As everyone departed, I stood alone next to her grave, the rain bathing me, drenching me completely. I didn’t care. I had no place else I wanted to be. A half hour later, only one other person remained. Falene walked up to me. “C’mon, Alan.”
I didn’t move.
She touched my arm. “C’mon, honey. You’re all wet. You’ll get sick.”
I turned and looked at her, my face more drenched by tears than rain. At that moment the emotional dam broke. “I can’t leave her . . .”
Falene wrapped her arms around me and pulled me into her. She held me, in the rain. She just said over and over, “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”
I don’t know how long we were there. An eternity. But when I could cry no more, I looked down into her eyes. She, too, was crying. “Come back with me, please.” She took my hand. “I’ll take care of you.”
She led me to her car, then opened the passenger door, and I got in. She climbed in the other side, reached over me, and pulled my seatbelt across my chest. She drove me to her apartment. Neither of us spoke on the way.
CHAPTER
Nineteen
It is in the dark times that the light of friendship shines brightest.
Alan Christoffersen’s diary
When we arrived at her apartment complex, Falene pulled in under a carport, then walked around her car, and opened my door. Her building was four stories high, and her apartment was on the ground level, a half flight down. She unlocked the door and pushed it open. “Go on in,” she said.
The small apartment was dark, the blinds half drawn with only a little light coming through their openings. The room smelled like coffee grounds.
Falene helped me off with my coat, laid it over the back of a chair, then took off her own. She turned on a light, then took my hand and led me over to her couch, a small curved sofa with velvet upholstery. “I’ll get you some hot tea. Is it warm enough in here for you?”
I nodded even though I hadn’t even thought about it. I wasn’t sure why I was there or why she had brought me to her home. My experience with models was that they were remarkably self-absorbed. Falene was different. At the agency, Falene had always taken care of me, but I assumed it was because she got paid for it. It had never occurred to me that she really was nurturing.
Falene went back into her bedroom, then came back out when the teakettle began to scream. She had changed into jeans and a sweater. She handed me a towel, then she took the kettle from the heat and poured my cup.
“I hope you like herbal tea. This is orange peppermint. I think it will help soothe you. Would you like sugar?”
I nodded.
She put in a teaspoonful and stirred it. She brought me the cup then sat down next to me. For a moment neither of us spoke. Then I said, “You’re the only friend I have.”
She frowned. “No. You have a lot of friends.”
“No, I don’t. Just McKale. She was all I wanted.” I took a sip of the tea then set the cup down. “Why have you been so good to me?”
She smiled sadly. “Because you are a wonderful man.” She looked down. “I know you don’t know very much about me. But when I came to work at Madgic, I didn’t really think I was going to stay for long. Kyle talked me into coming, that’s what Kyle does, he talks people into things, but I didn’t feel like I belonged. And I didn’t trust him. I trusted you almost immediately. You made me feel important. At the time I was in a dead-end relationship.”
“Carl,” I said.
She flinched at his name. “He just used me. And the thing is, some part of me was okay with that. I just thought that was how all men treated women.” She looked at me with a pained expression. “Then I met you. No matter how busy you were, you would always take McKale’s calls. And even when you were stressed, or something bad had happened, you were always so gentle with her. When she came down to the agency, you treated her like a queen. At first I didn’t believe it could be real. I had never seen a man treat a woman like that, unless he wanted something from her. You were so good to her. You showed me what real love is.
“Do you remember that conversation we had when we were getting ready for the Denver convention?”
“Which one?” I asked.
“You said, ‘You can tell a lot about a man by watching how he treats those he doesn’t have to be nice to.’ I knew you didn’t just make that up. I remember that time after the Coiffeur shoot when that waitress knocked a Coke over on you. Carl would have screamed at her until she cried. You weren’t happy about it, but you still treated her with respect. I realized I had been settling for mud when there are diamonds out there. You’re the reason I dumped Carl, and it’s the best thing I’ve ever done. You saved me from myself.”
I didn’t say anything. She took my hand.
“McKale once told me that you were the air she breathed. I thought that was the sweetest thing I had ever heard.” She looked at me, then said, “Come here.” I lay my head on her shoulder, and she wrapped her arms around me. “I’m so sorry, my friend. I wish I could take away your hurt.” She held me until I stopped crying. Then she put a pillow down. “Just rest for a moment.”
It was the last thing I remembered Falene saying before I fell asleep.
It was a little after eight when I woke the next morning. I had fallen asleep on the couch, and Falene had taken off my shoes and laid a wool blanket over me. There was a scrawled note on the coffee table.
Alan, I had to go on a photo shoot. I had a friend take me over to the cemetery to get your van. It’s parked downstairs. Your keys are on the table. I’ll be back around two. Make yourself at home. There’s coffee in the pot and some Pop-Tarts. (I know you like those.) If you need to go, I understand. Please, please, please call me. I care about you.
Love,
Falene
I put my shoes on then lifted my keys from the table. I wrote “Thank you” over her note. Then I drove home.
CHAPTER
Twenty
There is a moment in all acts when there is no turning back: the step over the cliff, the finger committing to the trigger and the hammer falling, the bullet erupting from the chamber, unstoppable . . .
Alan Christoffersen’s diary
Returning to an empty house was harder than I thought it would be. Could be. It seemed the pain increased as I got closer. Two blocks from the house, I almost hyperventilated. I got mad at myself. “Pull yourself together, man.”
My father had already gone home. He left a note for me on the kitchen table. It just read: “Eight o’clock flight. Call when you can.”
I walked through the house, not sure what I was supposed to do. Not that there weren’t things to do. The house was a disaster. There were dishes in the sink, overflowing clothes hampers, fast-food sacks and wrappers on the counters. There were still piles of unopened mail and newspapers inside the door.
At first I lay down, but I couldn’t find relief, so I set to washing clothes. As I lifted one of McKale’s undershirts, I held it against my face. I could still smell her.
That afternoon the postman came to my door. He held a clipboard and a registered letter.
“You need to sign for this,” he said.
“What is it?”
“Registered mail. I just need your signature saying you received it. Right here.” He pointed to a short line. I signed so he’d leave. I shut the door, then opened the envelope. It was a notice from the bank informing me that my house has been foreclosed on and would go up for auction next Thursday. I dropped the letter on the ground. I honestly didn’t care. I didn’t care about anything. The world had already caved in on me; what did it matter if another brick or two fell?
I didn’t eat that night. The idea of putting food in my mouth made me want to gag. Falene called around eight, but I couldn’t answer the phone. Not even for her. Grief had settled around me like smog. By nightfall, my heart had become a boxing match, and there were two men inside of me contending for the possession of my future.
Fighting
out of the blue corner, in white trunks, is LIFE. And in the red corner, wearing solid black trunks, is DEATH.
The fight had begun even before I was aware of it. Probably the moment I first saw McKale in her hospital bed.
After nine rounds, DEATH has gained the upper hand, showing LIFE no mercy. Constant jabs have left LIFE reeling. LIFE’s no longer the cocky prize-belt winner who weeks before paraded around as champ. LIFE has lost his legs. He’s on the ropes. DEATH senses victory and moves in for the kill. He’s relentless, landing one punch after another. It’s painful to watch, folks. LIFE is taking a beating, too tired and dazed to even block the blows.
The crowd senses blood and roars. They don’t care who wins, they just want a good fight.
At 2:00 A.M. the battle was in its final rounds. I was sitting at the kitchen table, holding two open bottles of McKale’s unused prescriptions—oxycodone and codeine—enough of each to end the fight. On the table in front of me was something to wash them down—an open bottle of Jack Daniel’s.
Ironically, in the early months of my advertising agency, I had done some pro-bono work for the Suicide Prevention Association of Seattle. The words I wrote for their radio commercial still resonated with me:
Suicide—a permanent solution to a temporary problem.
A catchy slogan, but the words rang hollow to me. There was nothing temporary about McKale’s death. I had lost everything. My business, my cars, my home, and, most of all, my love. There was nothing left—no reason to live except the natural human aversion to death. But even that was waning. I could feel it being pushed out by overwhelming pain, despair, and anger. Anger at life. Anger at God. Most of all anger at myself.
I looked at the pills. What was I waiting for? It was time to get on with it. Time to get this show on the road. I poured the pills into my hand.
I was about to cross the point of no return, when something happened. Something unlike anything I’d experienced before. Something I believe came from God—or part of His world.
When I was a child, my mother taught me about God. My mother was a big fan—even as she was dying. Especially as she was dying. She would pray, not as some do, repeating a script or chant, or shouting out to an empty universe, but as if He were actually in the same room. There were times, during her prayers, that I opened my eyes and looked around to see who she was talking to.
At that very moment, a fraction before I crossed the line, someone spoke to me. I don’t know if the words were audible, as they seemed to come both from and to my mind, but they came with an authority far greater than my own mind could muster. Just six words. Six words that stopped me cold.
Life is not yours to take.
My first reaction was to look around to see who had spoken. When I realized I was truly alone, I dropped the pills on the ground. Then another voice came to me. A softer voice. The voice of my love.
“Live.”
For the first time, I fully understood the promise McKale had asked me to make. She knew me. She knew I wouldn’t want to live without her.
I fell to my knees and began to cry. I don’t remember what happened after that. I don’t remember a thing.
CHAPTER
Twenty-one
They have not taken my home, just the brick and mortar that once housed it.
Alan Christoffersen’s diary
I woke the next morning to the sound of someone opening my door. The house was dark. Even though the sun had risen, the skies were a gray ceiling, typical for this time of year. At least it was no longer raining.
The door opened before I could get up. A man, well-dressed in a gray wool suit with a white shirt and a crimson tie, walked into my foyer, followed by two older women. They flipped on the lights.
It was one of the women who saw me first. “Oh, my.”
The other two turned and looked at me as I stumbled to my feet. There I was, disheveled and unshaven, a bottle of booze on the table and pills scattered on the floor. The women looked at me fearfully.
“Excuse me,” the man said, sounding more annoyed than sorry, “we were told the home was vacant.”
“It’s not,” I said.
“Clearly.” The man reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a business card. He stepped toward me, offering his card. “I’m Gordon McBride, from Pacific Bank. You are aware that the home has been foreclosed on.”
I didn’t take the card. “You don’t waste much time, do you?”
He looked uncomfortable. “You know what they say, ‘Time is money.’ ”
“It’s not.”
“We can come back later,” one of the women said.
“No, it’s all right,” I said. “Help yourself. I’m still getting my things. The house is a mess.”
They walked into the living room. I bent down and scooped the pills back into their bottles, then went to my bedroom as they toured the rest of the house. I showered and dressed. Before they left, Mr. McBride found me. “When are you moving out?”
I felt like a squatter in my own home. Technically I guess I was. “Soon,” I replied. “Real soon.”
I meant what I said about leaving. I couldn’t wait to get out. Without McKale, this was no longer my home. I felt no more connected to this place than the public library. Now that it had officially been claimed by others, it was time for me to go. The only question was where?
CHAPTER
Twenty-two
I believe that in spite of the chains we bind ourselves with, there’s a primordial section of the human psyche that still yearns to roam free.
Alan Christoffersen’s diary
The first spark of the idea came to me as I watched the banker back his silver Audi out of my driveway. At that moment, one of my elderly neighbors walked by—Mr. Jorgensen from three houses down. Mr. Jorgensen was wearing a polyester baby-blue jacket and straw hat and was leaning against a cane. He had Parkinson’s and was shaking as he walked. I don’t know why seeing him triggered what it did—who knows where ideas come from? But at that moment it was clear to me what I had to do. Perhaps the only thing left for me to do. I needed to walk far away.
In retrospect that moment wasn’t really the first time the thought of walking long distance had crossed my mind. When I was fifteen I read a book about a guy who walked across America, and ever since then I had secretly wanted to follow in his steps. Literally.
I don’t think I’m alone in this fantasy. I believe that in spite of the chains we bind ourselves with, there’s a primordial section of the human psyche that is still nomadic and still yearns to roam free. We see evidence of this in the walkabouts of the Australian aborigines and the Spirit Walk of the native Americans. We also see it cautiously peeking out its head in our own culture, surfacing in our literature and music. From Thoreau to Steinbeck to Kerouac—each generation believes they have discovered the dream anew.
But it’s not new. Every generation has dreamed of roaming. Deep in our hearts everyone wants to walk free.
Maybe not everybody. When I told McKale about my secret desire she said, “Not me. I’d rather fly.”
“But then you’d miss everything,” I said.
“Not everything. Just the boring stuff.”
“No, the real stuff. The real America. The little towns with names like Chicken Gristle and Beaverdale.”
“Right,” she said. “The boring stuff.”
I pressed on. “You mean to tell me that you really have never wanted to just pack up and start walking?”
“Never. But you hang on to that dream, you crazy old coot.”
A quote from one of my favorite comedians came to mind: “Anyplace is within walking distance if you have the time.”
That’s all I had left. Time. Far more of it than I wanted. I retrieved the Rand McNally road atlas from my den, opened it to a map of the continental U.S. and spread it out on the kitchen table. I studied it for a moment, then I went through the kitchen drawers looking for string. The closest thing I could find was a package of shoelaces. I t
ore the package open and put the plastic tip of one end of a shoelace on the city of Bellevue, then stretched the shoelace to the opposite side of the map, moving it up and down the east coast to determine the furthest point reachable by foot. Key West, Florida. Key West was as far as I could go from where I stood. That was where I was going to walk. An hour later I called Falene.
She was relieved to hear from me. “Are you all right?”
“Yeah. I’m sorry I haven’t called.”
“It’s okay. I’ve just been so worried.”
“I need to ask you a favor.”
“Anything.”
“This is a big one. I need you to shut everything down. Sell everything at the agency, the furniture, computers, everything. Put it on eBay or Craigslist. I’ll text you a bank account number to deposit whatever you bring in from it.”
“What about your personal things?”
“I don’t care. Keep whatever you want. Throw the rest away.”
“What about your awards?”
The awards. My golden idols. “Throw them away.”
“What?”
“Also, there are the things in my home. The furniture.”
“But you need it.”
“Not anymore. The bank foreclosed on my house.”
Falene groaned.
“There’s more than a hundred thousand dollars of furniture and junk in here. I guess put it all on eBay or something.”
“My aunt owns a furniture consignment store,” Falene said. “They can send a truck over.”
“Great. Return the van to the leasing company.” I paused. “And there’s Cinnamon . . .” Cinnamon was McKale’s horse. “Just see if the livery owner wants her.”
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