Chasing Stars (27 page)

Feeling lost and confused, I stare at a blank canvas. My fingers tremble as I open tubes of paint and grab a brush. The familiar scent offers some comfort.

My hand starts to move, aimless. I stare at the chosen palette of gray, navy blue, black, and burgundy. Vacuum, that is all I can sense about the emptiness of my hollowed chest. Life and color have been sucked out of me, leaving a tormenting hole.

Her laughter resonates in my mind. The way her hips sway when she wears my boxers invades my thoughts. Her presence lingers, suffocating me. My body feels trapped inside a crypt. I feel as if I am spinning uncontrollably under a swirl of images of Portia and her costar. My stomach is raw and my soul is perishing in the arid land of sorrow.

Engrossed with my painting, I lose track of time. Glancing at a clock, I realize I have spent the last ten hours painting this canvas. I have canvases that I have worked on for the past five years that I am still unsatisfied with it. But this painting is whole; it is complete. I roll my head trying to release the tension in my shoulders. Stepping back, I study the canvas. I don’t usually get surprised with my artwork, honest truth. But this painting’s outcome shocks me.

The painting depicts a violent storm beating angry red waves that swallow a crypt. Above the raged sea, shafts of a dim light filter through darkened clouds. A ghost of a smile flickers on my lips. In all honesty, it is somewhat of a cliché given my current stormy situation, but this is a damn good canvas. Even Joseph Turner would have stopped to examine the quality of the light.

I instantly remember a comment Portia made. Portia and I were strolling at the Tate Museum admiring the work of Turner when she asked, “I read that before dying Joseph Turner said, ‘The sun is God.’ Do you think that is what God is?”

“I think we are the light of the world and are created in His image. So, yeah, God is light, but he is so much more than that,” I responded.

Somehow, along the way, hope slid into this canvas. Now it oozes from the illustration and I know that, in spite of me never being with Portia again, I can feel hopeful that something good will come out of this journey of ours.

Now, why does the concept not diminish the aching pain grinding away in my heart? People come and go, leaving a trail of sorrow behind. As wounds heal, they leave scars. The scars become a banner of the strength within us, and a shield against future grief.

With resolve, I make a decision. I will erase Portia out of my mind, out of my life, and out of my heart. As Sun Tzu says, “Victorious warriors win first and then go to war.” I declare war against the most devastating and powerful feelings I have ever felt for someone. Reaching within I search for the strength I have acquired through a life of loss. Even though I have never hurt this deep and wide, I will not succumb to the devastation of losing Portia.

A feeble dawn light filters through the window, a new beginning.

I clean my brushes and display the canvas at the center of the studio. After taking a shower, I climb into bed. The cover carries a faint smell of Portia. I ignore it. I close my eyes, and sleep finds me.

With a weary pain pressing against my chest, I sigh. Two days in LA and it seems time is a century old person crippling slowly and painfully. Sitting on a lounge chair in my bedroom, my hands cling to two of my addictions, coffee, and a copy of the
New York Times
, which enables me to spy on my father. As I scan the newspaper for any news of my dad, I come across an article dedicated to the upcoming solo exhibition of James Williams Miller’s paintings.

My heart quickens and my mouth dries as my eyes eagerly read, “Miller has acquired the admiration and respect not only of his colleagues, but the public and critics alike.” I pause and inhale, before continuing, “Miller is critically acclaimed for being an unconventional visionary, but beyond that, his signature ability to create portraits that present a small dose of hope in the midst of disturbing devastation.”

Then I read a quote from Pamela Lee, “Despite our relationship and the biased lens through which I have seen Will’s marvelous work, there is undoubtedly excellence and sophistication in his artwork that is often absent in the contemporary artistic world. Will is a genius.”

Who is this woman? My stomach clenches as I continue to read. The realization hits me. Mel mentioned something about a Pam. Why didn’t I pay more attention? Yeah, because she had just devastated me with Will’s sad story. “Lee, the daughter of the owner of the Timeless Art Gallery, mentioned that she dated Miller while both were students at Columbia University.” That’s disturbing.

The photo spread shows Will in his loft surrounded by his artwork. His focus is lost on a painting process. His deep green eyes are intense and unreachable as the depth of the ocean. It shatters me to see a picture of him with his pursed lips and serious face. I have witnessed that intimate sight repeatedly and that memory sends an incredible ache to my heart.

In the article, Garry Lee mentions, “Will has attained, in a few years, the reputation it takes most artists decades to acquire. We believe this young artist is the grand revelation of our generation. His work is inspiring and superior to all the artwork we have seen for many decades. It presents a grit that outlasts the test of time. Such an artistic genius like Will does not come around often. I am privileged to have seen in my lifetime, someone this gifted emerges. Certainly, Will’s art will remain long after we are gone.”

With my body quivering, I ignore the picture of Will and Pamela, and continue reading, “When asked about his alleged relationship with the actress Portia McGee, Will declined to comment.” Again, disturbing.

To hell with the article and artistic genius. I crumple the paper and throw it toward a wastebasket, but I miss. With a crazy urge to call Will, my hand tightens the grip on my cell, but I clench my teeth and shove the device away. “I will not call him,” I murmur, remembering the several answered and unreturned calls.

Yeah, yeah, I don’t care for any news about him. In fact, I dislike the whole newspaper article. I stride to the window, a steady drizzle saturates the hills outside my LA home. I try to ignore the pain gripping my heart from seeing the picture of Will standing beside Pamela. His long, capable fingers on her shoulder. Screw that. I need to search my heart for the button allocated to turn off the endless flow of all things Will. It was just a fling. I repeat to myself, almost like a mantra.

Recalling our break up, I realize I had never seen Will so upset. It is understandable. Those damn pictures of Damon and me were crudely explicit. But I can’t comprehend why he hasn’t called me yet or why he refuses to answer my calls. Surely if we talk, we can fix this.

How can I get Will to forgive me? I am giving him time to calm down. Stefan thinks it will help. But I am dying to see him and to feel his arms around me. This love business is harder than I thought.

Ever since the day Will walked away from me, my will to carry on with life has been fading with the tick of every second. The thrill of being inside Will’s embrace is slowly turning into a distant memory. I fear there is not a turning point for us. The undiluted pain of his absence hammers my heart and crushes my soul. The sorrow crawling inside me is so potent that it drains any remaining strength from my body.

I take one long and scrutinizing look at myself, not the outer appearance, but the inside. It’s the real me hidden under a shell I carefully constructed around my heart. Hope sprouts from the recognition that the person with real flaws and qualities dormant inside me is capable of love. In reality, I am not worthy of Will, but the love I have for him is far too rooted and I can’t weed it out. I am unsure if it is the nicer side of me, which is capable of love or my selfish nature flaring up. I rather think it is the first, but either way, I have to get my brooding man back. Because, in spite of the reason motivating me, I simply can’t thrive without him.

I curl on my bed and weep, each sob reflects the pain of losing a chance at love. I held on to the vanity of a shallow existence, and it cost me dearly.

I crawl out of bed and scramble on the floor in search of the newspaper. Once I find it and I smooth it out. Through a curtain of tears, I resume reading. I make a mental note of the date and time of the exhibition.

I will find a way back into Will’s life.

The oppressive air is thick, making it hard to breath. The forest, dark and claustrophobic, seems like barbed fingers attempting to throttle me. My breath comes in shallow gulps of air. Disoriented, I search for her. The closer I get to her voice, the darker the woods become. Sweat beads on my skin and my weakened legs falter. To compensate, my heart pumps adrenaline through my veins. It spreads through my nervous system, providing the strength to continue my desperate quest.

Suddenly, I am a little boy. My back twists at the realization I am lying over a hard and sheet-less mattress in a gloomy bedroom. Too terrified to sleep, I stare at the cracks in the ceiling. My body shudders when I hear the squeak of the door opening and closing. Calloused hands abrade my skin and yank me out of bed. My stomach is queasy with the stench of tobacco and sour liquor. I gag. However, there is nothing in my belly to vomit; my last meal was the lunch provided in the school where I am a fourth grader.

Before the bile ascends, a fist punches my face. My mouth permeates with the metallic taste of fear and blood. I slither from under his grasp. Before I reach the door, the sting of a belt stills me into submission.

He is cryptically quiet. The only sound I hear is his hissed, harsh breath behind my ear. Rage builds inside my chest. I swallow hard and repel the tears pooling in my eyes. I will not cry, not for his additional pleasure. I fix my eyes on the obscure pattern of stains on the curtains. Pain slashes through my body. Diabolically oblivious, he repeatedly pounds against me. I block the pain and my mind empties. There is no childhood innocence decapitated tonight, he butchered it a long time ago.

The scenario shifts again. I am in an expanse of nothingness. Uncertain steps echo in the vast space. I feel my body become ungrounded. Submerged by an overwhelming feeling of falling into space, I hear screeching. Trying to find my center of gravity, I spin and Portia is right in front of me, sinking and pleading for her life. I try to grab her hand, but it slips from my grasp.

With irregular and rapid heartbeats, I sit on the edge of the bed. My nostrils flare as I suck the air. Scrambling out of bed, I stumble to the bathroom and stop before the sink. My shaking hands weave through my hair, which is drenched with sweat. In the mirror, a gaunt reflection glares back at me. It is the same hollowed and raged face of years ago.

Flashes of Portia kissing me with our fingers intertwined floods my mind. The sound of her throaty laughter rings in my ears, raw and unmerciful. The purity of her sleeping face flickers through my mind. Exhaling in exasperation, I try vainly to exorcise the thoughts. Her lingering presence is a poisonous mindfuck that makes me vulnerable.

I clamber into the shower, hoping to wash away the grotesque slime coating my skin. My bitter body absorbs the shock of frigid cold water. Trembling, I draw in a deep breath. It’s been a few days post-Portia and the throbbing pain in my chest, for what it’s worth, is even greater.

In spite of the agony of the night terrors, what really torments me is the recurring nightmare where I am unable to rescue Portia. Deep inside I know it no longer matters. Portia is now part of my past. But I cannot erase her petrified face as she begs me to save her.

With numb limbs, I crawl out of the torrent of water, not bothering to dress. An open window casts a dim light inside my room and allows a cool breeze to whisper on my skin. My studio is astonishingly empty without her presence. Yes, I miss her tremendously. But I stand by my choice. I am not going back to her.

Knowing I won’t be able to go back to sleep and not desiring to, I head to my sacred haven, painting.