by Ysabel Wilde
“Are you sick? You’re breathing hard.” I put my hand up to his forehead and he shivered. “John, I think we should go home.”
“No, I’ll be fine. I just have never talked about it before.”
Oh my God. What’s he going to tell me? He’s on the run and Chicago is a great place to hide. It is known for its mobsters. Geraldo Rivera did that special about Al Capone.
He has a family that he abandoned?
He came for me?
He’s an octodad?
He came for me?
He’s an arsonist and it’s easier to hide here? Okay, that’s a super scary thought considering what he does, but I know it happens.
He came here for me?
I plastered a fake smile and said, “If you say so. What’s wrong?”
He kept rubbing his hands on his lap. Oh, God, he did come for me. With the smile still on my face I said, “Take a drink.”
I held his glass of wine to his lips so he could take a sip. He wrapped his hand around mine and I could feel him trembling. What could he tell me that was so bad it would cause this kind of reaction?
HE CAME FOR ME!!!! I was screaming in my head.
He sat quietly for a moment staring at his lap. When he looked up at me his eyes were rimmed with tears. “John, it can’t be that bad. You can tell me anything even if you think I don’t want to hear it.”
He shook his head. “I know you’ll be upset about it, but there’s no way that you hearing it can be as bad as me having to say it. I’ve never said it to anyone before. I haven’t needed to.”
I wasn’t following him. What could he possible have gone through that could be this bad?
“Tell me, John. You’ll feel better.”
He chugged down the rest of the wine before he let me take the glass out of his hand. I set the glass a safe distance away and turned back to him, taking hold of both his hands. I folded them between mine and made him turn towards me so our knees were kissing. I sat there and waited. I wasn’t sure how long we would sit there, but I knew I wouldn’t push him any more. He looked like he was on the verge of a breakdown.
This is a man who runs into burning buildings pulling people out, jump-starting hearts again with his bare hands. If he couldn’t remain calm I sure had to.
After he took a few deep breaths, he looked up at me.
“My parents were murdered. I couldn’t..,” his lips trembled as his words trailed off.
One lone tear rolled down his cheek. His eyes were on me, watching and waiting for my reaction. I was in shock. Of all the things I had thought of being told that wasn’t one of them. My head whirled with questions - how, when, why? Instead, I instinctively put a hand to his cheek. Our eyes met with a silent understanding. It broke my heart to see him hurting.
“Let’s get out of here.” I rubbed his face, feeling the tense cheek ease as I soothed him. “We can take the food to go and eat at one of our places if you want. Where do you want to go?”
I was pulled into an embrace that felt like I was in a trash compactor crushing my bones. He tucked his head into my shoulder, resting his forehead in the crook of my neck as he strangled me around my waist.
His back was arching up and down in silent tears. His heart beating so rapidly I thought he was about to have an anxiety attack. I wrapped as much of my arms as I could around his broad shoulders and smoothed back the bottom of his hair.
The waiter appeared to see how we were doing. His eyes took in the scene that we created. John never raised his head, he simply latched on to me tighter when he heard the waiter clear his throat.
I said, “Can you have them wrap up our food? We changed our minds and are going to take it to go.”
The waiter nodded in response and headed in the direction of the kitchen.
I pulled myself away from John as much as he’d allow and murmured into his hair, “Listen, can you drive?”
He gave a silent nod in response.
“Why don’t you go get the car from the valet while I wait for the food?” I felt like I was speaking to a devastated child, which, I guess, to a certain extent, I was.
I slipped backwards off his lap so he could get out. To look at him you would think he only had a cold. His nose was red from the tears he was fighting to hold back, and his eyes were slightly bloodshot. The shoulders that were always pulled back and straight slumped forward and his head hung down to the ground.
His eyes never left the floor as he pulled out his wallet leaving his card to pay. He strode out to go get the truck, anguish running off him.
With our Italian in a bag ready to go, John helped me get up into the truck, looking at everything around us but me.
Once he was situated behind the wheel, I asked, “Where do you want to go?” I was leaning up against the door facing him, watching. I’d never seen him this distraught. I wasn’t sure what he would do.
“I feel like such an ass,” he said, through clenched teeth, a ragged breath escaping. Pounding the steering wheel with the heel of his hand, causing it to wobble, he said, “I wanted this to be a fun night, to reconnect with you. Not a pity party for John.”
He slowly turned his head to look at me for the first time since he told me the news.
If he only knew he had reconnected with me. But he would never know that. I couldn’t get myself to tell him.
I slid across the cold interior, closing the gap between us, curling up next to his side knowing how much he liked it.
What he said sounded so familiar. That’s exactly what I had told Mike and Grace about going to the bar where I ran into him.
“Don’t worry, I won’t give you one. But I will grieve with you if it’s alright.”
I rested my head on his bicep and watched the street as he drove until the tears were close to falling out of my own eyes and I had to close them to keep them away.
The spicy aroma wafting from the paper bags sitting at my feet would have normally made my mouth water, but not under these circumstances. The reality of what John had told me was starting to sink in, stealing my appetite.
I cuddled up tighter next to him, ringing my arm through his. He brought his arm in towards his body, pressing my arm against his ribs.
I was attempting to keep myself pulled together for him, but the longer I sat pinned to him the harder it was becoming. I had to keep telling myself this was his time to mourn. He needs his space. He doesn’t need me even if he acts like he does. He doesn’t know what he wants, he’s depressed.
We drove for a few minutes and he seemed to calm down. The death grip on my arm that was still clinging to me eased up. He was even humming to the music that was playing.
I opened my eyes in time to see us pull into the garage of The Columbian.
“Who are we visiting?” I asked. My first reaction was surprise he would want to visit anyone right now. My second was who did he know who lived here? This was one of the ritziest places on Michigan Avenue.
“Nobody, I live here,” John said flashing a shy smile as he concentrated on parking.
After parking the truck in a numbered space, I couldn’t get out all the way before John was by my side gripping me, poking his fingers into my hips in the process, setting me on the ground in front of him.
He tugged my hair, tipping my head up so we were eye to eye. Leaning down he brushed a soft kiss against my lips.
Not letting me move, he gently took my hand, holding it against his chest while his eyes, still wet, watched me. His heart was beating as fast as a hummingbird’s, like it had been in the restaurant. As he held my hand to his stone chest I realized the relaxed attitude must be an act. He hid it so well, I would have never guessed. That thought made me unsettled. I used to be able to read his emotions like a book. How did I miss it?
Without a word, he started toward the entrance of the building. We rode up to his place and the vice grip he had on my hand was getting tighter, starting to hurt, but I didn’t complain. I tried to wiggle my fingers to give them circulation bu
t he wouldn’t let up enough.
I couldn’t believe it. I always pictured the day when I would have to tell someone about my parents that it would feel like a knife being turned into my heart a little bit at a time. I never thought the person I would be telling about one of the worst things in my entire life would be Faith. I felt like a thousand pounds was lifted off my shoulders. In some strange way simply saying those few words at the restaurant freed me from guilt. When I had to explain, which I would have to do, it didn’t seem so horrible knowing it would be the one person I trusted the most in the world.
The entire drive back to my condo I was so excited to be with her. To have her be part of my life again, and to see where I lived, put my heart into overdrive. I was going to have the smell of Faith in my place. My heart wasn’t able to settle back to its normal rhythm. I could wake up with her even if it was only her scent. I wanted her to see how she made me feel. What she does to me.
Once I was parked I ran to her side. I couldn’t wait to touch her again. The break of our arms left me empty. When I had her in front of me I placed her delicate hand over my pounding heart so she could feel for herself how much I cared for her.
I didn’t get the expression I wanted. Why was she giving me a disturbed look? Couldn’t she sense how happy I was to be with her?
Sharing my secret with Faith made it all easier. I was telling someone who loved them just as much as I do. The only thing that would have made it easier to get through was if it had been a different night. Why tonight? I would have to explain to her what happened, there was no getting around it. But somehow it didn’t seem so horrible.
Every time we touched I wasn’t able get enough of her, wanting to soak her into every pore so she’d always be with me. The closer we got to my floor, the more nervous I became. Hopefully I could save this night with what I had planned inside. “Wait out here. I’ll be right back.”
“I don’t care if the place is messy, John,” Faith said chuckling at me.
As I slid the key into the lock I said again, “Just wait out here. I’ll come get you when I’m ready.” Not letting her say anything, I slipped inside, closing the door behind me.
I ran around in the dark like a lunatic, lighting candles on every surface I could put one on until the entire place was alight.
I tossed mauve calla lily petals leading from the door to the family room around a blanket that I had splayed out on the ground. I started my iPhone and played the playlist from years ago, hoping her taste in music had only expanded, and I set a vase of calla lilies that matched the loose petals at one corner. Finishing the setup, I rested a bottle of chilled champagne and the brown journal at opposite ends of the blanket.
With a quick double check, I decided it would have to do. I flung the door open, my fingers white-knuckling the open edge, afraid I took too long and she would be gone. When I saw her still in the same place I’d left her on her phone texting, I sighed, releasing the strain on my hand. “You’re still here.”
She tucked her phone away and said, “Did you think I would leave?”
“No. At least I hoped not.”
I stepped aside, giving her room to enter.
I slipped her coat from her as she slinked through the doorway, blindly hanging it on a hook, not taking my eyes off her. She didn’t get any farther than the entryway before she stopped.
“I need to take these things off my feet, they’re a podiatrist’s dream,” she said.
My wet dreams were getting ripped off her feet with her back to the room. Once she was done flexing and rubbing her feet, she turned around. She was killing me. How long was she going to pamper her feet?
“I swear they probably tell these designers the higher the better,” she said.
She took one step towards the family room and stopped, pulling a calla lily petal off the bottom of her foot and kept going without looking at it. This happened two more times with no reaction.
She started ranting again. “Remember that ‘Seinfeld’ episode about how podiatrists weren’t really doctors? Yeah, no kidding, they’re sadists.”
While rambling she pulled another petal off of her foot, really examining it for the first time, flipping it over from front to back. After realizing what it was she looked up at me and then around the room. Her eyes got large as she stared around once more.
I stood next to her watching. My face started to twitch. I couldn’t hide the smile that was creeping onto it. This moment made up for dinner going down like a fat man choking on a turkey bone at Thanksgiving.
The surprise in her eyes said it all. This made up for those seven years of birthday presents I hadn’t gotten, plus seven more. I put my mouth against her ear and whispered, “Does this look familiar?”
The only response was a nod. The longer she stood in place the surprise faded and was replaced with a blank stare.
She took my hand and strode farther inside following the path of calla lilies. This time she let the petals cling to the bottom of her feet.
We stopped just at the edge of the blanket and she was still silent. The moon was shining in on us and flames danced around on the walls.
“Faith, say something,” I said.
All she did was nod again. When she looked up at me she was crying. I pulled her against me, wrapping my arms around her small waist, setting my chin on top her head.
We stared at the blanket. Our last night together was playing like a movie inside my head on that very blanket. I couldn’t help but wonder what our lives would have been now if I had been able to get my question out all those years ago. Would we have had a little Faith running around? I gave her a squeeze at the thought.
Faith pulled away from me, passing up the blanket. She sat on the couch with a catatonic look. She kept staring unblinking at the blanket we had made love on the last time. When I sat next to her she spoke with her eyes trained on a certain spot.
“You know we can only be friends,” she whispered.
The excitement in my heart was now crushed like the flower petals under her feet.
Her face changed into something unreadable and she said, “Tell me how it happened.”
“You don’t have to hear it if you don’t really want to.” The life in my voice had run away while my heart had been getting trampled on by Faith.
Her petite hand gripped my thigh.
“John, they were like parents to me, too,” she murmured. “I want to know. I owe it to them to show my respect. I only wish that I had heard about it so I could have come and said good-bye the right way.”
“You wouldn’t have. You had only been here a few months.”
Her eyes shifted to a candle that flickered on the coffee table in front of us.
“My sisters never told me. I talked to them everyday those first couple of years.”
“They didn’t know. When you left me I had to cut them off. It was too painful seeing Joy.”
She whipped her head in my direction, her eyes slits. “Stop saying I left you!” she hissed. “I didn’t leave you. I left the situation.”
“Same thing,” I shrugged. “Anyway, my parents had driven into Des Moines to celebrate their thirtieth wedding anniversary over the weekend. Mom was so excited. You know they never did anything like that.”
I tipped my face over at Faith to see her reaction. She was watching intently, nodding in agreement with me. I turned my head back to the ground and plowed ahead, wanting to get it done with. The air in the room suddenly became thick like molasses.
“My dad had made reservations at a steakhouse. They ate and drank. According to reports they were really happy when they left, laughing, holding hands.”
Faith’s hand went from caressing my thigh to a dagger into my leg, but I let her be.
“They had even asked the maitre d about any jazz bars in the area and he gave my dad the name of one. This is the part where we don’t know exactly what happened.”
I rested my hand over her stiff claw, taking a moment to regroup. Fight
ing for air, I continued, “They were walking to the club. Since they weren’t familiar with the streets they had ended up in an area that wasn’t well populated at that time of night.”
A ball of grief sat in the middle of my throat, blocking the words from coming out. Struggling, I said, “They were found in an alley four blocks from the restaurant. My dad had been shot in the chest and head, my mom in the chest.”
A loud gasp escaped Faith. I could feel the motion of her hand covering her mouth. My eyes were closed. I was trying to make it through in one piece, but the ball was turning to cement, choking me.
My heart was fighting to break free from my chest and I was drenched in sweat. I didn’t look at Faith. If I did it would be over.
“The police think my dad was shot twice because he was trying to fight them off so my mom could get away. He had defensive wounds on his arms and his hands were bloodied like he got some punches in.”
I rested my arms on my thighs, hanging my head between them. I felt the look I was getting and I couldn’t bear to witness it. My heart was cracking into millions of tiny pieces with each small gasp that escaped Faith.
The hand that had transformed into a stone claw during the story was now softly caressing my back in long strokes up and down the hard expanse of muscle.
“How are Steve and Sarah?” she asked softly.
“They’re still them. Steve is in his own world, head in the sand, and Sarah became a wild child. I had to take charge over her.”
Silence spread throughout the room. A pin could have dropped in the hall and we would have heard it.
“And you?” she asked, sounding afraid like she had in the restaurant.
I shrugged my shoulders. “I’m in a better place, now.”
I dipped my head up to take a peek at her before dropping it back down.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“What do you think it means, Faith? I was fucked up royally,” I snorted. I couldn’t help it.
“I understand,” she said. “If I lost my dad like that I would be the same way.”
When I looked at her she flinched. That’s when I noticed I was glaring at her. It wasn’t just in my head.
