Long Distance Lover

by Rylee Swann

  Bingo!

  Suddenly realizing how easy it had been for me to find her, I make a mental note to tell Dee to stop giving out so much personal information, and hope I’m the only sicko stalking her like this.

  “Yes, thank you. I must have gotten the time wrong. Have a lovely day, thanks again.” I hang up before the gym employee can respond.

  Taking a sip of my freshly brewed coffee, I wonder if she’s there now. Working out.

  My cell phone rings and David Bowie sings “Heroes” until I answer.

  My younger sister, Carrie’s, bubbly voice hits my ear. “How’s it going, big brother?”

  “Good, good. You’re up early.” This is a good sign. It means she’s not still in bed with a hangover.

  “Yeah, I’ve been a good girl since you’ve been gone.” Her tone is light and holds more than a hint of pride.

  I smile, happy for her. My little sister. I’ll always think of her that way even though she’s only a few months younger than I am. She came around to admitting she’s an alcoholic much more recently than I did and is still in that precarious stumbling backwards stage. She has a fantastic sponsor though, and I’m optimistic for her success.

  She and I are sad testaments to Mom and Dad’s parenting skills. Carrie and I aren’t blood-related, both having been adopted. Our parents weren’t able to have children, and I’ve often thought it should have stayed that way.

  “I’m glad to hear it.”

  “So, did you see her yet?”

  “No,” I say half under my breath, a little embarrassed.

  “What are you waiting for, Jayson? You’ve been there what? Two weeks already?”

  “I know, I know, I just want everything to be perfect.”

  She tsks into the phone. “How much more perfect can it be? It took you months to find your job and then get through all the red tape of securing your work visa. It’s very lucky they needed you. Go get your woman! Don’t chicken out.”

  When I got sober, I wanted to become a productive member of society. I wanted to help people the way I’d been helped. So, I studied my ass off and earned my Canadian Contingent Alcohol and Drug Abuse Counselor (CCADC) designation, pursing a career as a drug addictions counselor for teenagers. When I found Dee in Upstate New York, the only way to get to her legally was to find a job there. Fortunately for me, addictions counselors were in short supply and I landed a job at Mountainside Recovery. They were ecstatic to bring me on and eagerly petitioned the government to give me a work visa, as well as work with me to obtain my international certification.

  “I won’t. I promise.”

  She tsks again in my ear, an annoying habit. “I hear the worry in your voice. Tell me again like you mean it.”

  I can’t help but to chuckle. She knows me so well. Taking a deep breath, I do as she asks. “I’m going to get her, Carrie. I promise.”

  “That’s it!” She laughs happily. “Call me as soon as you do. I want to hear everything!”

  I laugh along with her, and we share a few more pleasantries then hang up. It’s almost time for me to get to work. On the agenda for today is to continue getting to know the local law enforcement around here. My manager at Mountainside Recovery suggested it and it’s a good idea. The police bring in so many drunk or high offenders and its good practice to establish contacts.

  Checking the time as I finish my coffee, I hustle out the door.

  “G’morning, Fox,” Desk Sergeant Chris Kenney says as I stride into his stationhouse. “How’s it hanging?”

  “Not bad, Chris, not bad.” I lean an elbow on his raised wooden desk. I’ve been here a couple of times already and have made good inroads in establishing a rapport with the sergeant. He’s a good man, willing to help and apparently glad that Mountainside Recovery recruited me. “How’s the wife?”

  He smiles fondly, his craggy, lined face brightening. “She’s a peach. We’ll have you to dinner soon. You gotta taste her cobbler. It’s the best in the county.”

  “I’d like that,” I say, and mean it. I don’t really know a soul here besides the woman I’m reluctant—no, afraid—to make contact with. It would be nice to make some friends.

  “Good, good. We have plans this weekend coming but we’ll set something up for the weekend following.” He takes out his cell phone and taps out a note to himself. “Your number’s in here, isn’t it?”

  I gave it to him the first time we met. I open my mouth to remind him of that but a commotion in the hallway draws my attention. A couple of uniformed policemen bustle in with a young man in handcuffs. He looks to be around fifteen, maybe sixteen. Dark hair, chubby, pale skin, frightened eyes.

  Something about him reminds me of me at that age, and it strikes a chord. Besides my yearning to make things right with December, this is why I’m here—to help kids like this.

  The cop behind him makes the universal gesture for taking a toke, putting two of his fingers to his mouth and inhaling. He is being brought in for drugs, at least marijuana. That clinches it. I have to help him.

  Kenney nods at the cop, sighing, and returns his sad gaze to me as the boy is led down a hall to be booked. “This might be one for you. Damn shame. He’s got a mom who cares, even if she is a bit loopy. I see her around. Small town, ya know?”

  “Loopy?” I find that an odd way to describe her.

  “Yeah, she’s a witch.” He holds up his hands as my eyebrows rise. “No joke, or so she says. Always wrapped in dark shawls like a beggar. A real tree hugger, always spouting that new age crap.”

  I nod slowly, forming a picture of the mother in my mind. “But she does care about her son?”

  “Yeah, that’s the kicker. He’s fallen in with the wrong crowd recently. There’s time to save his ass.”

  “I’d like to try,” I say quietly. “This is more than a job to me.” Kenney’s lips quirk up and I risk asking for a favor from him. “Look, Chris. If he’s not that far into it yet, could I ask you to do something for me…rather, for him? Don’t book him. If his record is clean, let’s keep it this way for now and see if I can get through to him. If he accepts my help—my counseling—then we’re golden. If he tells me to fuck off, then he’s all yours. What do you say?”

  “Interesting proposal, my man…interesting.” He rubs his chin with another sigh, and scrubs his face with his hand as he picks up the desk phone. “Hey, that kid you just brought in… Yeah, yeah, Napoli. Put him in holding without booking him. I got a drug addictions counselor here—a buddy of mine—who’ll try to salvage this crap situation. Good, good, thanks.” He hangs up as I wait hopefully. “He’s all yours, Fox. They’re bringing him back up from holding. I hope you can get through to him.”

  Smiling, I hold out my hand to Chris and we shake on it.

  It doesn’t take but a minute for the kid—Isaac Napoli—to gratefully accept drug addiction counseling. By his almost translucent white face, he’s scared shitless. Good. If he’d given me the usual sixteen-year-old macho posturing it would have been much harder to help him.

  After begging me to let him call someone other than his mother—“she doesn’t have a car, let me tell her about this at home, please”—I give him privacy to make the call. But not before making him understand that I will have to meet with her soon.

  Not more than fifteen minutes later, I’m back out near Kenney’s post, pacing. Another twenty or so minutes go by while I wait for Isaac’s ride to arrive. I figure I’ll have a quick chat with whoever shows up. I’m doing my best not to make a general nuisance of myself but I’m sure my pacing is getting on the nerves of the desk jockeys as I navigate around their workstations. I’m looking for a place to plant my ass when a familiar voice makes the world explode.

  Her voice.

  I’m sure of it, even after all these years. My stomach makes a mad dash for my feet.

  “I’m here to pick up Isaac Napoli.”

  Turning slowly while gathering all the courage I can muster, which isn’t much at the moment, I spot Decem
ber Jagger standing at Desk Sergeant Kenney’s podium.

  Damn, she looks good. Her dark brown hair that complements her lighter brown eyes is a little longer, her body slender and still oh so curvy. Ten years older, yet to my eyes, it looks like she went back in time. A female Benjamin Button. The years look fantastic on her. I want to reach out to her, to kiss her, to sweep her up into my arms and make her mine—things I was never able to do back then. I was a timid coward always worried about what other people were thinking and hating myself for it every second of every day.

  A public display of affection toward the woman I was madly in love with?

  Impossible, people might be watching. I was such an ass. I can’t wait to show her the man I finally turned into—a man worthy of her. The man she wanted.

  I’m ill-prepared for this unexpected development. I wanted to be in control of when we finally met again. Maybe this is for the best, I tell myself. I’ve been a coward for most of my life, drowning my fears and self-loathing in a bottle of booze. With the help of AA, my sponsor, and a fantastic drug-addiction-counselor-turned-mentor, I’d found my self-worth. Today, I walk with my shoulders back and head held high.

  Yes, this unplanned for meeting is for the best. No more stalling. Time to face the music and get December back.

  3

  December

  With virtually no cars on the road—there’s never much traffic around here—it doesn’t take long for me to arrive at the police station. I find a convenient spot in the lot adjacent to the semi-imposing two-story building. The wood is old and weathered and the brick foundation worn from red to a murky brown. There’s history here, but there’s history in almost all of the buildings Upstate, from government offices to old farmhouses.

  It’s part of what I love about living here.

  Grabbing my shoulder bag and my half-full smoothie, I get out of the car and head into the police station.

  The warm air wraps around me as soon as I enter, a pleasant change from the brisk chill of winter’s last fingers outside, and stop for a moment to get my bearings. Despite the age of the exterior, the building’s interior is modern and efficient. The one exception is the tall desk at which the sergeant sits. Its brown wood is scuffed, stained and marred, making the writer in me want to trace every nook and cranny with my fingers to find out what stories it has to tell.

  Taking a sip of my smoothie, I put my mind to the business at hand. Isaac is waiting for me to get him as far from this place as possible, I would imagine.

  Stepping up to the desk sergeant, I wait until I have his attention before speaking. He gives me a kind smile and I return it with a smile of my own.

  “I’m here to pick up Isaac Napoli,” I say.

  He nods and holds up a finger. “I’ll have him brought right up.” He picks up his phone and I turn to scan the room, curious about the inner workings of the station. But it’s more than that. There’s a prickling at the back of my neck, like someone is watching me.

  Amid the bustle of police officers joking and fielding phone calls, I find that someone is, indeed, staring at me. A man. Handsome, broad shoulders. Somehow familiar… Unaccountably, my heart starts thudding in my chest triple time.

  No, it can’t be. It simply can’t.

  My brain is slow to catch up with my eyes. Shaking my head as my mind tries to reject this as nothing more than an apparition, a manifestation of the nagging premonition I had earlier, I know in my heart it’s him. However impossible it might be that he’s here.

  “Jayson?” I say half under my breath as warm familiarity swirls through me. I take a step forward as he does the same, a tentative smile on his face.

  His face is ten years older but still handsome as ever—a face I’d know anywhere.

  Wait, what is this sensation?

  Love?

  After all this time, this is my reaction when I see him? He’s like a goddamned drug. An addiction I thought I’d shaken.

  The love morphs, twists into bitter, relentless anger. My hands clench and the smoothie slips from my grasp. It hits the floor with a loud clatter, the lid flying off and the contents splattering everywhere. On my shoes, my jeans, the nearest desk, all over the floor. Like three drunks projectile-vomited simultaneously in the same spot.

  Time slows to a crawl as Jayson advances and I bend to pick up my travel mug. Someone steps forward with a roll of paper towels. I reach for them, all the while unable to tear my eyes from Jayson.

  I drop to my knees to tackle the mess, my hands shaking as he reaches me. He takes the same position, almost as if genuflecting. Our eyes remain locked as he rips off a handful of paper towels and I ineffectually swish a wad of them around in the mess.

  At last, someone with a mop steps between us and we rise to our feet.

  “What are you doing here?” My voice is still hushed, the way I would speak if I were in church.

  “I’m sorry,” he says, lowering his eyes, his tone contrite.

  The sound of his voice hits me like a tidal wave. I have to make a concerted effort to stay upright. Hours upon hours we spent on the phone, a million years ago, while our relationship was still a long distance one. My god, his voice could make me wet, make me come. The tone, the deep masculinity of it…

  I force the memory of it from my mind.

  What is he sorry for? For being here? For the mess I just made? For everything he ever did to me?

  “That doesn’t answer my question.” I refuse to give him an inch. This moment is so startling, I’m running on pure instinct. But his presence roils inside me like ozone in the air, a storm brewing.

  “I know, but I am sorry.” He glances down at his hands, which are spattered with smoothie.

  I hand him the roll of towels. “For what?”

  He makes eye contact with me again as he wipes his hands, almost like he’s wringing them in torment. “Everything.”

  My mouth opens and closes like a fish. I need air.

  An apology of this magnitude right now catches me off guard. I broke up with him ten years ago. By email. Which killed me, but he wouldn’t take my calls. After breaking up and getting back together too many times to count, and me moving to and leaving Canada, we were trying long distance yet again at the time. But he’d been lying to me, drinking and disappearing, and I had to think of myself. Save myself. Finally. Instead of always putting him first. I had to get off the rollercoaster disguised as a merry-go-round on which I kept losing my heart.

  He never tried to contact me after that horrible day. And oh, how I cried at how easy it was for him to let me go.

  Then there was the disastrous phone call I made to him a year or so later.

  “I called because I had a very vivid dream that you were dead.”

  “Oh.” I expected more, yet Jayson’s surprise in that one syllable is enough to cut straight to my heart. His voice brings back with stunning clarity how much I loved him. His breathing reaches me across the distance and memories of him holding me close rise unbidden.

  I forge on. “Yeah, and since we always had this, you know…connection, I needed to call. To make sure it wasn’t true. I mean, I didn’t want you to be dead. The dream was just so real…” I’m babbling, my awkwardness and discomfort obvious while talking to the man I loved to the point of losing myself in him.

  When we broke up, it very nearly destroyed me. Recovering from the heartbreak was the hardest thing I ever had to do and took a damned long time. Now, he’s crept into my dreams unannounced and unwelcomed.

  I realize I’m clutching the phone when a pain shoots through my palm. Forcing my grip to relax, I blow out a slow breath. I’m already in the middle of this bad decision to call him, so I might as well make the best of it.

  The conversation turns to mundane things. It suddenly seems like he’s doing a stand-up routine, making stupid jokes about irrelevant subjects.

  “Are you sure it’s okay that I called?” I interject when he pauses for a breath.

  “Yeah, sure. It’s ok
ay, Dee,” he assures me, but I’m not convinced.

  “It’s kind of awkward, isn’t it?”

  “It’s a little weird.” He laughs self-consciously. “Well, I guess I should let you go. We’ll talk again.”

  I know this is just his way of ending the call but I’ve opened up the lines of communication, so I need to know what happens next. My co-dependency is rearing its ugly head after being dormant for so long. I pay no heed to the warning signs.

  “Will we? I mean…do you want my phone number?” I used the *67 code to block my ID and now I’m offering him my number? After I changed my phone number a year ago so he couldn’t call me. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

  There’s a painful, pregnant pause. I open my mouth to release words, to fill the silence.

  He beats me to it. “No, not right now.”

  Ouch.

  Don’t cry. Oh god, don’t.

  “Oh, okay,” I say, my voice a little shakier than I’d like. “I guess...”

  I don’t know what I guess. I can’t think and it’s all I can do not to let the tears start falling.

  “But, thank you for calling,” Jayson says to fill the new, uncomfortable silence.

  “Yeah...”

  “Well, it’s getting late.” His deep voice compels me to glance to the clock. Nine-thirty. It’s not late at all, and I die a little more inside. “But thank you again for calling.”

  The call is disconnected, the phone still crushed in my hand. I’m not sure if my heart is still beating but a deluge of tears has soaked my face. I let them fall. It’s been a long time, so I allow myself this exquisitely ugly cry.

  After everything he and I went through together, all that I put up with—his lies and broken promises, his alcoholism, his petty manipulations to score his next drink—Jayson rejects me? My hands curl into fists of impotent rage that I press against my eyes, trying to stop the tears that flow with the strength of a tidal wave.

  Now, standing in a police station in rural Upstate NY—the unlikeliest of locations—his apology knocks me for a loop. Almost as much as him being in Ashville.