Tuesday, October 31
(Scout)
Audrey and I are in her car, driving home from her office. She's been quiet the past few days. I'm not one to pry, but it's unlike her. There's a sadness in her eyes that's undeniable.
I don't like being around sadness, because it brings up all the feelings inside me that I try to push down. I'm great at suppressing emotion. I can force bad feelings down into my shoes and walk all over them until they're dust under my feet. It's the good feelings that seem elusive sometimes. I live in a world of middle ground. Stoic and unfeeling most of the time. It's easier that way.
When we get home from work, Gustov is waiting outside for Audrey. He's smoking, but as soon as she gets out of the car he stubs out his cigarette and pulls her into a hug. They don't say anything. They just hold on tight. That hug is pure comfort. It's love. I've never seen a parent and child with the kind of relationship they have. There's a level of mutual respect and admiration, loyalty and love that was uncomfortable to be around at first. It seemed contrived. Parents and their children don't have deeply rooted friendship. But these two do. The way they get each other, support each other, is beautiful. The closest relationships I have are with Aunt Jane and Paxton. I know Jane loves me in her own way and I love her, but it's not like this. And Paxton? We love each other like siblings, but a seventeen-year-old boy shouldn't be expected to carry me emotionally. I'd never begin to burden him with that. So, I go it alone most of the time.
Walking inside, I leave Audrey and Gustov alone to talk.
When I get to my room, I feel trapped. Like I'm lost. And every emotion I've been stomping on the past nine months starts rising. And rising. Until I'm crying and I have no idea why. I don't want to cry. And suddenly, Michael's face flashes in my mind. I don't want Michael to have this hold on me. I just want to be over him. But I can't. I gave him everything I was. Everything I am now is less than what it was before. There's a void. I'm incomplete. My mind is running a million miles a minute and my anxiety is skyrocketing. Maybe a shower will help calm me down. I always shower in the morning after my run, but I feel like I need to soak in misery for a while. I let the hot water pound against my skin. I picture it battering out the bad. Battering out the loss. Battering out the resentfulness and the bitterness. I stand there for a long time and I cry. I haven't cried in months. Being with Michael the other day brought back to the surface all of the ugliness. And all of the love. Damn Michael. I loved him and love was important back then. To me at least. In the beginning, sex was more than just an act. It was a commitment. It was a declaration of that love. But then the act turned into pure, unadulterated need and self-loathing. I used to tell myself I wasn't the bad guy. But now, reality's slipping in and I'm beginning to hate myself. To regret things I've done. The lines of sex and love and right and wrong have been blurred. I hate it.
"Shut the hell up." That was me talking to me. Out loud. I need to get out of this shower and get back to life.
After throwing on a pair of sweats and a T-shirt, I decide the best thing I can do to keep busy is to go make dinner so that Audrey doesn't have to.
When I get to the kitchen, Audrey and Gustov aren't there, which is strange because it's Tuesday and Audrey always makes veggie tacos on Tuesday. Gustov usually helps her if he's home. He's almost always home, unless he's surfing. He spends more and more time out in the water. Which is good. He looks better. He's lost weight and gained muscle. He's got some color. He looks like life is slowly being breathed back into him. I think being on the road kills him. He's a different person at home. I can see that difference now.
I hear the TV playing in the living room. Children's voices. Laughter—innocent and pure. Laughter so transparent that the happiness housed inside is undeniable. When I enter the room, Audrey and Gustov are sitting on the sofa. Gustov is stretched out along the length of the chaise on one end. His arms are bent at the elbows and his hands are resting behind his head. He looks peaceful and happy. I've never seen that look on him. He's smiling slightly, looking content. Audrey is sitting on the other end of the sofa. Her legs are pulled up under her to one side. She's still wearing her work clothes, which is unusual; she usually changes as soon as she gets home. She's smiling, too. The same contented smile that Gustov is wearing. It amazes me how much they look alike: same blond hair, same kind eyes, same tall, almost intimidating stature that somehow doesn't scare you because while confident, they're some of the warmest people I've ever met.
They don't know I'm in the room with them. The sound of a little girl's voice pulls my eyes to the TV screen. She's tiny with a head full of messy golden waves that fall down the center of her back. She's giggling like she doesn't know what sadness is. "Get him, Gracie!" she yells.
A boy, much bigger than the girl, runs into the scene. His light blond hair is long and pulled back in a ponytail and his skin is tanned from the sun. He's wearing a pair of swim trunks and holding three water balloons in his hands. He's running after the little girl. She's screaming and the sound is pure joy. She's trying to get away from him when he yells, "You can run, but you can't hide, Bright Side. Besides, Gracie's on my team." He looks off-screen. "Aren't you, Gracie?"
A voice comes from someone off-camera. Her answer giggles its way out. "I'm on Kate's team." And with that, a little girl walks on screen and pelts him right in the chest with a water balloon.
He looks stunned, but his answer is shocked laughter. "Gracie, I thought I was your favorite? What was that about?"
A sharp hoot of laughter comes from what I assume is the camera person, because it's louder than the others. "Way to go, Gracie! Get him!"
The boy turns to face the camera. "What the hell, Ma? Whose side are you on?" He's still laughing when he says it. Hearing him say that and seeing his face, I realize this is Gustov. He looks like he's thirteen or fourteen years old.
The camera person, who I now realize is Audrey, laughs again, but says, "Gus, language." She's scolding him, but she's not scolding him at the same time. It's obvious Gus has had his mom wrapped around his little finger his entire life.
The second little girl smiles up at him apologetically. "Sorry, Gus." Her voice is young and innocent. Then she looks at Audrey, into the camera, and her face lights up. It's the first time I've noticed she has Down syndrome. "It was fun though," she says mischievously.
Just then the other girl, the one with the wild hair, races back in and fires three water balloons. One hits him in the side of the head, and two smack him in the back. "Damn right, Gracie. It is fun." She shrieks when Gustov turns on her and chases her down the deck stairs to the beach sand below. This video must've been shot right here in back of their house. I recognize those stairs, that beach.
She's quick and out runs him for a while, but his long legs cover more ground than hers. When he catches her, he tackles her down to the sand. She's squirming beneath him and putting up an impressive fight. When he stands, she's in his arms. She's laughing, but she's pounding her fists against his chest. "Put me down, Gus! So help me God, if you don't put me down you're going to be sorry. I know where you live, I'll take you down in your sleep, dude."
He laughs. "I dare you, Bright Side. I. Dare. You," he says, before walking out in the water and dunking her under. He releases her quickly and struts out of the water like he's proud of himself.
She surfaces and sprints out behind him. He's not expecting it when she jumps on his back and takes him down to the sand. Though I'm trying to watch undetected, I laugh. I can't help myself. I want to cheer for her. Serves him right. I like this girl.
Audrey and Gustov both turn at my laughter. Audrey pauses the DVD player with a remote and smiles at me.
"I'm sorry," I apologize, suddenly feeling like I'm intruding on a very private moment.
"Nonsense," Audrey replies. She pats the sofa between them. "Come sit down."
I've watched TV with Audrey before, but never while Gustov is in the room. I shake my head. "I don't want to intrude."
Gustov tosses a throw pillow into the empty space between him and Audrey. "Too late, dude," he says. I would take offense, except the way he's just said it is teasing. He sounds like he did in the video. Or the way he does with Franco.
And for some unknown reason, I find myself taking a seat on the sofa and hugging the pillow to my chest. I'm nervous, but I also feel lighter. Maybe it's the fact that Audrey and Gustov are both smiling, that they're both happy watching these old home videos.
Audrey hits play again. The dark screen remains for a few seconds.
The next image is the girl they called Gracie sitting at Audrey's dining room table in front of a platter of cupcakes. The frosting is pink. There's a candle in each cupcake. She looks older. I count the cupcakes and candles. Seventeen. It sounds like three or four people are singing "Happy Birthday" to her. She's singing along with them. When the song finishes, she claps her hands.
The blond girl walks up behind her, the one Gustov called Bright Side, although Gracie called her Kate. She's older too, and while she was cute before, she's stunning now. Her hair is still long and unruly, but it's one of the things that makes her beautiful. She looks free. She looks happy. She looks like nothing could ever hold her down. She puts her hands on Gracie's shoulders and bends over until her mouth is at Gracie's ear. "Make a wish, Gracie," she tells her.
Gracie pinches her eyes shut tight. Her lips are pursed. There's a lot of concentration and focus going into this wish.
When her face relaxes slightly, the girl called Kate asks, "Did you make a good one?"
"I made a good one. I wished that—"
A deep male voice cuts her off. "Don't tell your wish, Gracie. It won't come true if you tell us." I'd bet money that was Gustov.
Gracie pulls her lips in between her teeth, like she's physically restraining her secret wish, holding it inside so it doesn't force its way out.
"You ready to blow out the candles, Gracie?" It's Kate.
Gracie nods excitedly. She's bouncing in her chair.
Kate laughs. She has a great laugh. It comes from deep in her belly. It's genuine. "You've got this. One blow, and all the candles will be history. Okay?"
Gracie nods again. The look of concentration has taken over her face again. She's focused and her eyebrows pull in toward the center. She closes her eyes as Kate starts the count.
"On the count of three, Gracie. One. Two. Three!"
Gracie leans forward, eyes still closed, and blows on the candles. Two flicker out, but before she can open her eyes, Kate and another blond head that pops into the screen blow the rest of the candles out.
Gracie leans back and opens her eyes, astonished that all of the candles are extinguished. "I did it!" she cheers.
"You did it!" Kate and Gustov cheer together.
Gracie turns in her seat and looks at Kate with hope in her eyes. "I get my wish?" she asks.
Kate wraps her arms around Gracie's neck and hugs her. "Always. I'll make sure of it."
And just as I'm enjoying myself and getting sucked into the innocence, the screen goes dark again.
"Goddamn, Gracie loved birthdays, didn't she, Ma?" Gustov asks from beside me. He sounds like he's reminiscing.
Audrey nods. "She did. I don't know what she liked more: the cupcakes, or the candles, or the wishes."
The screen lights up again. It looks like a stage in an auditorium, maybe at a school or rec center.
A voice announces, "I'd like to introduce Kate Sedgwick."
Loud cheering and whistling comes from the audience.
Kate walks onto the stage holding a violin. She looks to be about eighteen, carrying the same grace and beauty as before. Her eyes are downcast, as if she's trying to ignore the crowd in front of her.
"That's my girl!" A guy's voice yells from the audience. It sounds like Gustov.
A smile creeps across her mouth as she looks up. She shakes her head, but she's smiling. Her smile seems to say, Stop, you're embarrassing me and Thank you at the same time.
She tucks the violin under her chin, and for the next ten minutes I can't take my eyes off the screen. I'm riveted. She's amazingly talented. I've gone to the symphony in New York. She's that kind of good.
When her violin falls silent, I can't help but say, "Wow." It's a whisper only for me, but I can't help myself.
Gustov looks at me, his eyes brimming with pride. "Damn right," he says.
Audrey sniffles beside me as the screen fades to black again. She pauses it. "She could tell a story with a song. That was beautiful. I need a tissue."
When Audrey returns and starts the video again, we watch Rook play a song down in the basement of this house, their faces bright with youth. Franco doesn't have as many tattoos. After some coaxing, albeit crude, Franco persuades Kate to sing with them. I'm stunned by her voice. Even though the sound quality of the video isn't great, her voice is massive, especially for such a small woman. She's as good as Gustov and I have to admit he has a great voice. They sing well together.
After the fade to black, a song starts playing. It's a single violin. And then a photo slideshow begins. It's three minutes of a heartbreaking song, which has to be Rook and Kate, accompanied by dozens of photos of Gustov, Gracie, Kate, and Audrey. The photos must span twenty years. The kids are toddlers in some but others look more recent. I don't know if it's the song fueling my emotional swings, but as I watch it I feel elated one second and sick to my stomach the next.
By the end, I feel spent. I don't know who Kate and Gracie are, but I have a very bad feeling. These girls were obviously as close as family their entire lives, and I haven't heard about or seen either of them in the months I've been around the Hawthornes.
Gustov pushes off the sofa. "Thanks for that, Ma. I'm going outside."
He needs a cigarette. Or he's escaping. Probably both, the way his voice just sounded. He doesn't hide his emotions. Even when he doesn't talk his mannerisms speak loud and clear.
I should let him go out alone. I know that. They've just let me in on something very private; I should take that gift graciously and keep my damn mouth shut. But I can't. I feel like this is the key to something; that this is the reason there are parts of Gustov that I don't get. Because watching the Gustov in those videos—he was so free and happy.
He's in one of the lounge chairs on the deck facing the water when I step outside. He doesn't look at me when I approach, he just lights his cigarette. His first pull is long and focused.
I feel like I need to ask, to make peace before I barge into his life completely. "Can I sit down?"
He doesn't take his eyes off the horizon, but his answer is gentle, "Sure. It's showtime." It's not what I was expecting, but I can't believe how relieved I am at the acceptance.
I take a seat in the chair next to him. "Showtime?" I ask.
Pointing to the water, cigarette held firmly between his fingers, he looks at me as if I should understand. After he takes in my puzzled look, he elaborates. "The sunset. It's showtime."
And the realization sinks in. "Oh," I answer lamely. I settle back into my chair and for the next ten minutes Gustov and I watch the water swallow the glowing orange orb. Piercing the darkness with words is startling given the solitude, so I speak quietly. "I don't think I've ever watched the sunset." Because I honestly don't think I have. I grew up in New York, surrounded by buildings and hustle and bustle. I was aware that the sun did set every day, but I never took the time to actually watch it happen. I feel a little cheated now, because this was breathtaking.
His eyes narrow infinitesimally. "Are you shitting me?"
I shake my head. "No. Never." The admission has we wondering how many other important things in life I've glossed over.
"How does a person grow to be twenty-something years old and never watch a sunset? Were you raised in a cave, or underground? It's one of the finer spectacles mother nature has to offer, and it happens every night." He widens his teasing eyes for effect. "Every damn night."
I want to laugh, but I sigh instead and it still sounds like I'm amused because I can't hide it. "I know. I grew up in New York—"
He interrupts me with a smirk, "Ah, I was right, a cave. That also explains the accent."
I just stare at him.
He stares back.
And then we both laugh. It feels good, so I go with it.
"I love New York, but yeah, not a lot of opportunity for things like sunsets. Lots of tall buildings and not a lot of horizon."
He nods. "Do you miss it?"
"Sometimes. Usually not."
"Do you like it here? San Diego, I mean?" The way he's looking at me would be unnerving if he wasn't listening so intently. He wants to hear the answer. Most people I've dealt with in life talk but they don't listen. Even those closest to me. People have their own issues that keep them from devoting their full attention to me when we're together. That's fine. I understand. It's what I do, too. I listen with half my brain and focus on everything else that's going on with the other half. It's how I multi-task. How I take everything in. Gustov doesn't. He gives whatever he's doing his full attention.
I can't look away when I answer him. "I do. The people are different. No one's in a hurry. People talk a lot more. It's kind of hard to get used to, but I like it."
"That's because San Diego's the real deal." He winks at me before he lights another cigarette. After that first long drag, he looks at it thoughtfully. "How come you never complain about my smoking? I mean, you don't smoke and you take really good care of yourself. I know you probably don't like it."
I shrug. "It's not my place. I used to smoke. I know how hard it is to quit." It's as simple as that.
He's still looking at the cigarette in his hand, regarding it like it's a burden. "I need to quit." His voice lowers. "I know I do. But I can't. I've tried so many times." He looks at me like he needs me to console him or tell him it's okay.
"You'll figure it out. When the time's right it'll happen. You have to want it though. No one can do it for you."
He nods solemnly and silence settles between us.
I take that as my chance to ask, "Who are Gracie and Kate?"
He smiles again. It's small and loving. The same smile he wore inside. The same smile I wish he wore all the time now that I've seen it, because it transforms him. "My best friends," he answers.
It makes me smile. "Looks like you've known them your whole life."
He nods, but he's still smiling.
"Where are they?" I ask hesitantly, and that eerie feeling creeps back in.
His gaze drifts upward, toward the sky. "Heaven, I suppose. Gracie went first and I sure as hell know Bright Side would've beat down the goddamn door to get in if she knew her sister was inside. They're together, I have no doubt."
A chill runs through me. "I'm sorry."
He looks at me and though the smile is still in place the joy has drained from his eyes. "Yeah. It's fucked up. Today would've been Gracie's twenty-second birthday. Three days ago would've been Bright Side's twenty-first."
"They were so young," I say in disbelief.
He nods again. "Old souls. Young bodies. Gracie got sick and died almost a year and a half ago. It took us all by surprise. And cancer stole Bright Side from us in January." The smile has faded completely, replaced with glistening eyes.
I don't know what to say, so I say again what I've already said. "I'm sorry."
He's still nodding, the repetitive gesture of someone lost in thought. "Yeah."
I want to hug him, which I never have the urge to do with anyone other than Paxton and Jane. I want to comfort him, but I feel removed from the situation, suddenly like an intruder. "I'm sorry," I echo. I hope he hears the comfort in my words. I'm not good at showing my feelings.
His eyes turn to me, still shiny with grief. "What's the story with Michael?"
I'm caught off guard. "What?"
"You know what I mean, what's your history?" He's talking quietly, but loud enough that I can hear him. He's not demanding information from me, he's just asking.
"Old boyfriend." I answer and that's where I leave it.
"Sorry, I don't mean to dredge up the past ... or the present," he adds. He's asking, without asking, if we're together.
I shake my head. "No. It's fine. I'm glad it's over ..." I trail off.
"But you still love him?" he asks softly. Goddamn, I wish he didn't read me so well.
I shrug. "I do, but I don't. It's complicated." I decide now's as good a time as any and ask, "What about the woman who you went out with a couple weeks ago? Girlfriend?"
He looks confused for a few seconds. "Clare? Hell no. Cool girl. Now. But, no. Definitely no."
I don't know why, but that lightens my heart.
He sighs and returns to our conversation, but he shifts it. I felt it. This is about pain now. "Love's a pisser."
I drop my head back against the cushion and roll it to look at him. He's staring at me again. His eyes are open, a gateway. He's honest, and he's kind, and most importantly he's not judging me. I nod in agreement. "Yeah, it sure as hell is." I don't know how I know, but I know his heart is broken, too. "Have you ever been in love?"
He hasn't blinked. "Once."
"How long did it last?"
Looking back up to the sky, he answers. "Twenty-one years ... and three days."
It hits me hard. Kate. He's talking about Kate. His Bright Side. No wonder he's walking around like a shell of a man. He lost the love of his life. Instead of fighting the urge, I don't hesitate this time. I slide my legs off the lounge chair and place them on the deck between our chairs and shift my weight from mine over onto his. I sit there on the edge of his seat against his hip and I just look at him. I guess I'm asking for permission. I don't usually do things like this. I don't usually offer comfort. He balls up my shirt just above my hip in his fist. His eyes are pleading now—begging for friendship, comfort, and consolation. He needs to let this out. I could analyze this. I could overthink it until I talk myself out of it. But I don't, instead I lean down slowly until my head's resting on his chest and slide my hands underneath his back until I'm squeezing him. Until I feel his warmth against me. And when his big arms wrap around me, I realize in this moment that I've never really been hugged. This is a hug. This is what human contact is supposed to feel like. It's supposed to feel ... human. Distilled until it's nothing but one human being transferring support to another human being in the form of touch that's unselfish and pure in intention. And I know he feels it, too, because his chest rises in a few stuttered breaths and he lets the tears go. I just hold him until his breathing evens out, at which point he pulls me up until my head is resting on the cushion next to his and the front of my body is molded to the side of his. Our arms are still wrapped around each other and I feel pressure from both sides, which tells me neither one of us wants to let go.
"Can we just lie here for a while? Like this?" he asks with a tremble in his voice. The vulnerability I hear makes my heart ache.
"Sure," I answer, because in all honesty, I don't want to let go either. This hug, him crying and opening up to me, the humanity in all of it is something I can feel in my heart. I feel alive and heavy with emotion, heavy like a tide that threatens to pull you under, but you somehow know it won't because your heart is buoyant enough to keep you afloat no matter what. It's blind faith ... hope, or at least as close to hope as anything I've ever felt. A faint, reluctant hope that I can feel in both of us. Buried deep.