Chasing Peace (13 page)

“Wait … hold on.” He’s facing me now, pulling on my arm. “You’re
getting ahead of yourself. We have plenty of time to figure this out. I’m
tired. You’re tired. My father’s not doing well and I’m not sure how I feel
about it.”

“I’m sorry Boston. I should have been more considerate. How
is your father?”

“He had open heart surgery, but they can’t get him off the
ventilator. Either his heart’s not strong enough or there’s something wrong
with his lungs.”

Now I really feel like an ass, thinking about only myself. “I
don’t know what to say.” I’m at a loss. All of a sudden, cutting him loose isn’t
quite as important as protecting him.

“Don’t worry about it. I’m not sure I even care. Let’s both
get some sleep and then we can talk about this tomorrow with clear heads.”

I don’t want to wait. I need to talk to you now.

“Fine. It wasn’t Halloween was it?” The words come through
his teeth. “It’s something else.”

I panic. Then I calm. He doesn’t know about Emma. We never
got that far. “You’re right. It’s not Halloween. It’s something else.” I feel
like I’m getting smaller as the seconds tick by, diminishing in record time,
decaying and becoming ugly.

“Tell me Sterling. What’s wrong?”

I have to remind myself, convince myself maybe, that this
isn’t an excuse. I’ve lived with the fallout of drinking and drunk driving. I
know what lies ahead. I’ve heard that bit about changing, that next time it’ll
be different, but I know better. People don’t change. They just continue to
disappoint.

“Julie said you drink and drive.” His eyes go wide with
surprise, almost glowing like an animal trapped by the headlights of an
approaching car. I need to look away. I concentrate on my hands in my lap, one
massaging the other. “Is it true?”

My words are a whisper, a breath of sound. Maybe he doesn’t
hear me. I relish in the quiet before his response. I don’t want to know. Once
he confirms it’s true, we’re done and I’m not ready for that yet, but I have to
know.

He hangs his head. I don’t need a verbal response. His shame
is right there for the world to see, for me to see. “Oh no,” I breathe as if on
a dying gasp. “You didn’t.”

“It was my eighteenth birthday. I was stupid, too drunk to
know I couldn’t drive.”

“Were you hurt? Was anyone hurt?” I don’t know why I asked.
It wouldn’t make a difference.

“No one got hurt. I passed out at a stoplight and rolled
into the curb. The police found me, although I don’t remember any details.”

“Why did you have to go and do that?”

“I have my reasons, but I make no excuses. I’ve made peace
with what I did and I’ve moved on. I know better now than to ever do something
so stupid again.”

“Like I haven’t heard that before.”

“Your mom?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m sorry Sterling. I should have told you earlier.”

“It wouldn’t have mattered.”

“I’d like to think it might have.”

“Maybe it wouldn’t hurt so much now, but it would end the
same.” My mind screams with the knowledge that this is it. I’d like to make
this easier on him, but it turns out protecting him is a feat beyond my reach
when protecting myself is my priority. Nothing’s going to make this easier.

I lean across him yanking on the door handle and shoving it
wide. “I have to go.”

“Let me explain.” He pulls the door closed. His voice sounds
even and confident. “I don’t drink and drive anymore. I wouldn’t do that to
you.”

“There’s nothing to talk about. I can’t trust that. I can’t
trust you.” I want to massage my wrist, give it a good crack, but I don’t dare.
He knows my tell and I don’t want him to know how much this hurts. I wish it
didn’t have to be this way, but I have rules, standards that are nonnegotiable.

“Can’t we talk about this? I’m not that person anymore.”

I grit my teeth, shoring up my willpower. I can only take so
much and if he sees that, he’ll keep trying. “No. I can’t. I’ve already thought
about it. I had reservations before I found out about this. No. I don’t want to
see you anymore.”

“Sterling?” His voice is less certain now, almost fearful.

Determined, I turn toward him. I want him to see the resolve
in my eyes. I only hope courage covers despair. “I want out Boston. I can’t do
this.” He squeezes my hand, but I pull away. “I don’t want to do this.”

“Sterling?”

“I’m not gonna do this.”

Boston deflated before me like a star collapsing in on
itself, the energy rushing out. I watched his eyes transform from warm and
cajoling to cold and flat. His voice a dull monotone shredded me more than I
could begin to flay myself.

“I’d like to say I don’t understand, but I do,” he said
reverence in his tone. “We have to protect ourselves after all.”

“We do, don’t we?” I didn’t stop to think why he might need
to protect himself. I was too wrapped up in my own misery. We have our own
reasons. They might be the worst reasons ever, but they’re part of who we are,
how we face life.

“People can change Sterling, but I won’t beg.”

“Please don’t.” I hurt like an animal caught in a trap,
lashing out at the hand trying to free it.

“You don’t want me, then I’m done.” He turned away as he
spoke, looking through the windshield as if it framed a compelling vista.

He didn’t want me to see his eyes. I sensed vulnerability,
but I didn’t understand it. I couldn’t get past my own hurt. I didn’t see the
trade-off, that in protecting myself I caused him pain. I only recognized that
parting now would be better than parting later. I know that love doesn’t last.
I’ve experienced it and I’m not going to do it again. Actually I am doing it
again, but this time I’m in control of how and when it ends.

“I don’t need a second chance. I need to think about myself,
about my future. I can’t hope for something that’s destined to fail.” I ache as
I say it, afraid yet somewhere deep inside still hoping he might recognize my
dejected tone and renew his argument. He did not. Maybe I shouldn’t be
thankful. I didn’t want the cold hollow spreading within me, but the
alternative would be so much worse.

“I need to think about myself too.” His voice is frosty as
he opens the car door, climbing out with lithe, deliberate movements. Standing
on the sidewalk he leans down, looking one last time. I didn’t look his way,
keeping my eyes forward so he couldn’t really see me. The door closed softly,
but with the solid thunk of a heavy old door.

I couldn’t even wait to be sure he left, crumpling under the
weight of what I’d just done, folding under the tension as if boneless. Tears
fell from my eyes like rain, not the gentle peaceful kind of rain, but like a
raging, driving thunderstorm. My forehead against the steering wheel kept me
from collapsing to the floor as every bit of strength I ever had left my body.

I have to go home. I want nothing more than for life to go
back to last week, but it won’t. It can’t. I have to go home. I swipe at the
tears with my arm, snot slippery, but not even registering. I have to go home.

Not quite sure how I made it to my apartment, I fumble with
the key. My fingers are numb and I have trouble with my grip. Everything is
numb. I’m hollow inside, a vast vacant space lonely with echoes of a future
that will never be.

Key finally seated in the lock, I give it a turn and push
open the door. In trying to protect myself, I’d hurt Boston. I see that now. I’d
hurt myself as well, but I’m worried about him. I’ve experienced loss before. I
can handle this. I’ll put my life, such as it is, back together and continue
on.

Dropping my bag on the floor, I lean back against the door,
pushing it closed. I’m back on track. Boston distracted me from my plan to
concentrate on my education, avoid relationships and make up for lost time. A
grating, derisive chuckle fills the room at the realization. I should be happy
that my life is back to normal, but it doesn’t feel normal yet.

Yesterday’s events come roaring back, washing over me and
flooding me with regret. A decision made tends to leave lightness behind. This
one leaves me in darkness, wondering if I made the right choice.

Highlights from the past few hours, or maybe it’s low
lights, replay in my mind quick and explosive like a movie trailer. Thoughts of
Boston snap at my nerve endings as if I’m drowning in static electricity.

I’m exposed and raw. I stopped at a liquor store on my way
home and bought a bottle of cheap vodka. I lower myself with caution to the
futon, setting the bottle on the trunk in front of me with care as if abrupt
movement might set me off. The ache makes me grit my teeth. “This is what I
wanted,” I say to the dim room. Staring at the bottle, its label blurring as my
focus shifts, I move quickly before I change my mind. I bang my shins as I
stand, but it doesn’t stop me. I snatch a tumbler from the kitchen. It’s cheap
and plastic and scratched. No fine crystal barware for me.

Dropping to the futon, I grab the bottle by the neck as if
to throttle it. The metal safety seal scrapes my finger as I twist off the cap,
but it doesn’t stop me. I splash a shot into the tumbler and gulp. It’s like
cough medicine but stronger, searing the back of my mouth and throat. I try to
hold it in, wheezing as the fumes invade my sinuses until I gasp needing to
clear my air.

It tastes as bad as lighter fluid smells and I wonder why
people bother to drink at all. Then the warmth of the vodka began to radiate,
filling the cold hollow inside of me, a soothing fever, intense and dangerous
and deceptive.

Now I understand if only a little and I wonder what my
mother might be running from.

“That’s not so bad,” I breathe in a voice not quite my own.

Pouring another, I am reckless as I down it. The second isn’t
as difficult as the first and the third proves even easier.

I know I’m not driving, but something in the back of my mind
nags.

* * *

Rolling from my back to my side and huddling under the duvet
doesn’t help. Pounding assails my head. My face feels puffy, my eyes itchy and
sticky. Taking stock of my body’s misery, I realize I have to pee.

Maybe that will make me feel better. I’d take a shower too.
I could always hope it might wash away my grief.

Throwing off the duvet, I haul myself to my feet. I don’t
remember removing my shoes, but there they are on the floor, tripping me up. I
missed the alcove on my right and bumped into the archway leading to the
kitchen, disorientation making it hard to control my body. The miserable light
coming from outside doesn’t help either.

I finally get my bearings and head to the bathroom door,
only three steps from my futon.

Flipping on the light, I squint, blinking like a strobe and
looking toward the floor, away from the overhead light as I drag down my jeans
and sit.

My feet flash before my eyes. I wiggle my toes in stop
motion, the cool tile a relief to my tired feet. My eyes have adjusted to the
light as I pull some tissue from the roll. They’re wide open when I stand.

Horror contorts my face. I can feel it. My mouth is gaping,
my eyes going huge and round. A fist twists in my gut trapping the air in my
lungs. I can’t drag in a breath or force one out. The weight of my panic
crushes my chest making it difficult to suck in air. Everything goes white
except for the smiling face looking out at me from the picture frame resting on
the bathroom vanity as if it belongs.

My gaze glued to it, I’m no longer bothered by the bright
light. Something more urgent has come up. Loose blonde curls frame her face,
blue eyes laugh up at me. Her smile is innocent and it arrests me.

I’m cold yet the stink of nervous sweat seeps from my pores,
the air in my apartment now frigid, tiny bumps prickling where it caresses me.

I snatch the picture from the vanity, not yet wondering how
it came to be here. Hugging it to my chest, I’m at once relieved and
distressed. I no longer see Emma’s face, but she’s burned into my mind where
she can haunt me forever.

A cold tear bulges over my eyelashes and trickles down my
cheek. I have to breathe through my mouth as I stumble out of the bathroom
facing the closed door opposite with dread churning in my stomach. Dragging in
a deep breath, I pull my courage around me like a cloak.

I can do this…. I can do this…. I can do this. My sense of
self-preservation tries to overcome the reptilian part of my brain that wants
to run away, to hide from the reminders, forget the past.

The old brass knob is warm in my hand, a testament to how
cold I’ve become. It rattles as I rotate my forearm, the framed photo still
pressed tightly against my chest where I don’t have to look at it.

The door creaks open from an agonizing sliver to measly inch
and beyond until there’s room for my arm to slip through. I slide the picture
frame through the crack, setting it face down on the dresser inside the door. I
don’t even try to stand it up. There’s no time.

Pulling my hand back as if an alligator’s snapping at me, I
yank the door closed, nearly catching my fingers.

The alcove is tiny and the bathroom door frame arrests my
backward stumble, scoring my back and knocking away what’s left of my breath. I
should feel relief at having braved the bedroom and returned unscathed, but I
don’t. My life feels like an abyss groaning and empty before me and here I am,
defective, feeling like I deserve it. Hell, I’m barely able to participate.

Sagging sideways, the wall catches me and at this point I
haven’t yet questioned how the photo came to be in my bathroom.

I remember unlocking the door and stumbling into my
apartment. I remember debating the merits of using vodka to quiet the incessant
biting as if a thousand piranhas were feasting on me. I gave in and the vodka
pushed the piranhas away, slowing the voracious feasting and surrounding me in
something to deaden the pain. It didn’t go away, but I didn’t feel quite as
much.

I don’t remember removing my shoes or going into the bedroom
and bringing out photo. I didn’t do this, did I?

Standing frozen, my breath coming back as I search through
my memory, I struggle to make sense of it, but I can’t. Parts show up clearly,
but between there are black holes. My earlier recollections are all that I
remember and that’s very little. What I see comes in flashes, Boston’s eyes, a
Vodka bottle at the liquor store, turning my key in the lock. I don’t have any
recollection of doing this. Maybe I’m losing it. Maybe I’m crazy like the days
following Emma’s death.

No. I am not crazy … I am not crazy … I am not crazy. My
mind chants, denying the possibility. My back against the bathroom door frame I
slide to the floor, my knees pulled tight to my chest. My hands hold my head
tight against the agony of loss. I must be crazy to have pulled out a reminder
like this. Is it comfort or am I just plain mad?

* * *

We don’t have any contact. We don’t talk, but his piano sits
in my line of sight. I can’t even look up without a stabbing in my chest and
numbness in my fingers as my eyes land on him. His music wraps me in
melancholy, weaving a spell of sadness around me. He’s sad too. I’m not much
into music, especially lounge music, but I can feel it flowing from his fingers
washing over the keyboard.

Doubt assails me. Questions race through my mind. Why did I
ever get involved? Could it possibly work? Am I making a huge mistake? Is there
anything I can do to make this easier on him?

That one gets me. I’d thought so much about myself that I
never considered how he might feel. He is proud and strong. I’m sure he’ll
never tell me, but listening to his music tells me so much more than he might
ever put into words.

The rawness and uncertainty show in my work. I struggle to
maintain my composure as my hands bump into drinks spilling their contents
across the bar, I add soda to cocktails overflowing the rim and I drop several
glasses. With a rubber mat under my feet to save the glassware, I didn’t think
anyone would notice.

I don’t know about Boston, but Lyla sees everything. She
hears everything in his music too, bringing up the topic. “Hey sweetie? What’s
up with you tonight?”

“It’s nothing. I’m just having a bad night.”

“Trouble in paradise?”

I don’t know that I’d call it paradise, but compared to
right now, the past several weeks felt like nirvana. “We broke up,” I said,
pretending we’d made a mutual decision when the decision had been just me.

“Oh sweetie. I’m so sorry. I thought you two made a great
couple. What happened?”

Her compassion sent shivers through me like an icy wind
blowing through prickly pines. “It’s no big deal. We’re just not that
compatible.” The lie is bitter on my tongue. We are compatible. I’m just
terrified of living, of being let down yet again. You can’t trust people.

Knowing exactly what I’m doing and why doesn’t make it any
easier. I want to run back. I want to apologize and explain and plead that he’ll
take me back, but I can be strong. I survived Emma. I can survive this.

“Humpf. You two were good together.”

Quaking inside, ready to crumble, I stiffen my spine. I will
not cry. I will not breakdown. I will not let him see how hard this is. My mind
seethes, firming my resolve. “We get along great. We just want different things
out of life and it’s easier to end it now than to struggle with it later.”

“Sounds like the coward’s way out to me.”

I felt her censure. It rolled from her shoulder as she turned
her back on me. I hated to disappoint her, but this is my life and I need to make
the best choices for me. Lyla knows about Emma. She of all people should
understand how difficult building relationships can be and how painfully raw
the knowing that they will end, if only because they always do. Nothing is
forever, and while I know this, It still disappoints me.

Turning away, I splash some vodka into a glass. My resolve
to never drink doesn’t feel so important anymore. Gulping the hot fire until it
smoothes out into rolling, liquid heat, I watch Lyla bring Boston a drink. He
always drinks water and it used to be my job to deliver, until today. “Thank
you Lyla,” I whisper to myself, bringing my glass back to my lips.

I may not like the taste, but vodka brings a relief like the
release of pressure when a steam valve opens.

It only lasts for a moment until Lyla returns.

“How’re ya going to get home?”

“I have my car.”

She looks at my glass with oily disdain. “I thought you knew
better than that.”

“I’m only having one. I can drive.”

“Your mom used to say that. Then she quit lying to herself.”

“I’m not my mother.” Rage flooded me at the comparison.

“You have one and then maybe two. Before you know it, your judgment
sucks and you drive because you think you can. Booze makes you stupid and you
don’t even know it, just like your mom.”

“That’s low Lyla.”

“I’m right though.” Her stare like a loaded bayonet cut as
deep as her words. “It’s better to never drink and drive Sterling. I thought
you knew that.”

“I can have one.” I’m defensive, but I also hear the tiny
voice inside calling me a hypocrite as my eyes lock on hers and I take another
sip in defiance.

* * *

Life isn’t getting any better. I can’t concentrate and haven’t
taken a single note, although I’m trying, maybe not so much trying as
pretending. We’re sitting in the same row and every time I tilt my head to the
right I see Boston watching me.

He’s turned almost sideways in his seat; his posture is
slouched instead of rigid. He looks casual, but I can see the tension. He doesn’t
move a muscle except when his eyes slide sideways to avoid my gaze.

If I didn’t trust him, I might be worried. He’s always
around. If he’s not following behind me from one class to another, he’s
lounging against the wall or waiting on the stairs when I come out. We no
longer ride to work together, but he’s usually waiting when I arrive and he
always follows me to my car at night. He watches until I drive away before
heading down the street to the bus stop.

The only place I haven’t seen him is at my apartment. He’s
never there when I get home. I no longer wake to the smell of coffee, opening
my eyes to see him lounging in my kitchen, his smile crinkling the corners of
his eyes.

It’s been three weeks and memories are my only consolation.
They make me warm and I almost smile, until I remember they are no longer. Then
I’m cold again.

Students begin to file out before I realize that class is
over. I turn to the right and see Boston still watching me between passing
students. Shoving my things in my bag and heading to the door, I hope that the
crowd will conceal my departure. In reality, it doesn’t matter. He knows where
I’m going.

I hear his footsteps behind me. I don’t recognize them as
his, but I heard quick steps approaching and then slowing and falling into pace
with mine. They’re several steps behind. It’s Boston, just like every other
time.