Could You Be Loved: A Memoir of Scars and Guitars

By Margarita M.

"I hike up my pant leg and show him where the bandage wraps around my shin.
“There’s still an open wound there, hasn’t quite finished healing yet, the size of a quarter or so,” I explain."

Seductive, heartfelt, and gritty, Margarita M.'s "Could You be Loved: A Memoir of Scars and Guitars", is a stripped-down, honest account of longing, romance and survival.
The story begins in the sterile room of an ER where Margarita recovers from a life-threatening illness that leaves her physically and emotionally scarred. When she finally returns to “normal life”— the vibrant Williamsburg neighborhood which months ago had been the setting for sexual and artistic adventures— we discover the healing process has just begun.
Within the first months of her recovery Margarita falls in love with Dennis, a talented and tortured musician who has also survived a physical trauma and seems to meet her needs in every way. Soon after meeting they start a reggae band and begin planning the perfect life together, filled with hot sex, music and love. However, as things become more and more serious Margarita finds herself trapped in an impossible situation. In order to escape her pain she must do what she has been terrified of all along: confront herself.
Written with the sensuality of Anais Nin and warm wit of Elizabeth Gilbert, "Could You Be Loved" is a refreshing and excruciating account of self-acceptance, how the hardest work involves seeing ourselves clearly and with compassion.
As a yoga and meditation teacher, Margarita brings an understanding of the mind-body connection to her writing, giving readers insight into their own path of healing.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Margarita M.
• Release date: Jan 12, 2014
• ISBN: 9780991371600

Book preview

Could You Be Loved:

A Memoir of Scars and Guitars

By Margarita M.

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2014 by Margarita M.

eISBN: 978-0-9913716-0-0

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted by any means – whether auditory, graphic, mechanical, or electronic – without written permission of both publisher and author, except in the case of brief excerpts used in critical articles and reviews. Unauthorized reproduction of any part of this work is illegal and is punishable by law.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid.

Dedication

For the benefit of all living beings.

In loving memory of the ancestral lineage, particularly grandfather Abraham and great-grandmother Susanna.

Author’s Note

This is a work of creative nonfiction based on my personal experiences over a two-year period. Names and identifying details have been altered, some personages are composites and dialogue is written to the best of my memory. Some events were compressed or presented out of chronological order in order to create a cohesive and satisfying reading experience.

Table of Contents

Title Page

Dedication

Author’s Note

Table of Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Prologue

I have a major crush on you.

Rafael’s brown eyes glimmer with earnestness and a hefty dose of alarm. I’m surprised at his confession but not shocked.

Rafael’s girlfriend is in the main room by the bar with the rest of our friends. Meanwhile, he and I are squeezed together in the confines of this Williamsburg bar bathroom. It feels so wrong, so bad.

I like you too, I whisper.

He kisses me, our first kiss. His hands tangle in my hair, and the insistent touch makes my scalp tingle. Breathing goes on the backburner as I drink in the sensations of this long-awaited kiss. Our lips are eager to explore, to taste, challenging each other for more heat, more wetness, more friction. Our eager bodies take up all the space inside the bathroom surely meant for one.

Rafael and I met a year ago through my roommate Eva. In the past few weeks we’ve been spending time together at bars and coffee shops in our Brooklyn neighborhood, talking about life, politics, revolution, and relationships. Rafael is honest and a good listener. He makes me feel special and important. Also, there’s Stephanie, his girlfriend. They’ve been dating for four years. I consider that impressive. Two days ago he told me that he wasn’t looking forward to her visit. He said he’s been having doubts for the past year since she moved to Florida for school. I didn’t know how to react. My feelings for him had already swung way past platonic and into the realm of steamy romantic fantasy.

I told him that long-distance relationships are notoriously difficult to maintain. I did my best to be impartial and help him talk through his feelings. I tried to be a friend and maintain a safe distance between us.

Now here we are fervently embracing over the toilet bowl. I’m embarrassed to admit, this has happened to me before. In fact, it was less than a year ago that a slim, long-haired guitar player lured me into the bathroom at a house party to profess his affections. Jimmy also had a girlfriend. One that he lived with. One that he still lives with, in fact, despite our affair. It took almost three months for me to realize that what to me was a serious, possibly long-term relationship to him was nothing more than a charming diversion. He was bored at his office job. Jimmy worked as a producer for a porn website.

I felt betrayed and stupid for believing his bullshit, and when I broke it off with him I vowed not to get involved with unavailable men. It was too charged, and much too painful.

But here I am with Rafael.

How could I let this happen?

His body feels strong and solid against mine. He kisses the side of my jaw, then his lips move lower to the sensitive skin of my neck. I push my right hand into his chest. It’s hot in this tiny bathroom, and now my hand is stuck between us. My other hand is squeezing his arm, urging him closer. Even my two hands are in conflict.

We should stop, I manage to get out.

His lips move away.

Rafael backs up and leans against the door, looks down. My hands are empty. I start to adjust my outfit. My skin moans where his lips and teeth had touched it. The strained sounds of our breathing contrast with the upbeat music and laughter from the bar.

You need to tell her, I remind Rafael, then reach out my hand and touch his shoulder as way of reassurance. I want to say so much more. Don’t you see how good it could be between us? Don’t you realize all you need to do is end it with her and then we can be together? You want me; you don’t want her.

He reaches for me; his hands graze the sides of my torso as he helps to smooth down my tee-shirt.

I know, he mumbles, looking down at the neckline of my shirt. I know.

He kisses me again, quickly, as if he can’t help himself, then turns and shuffles out. I close and lock the door behind him, then I brace myself against the sink and stare into the mirror. The girl looking back at me is shaking her head.

Dude, what the fuck are you doing!? I question my flushed image in the reflection, lips wet, eyes wild, and hair sticking out at interesting angles.

It’s just that I’ve been so lonely. But I know that’s a shitty defense.

I wish I could avoid going back out to the bar. How do I face Rafael’s guilty glances, Stephanie’s questioning looks, our friends’ concern, and, worst of all, my own guilt and uncertainty?

I wrap my arms around myself and squeeze the upper arms as if holding my entire world together.

I know I can’t stay in this dingy bathroom forever. As I look into my own eyes in the mirror, I notice the music change from boring electro-rock to a soulful reggae tune, one of my absolute all-time favorite songs. I recognize it from the first few bars and gratefully begin to relax with the steady rhythm. Then the melody sweeps in, soothes my ears and swirls in my bloodstream.

Song: Natural Mystic

Performed By: Bob Marley

Lyrics By: Bob Marley

Link to Spotify Playlist: https://play.spotify.com/user/margaritam108/playlist/5Tt4QAny7KvbOwSjHZrfDh

Bob’s confidence and faith in the way things are reassures me. No matter how rotten, irritating, or untenable the situation may seem, there’s still a natural mystic, that force of Universal Love, that’s all around. I resolve to place my trust in that. So I run my fingers through my hair, open up the door, and before the song ends I’m at the bar ordering a beer to help get me through the rest of the evening.

* * *

October 29

The NBA is back! Watching the opening night doubleheader — what a pleasure. The apartment… working on it. Painting… bah. Still no heat — which is really crampin my style and my back. A little project I’m working on: a collection of my poetic stylings called Sex - 23 meditations. Feeling a bit blue — but blue for no reason, really.

I saw Tariq at the office. He is still a sadly closed door of emotion. I guess I kind of understand… he was friendly with me cuz he wanted to screw around. And now he’s decided that he can’t date me. He says it’s because I’m white. But… whatever. I’m not really white. I told him, I’m a minority, too, an immigrant. He just shook his head.

Rafael called today — I might see him tomorrow. I feel nervous. Wonder if it’s good news or bad news he has to tell me.

November 5

There’s a bump on my leg again. Arg, it’s so annoying.

Record-making two dates in one night — and NO action. Jane, my sister, the embodiment of wisdom, asked: But did u want any action from either of them?

Answer: I want aggressiveness. I always want action. I wouldn’t have minded some kissing at least — fuckall.

First was a wholly unremarkable get-together with Ben, a friend of a friend. I gave it a shot but he’s just such a quiet, nerdy guy. I couldn’t make any connection. Later I met up with Rafael… I don’t know — Che Guevara revolutionary dealing with the posthumous effects of his break-up. At least he did finally break up with his Florida girlfriend, though not until she was back in Florida after her visit. What bizarre timing. And now, of course, he’s all distraught and confused. Ack! Do I want to date him? He’s… well, a bit of a wussy, too soft for my taste. Although hooking up with him in the bar bathroom that one night was hella hot. I liked his scratchy stubble. I miss hanging out with Tariq… always trying to stick his hand down my pants. I feel like that’s what a real date SHOULD be.

Chapter 1

When the paramedics arrive it’s 4:15 a.m. I’ve been running a high fever for hours, and there is a volcanic eruption on the surface of my right shin.

What seems to be the problem, miss? asks the white guy, the older of the two EMTs.

I point to my shin. Eva brings a lamp, and things look even worse with the added light. There’s an ulcer about the size of a quarter on my shin with yellow lines marbling the dark maroon surface.

Oh, shit, what’s going on there? asks the EMT. Felix, you ever seen anything like this?

The younger of the two, a cute black guy, shakes his head. Not me, Mick.

The two men in uniform are towering over my bed, holding the lamp and examining the mess on my shin. Eva hovers in the doorway, her forehead scrunched with worry.

A couple of weeks ago I bumped my shin and got a bruise.

Actually, I was with Rafael and Eva at the time. We were laughing and joking as we bounced around in the back of the U-Haul truck transporting a bunch of rolling chairs back to the rental agency after the uber-awesome film festival they’d organized in DUMBO. There wasn’t enough room for us in the front, so we’d piled into the back and held onto each other. When the truck made a sharp turn, one of the chairs rolled and bumped hard into my shin. I rubbed the spot, an inch or two below the knee, but it really didn’t hurt much, so I waved it off.

There actually was one small worry in the back of my mind because my legs are pretty sensitive to trauma.

The EMTs both look perplexed as I continue my story. It’s hard to concentrate through the fever; my head feels heavy and thoughts are thick.

Ok. It started when I was eleven years old. I got a bruise on my shin after some minor bump, and it would fade from purple to a muted yellow as normal bruises do. Except that time the fading bruise swelled up, and a hard red bump formed. It was hot and painful to the touch. My Mom took me to a doctor, and the bump was diagnosed as Erythema Nodosum.

How do you spell that? Mick asks.

E-R-Y-T-H-E-M-A N-O-D-O-S-U-M. It’s Latin for something like ’knot under the skin,’ They just call it EN for short. Anyway, the doctor assured us that there’s nothing to worry about and the bump will fade in a couple of weeks. Sure enough, in a little over two weeks the bump faded. Then a year later it happened again. So since age eleven I’ve been pretty careful about not bumping my shins, and these bumps only come up every couple of years.

Ok, so when was the last time you had this bump… this EN?

When I first moved to New York…

How old were you?

Um, seventeen, I moved here to study acting, I manage a little flirty smile for Felix. He smiles back. Apparently my urge to flirt is stronger than any fever. Mick is busy taking notes.

Go on, he encourages.

So yeah, I had another outbreak. The doctor at the NYU clinic assured me it was nothing to worry about and told me that EN is idiopathic in half the cases (meaning that the cause is unknown). The recommended treatment is bed rest, elevate the legs, and take Ibuprofen to help reduce the pain, swelling, and inflammation. Of course, I could never just loll around in bed for a week, but I did take Ibuprofen, and within a couple of weeks the angry red bump faded away.

I feel hot, my skin is burning, and my right shin is the epicenter.

Ok, that was at seventeen, you said? And how old are you now, eighteen?

No. I’m affronted. I’m twenty three.

You sure? Mick asks. You look real young.

Well, I’m twenty three, I repeat, embarrassed at being reminded of my current appearance. I’m wearing an old tee-shirt and ratty pajama bottoms.

I manage to sit up in bed as I continue laying out the pertinent details to the paramedics.

I had a small bruise on my shin, and in the past couple of days it started swelling and got hot to the touch. I wasn’t worried because, like I said, I’ve had these bumps before.

You’ve had ones like this before? Felix asks and points to my shin. It’s pulsing with pain and looks totally awful. How mortifying.

No, no, I rush to clarify. Not like this. See, with this one there was a blister that formed on top of the bump. That never happened before with other ones, so I wasn’t sure what to do. Also it was hurting really bad. So two days ago I went to see this random doctor whose office happened to be close to where I work. He sliced the blister open.

I pause to take a breath. And now here I am with a hole in my shin like I’d been hit by shrapnel.

Mmm-hmmm. Did any fluid come out when the doctor lanced the blister? asks Mick.

Yeah, but it was a clear.

Clear liquid, Mick says as he writes it down. Ok, that’s good.

Nothing about this is good, but I choose not to argue about it.

He gathers together all the documents. Then there’s a moment of silence as the four of us stare at my leg.

The guys step out of the room to confer with each other. Eva is standing by the foot of my bed, and I smile weakly in gratitude. What a shitty way to wake up, your roommate stumbling into your room at three o’clock in the morning screeching, You need to call 911. Eva is such a trooper.

When the paramedics return they announce they’ve never heard of Erythema Nodosum, but my leg does not look good. They measure my temperature and confirm that I’m running a high fever.

Did you talk to that doctor again? Mick asks.

I shake my head recalling the doctor’s slow blinking and the glazed look he had when I was relating my previous diagnosis. He said he had never heard of EN but then barely glanced at my web print-outs that detailed the condition. He was way too eager to go for the scalpel.

I called his office on Saturday and explained the situation to the doctor on call. He told me to take four ibuprofen, and to come in on Monday. He also told me that if I’m running a fever then I should go to the emergency room. So when I woke feeling so hot I figured I should probably call you guys. Plus, well, you see what it looks like.

She almost fainted when she came to wake me up earlier, Eva says quietly. I called nine-one-one right away and that’s why you guys are here.

I’m grateful to Eva for completing my long-winded explanation. The guys nod with understanding. Mick hands me some forms and shows me where I need to print my name and sign.

You were right to call us, he says. This doesn’t look good.

Not reassuring. Eva looks over at me and tries a brave smile. I grit my teeth.

What hospital should we take you to? Mick ponders.

I don’t know. I’ve never done this before. A good one? I offer hopefully.

Let’s see… It’s Monday morning now, so we should pick one that’s less crowded, he points out.

Maybe the Cornell hospital? I offer. Having searched my mental cityscape for a hospital I seem to remember spotting one while cruising down the east side of Manhattan in a cab. It’s somewhere in the east 70s, I think.

I know where it is, miss. But that’s Manhattan. Now Mick is getting testy.

Eva and I exchange befuddled looks. I’m feverish and confused about what it is we are discussing. Didn’t he just ask me which hospital I wanted?

We can’t go to the hospital in Manhattan? Eva asks. We live in Williamsburg, Brooklyn, but just across the East River from Manhattan, a five-minute drive.

Nope, can’t cross bridges in an ambulance, Felix explains. Maybe we should take her to Bertford. What do you think, Mick? It’s not too far.

Yeah, ok. That all right with you? Mick looks to me for consent.

I’ve never heard of Bertford Hospital, but the pain in my leg is searing and my face feels like I got punched with an anvil.

Sure, I say. Whatever you guys think is best.

Felix wraps gauze around my leg to cover up the gore. His manner is gentle, and I thank him for that. I can hardly believe that in just three days the red bump turned into this open sore, raw with yellow and crimson shades.

Mick and Felix lift me onto a stretcher, and Eva follows behind as we make our way down the stairs. Once we’re inside the ambulance Felix starts chatting. I guess having two cute girls in here is a rarity. Mick is driving, and Felix shares some of his life story for Eva and me, just in case we were curious.

I always wanted to be a fireman, y’know. But after I took the test, they assigned me here instead, he says, clearly disappointed. I’m hoping next year I’ll get a transfer.

Yeah, that sounds like a good plan, I tell him. You’d make a great fireman.

I’m picturing Felix, shirtless, wearing red suspenders and flexing his muscles in one of those Hot Firefighters of NYC calendars. Surprisingly, this doesn’t go a long way toward distracting me from the throbbing in my newly bandaged leg and the bass drum pounding inside my skull. I’m grateful when Eva takes over the chitchat duties for the remainder of the ride.

Lying inside the moving ambulance, I close my eyes and concentrate on taking deep steady breaths the way I learned to in yoga class. I hear Eva making a call to my parents to let them know the latest on my condition. I’m grateful she doesn’t ask me to talk to them. You’re heading to the hospital, I remind myself, so there’s nothing to worry about.

Despite Mick and Felix’s calculations, we arrive to find the Bertford Emergency Room in frantic disarray, busy as can be. As they wheel me in, I see trails flashing in different directions, the nurses racing back and forth across the grey linoleum floor. Patients are moaning and cursing. It’s a little before 6 a.m., and this ER is a mob scene.

I’m just glad I have my two strong friends from the ambulance to shepherd me through. Mick and Felix get started trying to get