underrate yourself, El. Sure, maybe you could’ve done more stuff with Patrick. But you influenced him with who you are. You were a good, steady presence for him, and rare if you ever raised your voice. I can’t think of more than a couple times you kindda blew up, over all those years. You been steady, really.” 

I just plunged into it, “Debbi, sure, that was the past. But now, I don’t know. I don’t know how things got out of hand, and I ended up way off track, way off the path I thought I wanted to be on when we first met and got married. I guess there were different things going on.” 

I didn’t know what to say. It was like I opened up a subject, but then refused to follow up. So I was looking for an off-ramp. “I don’t know if it does any good to talk about it.” 

“No, El, go ahead. Maybe if we understand, maybe we can solve some issues. I don’t know. Maybe we could just talk things over.”

Then my words started pouring out. “Well, there’re a few of the things I been thinking. It’s not like I put everything in order. I don’t know how it’ll come out. But, well . . . I just keep thinking, over the last few years, and I gotta admit, I feel we’ve grown apart. We’re not the same people. It’s not like the way it used to be, like being on the same team, and wanting the same things. Maybe that’s the way a marriage is, it changes, people change. Maybe we just know each other too well. Maybe we heard each other’s little stories already . . . already, and too many times.”

“El, I know what you mean. I’ll be honest, I had some thoughts like that and . . . ” 

I jumped. “You what?” 

She said, “I’m being honest, and I’m human. But maybe we shouldn’t rush.” 

“Deb, I’m glad we’re having this conversation. It feels good to talk and clear things up and be on speaking terms and all that. But now I’m a little worried. I don’t know what I’m ready for.”

Her voice changed. It became calm, down to earth. “Know what? El, I think it’d be a good idea to think what we want now. Know what I mean? There’s a lot of things we just can’t change. It’s true. We changed. So, what should we think about now?” 

“Well,” I said. “I know I usually make simple things pretty complicated. But now, it all seems clear, at least to me. What’s important now? It’s Patrick, he’s our main responsibility, and then you and me, the two of us. We gotta get along.”

“I got a surprise for you.” I heard relief in her voice. “Ready?  It’s just, of course, I agree with you, couldn’t agree more.”

I said, “You wanna talk sometime, sometime in person? Maybe that’d be good?”

“Yeah, sure, maybe that should be in a while,” she said. “Let’s take it slow. Not rush it.” 

I didn’t know why, but I felt panicked. “You got a reason for that? Is there someone else in the picture? Been any changes in your life?”

“El, like I said, let’s take it slow. Not rush it. Lemme think things over and then get back to you, okay?” 

I felt a little more at ease, at least we talked, and I didn’t want to lose that. “Sure, think things over. That’s a good idea. But let’s agree on something. Let’s agree when we’ll talk again, yes, on the phone, if you want. Can we say in one week, no other conditions, okay?” 

Of course, she agreed. What else could she say? But now that our conversation was over, things were starting to come back to me. I’ve been thinking about how our marriage had been failing for a while, actually for a long time.  

Sure, the truth is more complicated than the few words you can express in a short telephone call. I thought back at each separate step, I wondered how I could let myself get involved in a series of problems. It’s just the way I think. And I wrote my ideas down. I wrote my ideas down, in my journal, and then, here it appears in this account. But I’ll tell you what I thought: 

“It starts out with a situation, maybe a disagreement, or just a question. But you think about it, and you make up your mind. You’re convinced you found the right answer, because you thought it all through. 

“But people tell you you’re wrong, and you’re going to hurt someone. You don’t want to listen to them. You know because you studied the whole thing. And you go ahead, and, yes, you do hurt someone, maybe a good person, someone you love, someone you’ve known for so many years.  

“But you can’t change, because you want to prove something. You can’t change; you’re stuck in the way you’re thinking. So, you can’t see this person, you can’t change. You can’t say you’re sorry. You can’t apologize.” 

These are the words I put down on paper. I don’t know if they tell the real story. What I didn’t write in this burst of words is about Faith. She did have something to do with what I did, even though Debbi and I were already separated and divorced when I actually talked with Faith. But after we met, she took over a big part of my mind.

But what do I want now? I know I can’t change what has already happened. Faith is gone; she’s dead. I’m not going to see her again. But I think about her a lot, and the images of her play over and over again in my mind. My mind goes back in time, and I remember. 

-0-

It was the Saturday afternoon after my appearance at Gertie’s Pub when I recited “An Angel and a Monster.” I was at home alone, and during the morning I was working on a new poem. I wanted this new work to be better than anything I’d ever written. I was not just making progress; I wanted this work to be brilliant. 

My mind was back at Gertie’s. I was reliving the applause and the compliments. I was floating on air. I was starting to believe I did have talent. I was pumped up with confidence, believing I was on my way of becoming an accomplished poet. 

But by the afternoon, I felt drained. I’d put so much effort into this new poem. Rather than just letting the ideas and the words flow from my mind, I was beginning to realize that I was too hooked up with my conscious mind, too careful, rather than tapping the far richer well of my subconscious. I wanted every phrase I scribbled on paper or wrote on my computer’s screen to be finished, perfect. 

And I was lonely. 

I thought of Faith. It was an impulse. I called her and invited her over for dinner. I told her I wanted to talk about my writing. I was surprised when she immediately said she would be thrilled and she’d be knocking on my front door around seven thirty.

I devoted a good part of the afternoon to dinner. Okay, I said this account is not a recipe book. But I just want to mention that pasta was my specialty, and I loved experimenting with different types of sauces, and I loved trying to marry the pasta with just the right wine, which is often the same choice.

At seven thirty, there was a knock on my front door. When I opened the door, Faith stood there. She took my breath away. She was wearing a summer dress of a light fabric that floated when she moved. It had a simple floral design, and it seemed almost transparent, and I could see the subtle hints of the beauty beneath the fabric. And her red lips smiled, and her eyes sparkled. 

And I pulled her inside, and my lips touched the warmth of her cheeks. 

She let her light, red jacket fall to the floor, and then she placed her palms on my cheeks. I closed my eyes, and I could feel the warmth of her mouth and her breath on my cheeks. 

I slammed the front door, and while I brought glasses and a bottle of Côte du Rhône, she took a place on one of my leather couches, the one facing the front window. I poured the wine and then took a seat on the opposite couch. 

We raised our glasses, and I said, “Thanks for coming. It’s good. .  more than good to see you.” 

We sipped our wine, and then Faith said, “I always want to see you, you know that, especially now. I want to hear about your writing, and I want to tell you about Lee, you know Lee Stanhope.”

I said, “You know, Faith, I been around. And over the years I learned a few lessons. One of them is people have their own lives, and I know you have a lot going on in your life. We’re friends, but I’m not a spring chicken, and you have other friends.”

“El, understand one thing! You’re very important to me.” Faith waited a few seconds. “I wanna tell you about Lee. He does a lot for ‘Wonder Words.’ You know, we’re all amazed by how much Bruce gets done. One of the reasons is, people help him, and Lee is one of them. He edits people’s poems for publication, and he deals with publishers. And that’s good. And now I’m gonna help with the editing. I wanna help ‘Wonder Words.’ But Lee’s no angel. He’s kinda a playboy, or he thinks he is, anyway. And, lemme just say, I don’t trust him, or . . . I don’t know anything really negative about him, but I can’t tell you why, but I don’t like him.” 

I said only two words, “Thank you,” but my meaning and feelings went a lot deeper than those two words.

“So, your writing,” she said. “I get the idea it’s going like gangbusters. And that’s great. But I just wanna tell you a tough lesson I learned.”

“Sure, I’m all ears.” 

Faith took her time. “When my poems started to click, and I knew zilch about the process of writing, when I thought I was on the right track, I used to tell people what I wanted to say. I used to say, ‘Hey, can I tell you what I’m gonna say?’ And then I realized, when I sat down to write, I just didn’t have any energy left. It was gone. I explained it all, and I shouldda been writing on my own. What I did was, I used up my creative energy by just blabbing about it. I hurt myself and what I was trying to create.”

She stopped, to give me a chance to think her words over. 

I said, “I never thought of it that way. Sometimes, I’m so enthusiastic, and I wanna share that with someone, like you. But I understand; I can see it, I really can.”

“And then sometimes,” she went on, “I would tell my little story and use up my creative energy, and someone would say, ‘You know what? I see it different.’ And then they’d tell me their idea. I would listen politely, and then somehow, I don’t know why, I’d lose track about what I wanted to say in the beginning. It shouldn’t happen, but I just lost my ideas, poof, like that.”

Another pause, then she said, “It’s not that they’re bad people. It’s not that they’re trying to make you fail, it’s just that it’s natural for people to want to talk or show how they have ideas, too.” 

Then she studied me for a second. “But like I say, that’s just me talking. Like I say, it’s personal.” 

I said, “But what if I like hearing what other people have to say? What if that stimulates me?”

“Sure, it’s a personal decision, it has to be. And for some people maybe it’s right. But I really believe you have to know what you want to say and fight like crazy and suffer to get there.” 

She had conviction in her eyes and voice. “And there’s something else. When you recited your poem, like I told you, it was great. It was you. You convinced people that you were that guy. And I been telling you, you do have a power, a power to take on another persona. You don’t need what other people think, at least not until you’ve written everything you got into your work.”

“You know, this is all new to me,” I admitted. “But you’re right. When I wrote it, it all just came outta me.”

“I know. I know because that happens to me,” she said. “But back at Gertie’s, I didn’t believe it. I saw people congratulating you. Well, people came over to me, too. They really got into your poem; they really felt it. I think the only person that didn’t like it was Lee, Lee Stanhope. That’s his problem. We’re poets; we don’t compete with each other. 

“Anyway, when I was talking to Bruce, I told him I thought your poem would be great in the next ‘Wonder Words’ collection.” Faith was starting to smile. “He said you’re a good guy, and he trusts you. Anyway, he’s gonna let me know if he can fit your poem into the collection. So, is it okay with you? If he can, and if you agree, I’d like to write a little preface to your poem.”

It hit me. I realized what it meant. Faith was right. I understood. I have to have faith in what I have, and I have to use it and share it. “That’d be wonderful. You have my permission. Anything you want, thank you so much.”

Over dinner in my kitchen, Faith talked about her childhood. She told me she was raised in Cincinnati, actually in the neighborhood of Hyde Park. What was interesting to me is that her childhood was so far from the direction her life took later. Hyde Park, as she explained, was very up-scale. Big, expensive homes, superior schools, and the place even had a classy country club. 

“It’s so unexpected, but maybe inevitable at the same time,” Faith said. “My family was all business. It was like my Dad, all he thought about was business, how he could succeed at business.”

Faith’s father owned an appliance store, and his main concern was maintaining profit margins, especially since he was witnessing the growth of the major chains that had the power to push small independents out of business. Still, for the time being the family had a comfortable life. Her mother was a homemaker who took running the family very seriously.

“But then, guess what!” she said. “My interests, my passions went in the opposite direction, and from that moment on, I couldn’t change.”

Faith’s first interest in literature, including poetry, was awakened by one English teacher in middle school. When she spoke about Mr. French (Yes, that was his real name!), she spoke very fondly of him. He suggested novels and collections of poetry to her, and he even lent her volumes from his personal library. He was the person who suggested that she keep a journal to record her thoughts and her first efforts at poetry. 

Bad luck hit the Gruen family. It was forced to move to a different neighborhood – Avondale – when Faith began high school because Gruen’s Appliances filed for bankruptcy. Faith didn’t find the same support at her new high school. But, rather than give up, she drove herself to read and write more than ever. Then, because she had published several poems, earned excellent grades and wrote an outstanding application essay, she was admitted to the small, liberal-arts Haverford College, in Philadelphia’s suburbs, on a full scholarship. She studied English while discovering poetry venues in the city. 

“Faith, your stories, your life, it’s all so important,” I told her. “Look at what I did. I didn’t follow my love in my career. I gave up and followed the money. But Patrick, he’s brave and organized. And he’s following his love. I think of my son so much. I’m proud of him, watching him work so hard to succeed.”

After dinner, we returned to the living room, and this time we ended up together on one couch. Maybe Faith was paying attention, but her light summer dress rose to her thighs. I watched, and then I put my arm around her, and she moved up against me. Then she turned her face toward me and kissed me on the cheek. 

She smiled. “El, wanna try something different?” 

“Right now, I’ll do whatever you want.” 

“Well, I don’t know a polite way to say this, but the timing’s not great. It’s just that Mother Nature is in charge of some things, and she doesn’t have to compromise.”

I didn’t understand, and I was sure my face just went blank.

“El, you silly. It’s my period. But I have another idea. You ready? You ready to try something different?”

I didn’t hesitate. “Sure.”

She became serious. “First let me ask you something. I’ll bet this won’t be a problem, ‘cause you’re a neat kinda person. Anything in your bedroom you don’t want me to see?”

“You got me all figured out. Either that, or I been well trained. But no, it’s . . kinda neat. And even, the bed’s made.” 

Faith rose from the couch and then took my hand. I pushed myself up from the couch, and we mounted the stairs and walked slowly to my bedroom. There, I pulled back the covers. Then, Faith sat on the edge of the bed and removed her shoes, only her shoes.

She raised her legs, scooted over to the center of the bed, lay back and raised her arms to me.

 I did exactly what she did and took my place next to her.

Except for our shoes, we were totally dressed. We faced each other, and we reached around each other, and we held each other. We just held each other, practically without moving, without talking.

In the beginning, it was strange. I felt Faith’s body against mine. Her breasts were soft. I pressed against her and I could feel the delicate roundness of her stomach. The light fabric of her summer dress had risen up onto her thighs, and I could feel their perfection against my old, withering self. 

Yes, there was a sexual tie. Yes, we did kiss each other, a lot, actually. Our bodies were pressed together, and I felt desire for her as we held onto each other, for dear life. But then there was a change. 

I moved just a bit to look. Her eyes were closed, and her breathing was even. Her red lips were formed into a slight smile, and there was a contentment in her expression. 

And what we felt went beyond the sexual; it was so much more. The physical excitement evaporated. I didn’t try, it just happened. I didn’t consciously focus. Thoughts came to me of everything Faith was giving me, her ideas, her guidance, her warmth and affection without complication, so much. 

Then there was a change. It was like I was in a mist, in a dream, and there was a wave of a new feeling, a feeling of sharing of our spirits and our love, and I felt we were coming together. We were both giving of ourselves, and we felt a complete trust and confidence in each other. Something was happening between our minds and our bodies. It’s hard to define. It was like a total connection, a binding, a union between two humans, and then we were one. 

We stayed like that for a long time, I lost track of time. 

And then, at some point, I could feel Faith kind of wiggling and then shaking herself. 

Finally, I heard her voice, soft but coaxing. “El, we have to end. I felt you; I felt your giving. I felt your openness. You didn’t hold back. But now, we have to end.” 

Whatever it was, I was coming out of it. “It was wonderful. I can’t explain it. Faith, I never felt . . . I never felt like this before. Maybe it was like an out-of-body experience for two, but more. I can’t explain it.”

She breathed the words out. “El, you have a power within you. Our powers touched and merged. I will always hold you dear.” 

I noticed that Faith had tears in the corners of her eyes.

She said, “I have to go. I made some promises I wanna keep. I promised to help with the editing of the new ‘Wonder Words’ collection. I gotta get up so early. Let’s call each other tomorrow. Please! You know, you know I wanna stay, but I can’t.”

We both got up, and Faith glanced in the mirror, fluffed up her hair with her fingers, and pulled on her shoes. I watched her. I wished the world were different and I were many years younger.

We went downstairs, and Faith grabbed her red jacket. At the front door, we held each other for a few moments, and then we separated and looked at each other. 

We both had tears in our eyes. 

 I wanted to walk her home, but she insisted on taking an Uber. We waited, and it was stiff and uncomfortable. When we saw the car’s lights outside in the street, she left. 

I was alone again.

But that night will remain in my memory as long as I live. 

-0-

Now, no matter where I was or what I was doing, my thoughts followed me around like my shadow. For the last few days, I couldn’t get those two police detectives, Buckley and Boswell, out of my mind. Now, my most important goal was to take control of my life. I didn’t want to be a pawn of the Philadelphia Police Department and keep wondering what those two would try to do to me next. I believed it, just what Rebecca said: those two detectives were trying to blame me for Faith’s murder. No, not blame, they were trying to prove that I killed Faith! How could they? I knew I had to be smart and find a way to save myself. 

I realized that I was in a fight for survival. But, at the same time, I was tied to the past. My memories of Faith kept playing over and over in my mind. Our time together, yes, it was wonderful. And when I thought of love, of course I thought of Faith. When I was with her or thought about her, she took control of my mind. I was living the moment, and every moment with her was immediate. 

And now she was gone, and now I was still mourning for the terror and pain I knew she suffered and for what I lost. And I kept asking myself, was I so involved in our pleasure that I didn’t think about what was best for her, or what I could do for her? Yes, she must have needed something from me, but I just kept thinking that I received so much more than I gave. What could I have done? I didn’t know. And I ask myself over and over: Why did Faith have to die?