by C. M. Albert
Christ. I could tell I’d just crossed a major line and I didn’t know how to back up fast enough. So I drove to Christiano’s house, hoping the distraction would do us both some good so we could get back to the light-hearted sparring we’d gotten pretty good at over the last two days.
We pulled into the trailer park where Ti lived when Dez whispered, “You want to know who hurt me? Why I’m so fucking cold?” She lifted a necklace from under her shirt and held it up for me to see. On it was what looked like an engagement ring. “You asked how I could just sit down and pray. You know what, Mitch? You’re not the only one who lost their way with God. It was years before I could even say his name out loud again. My heart was ripped out of my fucking chest five years ago when my fiancé died. So, yeah, I guess that’s the day I turned so cold. But you know what? I still believe,” she said, throwing her hands up in the air. “Not in love. Fuck that. But in God. I still believe in God, Mitch. I still believe in miracles for other people . . . so maybe that’s why I can still pray. I still have hope that he’ll be there for others who need him, even if he wasn’t there for me. Even if he took Will away from me.”
She threw open the Jeep door and jumped out onto Christiano’s front lawn. I sat there for a moment, trying to catch my breath. I had no idea the can of worms I’d open when I threw out that careless remark back at the store. Why did I think I knew her enough to make such sure, sweeping comments? She was right. I knew nothing about her either.
What I did know, though, as I watched her standing in Ti’s yard, her arms crossed defiantly over her chest and tears spilling over from her eyes as she tried to shield them from my view, was that if there was a God, I was going to start praying immediately for his help.
I felt my heart smash open and shatter at Dez’s feet as I watched her, knowing we were both broken beyond repair. But I wished to God—for the first time since lying in the hospital bed while recovering from my accident—that there was some small glimmer of hope that we just might be able to fix each other this holiday season.
I had no clue where to even start.
“God . . .” I said out loud in my car, not caring what an ass I must have looked like. “If you’re there, if you’re real, I need some proof. I’m still so broken, but I look at Dez and I see hope. I want relief for her. I want relief for myself,” I admitted. “Just show me, God. Show me how.”
I wiped my sleeve across my eyes, though I swear they were only wet for Dez’s sake. I slowly stepped out of my Jeep, and that’s when I heard it. Dez looked up at me, panic set deep within her eyes. A man was yelling from inside Christiano’s trailer as the sounds of something heavy crashing to the floor erupted. Ti ran out, slamming down the steps and running straight into my chest. I grabbed him by the arm, stilling him from the impact. He looked up into my eyes and I could see he was high. His eyes were glossed over, and the Ti I knew wasn’t anywhere in there. He pushed against my chest and shoved away, running toward the side of the house. I watched as he jumped on his mountain bike and pedaled into the woods behind us.
I looked up to the sky and closed my eyes in disappointment. If that was the evidence I was getting, I wouldn’t be asking for any more proof from God.
I COULD TELL Mitch was shaken when Christiano flew past him off the front porch. His heart looked positively broken as we walked up to the dilapidated screen door and knocked. Ti’s father opened the door, wearing nothing but his boxer shorts and a white undershirt and looking just as frightful as his son had. He looked between Mitch and me, then opened the door all the way, offering us a chance to come in.
Mr. Morellis ran a hand through his unkempt black hair, which was brushed over to hide his receding hairline. The bags under his eyes indicated that he was having trouble sleeping at night. Broken shards of ceramic knickknacks dusted the floor, and he immediately started sweeping the evidence of their fight to the side, embarrassed for us to be witness to what just happened.
“Sorry you had to see this, Mitch,” Frank said. “Please, have a seat. Can I get you something? Beer, a soda?” He reached out his hand to me in way of introduction. “I’m Frank Morellis. Christiano’s father. You a friend of Mitch’s?”
“Yes, and the MacGuires too. I’m staying with them while I’m in town on a special assignment. Dez Wright,” I said, shaking his hand. “Nice to meet you. Can I help you clean this mess up so you and Mitch can talk?”
Frank ran a hand down his tired-looking face. His mouth trembled, and he looked on the verge of losing it. I gently took the broom from his other hand and covered it with my own. “It’s okay, Frank. Really, I don’t mind. You guys go chat. I’ll join you in a minute.”
Relief flooded Mr. Morellis’s eyes, and Mitch sent me a grateful smile over the man’s head. He and Frank sat on the torn plaid sofa, Mitch speaking to the man in hushed, private tones. I focused on sweeping up the mess on the floor. When I was confident I had gotten everything, I emptied the dustpan in the kitchen and looked around. Empty pizza boxes and old to-go containers littered the faded brown countertops—along with a dozen or so empty beer cans filled with cigarette butts and a few busy cockroaches that scattered when I shoved them into the garbage can.
I kept my hands busy by picking up the mess in the kitchen, waiting for Mitch to let me know they were done. My heart physically hurt for Mitch. It’s true, I didn’t really know him that well yet. But the more time I spent with him, the more I was learning that he was a man with great passion when it came to the kids he was helping. He didn’t seem to care at all about the success of his former career or any of the trappings of his old lifestyle. Instead, he was driven to make a difference and help save lives. And there was nothing sexier than that.
I couldn’t help myself. I pulled out my cell phone and snapped a few pictures with a black and white filter of Mitch and Frank sitting knee to knee on the tired-looking sofa. Frank’s eyes were bloodshot and puffy, and Mitch’s hand rested gently on the older man’s knee, comforting him.
I put my phone away, not wanting to disrupt their conversation. Whatever was going on with Ti and his father, it wasn’t good. I could feel the heaviness of the energy that hung in the small home like wet, musty curtains. I couldn’t imagine how Mitch did this everyday—offering hope when the situation felt hopeless.
Instead of trying to figure it out, I tackled what I could. I rolled up my sleeves and filled the sink with warm water and lots of bubbles, looking around for a sponge to wash the stack of dishes that had piled up. I lost myself in the monotonous work, humming a tune that popped into my head from Stars Go Dim, one of my favorite bands.
“If your heart’s in a thousand pieces / If you’re lost and are far from reason / Just look up, know you are loved / Just look up, know you are loved,” I sang quietly, swaying my hips back and forth and feeling more hopeful than when I’d entered the sad, little trailer.
I was still singing to myself and rinsing dishes when an arm wrapped slowly around my waist, a chin resting on my left shoulder. He didn’t say anything, and he didn’t need to. I leaned back against him, settling into his chest as he held me. I could feel him shaking, as if he were trying to keep the tears in. I snuggled deeper, letting my warmth comfort him.
“I’ll be done in just a minute,” I whispered. “Are you ready to go?”
Mitch nodded his head against my shoulder and squeezed my waist hard, as if not wanting to let go. I didn’t mean to, but my heart hurt for Mitch and compassion took over. I turned my head and kissed his forehead. I wanted so badly to take his mouth in mine and make all the hurt go away.
He backed up, wiping his face with his sleeve. When our eyes met, I could tell he’d been crying. His normally dark and intense eyes were absolutely ravaged, nearly black with despair. I rinsed the remaining dishes off and placed them in the drying rack. I ran the wet sponge over the countertops and filled another garbage bag with the empty pizza boxes and fast-food containers. “Let’s go,” I whispered, handing one of the trash bags to Mitch.
We passed Frank on the way out. Seeing that our hands were full, he looked down, embarrassed. But when his eyes met mine, they were full of gratitude. “Thank you for your kindness, Dez,” he said. “It’s been a long time since a stranger has done so much for us. I won’t soon forget it.” He cleared his throat. “Mitch can fill you in. But it’s been a hard few years for us, and we haven’t been able to find our footing since Ti’s mother passed away. I’m doing my best, but I keep messing up it seems, left and right. I’m trying to hold things together for us, but it’s hard when I feel like everything’s in pieces right now.”
I nodded, knowing exactly how he felt. “I was like that a few years ago myself, Frank, when I lost my fiancé. I know how hard the struggle is.”
“What did you do to get out of it?” he asked earnestly.
“I wish I had a better answer for you. The truth is, it’s still a struggle for me every single day. I was just singing while I was washing your dishes in there. It’s a song I used to listen to during my darkest hours. ‘Just look up, know you are loved,’” I sang softly. “That line always helped push me through one more day. I’m still here fighting the good fight, trying to turn things around, so that’s something, right?” I said honestly.
He nodded. “Take care, Frank,” I said, heading toward the screen door that Mitch was holding open for me. “Hope to see you again sometime.”
Mitch and I dropped the bags in Mr. Morellis’s outside garbage cans and made sure the porch lights were on for Ti whenever he found his way home. Mitch was silent as he drove to his house. I knew he’d open up when he was ready, so I kept my mouth shut, losing myself in my own old scars and the memories that created them.
Instead of inviting me in, Mitch parked the car out front. It surprised me that it was on a more central street in town, close to the downtown shops and local green spaces. For some reason, I expected him to live farther out, like Inez and Bridgette at the Vega Farm, or Celeste and Egan at Tranquility.
“Be right back,” he said, leaving the Jeep running and his radio on. I was still fiddling with the dial, trying to find a good station, when, true to his word, he hopped down his front porch steps and opened the back door, throwing a large army duffle bag into the back of the Jeep. “What?” he asked when he saw me eyeing him with suspicion.
“That was awfully fast,” I said. “I didn’t even have time to find a decent station.”
Mitch laughed, his face relaxing for the first time since we’d left the store over an hour ago. “That’s because there are none,” he explained, pressing the CD button and flooding his SUV with the twangy sounds of Florida Georgia Line.
Even though I wasn’t a country music fan, I recognized their hit song and sang along with Mitch about growing up in a little red, white, and blue town. By the time we rolled up to Tranquility, the dense mood had lifted and I was ready to wrap some Christmas gifts.
We carried all of the shopping bags in from the Jeep, and I had to admit I’d bought a shit-ton of wrapping supplies. I had to laugh. Glue sticks, wrapping supplies. I seemed to have a habit of just chucking stuff in my cart.
We spread all the supplies out on the living room floor, and I grabbed the tape and scissors from the desk in the kitchen. I looked up to see Mitch staring at the fire, and my heart warmed another notch. He was leaning against the brick fireplace, staring into the flames. I didn’t know what was swirling through his mind, but I could guess, based on the tough night and hard conversations we’d already had.
I poured us a glass of wine and checked my phone again. There were no new updates from Egan. I lifted another small, silent prayer that Celeste and the baby were okay.
I walked over to the fireplace and handed Mitch his wine. “I thought we could both use one of these,” I said quietly. “It’s been a long day.”
He smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah, it has. Thanks for going with me, Dez. You didn’t need to do that, but you did.” He turned toward me, his eyes searching mine. “You really surprised me tonight.”
“Why, because the Ice Queen has a heart?” I asked, mocking his earlier comment. I wished I could take back the snarky reply as soon as it left my mouth. I was constantly on autopilot when it came to my sharp words. It was something I needed to work on. “Sorry,” I mumbled. “That was uncalled for.”
“Maybe, but not unjustified. I’m really sorry I said that, Dez.” He sighed, taking a long sip of his wine. “This has been an exhausting day. I’m not sure I can take one more thing.”
“I know what you mean,” I said. “Would it help to talk about what happened at Ti’s house? Or would you rather forget about it for the night, wrap some Christmas presents, and get drunk?”
“Option two, please. Definitely option two,” he said, the smile reaching all the way to his eyes this time. He took another sip of wine. “Though I have to admit,” he said as he lifted his arm in my direction, “I’m an abysmal gift wrapper. It’s not impossible, but it’s not pretty either. I was never very good at it before the accident. And now”—he shrugged his shoulder up where his arm was missing—“it’s something I definitely haven’t mastered the art of yet.”
“Oh,” I said, suddenly feeling somber. What an asshole I’d been not to think about that. Mitch must have seen the look of panic on my face because he burst out laughing.
“Oh my God . . . the look on your face is priceless, Dez. It’s okay. Trust me.” He sank down onto the plush carpeting near the fire and took another sip of wine, visibly relaxing for the first time all day. “How about this . . . since you apparently love wrapping, why don’t you handle that and I’ll drink? It’s nice not to have to drive back home tonight after all.”
I smiled, appreciating this new side of Mitch. It was nice to see him relax. “It’s a deal,” I said. I turned on some Christmas music and let the festive tunes shift the mood in the room. “I’m running downstairs to get Egan’s stash of gifts,” I said. “Be right back.”
When I returned, Mitch was sitting on the floor, an open roll of wrapping paper by his side. He was trying, unsuccessfully, to wrap a candle that he’d taken off of Celeste and Egan’s coffee table. I paused, not sure what to say, until he looked up at me and grinned. “Yep . . . still abysmal at it.”
I laughed, sinking onto the rug next to him. “What would you have done if you’d gotten their candle wrapped?” I asked.
“Regifted it?” he said, laughing. He picked up his wine and finished off his glass, holding it out for a refill. I grabbed the bottle from the coffee table where I’d set it earlier and topped him off.
“You’re not a lightweight drunk, are you?” I asked, eyeing him. He was so sexy, sitting there cross-legged on Celeste and Egan’s plush, cream-colored carpeting, which set a very romantic scene in front of the crackling fireplace. The wine had softened the normally intense look in his dark brown eyes, and he looked truly happy for the first time since we’d met.
“No worries there—I’m half-Irish. Think I can hold my own. So . . . you went to school for photography, right?” he asked as I unraveled a roll of purple wrapping paper with big white snowflakes on it to use for Egan’s gifts to Celeste. “Tell me what you love about what you do.”
I thought about it for a moment as I mindlessly wrapped the first package I picked up from a box Egan had secreted away. “Well,” I said, really thinking about my answer, “it allows me to capture a feeling, and that feeling gets to live on forever. But more than that, I love how everyone can look at a picture and see their own experiences in it. Two people could look at the same picture and feel completely different things.” I took a sip of my wine, then grabbed another piece of tape.
“For example, I have a series of black and whites hung in a gallery in New York of women of all races and nationalities breast-feeding their babies. One night, at an open house, I found a woman sobbing on a bench in front of one of the images I’d captured of a Caucasian woman nursing an African American baby. The woman in the photograph had only one
large, milk-producing breast; it was this creamy white soft skin all covered with red freckles, simply beautiful. The other was small and flat, and just wouldn’t produce any milk. The baby, who happened to be black, was hers, as she has an interracial marriage. But it obviously elicited mixed feelings from different people for different reasons. I was going to leave the woman alone to experience the power of the image on her own, but she looked at me then, tears streaming down her face. I asked her what was wrong,” I recalled, finishing the package off with an elegant silver bow.
“She told me about her brother, who was also mixed race, and who was born severely premature. This baby was thriving and was plump and happy as it clung to its mother’s one full breast. But her mind went back to her brother, who never made it home from the hospital. She was only ten when she lost him, and the image brought her back to her memories of him. I hated that it caused her so much pain, so I hugged her until she stopped crying. But you know what she said to me when she was done?” I asked, taking a large sip of my wine. I licked the dry fruitiness from my lips, remembering.
“She thanked me. She said, ‘This looks so much like my mother’s skin, and for just a moment, it made me smile, thinking about how my brother might have looked if he had survived, all fat and happy.’ It gave her hope for just that one moment. That—those honest human emotions—is why I do what I do. Every picture tells a story. And that story holds time still, but it also transcends time. Someone can come back to that photograph—which the woman purchased, by the way—and look at it twenty years later. And it will still elicit feelings and emotions for the observer. That’s pretty cool, if you ask me.”
