Next to You (Life)

by Claudia Y. Burgoa

  Oh lord, at this pace you might have to set my savings account into a trust fund for me to stay here for life and then a few more days. On the bright side, I’m learning new things, that’s the positive of this experience, right? Let me know your thoughts on the origami butterfly I’m mailing you along with this letter. Note: the one I sent was a crane, not a swan. My tulips should be on your refrigerator, that’s what grandma used to do when I brought home a drawing from school. The scarf is for winter, remember it’s my first try, the one I’m making now is prettier. Though, I doubt you’ll want it since it’s soft pink and white. A sweater, that’s what I’ll do for you, but only if you tell me the real story of who Daniel Brightmore is.

  Love you forever,

  Becca

  P.S.1 Sending pink hugs and kisses. Me thinks you’re running low on them.

  P.S.2 Weirder… no, I always share my triumphs with you… believe me they were a pain to make.

  Women process information different than men, I for one like for everything to be over and not rehash on it several times. For most, not all women, they need to discuss and dissect each part of an episode in order to move on. That came from one of the books I discussed with my therapist. Becca’s continuous inquiries of what happened to me while growing up and why it is I don’t trust her with that piece of my life brought up the subject.

  “Do you trust her then?” the expensive shrink asks. “Why not give her what she wants?”

  “I trusted her with my life.”

  I learned from my first time at a counselor’s office that they don’t give you a hint of what you’re doing wrong, or right. They only listen. Yet, I felt as his eyebrows arched at the same time his face scrunched, condemning me for using the past tense. Perhaps it’s only a reflection of what I feel.

  “I trust her, she would never tell a soul about it.” I take a deep breath. “But those aren’t easy subjects to discuss with someone as fragile as Becca. What if she doesn’t like what she hears or—“

  As I speak, I realized my hesitation to share what had happened to me is based on the events and not the fact that she isn’t next to me. That rage has simmered down and though, I was in no place to welcome her into my arms, I no longer despised her for breaking us up. Maybe sharing some more about me wouldn’t hurt, and if that piece will help Becca in some way… I could do it.

  “You’re afraid of what she’ll think about you?” my counselor asks. I shake my head but then shrug, knowing that I only lie to myself. “You say you trust her, maybe you should also trust yourself on making the right decision.”

  The last word is said right as the timer goes off.

  Becca:

  Do you need new stationary? I sent it for your letters, not to make butterflies, which are pretty, Bex. (That’s what I’m supposed to say, right?) The scarf is long and thick, surely I’ll use it as a blanket if a blizzard hits and I’m trapped inside the car—we’ll have to wait until next winter to see if it works. No to your pink and white scarf, and I’ll skip the sweater offer. I can only imagine three arms, no head and pink polka dots the size of a watermelon. I recommend you find another hobby.

  Just as you, for years I had to survive. The first woman who abandoned me didn’t wait long to stick around and find out if I had a charming personality. Muriel, the sixteen year old girl who gave birth to a healthy seven pound ten ounce boy with a twenty two inch height ran away only two months after the happy event. Two years later she died, according to the records—and Randy. It was an overdose, her rich parents claimed her body and she’s now buried with her ancestors. The once kidnapped teenager returned home inside a wooden box—the story my grandparents will stick to for as long as they live. Wealthy parents, you read right. Meanwhile on the other side of the city, their grandchild was rotting in a trailer park and then began his journey through the system.

  My first foster parents were James and Tracy. Tracy didn’t fight for me, though she claimed she loved me. Their choice landed me in a foster home with seven boys whose ages ranged from eleven to five—me. The house looked big enough to accommodate as many children, but we only occupied one room filled with dirty mattresses. Two men made their livings with the seven checks the government mailed them monthly to take care of us. The checks meant to provide food, clothing and the essentials for us never fulfilled their original purpose. Our meals consisted of the free breakfast program at school, and a small dinner prepared by those men. One we had to eat fast and guard well or another one of us could snatch it from under your nose—just like the belongings we owned.

  It took me a month to learn how the structure worked, by then I defended myself. A tall five year old that could hit hard enough and bite wherever possible won some respect from the other six. It was a watch and learn game with statistics and possibilities, my thing. Joseph Thomas, Buddy, arrived almost a year later. He was younger than me, with a worse story than mine. You know it, his entire family died in a car accident. The child became my protégé, by then I was six—close to seven in my mind—and had the responsibility of a guy who thankfully learned the way to survive in only a few weeks. It had been me and him together getting more food, keeping a warm blanket and warm clothes. However, it hadn’t been enough. Soon we began to visit convenience stores to snatch a piece of candy here and there. It progressed to a loaf of bread at the grocery store, peanut butter, jelly, and an apple or two at the farmers market. It suited us better, the art of taking, than living off the crumbs we got at home. From items we graduated to money.

  Everything, from my mother’s abandonment to when the fine state of Massachusetts took me under its neglecting wings, has been an interesting and difficult journey. Becoming a thief lead me to Raj, the man who saved mine and Buddy’s life. The second chance he granted me took me all the way to Harvard where between my GPA, sob story and perfect test scores, they gave me a full ride on a dual program.

  Becca, I don’t care about those memories. They are behind me, I don’t let those ghosts lure into my present. I exorcised them a long time ago. I want to think I was able to turn a leaf; all I have is because of my hard work and desire to leave a big mark on the world. What Elijah did, was fucked up. That taught me to only trust a few, but I don’t have abandonment issues, I am past that. Though you’ve never done it before, once again, I ask you to keep my secrets between us.

  D

  P. S. Your drawing is framed and on display on one of the bookcases, in my office. Better?

  Danny:

  Thank you for the chocolates, extra stationary and the wonderful origami paper. Did you really order it from Japan? I sent you a new work of art, pretty nice lake huh? Though, you don’t need to frame them.

  Where do the Swansons come into play? Your secrets are safe with me. You didn’t need to pay for the center, they just informed me about my account being paid in full when I added a few services—which please, you, mister, don’t need to pay for.

  About me… There are things I keep discovering of myself, unconsciously I buried my entire childhood because of them—Donna mostly. Concealing the good to forget the bad was an awful trade, yet, a move that helped me survive and brought me all the way into adulthood. Things I remember now: Grandma used to say princesses were loved by everyone. Of course, as I craved for my mother to love me, I became obsessed with being one… pretty pitiful. To add some to that fairy tale mentality, she also said that they dressed in pink, a royal color and chocolate cures everything. That explains three of my obsessions. Though I’d like to inform her that though, I love chocolate, it doesn’t cure everything. And that princesses aren’t loved by everyone—I know that for a fact.

  Those memories brought an extra along. Remember my first Christmas with you? First we went to New York, where we had dinner at a fancy hotel on Christmas Eve after ice skating in Rockefeller center. Only the two of us, you rented the rink out for the evening. That was the most magical night. It had been my freshman year of college, you flew me there so we could fly to Europe on Christmas day
.

  Our first stop, Switzerland, because you wanted to ski. That was my first experience skiing, well, the first time my butt and the snow began their affair because I always ended up falling. That night we spotted a shooting star and I made a wish. “What did you ask for?” you insisted on knowing, you always do.

  “To someday be a princess.” Because it was an intriguing thing to be and I was in the lands where they existed. With those powers you have to make everything possible, it happened.

  The day after, you gifted me a tiara with pink and white crystals. You gave me a title where it said I was a princess. You then bought an island, which became our kingdom. People think it is crazy that you call me such, but they don’t know the story behind the title, and now it means even more than before. Something tells me, you were in love with me back then, were you? I wonder if illustrated dictionaries will have my picture next to the word obtuse.

  Regarding yourself, what can I say other than, you’re an extraordinary man, Danny. You turned that page and wrote a life worthy of headlines and admiration.

  Hope all is well with you and the world keeps admiring the million ways how Daniel E. Brightmore conquers it.

  Love,

  Becca

  Chapter 10

  “You look all grown up now, son,” Doctor Williams says when I shake his hand, my jaw twitches at the comment. It sounds as if he is an uncle greeting me. I find it unethical for my old therapist to treat me in that way. “It surprised me to see your name, boy. Another trip to Juvie?”

  “That was more than ten years ago.” A lifetime back when I had to defend myself and my brother from our natural predators, I want to add but he had to live that life to understand. The urban jungle hid more dangers than the rain forest. Folding my arms across my chest I argue with myself if it’d be wiser to leave. Damn Rebecca and her mind games that brought unpleasant things back into my life. Foster housing isn’t all that great when you live in a poor neighborhood with greedy men who think you’re their ticket out of the nine to five, Monday to Friday chains. “My lawyer made sure you shredded that file, there’s a—”

  “Daniel.” The man now has salt and paper hair color, wrinkles around his green eyes, and an attitude I don’t care much about. He sits on his old brown leather chair. “Take a seat. Care to tell me why the rage came back?” Then he chuckles at some internal joke, I guess. “Not that it ever left, you’re smart and knew where to hide it well. Is it old enemies? Your parents resurfaced? Or the need of control went on vacation?”

  “Is this legal?” I ask. “This sounds more like a discussion with an old family member. The deal usually goes as follows, I pay you, you listen, I move on.”

  “Boy, your case was pro-bono.” He turns on the old lamp and waves his hand to the chair opposite of his, insisting I sit. “Back then you didn’t know better. You thought we finished what we started, what happened after Harvard?”

  Clenching my jaw, I sit where he pointed at. “Yes I think we did finish. I had dealt with the issues at hand; changed, moved on and reinvented myself.” Of course I’m here because there’s this girl… one I fell in love with and got dumped by. Talking to the other counselor who is guiding me regarding her rape and other issues sounds illogical. What’s there to say, can you help me forget her too… then, what’s the point of going into counseling? Damn, another inconsistency, it’s essential to do something so I can regain my control—myself. “You cured me once, made me forget about my shitty past. I need the same, a second chance.”

  His expression remains neutral; the annoyance of his attitude grows stronger. Seconds before I stand up and leave his practice, he speaks, “Child/Teen practice.” He taps his chest lightly, then stands up, walking toward his desk and pulls out a business card. “That gave me the right to talk to you like an old uncle that thinks and knows that you still need help.” Then he hands me the name of a colleague. “Your case was a miracle, since it was so hard to work with you. With the attitude you gave me during each appointment… you’re strong and very intelligent.” He writes things on a pad, a useless movement since he’s not my doctor. “So smart that you like to manipulate anyone and everyone around you. Manipulation… you should know that only works like drugs and alcohol, a quick fix that won’t make you happy.

  “Moved on.” He taps the pen over his chin while thinking what to say next I guess. “I liked that, thrilled to know that indeed you forgot about that shitty past; your parents abandoning you, foster parents not caring much about you and your brother. The nights you had to sleep with one eye open so the older children wouldn’t steal the little that you had. Saving him from danger, making sure your brother didn’t fall into the bad crowd and kept a knife handy. Until that day when you tried to show those boys a lesson. Rough life, one I don’t see mentioned anywhere in the news. I admire your tenacity; the Brightmore name goes hand in hand with success. Yet, here you are, with that same anger. Wondering which part of your life should change to avoid my chair—again. Call Stewart. I think that’s what the doctor recommends.”

  “Shitty jokes.”

  “Same lack of vocabulary,” he answers. “How is it that you close deals with that mouth, boy?”

  I shrug, answering that I’m a manipulative asshole will prove his point.

  “You came for help.” He looks at the card I hold. “Take it. May I ask what happened?”

  “None of your business.” I stand up and head to the door. “Have a good rest of your day.”

  “Boy, for your own good,” he says when I open the door, “stop keeping others at arm’s length and give yourself a real chance. Pay my assistant for the unrequited chat on your way out.”

  *

  My office door opens, but I don’t look up until I type the last details of my next trip and save the final draft of the contract to finalize the merge with the Vancouver food packaging company. Lifting my gaze, I find Buddy who nods when our gazes meet. He slides into the black leather couch, tosses his head back and like the boss he thinks he is, puts his leather boots on the coffee table.

  “Friday, nine o’clock at night and you’re working,” he says, and gives me a disapproving glare. “You still sad because your little princess left?” Buddy puts his feet down and reaches for the silver frame with several pictures of Becca and me from our multiple trips. “She sent you a package, it’s sitting outside on top of Betsy’s desk. Hopefully food, because those darn mittens she sent you are the crappiest things I’ve ever seen. Miss my Baby Girl. Do you know when she’s coming home?”

  Home? That word makes me wonder where she’ll go after Geneva. Three weeks, not long for her to come up with a plan. Her house has been across the hall from mine since she finished college. Well, up until the accident in Aspen when I decided it was time to take her home where she belonged—with me. I hope her future plans don’t include living across from me. That apartment is gone, my crew tore it apart, along with my own place and they’ll be building four different penthouses.

  “Uh, he misses his girl.” Buddy’s mocking sound is going to give me an ulcer if he continues. I miss her, but not the one who turned into a whacked up job, I miss the one who fought me at every turn but loved my bossy ways—as she called them. Becca’s happy smiles filled with love, eager to see what would be our next adventure and overcoming adversity. “She might never come back.”

  The boiling rage begins to cripple from the bottom of my feet all the way to my neck. “Don’t go there, Buddy, not today.” He frowns, as if expecting some kind of explanation. “I went to visit fucking Dr. Williams on Monday and the man didn’t do shit.” Consumed by the flaming heat the doctor’s words created, I avoided everything and everyone for a week, except work. “Forget, move on, second chance… is that too much to ask for?”

  “Did you forget what happened back then?” Buddy pushes himself out of the couch and walks toward the chair in front of my desk, sitting down there. “Recounting the events briefly… we had to escape the house before we faced the same fa
te the older boys did. Then Gus, one of our former foster brothers ended up with a gang and decided we should join, you had to choose between him and our survival.” He touches his temple. “Fresh, as if my brother almost went to jail because he defended himself and me.” His last words are deafening. “A hard move, Dan. Remember those moments, self-preservation and all. I’ll be eternally in your debt for getting us out of that house, keeping us out of trouble even when we weren’t saints; then for choosing to live and defending me. Now think about her. First, ask yourself if you want to forget her and all that you’ve shared with her.” He pauses, tilting his head. “Becca chose surviving. Don’t be hard on her. Yes, you cleaned up your act and here you are… but that’s why you try to control everything and everyone, Daniel. Remember, we don’t live in the ghetto anymore. We’re not running away from the system or gangs or… You were a child that tried his best to keep us in line. I wasn’t your responsibility, but you became that big brother that I’ll always love. Have you thought what would have happened if she hadn’t chosen to survive?” I feel how my blood freezes and I can’t move for a moment or two. “Exactly, I would be watching you waste yourself away because she wouldn’t come back—ever. Let her do her thing, big brother.”

  There is a sudden silence in the room, I stand up and turn to the window, staring at the horizon when suddenly he retakes the conversation. “You know what else, you should tell her about our past.” My body turns one hundred and eighty degrees after that statement. Becca thinks I’m perfect, why would I… she is innocent and wouldn’t be with—“She’s not the girl from the other side of the tracks that would never accept you for who you were and are. Yes, we had to run away from that foster home, does she know one of the shelters she runs used to be our own shelter back then?” It was one of several abandoned buildings, there were no doors, broken windows and was filled with trash and rats. The nasty winter there almost killed us, but we got out. “We didn’t have to endure it for that long, we were lucky enough to find Raj… well, he was lucky to find us.” Buddy’s crooked grin appears, he always likes to tell that to Raj. “Then he introduced us to the Swansons, giving us that second chance. You already got it, Dan. She needs hers. The two of you ought to bring each other down from that fucking pedestal. Becca has trouble understanding how a smart-accomplished guy, that could have any woman, loves her.” Because though life had given her a hard hand, she dealt all the cards and survived. She taught me how to love and see the world in a different way, not only as a place to exploit. “The fucked up life we had brought us to where we are now. Don’t lose the best thing that has happen to you because of the shitty past we all had—including her.”