by Auden Dar
Unlike my studio in Santa Monica, my music studio here is in a small corner bedroom of my loft that used to face a brick wall and could easily be mistaken for someone’s closet. The studio consists of an upright Steinway piano and a desk with a Mac, monitor, three hanging flat screens, and an electric keyboard. The room has soundproofed walls that can withstand really, really, absurdly loud music. On one side of the wall is a bookcase that holds the awards I have received in the past few years working as a film composer. It had never occurred to me to ship them to LA. On my desk are two framed pictures. One of my parents on their wedding day, both wearing happiness on their faces. The other, a photo of me with Julian and his family, taken only a few days before our lives were met with tragedy. Above the desk is the framed print of Edvard Munch’s “The Scream” that Julian gave me for my fifteenth birthday.
Like my studio in Santa Monica, my studio here is my haven. I can be as angry as I want. I can cry while I compose. I can scream when I’m frustrated without concern for anyone. I can create something that is of no importance to anyone but myself. The outside world doesn’t exist.
Julian doesn’t exist.
Grabbing my third cup of coffee and a chocolate croissant that Alex was thoughtful enough to buy yesterday, I sit at my desk and dial Marcel. After the second ring, he picks up.
“Evangelina, are you all right, my dear?” Concern etched in his voice.
No! Your gorgeous son made love to me, abandoned me the next day, and left me with only a note. And stupid me still wants him.
“Yes, I’m fine. I apologize, Marcel. I’ve just been inundated.” I’m trying to be fierce. I stare out the window, tracing the glass with my finger.
“Dear, I’m in the city and would love to see you as soon as possible,” he says without hesitation.
“I have a work deadline but will be done no later than four p.m.” I continue to trace a heart on the window with my finger before marking it with an X.
“That’s fine. Would you like to come up to 740, or would you prefer to meet somewhere else?”
The thought of visiting Julian’s childhood home and the place I had once considered a home as well unnerves me. The chances of him being there are slim, but I don’t want to take any chances. “Do you mind if we meet at a restaurant?”
“Yes, of course. We can have dinner at Le Cirque at seven thirty. Thank you, Lina. Godspeed.”
“See you then.” I hang up, and for the first time in days, I feel a little lighter. Some things never change. Marcel has always had dinner at Le Cirque three times a week.
The day goes by quickly, and when I notice the clock in the studio, it’s already three p.m. I send the music for the first few scenes via Dropbox to Roger and the director. Once I receive approval, I can then reach out to the infamous conductor, Chadwick David. I don’t know how the indie film budget is going to pay for one of the most famous and youngest maestros in the world to conduct the score. I’ve thought about conducting my own music, but I don’t have the confidence to do it. Plus, I prefer being in the booth with the director while the orchestra records the score.
There’s not much to do before my dinner with Marcel. I should contact Andrew, but I need some more time away from him. Although I am tempted to call Julian, I don’t. Pride has gotten the best of me.
Nine days. It’s been two hundred and sixteen hours since I left Julian’s home. No calls. No texts. No emails. I hold my phone close to my chest like a nun holds her rosary. Absolutely nothing. I tell myself I was just a warm body for him. I was an old friend who needed comforting on her birthday. Why did I assume it would mean more for him? I’m just another victim of a Julian Caine casual hookup. Yet, this heart refuses to forget him. When I dress in the morning. When I sip my coffee. When I watch dogs in the dog park. When I’m eating a cupcake. When I’m running errands. Even when I’m doing laundry.
My love life is like a laundry cycle on repeat.
I should thank the British man for breaking my heart. The pain in my chest and the memories of our time have helped me compose. Somehow, I’ve managed to write Julian into all my recent compositions. Cosima mentioned during our conference call yesterday that the score I’ve written for certain scenes were the most intense and passionate music she’s heard in years, reminiscent of Craig Armstrong’s “The Great Gatsby” soundtrack.
And although I have movie cues to watch as I compose, somehow, they’re always replaced by torturous images of the most staggeringly handsome man I’ve ever laid my eyes on.
A man who continues to consume my mind.
Here I am being tortured for the hundredth time today by more memories … his strong, large hands touching every curve of my body. His wicked tongue entering me in a way no one has ever done before. And although the passion taunts me, it is the thought of losing the friendship we were trying to rebuild that hurts the most.
Why hasn’t he contacted me?
Why haven’t I contacted him?
And why am I thinking of Julian and not Andrew?
I walk out to the living area and stand by the window to people watch again, a hobby I truly enjoy. Ceelo Green’s “Fuck You” ringtone pierces the silence.
Julian.
The man I can’t seem to stop thinking about is finally calling me. I stare at the phone and continue to listen to the ringtone.
Yeah, an appropriate ringtone for the man who gave me pleasure, and instantly took my heart the next day.
I’ve been waiting to hear from him since he left me. Conversations had played in my head. What the hell happened to you? Oh, you lost my number? It’s okay. I hate you, and I never want to hear from you again. I miss you. Thank you for fucking my brains out and then leaving me with a note. A. Fucking. Note.
Somehow, it always comes back to I miss you and when can I see you again. I guess that’s what happens when a man gives you the most intense orgasm or rather orgasms of your life.
You don’t care anymore. You’d do anything to feel desired. To feel alive again.
Desperation gets the best of me, and my longing for him eclipses my better judgment. However, as the ringtone reserved specifically for Julian-fucking-Caine continues to play, it takes everything in me to ignore the call. I’m not ready. I can’t just let him waltz right back into my life like last time. Even though I long to speak with him, I don’t have the strength. I want to scream at him, but I know that’s the last thing I would do. I don’t know if I can control myself from begging him to come and see me. To make love to me one more time. And as anger begins to surface, would I be able to restrain myself from calling him every name in the asshole name book?
Do. Not. Pick. Up.
Let it go to voicemail.
Gather your thoughts.
Get a spine.
Rejecting the call, I continue to watch the old couple walking hand in hand. It’s a sight I look forward to when I’m in the city. The first time I saw them was three years ago. Since then, when I’m at the loft at three p.m., I walk over to the window and wait for the elderly couple. They saunter up from Houston Street and stroll over to the small park directly across from my building. They always share a snack as they sit on the bench for about an hour, watching pedestrians walk by. Sometimes, the gentleman will read a book while she rests her head on his shoulder. Through the years, I’ve only witnessed affection between them. At around four p.m., he is always the first to get up and help the lady off the bench. Depending on the weather, he will assist her with a jacket or a sweater. Then he leads her out of the park, and they walk hand in hand toward Houston Street.
There’s something special about a ritual like the elderly couple have that is so unlike the Wednesday date nights I had with Andrew. That was more of an obligation on both our parts. I cringe, remembering how dreadful sex with Andrew had become. It became so awful I started watching and masturbating to porn. I even fantasized about a certain man while having sex with my former fiancé.
The “Fuck You” ringtone continues to interru
pt my thoughts. Don’t answer it. Don’t let the heartache in. In addition to the ringtone, a text appears, alarming me.
JULIAN: Father had a heart attack.
Five
My world stops.
Anxiety fills me when I call him. On the first ring, he answers. “Lina, Father went into cardiac arrest. He’s at Lenox Hill. I’m on my way.”
“What? How? No, I just spoke to him a few hours ago.” My breathing quickens. My chest tightens. “How? How can I help?”
“I was already en-route when I received the call. I’ll be there in about four hours. Alistair is on his way as well. Lina, could you go to him? Be with him? Please?” The vulnerability in his voice is clear. I don’t ask what has happened to him because at this moment, I don’t care.
“Yes, I’ll leave right now. I’ll see you at the hospital.”
Before I hang up, Julian interrupts, his voice trembling. “Thank you, Lina.”
I rush to the master bathroom and wash my face. In a matter of minutes, I’m out the door and quickly walking to the corner of Bleecker Street. To my surprise, a taxi pulls up to the curb immediately. Traffic is ridiculous, and I ask the cabbie to drop me off at Union Square. Quickly making my way down the stairs, I hop on the #6 express train that will lead me to the 77th Street subway stop.
I’m sandwiched between two fat men who forgot to put deodorant on. Worse, one decides to pull a tuna sandwich out of his bag and start eating it. What is he thinking? As much as I would like to gag, the thought of Marcel in the hospital has me on the verge of tears. Surveying the car, the subway is so crowded that I am unable to see the passengers seated. Rather than cry, I say a silent prayer for Marcel, Julian, and Astrid.
When I arrive at the hospital, I lie and tell the nurse at the station that I am a relative. I might as well be. For years, the Caines were the only family my father and I had in the States.
Upon entering the hospital room, I find Marcel asleep. His current wife, Astrid, is seated on a large leather reclining chair next to his bed. When she looks up at me, I notice her eyes are filled with tears. With heavy steps, I walk over to her.
I hesitate before reaching for her hand. “What did the doctors say?”
Astrid is unable to hide the surprised look she greets me with. “Lina, how did you know?”
“Julian.”
Another soft tear falls from her big blue eyes. With her voice still shaken, she says, “Oh, he’s on his way back.” Astrid pauses for a few seconds, trying to catch her breath. She continues, her voice now barely a whisper, “We were on our way out when Marcel complained of having chest pains. He said it was nothing, but a few minutes later, he was on the floor of our building lobby. Thank God, we got him to the hospital in time.”
I remain silent, allowing her to divulge as much information as possible. “They gave him some drugs to decrease the amount of heart damage. They’ve already done an echocardiogram. His cardiologist, Dr. Stevens, said that Marcel is going to need bypass surgery.” Astrid’s calm demeanor fades as her tears become uncontrollable. Although she is virtually a stranger, as I had only met her a few weeks ago at her husband’s 65th birthday celebration, I wrap my arms around her tall frame. Her words sadden me. “I … I don’t know what I will do if anything happens to Marcel.”
I don’t know what to say. The last time I was faced with this situation, my grandfather died a few days after his own heart attack. The memory of his death is still fresh in my mind.
“Your husband is a strong man. The fact he was strong enough to get here immediately should tell you he plans on staying.” I try to comfort her as best as I can.
Surveying the space, the private room is unlike the other hospital rooms. Four flat-screen TVs, along with state of the art electronics, are all around the room. Moreover, there is a separate bed for Astrid. Unlike most hospital floors, this room has blond wood floors, a stainless steel coffeemaker, and plush terry robes. I do a double take, wondering if I’m at a Four Seasons Hotel.
Astrid is barely sitting up even though she’s in a reclining chair. It’s evident she’s worn out from worry, and I recommend that she lie down. “You’re not going to be much help if you’re too tired,” I tell her. She doesn’t deny her exhaustion, and with my assistance, I walk her over to the separate bed only a few feet away from the man fighting for his life.
We are in the room alone with Marcel for the next hour with only the hospital personnel interrupting to monitor his condition. Trying to keep the conversation light, we discuss their courtship and her plans for his retirement. Exhaustion gets the best of her, and she falls fast asleep. I stay planted in one of the armchairs staring at the ceiling while she dozes for the next forty-five minutes.
Waking up, Astrid straightens herself in the extra bed before looking around. Clearing her throat, she asks, “Lina, would you mind going to the apartment to retrieve some things? I don’t want to leave my husband.”
The walk south from Lenox Hill Hospital to Marcel’s home takes less than fifteen minutes. The Art Deco apartment building, 740 Park Avenue, has been in the Caine family for more than thirty years.
Known as one of the most expensive residences in the world, the Rosario Candela designed structure houses what are known as urban mansions. Located on Manhattan’s Gold Coast, the 71St and Park Avenue building is only a few steps away from Central Park. Only a hundred yards away from the building, I gaze up at the familiar nineteen-story limestone frame. And although it is one of the most expensive residences in the world, it’s evident that the outside façade is in need of a facelift.
As I make my way to the front of the building, it occurs to me that the last time I was here was Elisa’s memorial. The day after the service, Julian left for London without a goodbye. His sister, Caroline, returned to college and shortly after their mother’s memorial, she died of a drug overdose. Sadness sweeps over me as memories of my time here come to mind. A great deal of my childhood took place in this building with Caroline and Julian. After Marcel had moved to London with his son, I didn’t even bother retrieving my belongings from the spare bedroom that had been designated as mine. Suddenly, I am met with a memory that makes me laugh; one of the socialites being escorted by New York’s finest, in handcuffs and fur.
The gray curved awning hasn’t been replaced. The doorman beneath it, clad in his uniform, looks familiar and instantly recognizes me. “Miss Lina, is that you?”
Marco.
He’s been the doorman for as long as I can remember. “Hello, Marco. You’re looking well.”
“Thank you. How is Mr. Caine doing?”
“He’s hanging in there. Astrid asked me to retrieve some things for Marcel,” I respond with sadness. “I have a key.”
“Please let me know if you need assistance with anything.” Marco opens the door for me. Walking through the marble lobby, I find nothing has changed since I left here fourteen years ago.
The elevator ride to the Caine residence is a long one. Astrid had mentioned that their housekeeper is away on vacation, so the apartment should be empty. Although Marcel is very wealthy, unlike most of the residents who inhabit this building, he has always had only one housekeeper. My former guardian has always kept his personnel to a minimum and, if possible, never changes them.
The private elevator landing opens directly to the Caine’s large foyer. The curved staircase greets me and rather than immediately go upstairs, I wait in the entry gallery. Closing my eyes, I inhale the familiarity of what was once a home to me.
Once my eyes have opened, it is clear that the interiors of the Caine home have been untouched. Despite the fact Marcel and Astrid had spent some time at 740, it’s also quite evident that even after her death, this apartment is still Elisa Rutherford Caine’s home. With the exception of a painting or two, all the furnishings, artworks, and photographs are still in the same location that I last saw fourteen years ago. The feeling is eerie, as if he had kept the apartment as homage to his late wife.
Wanderin
g through the entire eighteen-room duplex would take a few hours, so I amble up the circular stairs that lead to all the five family bedrooms. An image of Julian and I sliding down both banisters, racing one another with the hopes of winning a bet, hits me. Julian always won.
I head straight to the master suite. Astrid had asked for two photos: a photo of she and her husband on their wedding day, and a photo of Caroline and Julian with their mother. Nothing else. The French doors to their bedroom suite are wide open, and I walk over to the large dresser and retrieve the two photos both encased in silver frames and place them in my bag.
I recall the intimate conversation with Astrid.
Thirty minutes ago…
At first, I thought I had misheard her when she mentioned the photo that included her husband’s first wife.
“A photo of Caroline, Julian, and their mother?”
“Yes, please.”
I kept quiet.
Sensing my confusion, Astrid continued, “I’m married to Marcel.” She paused before she confessed, “But I’ll never be his love. I know that I’ll never be like her.”
In the confines of the hospital room, as I watched my former guardian fighting for his life, I was uncomfortable with the conversation I was having with his current wife. The woman before me was devastated, and even though we were strangers to one another, the only thing I could do was to comfort her. I continued, unsure if my words were true. “He obviously loves you or he wouldn’t have married you. You shouldn’t compare yourself to Elisa.”
“How can I not? When she’s still a part of him even though she’s been dead for years. Lina, I know that I shouldn’t ask.”
