[guide.chat] chapter four in mysterious ways
- From: vanessa <qwerty1234567a@xxxxxxxxx>
- To: "GUIDE CHAT" <guide.chat@xxxxxxxxxxxxx>
- Date: Wed, 13 Mar 2013 11:26:08 -0000
IN MYSTERIOUS WAYS
Chapter 4
On the surface, things didn't change very much after Peter had left, at least
not during the day - I just spent more time talking with Ilse. But at night I
could do nothing to divert my thoughts. I missed him so much. I missed his
presence, and the warm feeling it gave me to know he would soon be with me
again. Our evenings together were gone, and the nights we had spent in each
other's arms. I missed these nights. And his love I missed most of all.
But I told myself that his love was still with me as it would always be, strong
as ever, just as strong as my love was for him. Nothing could tear us apart.
We belonged together - forever. He knew it as well as I did and had frequently
told me. I only had to wait a few weeks and he would be with me again, this
time forever. I just had to be patient and wait.
I knew it would be a while until I'd get his first letter, as Peter would visit
my mother before writing to me. I had to be patient. So I waited, until
finally after almost two weeks his first letter came. I was so excited and
happy. To read it in private and without interruption I went to my bedroom,
wanting to be alone, to bask for a while in the love we shared.
Peter's letter began formally and with no special endearments, which had never
happened before. 'Dear Trudi,' he wrote. 'I have visited your mother, and
still can't believe what has happened.' My heart skipped a beat, dropping from
my chest to my stomach as a terrible dread filled me, turning to horror, as I
read on. The gist of the letter was that my mother had not believed Peter, and
she had not believed what I wrote in my letter to her. She tore it to pieces,
saying it proved nothing: I could have written this letter under duress. She
had shouted at Peter, calling him horrible names, accusing him of selling me,
to be forced into prostitution: somewhere in the orient perhaps where white
girls brought big sums of money. Then my mother told him to go, or my brother,
who had taken part in it all, stirring her fire, would throw him out
physically. She threatened to take further action; he needn't think he got
away with his crime.
Peter had no option but to leave, as everything he said increased her anger and
made matters worse. My mother was absolutely crazy, he wrote. He really
tried, but there was no reasoning with her in any way whatsoever.
But worse was to come. My mother had gone to the police. They must have
believed her accusations, because they came looking for him. In the middle of
the night with sirens blowing and alarm lights flashing, the police drove
through the quiet night into the respectable street where Peter lived with his
respectable well to do parents. This would have been bad enough, but his
father had just returned home from hospital after a heart attack. Still very
poorly, he needed quiet and peace. He had a great shock when the police rapped
on the door, and, showing their search-warrants, pushed their way in. They
ransacked the flat, looking for evidence that Peter was responsible for my
abduction.
My mother seemed to have claimed he'd sold Ilse too, and possibly other girls.
One officer even implied that Peter was involved in drug dealing, and the flat
was searched thoroughly. They didn't listen to anything Peter said, and
ignored the need of a very sick man for quiet and peace.
When nothing was found, the police had finally left.
My mother was absolutely mad and should be in a lunatic asylum, so Peter ended
his letter, adding he was absolutely furious and didn't know what to do. His
parents wanted him to break up with me because of my crazy vindictive family,
and he understood them only too well. He had to consider his parents; they had
supported him in everything he had ever done. They were livid, not only at me
but at him too, for being involved with me. He didn't know what to do.
Love Peter, he ended his letter. Otherwise he wrote nothing else, nothing else
at all.
I was stunned and just sat there, perhaps for a long time. I must have been in
shock, because I just sat there on my bed, unable to make sense of it all.
Eventually Ilse came looking for me.
"What's wrong, Trudi?" she asked, after one look at my face. Silently I gave
her the letter. When she finished reading, Ilse sat down by my side without
saying a word either, as if she too couldn't believe what had happened. How
could my mother do this? And even if she had gone to the police, why had they
believed her? The whole thing was totally absurd: it was crazy, bizarre. Even
if the police in Vienna had considered my mother's accusation possible, could
they not at least have checked with the authorities here? We were registered
as Au Pairs, and Jane was on the phone. Peter had explained all this to Mama,
and I had written it down in my letter. She'd had my address all the time. If
she had given it to the police, none of this would have happened.
I didn't know what to do. But what could I do? I couldn't even phone Peter.
His parents were on the phone, but it was unlikely that he was the one who
would answer it. And if his father or mother did, they would hardly let me
talk to him. And what could I say to them? And worse - what would they say to
me? I knew them well, having spent many Sunday lunches with Peter at their
home. I'd never really been comfortable, always having the feeling of being
judged and found wanting somehow, suspecting his parents didn't really approve
of me and thought I wasn't quite good enough for their son, although they had
never been anything but polite and vaguely friendly. Now, after what had
happened, they would never listen to any apology I could make, but likely just
put the receiver down on me - if not first expressing their anger. No, I did
not have the courage to phone them. All I could do was to write back to Peter.
But what should I write? I felt so hurt, so deeply wounded as if I'd received
a physical blow, as if someone had hit me hard in my stomach. Yes, I was angry
and upset at my mother. How could she do this? But there was more hurt and
anger inside of me, and it was directed at Peter. He had not written one nice
word in his letter, not one word of endearment, not one word even to comfort
me. I could understand he was furious with my mother, but he also seemed so
angry with me. Although he didn't blame me directly, the blame was there all
the same - hidden, but not hidden enough - or he would at least have written he
loved me, as he always had in every letter before. And he would have written
that he couldn't wait to be with me again. He would have assured me, that
together we'd weather this storm somehow, in spite of my mother and his
parents. Instead he wrote he didn't know what to do. He had not written one
loving word - not even a kind one. That was why I felt so stunned, so
betrayed, and so deeply wounded.
It wasn't my fault. How could he blame me for what had happened, for what my
mother had done? It had been he, who insisted on visiting her - I had voiced
my objections. I had told him how difficult my mother could be. My life at
home had been hell and he knew it - I had told him about it. And now he blamed
me for my mother's behaviour!
I had not asked him to visit her. Against my advice he had insisted, saying he
would use his diplomacy and charm. Well, had he used it? Obviously not enough
or he would not have failed. I did not blame him for that, knowing Mama and
how she could be. But to write that my mother should be in a lunatic asylum,
that was still hurtful. Did he not consider my feelings? In spite of what she
had done, she was still my mother. Didn't he think of my feelings at all?
I was not only hurt and angry now, I was furious.
Talking with Ilse did not really help because she tried calming me down, saying
Peter's reaction was understandable. He was very close with his parents, they
had supported him through university, and even later, when he had gone into
business and times had been tough. He owned them a lot.
I remained silent, because even my friend did not understand and tried making
excuses for Peter. But although I stayed quiet, one part inside of me
screamed: and what about me? Most of my life I had suffered one way or another
because of my mother. What about me? If my lover wouldn't stand by me, and
didn't consider my feelings - then what? But I couldn't think any further,
refusing to bring this thought to its logical conclusion. Instead I started
writing my letter to him.
Dear Peter, it began. I would be as formal as he was. But I did apologise for
my mother and for what she had done. And I said I was sorry about what had
happened with the police, and that his father was so ill and had been subjected
to this ordeal. But then I couldn't help myself but point out, that none of it
was my doing, that it was he, who had visited my mother, against my advice,
convinced he could charm her with his diplomacy. Did he not consider my
feelings at all when he said my mother should be in a lunatic asylum? Whatever
had happened and whatever she did, she was still my mother.
And I ended my letter exactly as he had, with just two words: love Trudi.
I sealed the envelope, addressed it and put a stamp on it. Then I went
straight out to post it before I could change my mind.
And now our letters began changing my life drastically, because they were the
beginning of the end of it all, the end of my life with Peter, and the end of
our future together.
Ilse advised me to be patient, and to wait: he would never leave me, our love
was too strong. I knew she was right in a way. But I could not ignore my own
feelings, my own hurt. I had suffered in different ways all my life, because
of my mother - well, to be fair, only until I left home. After that, she had
little influence over me and no power - or so I thought. And now this!
But my lover should have been on my side and not have blamed me. He should
still have written all the tender loving words he always wrote in his letters -
or, given the circumstances, at least some of them. And he should have assured
me of his love and that nothing would change between us. And he might have
considered what my life had been like with such a mother, and the difficulties
I had endured. Instead he'd turned against me, and only considered himself and
his family.
In his next letter Peter responded to my innuendo about not having been as
diplomatic as he might have been, and he responded with anger. And, resenting
that I had reminded him she was still my mother whatever she had done, Peter
wrote, she was stark staring mad, as was my brother who had done his best to
make everything worse. Perhaps these negative traits might run in the family,
and we ought to consider they could come out in our children.
Instead of appreciating he still thought of having children with me, I was
resentful, upset and angry, especially about the madness running in our family.
My mother was not really mad; she'd had a terrible life, bringing us up alone
during and after the war, especially as she was ill most of the time. She was
twisted, and bitter, and got things out of perspective. But she was not mad.
As I read his letter a second time, I got even more hurt and upset, and very
angry indeed. In this state I wrote back, and the gist of my letter was:
concerning the madness in my family coming out in our children, he need not
worry, because I would never have children with him. When I finished this
letter, I sealed it and posted it straight away, knowing, it was over. This
was goodbye. Goodbye to my dreams - to my happiness - and to my love.
This was the end, at least for the time being. No more letters came, and I did
not write either. It was over. And I told myself it was just as well, because
I did not want Peter to come back to me, even if I was hurting like hell.
Having been lumped together with my mother and brother had been too much; it
had injured me too deeply. He didn't consider what I was feeling at all.
The worst for me was: that he had not stood by me. I had done nothing. I had
been here in England waiting for him to come back, so we could get married. It
was he who was over there in Vienna - he was involved in it all. But he blamed
me for it.
I would not share my life with a man who didn't stand beside me, and didn't
support me when things got tough. It was over - had to be over, it was better
so. I did not want him back - ever.
But whatever I thought or decided made no difference. I still kept hurting
like hell.
from
Vanessa The Google Girl.
my skype name is rainbowstar123
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