She responds instantly.
Sera: Hey you! How are you? I haven’t seen you online.
Me: Things have been crazy here. How are you?
Sera: I’m slightly stressed with the gallery opening in a few days. You’re still coming, right?
Me: Absolutely.
I had completely forgotten about committing. Fuck. Dragging out the phone I’d purchased when Nate took me to get supplies, I realize it’s almost one in the morning, but I dial Nate anyhow.
Sera: I really appreciate it, Bastian.
The phone rings as I continue to type menial conversation. He doesn’t answer and it goes to voicemail, so I call back. He hates it, but I know he’ll pick up if I call again. True to form, he does, probably thinking something’s wrong.
“Bastian? You okay?” He sounds half asleep and winded. If I didn’t know better, I would think I pulled him from an active romp with a lively partner, but he’s as single as I am.
“Hey, Nate. I need you to do me a favor.”
“What’s up?”
“I told Sera I would come to her gallery opening on Thursday, but I can’t go alone. Will you go with me?”
“You called me in the middle of the night to ask me to be your date to your wannabe girlfriend’s art thing?” I can hear the irritation in his voice, but I don’t care. This is one of those things he’ll overlook because he’s so afraid I’d off myself. I shouldn’t take advantage of that. He’s a great friend, but I know he wants me to actually be alive again, not merely existing.
“Yeah.”
“Fuck you, Bastian. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
“So is that a yes? You’ll go?”
“Night, Bastian.”
“Nate! Seriously, man, will you go with me?” The fucker just laughs at me and hangs up. I toss the phone aside, knowing he won’t let me down, realizing just how much I love him. I’d never tell him, but he’s the only thing that has kept me alive for years.
I spend hours chatting with Sera online. There’s nothing of any importance shared, just the same bullshit, surface-level nonsense everyone shares in the get-to-know-you phase. We have lots of common interests in art and music, but that doesn’t surprise me. The number of people she knows that I used to run with does. I figured with the age difference, and as long as I have been absent from the community, the key players would’ve changed, but not so.
She flatters me by telling me patrons discuss my work regularly, but I know it’s not true. She’s as sweet as Sylvie was. Sylvie had this knack for making a person feel like they were the most important thing in the world, and somehow, she did it without ever telling a lie or fabricating anything. Truly a gift. One of the many things on a laundry list that I loved about her.
I begin to notice similarities in Sera and Sylvie through the casual conversation—little things like what made Sylvie laugh, or things she would make fun of me for in jest. Her overall playfulness, her exuberance for life, Sera shares those qualities. From what I gather, Sera enjoys a picture-perfect life in her short twenty-five years. She sees good in the world, and travels to beautiful places to study and work. What I wouldn’t give to go back six years, before Sylvie got sick, before death touched my life, when my outlook on the future was so bright.
When dawn starts to break through the windows, I realize how many hours we’ve been chatting. For the first time in years, time has passed in a flash with no recognizable pain or deafening silence. It’s the first time I’ve ever been able to think about Sylvie without crippling grief.
Me: Random question.
Sera: Shoot.
Me: Where did your mom come up with the spelling for your name? It’s very unusual.
Sera: Ugh. She’s a hippie and so is my dad.
Me: Oh, so it was just to be different?
Sera: No. It’s short for Seraphim. She still insists on calling me by my full name but no one else does. I stopped that in elementary school. I always thought it was strange and never liked it. Apparently, my parents tried for years to have kids and couldn’t. They gave up in their thirties thinking they’d never have any. My mom said she begged God to send her a little angel but he never did. About a year after they stopped trying, my mom turned up pregnant. Seraphim means an angelic being. A seraph is the highest order in the heavenly hierarchy of angels. They’re closely associated with light and purity. She refuses to shorten it to Sera because that takes the meaning out of the name. She’s crazy. I love her but seriously, coo-coo. Haha
I believe in karma. I believe in the world providing what you need as you need it. I’m not fond of the flipside of that coin—the universe takes what you don’t need as well. Everything has a time and purpose, and when its usefulness no longer exists, some higher power takes it. This angel is exactly what I need in this moment. I just wonder what she needs in return.
My eyes begin to weigh too much to hold them open. The fatigue steals my ability to contemplate the usefulness or meaning of Sera coming into my life. I tell her goodbye on Facebook before I drift off to sleep.
For five years, Sylvie has plagued my dreams, or maybe graced them. Every night she comes to see me, it’s a curse and a blessing. I sleep to see my wife, but wake to the loneliness I can only escape in my dreams. Her face is so full of life in that alternate state, like the day we married, not how she left me when she was sick. Her cheeks are a rosy hue, her eyes full of wonder and life. At least once a night, she throws her head back and laughs her deep, throaty laugh like she did when she thought something was really funny. It was the most real you could see her—a completely raw, guttural, deep laugh. I loved that sound more than anything in the world, including her singing, and God, could she sing. I loved the way her throat moved when her head tilted back and the way her hair swayed down her back. In those moments, she was the epitome of perfection.
She didn’t come to me last night in my sleep. It’s the first time in years that I can remember a night without her visiting. It takes me a while to realize it when I wake. It takes me looking in the mirror to see the absence of dark circles under my eyes from a restless sleep, and then the slight smirk of happiness as I think of Sera. It’s then that I instantly realize it: when she comes to mind, I didn’t see Sylvie in my dreams.
I start to wonder irrationally if Sylvie’s mad at me for not meeting her. I wonder if she thinks I stood her up. I shake my head as my eyes start to pool. The dishonor I feel for her memory is overwhelming. Rationally, I know I can’t control my subconscious, but emotionally, I feel as though she’s punishing me for flirting with Sera and didn’t show up to prove a point. A thought occurs to me that I push as far away from the forefront of my mind as possible… If my brain generates meetings with Sylvie to protect me from the life-threatening depression, those encounters may disappear altogether if I start to move on with my life. The thought of never seeing Sylvie again, never hearing her sing, never talking to her, never hearing that melodic laugh, is more than I can bear. But at what cost, I wonder.
Regaining focus on the man watching me in the mirror, I see my eyes are bloodshot from crying. I don’t realize the tears are still falling. I just ache. It hurts more than I can verbalize, as if she died yesterday. The hole in me is so vast, there’s more of it than remains of me. Fuck!
“God, I miss my wife!” I scream at no one and anyone who can hear me. “Why the hell did you take her? Why?” I can’t stand to see my sadness reflecting back at me. Without thought, my fist collides with the glass, shattering the image judging me.
Suddenly, Nate’s behind me, arms wrapped around me, restraining my struggle, keeping my arms pinned to my sides. “Calm down, man. You’re not alone. Come on.” He continues speaking softly to me, repeating the same things over and over as if he says them enough, eventually they’ll sink in.
Unfortunately, grief isn’t rational.
Nate has taken multiple shots from my fist to his face over the last few years during fits of rage. He never condemns or complains. He just suffers with m
e. After dragging me from the bathroom, he pushes me down on the bed where I proceed to bury my face in my hands with my elbows on my knees. I should be thankful I didn’t hurt my hand, but all I feel is grief.
“What the hell happened, Bastian?”
I don’t respond immediately, but he’s patient. He knows I’ll speak when I’m ready. He leans against the wall, waiting.
“She didn’t come last night.” It came out as wailing instead of talking.
“Sylvie?” he asks.
I swallow a sob and nod my head.
“Maybe she doesn’t think you need her anymore?” He says it calmly, like it’s the most natural thing in the world for my dead wife’s spirit to move on without me. I jerk my head up, staring at him with a mix of confusion and hatred. “Bastian, it’s been over five years since she died. In the last few days, you’ve made more progress toward moving on than you have in all those years combined. Maybe your mind doesn’t need her right now. I’m sure she’s close by. You’re going to have to give yourself a chance to live without her, man.”
He isn’t being cruel. He’s being real. No one else could get away with it. He kept me alive after she died. He tries to get me in counseling to deal with the loss; when that didn’t happen, he just decided to be here for me. Every day. Every single day. Everyone else gave up on me around the one-year mark, including my parents. But not Nate.
I can’t respond to him. Instead, I make eye contact, acknowledging I hear what he’s saying, even if I can’t accept it yet.
Stepping up, he grips my shoulder with one hand. “Allow yourself to breathe again. It’s okay to feel something other than pain. Sylvie would’ve wanted happiness for you.” He walks out of the room, I’m sure to wait on the couch for me to get my shit together and join him.
Hanging my head, I wonder if I’ll ever be able to function without her, to feel somewhat human, normal once again. Then I make the walk of shame to find my best friend.
“Sorry, man,” I apologize for yet another countless breakdown Nate has saved me from.
As usual, he waves me off. “So tell me about this shit you’re dragging me to as your date,” he says and laughs hysterically.
About a year after Sylvie died, the papers started reporting I was homosexual because every time I left my house, I was seen with Nate. He thought it was funny then and refers to it constantly as though it’s a running joke. I just roll my eyes at him.
“Sera has a gallery opening. She asked me to come.”
“Does she know you’re bringing a date?” He falls into fits of laughter again.
“Aww fuck. Do you really think she thinks I’m bringing a date? Jesus, if she does, and I show up with you, she’s liable to believe the shit the papers had to say. And you’ll encourage that crap.”
He’s laughing so hard at this point he can’t catch his breath.
“It’s not funny, Nate! Dammit. What the hell should I do? I can’t go alone. You know I can’t face that crowd by myself. But I can’t take a man.”
In between bouts of laughter, he says, “You sure can’t take another woman, asshole!”
I resign myself to taking Nate as my plus one. If I fly without my co-pilot, I’ll absolutely crash and burn. I can explain his presence to her later. I’d rather explain this than another damn woman.
“Fuck you. Pick me up at six-thirty. We can go grab a bite and then go to the gallery. The showing starts at seven, but we don’t need to be there until after that. Oh, and don’t dress like a damn slob, either—slacks and a decent shirt.”
He rolls in laughter again. “For someone who doesn’t want to date me, you sure as hell just planned one. I’ll pick you up at the aforementioned time wearing my Sunday best. Will I get laid for buying you dinner and taking you to a lame-ass gallery exhibit?”
“Nah, but at least you’ll be seen with the best thing that’s ever happened to you.” I toss a shit-eating grin in his direction.
“I’m heading out, Bastian. You gonna be okay? Or should we have a sleepover so I can take care of you?”
“I’m good.” Right before he gets to the door, I call out to him, “Hey, Nate?”
“Yeah, man?”
“Thanks.” My voice cracks with the word, but he knows what I’m talking about and just nods his response.
6
Every night, Ferry comes back with his gang. They scurry around setting up in the kitchen, the Fs dancing like sugarplum fairies in the Nutcracker. Ferry captures what he’s looking for, the crew breaks everything down, and they exit. The colors have started to fade and the smell has begun to permeate my space. A visual and sensual metaphor of my life.
As he is getting ready to leave one night, I say, “Hey, Ferry. I won’t be here tomorrow night. I’m going to a gallery opening downtown. Do you want to come earlier, or do you want me to give you a key to get in?”
He looks a little stunned, but the grimace quickly passes. “No worries. A key is fine. I want to continue to shoot at the same time each night.” He gathers the remainder of his things as he talks. “I’m surprised, Bastian. I haven’t seen you in the art community in quite some time.” He raises his eyebrow in question.
I shrug, unsure of how to respond. “Yeah, I doubt I’ll stay long, but figured I’d make an appearance.”
“Enjoy it. People will be glad to see you.”
I can’t put a name to what I hear in his voice or the look that flashes across his face before he cloaks it in indifference. Pulling a key from my pocket, I hand it to him, and he heads out for the day.
“See you Friday, Bastian.” I give him a tilt of the head in acknowledgment, but I don’t respond verbally.
I feel like a damn high school kid going on my first date. I’m the gangly dork the prom queen agreed to give a pity date to. I’ve changed clothes at least five times and spent more time on my hair—which essentially looks just like it did when I got out of the shower—than I care to admit. I don’t recognize the man in the mirror. No matter what I do to try to find some semblance of who I used to be, I just look haggard. Or maybe it’s old. Fuck, I don’t know.
The familiar beating signals Nate’s arrival. I open the door and find him standing there in slacks and a button-up shirt. He has a bouquet of flowers in his hand, which he promptly offers me with a smirk.
“You’re a douche, Nate.” I sneer, taking the flowers.
“They aren’t for you, asshole. I figured you wouldn’t have thought to bring her flowers, so I got them for you.”
“You don’t take flowers to a gallery opening.” His ignorance never ceases to amaze me.
“Why not? She’s a girl. It’s a big day for her. Why wouldn’t you give her flowers to congratulate her?” The confusion clouds his eyes.
“Where’s she going to put them? In the pocket of her dress? Buying one of her pieces is how I say congratulations, not flowers. Especially not cheap shit with a Publix supermarket sticker on them.” I smack him upside the head. It’s a gentle swipe, but he gets the point.
“Can you afford to buy anything?”
“No, but I will.” I don’t have the financial means to buy anything, but not buying a piece tonight will ensure there will be no “real” date after this.
“Have you thought about telling her the truth?”
“Nope. Women don’t want to hear that you’ve spent every nickel you had since your wife died because you’ve been too depressed to work. Suicidal tendencies aren’t a huge turn-on, and neither are poor ass bastards.”
“She’s going to find out, Bastian. You can’t hide the last five years from her. You realize she could Google your name and find out everything you’re trying to cover up?”
I don’t respond. I’m winging this shit as it is. I don’t have a clue how to date. I sucked at it when I was a teenager. I’m sure at some point, I’ll have to be upfront with her, but hopefully, it will be later rather than sooner. “You ready?”
He opens the front door and ushers me out with a sweep of his arm. Ta
king a deep breath, I exit, lock the door behind me, and head toward my future.
We arrive at the gallery around eight. The place is full. Her work appeared to be quite good in the pictures I saw online, but I had no idea she was this popular. Nate and I have been wandering around looking at each displayed object. I keep coming back to an angel that has an uncanny resemblance to Sera herself.
The woman stands about two and half feet tall on top of a large black display block with a glass top and lights shining up the angel’s silhouette. The lighting creates an ethereal glow and casts shadows at all of the appropriate angles. Her head is bowed in what appears to be sorrow, or maybe it’s defeat. Her long, flowing locks cast in fired clay cascade down her back, covering her shoulders and hiding bits of her arms. The tattered hem of the dress on her body catches my attention; the detail so intricate it’s as if Sera had dipped a torn piece of fabric in clay before allowing it to harden. The wings are surreal. They span a solid fifteen to sixteen inches, outstretched as though at any minute she might take flight, yet somehow, you see in her body language she doesn’t have the energy or the will to move. The ashen-gray tone of the clay adds to the depression. This angel exudes pain. Her face shows lines of worry, her eyes trying to hide a sadness that seems to haunt her stone soul. My heart aches to rescue this tortured creature.
“That’s the one, huh?” Nate questions me, tilting his head from side to side in an effort to see what has attracted me to her. I nod, continuing to peruse every delicate line and elaborate detail Sera captured in this fallen being. “It’s kind of feminine, don’t you think?” He’s asking rhetorical questions he knows I won’t answer. Squatting down in front of her to get a better view, I see Nate wander off from the corner of my eye.
I might have been there for twenty minutes, or it could’ve been an hour. It’s only when the gallery owner comes by to place a sold ticket on the edge of the case that I return to the present. When I catch her attention, she smiles gracefully. “Hey, Bastian! Wow. It’s great to see you! How have you been?”
Tara Winford. Gallery owner. Art connoisseur with a brilliant knack for finding talent. At one time, her eyes were on my pieces. It seems like an eternity ago.
Chimera Page 4