by Adriana Law
“It’s what he would have wanted, besides, no one is using the apartment. It’s better than letting it sit and go downhill.”
I thought: Okay. I was doing him a favor so he wouldn’t have to deal with it. With me staying it gave him an excuse to NOT come by, to NOT have to face his son’s possessions. I could live with that.
I wanted nothing more than a little time: to crawl into his bed, our bed, and wrap myself in sheets that still carried his scent. I wanted Slick at the foot of that bed, stretched out, the sound of his heavy, noisy breathing making the silence seem not so deafening. That’s what I needed: to sleep and sleep and sleep—never-ending until my heart didn’t ache so badly.
“Thank you,” I told Sawyers father. “A couple of weeks. That’s all I need.”
“We’ll see.”
His “we’ll see” caused a sick feeling deep in the pit of my stomach. My guard went up more than usual, and I crossed my arms over my chest taking a step back. I was thinking that Samuel Bentley might like a pet of another kind. He collected fine things and a boy, one that looked like Sawyer—something told me I would spend a lot of time in court proving I was a fit mother. A bored, bitter man out of options, with one son that hated him and the other…was dangerous to our future.
A child could give him another chance to make amends. A fresh start. A new little person he could fuck up by trying to turn him into a replica of himself. I agreed to stay and didn’t say otherwise, afraid it would bring attention to my situation.
Now here I stand staring at Sawyer’s handwriting: Love Mya.
I miss Sawyer.
I miss him so bad my bone aches with it.
Maybe staying is not such a good idea. He is still here, everywhere: covered up with a blanket on the sofa waiting for me to join him, leaning in the doorway of the bedroom watching me with a toothbrush hanging out of his mouth, at the counter nuking cold coffee, and sitting on a pillow while helping me package my candy.
Making love to me on this very floor.
I sit, lowering onto one of the stools at the bar and rubbing my upper arms. It’s so cold now. Empty: The apartment. The day. My life. As I sit contemplating what next I vigorously rub the chill out of my skin. A glint catches my attention and I glance down at the engagement ring on my finger.
“You see the prongs that hold the diamond?” he asked. I nod, a tear falling from my face and hitting the fabric of my skirt. “There’s two owls. You see them?” He looked directly at me. I nodded again because that’s all I could do. Nod and cry. I did see the owls; delicate silver, the owl’s wings position making it, at first glance, seem that prongs holding the diamond form a perfect heart.
“Your owls,” he said unblinkingly.
“Have you lost someone?”
I see it now: there are two owls.
Not one.
Two.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Cold Steel
Sawyer had been reckless and irresponsible during his time with me. I would like to think I set him free where he no longer had to be the stifled younger brother, the obedient son and the disciplined cop.
With me, he was just Sawyer.
I understand now why Racheal did what she did. His intensity had spooked her. She had purposely ruined what they had before it ruined her. When Sawyer loved, he loved with his whole heart.
Unlike Racheal, I had desperately needed that whole-heart kind of love.
I had needed him, and now he was gone.
My eyes lift from the crowd dressed in boring black to the sky overhead. The sky is blue-grey today. The color of hard steel. The color of his walls. A small laugh leaves me causing the people nearby to glance my way curiously. Who the fuck laughs at a funeral? Only a person with an unraveling thread of sanity left. It’s almost as if I hear Sawyers deep voice speak to me directly.
“It is okay, Mya,” he says. “I want you to be happy.”
I laugh/cry; seeing him now in those damn tennis shoes without socks asking me to come over and watch a movie with him. His brown eyes narrowing behind his glasses.
Sterling’s sympathetic gaze captures mine from across the freshly dug hole. His eyes are wet. Red and swollen from the hell we’ve been trust into; a life without the one person that made us better people. Men dressed in uniforms carrying rifles line up. Sawyer’s friends from work stand stiff in the line with concrete expressions and straight postures.
Why did I ever invite death into our life?
It all feels forced. Glancing at the hole meant to swallow the casket held above it, my gaze sweeps over those that mattered most to Sawyer knowing this sudden death will have a profound effect on each and every one of them:
Samuel Bentley. The crappy-ass father who will now be forced to realize his inadequacies and failures where his sons are concerned. He has one left. Will he make that relationship count?
Victoria. Poor unsuspecting Victoria that doesn’t even realize what’s coming.
Sterling: the older brother who failed to protect his little brother. He’ll be affected the most out of the three. His demons will no doubt resurface in an attempt to claim him during his weakest. Sterling is in shock right now, but I know him and he will beat himself up, not know how to deal with it all.
And then there is me. How can return to the lonely life before him?
But then again…
I discreetly slip my hand into my jacket; my palm flat over the stomach of my dress. Maybe, just maybe, the small part of him that he left behind will heal us all and give us a reason to move forward without him.
There is a pause in the service, all eyes turning to me.
I force my legs to obey long enough to carry me to the front of the crowd. I’m numb as I walk—every step a deliberate action. Their eyes burn a hole in my back. I reach into the pocket of my jacket bringing out the card with the words I was sure I would forget in this moment. The heels of my stilettos stick in the wet ground. Please, God, do not let me fall face first in front of them. Give me courage to do this. Help me get through this.
I am nauseated standing this close to the casket.
Hold it together. Hold it together, Starr! You have to do this…for him!
In place I turn and stand like an emotionless statue before them. My hands grip the cards as I struggle to find my voice. My gaze lands on Sterling dressed in all black except for the white shirt. His hair is grown back out now. Minus the tattoos… I see a little bit of Sawyer.
Sterling’s blue eyes pool with tears. Good god, Sterling, don’t you cry! You will make me cry. He gathers the sides of his jacket righting it where he sits and then slightly nods, a gesture that says “you can do this.” Can I? Do this?
Victoria reaches for the hand that is perched on Sterling’s knee, but she smiles at me.
They are both here for Sawyer first…but for me also.
Hands trembling, I clear my throat and begin:
“I was only fortunate enough to know Sawyer for a short while.
But I feel like I’ve known him for forever.
My time with him was suddenly cut short…” my voice cracks. My blurry eyes drop to the cards. “…A few things most of you already know if you ever spent time with Sawyer. He had a big heart.” I laugh out, “Where a lot of us would have just kept walking… Sawyer couldn’t resist a droopy, pitiful face. That is how he ended up with a drooling Saint Bernard in a city apartment. If you ever watched the two of them: City Slicker and Sawyer…it didn’t take long to see they had a love/hate relationship. The dog refused to listen or come whenever Sawyer called him. Now I know the rebellion on Slicks part was intentional.” Deep breath. I can’t keep the thick emotions out of my voice, so I’m just going to go with it.
I lift my eyes, unashamed of the tears that roll down my cheeks. “I know this because much like us….Slick is mourning Sawyer’s death. He won’t eat. He won’t play. All he wants to do is lay around and be sad…I know the feeling. I can’t remember the exact moment Sawyer became essential, only that he did, and n
ow I can’t imagine life without him.
“A few things you may not know about Sawyer…” I hold up the folded glasses. “…he preferred these in private. To me, these represent a side of him that he thought you all would think less of. Also…Sawyer is…was a horrible painter.” My gaze slides to Sterling, “I’m not talking about your kind of painting,” my eyes return to the crowd, “I’m talking about walls—Sawyer got more paint on the ceiling and floor then he actually got on the walls.” Again I laugh. “Sawyer could not sing…it was horrible… but I loved it when he sang to me. I loved when he let his walls down and was his true self with me.
“Sawyer believed that the real key to success was making a list of things you want to accomplish the next day. He was very determined and if he failed, he would leave it on the list until he accomplished it.”
My gaze slides to the shiny black casket and for a second I want nothing more than to end my speech right then and there. But I can’t.
This is not for them.
It’s for him.
It’s for us.
Making my legs move I walk over by the casket and speak to him only. The rest of them…they’re no longer here. To prove it, I lower my voice and whisper, “…it’s just you and me now.” I hold up the card as if Sawyer can see it. “I made a list. I wrote it down so I won’t forget. Here it is:
1) Tomorrow morning I am going to force myself to get out of bed.
2) I will think about you less. I’m going to be realistic and shoot for a half hour without you entering my mind.
3) I am going to keep breathing.
I’m more than aware this may take a while but hopefully one day… I will wake up and do the impossible. You taught me to have high expectations and to believe in myself. That’s all…except that…I love you.”
***
As I said, I wish a lot. Wishing my life was different. Wishing I had made better choices. Wishing I had more. Done more. Seen more. I probably spend too much time wishing. If a younger version of myself ever showed up at my door and asked: Do you have any advice? I would probably answer: yeah, don’t spend so much time stuck in the past. That shit is toxic. Because, when you’re always stuck on what you did wrong, how can you even begin to move forward?
I would also say: self-pity serves no real purpose. I’m addicted to many things, self-pity being one of those things. I think, I spend too many hours nurturing my self-pity. Feeding it. Growing it. How can you become addicted to feeling sorry for yourself? It’s easy. You just focus on you and constantly stay there. Regardless of what shit goes on around you to other people, you can’t see it. After all, there is no fucking way they’re hurting as bad as you are, right?
Don’t mistake my self-pity as a weakness. I’d liken myself to a crustacean, or maybe even a cockroach. Exoskeleton with a rigid and resistant outer shell. All bony and horny parts. Hard to penetrate. No. I would say I’m not especially weak. On most days.
I will protect this child inside of me. Mother’s intuition says it’s a boy. After all, it is my body he is growing inside of. It’s what I want—a piece of Sawyer. I will name him Jackson.
Jackson Bentley.
I hope he has his father’s eyes.
And loves with the same intensity.
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Credit to the designer: Owl Engagement Ring
