Salvage

by Tiffany Aleman

  So lost in my own thoughts I’m startled when I hear the door close behind me. I look back over my shoulder and there stands the man I’ve been concerned about since he left. He stares back at me, and even though I can’t make out much of his features in the darkened room, I can tell by the way his arms hang limply by his sides and his hunched shoulders, he’s hanging on by a very thin thread.

  I stand and approach him like one would a skittish animal.

  “Brayden?”

  No response.

  My feet advance in slow, steady paces until I’m standing in front of him. Whiskey seeps from his pores, the smell strong and pungent. The bitter smell makes me want to gag, but I force myself to hold my composure.

  “Don’t worry, I didn’t drive.” The roughness of his tone sends shivers down my spine and not in a good way.

  A sigh of relief escapes me at his words, but at the same time I can feel my heart splinter. Instead of seeking comfort from me, he chose a bottle of liquor.

  “How much did you drink?” I keep my voice soft and low, non-judgmental.

  “Not enough.”

  “Do you want to talk about it?”

  He shakes his head no and I nod. Even though I wish he’d open up to me, confide in me, I won’t push it. He’s at the edge of a very high cliff, and my gut tells me he’s about to jump.

  I reach out and take his hand in mine. A little piece of me dies when he flinches from the contact. No words are spoken between us as I pull him towards the bathroom. Instinctively, I try to help him remove his clothes, but he pushes me away.

  “I got it. I don’t need your help.” The harshness in his tone only makes the crack in my heart grow longer. But I drop my hands back to my sides. With deft fingers, he swiftly strips. Stepping around me, he pulls the curtain back and turns the shower on. Not waiting for it to warm up he steps in and yanks the curtain closed. All the while I stand there. It’s like I’m invisible to him. I bite my lip to keep my chin from quivering. I know this has nothing to do with me, but I want to be here for him.

  With a newfound determination, I walk into our room, turn on the bedside lamp, and retrieve a pair of his briefs and basketball shorts. I stare at the clothes on the bed and it’s a sad realization that I’ve come to. This will be the second time there’s ever been a barrier between us when we’ve slept together. With Brayden it came naturally to sleep next to him in the nude, and easier, our clothing eventually found the floor anyway. I take a deep breath and decide to turn down the sheets. Exhaustion begins to set in as I stare at the fresh linens. Since my bed reeked of tequila this morning, changing the sheets was my first priority, all the while thanking God that I have a waterproof mattress cover.

  Beneath the comforter, I slip into bed and wait for Brayden to reemerge from the shower. My eyes stay glued on the door. I wait and listen, wondering if he’s crying out in pain and might need me, but nothing. Minutes later, he walks into the room, a towel wrapped around his waist. He doesn’t look at me, but notices the clothes on the bed. With a deep sigh, he drops the towel and gets dressed.

  As he climbs into bed, I turn off the light. Next to the sound of sheets ruffling, it is dead silent. Tension radiates from the man beside me who feels a million miles away.

  I clear my throat. “Brayden?”

  My heart beats double time from what I don’t know. Fear of him rejecting me again? Maybe. Anxiety? Because I feel him slipping away. Possibly.

  “I just want to go to sleep, Karmen.” His voice and tone carry no emotion.

  Tears gather in the corners of my eyes when I turn to his side of the bed. On his side, he lays with his back to me, successfully shutting me out. Crocodile tears break free of their levees, and I’m helpless to stop them. They slip over the side of my nose, travel down the opposite cheek and find their final destination, my pillow.

  “I’m here for you,” I whisper into the dark. I know he heard me, whether he wants me to be here for him is a conclusion I haven’t come to.

  The night grows longer as I lay here, sad for the man I love, for his pain. And at the same time the fissure in my heart expands because I know deep down he will not let me in. He will not share his pain with me. He will not let me help him carry his burdens. He will not let me love him.

  “I’m happy.”

  His words startle me, not the meaning behind them. “Why?”

  “But I’m so fucking angry, too.” Listening to the anguish in his voice flays a piece of my soul. From my vantage point, I watch as he tucks himself into a fetal position, and I go to him. I don’t give a damn if he pushes me away, if he yells and screams at me. I can’t watch him go through this any longer.

  I curl my body around his. My arms bind around his waist, and I hold him to me. My face rests against his back, and the tears that I tried to keep hidden fall harder. He rolls over, his head tucked under my chin, his arms bent, fists covering his eyes, a gut-wrenching sob slips past his lips. I pull him as tight as I can to me. I rock us back and forth. I comfort him in the only way I know how. I’d gladly give him all of my strength if it made him whole again. I’d hand over my heart on a silver platter if that meant his didn’t have to hurt near as much. I’d blanket him in my love so he’d never have to feel unwanted again.

  “Shh…baby, it’s okay,” I croak out. “I’m here for you.”

  “Why? Why did he have to hate me?” he hiccups.

  I don’t say anything because he needs this. He needs to get how he feels out in the open.

  “Oh Brayden,” I murmur against his hair.

  “You know I’m happy he’s gone because he can’t hurt me anymore, but at the same time I’m so damn pissed off that no apologies were ever made. Not once in his life did he ever say sorry for what he’s done to me,” he takes a shuddering breath. “But I’m no better than him because I didn’t either.”

  I shake my head back and forth. “Baby, no. You’re not like him.”

  “How do you fucking know?” he bites out.

  I take the assault of his words and push them aside and remind myself this is for him. “Because I know you. I know the kind, sincere, soul you keep hidden. Had he apologized to you, you would have accepted it and tried to make things between the two of you better.”

  He laughs a humorless laugh. “You know what I can’t help but think about is how one of the two people who are biologically programmed to love me, didn’t. I mean it took my dad to die for my mom to tell me how she’s loved me and say it over and over again. I just want to know…why?” His voice cracks on the last word.

  “Why what?” I ask softly.

  “What is it about me that is so damn unlovable?”

  Shatters… that is what my heart does at hearing his question. My fingers wrap around his tense wrists. Gingerly, I pull his fists away from his eyes. Tears flow in a continuous stream down his face. The sight makes my breath catch. I release his wrists and cup his face in my hands. My thumbs sweep back and forth against the saltwater residue on his cheeks as I tilt his head so that he has to look up at me.

  “Look at me, Brayden.”

  He presses his eyes shut tighter and tries to pull away from my touch, but I hold strong.

  “Please,” I plead.

  Slowly, his eyes open. They’re blood shot from either crying or drinking, probably both. But behind those enchanting green eyes is so much self-loathing, anger, hate, regret, sadness. I sniffle back my own tears, and my voice cracks when I speak. “You are not unlovable. You are a man with many demons yet you are a man who has sought redemption. You are a man that fights for what he believes in. You make me happier than anyone else ever has. When I tried to push you away, you pushed back harder. You are a survivor of your past and a fighter for your future. So don’t you see, you’re not unlovable? Because of all those things I have fallen in love with you. So if you want to yell, scream, and throw something to get whatever it is you need to get off your chest—do it. Do whatever it is you have to do because I can’t and won’t lose you.”
I lick my swollen lips, close my eyes, lean down and kiss the tip of his nose. “I love you. Please don’t push me away. Let me be here for you,” I beg.

  When I pull back, his eyes search my face for what seems like forever before he finally says, “I won’t drag you down with me.”

  It wasn’t exactly what I wanted to hear. After confessing my love for him, I figured he’d at least kiss me or something. Instead he just stares at me, his eyes lifeless. At that moment, I should have known I lost him.

  I swallow past the ball of emotion stuck in my throat. “Then don’t.”

  Brayden sweeps the back of his hand against my cheek, pushes up on his elbow, and kisses me. It’s grief-stricken, heartbreaking, and disconsolate all at once. He may not be telling me goodbye with his words, but his actions are telling me we don’t have much longer together.

  He pulls back and sighs as a tear escapes the corner of his eye. “Go to sleep, all right?”

  I look away from him because I know at this point there is nothing left I can do. I roll onto my side, away from him, and close my eyes tight. I’m still crying silent tears when I wait to see if he’ll wrap me in his arms. He doesn’t. Out of options, all I can do is hope and pray and have faith that he’ll find a way back to me, that this isn’t the beginning of the end for us.

  When Karmen told me she loved me last night, I knew she meant it. I feel like the biggest jackass because I didn’t say it back. I do. I love her, too. I’ve known it for a while now. Listening to her cry beside me, I wanted so badly to wrap her in my arms and take away her pain, but I didn’t. It wouldn’t be fair of me to return the sentiment when I’m not worthy of the love she’s willing to give me.

  I’m fucked up.

  I’m happy that my old man is gone. I’m happy that I no longer have to endure his wrath, but at the same time I am so fucking pissed.

  Death is final.

  There are no amends to be made.

  The option of saying everything you need to say is no longer an option at all.

  Telling my father that I loathe the way I was treated and hated the man he was is no longer an option.. Answers to questions that I’ve wanted all my life to ask will go unexplained. I’ll never understand why he hated me and blamed me for the death of my sister.

  Hate.

  It’s such a strong word with so much meaning. Growing up and constantly being told that my sister’s death is my fault definitely did a number on me. At the same time, I understand that it wasn’t my fault at all. I didn’t ask to be born. You’d think with me being the only surviving child, my parents would have treasured me. Love would have been a word followed by actions in our home. But it wasn’t and it’s a fact I will have to live with.

  And that’s what makes me so damn angry. I will never have the chance to tell my old man how he fucked me up. Normally women fuck up a man, but not me. This is the reason that I can’t tell Karmen how much I love her, how much I need her, especially right now. Between being happy, pissed, resentful, and so fucking angry, I also know I’m not what she needs. Not right now at least. Right now, my head is barely above water. I can feel myself sinking fast. Though she may disagree, my pushing her away is what will ultimately save her. Like I said last night. I won’t drag her down with me and I meant it. After all the fucked up shit she endured in high school and then with her parents, I’m doing her a favor even if she doesn’t see it yet. I don’t want to lose the best thing that’s ever happened to me, but I don’t know how to hold on to it either.

  I awoke early this morning, before Karmen, and slipped out of the bed. I didn’t mention to her that I’d be leaving to help my mom with all the arrangements necessary to bury my father. The whole process was long and tedious. Walking through the funeral home, looking at different caskets, times for the viewing and funeral service. Meeting with my father’s lawyer to discuss the business aspects of what will happen with his will and the car dealerships he has. Mentally and emotionally, I’m exhausted. Being the shoulder for my mother to lean on is a new role for me. But now that we’re back at the house, she’s off drowning her sorrows in a bottle of wine. I’m no better than her though, on the floor next to the chair, sits my trusty bottle of Jameson.

  The opulence of my father’s office never ceased to amaze me. I lean back in the oversized chair behind my father’s large mahogany desk. One wall is lined with arched, built-in bookshelves. In the center of the room sits a dark brown, leather couch with two wing-backed chairs, the same color, opposite of the couch. A Persian rug with different shades of blues, creams and browns create the complex woven design. It ties the whole room together, courtesy of my mother.

  I open drawers to my left and right, looking through paperwork that means nothing to me. Never was I involved in the business aspect of my father’s life. He and I both knew I’d never take over his legacy. The only time he had anything to do with me was when I joined the NFL, and that was only because my image was good for business.

  My hand bumps against a box in the back of the top drawer. I struggle to pull it out. When it finally breaks free, I set it on top of the desk. The box is slim yet has the width of a book. It’s old, that’s for sure. The edges are worn, the lid falling apart. Carefully, I lift up and the lid comes right off. Inside, memorabilia of a man I never knew greets me. Old Polaroid pictures of him and classmates from high school days stare back at me. On a picnic bench, he sits with one of his friends their arms slung over each other’s shoulders. His hair is longer and wisps out at the ends. Both of them have on letterman jackets, their basketball insignia on the right sleeve. He’s smiling and looks happy. I thumb through the photos and find myself staring back at a younger version of myself. My eyes grow wide, and it feels like I’ve been shocked when I come to the last couple of photos.

  In front of a large oak tree, my father sits, his arms wrapped around a teenage girl. You can tell it’s his high school sweetheart. Her long red hair hangs down her back. She has her arms wrapped around my father’s neck as they engage in a kiss. His lips look like they’re barely resting on hers, but around that they’re both smiling at each other. The light glint in his eyes as he stares back at this girl, is what catches my attention. I know he loved my mother, but not once have I ever seen him look at my mom the way he’s looking at this girl. The second picture is of the same girl from the other photo. She smiles at the camera, her palm resting at her chin and her lips puckered like she was blowing him a kiss. Her red hair is pulled back in a ponytail and looks as soft as her blue eyes. She has high cheekbones, with full lips. On the bottom of the picture the words ‘I love you, David’ are neatly written in blue ink. But that’s not what has the photo falling from my fingers. That’s not what has my world flipped upside down and spinning out of control.

  No.

  It’s the fact that my father looks like a completely different man here. He looks happy, at peace, in love. In this picture, he looks the way I feel when I think or am around Karmen.

  I reach down and take a long, hard pull of the burning Irish whiskey as I find a man I never had the opportunity to meet.

  Dazed, I sift through the remaining contents of the box. My fingers skim across a tattered piece of paper, folded into the shape of a letter. The creases are worn to the point that you can tell the letter has been opened many times over the years. My heart feels like it’s about to beat out of my chest. Sweat beads on my brows. Nervousness floods my bloodstream. With shaky hands, I open the note.

  Dear David,

  I’m so confused. I’ve written you a million letters before but none of them has ever seemed this hard. I know our relationship is over even though you won’t say it out loud. You ignore me. When I approach, you act like I don’t exist. It seems like nothing we shared really existed. But that’s not true.

  Because I felt it.

  I felt you.

  I miss you.

  I miss us.

  My heart literally aches from what’s happened. As I sit here writing you this letter, I’
m crying. I know it won’t change anything. You’ve made your choice, but for some reason I keep thinking this is just one awful dream and I’ll wake up, in your arms, happy, and loved. But I know this is reality. I’m still trying to understand why you’ve allowed this to happen to us. I thought you loved me. But how do you destroy someone that you’ve loved? How do you watch their pain tear them apart from afar and not do anything about it? We knew going into this relationship it wasn’t going to be easy. We knew very few people would be on our side. Why did you give up on me, on us? I would have fought to the death for our relationship. I would have looked your bastard of a father in the eye and told him to go to Hell. I would have done that for you.