After that therapy session, I went for a long walk. It was bitterly cold. The sky was white, and the clouds heavy. It looked like it might snow. I walked all the way from Primrose Hill to Lana’s house in Mayfair.
I needed to burn off nervous energy. I needed to think—about me; and the kid, trapped in my head.
I pictured him, small and afraid, shivering; languishing undeveloped, undernourished—chained up in the dungeon of my mind. As I walked, all kinds of memories started coming back to me. All these injustices; the cruelties I had deliberately forgotten—all the things he endured.
I made a promise to the kid, there and then. A pledge, a commitment—call it what you will. From now on, I would listen to him, I would look after him. He wasn’t ugly, or stupid, or worthless. Or unloved. He was loved, for Christ’s sake—I loved him.
From now on, I would be the parent he needed—too late, I know, but better late than never. And this time, I’d bring him up properly.
As I walked, I glanced down—and there he was, the little boy, walking by my side. He was struggling to keep up, so I slowed down.
I reached out and held his hand.
It’s okay, I whispered. Everything’s okay now. I’m here. You’re safe, I promise.
* * *
I arrived at Lana’s house, shivering with cold, just as it started to snow. No one was home but Lana. We sat by the fire, drinking whiskey, watching the snow fall outside. I told her about my—I don’t know what the right word is—epiphany, shall we call it?
It took me a while to explain it all to her. As I spoke, I struggled with the fear I wouldn’t be able to make myself understood. But I needn’t have worried. As Lana listened, and the snow fell, it was the first time I ever saw her cry.
We both cried that night. I told her all my secrets—almost all—and Lana told me hers. All the dark secrets we were both so ashamed of, all the horrors we believed had to be kept hidden—they all came tumbling out that night, with no shame, no judgment, no self-consciousness—just openness, just truth.
It felt like the first real conversation I’d ever had with another human being. I don’t know how to describe it—for the first time, I felt alive. Not performing at life, you understand, not pretending, not faking it, not almost living … but just living.
This was also the first time I glimpsed the other Lana—the secret person she kept hidden from the world, and whom I had not wanted to find. Now I discovered her, in all her naked vulnerability, as I heard the truth about her childhood: about that sad, lonely girl, and the terrible things that happened to her. I heard the truth about Otto and the frightening years of their marriage. It seemed he was just one in a long line of men to treat her badly.
I swore to myself that I would be different. I’d be the exception. I would protect Lana, cherish her, love her. I’d never betray her. I’d never let her down.
I reached out, across the couch, and squeezed her hand.
“I love you,” I said.
“I love you, too.”
Our words hung in the air like smoke.
I leaned forward, still holding on to her hand—as, ever so slowly, staring into her eyes, I inched closer, and closer … until our faces met.
My lips were against hers.
I kissed her, gently, on the lips.
It was the sweetest kiss I’d ever known. So innocent, so tender—so full of love.
* * *
Over the next few days, I spent a lot of time thinking about that kiss, and what it meant. It seemed like a final acknowledgment of the long-standing tension between us—the fulfillment of an ancient unspoken promise.
It was, as Mr. Valentine Levy might have put it, the conclusion of a deeply cherished goal on my part. And what was that goal?
To be loved, of course. I finally felt loved.
Lana and I were meant to be together. This was clear to me now. This was deeper than anything I ever imagined.
This was my destiny.
8
I’m going to tell you something I’ve never told anyone.
I was going to ask Lana to marry me.
I understood now, you see—that’s where we had been heading, all this time; drifting, slowly but surely, into romantic territory. Maybe not great flames of passion, which, by the way, blow cold as fast as they blow hot. I mean a slow, steady burning ember of true, deep affection and mutual respect. That’s what lasts. That’s love.
Lana and I were now spending almost every second of the day together. The next step, it seemed to me—the logical progression—was for me to move out of Barbara West’s house, and to move in with Lana. For us to get married and live happily ever after.