by Sunniva Dee
“I dig her,” I finally grate out, sounding childish and silly. Even if Inga is happy with Cameron, I can’t make myself tell her I’m in love with a woman I’ve known for five weeks. Hell, I was with Ingela for five years and never managed to feel this way.
“And her husband keeps her? Doesn’t he get how you two feel about each other? She was damn obvious on the tour, all sugar-loving you like a motherfucker.”
What?
“Please, Inga. You’re not helping. I’m pissed, and I want to break down this door. Dude’s a lowlife—” I stop myself before I tell her he doesn’t even have sex with her. “But she’s said straight out that she’ll never leave him.”
“Seriously? He’s got something on her, Bo! He’s keeping her prisoner. She could be a rich heiress or something, and he wants her money. Oh! What if he’s slowly poisoning her?”
“You’re killing me!” I yell, and it’s way too loud in the hallway. I brace myself against the door, trying to remain cool. This is so damn crazy. I’ve never felt this way before. Here I am, pining for a woman outside her door. She’s got a life in there, with some husband.
But when she’s with me, she’s all mine!
I hang up. Inga doesn’t want me to. I power off my phone because I can’t have her call back. I wish I’d brought my guitar. The guitar reasons with me while it strums out my shit, makes the notes cry and squeal and die so I don’t have to. And it’s at home, not where I need it to be, and all I can do is obsess, rage over how this girl is meant for me.
I bang on the door. People get up in adjacent apartments.
“Nadia!” I scream. And scream again.
NADIA
Of course I wasn’t asleep. How could I be? I’ve lit my candles, watered my miniature flower pots, and I’ve been running in and out from our alcove, tidying up, telling Jude I want to change out the bed and—
Not knowing what to do.
I don’t know. I don’t know.
Bo bangs on the door so loud I think he’s about to break it down. He can’t come in. I need to think, figure things out…
What I land on will impact my existence to a degree people wouldn’t understand. Bo wouldn’t understand.
“Go home,” I creak, and it’s not how one makes people leave. While Bo rattles the door and insists I open, I say, “No, please leave,” and my mind pressures me, insists, mixing in another time.
It’s me calling home. Jude not answering.
Me working at the diner and Zoe narrowing her eyes at me, aware of my problem with Jude. “All good?”
“Can’t get a hold of him.” That’s me, upset. It’s been busy—the Hollywood Boulevard midsummer crowd has kept us on our toes. Even so, I always call whether he’s at work or not. How I wish he called me. But when he’s sick and irrational…?
“As handsome as your hubby is, there’s only so much of my patience he’d get,” she scoffs, but when she realizes I keep redialing, redialing, without an answer, she squints deeper, her grimace becoming suspicion.
“What’s he up to, Nadia? I’ll cover for you if you want to run home and check.”
“Thanks,” I manage, and something in my expression makes her pause. She pivots fully and stares hard.
“Do you want me to come with you?”
“No— It’s okay. He does this…”
“I know. All the time. Great if he didn’t,” she adds.
“Nadia. If you don’t open this door, I’m breaking it down.” That’s Bo outside, bringing me back and skyrocketing my heart. Hysteria rattles, a wary snake beneath my surface.
“Bo, please. I’ll see you tonight.” My voice shakes.
His is muffled by the door when he replies, “No! You’re opening now. Jude?” My hands shoot up to cover my mouth. I look behind me and stare straight into Jude’s deep blue eyes.
I don’t want to be there, but I’m pulled back to that night. Running from Scott’s Diner, passing by Jude’s gas station.
“He got off at six, right?”
“No, early leave today. Five,” the bubble-gum-chewing teenaged girl says, pressing fingers idly into the keys of the cash register.
I run home, turn the key in the front door—it’s L.A.—we always keep it locked.
“Last chance to save your door!” Bo’s words pierce through, the wood shaking from his attacks. “I’m coming in!”
I’m back again, back in the past.
“Jude?” I shout, worried that I’ll find what I fear. It’s not what I need, not what either of us needs. Jude promised to always be here, to support me, to be my love, my guide, and my light in the darkness.
But our house is quiet. The fridge door is open. I rush a quick look over its entrails but can’t see anything missing. I wish I did. The TV is on, blaring colors and overly excited contestants. I stalk through the den, into the bedroom, and—
Crack.
Our front door slams open, and then Bo’s there, staring at me, eyes too wide for seven in the morning, hair tousled, fists locked. “Where is he?” he grits out. “I’m having a talk with that douchebag.”
“No!” I shout, dying, needing this nightmare to stop, but Bo’s eyes already roam the room. He sees it. Every detail he takes in, while I cover my mouth and charge back to that moment when Jude—
—He’s in bed.
I’m relieved, but then he’s too still, his skin whiter than marble? He has assumed the smooth, cold, colorless surface of the angels at the Recoleta Cemetery.
I jump my love, shake him, but those deep blue eyes don’t open. They don’t close either! His eyelashes, long and even, don’t even flutter from their half-mast position. My Jude, he’s quiet, so unnaturally quiet beneath the covers, the tip of his nose burying into the pillow like he never was but a fleeting dream that came true before it left.
Dreams don’t need air because they vanish when you wake up.
Dreams don’t need sugar, don’t need food, don’t need me.
There’s an ampule next to him. A syringe in his hand. I wail because he tried. He tried, he tried, and with shaky hands and bleary eyes, he grabbed the wrong one, while I was at work and didn’t know. He convulsed here, alone, while I waited tables. He—
“Why did you do this to me?” I scream, and it’s over, all over. I don’t want it to be over—I can’t allow it to be over, and yet it’s irrefutable. Unless I deny it, unless my mind stops it from happening!
I sink on top of the table as Bo walks toward me. I’m dizzy. My throat rasps with oxygen I inhale too quickly. He isn’t shouting for Jude to come out anymore, for him to man up and have that talk.
Bo’s eyes are wary, understanding fighting confusion at the back of frosty irises. Chest heaving with anger that’s depleting, his hands wilt at his sides as he approaches me. He doesn’t speak at first, but eyes the darkest grey I have ever witnessed don’t let go of me, and I cover my mouth.
“Darling?” he whispers. Careful. Incredulous.
I’m a wild animal, and he is cornering me.
“Is this Jude?” Bo’s stare floats to my first love, my only husband. I follow his gaze. See what he sees. The portrait of a boy, blond, tousled hair over a dusty forehead, lively eyes glinting and full of humor. Pointy canines showing in a wide grin.
I nod.
“Is… that also Jude?” Bo asks, his voice hoarse with final realization. And it is. What he sees is also my love. Brave, so brave in the midst of my grief, Bo hunches down in front of the table I sit on. Cautiously, he moves the tea lights to a side. Next, go my miniature flowerpots, and there he is. There.
Bo—
Is holding Jude.
I sob because it’s too much.
Bo holds Jude with both hands, raising him before me, and his eyes are lustrous like mine. Between Bo’s fingers, white porcelain birds interrupt the serenity of light blue ce
ramic. I never could let him go. For a year and a half, I should have allowed those doves to fly off and take Jude to a better place.
Bo sets Jude’s urn down as carefully as he lifted it. He picks up my husband’s portrait. Fastens his gaze on him. When the next words fall from Bo’s mouth, the two of them are having that talk after all.
It’s short. It’s sweet. It’s—
Good.
“Jude,” he murmurs to my cheerful, blissed-out husband with the windblown hair and the desert-dusty forehead. The one whose eyes gleam mischief and youthful arrogance.
“It seems you needed to move on. Please—”
I look up. Watch Bo’s Adam’s apple bob with emotion and determination before he continues, “Can I take care of her from here?”
BO
“Are you sure?” I ask her for the fifth time though it’s obvious that she is.
She’s curled up on my lap in a corner booth of a non-distinct restaurant neither of us frequent. Light walls and tourists surround us, the waiters efficient yet personable as they set a root beer float in front of her and a coke in front of me.
“Yeah. I want them to meet you. And I need you here if I’m going to give him up.”
A fifty-something couple enters. He’s lanky with dark eyes and the woman petite with a gaze that could have been animated. It’s the same color as Jude’s in the photo. The man instantly zooms in on Nadia and says something to his wife. She grabs his arm and pulls herself closer as they approach us.
Nadia gets on her feet first, and I stand, hands on my back, until they’re done greeting each other with warm hugs.
“This is Bo,” Nadia says, a small smile lifting her lips.
The woman grasps my hand with both of hers, squeezing. “Bo. We’re so glad to meet you. We didn’t know what to do for Nadia. She… wasn’t getting any better.”
She cries when she sees what’s on the seat behind me. The urn remains inside Nadia’s bag, but the flap has slid to the side showing a hint of white birds.
It’s strange to sit here and chat with the parents of your girlfriend’s husband. He’s here with us—in memory through the stories they share, and physically, in a small, sky blue container.
Over the last couple of weeks, Jude has become tangible in my mind. He wasn’t the devil I’d made him out to be. In life, he didn’t make my girl suffer. No, Jude was a stubborn, caring troublemaker who broke rules and ran off with the prize. He wanted to be a good husband, but he was too young to look after himself enough to be one.
Nadia curves into my side again, and the approval in Mr. Bancroft’s expression is unambiguous.
“You’re ready then?” he asks Nadia. “As I told you, we’re holding a small ceremony for Jude when we join your half of his ashes with those already in the mausoleum. It would make us happy if you came up to San Francisco for it.”
Nadia and I discussed what would be best for her before we came today. My thought was that she should see Jude off in person, but she feels she has said goodbye for long enough.
She lifts her gaze and meets her father-in-law’s. “I think it’s better with this reunion, right here. I can see him off with you now. Who better to trust with his remains than his mother and father?”
Mrs. Bancroft’s mouth trembles. She purses it to stop the movement, but a tear still slides from the corner of her eye. I nudge Nadia in against me, making sure she knows I’m here. She sends me the briefest glance for courage. I nod, giving it to her and guessing what she’s about to say next.
“Bo, he’s been pushing me, over the last few months. Ever since I met him, actually.” My girl lets out a breathy laugh before she continues. “You knew I couldn’t let go of Jude. But it was worse than that. I took denial to a new level, spending all of my energy on living like I never lost him. I couldn’t take my chances; it felt like I’d lose my mind if I opened to the grief.
“But no matter what I did, the heartache was just excruciating.” She swallows. I kiss her forehead, but I don’t help her explain. She needs this struggle. It’s the only way out on the other side where I want her.
“I could dodge the truth and live in oblivion with everyone else. Even my best friend let me get away with it most of the time. But Bo? He—”
Her eyes gloss over again, and I grab a napkin and dab it right beneath her nose, making her laugh with embarrassment. “Bo didn’t take my crap,” she continues. “He insisted, to the point of breaking down my front door for answers. Once I saw Bo see Jude… that’s when—God, I saw it too. I saw what I’d become, the fantasy world I was living in.”
“Oh honey,” Jude’s mother sobs out, lifting her hand, wanting to stop Nadia from suffering. But Nadia isn’t in pain. She’s living. Crying, allowing stuff out the way she should have done for so long.
“I’m okay,” Nadia manages. “Yes, once Bo learned the truth about Jude, there was no going back to before. It was like he crumbled the walls to the world I’d created and forced me to see the truth too. Since then he’s been boot-camping me through the process of grief.”
Mrs. Bancroft hides behind her hands. Above them, her eyes shimmer with tears, but her gaze broadcasts relief over sadness. “Thank you,” she murmurs to me. “Thank you.”
Nadia kisses the arm I’ve got around her. “Jude will always be there when I need to visit him, so I won’t come up to San Francisco for the ceremony. The funeral service in ‘the Garden’ was enough for me.” Nadia’s pitch breaks on the last sentence. She clears her throat before she continues, “Plus, Bo and I have to prepare for Argentina.”
Mrs. Bancroft’s eyes widen, delight mixing with her sorrow. “You’re going home, Nadia? Visiting?”
Nadia smiles that beautiful smile I love so much, the one saying she has hope, that she’s looking forward to something.
“Yeah. Bo’s band has been invited to Buenos Aires, to play Luna Park, an old concert hall that means a lot to people there. It’s not a big arena or anything, but I remember aunts and uncles of mine talking about it when I was little, and I always wanted to go.”
Mrs. Bancroft locks her hands together, earnest. “That’s amazing. I’m so happy for you. You will be back in time for school, right?”
All her attention is on my girl, making her seem more like a mother than a mother-in-law. “You are picking up your studies again, right? Ever since Jude… left, it’s been my biggest regret that we didn’t help you two financially when you wanted to do it your way.”
Her husband rubs her shoulder. “Hush, it’s okay.”
“You know what I mean, honey,” she says, unable to keep her voice from shaking anymore. “All Jude wanted was to watch Nadia finish her studies first. He wanted to support her through school before he moved on with his own education.”
“I know, Ruth. I know.”
“Nadia, you’re our only child now, and things won’t be easy for us until you accept what’s yours.”
“It’s not mine.” Nadia bites her lip, unsurprised by Mrs. Bancroft’s insistence, and I get the feeling I’m privy to an exchange they’ve had time and time again. “If I’d been there when he overdosed on insulin, he would have been alive today. There’s no way I can accept his trust fund.”
“Oh Nadia. Your guilt. It’s pointless. My son was young, but he was an adult when he moved away from home. I struggle to accept it too—I’m his mother—but you have to understand that Jude had lived with his disease for a long time. He knew what to do to manage it. He just didn’t do it.”
“But I should have been there! You can’t just say ‘he didn’t make it, too bad,’” Nadia bursts out and instantly covers her mouth.
“You were at work, sweetie,” Mrs. Bancroft answers, voice low. “And that’s not what I’m saying. See… I called Jude that day.”
Nadia sucks in air sharply at my side while Mr. Bancroft says, “Honey, you don’t have to do this.�
�
“No, it’s overdue.”
I stroke Nadia’s cheek as she steadies herself with a hand on my thigh.
“I think mothers have a sixth sense when it comes to our children. I was in a charity meeting when I had the sensation that Jude wasn’t okay. I called him. He didn’t answer—which of course was nothing new. My son wasn’t a phone person, but he used to reply with a text message to keep me off his back. This time he didn’t.”
She tucks her lips between her teeth, nostrils flaring with emotion. I’m an intruder to her reveal, but I’m here for my girl. I’m here, supporting Nadia and doing what feels right.
“I was in Payne Point, hours from the two of you in Los Angeles. I’d called you so many times, Nadia, and this time—this time… I didn’t.”
Mrs. Bancroft’s eyes fill with moisture again. “I called 911 instead,” she says, shifting off her husband’s arm. “While they dispatched to your apartment, I got ready to drive to St. Aimo. You were in Silicon Valley that week,” she reminds Mr. Bancroft, who nods.
“But, see, a paramedic from the ambulance called me back. And he assured me that my son was fine. Jude hadn’t let them into the apartment, he said, but he sounded coherent, even impatient with both them and me.
“He’d told them he was playing some online game, something about warlocks. That he needed to go or he’d lose some prize or points. The paramedics even warned him that they would send a bill for the dispatch, which my Jude had been okay with; in so many words, they admitted he’d mentioned making his mother pay.”
“Oh God. That is so Jude, isn’t it?” Nadia sniffles. “The video games. Sending bills your way… Exactly how he was when he was one hundred percent lucid too.”
“I know.” His mother’s voice warbles with emotion. “I believed them. And if you still think you did something wrong, Nadia, imagine how I felt. Despite my gut feeling, my instincts, I trusted the judgment of people who did not know my son, and I didn’t drive to L.A. Didn’t arrive. Didn’t grab your spare key under the front-door flowerpot. And I didn’t save my son!”
