Santa Was Suspect

Santa was suspect. But Christmas was a time of snow, music, long magical nights, wondrous ventures, and the anticipation of Santa—if, in fact, he was real. But, at age nine, I was still willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. After all, he’d brought me presents before and I’d been good (mostly) so there wasn’t any reason to think he’d just give up on me.

The magic began around Thanksgiving when we looked for the first snowfall that would last, rather than the half-hearted squalls that flirted with winter. Snow lent fairy-dust glitter to a season of anticipation and excitement.

Immediately after Thanksgiving, the town would put up the life-size crèche on the Village Green and the lush green wreaths with big, bright red bows that adorned the lamp posts through town. They’d also adorn the tall, sweeping pine tree on the Green with colored lights and on the first Saturday in December there would be a tree lighting ceremony, hot chocolate, cookies, and lots of singing. I loved to sing.

In those days, I was in a hurry to grow up so that I could join the fun of caroling door to door. At nine, I was a bit young. But I reveled in the thrill of hearing carols sung outside our door. It was always a thrill to open the door to the joyous tones of carols sung in four-part harmony. Music was always a feature of Christmas. Whether it was carols, secular Christmas songs, The Nutcracker, or classical, music always played a major role.

School continued, unfettered by the accumulating snow. I loved school and I loved Mrs. Edding, my fourth grade teacher. She loved owls…and banging on the front of her desk with a ruler to get the boys’ attention. Most of my closest friends were in the multi-age class, but because I “needed structure,” I was placed in a traditional class setting with other fourth grade kids—almost all of whom I’d known since nursery school, but none I felt particularly close to. I saw my best friends at recess when our schedules aligned.

The merry-go-round was our favorite: we’d talk a little, laugh a lot, and then spin the merry-go-round as fast as we could, hanging on for dear life with both hands and preferably a leg or two wrapped around one of the many metal bars. Snow nullified the treads on our boots and transformed the textured, metal floor into a slick, glossy surface. Our smooth, swishy-sounding snow pants offered no grip, neither did our woolen mittens, so hanging on was a full-contact sport.

Outside of school, my friends and I elevated the art of snow forts. Rather than a mound to throw snowballs from, we built caves to crawl into. My front yard became a blueprint where my friends and I built low walls and mapped out a house. We were bundled so tightly that the ability to bend arms and legs were hampered: we resembled thick stick figures rather than children at play. Woe betide anyone who laughed too hard because the need to pee would quickly overtake the agility to extract oneself from the fetters of snow pants, coat, and boots.

Christmas was always a mixture of secular and sacred. My family were Episcopalians and we went to church every Sunday. Advent only served to heighten our excitement—four weeks of anticipation, building slowly, day by day, a month that seemed never ending. Mum would bring out the Advent wreath with its four purple candles and set it on the dining table. One purple candle was lit for each Sunday in Advent. In the center was the brass, Swedish angel chimes. I loved the soft glow of its tiny candles and the gentle, rhythmic tinging of its chimes.

We had electric candles in the front picture windows and the Christmas tree in the corner of the living room, at the opposite end of the fireplace. But on the mantle, was our crèche. Setting up the crèche with Dad was always a treat. Our crèche was not a complete set and was creatively supplemented with figures my folks had come across.

We had Mary and the three wise men, but baby Jesus had come from some other set because he was more than half her size. The wise men had gifts in hand and were followed by three camels they had used to cross the desert, following the star—a huge, shiny, silver star that had once been a tree ornament. We had sheep, cows, and a couple of monkeys, one of which always rode a camel and the other, with his arm raised, followed behind berating his camel for making him walk. This parade of mammals was complete with a zookeeper holding a rake and frozen mid-stoke—well, someone had to clean up the dung. But the kicker was Joseph.

Joseph looked like an old sea captain. He was dressed in black with a Greek fisherman-style cap and a yellow neckerchief. He was molded in a sitting position, which is why Mary, Big Jesus, the sheep, and cows were all on a make-shift stage, so that Joseph could sit on the edge, down stage right. Joseph, with pipe in hand, was obviously deep in conversation. But with whom? In our family, it was obvious: Joseph was talking to a panda.

Christmas at church wasn’t just for adults. Almost all the children were in the pageant. Frannie Faulks, bless her, took on the duties of herding kids, ages three to 15, into a loose performance of the Christmas story. The quality of our performances varied, given our ages and each actor’s proclivity to exuberance or stage fright. I longed to play Mary, but alas, at age nine I was still an angel with a lopsided halo on a stick and wings of wire and gauze. My role was simple. Enter from stage right and stand there until the end, when we sang Silent Night. I thought we were being serious, but with the younger angels romping all over the set and the little ones who wept, upstaging shepherds, wise men, and Mary, the audience couldn’t keep silent with their fits of laughter.

Dark, December nights were filled with awe and wonder, especially on nights with a full moon. The Wilcoxs lived next door. They had three girls, Kathy, Lori, and Beth, who was just a baby. I was close friends with Lori. Mr. Wilcox had a snowmobile and had fitted a wagon sled to ride behind. In that wagon sled, he fit four girls: Kathy, Lori, me, and my sister, Heather. We four clambered in, muffled in snowsuits, mitts, scarves, and hats and then we were covered with blankets.

When we were finally settled, Mr. Wilcox would drive his snowmobile with us in tow across the length of his backyard to where the little patch of wetlands had frozen over, through Mr. Trask’s cow field, and onto the golf course where the snow was fresh, save for a few packed trails left by snowmobiles. The rush of ice-cold wind stung our cheeks and lips and often stole our breath, but the stars shone as brilliantly in the sky as diamonds glittered in the moonlit snow. Those nights were cold, but soft, and gave me a moment to feel the fullness of winter’s glory before the excitement and anticipation of Santa’s visit reclaimed my attention.

After those nighttime excursions, we’d enter the house with rosy cheeks and laughter and were often greeted with mugs of hot chocolate. Together with Mum, Heather and I would open another door on the advent calendar Mother had made. On those nights, Christmas was a feeling and in stolen, quiet moments, it was the wonder of stars and moonlight on snow—being surrounded by twinkling, diamonds above and across untouched blankets of white.

My parents always believed that Christmas was for the children, but Boxing Day was for the adults. Mum and Dad put on a big spread on Boxing Day. It was virtually an open house for friends and Colgate University colleagues. One week out, Mum would fill a 5-gallon bucket with Sherry Manhattans, complete with orange slices that floated lazily at the surface. She’d cover it with plastic film and set it on the stair in the garage to keep cool while it marinated. Mum would make dozens and dozens and dozens of tarts (once, an astonishing 12 dozen!), all of which usually sat in the kitchen on top of the washing machine and dryer—right at eye level. Strawberry, blueberry, mincemeat, and butter tarts—none of which Heather and I were allowed to eat until December 26. The dozens that covered every flat surface in the kitchen were an exercise in restraint, but it wasn’t easy. It was the Yuletide season, after all, and we’d beg ourselves blue for a strawberry tart.

Finally, the day would arrive—Christmas Eve. After an entire month or more of anticipation, music, Christmas television specials, and presents accumulating under the tree, Heather and I were squirming. We were ushered off to bed and somehow managed to fall asleep despite the sugar high of dessert and the excitement of Christmas morning. I left Santa a note that night. I placed it right beside his milk and cookies (curiously egg-free, he must have an egg allergy like Dad). I flat out asked Santa if he was real.

After Heather and I fell asleep, my folks would leave for church—they were in the choir and sang at the service of lessons and carols at ten and then the midnight service, which began at 11. After the midnight service, there was often a party—a small gathering of church members, mostly choir members, but not all. After the party, however, was Mum’s time to wrap presents. Heather and I were blissfully unaware of being alone in the house, of the after-hours party, and of Mum’s clandestine wrapping, which would often take her close to dawn—exactly when Heather and I woke up. We were too excited to sleep longer and, having gone to bed around 8, we were slept out.

But there were rules: we all had to go downstairs together, and Heather and I couldn’t wake our parents until the sun was up. The latter was debated every Christmas morning for we were often awake at first light and, in Central New York, the sun doesn’t always pour gloriously (or obviously) through the windows. Heather and I shared a room and for years we had whispered conversations about whether it was light enough. When we deemed it was, we shot out of bed, crossed the hall, flung open our parents’ bedroom door, jumped on the bed, and wished them, “Merry Christmas!” louder and most certainly sooner than they’d have liked. We then had to wait an eternity for our parents to get out of bed, go to the bathroom, brush their teeth, get their robes, and find their slippers before we could make our way downstairs. Then, we had to wait for their coffee to brew before we opened the door to the living room.

After that, it was barely controlled pandemonium as Heather and I dumped out our stockings. We had the usual favorites: a “book” of Lifesavers and Cherry Blossom candies—a Canadian chocolate we adored­. Then, it was on to the brightly wrapped boxes that awaited us under the tinseled tree with its blinking, colored lights. Dad would play a record of carols or sacred Christmas music on the stereo—background music—as we kids tore into the presents Santa had left us.

I checked on the letter I’d written Santa. The cookies were half eaten and there was a little milk left in the glass. My letter still lay beside the plate. But he’d left me a note, written on my letter. In red ink, he’d written, “Ho, ho, ho.” These three words did little to reassure me: It was Mum’s handwriting. Santa remained suspect, but he’d given me some lovely gifts and the never-ending joy of a childhood Christmas.

© 2024 Caitlyn Frost. All rights reserved.

The Moon is Beautiful

The sorrows that found me didn’t ride my skin like thin, white scars. They burrowed deep into the marrow where scars are not seen, but felt with every footfall, every movement—both graceful and awkward. I cannot call them beautiful. They’ve opened doors to the inky abyss and shoved me in. My sorrows are not beautiful. They are full of rage, of longing, of disappointments, and some regrets. They writhe and course through my blood and bones—a chronic condition that needs tending. 

This is what no one knows: That I’m an expert at faking it—those sorrows, the pain. That I’m an expert at denial and forgetting. That I’m an expert at making masks to fit in. Sorrows, beautiful, invasive, or chronic, don’t care about truths. Nor, in fact, does society. 

But these sorrows step aside for stronger emotions. They step aside for love. That soul-deep feeling of connection and caring. The words that tumble and scatter, falling awkwardly from lips that feel numb. Shall we speak of the moon? My sorrows step back. Gaze at the moon. Feel the fullness of the moon, its cyclical ebbs and flows. I am alive in its soft glow. A glow that seeps into my soul, illuminating and caressing my sorrows. In these moments I am at peace and I love. The moon is beautiful.

© 2024 Caitlyn Frost. All rights reserved.

There Is No "Oh, Sh*t" Grab Bar in the Cockpit of a Cessna

I was a reader, a writer, a belly dancer, and an avid film watcher. None of which are partner-dependent. So dating had always been hazardous. “What do you like to do?” was the inevitable question I dreaded. There’s not really room for a partner in the solo activities I enjoyed, so finding common things to do together was more of an exercise in what I’d be willing to try. But I never saw this coming.

I’d met him on the campaign trail. He kept looking at me as if I knew him. When he finally spoke to me, it was the most unusual pick up line I’d ever heard, “Are you one of my patients?” My response was, well, I was aiming for cool and sophisticated, but I barked out, “What? No.” I completed this with a look as mysterious as a deer caught in headlights. Totally awkward for me, but perhaps he’d gotten used to the opening volley, if not the retort.

 

He asked me out to breakfast for our first date. I’m a casual person, but he took me a five-star restaurant. For brekkie! The food was excellent, but I was a bit too nervous to fully appreciate it. We talked politics and healthcare—he being a physician and I being a fundraiser for a hospital. We had a lovely time, so I wasn’t terribly surprised when he called a week later to ask me out to brunch. “Meet me at the airport.” 

 

He flew planes. For fun. It was his hobby. Why couldn’t he be like most doctors I know and play golf? With golf, you play the game, then you’ve got the booze at the end—sometimes you’ve got booze while you’re playing. Standing on the tarmac, looking at the single-propeller engine Cessna, I felt like belting down a few. But the adrenaline was in high gear and that made me fearless. Honestly, part of me felt like I was flying to Paris for lunch. It was a bit Hollywood and if this was how he was going to try to impress me, it was beginning to work. Despite the obvious dangers of his hobby turning me into an alcoholic.

 

Find activities in common. Well, I liked food, and so far, I liked him. So, perhaps I’d like flying?

 

Have you ever flown with a sinus infection? I was fighting one that day. My head felt stuffed and heavy, I had post nasal drip to the point where I felt like I was drowning; and a headache that seemed synchronized to my heartbeat. I could not breathe through my nose for all the gunk in my head. My ears were clogged, too. It was not the best day to fly.

 

Did I tell the physician that I had a sinus infection? That I wasn’t feeling all tickity boo? Noooo. No, I did not. That would spoil the fun. And I was on a date. 

 

And it was fun. At first. The take off was fun. Seeing the New Mexico landscape from the air was amazing—the Rio Grande, the Sangre de Cristo mountains, the roads I’d driven and towns I’d visited—it gave me a new appreciation for the state I called home. 

 

We flew to Taos and were in the air for about an hour. I’d like to say it was quiet and peaceful. It was anything but. The engine was deafening—we had to speak, loudly, into microphones to be heard by the other sitting less than two feet away. “The mic has to be close enough to kiss!” He yelled as I adjusted the mic for the fourth time. Close enough to kiss; distant enough not to spread my germs. Where’s the right balance? He leaned over and smacked the mic right into my lips. Well, that’s way too close. My nose was so stuffed that I had to breathe through my mouth, which meant he was in for an hour of heavy breathing.  

 

We hit turbulence. I reached for a grab bar, like the ones inside cars, over the doors. But there wasn’t one. All I had was the control wheel in the co-pilot seat where I sat. And I was not touching that. I left my stomach 100 feet up in the air as we dropped. My adrenalin was running out. What I needed, desperately, was an “Oh, shit!” bar to grab onto. I’ve never been on good terms with heights and the turbulence threw me straight into terror. So, I did what every self-respecting, terrified woman on a date with someone she thinks she might like does: I hid my fear and grabbed on to the seat with one hand and the seatbelt lock with the other. 

 

We banked and I felt all the gunk in my head slide and settle into half of my head. My entire equilibrium went askew and I had no freaking idea where “down” actually was. I could see it—tilted on an axis I knew didn’t exist except on one of the dozen dials on the dashboard of lights and arrows. 

 

We leveled out and landed, my head now throbbing. The Taos airport was small, tiny in comparison to Santa Fe, but had that old Taos charm: the feel of 1970s New Mexico, down to earth, unpretentious, and friendly. We rented an old beater car and drove to a quaint hole-in-the-wall restaurant with a retro hippy atmosphere, but good food. Not that I could really taste it, my sniffer being snuffed. This was not like flying to Paris. 

 

Two weeks later, he called on a Sunday afternoon—spontaneity and a beautiful, warm, early spring day had gotten the better of him. “Want to go to Telluride?” Never having been to Telluride, I said yes. It would be an adventure. Right? I had no idea. 

 

I held on tight, to the point where my fingers cramped, all the way to Telluride. I think it was a two-hour trip. When we “parked” on the tarmac, I seriously wanted to drop to my knees and kiss asphalt. I’d never been so grateful for terra firma. Again, we rented a car. A jeep. He wanted to do some “back roading”. Yet another adventure. Oh…yay?!? But first lunch. 

 

We ate at a Chinese restaurant next to the large window that looked onto the street and had a great view of this tiny, over-hyped town. I don’t know if you’ve ever been, but Telluride is nestled in the Rockies, in a sharply narrow V of a valley with steep mountains. There’s one way in and one way out. Where the point of the V meets, there’s a waterfall, the top of which is accessed by a switch-back, dirt road. To my amazement, there is a house at the top, just beyond the waterfall. I assumed that the switch-back road went up and over the mountain and connected with a paved, state road that would lead back into town.

 

Going up was lovely. There was a place to stop at the base of the waterfall and just take in the glory of water and the day. We continued to the top. Where. The. Road. Ended. 

 

There were three couples in their 70s having a picnic lunch, dangling their legs over the edge of the cliff. Their two cars were parked as close to the mountain as possible and there was nowhere—nowhere!—to turn around.

Two men got up from their lunch and guided my date in tiny K-turn movements to turn the jeep around. I was quietly freaking out with visions of toppling over the side of the cliff to my untimely death. I busied myself by studying my cuticles. I really needed a manicure. 

At one point, I looked up and all I saw was air. The car was moving forward and there was nothing in front of me and very little in my peripheral vison to clue me in to being on solid ground. I wasn’t having any of that. I volunteered to get out. My date wasn’t having any of that. It was clear I had no control in this situation and had but one option: I pushed my sunglasses onto the top of my head and covered my eyes with my hands. The two men started laughing. I was terrified, and now humiliated. I held back my tears. 

 

We finally turned around and started back down the dirt road, back to civilization. He teased me on the way down. “Look out the window and see how far the car is from the drop.” When the road flattened out and the dirt turned to pavement, my anxiety dropped in a wave of relief. I felt safe on the pavement where I could trust the land in front of me—because there was land in front of me. And underneath me. That release of anxiety turned to tears. One tear became several and then my nose started to run. I am not a pretty crier.

 

I silently scolded myself, “You can’t cry. You’re on a date!” 

 

I was trying to wipe away tears secretly and I was getting away with it. Until I sniffed. He heard and pulled the car over. He leaned over, took a good look and said, “You were really scared.” Einstein, this one.

 

I nodded, “I’m really afraid of heights.”

“But you fly.”

“And I don’t let go of what I can grab.”

He searched my face with new gentleness and respect. “You’re the calmest, white-knuckle passenger I’ve ever flown with.”

 

And that is exactly what should be said when one cries on a date.

 

We lasted another two or three months before we realized that we really weren’t the right fit for each other and parted amicably. But there really should be an “Oh, shit!” grab bar in the cockpit of a single-prop Cessna. It’s a fundamental design flaw.

 

© 2024 Caitlyn Frost. All rights reserved.

Snow Day

I awoke to a world muffled in white. In the grey-blue of the early morning, evergreen boughs were pillowed with snow. And the world was silent. 

I wanted to write, to get this feeling out on paper. But others’ words filled my head before paper was in sight—a text, then two. Then a song spun ‘round in my brain, washing my words and replacing them with lyrics that will stay with me throughout the day.

I stepped outside. Strands of my just-washed hair began to freeze, reminding me of my childhood when we were bused to swimming lessons in the dead of a sub-freezing, Central New York winter. Whoever thought that was a good idea? 

We had minutes after being in the pool to change back into our clothes and bundle up in boots, coats, mittens, and scarves and get back on the bus. A walk that was just enough time for our long hair, to solidify into clacking, chlorine-infused icicles.

I snapped photos of this white world to post on social media. White world, white sky—the only pop of color is the evergreen peeking though their pillowed weights. The world is quiet. A blissful reprieve in a world filled with the meth-like energy of business and “getting stuff done.” 

I like the quiet. I like the look of snow. I’m grateful for the precipitation in this high desert home. And, while it doesn’t carry the same excitement of my youth, I like these snow days.

©2024 Caitlyn Frost. All rights reserved.

It Still Haunts Me

It still haunts me: The sound of his body hitting the pavement.

I was bored in my studio apartment in Center City Philadelphia. I was a small-town girl in a concrete world of anonymity and bored out of my mind in a 17th-floor studio apartment on a Friday night. The city, bathed in lights and shadows, captivated me. I’d nothing better to do that evening than to watch the neighborhood happenings behind a 35-70 zoom photo lens perched in the safety of my tiny room. I’d witnessed minor crimes and big ones—a woman getting mugged, and scores of people fleeing a movie theater, pouring into the street after a shooting in the theater. But this was different.

 

He stood in the shadows on the roof of a building long since abandoned as a family house, now chopped into apartments that crammed unfamiliar individuals into a building, not a home. His back pressed to the wall, he inched closer to the edge. He paused. I saw him. And through the lens, he saw me. I shivered with dread and responsibility. I wanted to call 911, but the phone was across the room. And I didn’t have an address to give them. There’s a lot you can see from an apartment aerie, but are powerless to influence, much less control. What would I say? I could feel his intentions, but did I really know for sure? Did I have enough justification to call?

 

I watched him. Both of us aware of the other. Neither of us willing to move. For 20 minutes. Then, he inched right to the edge of the roof and looked down. I had to do something. Even if I sounded like a nutcase and didn’t have a specific address to give them. I lowered my camera and set it down. I crossed the room in seconds and grabbed the phone. I started back to the window when I heard his body hit the cold pavement. I stared at the empty roof, at the unmoving body. At the dark stain pooling from beneath his head. I blamed myself for not having watched him longer. How long would have been long enough?

 

It still haunts me: the scream of the woman who found him seconds later. She came out of Donovan’s Irish Pub, her long, blond hair cascading elegantly over her shoulders, her white blouse tucked into a fitted, white skirt, and her hand nestled in the arm of her date. 

 

Cops, ambulance, sirens, a cacophony of lights and noise as if they cared. Where was all the attention when he’d needed it?

 

It still haunts me: the policeman who knew nothing. Two days later I rode the apartment elevator with a cop. I asked him if he knew what had happened. He didn’t. I was stunned. His answer chipped away some of my 20-something, small-town naiveté. This was a city without neighbors, a collection of anonymous dwellers. Humans without humanity, where the shadows became solace and one young woman with a camera delayed the inevitable for 1,200 ticks of the second hand on an analog clock. 

 

Decades later, it haunts me still.

 

©2024 Caitlyn Frost. All rights reserved.

What If I'd Said No?

It was a lovely party. Even if I hadn’t known anyone there but three: The host, Alain; a new friend, Melissa; and her best friend Rick—a man quick to anger, full of fire, and he’d zeroed in on me a couple of weeks prior.

“Come for dinner,” Melissa said not long after I’d met her. We volunteered together teaching English as a Second Language to adults. Melissa had joined a couple years after I’d started and I was doubtful that she would last. She liked teaching, but stuck too much to the book to reach those students who were illiterate in their own language. Melissa was focused, firm bordering on strident, enamored of her own opinions, and bursting with unswerving self-confidence. None of which I shared. But, in the provincial city of Philadelphia, where outsiders weren’t readily accepted, my circle of friends was thin and I was eager to make new ones. So I said yes.

“Tell me about yourself,” Rick had said when I’d first met him. I didn’t, with some polite evasion. Dinner with Melissa was dinner with Rick at his house. She’d waxed and polished him to a brilliant shine, expecting me to fall in love with him on sight. 

“Tell me everything about you.” I’d known him for half an hour and he was already probing into my life with what felt like a scalpel. It was too much too soon. I was uncomfortable and his leaning into my space, so much so that he was nearly hovering over my plate didn’t make me feel any better. I shifted in my chair, moved the plate a couple of inches away from him—lest he start feeding me like a child—and tried to act normal. I was a guest and well mannered.

“Come on, tell me about yourself.” I shut that down, again with polite evasion—a tactic I’d learned to protect myself from those who wanted to get too close without offending them or creating a scene, a disturbance, or calling even more unwanted attention to myself. It usually worked, in most social settings. 

My closest and dearest friends will confirm that I open up slowly. And someone wanting to fast track that has always made me wary. But there was something underlying his character that had me wanting him to know as little about me as possible. It wasn’t anything I could identify. It was just instinct.

“I want to know all there is about you.” I felt like a lamb caught in an abattoir. My only thought was escape. Escape from conversation, from the evening, from the house, from him. There was something predatory about Rick. In truth, he was mostly well mannered, until he picked up his fork—he used it as a shovel, as he kept leaning into my space with little regard to the newness of our acquaintance. “I want to read the book of your life. Tell me your story,” he whispered in my ear.

I survived dinner without further incident by pulling Melissa into the conversation and making her the center of attention. Survival tactic. But it has its limits. “Call me when you get home.” He couldn’t be serious. We’d just met.

Melissa drove me home, a thirty-minute drive that seemed to take hours. She was intent on finding out what I thought of Rick. Once again, I found myself politely, but unenthusiastically, answering questions without actually giving answers and turning the conversation around so that I was the one asking questions. How could I tell her that her best friend came on way too strong and ate with the sophistication of a prison inmate?

Relieved to be back in my apartment, finally, and alone, I kicked off my shoes and changed into sweats and a t-shirt. I tried to shake off the feeling of slick yick crawling across my skin so I could feel normal again, so that I could feel my own equilibrium away from the intensity of my inner voice yelling danger. The phone rang and I picked it up wondering who could be calling so late.

“You didn’t call me to tell me you got home okay.” How did he get my number?? Melissa. Fuck. I don’t remember exactly how I responded or what I said. I was listening to my instinct and soul screaming, “Get out!” at a volume that overrode conversation. I must have passed it off with humor per my usual, and an “I don’t know you,” because he asked me out. 

“Get to know me, then. Why don’t we see Pulp Fiction?” It had just come out and everyone was talking about it, but I have an aversion to violent films—and violence in general—so I answered truthfully. “I have absolutely no desire to see that film.” He took it personally and got angry. He didn’t suggest a different film, or bother to ask what I’d like to see. My rejection of the film was a rejection of him and he lit into me. His reaction took me by surprise. But, in the world of red flags, this was the gigantic, you-can’t-miss-it, red flag, on fucking fire. He was still irate when I hung up.

Two weeks later, I was at Alain’s party. Alain was French, a doctor, smart, funny, sweet, and beautiful. I was shy, quiet, had only a bachelor’s degree, and had a lowly secretarial job. A nobody. I knew Alain wasn’t interested, but he was kind and had invited me, so I went. I went by myself, which took some courage.

The party was nice—wine, cheese, and conversation—and a little scary as I tried to overcome my introverted, shy side to have easy small talk. It was difficult. Alain would check in with me occasionally, which was nice of him. Then, in walked Melissa and Rick. I kept my distance, as much as I could in a one bedroom apartment, but eventually found myself cornered by him. Rick had been waiting as I emerged from the bathroom. He maneuvered me into a room with no guests. The bedroom.

I’ve blocked out most of the events and almost all of what was said. But I remember he was livid because I’d ignored him. The louder he got, the more quiet I became. Confrontation was not going to go well in my favor. 

Before I knew what was happening, he darted in close, took me by the shoulders and threw me hard against the wall. I kept my wits, but not my breath. He pinned me to the wall. His voice menaced, mirroring the anger and violence I saw in his eyes. He accused me of being cold, frigid. I was terrified. I really thought he would hit me. How the hell was I going to get myself out of this? I wanted to leave, but I didn’t want a scene. Good girls don’t create scenes, especially quiet, shy, well-mannered girls who are guests and at someone else’s party.

One of Alain’s friends stepped into the room. He sized up the situation and looked at me as Rick stepped away, and asked me if I was ok. I paused—a breath, a lifeline, but also an admission of shame and embarrassment, a scene, an unwelcome intrusion into a lovely party, Alain’s home—so I nodded slowly and said yes. 

Physically, it was true. Emotionally, I was on the verge of tears and I was damned if I’d let that show. A few more minutes of verbal abuse and I escaped back into the fold of party goers, where there was safety in numbers.

I wanted to leave right away, but I was afraid that Rick would follow me out. I wouldn’t have the safety on the streets of Philly as I had at the party. Calling a cab seemed ridiculous as I lived only two blocks away. And when I noticed that Rick had left, I feared he’d be waiting for me—if he’d gotten my phone number from Melissa, might he also have my address? So, I overstayed my welcome at the party until nearly dawn and eventually got home safe. 

Thankfully, I never saw Rick again. I never saw Melissa either, outside of our volunteer work. And I never saw Alain again. I was ashamed at having stayed too long at his party, and too shaken every time I remembered what had happened, to try developing a friendship.

“Are you okay?” It still echoes in my head. I said yes. It was my problem, my shame, and I would find my own way out of it, survivor that I am. So, I said yes.

What if I’d asked for help? What was the worst that could possibly have happened? No, I’m not okay. No, I shouldn’t have to deal with this alphahole. No, I’m not responsible for his fragile ego. Please call a cab, I want to go home. What if I’d said no? No, no, no. I. Am. Not. Okay.

©2024 Caitlyn Frost. All rights reserved.

Five Words

Small towns. Pro: you know everyone in your class. You’ve known them pretty much since nursery school. Cons: first, small towns have small populations and tiny class sizes; second, the opinions—good, bad, or indifferent—you formed of certain individuals of the opposite sex were set when you were 3 or 4 and they don’t often change; third, this is your dating pool.

I was the shiny new penny after a year away from my hometown. I’d spent the year in Chicago while my dad was on sabbatical and then spent the summer in France with friends of the family. I’d left just shy of 13—pulled out early from 7th grade—and returned at 14 and a high schooler. I must have changed a lot because I’d never garnered any attention from boys prior to leaving. And, to be honest, I hadn’t been particularly interested. But suddenly, I was being treated like the “new girl” by boys I’d known since the days of learning that painting on the walls was utterly unacceptable. 

No sooner had school started then Homecoming loomed. I’d been focused on school, re-establishing friendships, forging new ones, and discovering all that I’d missed over the last 14 months. Much of our conversations were not focused on school work, homework, or plans beyond the following week. To be honest, alot of it was about boys. Hey, 14, remember? 

Boys. Boys treating girls—me—like anything other than a non-entity or, at best, an “also ran” was new, nerve-wracking, and exciting, but also kind of scary. 

So when Rob asked me to the Homecoming Dance, I was a bit stunned. I’d never been asked for date before and I really hadn’t expected to be asked. I’d anticipated going with my girl friends, just like we’d done through junior high.

Rob was shy, kind, and thoughtful, with a warm smile and clear, blue eyes that seemed to see more than the physical. So, I’d said yes, when he asked me to Homecoming. Two, shy, 14yo introverts on a date is not without social awkwardness, and I struggled with small talk. Yet, I still had a wonderful time. But he never asked me out again. I never knew why and after a while, I moved on.

Still the shiny, new penny, I had more unwanted attention than welcome ones. Navigating attention from boys I didn’t want to date and, worse, harassment, had me on a freak and nervous about each school day. I stuck close to friends I trusted, yet longed for sincere interest. The small town dating pool wasn’t exactly deep with prospects.

A year later, I was dealing with the onset of depression. I wasn’t ideating suicide, but I wished I’d never been born. And I wasn’t getting help. Unwanted attention—harassment—had me in a tailspin. I’d always been the wallflower and didn’t think much of my looks. The sudden, unwanted attention from boys my age and older had triggered the fight, flight, or freeze response. I was clueless about how to navigate boys, the harassment, dating, behavior, and hormones. I spiraled into darkness. I cried during class. I made myself sick, taking off my boots in the winter and walking a mile home just to be sick enough to miss school for a week. And, when not in school, I slept, escaping into a world of dreams and nothingness where I didn’t have to feel the disappointment of being me or listen to the negative self talk telling me that I was nothing and reviewing every cringeworthy moment. The litany of what I should have said or should have done played on a loop as I slid even further into self loathing.

That fall, I had confirmation classes. Small town, small church, small number of candidates to teach. We numbered four all together, and Rob was one. There are very few memories that burned through the darkness to imprint themselves in my mind and in my heart, but one moment in confirmation class still burns bright.

We were discussing our homework from the workbook about what qualities we admired in each other and in ourselves. It was easy for me to find positive traits of others, but, being so deep in the darkness and self hatred, I had nothing positive to say about myself. It must have taken some courage when Rob said quietly, “You have a beautiful smile.” 

I was stunned, surprised, and, despite all the negative, suspicious and abusive chatter constantly running through my head, I believed him. And I believed his sincerity. That one, courageous compliment began to dispel the darkness. Rob found something positive about me when I was blind to and unaccepting of my own strengths. In the darkness of my own mind, his words were like a switch, turning on a nightlight—not enough to illuminate every corner, but enough to begin finding my way out.

I’ve dealt with depression occasionally since and every time I’ve turned to those words and that feeling that someone out there in the world has something positive to say about me. And if there’s one person, mightn’t there be others?

We never know how our words imprint themselves on others or how one’s truth—quiet and simple—can help.

I saw Rob again recently. I hadn’t seen him since high school. He’s still a bit shy, and still thoughtful and kind. His smile is just as warm and his eyes are just as blue, clear, and seeing. And, I am ever grateful for his five words that led me out of the dark: You have a beautiful smile.

©2024 Caitlyn Frost. All rights reserved.