As soon as my final grade report and official diploma arrived in the mailbox, I called Mohammed and told him all proverbial bets were off and he could kiss my ass. I never wanted to see him again. He robbed me of the happiness that I deserved for my college graduation. He also diminished my self-confidence with his degrading remarks. My patience completely exhausted, I dumped him rather forcefully. Of course, this drove him absolutely insane. I noticed his car cruising around my neighborhood in Cambridge Hills and occasionally parked down the street. I also spied it near the bridal salon. He telephoned my father’s house to call me a “slut” and a “whore”, accusing me of leaving him to fornicate with other men.
My father caught me screaming into the telephone at him late one night. Until that time, he was basically unaware of the nature of my involvement with Mohammed. Too emotionally depleted to shrug the episode off casually, I explained what had happened to my father. A few days later, Mohammed unfortunately showed up on our doorstep. My father told me to wait in my room.
“I’m here to see Katherine,” Mohammed began in his most debonair tone.
“You are not welcome in this house and my daughter does not wish to see you. I suggest you leave.”
With that, something inside Mohammed snapped. “Did you know your daughter is a tramp who cheated her way through college and has sex with numerous men?” he demanded vilely.
“Get out of here now before I beat you within an inch of your life,” my father threatened approaching the young man menacingly. There is no doubt that my father would have knocked Mohammed’s teeth down his throat. While my father was a big muscular man; Mohammed was built like a sinewy male model. Mohammed backed away from the house cursing under his breath. He drove off and I never saw his car on our street again.
In an effort to completely avoid any accidental contact with Mohammed, I signed up for the two additional courses I needed for graduate school at the community college. Since one of the classes was in psychology, I could not risk any more of Mohammed’s chicanery. Leaving the university for another educational environment would also ease the transition to graduate school.
Upon returning home, I deposited my shabby old roller skates by the steps from the house into the garage. Although I previously kept them in my bedroom closet, the wheels had become so filthy from commuting on asphalt paths that I feared they might soil the carpet. Even I could no longer summon the courage to wear the severely battered boots to a roller rink. However, throwing them away never occurred to me.
In an effort to find the solace that had eluded me during the months of Mohammed’s abuse, I sat on the garage steps to lace the old skates. I plugged in a portable radio and set the dial to my favorite station. After sweeping pebbles and debris off the smooth concrete floor, I glided easily through the space striking an arabesque pose and curving my arms like a ballerina. Several back crossovers carried me around the
After four years of college, my skating had not improved one iota. I sat heavily on the steps listening to the music that no longer motivated me or made me want to dance. Ceasing to like the popular music of the time indicates the onset of maturity. Instead of developing my supposed skating talent; I sold wedding dresses, learned to design clothes and worked chemistry problems. None of these ventures resulted in self-fulfillment or satisfaction. In the heat of the summer morning, I felt as though I had changed. I was no longer the little girl filled with dreams of becoming a skater; nor was I the adolescent aspiring to a career as a fashion designer. My dreams of romance had been shattered by a mentally abusive relationship. I hoped a lighthearted skate in the garage would release me from my disappointments. Instead, my stymied growth as an athlete discouraged me further. Since I had not taken roller skating lessons or devoted hours to practice, I could not expect profound improvement. However, I had not improved at all in at least five years.
The garage itself had not changed either. Much of the same junk still occupied the shelves and rafters creating the audience I imagined as a child. In spite of my hard work, I never invested in a new pair of respectable skates but wore the same cheap department store boots. The skates and my skating remained constant. It was I who had changed. I was older, wiser, more educated and much less naïve. Someone other than my parents had hurt me over something other than skating.
I switched off the little radio and leaned against the door to the house. A college graduate, I felt no more prepared to face the world than I did as a little girl in roller boogie skates. Through the tears in my eyes, I pictured that young girl gliding across the empty concrete in gaudy new white skates. She could do an illusion, a skill I no longer owned.
As the summer session wore on, Mohammed searched the psychology building to no avail. Depleting his own resources, he entered his professor’s office making casual conversation.
“I wonder what happened to Katherine,” he began vacantly. He did not dare to approach my home in Cambridge Hills again.
The elderly man’s brow furrowed. “Who is Katherine?”
“From Behavioral Psychology last spring.”
“Oh. She must not be taking a course this term,” Dr. Huang offered indifferently.
“She needs another class for graduate school.”
“I don’t remember seeing her name on any of the rosters.”
That lit a blazing fire under Mohammed.
I was glad to be going straight home after class to finish my term paper. For the first time since I left high school, I had a manageable schedule. At first, I accused myself of paranoia for stopping abruptly startled by the sight of a dark haired man sitting on one of the many benches lining the pathway through the main square of the campus. I had done this several times, always afraid to confront my tormentor. I assured myself that he did not know where I was. The fellow rose from the bench and walked toward me. Terror welled in my throat forming an unexpected scream.
“Hi, Katherine,” Mohammed began.
“How did you find me?” I demanded.
“I knew you needed another psychology class,” he replied matter-of-factly, obviously pleased with himself.
Mohammed was obsessed enough to look through course schedules for every school in the Sacramento area for the class I needed and stake them all out. It probably took weeks, but he eventually found me.
I tried to move passed him to make my escape. He put his hand on my shoulder to stop me.
“Aren’t you glad to see me?”
“Not really. I told you I did not want to see you anymore. I have not changed my mind.”
“Well, that is too bad, Katie, because I want to see you.”
I shifted my backpack uncomfortably on my shoulder. “Good-bye, Mohammed.”
“I love you, Katherine,” he pleaded.
My face wrinkled with disgust, “You have a charming way of showing it.” I was not going to fall for his coercion again. “I have to go now.” He stopped me again as I pushed passed him.
“I can still file a complaint against you,” he threatened with a malicious grin.
“You don’t seem to understand this, Mohammed. I don’t love you. I don’t even like you. You destroyed our relationship with your depraved attitude. Using threats to force me to go out with you is really pathetic. Just leave me alone.”
Mohammed raised his hands over his head gesturing concession. “Fine, I’ll talk to Dr. Huang this afternoon and fill out the paperwork. It won’t look good on your spotless record, and it may even keep you out of that precious graduate school of yours.”
Remaining calm and even smiling coyly, I retorted, “And I will have to go to the police to get a restraining order to keep you away from me. I might even report your behavior to the University. You could lose your assistantship or get expelled from the graduate program. And that restraining order might stain your record.”
This time when I walked away, Mohammed did not try to stop me. A few moments later, I heard him running down the pathway shouting in the final stages of desperation: “I love you, Katherine. I didn’t mean the things I said! I want to marry you!”
I did not slow my pace or turn. I just kept walking toward the parking lot. If I missed my opportunity to marry a nice guy like Devin, I certainly would not marry a lunatic like Mohammed.
I never saw or heard from Mohammed again.
Shortly after the semester concluded, my assistantship ended and my sublease expired. My roommates and I all went in separate directions. Again, I moved back into my father’s house. I never would have done this had my mother still lived there. I would have found another inexpensive lease and clocked extra hours in a bridal shop or restaurant to maintain my independence. Carole took classes and worked all summer. My father and I barely saw her. He felt lonely in the silent, peaceful house and hoped to renew the relationship we shared while I was in high school before telling me that I could not take skating lessons. I returned to my bridal consultant job, but worked reduced hours to accommodate an intense summer class schedule.
The content of this site is copyright by K. J. N., 1999 - 2001