Sarah is eight years old. She has five thousand friends. She looks good in knit hats. She has an air of self confidence that is not contrived, and is not worked for.
When I first met Sarah, I was broken. I moved into her old room. I rented the room from a man that I met on an internet dating site. I bought a TV from him, but we never dated. Even though the site was called “OK Cupid,” I had no idea that Roger would be one of my saving angels. He’s a beautiful man with perfect red hair. He smiles all the time. He’s a part time misogynist. He loves to talk about his sexual escapades, and with me, he has a captive audience. According to Roger, he really knows how to satisfy a woman. This amazes me, because I can’t imagine him touching me. The very thought of it, makes my skin crawl the way it would if you tried to think about having sex with a sibling.
One night, I announced I was going to bed. “Want me to come with you?” he winks. “If you do,” I said, “I’ll beat you to death with chains.” Roger laughs. He rolls over on the couch and in less than a minute, I can hear him snoring. It is the most beautiful sound in the world to me.
I’ve lived here for three months now and I’ve never seen Roger angry. I absolutely love him. I am the Wendy to his Peter Pan. We exchange thimbles instead of kisses. I clean up and fold the laundry. He calls me “Haus Frau” or “Frau” for short. If I talk too much about my feelings, he tells me, “Lighten the fuck up, Frau.” Roger’s the big brother I never had. He farts in front of me and sometimes forgets to close the bathroom door. “I’m in here, Frau, don’t come in,” he says. The gastric stench from the bathroom is a guarantee I won’t enter and see his naked bottom. He texts me at least five times a day; wants to know when I’ll be coming home; wants to know if I want spaghetti for dinner. When I come home late from work and don’t call ahead, I think he worries.
We share our hopes and fears with each other. I trust him more than any other man and I don’t betray his confidences. I don’t tell his women about the others. Roger says that quality plus my cleaning his bathroom has scored me points. For Christmas he gave me a bag of pancake mix, soup mix, and pot roast mix. “I’m sensing a theme here,” I say, and Roger laughs. He loves to eat. He hides candy in a bowl above the stove but then will share it when I’m sitting at the kitchen counter staring out the window. He knows I’m sad and he lets me be sad. He tells me that men are assholes because women put up with their shit. “Don’t take any shit, Frau,” he says. Then he leaves a sink full of dishes for me to wash.
Sarah is his daughter. She is loved and not spoiled. I sleep in her princess room. Sarah’s room is now next to mine. “I hate princesses,” she says. “Why don’t you like them anymore?” I asked. “Uh, Trish, I grew up.” She says with authority. Sarah’s room is cool. It has brightly colored graphics on the bed spread. Her artwork hangs on the wall. She has a drawing of fireworks that she made in marker. It has crazy colorful lines all over it. She is proud of all that she does. She has a collection of horse statues on a shelf. She made a booby trap at her window. It is a string with a jingle bell dangling from it. Should any burglar attempt to enter by that window, the jingle bell will wake Sarah up. She will sit in bed and watch with delight as they make that jingly sound and then trip over all the crap she has put in the way. The coup de grâce is when they hit their head on a strategically placed lamp. Voilà! That criminal will leave and never return! I love this plan. I wish I had the energy to make booby traps.
I left Florida and made my way to Roger’s house after reading a letter I found addressed to a 23 year old woman in prison. “My Dearest Princess,” it began. The letter went on about the unfolding of passion and love from the pen of my boyfriend. These were words I had longed to hear from the man who authored the letter, but never did. This man who once said he loved me and then borrowed a thousand dollars from me. My Dearest Princess. When I found the letter, my heart actually stopped for a second or two. Four pages (I didn’t even know he could write) of unrequited love. I went numb. The pain washed over me like a tsunami. I was sinking and I didn’t know what to do. So I hung on tight. I was grasping at a snake for a life line. The tighter I hung on, the more he recoiled, fangs ready. And I did get bit. Repeatedly. I didn’t even suck out the poison; I just let it fester until I was unrecognizable.
I packed what would fit into my Jeep and left Florida. I moved back home — back to New England. I was running for my life. I was running as fast as I could. I was running from myself. From my stupidity. From my past. From all the abuse that ever happened to me and culminated in this one, deadly nine month relationship. Oh, it was all too easy to blame this one guy. No one person could take the hit for a lifetime of abuse and the imploding that was taking place in my tiny soul. I couldn’t breathe and I drove through a tropical storm to get out of Florida. I could feel my world crumbling behind me. From the rear view mirror I looked back sure I would turn into some pillar of salt. I could feel salt crystals forming on my toes. And I broke. Finally.
I moved to Providence and I met Roger. I bought his TV, and when I needed a cheap place to live he offered to rent me a room. “You get to be a princess again,” he said, as he showed me my room. There was a canopy bed with white Provincial furniture. Butterflies dangled from a pastel ceiling fan. There were white sheer curtains with lacy flowers that floated on them and a night light that had butterflies dancing on it. A princess again. I had never been a princess. This would be the first time for me. I lay on the juvenile bed and stared at the ceiling. Tears flowed as I rolled into a ball and let my heart leak out.
Sarah comes into my room. “Hey, don’t miss out on the fun!” She is wearing a white coat with a fur hood. She has on a blue knit cap and pink snow pants. I amble down the stairs. It is snowing! We go outside and she throws a snowball at me. She shows me how to sled down the hill in the snow tube. We make snow angels and a snow fort. She tells me that when she’s old enough for a boyfriend, he will have to be able to do these things. She is already setting criteria. I make a mental note. Set criteria.
We go inside for cocoa and cookies. Our cheeks are pink and our hands are numb. Our clothes are wet and have ice hanging from them. We play “Mad Libs” and laugh with wild abandon. We watch a fantasy movie: A Griffin picks up a child and flies him above the countryside. “Ah, Griffin,” Sarah says to me in a breathy whisper, “the only way to travel.” I am looking at this girl who is standing before the big screen TV. She stands on long spindly legs, feet planted firmly apart, with arms wide open. She closes her eyes. She raises her hands, palms upward. She is flying. I am sure that she has traveled by Griffin before. When I ask her, she rolls her eyes and says I am a “doof.” She says this with love and affection. We make up a secret code and write each other letters. In secret code, she says I am a “doof.” We’re friends.
Sarah is developing traditions and rituals and she tells me about them. I am welcome to participate in these traditions and make up a few for myself. She takes life in stride, balancing work and play. She is not afraid to close her eyes and let a Griffin fly her around. Sarah plays fair. She is real and authentic. Roger protects her like an Irish Pit Bull. Nobody is going to hurt this princess. Ever. I love Roger all the more for this. No bad men can come in. Ever.
I lay my big body on this princess bed every night. I cover myself with the soft white downy comforter and place my head on the billowy princess pillows. Maybe, like Sarah, I’ll grow up and not need this room. But right now, I need to heal. I need to look at the butterflies on the ceiling and wait for the rushing tide of pain to stop. I need to travel by Griffin.
As I drift into sleep, I softly whisper “My dearest princess.” Some day I may even believe it.