Cured

By Laura Marie

Heidi is an excessively popular only child of over-achieving, image-dependant parents who insist she attend a Christian university. There begins her plaguing self-doubt. She gets a degree in mathematics to prove she's smart, plays with men to prove a theory, and fights her parents to prove they're wrong about everything. Complicating it all is an inappropriate affection for her math professor.

Heidi and her imposing friend Patti reign supreme in a religious university that demands high grades, and higher scruples. However, an impressive social standing at school does not translate to acceptance from her own parents who Heidi feels have always had it in for her. She doesn't want to work in the ministry, she doesn't want to date the men they approve of, and she doesn't want to blindly accept what she's always been taught.

As she brilliantly moves through her career after college, her love life remains unsatisfying. The key? Denying the mark on her heart left by her former math professor.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Laura Marie
• Release date: Sep 8, 2011
• ISBN: 9781466149762

Laura Marie

Laura Marie lives with her daughter in the Greater Vancouver area. She has a degree in French, a diploma in broadcast communications and she works full-time in television production. She attends an Alliance church in what she considers the most beautiful city on earth. She also has a cat available for anyone requiring a middle-aged, messy feline with a limited intelligence.

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Cured

By Laura Marie

Copyright 2011 Laura Marie

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Cured

Chapter 1

I feel nauseous. It’s funny how much I remember about the grounds here; there are certain landmarks that ignite a memory about a person, a thought, a feeling I had once as an eighteen-year-old entering the one institution I never wanted to attend.

St. Peter’s was the parents’ idea. I had carried around an uncomplimentary, and unwarranted, reputation within my family for as long as I could remember and my parents thought it wise to nip this problem in the bud and send me to a college where I was least likely to get into trouble. Ironic, seeing how everyone knows Christian schools are prime fostering grounds for every form of debauchery in the Good Book.

I was not a bad kid. I was a fantastic student and a straight-laced adolescent with a serious character flaw. See, most Christians don’t meet doubt until they’ve been out of high school for at least a few years. I guess I was mature for my age.

If I’m honest, I’ll admit that St. Peter’s was the best thing that ever happened to me, but it’s hard for me to admit that. Even now as I’m walking down the immaculate paved roadway lined with the same crocuses that sprouted every spring of my four years here, I’m at once comforted by the peacefulness of the place and dreading addressing my former classmates and professors. I’m not sure why I’ve always experienced such contrasting duality with this place, but I have my theories. Even in the years since I graduated I have not yet come to terms with all that happened here.

I never rebelled against the religious system, really. But when I got my first real boyfriend (who happened to be a non-believer) at fifteen years of age my parents told me to break it off at once for fear his heathen ways would rub off on me. When they found out I was going out with him anyway and all the grounding in the world wasn’t going to help, they insisted I only go on group dates. Of course, I thought this was stupid and routinely went out alone with him regardless. My parents, worried over my inevitable impending moral demise, forced me into our church’s after school program, knowing I’d be too embarrassed to tell my boyfriend to meet me there. They succeeded in breaking us up, but that program also led me to my second boyfriend, Lorne, who I wisely kept a secret. Lorne was a Christian boy, but he was nineteen and therefore inappropriate. Looking back, our age gap was totally questionable, but at the time I was just enamored with the thought of an older man wanting me.

After Lorne, I had lots of relationships with boys, leading my mom and dad to believe I was promiscuous. I wasn’t, I didn’t even kiss most of them, but I liked that I was causing my parents so much grief so I never set them straight. I’m not sure why I had it in for my parents; maybe because I always felt like they had it in for me. And they proved they did; when I was getting ready to apply to universities they told me they would only pay for my education if I went to St. Peter’s. Close to home, and tightly religious; perfect for their wayward daughter. In fact, if my parents had been at all attuned to the life of their only child they would have known how little there was behind my big appearances, especially when it came to sex. I remember asking my mom why she wouldn’t sign the waiver allowing me to participate in the sex education classes in sixth grade, to which she replied that they didn’t teach Godly things about sex in my school and that such education should happen in the home. She never did teach me anything about sex after that, though she’ll claim she did. Well, if that’s true then I don’t see how I never knew that girls had a third hole until I was fifteen years old. Imagine my surprise when I opened the tampon box when I first got my period and, reading the instructional diagram in horror, realized I had to insert that thing vertically.

I think it would have been better for me to have had siblings. At least I would have had someone to bounce stuff off of when I had awkward questions. Like, when I first decided that I needed deodorant. Not a big deal, right? Well, I was twelve, and since I hadn’t ever talked to my parents about anything even remotely related to puberty it took me a few weeks to figure out how to approach what I thought was an embarrassing topic. I chose my tactic carefully. I would go grocery shopping with my mom, as I often did, and put some Lady Speed Stick in the cart when she wasn’t looking. I succeeded, at least until we got to the checkout. As the deodorant made its way closer to the scanner I tried to distract my mom with inane questions about I can’t remember what. Apparently she thought my questions were too odd not to be suspicious so she sort of grunted her responses and gave me weird looks before turning to the register screen to make sure the price of each item was as she expected. I started to panic when I realized she would soon see my clandestine item so I nearly shouted the first thing that came to my mind.

I think I failed my French quiz today! My inappropriate enthusiasm startled the cashier as she grabbed for the deodorant which she instead knocked down to the ground in front of her. She picked it up, my mother looked back, and then we all saw what the cashier was about to scan.

Wait a minute, my mom put her hand out to stop the girl. That’s not ours. The cashier, only a few years older than me, gave me a disdainful look that told me I was incredibly immature and asked my mom if she was sure.

Yes, I didn’t put that in there. Maybe someone else did.

The girl raised her eyebrows. Like your daughter?

I could have slapped her. My mom looked at me wearily.

Did you put that in the cart?

My face burned as I tried to act nonchalant. Yeah, you know, uh, just wanted to try it... don’t really need it… just thought I’d –

Oh for goodness sake, my mom snapped, annoyed either because I’d put something in the cart without her knowing or because I was requiring anything at all. I couldn’t tell, so I just stewed in my own embarrassment and didn’t say a word the entire way home. Neither did she.

My mom, Nancy Joan Topanen, is not a warm woman. I often wonder why she chose to have a child. Or rather, I wonder about the circumstances that led her to resign to having one. I have a couple of theories. Either she felt she had to procreate in order to seem normal in our Christian circles and for the sake of her credibility in the counseling market (my mom had authored a handful of books on marriage and I think she believed having a kid gave her more clout). Or, she did it as a sort of experiment, tried it once, decided that was enough of that, and declined to have any more.

Like most only-children, I was desperate for siblings growing up. Sometimes, in my most cynical and sinister moments, I imagined my parents had purposely left me alone to get back at me for cramping their style. I most certainly was not convenient for their busy, public lives and having more children might have nipped their budding empire in…well, the bud.

I blame my sensitivity toward inanimate objects on my lack of brothers and sisters. Until I was well into double digits in years I nodded hello to certain trees or lampposts on my way to and from school. It’s not like I thought they had feelings, but I still felt bad if I ignored them. I have never told anyone that.

I also imagined my dolls and stuffed animals could hear and see me, which isn’t so much alarming as kind of sad. Thank God I’d always had lots of friends. Just about every day after school I either had friends over or went to a friend’s house until suppertime. The hours between supper and bedtime had to be spent doing homework, or, if there was none to be done, reading or playing in the rec room downstairs; the rec room and my bedroom being the only places in the house where my toys were allowed. My parents almost never went into either room. In fact, you wouldn’t even otherwise know a child lived in that massive house if it weren’t for the few photos placed with purpose on some of the walls. To be fair, there weren’t many photos of my parents, either, my dad not being fond of mounting them. He said it just wrecked the walls and added clutter.

Apparently people can tell I’m an only child. I don’t really know how, but I’ve had too many people say it for it to not be true. My best childhood friend, Maryam, told me I was self-centered. Not in a bad way, she assured me, I was just a casualty of having all my parents’ attention on me and no one else. It wasn’t my fault. I asked her for an example and she reminded me of the time we were at summer camp and my parents would send me care packages to make themselves feel better for getting rid of me for a whole month. Evidently, I would eat the snacks they sent without offering her any. I remember this, but it just never occurred to me to share. I find this incredibly mortifying because I wonder what else I do, even as an adult, that screams spoiled.

I have mixed feelings as I look at each of the buildings I pass by on my way to the familiar parking lot on the far north side of campus. On the one hand, it was the best thing for me to come here. On the other hand, it would have been so much better for me not to have met Dr. Trevor Bourdais, the first and only man I’ve ever been in love with. If I’m honest with myself, I’m only attending this reunion with the hope of seeing him again. It sickens me to think that I’ve wasted this much of my life wanting a man I hardly know but have never been able to get out of my head.

The winding drive through the sprawling university grounds overlooking the valley that opens up to Vancouver on the horizon fills me with the same anticipation of my first day more than fourteen years ago. The closer the high chapel came into view when I first arrived here so long ago, the less I liked my parents for forcing my hand. I did not belong here. I presented my case to my parents but they would hear none of it. I would go where God’s servants could keep an eye on me and where God himself could infiltrate my every pore until I thought and felt and breathed like them.

So it surprises me that I’m here, ten years after saying my last tearful but relieved goodbyes to all the people I had genuinely come to love. I had said I would attend this reunion in the way I always do; saying yes to requests out of a desire to please and facilitate and immediately chastising myself for not being more selfish. But it’s true I want to be here. I have to. I figure it’s the only way to definitively put a name to the uneasiness of my adolescence, the guilt of my young adulthood, and the lingering longing in the years that have brought me to now.

The reunion is a stand-around event with drinks (the safe kind) and appetizers, and then speeches. I am going to be called upon to say a few words to my class. I have never understood how the people in my life think I am good, qualified or pleased to do things like this. I am often asked to emcee work and other corporate events. I suppose my job position fools a lot of people, or my professional appearance. I like nice clothes, I have expensive shoes, and my blonde hair is always perfectly dyed so that the mere hint of roots is immediately eradicated. I had hair almost to my waist for most of my life but when I started working in the real world I chopped off about a foot in an effort to ensure my coworkers took me seriously, despite what I knew were serious professional privations. I won’t go anywhere without at least mascara and lip gloss, even to the grocery store. I don’t remember being this concerned about my appearance back in high school and university, but in the years that I’ve lived as a real adult I’ve discovered how much bullshit you can actually get away with when you just look and act the part.

***

The chapel emerges like a threat after the shrouded drive past the Fine Arts building and I am awed once again at its sheer grandeur. I’d forgotten how impressive this place is with its seven-storey steeple and long stone walls featuring some of the most beautiful stained glass in any church I’ve ever seen. Ivy grows up and winds around the outer foyer, almost infringing on the massive, thick wooden doors. God is like this chapel; you forget him sometimes and then he hits you with a sobering reminder. I have to catch my breath.

I see all the new students starting their university careers; eager, idealistic, cocky. Do-gooders wanting to make parents and God proud. Genuinely expecting that life is going to turn out like they always thought. Fourteen years ago, when I first started university, I probably looked like these kids. I’d like to think I was never so naïve but the mere sight of the chapel and the mixture of smells from the many pine trees and hydrangeas bring me back to that first semester when the anxious excitement generated by change and foreboding was enough to make me at once loathe and feel grateful towards my parents. No matter how wrong they were about me.

The first time I rode up this way all those years ago I parked my car a few blocks from where the first assembly would be held in the Student Hall. I wanted to approach slowly, observing things as I went in. The returning students moved past us youngins, purposefully and annoyed, on their way to sure destinations. The new students, brushed uncertainly past other students who were equally unsure, their parents smug and hobnobbing with each other. I suppose it was a big deal to go to school here; parents could afford the inflated private school costs and students felt smart, like part of an elite. I felt neither fortunate to be rich nor proud to be intelligent. I didn’t know how I felt.

My parents had not come with me for my first day at university, and for that I was somewhat grateful. They had shown their support by buying me a ridiculously overgrown and ostentatious sedan, and filling my bank account with pocket money. The families of my fellow bright new students were accompanying them into the Hall and I followed the crowd, gazing in what I hoped was a subtle manner at all these kids who would presumably become my friends.

The first person who really caught my attention was a fat, black-haired girl with clothes far too small for her body who was smoking to the left of the main doors. It wasn’t just the combination of her look and sinful habit that invoked the gaze of the proud parents and students coming in; it was the attitude emanating from her as she stared over people, bored and disdainful. I was drawn to this girl and must have been staring because as I got closer I noticed she was staring back, her smoking hand slightly raised, her eyes wide as if to ask So?. I marveled at her brazenness among these straight-laced folks, and most notably at her knowing aura.

I stood beside her but didn’t say anything. She extended her cigarette.

I suppose you want one of these? she said dryly. I shook my head no, smiled, and asked if her parents were there with her. She looked around her and shook her head as if it was obvious. She didn’t ask the same of me. I lingered beside her as if her confident presence would somehow bolster and protect me, and after about a minute she snubbed out her cigarette, blew out her last breath of smoke and turned to me.

Wanna go in? I nodded yes, sighed and walked towards the huge, ancient, oaken doors.

I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised but I think my new acquaintance and I were the only unaccompanied people in that auditorium. Adults seemed to know other adults, or maybe they were just conversing in the same way people do when there’s an understanding that they have something in common. The Christian community is small, after all. I learned my acquaintance’s name was Patti, and it was not short for Patricia. I told her my name was Heidi and she seemed to get a kick out of it.

We sat down in the back, glad it was the only space left in the bulging room. It was fascinating to observe everyone. Patti and I did not talk, but every so often I would hear her snicker.

A man got up to the podium who had grey hair and a Moses-style beard. He was small, but when he started speaking he had the deepest, most resonant voice I had ever heard. It really was like he was God. Patti and I looked at each other, a bit stricken but amused.

Welcome everyone. My name is Dr. Frank Wickert and I am the president of St. Peter’s University. He paused, but only because of the dutiful but unnecessary applause of the overeager audience.

You should all feel very privileged to be here, he went on. St. Peter’s is rated in the top five private universities in North America and has an unparalleled reputation for academic excellence.

Again, applause. This was going to get annoying fast. Mr. Wickert didn’t seem to appreciate the clapping either, but he politely pressed on.

But more than that, he continued, St. Peter’s is proud of the spiritual strengthening that we build upon the foundation already provided by the home. We believe one’s spiritual life to be abundantly more important than academics and we trust that each and every student here will come to a solidified knowledge of who God is in the course of your four years here.

He stopped again, without applause and surveyed the audience, slowly, as if contemplating each student.

Much will be expected of each of you here. We do not believe God’s children should be mediocre. Instead, we expect that every one of you will put yourself to the task set before you in the area you have decided upon and use the facilities that God gave you to produce the finest result possible. You got in because you proved you were capable, and as such we will take no excuses for not excelling. He paused as if to let the enormity of the responsibility set in. This goes beyond academics, he resumed. Every detail of your life should exemplify someone who is doing the best with what they have. We are not asking for everyone to be perfect; we are simply asking each of you to do God justice and develop every asset he has set in you to its full potential.

I couldn’t help but feel sick at Dr. Wickert’s comments. Was it only me or did anyone else here know they would never measure up to this?

I will now give the podium over to our vice-president, Dr. Gene Falloway.

The man who got up to speak then was not nearly as impressive as Dr. Wickert. He was very tall and angular, but plain, quiet and stooped despite his mere middle-age. He lost me as soon as he opened his mouth and I once again took to observing the young people who I would soon hang out with. I had always known people like this and I knew what I was in for. You don’t spend your life in this community without an understanding of how you’re supposed to be, and more importantly, what people expect of you. My parents hadn’t yet gotten what they expected of me, hence the reason for my being at St. Peter’s.

When the boring man was finished talking about GPA standards (sinking below 2.4 would get us expelled), campus and classroom etiquette (we were to call our professors by their surname) and the mandatory attendance at chapel each morning at eight-thirty, he called upon the resident pastor, Dr. Gregory Mile, to say a closing prayer and benediction. Dr. Mile stopped at the microphone, closed his eyes and did nothing for a good twenty seconds before beginning to speak. Patti and I were the only ones with our eyes open, everyone else diligently taking in the Spirit in quiet meditation. I kept staring at Dr. Mile and although he set a mood that was mesmerizing, his words were typical and disappointing. He started out in predictable fashion, asking the Lord to protect each student through his or her imminent journey at St. Peter’s and calling on the Holy Spirit to guide everyone as they sought out the Lord’s purpose and design for their lives. Of course, we had all heard this before, but the nodding of heads throughout the crowd and the murmurs of agreement would make one think that these were petitions of the most profound nature. I didn’t think less of Dr. Mile because I understood his position. This