Secret Lucidity

by E. K. Blair

  Lost in my own worry, I walk out of the room with him trailing behind me and wait as he locks the door. I don’t know what I expect, but his mumble of, “I have to go. I’m running late,” isn’t it.

  I turn in the opposite direction and, on impulse, head out to the student parking lot. I can’t deal with this feeling of uncertainty, so I quicken my feet beneath me. I run through the lot and hop into my car, but I get stuck in the lunch traffic of the seniors leaving campus. While I wait in the jam, I see David’s SUV merging in from the faculty lot.

  I watch to see which direction he turns, and by the time I make the same turn, I’m a ways behind. I keep my distance as I follow him, and it doesn’t take too long before we’re out of Edmond. Stop sign after stop sign, we weave through Nichols Hills, and I’m four cars behind when I see him turning into Rose Hill Burial Park. I hesitate to follow him into the cemetery, and I drive past, not knowing what to do.

  I think about how lost his eyes were today. How worn down he looked. When I reach the next stoplight, I turn my car around and go back to where I just came from. Driving slowly through the narrow paved roads among the array of headstones, I creep along until I find his parked SUV a few winding streets away. It’s far enough in the distance that I doubt he’d see me, so I park my car and scan my eyes over the large property, until I spot him.

  He stands down by the water’s edge in front of a black monument with his head down. When he drops to his knees in the snow and his shoulders shake, I fight the urge to run to him as my heart hangs heavily in my chest.

  A gust of wind billows through the bare-branched trees, and nothing about this feels right. I’ve shared so much of myself with this man, and here I am, feeling as if I’m looking upon a stranger. But he isn’t a stranger, he’s anything but. So why don’t I know why he’s here or whose gravesite he’s visiting? Why don’t I know why he’s been so distant lately?

  Why won’t he let me in on what’s going on?

  Whatever the reasons, I feel like I’m intruding on a private moment. Against every instinct of mine, I put my car back in drive and leave David behind to suffer in isolation, wishing all the while I could hold his sufferings in my arms.

  MY HANDS HOLD THE WHEEL, but it doesn’t feel like they’re in control when turn by turn I near his house. As I draw closer, I pull out his garage door opener from my center console and press the button from down the street. The second my back tires are in, I close the garage while taking one last glance over my shoulder to be sure no one has seen me.

  I walk in for the first time without his knowing, feeling a wealth of unease.

  I shouldn’t be here—shouldn’t be so presumptive to think I have rights to his personal space. I don’t leave though. Not because I want to put my stamp of ownership on him—that isn’t it at all—it’s just that something isn’t right, and I’m worried. I know I should probably give him space, but there’s something unexplainable pushing down on my shoulders, shouting in silence for me to stay so I can be here when he gets home.

  Stepping into his living room, I drop my backpack onto his couch and look over to the kitchen island to see a menagerie of glass bottles. A very similar ornamental arrangement that decorates my mother’s nightstand. I walk over to the mess and start picking up crushed beer cans and tossing them into the trash. The scent of liquor causes my stomach to churn—the smell so familiar to my mother. I grab the bottles and shove them back into David’s liquor cabinet before collecting the glasses sitting out and washing them, wondering the whole time what could possibly have him this distraught.

  I clean because I don’t know what else to do, and when I finish in the kitchen, I decide to distract myself even longer. I pull the bank envelope from my bag, and take a seat on the couch. I find the phone number at the bottom of the letter and make the call.

  “Mutual Equity of Oklahoma,” the man says. “How can I help you?”

  “Hi, I got a letter in the mail the other day that I need to talk to someone about.”

  “Can you tell me what the letter is in reference to?”

  Looking down at the paper, I read the bold face type aloud. “It says it’s a Notice of Intent to Foreclose.”

  “One moment.” The sounds of him pecking at his keyboard can be heard before he continues. “And who am I speaking with?”

  “Miss Hale,” I tell him, hoping he’ll just assume I’m my mother.

  “Mrs. Hale, there should be a case number in the upper right-hand corner of the letter. Could you read it to me?”

  I give him the number, and after a few seconds on hold, he returns to the line.

  “Thank you for holding. Okay, it looks like you have defaulted on your loan for four consecutive months and the lender has filed court proceedings to seek a judgment for money due.”

  His words fly straight over my head. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand. I mean, I understand the non-payment stuff, but can you explain what you mean by court proceedings?”

  “Along with the letter, you should have also received another letter explaining the proceedings and your court appearance date.”

  God only knows where that letter is, and I know it’s going to be pointless to get a lucid answer from my mom about it.

  “I don’t seem to have received the court letter. Can you tell me the time and date of when it’s going to be?”

  “I’m sorry, but I don’t have that information readily available. What I can do is make contact and have them reissue the letter via certified mail to ensure you receive it. If we do that, you should have it by the end of this week. How does that sound?”

  “That would be great,” I tell him.

  “Is there anything else I can help you with today, ma’am?”

  “Umm, do you know what will be happening in court?”

  God, I must sound like an idiot to this guy.

  “You will appear before the judge, and he will let you know how long you have to pay in full. If you fail to meet the terms of the court, you will then be evicted, and the house will go into auction.”

  “So, we’ll be forced out?”

  “If you do not resolve your delinquency, then yes.”

  How could my mother be this careless to put our home at risk?

  After another minute or two of talking, we end the call, and I drop my cell phone onto the coffee table. The seriousness of this situation is literally beyond my comprehension. I’m seventeen, and I couldn’t even grasp half the words that man just spoke to me. But I know enough to understand that if my mom has to go to court, it’s pretty damn serious. I wonder if she even knows, if she’s even called the bank like I just did. Is she even aware that if she fails to show up on her court date then we will lose our house?

  I know we’ve blown through the money in the one bank account she allows me to use to do the grocery shopping. It’s the same account I’ve been using to pay some of the other bills. But what about my dad’s bank accounts? How many accounts are there? And did my dad leave any money to me when he died? If so, is there any left, or has my mom spent it all?

  Questions multiply in my head, questions I’ve never thought of until now. Stress overwhelms me when I contemplate how bad this could be.

  I pick my phone back up to call my mom, and I’m surprised when she actually answers.

  “Mom.”

  “Hi, dear,” she responds in an unexpected coherent tone I’m not used to hearing.

  “Where have you been all weekend? Are you at home right now?”

  “I stopped by a couple hours ago to pack my bags,” she tells me. “Michael has a business trip in Denver, and he’s taking me with him for a little getaway.”

  She says his name as if I should know exactly who he is among the many men that filter in and out of her bedroom.

  “You’re going to Colorado?”

  “Yes. We’re at the airport now.”

  That’s why she isn’t sloppy drunk.

  My tone hardens in annoyance. “So you were just going to leave the
state without telling me?”

  “I’m telling you right now.”

  Unbelievable.

  “When will you be back?”

  “We fly back on Thursday,” she says. “Oh, honey, they just called us for boarding. I have to go. Talk to you later.”

  The line goes dead before I can say anything else. I sulk down in the couch, completely aggravated by the lunatic my mother has turned into, talking to me as if everything is peachy just to put on a show in front of whatever guy she’s with. God forbid she expose the crappy mother she actually is and compromise whatever it is she seeks from these men.

  Everything in my life is so unstable at this point. I’m terrified about what’s going to happen after graduation. If I can’t depend on my mom, what will I do?

  The only solid thing I have is David, but after these past few days, it feels like even that is fracturing slowly beneath me, making me even more scared about the future. Never before have I needed someone to simply tell me they won’t abandon me. I’m vividly aware that David is my only safety net. If I lose him, who’s left to catch me if I should stumble and fall? And if he is still here with me, will he grow more intimate with the bottles he’s been seeking comfort from than me? Will I eventually fade into the background like I have with my mother?

  Maybe it’s an overreaction, but it’s a legitimate fear nonetheless, so when I lurch off the couch, I don’t give a second thought when I walk back into the kitchen. One after another, with distemper in my bloodstream, I pull the bottles out of the cabinet and pour their contents down the sink. The smell burns my nose, and I send up a promise to my father above that I will never consume a drop of this poison. I’ve seen the destruction that comes with it, a destruction I don’t want David to be a part of.

  I add the bottles to the trash can, tie up the bag, and take it out to the garage.

  Time does nothing to console as it slowly passes. Wrapped up in a blanket that holds David’s scent within the threaded fibers, I lie on the couch and check my phone to see it’s now after five o’clock. I click off the mundane television I’d been watching and tuck the blanket under my nose. Closing my eyes, I breathe Love into my lungs and do my best not to stress about why, after over four hours, he’s still not home.

  I stare out the large windows and watch the clouds sink down, darkening the skies. In the still of the room, I soak in the vacant hum of silence before the wind blows the first pellets of sleet against the glass. My heart aches at the thought of David outside in the bitter cold. All I can do is hope that he isn’t still at the cemetery after all these hours.

  The moisture outside builds, increasing the mists of ice. I contemplate driving back to the gravesite before talking myself out of it, knowing I shouldn’t be on the roads when it’s icing the way it is.

  I sulk in dreariness as sleet turns to flurries, and I give way to tired eyes, somehow managing to fall asleep with a heaviness trapped behind my ribs.

  A noise jars me, waking me to a darkened room. I sit up too fast, causing my head to spin in a haze, and when a soft light from a lamp illuminates the room, I have to blink against the fog of sleep that’s blurring my eyes.

  “David?” My voice comes out in a quiet rasp.

  My vision sharpens as he walks deeper into the room and takes off his coat and scarf, laying them over the chair.

  “What time is it?” I ask, still trying to get my bearings after waking up so fast.

  “Almost eight.” He turns on another light, allowing me to see him more clearly before walking my way and dropping onto the couch beside me with a heavy sigh.

  “What are you doing here?” he questions when he turns his head to look at me.

  It takes me a moment to respond, and when I do, I admit with slight trepidation, “I followed you.”

  “What do you mean you followed me?”

  “I’m sorry. I know I shouldn’t have, but you’ve been so distant, and I’ve been feeling unsure about . . . everything. So when you left school today . . .”

  I leave my words hanging in the air between us, feeling immense guilt for stepping across a boundary I shouldn’t have, but he picks up my fallen words, saying, “You followed me.”

  I nod, and he looks away, staring straight ahead. All I can do is remain by his side as I take in the exhaustion on his face—his beautiful face, marred in harbored pain, a pain I wish I could be a part of, if he’d only just let me in.

  “David . . .”

  “You should probably go before the roads get any worse.”

  “Please, just talk to me,” I plead on desperate breath.

  He leans forward, resting his arms on his knees and dropping his head. Without thought, I reach out and lay my hand on his back. His muscles coil in reaction to my touch, and I grow needier to soothe him.

  “Why won’t you talk to me?”

  He lifts his hands to cradle his head, and I push a little more, saying, “Just tell me what it is.”

  “I wish it were that easy.”

  “Will you try . . . for me?”

  His head shakes slowly in his hands, and his refusal to open up needles on my nerves.

  “Why not?” I question, and when he continues to give me the cold shoulder, I take my hand from his back. “Why won’t you talk to me when I’ve given you so much? You have all my secrets, David. You’ve seen the worst parts of me, and I’ve handed them over to you whenever you’ve asked. It wasn’t easy, but I did it anyway.”

  I tug his wrist, pulling it away from his head, and when he turns to look at me, I see what he’s trying to hide. His eyes are rimmed with unshed tears, and it hurts to see him like this—a man who is undeniably strong, suffering so badly.

  “Whatever it is, you can talk to me about it.”

  “I’ve never been able to talk to anyone about it,” he admits.

  “I’m not just anyone, David. You know that, right? But if I’m going to give you the broken pieces of me, then I’m going to want yours too.”

  Eventually, he leans into me with his head against my chest the way a child would. He bands his arms around my waist as I hold him. His back tremors in faint shudders against my hands, and I can tell he’s doing everything he can to fight off the emotions that are threatening him. It’s a terribly painful sight, and I feel helpless to console him, but that doesn’t stop me from trying.

  I keep my hold on him, and when his breathing evens out, his voice cracks hoarsely when he says, “His name was Corbin.” He pulls away from me and leans back into the couch cushions, running his hands down his scruffy jaw, before adding, “Corbin Dane.”

  Sitting on my knees with my feet tucked under me, I look down on him as he stares into nothingness.

  “Was that his grave you went to earlier?”

  He nods, and I see him shutting down again, so I do what I can to keep him talking when I say, “Tell me about him.”

  It takes him a moment until he’s able to respond, and when he does, he does it without looking at me. “He was one of my best friends growing up. He was loud and obnoxious, but he was one hell of a friend. After we graduated high school, we both went to OU, and when shit fell apart with my ex, it was his idea to get the fuck out of Oklahoma and enlist in the Army. He was more of a brother to me than my own.” He stops, getting choked up before leaning forward again, bracing his head back down into his hands. With trembling shoulders, he releases the most painful sound when he reveals, “I couldn’t save him.”

  He’s hunched over, and I hold him as best as I can. With the side of my face pressed against his back, I pray for the power to absorb all the agony he’s battling with.

  “What happened?” I ask, regretting the invasive question when he doesn’t respond. My whispered, “I’m sorry,” sounds pathetic, and I move to pull away to give him some space.

  His hand grabs on to my arm that’s slung around the front of him, squeezing me hard in his grip, and in return, I tighten my hold on him as well. He doesn’t attempt to speak, and I don’t say anythin
g to encourage him. I simply do my best to keep my own tears from falling.

  You hear about soldiers that come back from war so scarred by their experiences that they’re physically unable to talk about them. It’s one thing to hear about the men who struggle in silence, but here I am, seeing it, feeling the memories inside his tremoring bones under my touch. Whatever it is that’s in his head, I wish to God that I could erase it so it never has to torment him again. It’s a powerless feeling to know that all I can do in the moment to comfort him is nothing. It’s a pain I’m unable to touch because it’s so far out of my reach of comprehension. So, I sit here, never taking my hands off him, and wait. I’ll wait forever until he’s ready to talk.

  It doesn’t take him forever though. It takes a long while, but eventually he lifts his head and tells me, “It was going to be his last tour. He was married and just found out his wife was pregnant before we deployed. Told me that was it for him. That as soon as his term was up, he was going to leave military life behind for his family.” He takes a deep breath and slowly releases it, sitting up a little more. “I knew that kid my whole life and never once saw him cry until the day news came that Jennifer had given birth to their daughter. He was so fucking happy, jumping around like a damn lunatic,” he says with a sorrowful chuckle.

  “You knew his wife well?”

  “Yeah. Like I said, he was my best friend—my family.” His face drops again. “We only had a month left until we could go home. He was counting down the days . . . we all were.”

  “How long had you been deployed?”

  “Thirteen months.”

  I hesitate to ask, but I can’t stop myself when it comes out. “What happened to him?”

  He rocks back and forth a couple times before standing and walking into the kitchen. I turn and watch as he opens the fridge and takes out a bottle of beer. I want to tell him to stop, but I don’t. He tilts his head back and chugs nearly the whole bottle before dropping it down to the counter with a hard clink.

  Bracing his hands on the edge of the countertop, he looks over to me, and says, “I ran over an IED,” and then hangs his head. I get up, and as I’m walking over to him, he adds, “I was driving the Humvee. I hit the damn thing and everything blew the fuck up.”