Friday, October 16, 2009
CRYING ISN'T A WEAKNESS. That's one lesson my mother taught me that I will never forget. Yeah, I was a man and I didn’t enjoy it. I hated it in fact. I prided myself on being able to push my feelings back, when able, and be tough when I had to be. But there are moments that shit sucks. Pain hurts. And men cry.
We buried her on Sunday.
Sunday night I drank myself sick.
Monday felt like I was living in hell.
Monday night I drank myself sick.
My phone battery had died days earlier and I wasn't conscious enough to care. I'd been staying at my mom's house the past few months. We still had a lot of paperwork to sort through, and thank God my dad was being helpful.
He'd been more than supportive to a woman who was his ex-wife over the past few months. Hell, even Carmen helped. Audrey flew back for the funeral, but then had to leave on Monday to get back to class.
Since I was sleeping through my days and drinking through my nights, I hadn't had much contact with anyone. But they brought food by and left me notes on the counter. The food went in the refrigerator, and the notes went nowhere.
It wasn't until the following Friday when I actually got up at a respectable time. I called into work to see how everything was going and I was happy to hear that everyone had pulled together and that even Marc had been coming in to help. It made me feel at peace knowing that everything in my life wasn't going to shit.
I still had my job.
I could still have Aly if I’d wanted her, but I was a beggar now, and I didn’t have the luxury of being choosey.
I didn't have the two women who meant the most to me.
I sat on my mother's back patio and drank a whole pot of coffee black, out of a Styrofoam cup—which before I would have hated—but, I went for easy and it was on the counter.
People bring you shit like that when you're grieving. Paper plates. Casseroles. Dish soap. Trash bags. But it's all shit.
A month ago I wouldn't have even considered drinking coffee out of this shitty disposable cup, but what did it matter right now? I didn't taste it. It wasn't good. It just was.
I watched the garden for a long time that morning. Her plants looked overgrown and their yields were falling off and rotting. It looked depressing. And I couldn’t stand another depressing thing at that moment.
I went into the basement and found my mom's gardening tools and decided to do something about it.
My mom would have shit if she saw the waste happening in her yard. Her body having gone to waste on her, she knew what it felt like. Cancer was like that. It kills your life, not just your body.
Knowing what she would have liked to see, I got my shit together and readied myself for some time in the dirt.
First I picked the ripe fruits and vegetables. There was so much. I'd never be able to eat it all. I'd need to talk to Cory and see if he knew who she gave it to. Maybe she donated it. I made a mental note to look into that.
Then I dug out the undergrowth and weeded around everything that belonged there. It was relaxing and for the first time in the past week, I didn't feel so far away from my mom. Not that I hadn't ever been away from her, because God knows, up until she finally told me, I had been jet-setting. Chasing a girl who didn't want me. Or didn't want me enough.
This distance was different. She was no longer a phone call or text away. And that f*cking sucked.
I'm a man, but in that garden, I finally cried. I cried because a good woman was robbed of her old age. And I'd been robbed, too. I thought of things I'd never even let myself consider. She wouldn’t dance with me at my wedding. She wouldn't be there when my kids were born or teach them how to tell which strawberries were ready to be picked.
She was gone.
All the while, in the garden, I kept looking at that f*cking shed.
“Casey, honey don't you think it would look nice painted red?” she'd say every so often.
I understood the translation of her mother's speak. What she meant was, “Casey, paint the damn shed red for your mom. Wouldn't ya?” I never did.
And she was right.
Kneeling in that garden cursing God and doctors that Friday, I realized a few very important things. Sometimes you know what the answer is before you hear the question and my mom's f*cking shed needed painting red.
I didn't come into the house until it was dark that night. Then, I actually warmed up some of the casserole stuff that had moved into the refrigerator. It turned out, there's a reason people bring food like that. It was good and it would keep.
I took a shower and slept in my old bedroom. It was the first night in many that I dosed off rather than passed out.
I woke up feeling better than I had. Not great, but I'd take any improvement for what it was. It was barely after dark when I went to bed and, consequently, I was up with the sun.
I drove to the hardware store and bought red paint and other supplies that I thought I might need to get the job done.
I dragged out the old stereo from the basement to the shed and set it up. I'd need some tunes for my job. I turned on a modern-rock station and let it set my pace.
The wood was bare, but it was in pretty decent shape. I probably should have done more in terms of preparation, but I was focused solely on making the damn thing red.
The shed wasn't too far from the house, only a hundred feet or so, and I began on the side that faced it. The back side met up to the tree line, so who would care if by the time I got to the back, my handiwork was less than stellar? I relented that if I could singularly paint an entire fifteen by thirty foot shed, I didn't really care how perfect it looked.
I trimmed around the big door and decided I would get white paint the next day and do the trim, if I finished the entire structure that day.
The morning was hot, but I didn't stop. I pulled my shirt over my head and ran it across my almost bare scalp to remove some of the sweat. I tucked it into the back of my tattered cargo shorts and continued.
At about two, I went inside and grabbed some water and a handful of strawberries.
I continued to paint. My mind went where it usually did on standby.
Blake.
I hadn't spoken to her since our fight before her wedding. Before I watched her stroll down the aisle and begged God that she'd stop and leave.
Chalk that up to another unanswered prayer.
I was too far away to see her face or hear her voice as she said her half of the vows, but I couldn't tempt myself by going that close. It would have been too difficult to not make a scene or object, like in the movies.
I surrendered and let it happen. As if I’d had any control over it at all.
The thought still made me a little sick.
Then, like my wandering memory liked to do, it tortured me with flashbacks of her and me together. Random glimpses of happiness and pleasure which only felt like anguish and pain in hindsight.
The way her hair would stick to her face when we were both covered in sweat.
Her laugh and the way she hummed before she fell asleep.
Her pink nose. Her smell. Her taste. Her.
“Looks like you've been busy.”
I really was losing my mind, because I started hearing her voice. It was like she was speaking to me. My arm burned as I rolled the paint high on the last of the exterior shed walls. I'd just started the final side and the blisters I'd given my hands were raw.
I could feel the heat radiating off my shoulders from the hours in the sun. I was thirsty and thoroughly tired.
That had to be why my mind had finally cracked. Her voice was only a figment of my imagination a reprieve my consciousness gifted to sooth me.
“Casey?”
There it was again. The sound was almost clear enough and bright enough to believe. I ignored it. I wouldn't let myself turn around only to learn I really was going mad. Then I felt a cool hand on my leg, as I stood on the lean-to ladder resting against the almost red building.
The fingers stayed in place and I felt my eyes close. Either I was certifiable or it was real. I was afraid to find out which. I held my breath as fought my mind to tell me the truth.
Was I fooling myself?
Was it really her?
Had I brought her out of the thin air by concentrating on her so hard?
Then she said, “Hey.”
I finally allowed myself to look down at my leg. There was a hand. And it belonged to my honeybee. She was really there. On the ground at my mom's house.
I rested my head against my arm and tried to calm my breath. I didn't know what to say. Excitement at the thought of seeing her ran quickly through my veins. Then, I realized seeing her now would be one more memory I'd have to hide from later.
“What do you want, Blake?” I sounded tired and beaten.
She didn't answer, only retracting her touch from my leg.
I was past the point of tip-toing around her feelings. She didn't mind stomping all over mine in her wedding shoes.
One shaky foot after another, I climbed down off the wooden ladder.
“I don't want anything, Casey,” she answered softly.
“From me, you never do.” Stepping away from the last rung, I dipped down to grab the last water bottle I'd brought down with me. I took a long drink, tipping the bottle back, and I got my first good look of her, that I’d had in months.
Her hair was the same, but she looked thinner and more tired than the Blake of my memory. When I'd got my fill of water, I poured the last little bit over my face, dropping the bottle onto the ground when it was empty.
I ran my hands back and forth over my buzzed hair and the water came off the short strands in a mist that felt good on my hot, sunburned shoulders.
“I just wanted to come and see how you’re doing since…,” she paused not knowing how to word the obvious, “…well to see how you're doing.” She looked over the paint job avoiding my eyes. “This looks nice.”
I didn't have any fight in me, not at that moment. “It does,” I said, and walked a few feet away to the shade and sat down on the long grass.
It needed a mow.
I brought my knees up and leaned back on my aching arms.
“Look, Blake. I'm not in the mood for your shit right now. If you came here to play the concerned lover, or friend, save it. I don't want to hear it.”
My abrasive words bounced off her and she finally met my eyes again.
“I am concerned.” She twirled a finger into the hem of her T-shirt and I saw her other fingers shake from where I sat. My ability to read her body still present as ever.
“Okay.” I raised my eyebrows when I said it to tell her, with my face, that I was losing my patience.
Neither of us said anything as she stood there in the sun, beads of sweat beginning to form on her forehead.
It was a standoff and it was going anywhere. I had to break the silence, move this forward. To where I wasn't sure. “You could have sent a card or whatever. You didn't need to come here.”
Her voice steady and sure she said, “Yes. Yes, I did.”
“Why?” I drew out the word on a long exhale.
She looked to me and then to the pail of cherry red color, then back again. I was lost as to what she was thinking. I could see something growing braver behind her eyes. She went to the unused pack of paintbrushes and chose the widest one. She held it up as if to ask if she could do something with it.
I shrugged.
She walked to the paint and slowly dipped the long horse-hair brush deep into it, lifting it when it was thoroughly coated. She looked to the wall, silently questioning if it was still okay.
Again, I shrugged. The whole thing was like a weird dream. Maybe the sun got to me and it was one. Maybe I was laying on the ground unconscious and it was all a fabrication of my subconscious. My vision blurred as I thought about the likelihood of that being possible. I stared off into the woods to the side of the barn.
Blake saying, “Because of this,” broke my spell. When I gazed back at her I saw that in letters about two feet in height, she'd wrote the word BAIT.
It stole my breath and it felt like my heart ripped more in a new place and healed in another. My shoulders fell forward, the weight of them more than I could hold up anymore. I leaned up and brought my dirty arms to my dirty knees, tucking my head in the hole it created.
I didn't know what to do.
I was sad. She could make me happy. Then she'd kill me all over again.
Blake came to me and knelt so that we faced each other on the grass. She didn't touch me, but if I knew her as well as I thought I did, she wanted to.
“Look at me, Casey. We need to talk. We need to be honest.”
“Honest?” I was always honest with her. It was her who couldn't be honest with herself, let alone me, or that husband of hers. “Haven't we already had this conversation before? Like fifty times? I don't need to hear it again. You didn't have to come all the way here to remind me that you don't want me. That you made your choice. I don't want to fight with you anymore.”
She bumped my knee, “Oh come on. You miss fighting with me.” She lifted her hand and showed me a gapped pinch about an inch wide, “Just a little?”
“You know what I mean. This isn't a good time for this. For what we do. I can't.” I sounded exhausted.
She scooted closer and threaded a leg underneath mine and wrapped her other leg around my back. She turned my face to meet hers. “Well, I miss it. I miss it a lot. I miss you.”
“I miss you, too, but—”
She cut me off. “But now isn't the time to worry about that. We'll sort all of that out later. Whatever you decide I'll agree to.” Her voice, coaxing and smooth, felt like a balm on my soul. “Right now, you need a bath. You need to let me feed you. And I'm going to take care of you.” Her smile was warm and I didn't have the heart to refuse her. I couldn’t have refused her anyway, because I desperately need this. So much.
As we walked up through my mother’s terraced garden onto the concrete patio behind the house, I asked her, “How did you know I was down there? I was behind the shed.”
She laced her fingers with mine and said, “I could hear your music when I got out of the car out front. So, I followed my ears.”
“And how did you know I was here at this house?” My phone had been dead.
“Audrey told me,” she said, then turned to face me. “Why didn't you want them to call me? Why didn't anyone tell me?” The hurt on her face was as plain as day. I always knew that when she finally learned about what had happened, that she’d feel terrible I didn't want her to know.
“I asked them not to tell you.” It was the wrong thing to do, but knowing that my mother hadn't told me about her condition because she didn't want me to stop pursuing Blake still ripped at my insides. My mom wanted me to win her, even if we'd lose precious time together.
“Why would you do that? You know I would have been here for you.”
“It's complicated,” was the only thing I could honestly say. She took it for what it was worth and gave my hand a squeeze. Feeling her hand in mine really did help.
It didn't give me my mom back and it didn't give me back the time I wasted chasing her to spend with my sick mother, but it felt good.
She was right. I didn't have to have everything figured out right now. I just needed to feel something better. I'd worry about the rest when she would eventually leave me again. I wondered who would be here for me then.
The house was pretty much a mess. The last week hadn't been that great and cleaning wasn't on my to-do list. There were dishes in the sink. A bag of beer bottles stashed next to the trash can. Papers scattered all over the counter and plants from the funeral were dying all over the place.
“Wow,” she said in awe at the mess I'd let get out of hand. When I looked down to see her expression, she wiped it away and replaced it with one that was more nonchalant than anything, “It's not that bad,” she finally added with a small smile.
Her eyes darted around to the fresh vegetables and fruit I'd brought in from the garden. I saw a plan forming.
“Okay,” she said. “Since you're already dirty take a few of these,” she said as she handed me a half dozen ears of corn and continued, “and go outside and shuck them. Make sure to get all the silk off.” She turned me back around and pushed me toward the large French doors with both hands in the middle of my back.
When I got to the table and unloaded, she'd already run inside and grabbed me a bottle of beer from the refrigerator. I looked at it and questioned if drinking was a good idea.
She must have seen the words on my lips, because she said to my unspoken statement, “You're only having a few. And I'm having some, too.” She turned and went back into my mom’s house. I watched the sway of her hips and felt a peace wash over me like I'd never known.
This is what it would be like if she would have chosen me. We'd never done anything domestic like this. She was a chef and she’d never cooked for me. We’d spent all of our shared time in other cities, in hotels.
I wondered if I would have shown her that I wanted this, if she would have wanted it with me, too.
Maybe it was the sun still getting to me—even though by then it was already tucked behind the timber—but it felt like a rogue puzzle piece had finally locked into place.
I had blame in what had happened between us, or what consequently didn't happen, too.
I'm sure it was probably too late. But for the first time in what felt like months under water, I took a long breath and started to regroup.
I finished cleaning the corn meticulously, not wanting to disappoint a chef with my negligent work. I picked up the ears and bundled them in my battered hands. The sun was almost completely set and the kitchen lights lit up the back of the house.
Before I got to the doors I stopped.
She looked like a dream. My favorite dream. She looked like my home.
She'd done a fast, but thorough job picking up the trash and emptying the sink of week-old dishes. She was in her element. She’d put my mom’s apron on.
Seeing that, my eyes grew hot and burned. I couldn't move. She’d even folded the middle up around where it tied so that it wasn't too long. Just like my mom did.
My honeybee was in my kitchen cutting up carrots and peppers and god only knew what else to make food for us. Places inside me melded back together, and I physically felt my heart beating again. Part of me felt wary, but I was too damn tired to feel anything at that moment. I just needed to take it in and enjoy it. Surrender to this unexpected gift.
My fight for her wasn't over. As long as both of us could keep finding our way back to each other, it might never be. In that moment, I didn't care about her marriage with Grant. It didn't matter who she chose to marry. It mattered that we had something that you couldn't put down on paper. Something you couldn’t choose, but was chosen by. Something bigger than merely changing your last name. What we had was only for us. It was indefinable.
We were both slaves to it.