Sunrise Fires

by LaBarge, Heather

  He sat up and reached for the remote. “Nothing. Nothing happened.” His tone was nearly angry. “Let’s just watch the movie.”

  I held the remote above my head, smiling and trying to return to our playful mood from earlier. “Nope. You’d never give up riding like that. I could cry over you selling your bike. Tell me, hun.”

  He sat with his elbows on his knees, arms hanging out limply in front of him. He stared at the floor. “Mark,” he said, as if the single word would be enough. I waited but he did not continue.

  I set the remote on the table and turned to face him. “Mark what, hun?”

  He looked up at me, tears beginning to pool in his eyes. I reached toward him, but he pushed my hand away. “Don’t.”

  “Honey, what happened?” I ignored his rejection and pulled him into me, holding him tightly. “What the hell has you so worked up?”

  We sat there endlessly, the silence filling the room to bursting. His tears began to make a small circle on my shirt, warming and then cooling my chest just below the collarbone. And still I waited. My mind went back to Jackie’s announcement in Italy about the boys not riding anymore. She said she had seen some of them but never in a big group anymore. Was Mark among them? Had she said she’d seen Mark? And come to think of it, I don’t remember Chris giving me an update on Mark either. What happened? And was it what Jackie had said? This thing that happened broke the group up, and now, they never rode together anymore? I wanted to know. The minutes dragged on endlessly and I began to feel the ominous weight of Ryan’s silence; it was clear he was devastated by something Mark had done and the ticking of the clock in my head got louder and louder by the second.

  When he finally began again, his voice startled me. “He’s dead.”

  His words smacked me across the face. “Oh!” I gasped. I never would have guessed that. I could not have ever envisioned that he was gone. I searched for words that might soothe and comfort Ryan; how could I possibly soften the pain? “Honey, I’m so sorry to hear that. I know you loved him like a brother. I know it must’ve been hard.” I rubbed his back not knowing what else to say, feeling stunned by the news that Mark had died so young and at a time when Ryan had so much else going on.

  Again, the silence dragged on. It was excruciating sitting here, waiting for him to decide what to tell me and then find the strength to say it. I knew there was more to it. Mark’s sudden death was likely devastating for him at the time especially with his father’s illness also weighing on him. I wanted to know how it happened and how Ryan had dealt with it; I guessed it was probably a car accident since it was so sudden, but it seemed strange that he would still be so emotional about it after so much time had passed. And there was no way Mark’s death would stop Ryan from riding. That alone wasn’t enough.

  “Will you tell me how it happened?”

  “At the track,” he began, “he went there alone. We never go alone!” he blurted.

  “Okay. Apex? Where you always used to ride?”

  He nodded. Things were now coming into perspective – no wonder Chris had been so sure that no one would ride at Apex this weekend. “The ridge that Chris got hurt on.”

  “What about it, babe?”

  He sniffled. “He went around from the top and drove off at full speed.”

  I clapped my hand over my mouth. There is no such daredevil move as that; it was an impossible jump. The ridges were too close there, and he was sure to wreck. “But honey, that’s…there’s no way he could…it would be…”

  “Suicide.” He finished my statement.

  All the blood drained from my face; I felt like lurching into dry heaves in rage, sadness, and frustration at my helplessness. Instead I belted out question after question in rapid-fire succession, each one louder and more shrill than the last, “What was he thinking? Where the hell was his head at? How could he possibly have thought that was going to work out? And why go alone?” My head swam with the grief that I knew Ryan felt and with confusion over his friend’s decision. My thoughts skimmed through my own library of memories of Mark searching for signs of the daredevil spirit an act like that portrayed; it didn’t make sense. Mark was not impulsive or adventurous at all; he didn’t have that kind of personality. Confused, I held Ryan as he sobbed quietly into my chest. “I’m so sorry that happened, so sorry that he was so irresponsible, so sorry that he’s gone.” I began to rock with him softly, trying to picture the rest of the crew and how baffled they would have been at discovering what had happened.

  “He intended it. It really was suicide.”

  Ryan’s words had an immediate, violent, visceral response. “Oh!” I gasped as my arms reflexively drew into my chest and I doubled over. My stomach suddenly turned inside out on its way up my throat, my mouth watered in an attempt to dilute the acid already making its way up from my stomach. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t even think. My ears buzzed so loudly that I couldn’t make out what Ryan was saying; something about a note, his own terms, not being found in time. I lurched, dry heaving, my eyes bulging until they felt like they’d pop out, my ears burning from the force of the heave. Ryan’s hand was on my back, rubbing, soothing. I allowed my arms to fall to my ankles and rested my chest on my thighs, folded in half, giving up, sobbing.

  Finally, I regained enough composure to speak softly, almost afraid of the answers, “But why? Why? What was so wrong with his life? He had you guys and his family,” I sat up again, anger replacing shock, “and he could have any girl in town. Shit, I think I met half of them through his one-date process.” I spit the words out, “Ryan, why? What the fuck was so wrong with his life?”

  He took a deep breath. “That’s just it, Jen. He couldn’t find someone.” He placed a hand on my forearm. “He dated and dated and dated and never found ‘the one.’ His note…” He winced and trailed off.

  My eyes searched his face, imploring. He briefly met them and looked away again, biting his lip. He shook his head. “It’s enough, Jen. Enough to know that he was unhappy. Let that be enough.”

  “That’s what the note said? Tell me, honey. I don’t understand how you stopped riding, how this event took away your happiness in it, how it convinced you to sell your bike. I loved watching you ride, seeing you so happy and free.” I squeezed his hand and we sat for a long time, breathing, holding each other, weeping.

  At last he took a deep breath and began again. “It was one week after they diagnosed my father stage three and inoperable. You had been gone for about two months. They found him at the track, dead for at least two days. And his note,” he choked again, “his note,” his eyes met mine. He swallowed hard and took a deep breath. “He basically said that if you and I couldn’t make it, then nobody would ever be able to love him…that there was no hope, and he was tired of the loneliness and sick of pretending and a bunch of other stuff that didn’t make sense.”

  I couldn’t breathe. He blamed us for his suicide? How could he blame us? He had been so bitter at the going away barbecue. Wait, could I have prevented this? Oh, my God! Ryan probably felt so responsible. Tears poured down my cheeks as my eyes met Ryan’s again. “Baby, I…” What could I say? How could I even begin to make him feel better? “I’m so sorry that that happened… it wasn’t our fault… it couldn’t possibly have been. There’s no way… he….” The words came in spurts, and I wasn’t even sure they were the right ones. How could I begin to soothe a wound that was so old, especially when I wasn’t there to help support him through the first time? How could I say anything that might help him to find solace? And why? Why would Mark write such things? He had to know that it would kill Ryan to know it, to read it. And how fucking selfish and unfair of him. Anger began to roil inside me. Tears dried up as my jaw tightened into a teeth grinding clench. Suicide alone was selfish enough, but to also blame us was preposterous. I had been selfish, too: selfish with Ryan, short-sighted, focused on
my own desires, goals, and fears. And here he was, drying his tears and blowing his nose, spent. “He’s fucking selfish,” I proclaimed. “Selfish and shitty and weak. It was a terrible thing to do, baby. It’s not our fault. It’s not your fault. We aren’t responsible. There’s no way. We can’t be! It isn’t right!”

  Hysteria was taking over and I was nearly screaming. Ryan stopped me. “Shh shh shh shh,” softly, he placed his fingers over my lips. “Stop it.”

  “But, honey,” my lower lip trembled, threatening to pour new tears down my cheeks, “he….” I took a deep breath and began again. “I…I wasn’t there for you. I didn’t know. And then, your father…” My head bowed as I looked at my hands. I focused on my lap as I tried to make sense of all that Ryan had been through. “I was selfish, too.” I breathed, hardly a whisper.

  “What?”

  “I was selfish,” I looked up and into his eyes, “I wanted things to go my way. I feared they wouldn’t. I saw only my fears coming to life and didn’t trust you, trust us, enough to hold on…to ask questions, to let myself be more vulnerable, to be there for you, to…” I began to cry again, “to do anything that a girlfriend…that a friend would have done. I’m so sorry, Ryan.”

  “I hated you for it.” His statement stung. “I hated you despite how much I still loved you. Not for the suicide, you didn’t know. How could you? Just for disconnecting…you just bailed.” His jaw was set and his face stoic. “For months I didn’t ride. The track reminded me of him and the stupid idyllic picture he had of me and you. It seemed such a farce. We seemed so fake, like somehow I didn’t know anything about us at all. Like our relationship had all been bullshit. Like I had been some companion for the present. I felt so out of sight and out of mind, and I hated you for it.”

  I sat there, letting his feelings wash over me. I had been so alone, felt so abandoned, been so sure that he had abandoned me. That he didn’t want me, that I had been cast aside. Hearing the other side of it changed my perspective on everything. I remembered the phone call and how devastated I’d been, the grey feeling of my apartment and the feel of my pillow, damp and musty, for the next three days from my endless tears. And my anger and resentment were misplaced all this time. My confusion over having been jilted completely was incomprehensible all of the sudden. The phone, e-mails, a letter, or carrier pigeon might have begun to mend this so long ago. But instead, I had gone this other way and screwed it all up.

  “The guys…” he eventually continued, “we tried to set times to ride, but eventually, we all dropped out and just stopped showing. My dad’s illness made it worse. Johnnie helped me move back into my mom’s, and then I don’t think I saw him for four or five months. You asked about the guys the other day. The truth is I really don’t know about them anymore. Chris is the only sap who can’t let go of the fact that it’s over. He tries to get us together, and we all avoid or make excuses. He’s such a pompous ass now, anyway. I dunno, Jen. Everything just was different. My bike was the least of my concerns. Riding didn’t bring me the escape and comfort that it used to. It brought memories of what had happened since that summer. The track. The curve where we had your barbecue. The spot where Chris got hurt. Imagining finding Mark. Picturing you on the sidelines, watching, laughing, and joking and then when we were done riding, all of us hanging out to eat. None of the good shit existed anymore, and in all the places where it had, all I could find was …pain, death, morbid shit.” He took a deep breath. “So I focused on my mom, helping her get on her feet again after Dad passed. And I worked my ass off and took on all the overtime they’d give me. I figured, fuck it. Take care of the shit I know and,” he shrugged, “I sold it the following spring, maybe around May.”

  “Do you miss it?”

  He shrugged again. “Maybe sometimes. Or maybe I just feel nostalgic about it. Like you feel about high school prom once it’s over. I don’t try to figure shit out the way you do. It just is.”

  I leaned into his chest and wrapped my arms around him. “I don’t know how to make it better or how to take back anything that has happened. But I do know that I love and appreciate you, and I want to try again.” Though he placed his hands on my back and held me, he was silent and unmoving. I sat upright again. “Do you?”

  “I want to have what we used to have. And I know that’s bullshit. So, really I just wait and watch to see what happens, each day, each time I see you. See how I feel. See how we are together. See what this becomes.” There was a dull heavy ache in my throat and swallowing wasn’t helping clear it. “I love you, Jen. Probably always will. But we’ve got some heavy shit to deal with. Mark is just one thing. And really, he is my cross to bear.”

  “Not alone,” I rasped. I cleared my throat and started over. “Not alone. You don’t have to deal with it alone. Not anymore. And we can work through…” Through what? I thought. Through a year and a half of pain and resentment? Through anger and hate? “Our stuff,” I ended lamely.

  The evening wound down in a somber mood. There was an awkward distance between us, and dinner seemed an afterthought, simply out of necessity and habit more than need or desire. We slept in the same bed, though it felt like I was back in Germany again.

  When we woke, I kissed him, and we held each other, but each of us was staring off into some other place we’d rather be. For me, that place was one where we were comfortable again, where joy, sensuality, and love coalesced into a beautiful happy life together. I went back to the summer before my departure to Europe, and, lying beside him again here and now, imagined that we felt today as we had back then.

  “I should get back to San Diego,” I said later over my coffee cup. We’d barely said three words to one another since last night, and it seemed that it would not get any better before dinner tonight at his mother’s house. I didn’t want to face her like this. And really, what would be the point?

  “And dinner? What do you want me to tell my mother?”

  “I’ll tell her. It’s the least I can do.”

  Dialing her number a moment later as I sat on the balcony, my stomach felt tense. I feared her rejection and anger.

  “Hello?” My heart jumped. I was actually surprised that she answered.

  “Ummm, hi, Mrs. Riverton. It’s Jen.”

  “Mmmhmm. Hi.”

  “I’m calling because I wanted to reschedule our dinner from this evening. I need to get back to San Diego earlier than I anticipated.”

  “I see.” She wasn’t making this any easier.

  “I am so sorry for this.” Silence hung in the air. “Maybe we can meet for a cup of coffee or something before I head out this morning.” I surprised myself with this invitation and suddenly became nervous.

  “Why? Why would we meet for a cup of coffee, Jen?”

  What was I thinking? Of course, she won’t meet me. I felt like she sat in judgment of me, expecting me to prove something to her, needing me to say the right thing. And I had no clue what that was. I didn’t have the energy to try for anything other than the truth. “Mrs. Riverton, I would love to see you personally, privately, to talk, to apologize, to lay eyes on you after so long, and to hopefully begin again.” Silence. “I understand if you don’t have the time. Or,” I paused, recognizing the heavier reality, “or the desire. But I wanted to try, to at least make an effort. And I was hoping that you would be willing…”

  “What time did you plan on leaving town this morning?”

  “Probably ten or eleven.”

  “There is a French patisserie on the south side of town, on your way down the interstate.”

  “I know of it, though I’ve never been there.”

  “I’ll meet you there at eleven.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Riverton. I look forward to seeing you again.”

  “I‘m not sure I feel the same.”

  As I hung up the phone, I wasn’t sure if I dreaded seeing her again,
or if I was elated at the possibility of seeing her and beginning to make peace. Whether Ryan and I ever worked out or not, his mother was an amazing woman, and I respected and appreciated her immensely. On a personal level, I needed to feel like I had done all I could to show her that and to make up for not having been there for her and her family as her husband had passed. We were close, probably closer than many true mothers and daughters-in-law, and then suddenly we were nothing. There had to be a reckoning. It hadn’t originally been my intent when I called her, but it seemed like today, reckoning would begin.

  I packed my weekend bag and gathered my toiletries as Ryan showered and got dressed. “Get everything settled with my mother?” he asked as he pulled his shirt over his head.

  “Likely not, and I apologize in advance for anything negative that comes to you this evening over dinner on my account.” I didn’t bother telling him about our coffee date; I didn’t want to risk his intervention or judgment. I zipped my bag and stepped over to him. “Ryan, I love you and your family. And I loved you when I was in Germany, too.” He looked past me out the window. “I missed you then….” I stroked his unshaved cheek, “and I miss you now.” He didn’t look at me. I kissed him just beside his lips, unable to meet his face square-on, and unwilling to force the issue.

  As I pulled away, his face turned, eyes closed, and his hand snaked up the front of my body, his fingers hooked around my neck, his thumb taking its place at the front of my ear. He guided me into a tender kiss, gently pressing his lips into mine, moving them together and drawing me into him. I felt like I was falling into an abyss—one of love and of feeling wanted. His free hand moved to my hip and he kissed me again, dragging his lips away from mine and onto my cheek. He laid a trail of kisses from my lips to my neck, allowing his hand to fall away from my ear and trace the full round rise of my breast before sliding it under my arm and drawing me into a hug. He held me for a long time, his breath warm my neck where his kisses had just been. “I love you, too,” he whispered into my ear. Intermittently, he kissed or nuzzled my neck. I matched his slow tender affection, breathing him in, loving the feel of his pulse against my lips as I kissed his neck. Finally, he broke the magic. Pulling away from the hug, he said, “You should go. San Diego awaits.”