Chapter 5: Cutting

We are deeply enmeshed with Allure and her family.

My daughter babysits her kids, I work for their small specialized transportation company, we attend the same church, we have mutual friends and socialize together. So, it’s not uncommon for Allure to come by the house. But it gets more frequent and Allure stops by often for ‘humor fixes’ or for other flimsy reasons, or at times when I am absent but Gregg is present, or during a dinner party of which she was no part. I am NOT clueless. I badger the two of them with questions continually.

During a missionary-led Afghani dinner party that Gregg and I host on October 3, 1995, Allure stops by. When she offers to help with dishes and Gregg follows her into the kitchen to help, I am again flooded with stress-induced skin-crawling discomfort. 

After our guests leave that evening, Gregg and I have a long and tense argument about his relationship with Allure.

In many different ways I say, “There’s something going on.”

He insists repeatedly, “There’s nothing going on, we’re just friends.”

The next day Gregg mentally recalls our extensive altercation. Unfortunately, it’s while he is at work using a biscuit-joiner power tool. In his preoccupation with the previous night’s heated exchange, the tool slips and he badly cuts his hand. 

The local hospital emergency room personnel recommend a hand surgeon in Minneapolis, so Gregg and I drive to the Cities for surgery yet that evening. Allure calls twice after hearing of the accident. Under the influence of pre-op meds, Gregg says that he doesn’t care much what others think of him – that includes me and God – and retorts,

“Too bad she’s not a man, I think we could be best friends. But we’d probably be bad for each other, just go fishing and drink beer and do whatever we’d want.”

That finally does it. I insist that he not have any more contact with her. A day later when Allure stops by the house to see how Gregg is doing, I ask her not to see or talk with Gregg. She cries. I withdraw up to my bedroom to give them some moments alone together, “so they could have a few final words,” but I tremble violently the entire time they talk. The situation feels ominous. Gregg reports he just held her hand as they talked. That’s what he says. I wonder. My body is telling me how bad it is – 30 pounds lost between August and October – but my mind clings to believing the words they are saying.

Years later: Though I still have some naivety and generally trust that people will tell the truth, I have learned to be more careful; I certainly don’t believe everything I hear anymore. I give more attention to my gut, I give weight to my instincts. At least much more than before. I’m still learning to better listen to my body.