So Much More

by Kim Holden

  I traded in love for power.

  It wasn’t a fair trade.

  Not even close.

  I always thought I was the one in control where Seamus was concerned. Fooling him to ensure he participated in our love. I told myself the attention I showed him was brokering. I gave an inch. I gained a mile. Disproportionate, that’s how our relationship functioned. He never noticed, or if he did he never let on because I married a giver, not a taker. He was content receiving a compliment here and there, or a loving touch when I could spare it, or the occasional deep conversation. Seamus was easy, quality over quantity. Presence enthralled him and he made the most of every minute. At the time, I thought I coaxed it out of him with skillful manipulation. Sitting in this room, mired in regret, I wonder if my skillful manipulation was nothing more than Seamus coaxing actual feelings out of me. While I thought I was inciting compliance with orchestrated attention, I was merely reacting to his attention. Craving it, however sparingly.

  I’m going to sit in this room and I’m going to cry myself out.

  I hate crying and the longer I cry, the angrier I become.

  Angry with me. Angry with Loren. Angry with Seamus. Angry with feelings I don’t want to feel. Angry with depression that’s threatening to smother me. Angry with the helplessness and loneliness that’s become my constant companion.

  Just fucking angry.

  And I want everyone else to feel it with me.

  Sometimes a blessing is disguised as despair

  present

  Sometimes I drive to our old neighborhood. I never drive by the house Miranda and I owned. I go to the library and mill around. Or I sit in the park and watch toddlers feed stale bread to the birds. Or I go to the grocery store and buy a jar of pickles.

  Today I’m doing all three because it makes me feel closer to my kids. I picture them so clearly in my mind when I’m in a familiar setting we used to go too often. I hit the library and park first, and I’m walking into the grocery store when a voice stops me, “Seamus? Seamus McIntyre?”

  I turn and don’t recognize the woman staring at me until she smiles. It’s a smile that turns a puckered, sour, resting face into something friendly and warm. I nod. “Justine, it’s good to see you.” Justine was Miranda’s assistant for years. I talked to her a lot, mostly on the phone because she was the easiest way to relay messages to Miranda if I needed her while she was at work. Justine was audacious and outspoken, which is probably the reason she kept her job, Miranda recognized and liked another viper in the pit. The thing she failed to notice was that Justine had a heart behind the tough exterior. It wasn’t a soft, endearing heart that gained her friends and admirers; it was an honest heart that was selective about what, or whom, it showed concern. And that concern was hard-edged, sometimes hard to hear, but untouched by evil intent. She always asked me about the kids when I called. When I was diagnosed with MS, she fussed over me like a domineering mother during every conversation. And the last time I talked to her, the day after Miranda told me she was leaving me, Justine said, “Sometimes a blessing is disguised as despair.” I was shell shocked by Miranda’s announcement and didn’t give Justine’s words much thought, but they’re echoing profoundly from my memory now.

  She shakes my hand. “It’s good to see you, too, Seamus.” It’s firm and professional, but she adds a pat on the back of my hand to soften it. I’ve always imagined the pat was her attempt at connection. Her no-nonsense temperament hinders physical interaction; it’s like a barrier to ward off the unwanted. Which makes the pat that much more genuine, because I have a feeling it’s hard for her to translate her heart into her actions. I think back to Faith alluding to growing up never being hugged. I wonder if that’s how Justine grew up too. “How are you holding up? You look like hell. Tired. You’re not taking care of yourself, are you?” There it is, the caring heart blended with no filter.

  I shrug. I can’t lie to her. She can smell bullshit like a bloodhound.

  She shakes her head. “How are the kids doing?”

  “They live in Seattle with Miranda.” The words feel traitorous coming out.

  She looks knocked for a loop; her face has never been one to hide a reaction. She blinks several times before her eyes go wide and she asks, “Pardon me?” The question isn’t asked to clarify the information I relayed; it’s an exclamation of shock.

  I nod in agreement. “Yeah. She fabricated a nice little case against me and took my kids a few months ago. I haven’t seen them, and she barely lets me talk to them.” I swallow hard because I haven’t talked to anyone about this, except myself when I have too much to drink late at night.

  Her eyes are still wide. “I could never understand why a man like you put up with a woman like her.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Her eyes have settled into the motherly expression she usually reserved for me. “You’re good. She’s not. Like water and oil, you never should’ve come together.”

  “She did give me three beautiful kids.” I’m not defending her, not in the least, but it’s true.

  She pulls both of her lips in between her teeth, and her eyes are looking just over my right shoulder like she’s thinking something over. Something important that she’s not sure she should share. When she meets my eyes again, her mouth is drawn into a hard line. “May I have your address, Seamus?”

  My eyebrows draw together in confusion, and I question, “Why?”

  There’s resolve in her eyes, but there’s sadness too. “I need to write you a letter,” she says it like it explains everything, so when I don’t react or answer, she continues, “There’s something you should know.”

  I’m still confused, and I can’t deny the heat creeping through me, uneasy pulses generated by the twisting that’s begun in my stomach. “Tell me,” I urge her. My voice sounds stronger than I feel.

  She shakes her head and the motherly smile returns, but it’s crestfallen and apologetic. “I can’t. My heart might be made of stone, but I have some compassion. This needs to be delivered in privacy, not standing in front of a grocery store for the world to see. You deserve that.”

  “Tell me,” I plead again.

  She takes a deep breath, and her lips drop into a frown that matches her eyes. “I don’t…” I think that’s where it’s going to end, but it doesn’t, “want to see your reaction. I don’t want to be the one who hurts you, Seamus.”

  “But you’re just the bearer of bad news.”

  “It doesn’t matter whether I’m the one who did the act, or I’m only the one informing you of the act—the bearer of bad news is always the unfortunate person to absorb the shockwave of intense emotion immediately after impact. I don’t do well with intense or emotion. I’m sorry, Seamus. May I have your address?”

  I suddenly feel nauseous. I reach into my pocket and pull out a gas receipt, scrawl my address on the back, and hand it to her without another word.

  She takes it from me, folds it precisely in half, sticks it in a pocket on her purse, and then extends her hand to me.

  I take in the shake, hand pat and all. I know it’s an apology.

  “Take care of yourself, Seamus. Your kids belong with you. See what can be done to make it happen. And have some faith.”

  I don’t say anything. I can’t say anything. When her hands leave mine, she enters the store. I decide I feel too sick to look at pickles and turn around and walk to my car.

  And I drive home and wait for a letter that I’m sure will break my heart.

  Again.

  Compressed wood pulp and bad intention

  Present

  Two days later I’m standing on the W…E mat, favoring the E half when I pull three items out of the mailbox next to my door.

  The first is my cell phone bill.

  “Next,” I say out loud, as if by flipping to the next piece of correspondence this phone bill will be erased from existence.

  The second is a flyer for a Chinese restaurant down the street. My mouth waters at th
e sight of the sesame chicken photo on the front until I remember that their food tastes like shit and looks nowhere this appetizing.

  “Next,” I say, swallowing down the rancid reminder of a bad meal I had weeks ago.

  The third.

  The third is...

  I drop the papers in my hands as if their heart-wrenching contents, words written on compressed wood pulp, have already singed my hands with their bad intention.

  My mail is now lying on the W…E mat, perfectly placed between the W and the E.

  Justine’s handwriting is scowling at me. The letters each written deliberately, pressed deeply into the paper by the point of a pen with purpose. They scare me.

  I know I should think of the mat as the unwelcome mat again, but the truth is, all I can think about is WE. Faith and me. I can’t read this letter without her.

  So, without giving it any logical thought, because logic would tell my heart to shut the hell up, I pick up the letter and make my way downstairs to her apartment and knock on the door.

  She doesn’t answer, so I knock again in desperation because anxiety is starting to fill my lungs like water.

  Tears accompany the silence that follows the unanswered knock.

  I lean my forehead against in the door and beg, “Faith, please answer the door. I need you.” And then I cover my mouth to cap off the sound and I sob.

  I never thought I had a type

  present

  Seamus.

  Seamus McIntyre.

  The first time I laid eyes on him, he literally took my breath away. That’s never happened. I stopped breathing for several seconds, as if it was physically impossible for me to draw air into my lungs until my brain let the imprint of his perfection settle in and develop into a memory I’d be able to recall at will when I needed something beautiful to focus on. I never thought I had a type. Apparently that’s because I’d never met Seamus McIntyre. As soon as I saw him, I didn’t want to look away. Ever. He was tall, the kind of tall that denotes a definite presence, but the way he moved and postured himself signaled a kind and laid-back nature. His dark hair was short but looked like he was overdue for a cut, the perfect mix of untamed and messy that a little extra length creates. It also hinted that he wasn’t the kind of guy who was hung up on his appearance—the worn out jeans, scuffed up Doc Martens, and simple white t-shirt backed up my theory. Everything about his face, the set of his jaw covered in days old scruff, high cheekbones, strong nose, and dark, deep-set, mysterious eyes, was a contradiction. Intensity versus gentleness. Youth versus wisdom. Strength versus vulnerability. I’d never seen such an expressive resting face. And after getting to know him, I realize it’s because he doesn’t hide anything— it’s all there written all over his features.

  The first thing that attracted me to Seamus, the man, was when I watched him squat down on the sidewalk to talk to his little girl, Kira. She was crying, a hiccupping, distressed howl. The transition from standing to kneeling isn’t a big deal for most people, but for him it is. He could’ve patted her on the head or just talked to her, but he didn’t. He struggled to get down on his knees, the progression slow and painful, but also beautiful to watch, because I knew at that moment, that he would do anything for his kids. Anything for his kids. It was so simple, but so telling. And that’s when I realized that being attracted to someone happens at a visceral level. It happens when you see and feel the other person’s heart and your heart twinges in your chest in reaction. I watched him get face to face with his daughter, so he could look her in the eye while he consoled and then hugged her. That’s when my heart decided it liked Seamus McIntyre more than any other person I’d ever met before.

  The first time I kissed Seamus, my mind went blank and ran wild all at once. I was stunned by physical sensation. And decided that though other men’s mouths had moved against mine, I had never been kissed until that moment. Seamus’s lips told a story. A story I wanted to live in. Forever. A realistic story that was sprinkled with darkness, but that always came back to light. A light that made me believe love exists. Pure, intentional, forgiving, enduring love. Bone-jarringly beautiful love. He took his time, pace was part of the allure and signified sincerity. There was presence and intent in every movement, every sigh, every moan. Seamus’s kiss was a kiss within a kiss…within a kiss…within a kiss. Layers upon layers of Seamus assaulting my senses in the most satisfying, impassioned way.

  The first, and only time we had sex, Seamus gave me a gift. He didn’t know he was giving it to me. He doesn’t know my past because I haven’t burdened him with the truth, but he vanquished some of my demons that night. He made love to me. It was everything he’d previously poured into a kiss amplified until it was pure bliss. A deep connection of mind, body, and spirit I didn’t think could exist between two people, especially within the confines of sex. Only Seamus. That’s the night I fell in love with him. All of him.

  The first time I said goodbye to Seamus, my heart shattered. It was a blast that obliterated me, leaving only dust and making the task of putting the pieces back together impossible. But through it, my mind kept going back to something he told me, so much more than thank you. So. Much. More. Seamus was so much more. He needed to fight for his kids. They were, and should be, the most important things in his life. And I needed to find and fix myself. I call it research, and it’s far from complete. I like to think that given another place and another time, we could’ve turned into something more. We could’ve been a we.

  My time here is up. I gave myself six months to find my birth mother. I knew it was a long shot, I don’t even know her name, but I thought faith, not me but the incredible, unseen force, would lead me to her. An invisible force in the universe would grant me my wish because I believe in miracles. I believe everyone gets one in their lifetime.

  I guess it’s not time for mine yet.

  I said good riddance to my job last night and vowed to never do it again. I’m walking away with some perspective, though; everyone does what they need to do to survive. Some of the girls were single parents trying to raise a child on their own. Some girls were students trying to put themselves through college. Some girls were drug addicts trying to numb a pain no human being deserves. We all stripped to survive, it’s only the what we were surviving part that was different.

  I talked to Mrs. L early this morning and thanked her for her hospitality. I told her I might be back in a few weeks. I won’t. I think she knew. She gave me a toasted pastrami on rye and the tie-dye scarf she was wearing as a parting gift. The sandwich was delicious, and the scarf smells like patchouli.

  I visited Hope this afternoon. I took a bag of groceries, mostly fruit because she eats like shit otherwise, and told her goodbye. I hugged her like I always do when I leave. I don’t think she understands that she’ll never see me again, that’s what goodbye means this time. It means I won’t be back tomorrow to say hello and check on her, even though I worry about her and want to. It means I won’t bring her leftovers, even though I worry she doesn’t eat regularly and she’s too thin. It means I won’t bring her clothes when I find something in her size at the thrift shop on sale, even though I like to replace her threadbare, worn out, dirty clothes, with something new to her and clean. It means I won’t watch her favorite movie with her again, even though it makes us both laugh every time we watch it. It means I won’t buy her toothpaste or deodorant when she runs out, even though she needs the reminder sometimes, and I don’t mind being that reminder.

  It means I’ll miss her. I’ll miss her dry sense of humor that peeks out when I least expect it. I’ll miss her mismatched outfits and her rumpled, constant bedhead that she won’t let me brush. I’ll miss her obsession with the pop radio station and her need to randomly sing at the oddest times. I’ll miss that look in her eyes she gets sometimes that makes me think she sees things the rest of us don’t.

  I gave Hope an envelope with Seamus’s name on it and asked her to give it to him. It’s a letter telling him I’m leaving and that
I’ll miss him, and asking him to watch out for Hope. I don’t know if she’ll do it, but I’m hoping that her delivering the letter will ease them into interaction. She’s standoffish at first.

  Sadness I didn’t expect overtook me as I walked out of her apartment. I tried to hide the emotion, but Hope felt it. There are a lot of things she doesn’t understand—she’s a simple woman—but there’s almost a sixth sense about her. She always knows what I’m feeling. I told her goodbye a second time. She told me she loved me. I told her I loved her too, and that’s when the tears fell and I had to leave. No one’s ever told me that.

  It’s late now, way past dark. I’m sitting under the tree in the spot that Seamus and I ate our first picnic. I’m watching his front window, the light’s still on. I’m waiting for him to go to bed, but until then I’m soaking up this last of our time together. I’m recalling every memory, every conversation, every smile I shared with him and his kids. And I’m wishing for their future, a future together and happy because they all deserve it. I’ve been waiting for it for hours, but when, in a fraction of a second, light blinks to dark, it’s jolting. The inevitable turned into a surprise. I hate surprises.

  I also hate goodbyes.

  That’s why I’m walking up the stairs to his apartment, and I’m not going to knock on his door. Instead, I stand on the W…E mat, right in the center, and I kiss the number three on his door. “So much more, Seamus. So much more.”