The guy at the cash register made a point of eyeing my products. So much so, for a split second, I wondered if I’d forgotten to wear pants. He had an obnoxious, patronizing smirk plastered to his face when he asked, “Big night planned?”
His customer service skills left a lot to be desired, and I was in no mood to take shit from anyone. So, I gave it to him honestly.
“Oh yeah,” I enthused, trying to remember if I’d brushed my teeth that day. “First,” I said holding up a single finger, “I’m gonna get drunk. Second,” I continued with two fingers and noticed he was staring at my chest, “I’m gonna murder the plant my husband gave to me.” That’s about the time his eyes met mine again. “And for my big finale,” I patted the tub of ice-cream lovingly, “I’m gonna eat my feelings.”
He had no response, whatsoever, to my smartass comments or manner, so I took my items, leaned in on my elbows, and gave him some solid, retail advice. “You know, it’s just a normal Saturday night for any single girl. Put these three items on a primary end-cap and sales will soar.”
Again, he didn’t find me funny.
I thought I was fucking hilarious.
A few hours later, I was on my fourth homemade Grey Goose cocktail. This consisted of gin and Diet Coke, because these were the things I had in the house. Not to mention the jar of maraschino cherries, which made for a lovely garnish.
Sometime after my third drink, I’d gotten into Nick’s CDs. With cocktail number four in hand, I stood in my front yard, Don’t Stop Believing blaring through the open windows—on repeat—and looked at the mess I’d made. My previous plan for the night was to simply shut my broken heart up by drowning it in liquor, then drowning that plant with poison. I thought…if I killed the plant, I could somehow move on from the pain. But the closer I got to home, my plan morphed into something a little more…sinister. The gin helped, of course, but I had two years of livid, confused emotions I’d denied for far too long, chomping at the bit for release.
I walked into the shed and saw the area dedicated to the care of that plumeria. I filled the wheelbarrow with big sheers and a shovel. My intention to release the plant from the earth was foiled by rock-hard soil which required me to soften it up with a little water. While a shallow pond formed around my flip-flop clad feet, I gave the offensive blooms their last trim and final rites.
“Forever’s a long time, isn’t it, little flowers? I bet you thought that nice man would take care of you until the end of time?” Then I opened the bottle of weed killer and poured it on top of the neat pile of blooms. “Wrong, wrong, wrong!” I said, shaking my head as I bathed them in poison.
I don’t know which one of my concerned neighbors called the cops. But if it had been me, and I knew what happened to that poor woman in the blue house, even if it had been two whole years, I would have minded my own fucking business and hoped she only had one night of power ballads in her
But sadly, no such luck. The flash of blue and red lights in my periphery reminded me what I hated about my neighborhood: around here, no one wanted to get involved in anyone else’s business. No one warned you to move your car before you got that ticket on street sweeping day. Everyone seemed to be suspicious of everyone else. When I was growing up, my brother and I spent summers and some holidays at our aunt and uncle’s place outside of Guerneville. Even now, with Johnny-Law approaching, I recalled how my uncle left in the middle of dinner one night because the neighbor’s truck needed to be pulled from a ditch. He didn’t ask the guy if he’d called Triple A. He said, “Be right there, buddy.” That’s the kind of place I wanted to live. Somewhere with kind, considerate neighbors.
I wouldn’t even think of asking my neighbors for a cup of sugar. Not that they’d answer the door. But this was all good, because these seemingly-small things were the catalyst to change. It was that very moment when I realized I needed to move. Not just from the house, but from Southern California. As soon as the thought drifted into my head, I realized how relieved it would make my parents. They’d watched me go through the motions, but I couldn’t move on if I stayed here. Everywhere I went, everything I did, had some kind of connection to Nick and my life with him.
Finally, I was met with the phrase, “Ma’am, we’ve had some calls from your neighbors…” After that, I tuned out and answered “yes” or “no” to their questions when it was warranted. As intoxicated as I was, I managed to rein in my gin-surliness in order to avoid incarceration. But there was a small crowd gathered on my sidewalk. These same people had likely watched from afar while my life fell apart and did not one thing to offer help.
When I looked at the older couple that lived next door, I moved closer, close enough they’d be able to hear me and anyone else nearby. I used to drop a plate of cookies on their doorstep every Christmas, but not once had they thanked me.
“You’ve seen the entire show, haven’t you?” I asked quietly, not wanting the officer to hear. But the old man just kept hold of his wife and stared beyond me. But I knew he was the “man,” the “husband,” the half-of-a-whole I’d never have again. “You watched from your porch while a black limousine parked in front of my house. You would’ve seen me collapse, wracked with so much pain, my dad and brother had to carry me to the car. I came home to an empty house, stopped answering the door, and never, not once, did you come to offer a kind word. You saw us together,” I whispered. “We should’ve been you…and lucky, you’ve had a lifetime together. Think about that the next time you rob a woman of her grief.”
“Ma’am,” the officer started behind me.
“Shame on you,” I said and walked away.
I went back to my house, ignoring the officer who followed, and walked inside. I turned off the stereo and closed the windows. Then I returned to the officer waiting on my front porch. “I just need to shut the water off, and I’m all done for the night.”
He didn’t seem at all satisfied with my cooperation. “Is there someone we can call for you?” He made a point of looking at my hand. “Your husband?”
Two years… two, and I still hadn’t taken off my wedding rings.
“I’ve gone back to my maiden name, Officer.” I hoped that would be explanation enough.
He looked to his partner and nodded. Whatever that was meant to convey, I had no idea. But he handed me a business card. “If you need me, Miz…”
“Truscott. Rylie, Truscott.”
He closed the distance between us and warily glanced behind him. “If you need me,” he said quietly, “you give me a call. I’m only a few blocks away.”
“I assure you, I won’t have any reason to call.”
Then he stepped a little closer. “Please don’t do anything stupid.”
His words weren’t meant to insult me, in fact, they communicated genuine concern he seemed to feel for a fellow human, and for that, gratitude welled up in me and formed in my eyes.
“I won’t do anything stupid. I promise,” I said and looked at the house, “I’m done here.”
And I meant every word.
****
I didn’t sleep at all that night. Instead, I lay on the couch in our living room, listening to the distant traffic increase outside as the sun came up. For the first six months after Nick was gone, I’d been plagued by nightmares. Most, I didn’t remember at all. I’d wake with a crushing feeling, violently crying or shaking or both. I’d been prescribed something to help me sleep, but I hated the feeling of being medicated. As much as I wanted to be with whatever lingered of him, I couldn’t take it anymore, so I stopped sleeping in our bed.
The nightmares didn’t end, but they were less frequent. My therapist—before I told her we should see other people—had suggested I focus on a time or place where I felt peaceful. It didn’t have to be specific, but I already had a place in mind. Every summer and every holiday for the first fifteen years of my life were spent at my aunt and uncle’s in Northern California.
I could close my eyes and see the dense redwoods of Guerneville…the tall
trestle bridge that crossed the river…scattered vineyards and aged, crooked homes whose decay didn’t mar the scenery, but made it richer for its history. But it wasn’t just…things.
It was him.
We’d talked on the phone once a week, my dad complaining we needed to keep the conversations limited or the only communication we’d have would be through the good, old-fashioned postal service. This was where my peaceful mind would land me, arriving at my aunt and uncle’s and only staying long enough to say hello before I’d seek him out.
One particular summer, when I was barely fourteen, I stomped across the large open field behind my aunt and uncle’s farm house. I knew where he’d be. Somewhere in the middle, hidden in the tall grass.
I hadn’t even seen him yet before the words left my mouth.
“She still won’t let me get my ears pierced. Dad said he doesn’t care, but Mom said I need to wait until I’m fifteen.”
He and I had discussed this drama of my young life in detail, several times, and he assured me, there was no use fighting with her about it. She was never going to give in. I plopped down beside him and looked up at the sky just as he reached over into his backpack, leaned on his elbow, and handed me a bottle of rubbing alcohol.
“What’s this for?” I asked, turning the container in my hands.
Next, he pulled out a small, brown bag. “I figure we can put them up higher. Here,” he said, pointing to the top of his ear. “I’ll have one, and you’ll have one. So, technically, you won’t be piercing both ears.”
I adored that Quentin just got my mom on a technicality.
“Do it.” I grinned and stared down at the pair of earrings in the box.
“I don’t have any ice or anything, but I’ll do yours, and then you can do mine. I’ll try to be quick.”
“I’ll go first,” I offered.
He’d forgotten to bring cotton balls so he used the edge of his tee to clean my ear.
“Ready?”
“As I’ll ever be,” I said with a nervous laugh, kicking my heels into the ground before I braced and held myself as still as possible.
After an initial pinch and sting, the stud pushed through the other side of my ear with a pop. It throbbed, but it was nothing I couldn’t handle.
“You okay?” he asked.
“I feel like the top of my ear is on fire.”
He cleaned his own ear and handed me the earring. It was then I got a really good look at the remaining, single stud.
“Quentin?” I asked.
His eyes darted to me. “What are you waiting for?”
“Are these…real?” I asked. I knew nothing about jewelry, but something told me they weren’t fake.
“For us, everything is real.” He smiled. “Now hurry up before I back out.”
He would never back out. I knew this like I knew the sky was blue and the sun would rise and set. I knew because he was my best friend and brave in a way a kid should never know.
“Okay,” I said and held my breath. I was nervous, but not about inflicting pain on him. That was the summer I knew things had changed between us. I was so close, I could feel his breath on my neck. Even his scent made my heart beat faster. “Here goes.” And I pushed, hard and fast, holding the top of his ear between my fingertips so I could pierce it through with all my might.
“Christ,” he hissed. “It feels like a dog bite.”
“Have you actually been bit by a dog?”
“No.” He laughed. “Not until today.” He paused and glanced around the meadow. “Hey Rylie?”
I put my hands in my lap and looked down to study them.
“Hey,” he repeated quietly. And when I lifted my eyes, he put his mouth to mine and gave me my very first kiss. When he pulled back, only then did I open my eyes.
“Can we do that again?” I asked with a shy smile.
That’s how we spent the rest of the summer. Kissing, talking, taking in the world around us, no pressure, no responsibilities…
No pain.
No grief.
That was the time I chose to revisit when I needed an escape. And as I fell asleep, all I could think about was how much I wanted—needed—to forget, if only for a day. I wanted to feel the arms of a man around me. To feel lips touch my own. And I knew, if I tried, I could pretend everything was like it had been, long before the ground beneath my feet crumbled.
THREE
When I woke late the next afternoon, I reached for my cell, found the number I wanted, and put the phone to my ear.
“Hey,” the unsurprised voice on the other end greeted. This was normal for me and my brother. I called him whenever I needed him, and he called whenever he needed me. My calls were mostly emotional in nature. His were usually about what shoes he should wear with which suit.
“I had a situation last night,” I said.
“What kind of situation?”
I got up from the couch and looked out the front window at the yard.
“Oh no,” I whispered.
“What?”
“Oh, uh, nothing,” I lied and tried to get the image of my front yard out of my head. Who knew my inner angst had the same effect as an F5 tornado. “I was thinking I might go out.”
“You should go out.”
I hated when he said that.
With an exasperation that included a dramatic eye roll he couldn’t see, I attempted to let him talk me into it. “I don’t even know what to wear.”
I heard him rustling around in the background. “Jeans. That’s what you always tell me.”
“How did we become so clueless with fashion?” I chuckled.
“You always look great, Ry.”
I wasn’t about to tell him he was fashion challenged. We both knew when he tried to venture away from variations in black, it was a disaster. “Maybe it’s time to accept you might be color blind. Should I come up and help you shop again?” I asked.
“Sounds promising. But really, you know what I think you should do.”
Two weeks ago, he suggested I go out and get laid. He was perfectly happy for his little sister to hook up with some random guy. He didn’t care who, he didn’t care how, and he reminded me it wasn’t about sex. He felt it was an essential step to getting my life back.
I looked down at the coffee table and picked up the card the cute police officer had given me the night before.
“Well, I met someone, and he said to call, so I should call, right?” I was still trying to convince myself. “And then I’ll let you know how it goes. You haven’t dated in a while. Maybe you should go out, too.”
“I don’t have to leave my house to get laid, Ry. I just pick a number at random and let my fingers do the walking.”
“Gross.” I laughed. And God, it felt good.
“Call me tomorrow.”
“Fine. I’ll call you tomorrow,” I said with a grin.
“Call him when you hang up with me.”
“Fine.” I hung up with my chuckling advisor and dialed the number on the card.
“This is John.”
Lordy. He answered on the first ring.
“Hi, it’s, um, Rylie…uh, the woman who destroyed her yard and gave her elderly neighbors a dressing down last night?”
“You okay?” he asked.
Was I okay? That was a pretty funny question when you got right down to it. “I was thinking I should eat something that isn’t cereal.”
I couldn’t see his face, of course, but the way he replied made me think he was smiling. “Casual or not casual,” he asked.
“Casual.” I was pretty sure the only thing that fit me was jeans.
“Seven okay for you? I finish at five, shower, shave, try to find an outfit that doesn’t make my ass look fat…”
He was trying to make me laugh and it worked.
“Seven is good. And you have my number now, so if you forget where the house is…”
“I’ll look for the scene of destruction,” he chuckled.
“See you
at seven, John.”
“Glad you called, Rylie.”
****
I wasn’t sure if it was against the rules to meet up with a perp or whatever I was technically called since he came to my house on the job. But when he knocked on the front door, the pang of anxiety I’d been fighting all day hit full throttle.
“How are you?” he asked when I opened the door.
“Freaking out,” I admitted. “Come on in. I just need to grab some earrings.”
He closed the door behind him as my sandaled feet clapped down the hall and into the bathroom. The middle drawer was mine, my “mess” as Nick had called it. I thrust my hand into a sea of bangles and searched for my gold hoops. “Make yourself at home,” I yelled. I practically had to re-pierce my ears, but succeeded in the end. I stopped and turned the diamond stud I’d worn at the top of my ear since I was fourteen. It was a nervous habit, something I did when I was worried or tense. I looked down at my hand. Then, like ripping off a Band-Aid, I pulled off my wedding rings and put them on a shelf in the medicine cabinet.
When I came back out, I found him standing in the kitchen.
“Okay. I think I’m ready to go.”
“Are you moving?” he asked.
I looked around and hadn’t really noticed until that moment how sparse it was all looking. “Not really. Or maybe I am.” I shrugged. “I haven’t made up my mind yet.”
“Why do you want to move?”
I was sure, in his line of work, he saw all kinds of terrible people, terrible situations. So I decided to be straight with him. Kinda.
“I’m not crazy, and I’m not gonna do anything stupid.”
“I can usually tell when someone’s nuts.” He grinned with a half-smile.
“My brother told me I should get out of the house. My husband’s been gone for just over two years,” I said casually as I looked around to make sure I had everything. “I spent the first year in denial, working. I spent the second year doing what I should’ve done the first year. And I’ve been holed up here for a while…so…”
Watching the Sky Cry Page 2
