I really love Dijon. That woman is such an inspiration to me. I haven't thought much about naming a Godmother for this kid, but I'm going to ask her. Today, Frank got called in by a hospital two towns over. They needed all hands on deck because there was a bombing in the Brightside Commons mall. Apparently there are hundreds injured (huge mall) and the whole thing blew apart so Frank had to go be an actual doctor to people who actually need him. Dijon, upon finding out I'd be alone at my birthing practice today (which led to her finding out that I'd be alone in the birthing minus Frank whose actually delivering the kid) volunteered to be my birthing partner. Maybe its all these extra cocksucker horomones that course through my damned veins, but whatever, it made me cry. I was so touched. I was considering not going to the practice, but with only two weeks left before this kid comes, it doesn't really matter how much pain I'm in, I've gotta be prepared. Frank says I'm fine anyway, and that I don't need to be resting so much anymore. My boobs don't really hurt hurt, anyway, they just ache. And my back feels a great deal better. Dijon is saving me by coming, though, because that fucking practice is normally dreadfully boring. And she's saving this kid. And Frank. And my life. I can't thank her enough, really, for being there. For knowing me during this time of my life.
While we were in the gym, me on my back on my little purple yoga mat resting my head in Dijon's lap, we whispered over the "soothing Earth sounds" to one another, cracking jokes about our flamboyantly gay birthing instructor. I mean, the flamboyant gay thing is fine. In this day and age, gay and flamboyant is just as normal as happily married and Catholic. But the fact that a flamboyant gay man is trying to teach me how to shoot a fetus out of my uterus with a spandex shirt and poncho pants on, well thats fucking funny. Then we started cracking jokes about the couple next to us, two of the most wildly obese mongoloids I've ever seen in my life. We felt horrible making fun of them so much, but I mean come on. The woman farted. And throughout the room her fresh ass odor permeated and infested all of our noses and Dijon and I, at that point, lost our shit and just couldn't stop laughing. Those poor people. It was one of the most soothing of all the sessions I've ever gone to simply because I soothed all the pent up douchebagginess I've been harboring in my soul. Without Liam to joke with, I've felt so pent up. Frank can't joke so much with me. He's so serious all the time, about my health and my sanity and about the little monster, that he forgets that I'm his friend. Dijon gave me such relief today. If for that alone, I'm eternally grateful.
After the practice ended I asked if she'd allow me to take her to lunch. We went to C'est La Vie, this little bar on the outskirts of Santa Fe that I discovered the other night during one of my moonlight walks. Of course I'm not drinking, but I went in for an apple juice because I needed the atmosphere. It is much cooler of a place in the daytime. I led her to a booth in the corner and we talked over the gentle sounds, actually soothing sounds, of a little mexi man playing a bitty guitar. I swear, Spanish guitar does to me what nothing else in the world can do. Santa Fe has taught me one thing, at least. I love the guitar. We got some virgin cocktails (I know, how gay?) and I listened to Dijon tell me the most inspirational of stories. She comes from San Diego. When she was three years old she moved there from Connecticut with her drug addict mother who was fleeing from her abusive father. She's never met him. Once in San Diego, her mom found that the escape she had wanted, from the drugs and the abuse, was only doubly bad on the West Coast. Drugs are harder there, easier to come by, and everyone who lives there is trying to escape from something. So they're all crazy. They're all on drugs. They're all struggling and poor. Of course her mother got mixed up in the wrong crowd, almost right away, until she was freebasing two or three heroin pills every couple of hours. Dijon was left on her own most of the day while her mom was busy being high. And then her mom met Wiley. Wiley the fucking coyote. Thats what he called himself. Wiley Coyote. His real name was Wiley Marlou, but that fucker thought himself Wiley Coyote and thats how Dijon remembers him. He supported Dijon and her mom, they all moved into an apartment together, and while Wiley and Marjorie (the mom) got high and banged one another in the bathroom, Dijon grew up largely fending for herself. She remembers a lot of loneliness from those days, she says. Anyway, Dijon was eight the first time Wiley raped her. He raped her a hundred more times, she said, than she can remember. Those were her words. "Over and over, he'd rape me. While my mom was out scoring drugs, he'd tie me down and mouth rape me. Or he'd hold me against the wall and stick his dirty cock in my vagina". Her anger about the whole thing is so obvious in her words, and rightfully so. A year went by before he'd started to do things that would mark her. He'd sometimes hit her, or pinch her, and finally he ass raped her. And for two days she couldn't walk or move. The toilet water was bloody and so Marjorie freaked out and thought Dijon was starting her period. Bought her pads and tampons and all the like. Little did she know, the stupid cunt. Wiley fucking Coyote.
The situation came to a head when Dijon killed him. I'm not joking. She stabbed him to death. One day when Dijon was twelve years old, Marjorie (who was now a working drug addict instead of just a drug addict) was gone for the evening and Wiley started his, what Dijon calls "new sadistic rape ritual". He would tie up her arms and tie up her legs so that she hung from the kitchen ceiling in a U shape. And he'd rape her in the butt while she hung like that. So sickening. And he left the kitchen to take a shit. Thinking Dijon was tied up tightly, that fucking asshole. But as he stopped supporting her weight the knots in the ropes slackened instead of tightened up. Dijon recalls the moment lucidly, describing how the unraveling of the ropes was almost magical, almost like she was willing it so, until she had her hands freed. She says the hardest thing in the world was trying to stay bent in that U shape with no support, untying her feet. But she got herself free. She didn't describe her killing him in detail, for which I'm grateful. I'd surely have had a panic attack. Anxiety. But she told me that she calmly walked to the drawer, took out the sharpest and biggest knife she could find and attacked him while he sat there, vulnerable and shitting. After that she went directly to the police, obvious evidence of the rape on her rope-burned hands and with all his genetics on the places he'd touched her. She sued her mother for negligent parenting by the time she was sixteen. She was put into the custody of her Godmother after her mother's swift arrest and placement in county. And she has never spoken with her mother since. Marjorie is dead, now, but before she died she would send Dijon a letter every single day. I don't think that Dijon ever read a single one. She says she just put them into a box and left them untouched.
I have never been more sure of a person in my entire life. I haven't wanted a Godmother for my kid. But if there is one person in this whole world I trust with my little monster's life, its her. I've got so much respect for her I feel like I'm overflowing with it. And I think when we left the bar she knew that. So tomorrow I'm gonna take her to dinner, I think, and ask her if she'd do me the honor. I hope that Frank is not offended that I don't ask him to be the Godfather. I love Frank, he's my best friend, but something tells me he wouldn't be up for the job. Anyway, I'll write again tomorrow with details of whether I go through with it. For now, I'm exhausted. Love you, Eros. Sorry I've been so aloof lately. I'm just...hurting more than normal.