Chapter Two

Perfect Love

They say there is a reason for everything and that time heals all wounds. But neither time nor reason will ever fill the void left in my heart. I wake up every morning and go through the motions because that’s what I’m supposed to do. I force a smile and pretend I’m carrying on with my life but the truth is the heartache still lives inside of me. It burns deep and cuts like a knife.

Especially on days like today.

On September eleventh the country mourns and until seven years ago, I did too. I was only seventeen years old when the attacks happened but like everyone else, I remember exactly where I was and what I was doing when those planes crashed into the twin towers. Like so many others, I stood paralyzed watching the television in horror as innocent people were terrorized. It was a horrible day for all of humanity and while I may have been fortunate not to lose anyone close to me, I still took a moment to pause and reflect.

Seven years ago, I sat in the corner of a packed coffee shop in lower Manhattan studying for my finals. I was a semester away from getting my Master’s Degree and one step closer to becoming a guidance counselor. My coffee had gone cold, and I peeled myself away from my books to get a refill when I glanced up at the television and saw the live footage of the memorial taking place just blocks away from the coffee shop.

I wasn’t paying attention when the man in front of me turned around and we collided. I lifted my hands to steady myself and wound up knocking the piping hot coffee all over him. It spilled down his leg, and he flinched at the burn. Quickly, I grabbed a stack of napkins from the counter behind him and offered my apologies as I patted his wet thighs.

Yeah, you heard me correctly.

In the middle of a crowded coffee shop, I manhandled a complete stranger.

How’s that for first impressions?

We laughed about it years later but it took some time for me not to turn all shades of red whenever we talked about how we met.

In case you were wondering that perfect stranger became my perfect love.

After the coffee incident, he bought us both a cappuccino. I protested, but he insisted he wasn’t a floozy.

“I usually have to buy the lady a drink or two before she puts her hands on me,” he said with a wink.

He was a comedian. Not literally but, Christopher was the guy who had the ability to make anyone laugh and could put a smile on your face no matter how bad of a day you were having. At least he always managed to do those things for me.

   He joined me at my table and asked me about myself, using the stack of textbooks as an opening. I told him about school and in turn, I learned he was an investment banker. At one point during the conversation, he paused mid-sentence and glanced at the television as the names of the victims were being read.

I would later learn those weren’t the names of strangers but the names of his co-workers. At the time, Christopher worked for Cantor Fitzgerald and he was on his way up to his office when the first plane hit. He, along with several others were trapped inside an elevator until they were rescued by a fireman.

Christopher didn’t like rehashing that day and I think that’s because he felt the weight of survivor’s guilt. Still, I couldn’t help but think it was some sort of sign from above that not only was he rescued from such a horrible attack but, ten years later on that very same day we met.

The thing about signs though is that they’re not always in your favor.

Fate is a beautiful thing until it isn’t anymore. Until you’re standing in the back of the church, prepared to marry your soulmate only to learn he was in a car accident. Until you’re wearing your wedding dress and identifying the body of your fiancée. Until you’re in the bathroom a month later staring at a positive pregnancy test wondering how you’re going to go on.

I’ve spent the last four years, staring into my son’s eyes asking myself why.

Why cheat death once and not twice?

Why make him leave this world never knowing his son?

Why make him leave me when I had so much love to still give him?

Like I said, no reason will ever make it right and time doesn’t heal anything. Fate is a bitter pill to swallow. Sometimes you have to slip that bitch under your tongue and pretend you’re okay.

Sometimes you have to pretend you’re not dying inside.

I’ve become quite the actress over the last few years and keep the crying to a minimum. In truth, there are times when I forget to cry when I’m too busy being a mother, a father, and a guidance counselor to remember my broken heart. Then there are times after my son Chris is safely tucked in bed when I lock myself in the bathroom and mourn the perfect man, my perfect love.

Times like now when I sit behind my desk and stare at the dysfunctional couple in front of me and try not to scream as they bicker over the most senseless and superficial bullshit. So their marriage didn’t work, do they have any idea how lucky they are? They are both alive and able to be part of their daughter’s life. They get to watch her grow and witness life through her eyes. Do they have any fucking idea how precious that is or how many people aren’t that fortunate?

My guess is no.

“If you were paying attention to her we wouldn’t be here,” the father hisses. Dressed in his bunker gear, he scratches the scruff lining his jaw in frustration.

“Don’t you dare point a finger at me,” the mother barks back, pointing a perfectly manicured finger at him. “How was I supposed to know she took a water bottle filled with vodka to school?”

Grabbing my coffee, I roll my eyes as the dean of the school clears his throat.

“Mr. and Mrs. Casale,” he starts.

“It’s Mrs. Liconti,” the mother corrects. “He’s the Casale.”

My eyes dart to the fireman and it’s his turn to roll his eyes. Then his radio goes off and the ex-wife glares at him.

“For crying out loud, shut that thing off.”

Turning my attention to her, I watch as she huffs in disgust and it takes every bit of self-control I have not to throw my coffee in her face. I’m not an angry person—well, not really but, she strikes a nerve with me. Maybe it’s the way she looks at her ex-husbands uniform with disdain. I like to think I always had respect for first responders but after meeting Christopher that respect became unmeasurable. For if that man didn’t save him, I never would’ve met the perfect man and for as short as it may have been, I wouldn’t have experienced that perfect love. All because a selfless man decided to be a hero, I am the proud mother of a beautiful boy and for that, I will always be grateful to any serviceman.

“I can’t,” he sneers, turning down the volume.

“Famous words,” she mutters.

“Mrs. Liconti, Mr. Casale, please focus on the problem at hand. As we discussed on the phone, the school is suspending your daughter for one week due to today’s incident but, I also asked Ms. Moscato here so we could address Gabriella’s grades.”

“What’s wrong with her grades?” Mr. Casale asks, slicing his eyes toward me.

Placing my coffee cup on the desk, I straighten my posture and get my head back in the game. Extending my hand, I address the parents.

“Mr. Casale,” I start.

Sliding his hand in mine, he leans forward and shakes it gently. The expression on his face changes and his eyes narrow curiously as he studies me. An electric current passes from his fingertips to mine and I pull my hand back, diverting my attention to Mrs. Liconti. I offer her my hand as well but she crosses her arms against her chest.

“What’s this about Gabriella’s grades?” she snaps.

Lifting an eyebrow, I drop my hand and open the folder in front of me.

“Well, I’ll just cut to the chase then,” I mutter, raising my chin. “Your daughter is failing all her classes.”

“How is that even possible?” Mr. Casale asks.

“Well for starters, her attendance is poor.”

“That’s a lie,” Mrs. Liconti fires back. “I drive her to the bus stop every morning on my way to work.”

Ignoring her outburst, I remove their daughter’s attendance record from the stack of papers and hand it to Mr. Casale.

“There have been six school days this year, and she’s shown up for one,” I point out. “In order for Gabriella to graduate at the end of the year with her class, she has to make up twenty-seven credits which is nearly impossible if she takes on a full schedule and night school.”

“You didn’t know this was going on?” Mr. Casale asks Mrs. Liconti.

“You saw the same report card as I did.”

“Jesus Christ, Lisa, for once in your fucking life can you take responsibility. She lives with you for crying out loud,” he shouts. “If she was under my roof, I would know whether she was flunking high school and you better believe I’d put a fucking lock on my liquor cabinet.”

“Oh, you think you can do a better job, Jimmy? Go ahead! I’d love to see you try.”

My eyes widen as I watch them stand to their full height and fire insults at one another. It’s not a surprise the daughter is cutting class and drinking. Negative attention is still attention, and it’s obvious Gabriella wants more from her parents than to witness a pissing match between them.

“I will,” Jimmy shouts, turning his eyes back to me. “Where is my daughter?”

I don’t have a chance to answer and neither does the dean because Jimmy turns back to Lisa.

“She’s coming home with me,” he tells her. “And she’s staying with me until this is all sorted out. Fight me on it Lisa and I swear on everything holy, you won’t like the outcome.”

“Are you threatening me?”

“No, I’m promising you,” he says with a curt shake of his head before turning his attention back to me and the dean. “Again, where is my daughter?”

“I will get her,” the dean says, laying a hand on my shoulder. “Ms. Moscato, will you make sure Mr. Casale signs the detention papers?”

“Sure,” I say, taking the papers from his hand. I pull a pen from the drawer and offer it to Gabriella’s father. As he signs the suspension forms, I glance at Mrs. Liconti. Halfway out the door, she hikes her purse over her shoulder and turns to Jimmy.

“This isn’t my fault,” she adds before walking out of the office. The door slams behind her and I draw in a deep breath as I divert my eyes back to Mr. Casale.

“I apologize for that,” he says, handing me back the papers. For a moment I wonder if by that he means Mrs. Liconti or the entire exchange, including his part in it. Putting the cap back on the pen, he narrows his eyes before pointing it at me.

“Have we met before?”

“No,” I reply.

“You look very familiar,” he continues.

“Maybe we’ve passed each other in the halls during parent-teacher conferences,” I suggest. Feeling the intensity of his stare, my hand fumbles as I shove the form into the folder and push back my chair.

“Maybe,” he agrees, pausing for a beat. “Ms. Moscato?”

“Yes?”

“My daughter will graduate with her class,” he says hoarsely, causing me to meet his gaze.

There is a whole lot reflected in his eyes but the thing that shines the most is regret. Maybe I was wrong to judge him and Mrs. Liconti. After all, I don’t know their story or how fate may have derailed the path they were on and I never did understand how love could turn to hate. What I do know for certain is the man standing in front of me loves his daughter and aside from the guilt seeping from his irises there is also determination.

“I hope so,” I reply.

The door to the office opens and the dean returns with Gabriella in tow. Obviously drunk, she sways in the doorway as her eyes find her father.

“Shit,” she mutters.

“Yeah,” he grunts, walking toward her.

“Where’s mommy?”

“She’s sitting this one out, kid. It’s you and me,” he says, taking hold of her elbow. Glancing over his shoulder, his gaze darts from the dean to me.

“Thank you,” he mutters. His stare lingers for a moment before he shakes his head and turns to his daughter. Once they’re out of sight, I turn to the dean.

“Well, that went well,” he says sarcastically.

I don’t respond as I grab the folder from the desk and make my way to my own office. Passing the window, I spot the firetruck outside and watch as Jimmy helps his daughter climb inside. It is quite the sight and for some odd reason, I smile. It’s not forced or fake. It’s a genuine smile that takes me by surprise and causes me to raise my fingertips to my lips.

The firetruck pulls away and I make my way to my desk. The picture of Christopher stares back at me and the smile falls from my lips.

The perfect man.

My perfect love.

A sudden twist of fate.