Impulses

by Brock, V. L.

  Sinking my hand into my inner breast pocket, I retrieve my wallet. “We went to Yosemite last weekend.” I remove the cropped-photograph from the leather encasement, and hand it to her.

  My mom stares at it intently, her expression overpowering. There are no words to describe how glowing she looks at this moment. “She is very beautiful, Hayden. You look so happy together.”

  “We are. We have our insecurities––obviously, but together…we are learning to get passed them.”

  With apparent distraction she traces her finger over the rainbow that fades into the mist of the waterfall behind us.

  “People say you find treasure at the end of the rainbow,” she darts her tongue across her lips and I wait patiently for to finish. “What treasure is more sought after, than love?”

  I reposition myself against the wooden slabs of the bench. My mother seemingly deep in thought while she continues to gape at the photo.

  “I have more on my cell-phone.” I tap down at my breast and pants pockets. I sigh, click my tongue against the roof of my mouth and then shake my head in annoyance. “I left it in the car. I’m going to have to show you next time.”

  “It’s okay; there will be plenty of time. I’m glad to see you have started hiking again.” She stretches her arm and I seize the photo from between her fingers.

  “I can concentrate more with, Samantha. She really has been my light at the end of the tunnel, Mom. Everything makes…sense. I can’t imagine a day ensuing without seeing her, or hearing her voice.” My smile shrinks as my organs are drowned in concrete. I glance down at my laced fingers and dread finds its way into my vacant tone. “It’s too painful for me to even contemplate losing her.”

  The thought of Samantha not being in my life is like waking up with no sun, powerless to breathe in the light and fresh air, and having to tolerate the stifling, stale form of humidity. That is what life without her would revert to. I’ve already been there and experienced it; I never thought I would triumph over it, and I wouldn’t have, had it not been for Samantha.

  “So, when am I going to have the pleasure of meeting the young woman who has given me back my son?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t want to inundate her with…” I gesture at our peaceful surroundings and shake my head, searching for the correct way to express myself, “all of this, family stuff.”

  “Have you not talked to her…about the past?”

  My arm warms as she glides her hand along it. I shake my head.

  It’s not something one can just blurt out after dinner. Well, I could, if I wanted her to look down on me in revulsion and disappointment. Seized by worry and trepidation, my stomach prepares to orbital launch as I contemplate how Samantha may no longer recognize the confident man that embraces her, kisses her, who pulls her close at night when she is unsettled and painfully rasping that she’s sorry, while deep in sleep…but a reduced, failed man. The humiliating aspect of my years of travail is something that I never wanted to speak of again, something that I never wanted to relive––I relive it enough subconsciously.

  “I don’t want her pity, Mother.”

  “Oh, Hayden…” she sighs and her shoulders slouch, “it is not pity, it is sympathy, and compassion.” Her mouth forms a firm-set line, disappointment reflected in her eyes as I have once again berated myself in her presence.

  I glance away, unwilling to stare at the same expression that my father had portrayed for so long before his last day…on his final day.

  “How about Christmas?” her voice is as smooth as warm caramel.

  I lift my head to look her in the eye. Bemused at the sudden change of topic, I pull my eyebrows in, feeling the skin on my forehead crease with the gesture.

  “You and Samantha could come to the house on Christmas. Oh, Hayden, it would be lovely, we could have a proper holiday this year.” She’s practically pleading, and looks as though she is suppressing the urge to bounce up and down like a child begging for a puppy.

  I snigger at her response.

  “We will see. I’ll let you know.” And her arms are immediately wrapped around my neck, pulling me down into a motherly embrace.

  “Dana, it is nearly 4:00 p.m.” I hear Cassandra’s velvet, throaty voice reverberate from my right side. My mother releases her arms from around my neck and we both glance up in unison at the tanned, mid-forties––but definitely wouldn’t assume it––woman beside the arm of the bench.

  “Thank you, Cassandra,” Mother purrs.

  Cassandra nods dutifully, before focusing on an invisible spot on her black, patent, court shoes.

  Standing, I offer my hand to aid my mother in renouncing the left side of the rigid bench. I tower over her five-foot two-inch frame.

  She frames my face with her hands and cocks her head to the right.

  “There is no gift that gives a mother as much pleasure, than knowing that her child is happy. Thank you, Hayden, for taking the time to come here today. Apologize to Samantha for me…for keeping you away from your plans,” she apologizes, narrowing her eyes, which adds further depth to her wrinkles. I idly think back to when Samantha had point out about my wrinkles and offer a wry smile.

  “I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.”

  She slips her hand away from my face, tapping my cheek twice before pulling away completely.

  “Are you going to make a move, too?”

  “No, I am going to stay with him a little while longer.”

  Kissing my mother on the cheek goodbye, I sink back down onto the oak pew.

  She turns to face the headstone, whispering, “Happy Birthday Leo. I love you with all my heart. Keep our son safe,” before turning back to me and flashes a reserved grin. She then walks away into the distance, with Cassandra’s arm hung around her shoulders, offering her best friend and employer the support, and tenderness that she needs.

  I sit for what seems like a lifetime talking to my dad, asking for forgiveness for all of the matters and incidents which cause my regrets. I tell him that I have found the one, someone who feels for me the exact way that I feel for her, and that she is the complete opposite of Addison. Samantha would never hurt me and degraded me the way in which Addison had the pleasure of doing for so long. He would have adored Samantha.

  I watch the sun sink in the sky, transforming the heavens from a blank canvas into a stunning creation of aquamarines, burnish-orange, lilacs and pinks as they blend together to form a unique, tranquil view along the horizon. A light breeze wavers past making the last of the leaves rustle from their branches, some snapping away from the cold bark of the hundred year old trees, and spiral wistfully to their fate.

  I glance down at my watch, 6:45 p.m.

  Pushing myself up from the oak slabs, I stretch out my muscles. My ass feels unsurprisingly numb. I think idly about having cushions for that pew, to save the aftermath of sitting on it for hours at a time.

  I say my goodbyes to my father before leaving him, and the chilly, darkening cemetery behind.

  The leather cracks and squeaks as I sink back into the driver’s seat. Inclining my head back against the rest, I close my eyes and breathe in a refreshing, cool breath. Today has been an emotional rollercoaster, full of sadness, grief, affection, and the liberation of a now voiced hidden love…I shake my head and feel the left side of my mouth lift; I love her.

  With my head lingering against the icy material, I peek down at the armrest to my right, and retrieve my cell. Reluctant to bare weight upon my neck, I lazily lift the phone up to the periphery of my vision and gently sweep my finger from the top to the bottom of the screen to unlock it.

  I’m overcome with apprehension, my blood running cold, my stomach contorting and my heart is speared with a shard of ice. I pull my head away from the headrest and stare at the screen intently.

  Thirteen missed calls from Samantha?

  Fear and dread braids its way through my body, and surfs upon the adrenaline that is sweeping through my veins. A montage plays like a slides
how in my mind. Is she okay? Is she hurt? Has there been an accident? Is she in the hospital? Was she ringing me for help? Dammit. I am inundated with guilt and only the bitter taste and burning of the bile rising up to my throat recoups my ability to take control.

  I press the button to return her call, hoping and praying to a higher power that no harm has come to her.

  “Hayden!” a voice barks down the earpiece on the fourth ring.

  “Jessie?” my voice curls with bemusement, my facial expression a twin of my voice. “Where’s, Samantha? I have had––”

  “Where the fucking Hell was you? Samantha had been going out of her Goddamn mind.” Jessie fumes, but with the understanding that she is bolstering and defending her best friend, I allow her to finish. “You can’t rain check on your girlfriend for some appointment, tell her that she can ring you whenever she wants and you will answer…and then not fucking answer, my God, Hayden.”

  “I had a matter I had to attend to in Oakland, Jessie. I accidently left my phone in the car. Do you really think that I would put Samantha through that much stress, if I knew I could avoid it?” I murmur with upwelling remorse.

  Closing my eyes, I pinch the bridge of my nose. I really wish I could have a do-over today. Things have gone from bad, to liberation and joy, to guilt and right now, I’m sailing without a paddle right into Shit Street.

  “I’m going to let you in on something here, Hayden, and you had better be listening damn fucking good, understand,” she seethes. I’ve never heard her curse this much, and I can’t say I blame her. “I encouraged Samantha to take the risk with you, she was adamant if you enter a relationship with a man, then you are asking for trouble.

  “I told you, that very first day you came to the apartment to make sure she was safe after you two slept together, that she has certain issues, and that you have to show her patience and persevere. You have which has been a huge wake up call to Samantha. I can’t remember the last time she was so happy, and contented…” She pauses before resuming in a more palliative tone. “Today, you broke a level of trust that she managed to build up and yield for you, do you know how much of a hard limit that is for, Sammy? She didn’t trust any male. The first time in five years, Hayden, she had cried herself to sleep, over a man. She didn’t have to experience these emotions before you; she locked them up and allowed them to sink into the deepest, darkest rifts that she could.”

  I gasp, all air debarred from my lungs, my chest tightens, and tears prick the back of my eyes as I am shrouded by sympathy, empathy, guilt. I know those feelings all, too, well––the need to abandon emotions, unable to tolerate the pain and distress that they cause any longer, so you withdraw from them entirely.

  “Jessie…I––”

  “Hayden, I was so absorbed with finding the most irrefutable way to kick Samantha into gear and get her to stand back and analyze her way of living and coping, that I found myself boosting you up to her, giving her hope.” There’s another long pause. “But then you go and do this. And now we are back at the first mother-fucking hurdle.” I hear her flop and the recognizable noise of cracking leather as she sinks into the couch. I can imagine her fisting her hands into her hair.

  I know better than anybody that it takes time to earn trust and only a second to break it, but I cannot allow her to slip away from me. I at least need the chance to explain.

  “Jessie, please, I need to talk with her. I have to explain. It’s nothing like what she is thinking––and please, trust me when I say––I do know what she is thinking, because those thoughts would be circling my head, too,” I plead.

  “Hayden––”

  “No, Jessie, I’m sure that Samantha has kept secrets hidden from me because they are still, too, raw. It is the same with me. Please, Jess. Let me put things right, I need to explain…something that I should have done before hand.” My grip tightens on the steering wheel in desperation. “Please,” I whisper finally.

  The God-awful long pause on the end of the line is broken by Jessie’s sigh of reluctance. I feel an uprising guilt melding and solidifying in my gut for placing her in the middle of this fiasco. But the fear of rubbing salt in Jessie’s wounds is nothing in comparison to the fear I feel of losing Samantha. None of this would be happening if I was honest with her at the beginning.

  “You’re going to need to check, Calypso in Downtown, Bimbo’s in The Financial District, and Meze on Mason. Those are her hot spots,” she mutters with a degree of leniency amidst her tone.

  “Hot spots?”

  “Yes, Hayden, they are her hot spots––where she goes to cope and deal with her… issues,” Jessie informs me. “Let off some steam.”

  “They’re nightclubs, right?” I cannot conceal the puzzlement in my voice.

  “Yes, they’re nightclubs, Hayden.”

  Why would Samantha need to go there to cope? I have never seen her drink heavily or irresponsibly in the time I have known her. Burn off some energy maybe––or a distraction?

  Jessie informs me of what Samantha is wearing so she is easier to identify, although in a nightclub in San Francisco on a Saturday night, I highly doubt this will be a simple task. Even so, I will not give up until she is safely in my arms.

  “And, Hayden…” she pauses.

  “…Hmm.”

  “Please, bring her home safe,” her voice is jagged; cracking with elements of concern, apprehension and sympathetic sentiments for her best friend, to whom––by what I have witnessed over time––is more like a sister to her.

  “If I have to scale the entire San Francisco area and back, I will make sure she is safe, Jessie…always.”

  I hang up, and slip the handset into my breast pocket.

  Okay, Calypso, Meze, and Bimbo’s. With anxiety flooding my gut, I concentrate profoundly on locating Samantha, and getting her home safe. Maybe then, I can explain to her exactly what happened today and we can get back on track.

  Stopping the car at the sidewalk across the street, I gaze up at the white, triangle shaped awning. Masses of people are cueing outside a set of double-doors, along the red velvet rope draping its way up the walkway. A burnish-orange backlight against the red, stylish script on either side of the triangle identifies the establishment as Calypso.

  I had no luck at Meze, and by the look of things, I am not going to have much luck here either. Everyone, even the patrons are sporting some sort white clothing––a flowing river of white skirts, dresses, trousers, shirts…even the doormen are donning white attire.

  Pushing myself out of the car, I dash over to the entrance of the club and ask the balding security guy if anyone fitting Samantha’s description has entered. He shakes his head and points to the ever-growing cue of clientele.

  “Ambiance Night…if she’s not in white, she’s not getting in. Sorry mate,” he booms in a deep, authoritative tone.

  I nod, smile my appreciation, and dash back to the car.

  Glimpsing down at the console, the digital clock glows at 10:00 p.m. Please, please, please let her be safe, let her be at this last place. I pull out into the traffic, with a heavy-mind and an equally heavy-heart, hoping and praying that the expression, ‘always in the last place you look’, is accurate.

  Repeating my previous two approaches, I park the car along the sidewalk. The sidewalk is lined with evenly spread Designer trimmed Saplings. Bimbo’s is illuminated in brilliant, white light along the edge of the roof. A large, black canopy shelters the entrance.

  Hanging my head, I stare at my hands that are knitted in my lap. Drawing in a deep breath, I attempt to purge the trepidation that I have befallen victim to. Prepping myself for some serious groveling, I peek up at the building, and thrust myself up and out of the seat.

  There’s no security at the front and it looks somewhat empty. I rest against the passenger-side door with my arms crossed over my chest and gaze down at the paving, steadying myself to go inside to look for her. I haven’t been in a club for years, I loathe the concept of one night-stands, I r
arely drink, so I had never needed to experience it…indulge in it.

  A piercing giggle travels along the light breeze. I whip my head up and my focus falls on a slim, leggy female, with long and deeply wavy hair tumbling down to her middle back exiting the doorway. I gasp as I appraise her choice of attire––something I wouldn’t object my woman wearing in the bedroom––but definitely not something to wear outside. I wouldn’t want another man eyeing up my…

  My stomach knots and vaults to my throat before freefalling back into its rightful position. I feel instant beads of perspiration seeping through the pores of my back, palms, fuck, even the soles of my feet.

  A muscular man appears from behind her. His dark jeans and pale blue shirt hangs out inanely, his blond hair is effortlessly spiked up. I’m screwed to the spot; my limbs feel like they’re cased in concrete, my larynx cannot force out a single word. I am utterly immobilized, witnessing this spectacle in slow-fucking-motion.

  He pushes her hair back from over her shoulder, exposing her neck and whispers something in her ear, before kissing her in the sensitive spot that makes her weak in the knees. She throws her head back and giggles blithely, before sealing her lips over his. My mouth falls open as she uplifts her leg and he grasps her promptly behind her knee, curling it around his waist, his hand skimming up higher to her behind.

  My heart is speared and aches. My stomach feels as though it has been replaced by a bowling ball. I tremble as a result of the gushing adrenaline, my head is ring and the world spins rapidly at an angle. I press my hands against the side of the car to regain my balance. I feel physically sick.

  What is she doing? How can she allow him to touch her like that when she is in a relationship?

  Pooling all of my strength, I march over to Samantha and the testosterone ragged male that is mauling her before my very eyes.

  Her hands clasped behind his neck, his hands gliding up her thigh, pushing her already obscenely short skirt up with his hungry hands.

  “Samantha!” I run across the street and step onto the sidewalk.

  Lowering her leg from around his hip and loosening her grasp around his neck, she turns to face me. Scanning me with her alcohol-fueled eyes, she curls her upper lip in disgust, and shakes her head before turning to face her ‘friend’.