C is for Cookie

Steph married Lee Davenport barely before the ink had time to dry on our divorce papers, saving me a shit ton of alimony. That marriage lasted about ten months. It seemed that being illicit was an important part of the dynamic between them. Once he became her full-time husband, everything fell apart. He found another position elsewhere in the district, and then moved out of state another year later. She married yet again, kept that one for a while, then he cheated and left her. She took up with another woman after that, and moved in with her right away. What's the old joke? 'What does a lesbian bring on her second date? Answer: a U-haul.' I know, I know, it's another awful joke. Not funny at all. Anyhow, that relationship quickly fell into stereotypical lesbian bed death. She now regularly cheats on her partner with other men and calls herself "polyamorous," though I daresay most of her playmates don't.

Moving to Chicago allowed me to advance a few more rungs on the corporate ladder, and now, I'm seriously thinking about my retirement. Michael did move in with me after he got his degree. That lasted almost two years, until he found a girl he liked and decided to move in with her instead. I'm sure she was much better company. They got married and I'm expecting a grandchild soon. Jessica doesn't seem to involve herself in long-term relationships. She travels around the world, picking up odd jobs here and there, visiting with her friends from high school and college, and connecting with new and diverse friend groups. I suppose she'll settle down sooner or later, but she's in no hurry. Maybe she's right, and marriage isn't all it's cracked up to be.

I never did get married again. Not yet. I still get too much attention from divorced women my age, and I'm not eager to put myself back in that position. I also have major trust issues, I admit it. But at least I have my reasons, and I know it's not just me. Verdi was right; "la donna è mobile." I still wear the ring Cookie gave me, every day. And I end up touching it, for strength, a lot.

I still keep up with Cookie, even though we never took our relationship any farther than I've already described. Good to her word, she comes to Chi-town during her spring or fall break once in a while, and I'll take a long weekend here or there and visit her at her home. Sebastian is no longer skittish around me, though it took him a few years. Oh, and she did put me in her next book. "Doctor Heartbreak" was an exploration of the communities and support networks that arise around those who've recently divorced. I was one of her success stories.

***

During one of her visits, we were walking through Centennial part after a day of doing touristy stuff. There's a lot of that to do. We'd been to the Field museum and ate dinner at Lou Malnati's, which she enjoyed greatly despite her complaints about too much cheese.

"I figured it out, by the way," I said, not looking at her.

"You figured what out?"

"Your tattoo."

"No, you didn't." Her sad little smile might have been more of a smirk.

"Yes, I did. I don't have to guess. I'm certain."

"No. You might feel certain, but I assure you that you'll be wrong." She took my hand. "Just... do me a favor, okay, and don't throw away one of your guesses. I know we've been through a lot together, and we've gotten really close. That's not unusual for me, but I'm sure it is for you. You feel like you know me well enough, but nobody does. Nobody gets it. Look, I admit, sometimes I let people blow through their three guesses and then they'll never know, but doing that with you would break my heart a little. With you, dear David, it's better to keep the chance alive and untested. Trust me."

I squeezed her hand gently and turned to touch her face.

"The reason nobody has ever gotten it right," I said, "is because everyone assumes it means three different things. That's wrong. It's the same thing, repeated three times. To seal it. Like a ritual or a charm."

Her eyes flew open. She dropped my hand and staggered backwards half a step.

"What... how could you..." She closed her eyes, shook her head, and shuddered. "You can't possibly."

I drew her into an embrace and placed my right hand between her shoulder blades, right where her tattoo would be. I put my lips against her ear, whispering, softly singing a timeless melody full of promise, and joy, and pure magic.

"C is for Cookie, that good enough for me." As I sang, I used my finger to trace a letter C along one of the three curved lines that composed the triquetra knot. She gasped.

"C is for Cookie, that good enough for me." The second curved line was the letter C reversed, or turned a hundred and twenty degrees.

"C is for Cookie, that good enough for meeeee..." The third C, laying on its face, connected the ends of the first two, completing the knot.

"Oooooh, Cookie, Cookie, Cookie start with C!" I traced a circle around the design, just like hers, making sure that I passed my finger across each of the three leaves with each time I sang the word 'Cookie.'"

She was shaking in my arms. I leaned back and looked her in the eyes. They were bright and swimming with tears.

"It's always in your head. Like a little affirmation. You find it empowering. That's what you said."

She nodded.

"The tattoo is your name," I said, "More specifically, it's your Signature, written in a way that only you would ever understand. It's your identity. That muppet is your bodhisvatta, and this is his song. Now, as an adult, it's your truth and your power. Why can't a silly joke, or a children's song, also be a profound truth? It can be both, you taught me that. But there's more."

"Go on." it was barely a whisper. The tears were pouring down her face.

"Why do we put our names on things? What does a signature mean? It means we claim these things as our own. We're taking responsibility for them. If you had someone else's name tattooed on you, it would mean you belonged to them, forever. It would be a public declaration to anyone who saw it. But you put your own name on yourself, into your flesh, permanently. You've declared that you belong to yourself, and only to yourself, and not to anyone else. Nobody who sees it would know, it's a private declaration. Everyone else is excluded. You did it three times, signed, sealed, delivered, using symbols that have special meaning for you. Whenever you dance under a different name, it always starts with C. You also use private room three. The number three keeps showing up around you everywhere, like it's magic. Three is a magic number. Schoolhouse Rock taught you that. And of course, C is the third letter of the alphabet."

Her slight nods had increased while I was talking and now she was bobbing her face up and down with the rhythm of my voice.

"I can't believe it. I thought no one..." She shook again. "I knew you were something special the moment I laid my eyes on you."

"You never are going to belong to anyone else, are you? You've said so many times, but nobody ever believes you, do they? They think that Love is too powerful, the cultural requirement for romance, or your emotional needs, or something like that will eventually win, and in the meantime, you're just being stubborn. Denying part of yourself."

"I'm honoring part of myself," she said. "You're right, no one gets it. They think I've succumbed to my trauma. That's how it started, sure. There's no getting over what I went through. There is No One Else for me. There Never Was. There Never Will Be." She looked at me like she was looking through me. "It's not just a negative. It's an affirmation. I belong to ME. Everyone belongs to themselves, ultimately. We're in denial when we believe otherwise. The difference is that I know for one hundred percent certain that... I'm Good Enough For Me."

"You are. You really are. And I'm glad, Cookie. There is no one else I'd ever trust with my friend."

She broke down, fully in tears, bawling her eyes out and holding me like I was the last life preserver in a storm-filled ocean.

"Thank you," she said, after a few moments, and then another few to collect herself. "Thank you for getting it. Thank you for understanding me. And, god, thank you for respecting it. For respecting me."

"There's not enough of that going around. Certainly not in most relationships," I said. "I'm proud to be a part of it. And I'm proud of you."

"Proud of me for what?"

"You've made your life be about something. You've given yourself purpose. I worry that most of us never really do that. We just muddle through and tend to our own."

"You're right about that. I think that most of us were probably meant to just muddle through. Saving the world isn't for sissies." She sniffled. "There's something I'm going to need from you, Dave."

"Name it. Anything."

"First of all, keep going. I know you're going to be okay, but it doesn't change the fact that you'll still hurt sometimes. Just survive. Heal. Be well. And thrive. Whatever it takes. I'll help, you know. Others will, too. But now, you're ready. You're worthy, even if you don't know it yet. I'm going to need help, too."

"Of course. With what?"

"The Work. The Job. It's too much." She looked up at me. "There's twenty fucktons of heartbreak in the world, every day. Everybody's been hurt."

"Well. I guess that's right."

"So, I need you to do what I do. It doesn't need to be much. Just sometimes. Enough to make a difference, to one person at a time, when it counts. Pay it back, you know? Or pay it forward."

"Of course." How could I not? "Yes, okay, I'm in. What do I need to do?"

"Just listen. Just be there. Just... GET people. The way you got me. Stick around long enough to matter, even when they think you won't. Everybody needs to feel heard. Everybody needs to feel appreciated. Everybody needs to feel valued. You can do that, Dave. Just reach them. Feel them out. Everybody's different, so you'll have to do it differently every time. Maybe you'll be intimate with some of them. Or maybe... go fishing with them and never say a word. Whatever it takes. Whatever they need. Just be ready to make a human connection when you see a ragged heart. And keep the promises you make."

"I... I can do that."

"Good. You'll find it helps. Sometimes the thing that helps you the most, is helping others." She shuddered again. "You said so yourself, the first night I spent with you. Why do you think I do it? It's literally the only reason I'm still alive."

***

So that's what I'm doing. That's what I'll be doing in my retirement. When Cookie and I manage to see each other, it's become routine for us to compare notes... after mating like crazed weasels. Hey, we're middle aged, not dead. It's only been a few years for me, and I'm on number four. Maybe this one will be MY first padawan. You never know.

It's a strange life. Certainly not the one I thought I'd be living, back before Steph lost her mind. But it's nice. It's comforting. It feels worthwhile. And... it's good enough for me.

***

Author's notes: Cookie Deathridge was originally a deus ex machina character in one of my early attempts at a "February Sucks!" alternate ending. She quickly stole the spotlight from Jim and Linda, which defeated the point of the story. She had to go.

But, she stayed in my head and demanded her own vehicle, which I've provided here, using a slightly different LW trope. I salvaged what I could of her from the old draft and gave her more. If anything in this story resembles material in my series "February Sucks: Same Old Me," (forthcoming, yet to be approved by the mods) that's why. It has the same theme and I end up saying a lot of the same things. I really hate repeating myself, but in this case, I didn't have a way to avoid it.

"Invictus" (1875) by William Ernest Henley, exists in the public domain.

Fortunato's is a real place, in St.Petersburg, Florida, although the scenes I've created here and in Same Old Me bears a closer resemblance to a place in Ybor city whose name I can't remember. The garlic knots are from Pizza Bruno, in the hourglass district of Orlando. And of course, Lou Malnati's is famous, it's magnificent, and it's not to be missed if you're ever in Chicago.

Any resemblance between Stephanie and her piece of shit lover, compared to my own ex-wife and her own piece of shit lover, is purely coincidental. I swear.