Page 37 of The Love Thief
CHAPTER TWENTY - SIX Busted!
I watched in disbelief as the video showed a haggard-looking Phyllis, who had her plastic surgeon on speed dial and never went anywhere without a full face, wearing a faded housedress, glasses, and matted hair.
She looked confused and every bit her age as she was escorted to a waiting vehicle, her hands handcuffed in front of her.
“A source tells us that Tavers was arrested and charged with trafficking in near-priceless art, allegedly stolen from the Jews by the Nazis. This investigation is part of a multiyear effort initiated by Interpol. It is believed that Barry Tavers, the eldest son, was also arrested at his La Jolla home around the same time this morning. It is not known whether his father, Mr. Donald Tavers, is considered a suspect. It is reported that Mr. Donald Tavers has late-stage dementia and is wheelchair-bound with round-the-clock care nurses at his home.”
I watched as the segment then cut to an interview with a woman claiming to be the Tavers’s neighbor, identified as Lois Davis, who approached TV reporters with her matching standard poodles in tow.
She was a fifty-something, perky-looking woman clad in a Gucci tracksuit, sporting long blonde I-still-think-I’m-in-my-thirties hair, and puffer fish lips slathered in glossy coral lipstick.
“I have lived on this street for thirty years and have never seen anything like this. It’s shocking to discover we are residing near criminals,” the woman gushed with a little too much relish.
“We were never close to them, just waved as we passed by. The Tavers are known for their fancy galas and fundraisers, and I’ve always heard that Phyllis never met a camera she didn’t like . . . but that may have changed today.”
Behind Lois Davis and the young, handsome CNN reporter, I could see at least four TV news vans, all with lights and cameras pointed at the Tavers’s grand circular driveway.
The anchor continued. “The FBI agents, armed with a search warrant, are still on-site and it is not yet known what they have recovered.
“We have additional reports that an accomplice of the Tavers’s, an art dealer based in Budapest, was also arrested.
Our CNN International crew is working on this developing story at this very moment.
News has just confirmed that the Tavers’s son, Barry, was also arrested in a similar fashion a few minutes ago at his home in La Jolla. Back to you in the studio.”
I quickly dialed Mom’s number.
“Mom, hi, what the fuck? This is so totally crazy, I knew this was something about art but I had no idea . . . Oh my God, this is such a nightmare!”
“Holly, take a breath. You’re going to be okay.
Auntie just called to tell me that Agent Turner has assured her that as long as you testify, you are safe.
And he and Auntie and I want to tell you that you must not speak to the media.
It’s likely they will want to interview you, especially since all the local TV outlets have that footage of Barry proposing to you at Petco Park,” Mom said.
Mom and I talked for a while longer, discussing the pros and cons of extending my stay in India to avoid the media.
After we hung up, I made myself a cup of peppermint tea and sat out on the balcony.
The lights of the ashram across the river danced on the reflection of the water, and I could faintly hear chanting along with the whoosh of the current.
Barry and his evil mother in handcuffs .
. . the thought of this had me smiling. Maybe there was something to all this karma stuff after all.
Before I could indulge and enjoy the pleasure of Barry’s pain and humiliation, I heard my phone ping again.
Another link from Mom, this time with a photo from the Union-Trib online site of Barry in handcuffs and, in the background a tall, beautiful blonde (wearing Barry’s bathrobe).
I recognized her as a local La Jolla realtor who claimed to be number one in the state in overall sales.
It was not clear if she had also been arrested, but it seemed that I had already been replaced.
Replaced! And just like that, I dropped from my current tolerable misery level of 2 or 3, up to 10+++.
I was filled with hate, rage, and immense self-loathing.
It was late. I knew I couldn’t sleep with this massive, intolerable anger and adrenaline running through me, so I pulled out my journal to purge my feelings through words I’m sure Deepak might wince at.
With a red pen, I wrote:
Asshole Barry:
Fuck you for pretending to be my Prince Charming. Fuck you for manipulating me.
Fuck you for killing my dreams. Fuck you for taking me to Budapest.
Fuck you for telling me I need plastic surgery. Fuck you for being a sick, sociopathic narcissist.
Fuck you for stealing my money.
Fuck you for giving me a fake diamond engagement ring. Fuck you for being a lying piece of shit.
Fuck you for setting me up and nearly getting me arrested in your art fraud shit.
Fuck you for fucking Carly. Fuck you for ruining my life.
Fuck you for nearly throwing me under the bus at customs. Fuck you for making me feel so stupid.
Fuck you for being a predator.
Fuck you for all the phony romantic gestures. Fuck you for betraying my trust.
Fuck you for casting a spell on me.
Fuck you for all the false promises of having a happy family. Fuck you for spreading lies about me on the internet.
Fuck you for plunging a knife into my heart and ripping out all hope for love.
I knew there were more fuck you’s inside me, but for now, I had emptied out the most painful ones.
I closed my eyes and attempted to assess where I was on my misery scale.
The intensity of my anger had subsided, leaving me with predominant feelings of hopelessness and exhaustion.
Not bothering to change from my clothes to my nightgown, I turned off the light, slid under the comforter, and prayed for the deepest sleep possible.
What is that fragrance? Hmm, sniff, sniff.
Smells like plumeria married to honeysuckle, yet different.
I open my eyes and discover I am lying in a mosaic of flowers.
I turn my head to the right, and the buds are tiny yellow-and-white blossoms, most likely the ones I can now smell.
I push myself up onto my elbows and see that I am in a gigantic flower field.
My legs and feet are entwined with green leaves sprouting magenta-and-orange flowers that are pulsating and puffing out small plumes of different aromas, some of which I don’t think I’ve ever smelled before.
Some of the flowers are colors I didn’t know existed. Where am I? What is this place?
“Why, Holly, you are home of course,” explains a throaty, sexy voice. I see a woman standing over me. Or rather, I see her, and I see through her. Where did she come from? She might be an angel. If I believed in angels, but I don’t detect any wings.
“No, Holly, I am not an angel.”
Shit. She is also a mind reader, whatever she is.
“Holly, I am here to help you. Actually, I am you. I am your future self. A very long time ago, you asked me to come to you at this time in your life. So here I am. I hope you are happy to see me again.”
Oh crap. More of this wacko New Age, woo-woo stuff , I think, but instead, I say to her, “Okay, how are you going to help me?”
“It’s okay if you call me woo-woo weird stuff, Holly. I don’t take it personally.”
She sits down beside me, a shimmering and pulsing Goddess-like vision but thankfully not scary. I’ve never done LSD, but I imagine this might be what it’s like.
“First, I want to congratulate you on the marvelous Fuck You list you made last night. Brava, bella. It was pitch-perfect. I’m very proud of you.
Now I just want to help you complete the exercise.
If you allow yourself to continuously let your anger trigger you, it will be detrimental to your health and happiness.
As you discovered in your journaling, it’s great to give yourself a few minutes to lean in to the anger, but then you must refill and replenish your soul with self-love, self-compassion, and self-care. Are you willing to do that?”
“Maybe. What do you mean exactly?”
“Holly, you’ve been through a war with a sick soul who traumatized and exploited you.
You are healing, and you will continue to heal, and the truth is there will always be a small part of you that never fully gets over this.
You will live with a piece of this wound for the rest of your life. Some call it a ‘living loss.’
“The good news is that you will soon begin to find that this pain, this loss, comes with gifts, and there will come a day when you may even find yourself grateful for the experience. I don’t expect you to believe this now, so just tuck it away for another day.
“For today, I am here to help you heal as much as possible, to help manage your anger and resentment, and most importantly, to get to forgiveness.”
“What’s your name?”
“You can give me any name that delights you. And, in the future, you are free to change my name to something else.”
Okay, not the response I had hoped for. “Grace. For now, I will call you Grace.”
“Let’s make a little plan for when your anger bubbles up. And unfortunately, it will continue to bubble up but not as frequently and with much less intensity. When you feel this anger, imagine you have your fingers laced around Barry’s throat.
“Resist the urge to crush him, take your fingers off his throat, and place your hand over your own heart as you see his image disappear. At this moment, say to yourself, ‘This is no longer about him. It’s now about me, and I know and trust that I am becoming a healed and whole woman ready and available for real love with a partner who has the capacity for true love, devotion, and reciprocity.’
“This is what self-care and self-compassion are about. Are you willing to do that?”
“Grace, I’m too broken. And I’m now too old. It’s too late for me to have the kind of love that I have dreamed of my entire life,” I say, and with that, the tears slide down my face and onto the flowers, causing some of them to turn black and white and wither.
“Yes, Holly, you are right. God decided that out of the eight billion people alive on the planet, you are the only one who doesn’t deserve love,” Grace says with a serious look.
And then we both laugh.
We laugh that my “future self” is a smart-ass just like me.
We laugh because we both know that God has not singled me out for a lifetime of loneliness. We laugh because it is just so damn funny!
And then, I wake up.