Your Song (23 page)

“Yes, I cook. My mother and I spent a lot of time together in the kitchen when I was growing up. In fact, I love to cook.” My thoughts take me back to two nights ago and the meal I prepared for Caroline.

“What types of dishes did you make with your mother?”

“Various things . . .
paellas, fish and seafood dishes, pastas, stews, roast.”
Why is she asking me this?

“What about soups? Did you ever make homemade soups?” Her brow furrows. I note that there is no music playing from her iPod today but the remote sits on the side table beside her chair.

“Sure, I make soups . . . once in a blue moon.” This time it’s my brow that furrows.

“Tell me, what
acts as the base for your soup . . . for any soup?”

“Water?” I ask as if this might be a trick question.

“Right,” she says, “and then what is done to that water to make it a soup?”

“Well, ingredients are added . . .
vegetables, herbs, meats, in some cases, stocks . . . .”

“And once you add those ingredients, is the soup ready to eat?”

“No, the soup needs to simmer on the stove for a while . . . sometimes the longer, the better, allowing the slow release of the flavors to permeate and blend with the other ingredients.”

“Eric, did you cry after your friend Danny died?”
Change of direction . . . or is it?
I shake my head.

“No, I didn’t.”

“Not at all?” She asks with one brow raised.

“
No, I remember feeling restless . . . not being able to sleep. I also remember times when it felt difficult to breathe, like I was constantly trying to catch my breath.”

“Did you talk to anyone about losing Danny? Or about what you were feeling at the time?” Again, I shake my head.

“So what
did
you do when you were missing him?”
Oh shit. Here it goes.

“Um . . .
sometimes I would get on my bike and ride for hours at a time,” Leslie nods her head as she’s listening, secretly urging me to continue. I feel safe enough so I do.

“And other times . . . I used to . . . um . . . how can I say this . . .
it’s not something I’m proud of,” I wring my heads and squirm in my seat. I look out the window at the view of concrete Toronto. I wrestle with my inner dilemma;
do I divulge my secret life or not?

I think back to my conversation with Raj yesterday while we were walking through High Park. With a private investigator on my side, I felt there was no other way to turn but to tell the truth of where I’ve been and what I’ve been up to for the past three years. He’s heard and seen it all, I figured, so I decided to let it all out. Besides, if I need him to find the stalker in my midst, I can’t afford to be anything but honest.

I turn to Leslie and realize I feel the same way about her. If I truly want to change my ways and fix my life, I need to be up front with this angel sitting in front of me.

“Okay . . . here it goes . . .
as a business traveler, I often find myself alone with my thoughts and feelings in foreign cities, quiet hotel rooms, long flights,” Leslie is nodding slightly, not taking her eyes off me. I scratch my fingers through my hair and look away, out the window at the sunny skies above. I take a deep breath and continue.

“So . . . I um . . .
have distracted myself with women. Lots of women.” I look away from her again.

“I can see how women,
lots of women
as you say, would’ve enjoyed being your distraction. You’re a handsome guy . . . in fact, has anyone ever told you that you look like . . . ”
Here it comes.

“
You already called me
JFK, Jr., the first time we met.” I remind her.

“I remember . . . but you also remind me of . .
.   Enrique Iglesias.” She laughs her loud guffaw. 
Enrique Iglesias . . . again?

“Do you remember me telling you about that Mystery Woman I met at the airport in Chicago?” I ask her. Leslie nods excitedly.

“Well, she recently told me I reminded her of Enrique Iglesias as well,” I say shyly.

“
What?
You found her? Last time you were here, you were convinced you lost her!”

“Yes, that would be a very long and ironic story to
share with you, how I found her . . . but I did,” I smile feeling like the last man alive.

“Wow. Look at you . . .
you’re beaming. You look like you’ve just won the lottery!”

“
Well, and there’s another story . . . because it looks like I may be on the cusp of winning a real lottery,” my voice trails off and I’m still smiling.

“Oh?”

“The company I’ve worked for in the past four years looks like it might be selling and as per my contract, I’m entitled to fifteen percent
of the sale . . . which will pretty much leave me . . . .”

“Very wealthy? Like are we talking JFK, Jr. stinking rich here?” She bellows.

“Um . . . I think . . . my-great-grandkids-could-want-for-nothing-rich,” I reply shyly. I hate talking about my salary and earnings with people but I feel fine sharing this news with her.  

“Okay, so let me get this straight. Since I saw you last, you have found the ‘woman-who-you-believe-you–fell-in-love-with-at-first-glance
.’”

“That’s what Victor Hugo would say,” I interrupt her.

“True. So you’ve found the woman and have won the lottery. Sounds like hope has been restored. Weren’t we talking about the Fleetwood Mac song?”

“’Don’t Stop Thinking About Tomorrow,’ yes, we were,” I say glancing at the bookshelf brimming with books. I think of the tome of a book
Les Miserables
sitting on my bedside table at home. I am three chapters in and am in awe of the gift of words Hugo has assembled into his novel. Great books, like great songs, have a timeless appeal; a way of speaking to you regardless of the era in which you find yourself listening to the song or reading the book. A feeling is a feeling; a truth is a truth, regardless of when you were born.

“Let’s get back to the women,” Leslie disrupts my thoughts.

“The women. Yes,” I breathe. “Let’s just say what started off as a distraction, a thing to do when I was thousands of miles away from home and I was thinking about Danny . . . over time . . . became a habit. A secret habit.” I watch for Leslie’s reaction. I don’t get much of one. Nodding her head, she scribbles something down on her pad and looks up but says nothing. She senses I’m holding back. So I decide to tell her everything.

“The women I ‘bedded,’” I
say using air quotes, “weren’t . . . how do I say this . . . they were in committed relationships . . . .” I stop there and feel the relief of letting my demons loose begin to wash over me, understanding that the liberation I’m seeking will only come to me once I divulge everything.

“In the weeks and months after Danny die
d I spent time with his fiancée . . . listening to her cry, feeling her pain, watching her demise. I witnessed a beautiful, young, vibrant woman in love absolutely shatter into pieces and become a shadow of herself. Love. Danny and Lara were crazy in love with each other and it freaked me out to watch what happens when . . . love dies. I guess that experience scared me, it rocked my world.” I’m flooded with memories of Lara comatose-like on her couch, pale and sickly. I continue, speaking softly.

“And so, I decided
that I wanted no part of a committed relationship. A forever with someone. The pain . . . just not worth it, I concluded. So . . . nestled far, far away from my life in Toronto, I created a new identity for myself, on my nights out prowling for women . . . married women.”

“So you had affairs with married women?” Leslie clarifies.

“Not affairs. Only stands. One night stands. Quickies where and when I could get them.”

“Surely you could have had these quickies with unattached women. Why the married ones?” I think about her question.

“For a guy who likes a challenge, who gets off on the thrill of taking something that isn’t his and getting away with it, there was a definite pleasure in doing the . . . illicit . . . with women who weren’t mine to have. Besides, I didn’t want a woman for myself so I figured if she were married to someone else, she wouldn’t be coming after me. No commitment . . . no forever.” Leslie scribbles away.

“And this identity you created for yourself?”

“Well, discretion is always of the utmost importance to me . . . so when asked my name, I told these women it was . . .
Dan.”
I did it . . . I told her the truth.
Shame rapidly washes over my face and I look down on the floor. Silence.

“I warned you I had a truckload of issues, Leslie,” I say looking up at her to break the thickening silence in the room. She nods quietly. She smiles weakly at me. After what feels like an hour, she speaks.

“Do you recall the soup recipe I asked you about earlier? About the most important ingredient being the water? Some say grieving a loss is like making a pot of soup. You start with the tears as the base for your soup and all of the feelings that surface in your grief . . . the rage, the loneliness, the pain . . . the sense of unfairness . . . all of those things, they get added to the soup and are left there to simmer. You can’t rush the soup making process or else you will be left with a burned pot, right? Interesting concept, isn’t it?” I picture Lara lying lifeless on the floor. I remember Mr. and Mrs. Callahan’s numbed states. 
Where was I through all that?
I was standing there watching them, trying to be strong for them, keeping all my feelings bottled up inside me.

“Lara was making her pot of soup,” I whisper looking away. Leslie nods her head compassionately, watching me.

“I wish I could take credit for the idea but I can’t. There’s a wonderful book called
Tear Soup
, which I am going to lend you. I really want you to read it and think about your own grieving process.” Leslie gets up from her chair and walks over to her bookshelf and pulls the picture book from it. She comes to sit on the leather couch beside me and hands me the book. It’s a children’s picture book with colorful illustrations.

“Eric, I hope you will share
your
own
recipe for tear soup with me. In the weeks and months ahead, I look forward to sharing many bowls of soup with you.” Leslie rises from the couch and reaches for the iPod remote. I sit back on the couch and start to feel . . .
something
. . . I wait and watch her fumble with the remote, breathing deeply. I thumb through the book resting on my lap keeping my head bowed. When Eric Clapton’s voice comes over the speakers singing about “Tears in
Heaven,” I look out the window and allow the tears that have pooled in my eyes finally begin to fall. And so I begin my own tear soup recipe.

I walk along University Avenue. If I had my bike, surely I’d be on it right now. I’ve no idea what time it is or where I’m heading. I walk the streets on this beautifully clear and sunny June afternoon wearing my light grey
Canali suit and tan leather Italian shoes, with the
Tear Soup
book nuzzled under one arm, while resting both of my hands in my pockets.

The tears are flowing like lava now. Like the faucets have been turned on and no one knows how to shut them off. I cry for my lost brother, Danny. Man, I miss him.
Why did he have to go?
Why, so suddenly and without warning, did he have to leave us?
I take myself back to that night when I got home and listened to his message on my answering machine telling me about the tuxedo pick up. I remember listening to that message was the last thing I did before getting into bed. As I slipped in between the covers, I remember hearing the final beep from the machine indicating the message was complete. I recall thinking to myself;
I’ll call Danny back tomorrow
and falling fast asleep. I never got a chance to call Danny back the next day because by the time I thought about doing it, he would have already been dead.
Gone.
And, we were all left to go on without him. But I didn’t know how.

What, in life, can prepare you for profound loss, I wonder as I walk the sidewalks of downtown Toronto? How does anyone learn how to carry on after his or her world has been blown apart?  Where, in our complex brain, does the memory of a loved one’s face, the touch of their hand, the sweet sound of their voice get stored forever without the threat of fading from us?

I cry as I struggle to recall Danny’s post-bike ride sweaty odor that I used to razz him about for years following our Sunday morning long bike rides. And what about the way he used to slurp his coffee . . . the sound used to drive me crazy . . . why can’t I hear it grating my nerves anymore? I chuckle to myself recalling the way he used to slurp even more loudly just to bother me.
What I’d do right now to have an espresso with him . . .
I used to love teasing him about how bad he had it for Lara just after they first met.
We’ve been here, done that before, Danny . . . you fall hard and fast and two months later the girl is history . . .
I used to say.
Not this time,
he vowed,
this time, she’s the one, I swear.
And I used to laugh at him.