Conflicting Hearts by J. D. Burrows

shoreline.”
    “I’m a sand man, myself.”
    “That sounds funny.” I chuckle. “The rocks are what I love,
especially on a rough day. I can stand and watch the ocean for hours on end.”
    “Well, if you want, we can drive up Ecola Park, and you can
peer over the edge.”
    “Yeah, that would be nice.”
     For the next mile, we revert to silence. He looks as
if he’s deep in thought, and I’m calculating how far we are into the hour and a
half trip. As we start climbing the coastal range and make it on the other side
of the tunnel that cuts through the mountain, he decides to take the lid off of
things.
    “Do you mind me asking what happened with you and your ex?”
He pauses for a moment and rearranges his question. “I mean why did the
marriage end?”
    Ian turns his head and gives me a quick glance, no doubt to
determine if I’m reacting to his intrusion into my private life. I ponder for a
moment how to respond.
    “Tell you what, I’ll tell you why my marriage ended, if you
share why about yours.”
    He cocks his head to the right and rubs the back of his neck
with his right hand. It’s obvious that he’s uncomfortable. “Fair enough,” he
half-heartedly responds. “You go first.”
    “Oh, thanks,” I sarcastically reply, while noting the
relieved look on his face. I don’t belabor my response and get right to the
point. “I got married at twenty. My ex was seven years my senior. He swept me
off my feet, and three months later, like an idiot, I became his wife.”
    “Whoa, that was quick,” he blurts out in surprise.
    “Unfortunately, I quickly discovered that I wed a man with a
violent temper. For the next four years of my life, I struggled to find the
courage to leave, while he systematically abused me.” As my confession reaches
his ears, I notice Ian’s grip on the steering wheel tighten. His swift reaction
to my words surprises me.
    “Rachel, did he hit you?” He takes his eyes off the road and
glances at me with an appalled look. Shamefully, I tell him the truth.
    “Once, early in our marriage, because he said I mouthed off
at him. He punched me in the arm and left a bruise.” I wring my hands together
remembering the hurtful moment. Poor Ian’s face cringes.
    “There’s no excuse for men who hit women,” he growls with a
sneer.
    “Afterward, it escalated to verbal abuse, which I think is
more painful than the other. Although, when he got mad, he threatened me with a
raised, clenched fist.”
    “Why did you stay with the creep?” Ian’s voice is deep and
angry, as he glances over at me with a quizzical look.
    I begin to feel he’s climbing my walls of protection.
Desperately, I try to find the right answer that won’t make me sound like an
idiotic loser for staying. Should I tell him the real truth? Gee, Ian,
there’s this thing about me, and I can’t say no to abuse. As an
alternative, I wonder whether I should skirt the fact and blame it on another
issue. I project the blame elsewhere.
    “I was going to church at the time, and the denomination I
was in was pretty strict about divorce. In the pastor’s eyes, it was akin to
blasphemy. So I stayed in the marriage, lest I be ostracized for leaving him
and not submitting to my husband, like I was taught.”
    “Did the pastor advocate that you were obligated to remain
in that kind of abusive situation?”
    “Well, not in so many words,” I say. My ignorance is about to
flash like a neon light. “I was afraid to expose my husband for what he was
behind closed doors. Frankly, I didn’t know if anyone would believe me, let
alone side with me.”
    Ian shakes his head. “Gosh, Rachel, I’m sorry that you went
through that.” His voice is more sympathetic than it is angry.
    “Live and learn, but it did turn me against the church,
unfortunately. I think my theology got all screwed up because of it.”
    It’s hard to admit I’m a backslidden divorcee. The guilt
from religious teaching adds to my sense of sinfulness over