“Bet he’s amazing in other ways, too,” she snuck in, thinking I wouldn’t notice.
“Mother!”
“Sorry, I had to,” she laughed. You would think that at her age, she would mellow out in the inappropriate comments department. In actuality, I think she only got worse with age.
“Enough,” I yelled. Any guilt I had felt for keeping this secret dissipated.
“Well, bring him to dinner sometime soon, okay?” she added. When hell freezes over, I thought to myself.
“I have this great recipe for Tahitian pork chops. Oh, maybe I can make some triple chocolate cheesecake. And I’ll have your father dig out that fondue fountain…” She hadn’t changed an ounce. She was still the same, over-the-top woman she’d always been. After about five more minutes of her exploring the possibilities of this new relationship and what it could potentially mean for her Sunday night dinner, she finally agreed to hang up the phone. She promised she would be calling me soon to hear more details about John and to confirm our dinner plans. After a lot of secret eye rolling, I finally got off the phone. Sometimes secrets were okay, I decided all too late. I hoped John liked adventure because dinner with my mother was always a journey. I was worried it would end in calamitous disaster. I could always drown myself in the fondue fountain, I supposed, if things got too out of control. Or claim I was adopted.
I only had a week to ponder the possibilities because that was all my mother would allow me to keep John from her. When the incessant phone calls became too much, I begrudgingly agreed to dinner plans. I gave John a solid, one-hour conversation prepping him for the wacky woman who was about to engulf him. He smirked the entire time, telling me it would be fine. “You haven’t met this woman yet. Trust me, she could be a deal breaker,” I mumbled. He kissed me on the cheek, told me to stop worrying, and said that he couldn’t wait for the Tahitian pork chops. I sighed in frustration, fearing the worst.
On the night of D-day, I was over-the-top nervous, but John was, as usual, relaxed and collected. He greeted my mother at the door with a bouquet of flowers, a truly winning choice. Naturally, my mother fell in love with him from the moment she took the flowers, shouting at my dad to find the vase because a handsome young man had finally appreciated her enough to get her flowers and didn’t he get the hint. She rated John’s looks as astoundingly gorgeous, meaning he had her approval. John seemed to be open to my mother’s craziness as well. He and my dad actually had a lot to talk about, too, with both of them into classic cars. It couldn’t have gone better, to my complete and utter relief.
Over the next few months, John and I spent as much time together as physically possible. We learned about each other, not able to take in enough information to quench our thirsts. It seemed secrets were just pointless between us. I knew there was nothing he could tell me that would make me like him any less, and I felt the need to be honest with him about everything. I felt the need to just be myself. Thus, I told him about Corbin two months after we met.
As with everything, John was overly understanding. He was even sympathetic. Not that John didn’t come with his own baggage. He had been married right out of high school. She couldn’t stand not being his priority, feeling as if his career came first, which, in many ways, it did. You don’t marry an aspiring doctor thinking you’re going to be first. I could tell there was still some pain from that situation, pain not unlike mine. Yet, with decades passing, we were both ready to start something new.
Physically, the chemistry was strong, especially in those first few months. I had been alone for some time. I suspected John had been, too. And so we were starved. Starved for love, starved for passion, and above all, starved for each other.
Four months after we first met, John got down on one knee at the bookstore’s café. I was surprised but not shocked. Things between John and I were natural. It just seemed to fit, to make sense. I beamed and said yes without a second’s hesitation. The servers who had become like family clapped in a circle around us while other regular customers cheered. As I leapt into his arms with a one carat diamond now perched on my ring finger, I couldn’t help but think about how smooth the whole thing had been. I finally had gotten my movie star proposal, complete with a Chai tea and an audience. It just wasn’t with the man I had originally hoped for.
* * * *
Hank flips and flops on the couch beside me, drawing me back to the present. I glance again at that wedding picture. Those smiles were as true as smiles could be. We had been thrilled to be joined at that tranquil ceremony, the sun grazing the horizon as we said our “I-dos.” We were electrified that we had finally found companions, that our love lives hadn’t remained empty through old age. I had found John at a time when I needed him most. He had reawakened me to life. I didn’t just aim to exist with John in my world. I wanted to grab life and run. He had stirred my passions and my personality, roused it from the hollow inside of me. For that I would always be grateful.
Marriage with John is as easy as our dating life had been. Even though he works a lot, he always knows what I need and when. He is my best friend. I can’t imagine not having him by my side, and I will always love him. Without him, who knows where my life would have gone, if anywhere at all.
Nonetheless, love is a funny thing. More specifically, second loves are a funny thing. For no matter how special that second or third or even fourth love is, no matter how much you can’t live without him, the first one always creeps in. It’s always when I least expect it. We’ll be out to dinner and John will start talking about camping as a kid, and he’ll creep in. I’ll picture our tree in the woods and all of the moments that happened there. Or at Christmas time, I’ll be sitting beside John at midnight Mass when the twinkling lights around the manger scene will catch my eye, and I’ll go back to that barn where Corbin and I shared those special nights. No matter how much John fills my life and my heart, or how many years separate us as time marches on, Corbin always holds a place in my life. My relationship with John is always haunted by glimmers of Corbin. My heart is never completely my own.
I reach for the remote on the coffee table, hoping to find mindless garbage to again clutter my mind. Big mistake. I should have known that he would be plastered on every channel, the star of countless news shows.
I try to turn the channel but find that I physically can’t. As the news anchor quickly divulges the basics about his release, I hear her refer to “the” date—the date that changed my life and Corbin’s. The date that would haunt me every year as it passed by without him. The date that had sucked the life right out of me, turning me into a walking corpse, waiting, wishing, to die.
Chapter Twenty: Love Preserved
Corbin
The car screeches as it slows around the familiar bend. My dad eases up on the gas as we approach the house that stirs my youth within me. Has it been decades since I’ve been home?
As he parks in the driveway, I am tempted to jump out of the car and leap for joy at this familiar sight. Instead, I sit for a long minute, just staring at the structure that seems so recognizable yet so foreign at the same time.
When I first went into prison, I imagined what it would be like to run into this home, ransack the kitchen, and curl up in my own bed. I dreamt of this home so vividly that I ached for it to be true. I would have given anything to wake up in that bed, to walk down those familiar stairs in search of a pastry or a glass of milk. As the months turned into years and my hopes diminished to dust, this place seemed like a figment of my imagination. I thought I would never step foot on the plush carpet in the foyer or see those familiar baby photos hanging in the living room. Concrete and fluorescent lights had replaced the cozy décor of this home in my mind. Yet, here I was. Miracles do happen, I guess. Although, with miracles comes a lot of hell on earth.
I grab my bundle of prison belongings from the backseat to take into the house. I consider throwing the entire bag on the curb by the trash can in order to eliminate any remnants of that horrible time in my life, y
et I cannot bring myself to do it. After all, no matter how atrocious that part of my life was, it was in fact my life. What other memories or belongings do I have left? I sling the bag over my shoulder, reminiscent of a broken-down Santa Clause. As my dad hobbles out of the car, he walks near me at the front. He shakily puts a hand on my shoulder.
“It’s good to have you home, son.”
I silently smile at him, truly believing he is thankful to have me back.
I follow my dad through the front door, oddly feeling like a stranger. How do I act in this alien world? How do I tread these waters? Simple things everyone takes for granted have become complex arrangements for me. I try to push my anxiety aside as I walk over that threshold into a new life that was once my own.
My dad has changed few things since I was last here. Those familiar lamps from my grandmother’s house still flank both sides of the tan, reclining couch. I notice he has upgraded to a flat-screen television, complete with a DVD player. All of the photographs, the pictures, and the décor, which were always miniscule in amount due to the circumstances of our move, are in exactly the same places. I stand in the living room, glancing awkwardly at my father. Should I ask about it? How do I go about it? Will it seem too assuming?
My dad rambles nervously. “I didn’t change a thing in your room, if you’re wondering. It’s the same as when you left. We can update it once you get settled in. Probably will need a few things, I’m assuming. We can go to the store tomorrow if you want. Why don’t you go put your stuff down and I’ll order a pizza. Sound okay?” As weird as this is for me, it must also be hard for him. He is used to living alone, not having to worry about another person’s wants or opinions. It must also be troublesome for his own son to have become a practical stranger. It’s not much different than inviting a person in off the street. We have a lot of catching up to do, yet we don’t want to rush anything. The situation is overwhelming by itself. I thank him, though, say that pizza would be wonderful, and head up the familiar stairs to my room.
Most middle-aged men would cringe at the prospect of living at home with their parents, residing in the room of their teenage years. Certainly, living here is not my ultimate dream or plan. All things considered, though, as I open the door to my room, I am filled with a sense of peace. I feel at home, I feel free. To have your own room is something many take for granted, but I will not. If nothing else, my time in prison has put a lot into perspective as far as priorities and appreciation.
My dad told the truth—he hasn’t changed anything. My deodorant still sits in the same position on my messy dresser beside a photograph of Henry, who died decades ago without ever knowing what happened to me. My stomach sinks at the thought. My books, movies, and clothes are all still strewn about the room. My bed has the same sheets, the same comforter, the same pillows. As I look at the mess from my teenage years, I’m filled with a deep sense of appreciation for my father’s love. Growing up, I had never seen him as a loving, compassionate father. True, he never abused me and always made sure I had whatever I needed. But he wasn’t the kind of dad who would tuck me into bed and read me a bedtime story. He didn’t hug and kiss me or tell me he loved me. However, looking at the museum-like state of my room, I quickly realize how much I meant to him. This man stood beside me even when everyone else in my life quickly exited, discrediting my character and my story because of a single night. As the masses herded out of the picture, my dad faithfully stood by me. He was at every hearing, every motion, every sentencing, and every appeal. He fought for me when fighting seemed pointless. Most of all, as evidenced by this room, he never gave up on the hope that I would return. He loved me. He might not tell me these words directly, but he did something even greater—he showed me his love through his selfless, dedicated actions.
I take a seat on the bed, thinking about the last time I sat here, when I was still a free man. I had a life ahead of me. I had big dreams about the Art Institute and a successful career that I loved. I was getting ready for graduation and the next phase in my life, in our lives together.
Glancing at the nightstand, I see a note from a lifetime ago. I glance at it, although I still remember what it says.
Pick up flowers
Pick up tux
Music
Confirm reservations
Deliver dress
Ring!
It was the list of tasks of a nervous boy about to do the task of a man. It was a list that would never be fulfilled and all but forgotten. It was a list that was cursed from the moment I put the pen to the paper, but I could only know that in hindsight. At the time, excitement pulsed through my veins into the pen as I wrote what I thought would be a momentous list for a night I would never forget. Instead, this list became a mockery of a future that would never happen, of a surprise that would never have the chance to unfold.
I slide the piece of paper through my fingers, thinking about the boy who wrote this list and how different he was from the man who sits here now. In reality, the boy who wrote the list and the boy he was a few hours later were two completely different entities. It was funny how the course of a few events could change one’s entire life, could alter his entire being in such an irrevocable way that he would be almost unrecognizable. Yet here I am, a different being than the creature who thought this list would be accomplished and the world never hurt good people.
Chapter Twenty-One: The Red Dress
Emma
Memories
June 5, 1985
Like two initials joined by a heart on the bark of a tree, the date was forever carved into my being.
It was originally supposed to be a memorable day for positive reasons. It had been the last day of classes in my senior year. Our graduation ceremony was to be held the following evening at the football stadium. We would walk across that stage and say goodbye to our friends, our hometown, and our memories, in order to walk toward the new horizon.
But the next day, while our peers donned the traditional graduation garb, we would don feelings of hopelessness, confusion, and betrayal.
* * * *
Walking into my bedroom to put down my backpack for the final time, I noticed a note on my bed. I threw the backpack on the floor, rushing to read what it said.
Look in your closet. You’ll find something special. I’ll pick you up at 5:00. No barns tonight. It’s about time we celebrate…in style.
Love, Me
I could tell who the “me” was immediately. Besides the love part, the handwriting was so horrific that I would know it was Corbin regardless. Even though I hated surprises, I felt a sudden pang of excitement and expectancy. Then I realized that my mom had to be involved…again. How else would Corbin have gotten all of this in my room while he was at school? Pushing back surfacing fears, I rushed to the closet and hurled the door open. Hanging dead-center on the rack of clothes, between my grungy T-shirts and sweatpants, was a fire-engine-red dress, sultry in every sense of the word.
This was not the kind of dress I would ever be caught buying.
The neckline plunged gracefully into a V, while the length was certainly shorter than I would ever deem appropriate. Its glossy satin fabric suggested that it would cling in all the right places, while seed-like beads grazed the bodice in intricate patterns. It was, in a word, fabulous. I couldn’t even imagine what the night would hold for us. I rushed back downstairs to the kitchen to grab a drink, when I noticed another note on the table along with a camera.
Dad and I went out for dinner and a movie. Have a great time tonight, honnie! You deserve it. Lots of Love.
PS: take a million pictures, or else.
What was up with this note thing? I grabbed a soda off the refrigerator shelf, clicking it open with my fingernail. Slurping down the drink in a hurry, I decided that I should probably put a little extra effort into my hair and makeup. I didn’t want to look like a child playing dress-up, after all. With that, I headed to the shower, feeling like I didn’t have a moment to waste. I spent extra time lather
ing, smoothing, shaving, and moisturizing. By the looks of the dress, it seemed like the night would be magical.
For the next two hours, I primped, plucked, polished, dusted, twisted, curled, sprayed, and coated. It was more time than I had spent on my appearance in the past two weeks. Although I would never admit it, I silently wished that my mom was home to help me master the eye makeup that she was unarguably awesome at applying. Nonetheless, I maneuvered through more makeup than I ever used, doing my best to look sophisticated. All of the extra time was worth it, though. When I was finished, I truly felt beautiful and worthy of the slinky dress waiting for me to step into.
It was 4:45, so I decided to slither into the dress. I dug out my best push-up bra—I needed it so that the plunging neckline had something to plunge to—and squirmed into the satiny fabric, careful to avoid ripping the dress. After I gracelessly wrangled into the dress and somehow twisted and turned enough to zip it up, I glanced in the mirror at the final product. I had to admit that it highlighted my waist and my figure, although I had to constantly pull down on the hem that was creeping up my thigh like a vine.
And then I waited. I touched up my lip gloss, checked myself in the mirror a few times. I snapped a few candid, close-ups with the camera. I glanced at the clock. It was 5:01. I dug out my best diamond stud earrings and put them in. Then, I decided to wear my diamond bracelet, too. Two minutes passed. Then ten. Soon it was 5:30. Where the hell was he? I figured something must have gone awry with his plan or he was fixing some small detail. I sat like a statue on the couch, afraid to move and cause a bead of sweat to drip down my face.
By six o’clock, fear had wiped away any anger that was permeating my thoughts. During all of our years together, Corbin had never been late for a date, not once. Maybe his truck broke down or he got a flat tire. I picked up the phone in the kitchen and dialed the memorized digits.
Voice of Innocence: A Coming-Of-Age Sweet Romance Page 16