I remember thinking how beautiful the stained glass windows were. Arcs of light shown through landing on Ian's coffin at the front of the church. There were flowers everywhere and blown up photos of Ian's smiling face were nestled among them. At first I had tried to avoid looking at the pictures but soon that's all I could look at.
My father sat to my left, his arm resting on the pew behind me, gently draping my shoulders. His large frame made me feel protected. My mom sat on my right, holding my hand, there were no words she could say to help me, I drew strength from her though.
My younger brother Sam sat beside my mom. His hands were in his lap, his shoulders hunched forward. He didn't cry, didn't move. Sam was a couple years younger than Ian and I but he had been good enough to make the varsity baseball team his sophomore year. Ian was a senior and had taken a liking to Sam and was encouraging of his talent. He and Ian had been friends ever since. When Ian and I had started dating, Sam started referring to him as his brother knowing that one day, through marriage, he would be just that. Ian's death had absolutely crushed him. Sam and I had tried to talk and make sense of a senseless death, but we were both lost in our grief.
The ring that Ian had given me just before his death was gone and I rested my hand in my lap looking at the place where the ring should have been. The murderers had slipped it from my finger during the struggle. Having it taken from me along with Ian felt like an extra stab to the heart.
My devastation over the loss of him was all consuming. Anger soon replaced my grief when, just weeks after Ian's murder, the police caught one of the guys responsible.
A witness had seen the make and model of the car the suspects fled in and the police had eventually tracked the car to one that had been at the nearby campgrounds for the weekend. A credit card payment for the camp site led them to one of the men who had taken Ian's life.
I had testified at the trial, giving my side of everything that had happened. Seeing this guy up close didn't produce the hatred I expected. He looked like a normal guy. Not much older than me, handsome in a rugged sort of way. His blue eyes were hooded, his light brown hair was in need of a haircut and fell in his eyes when he leaned forward. I tried to catch his eyes while I described the attack and Ian's death, but he held his face in his hands, his elbows on the table in front of him.
I remember he had family and friends at the trial. I almost felt sorry for what they were going through too, but part of me blamed them as well. My frustration and the loss of Ian devastated me and I wasn't ready to forgive anyone remotely associated with these monsters.
The lead prosecuting attorney didn't have a lot to go on but he was relentless. The suspect, Bobby Cowan, eventually confessed and agreed to a plea deal when the prosecution pressed to find the second suspect. The guy wouldn't give him up and took the fall alone. There was some suspicion that the second guy was the defendants brother, but they couldn't confirm this and without a witness or confession, he walked away.
I hadn't got a clear view of the second guy, my positive identification of the jailed suspect was a tattoo of a wolf head on his right forearm. He had been the one who grabbed me, sliding Ian's ring off my finger less than an hour after Ian had placed it there. This identification of the tattoo had been enough for the police to pursue him, along with the witnessed car and the proof they had that he had been in the area at the time of the murder.
Throughout the trial I felt that somehow the Prosecution would gather the evidence or confession needed to nail the guy who had stabbed Ian but with the plea deal and quick sentencing I didn't get this closure. I was so angry that the man who had actually taken Ian's life was still free and my anger had started to consume me.
The other bastard needed to pay too. They were both responsible and both deserved to be behind bars. After the trial my emotions danced between total grief and all consuming anger. I found myself not only angry at Bobby Cowan, but the whole Cowan family. I didn't know them, hadn't met them, but since there was suspicion that the other suspect was Bobby's brother, I felt hatred toward them all.
In the months after Ian's death and throughout the trial I pushed my family and friends away. No one understood my pain, not truly. They weren't there when it happened and I was all alone when Ian slipped away from this world.
I felt crushed and alone and needed to escape. Moving away from the area became a necessity. My dad and brother seemed to understand but my mom had a hard time with it.
“Mom I'm only going to be a few hours away. I need this.” I had looked her in the eyes, willing her to understand.
Tears rolled down her face when I told her I was going. She had been so strong for me for so long. I know she was worried.
“Honey, I worry about you being on your own. Away from your support. It's only been 6 months since...” She couldn't finish the sentence, the tears flowing harder.
I hugged her to me knowing that she was hurt over Ian's death too. She had loved him like her own child and loved how he completed me.
One of the lead detectives on the case expressed some concern over the brother running loose, and felt that my move to the coast should be kept as quiet as possible. This of course didn't lessen my mom's fears, but I promised to be careful.
I moved to Pacific Grove to get away from the lake and the memories it held, but to also stay near the water and nature that Ian had loved so dearly. A big part of our relationship was kayaking, hiking, boating and exploring nature. I couldn't leave these hobbies behind as they had become part of me too, but I did need to change the scenery.
Pushing the memories aside I leaned back from the railing. I had to open the gallery the next morning, so I knew I should get home. Looking for the praying mantis again I found that he was gone. His absence saddened me. Tucking my hands in my pockets I strolled along the wharf, alone in the crowd of people.
Chapter 3 – Ryder
I've heard it said that there is never a time in your life where you won't need or want to have family in your life. I'm not sure if I agree with that, there are times when my family makes it really, really hard to want them around. But deep down there is a devotion, a need, a want for love from those who share your past, who were participants in your memories. This need is what keeps me coming back to visit them.
I moved out the day I turned eighteen. There was no dramatic exit. No family fight, no name calling or slamming doors. Just a calm exit from a stressed house to a wide open world.
My beat up blue VW Bug was stuffed with all of my possessions, which wasn't much. Clothes, a pillow, blanket, sleeping bag, my CD collection and stereo, a bag of groceries for the drive and my first few days and I was pretty much set. I had been working since I was fourteen, saving as much as I could, as quietly as I could, since my brothers were constantly asking to “borrow” money.
Besides two older brothers, I also had a younger sister who at sixteen had just found out she was pregnant. The house was about to get a lot louder and a lot more stressed. As much as I love my sister, her immaturity made me crazy. I hoped the baby would help her grow up, but I feared my mother would just be adding more to her overloaded plate.
My father was a quiet man, hardworking and perpetually sad. At least that's how I saw him. He rarely smiled and seemed disappointed in life as a whole. I know he loved my mom and his children as well, but we never heard this from him. When he wasn't working he seemed content to hide out in the large shed back behind the house, building bird houses or solving crossword puzzles. He worked hard to provide for us over the years, the weight of all of this work, and the disappointments of life, seemed to weigh him down.
My mother was the glue that held us together. She tried her best to raise us right, to provide us with as much love and attention as possible. She worked two jobs our entire childhood, but always managed to put a meal on the table and clean clothes on our backs. By most standards we grew up poor, but I don't think I realized this until my early teens. By then I had my first job washing dishes at a local restaurant
and was able to hide away a little money.
My quiet escape in my old car was only witnessed by my mom and her faithful nine year old dog, Tully, a mixed breed that looked mostly like a Boxer. He was her protector and I found that she talked to him like she should have been able to talk to my father. At least he was a good listener.
After scratching Tully behind the ears and patting him on the head I had given my mom a bear hug and quick kiss on the cheek. I knew it had been hard for her to let me go. I was the strongest and most independent of her children, in a good way. My brothers were constantly getting in trouble and my sister gave her hell every chance she could. My mother understood why I had to go though. Life was out there, waiting for me to start living it.
I had gone back to visit numerous times over the years. Sometimes when I was on break from college I would stay for a couple weeks at a time. Trying to create some positive memories with my family. That was harder to accomplish than it should have been. My mom appreciated the effort though and we drew even closer.
Our lives weren't terrible. We weren't abused, we weren't neglected. But a sadness seemed to hover over my parents and I think this affected the level of happiness we were able to feel.
Trouble seemed to plague my family. I can't say that bad things just happened to us, it was more a result of poor decisions. I felt drawn in every time I visited, felt the burdens of bad decisions drain my energy. My visits became fewer and fewer. Instead of spending a few weeks, or even days, I would often just spend a few hours before heading back home again.
Today was my twenty-seventh birthday and I was celebrating alone. I guess that's why I was feeling sentimental. I had a small group of friends that I could have gone out with, but I don't enjoy attention so I had claimed a heavy workload. My mom had left a voicemail wishing me a happy birthday and telling me she loved me, but I hadn’t heard from anyone else in my family. Birthdays have always felt like an obligation, for others to celebrate your birth, even though they didn't even remember when you were born until Facebook had reminded them. I had taken to solo celebrations, if you could call it that, years ago.
Sitting in a dark booth in the back of Charleys, a small local steak joint, by myself felt like a good enough way to celebrate. I ordered another draft beer and ate another one of the salty peanuts in the bowl on the table while I waited for my food to arrive.
The walls were trimmed out in chrome and black accents, the lights low and intimate. The restaurant had a motorcycle and automotive theme and the walls were covered with black and white photos of old muscle cars and all types of motorcycles. It wasn't a biker joint though, more of a yuppie version of a cool old garage.
The bar area of the restaurant was about half filled. I watched a couple pretty girls, one with short blond hair, long legs and painful looking heels, the other girl was shorter and had long auburn curls. They were chatting up two guys in suits. Both men had loosened their ties and their jackets hung off the backs of their chairs. They looked like accountants or stock brokers. Something stable, well paying, safe.
I watched the easy flirting between the couples and felt a pain of jealousy. I was a little surprised at myself, not knowing where this was coming from. That wasn't true. I had to stop lying to myself. I had pushed people away for the last two years. Easy flirting and trying to find someone to share my future with had been something I didn't allow myself. The loneliness had been getting to me lately though. Cutting people off and putting up walls had been exhausting.
My family was to blame. Dammit, there I go again, lying to myself. They weren't to blame. I was. There was a number of ways I could handle my past. Ways to keep it from dictating my future. But I wasn't handling it very well. I wasn't handling it at all.
The pretty blond waitress, Wendi, I read off her name tag, brought over my dinner, setting it in front of me, standing a little closer than necessary. “Can I get you anything else, hun?” She was flirting and I smiled back warmly, friendly, but not inviting.
“No thank you, this is all I need.” I replied. Hopefully she read more into that statement than just a remark about having the proper utensils and a full beer.
“Well, just let me know if you need anything else.” She gave me a half smile and walked away with a disappointed look.
I had been told by enough women over the years that I was a good looking guy to start to believe it a little. Didn't mean I put much stock in it. Finding a woman to spend time with wasn't difficult, actually wanting to put the effort into making something meaningful come of it felt impossible to me.
I had done fairly well for myself since leaving home. I had headed about an hour or so from home and settled into a medium sized city. Small enough to be comfortable, but big enough to have a junior college and four year college nearby. I waited tables full time and went to college for four and a half years. I skipped nearly every party I was invited to, took every class I could manage and double majored in graphic design and business.
Art had always been an outlet for my emotions growing up. I knew that having a business degree would also help me start my own graphic design company. Waiting tables was draining and I wanted a career that I would look forward to every day. My company just celebrated it's fifth year in business and I was proud of the business I had built.
I ordered a thick piece of chocolate cake for dessert, topped with vanilla ice cream. I pretended there was a candle on top, closed my eyes and made a wish. I stopped short of blowing out the imaginary candle less people think I was drunk or crazy.
Squishing the vanilla ice cream and chocolate cake together into an ugly muddy mess I took a bite and smiled. This was something my dad and I had shared when I was growing up. One of the few good memories, the squishing of chocolate cake and vanilla ice cream. Something I would teach my own child someday.
My wish was an important one. This was the year that I truly wanted to start living for me. I had felt stuck in the past for a long time. So many years were spent educating myself out of poverty and spent running from the guilt and sadness I felt for my family. I had to forgive them and move on.
To do that I needed to ask for forgiveness from someone I had thought about nearly every day for two years. Someone who was never far from my thoughts, but that I had never met.
Chapter 4 – Cyan
The fog had rolled in overnight and the gray mist, damp against my face, made my walk feel eerie and magical. I had left the house in plenty of time to walk to work. It was only a mile or so and Pacific Grove had wonderful biking and jogging trails.
The gray fog was thick enough that I couldn't see very far up the hill or out over the water. Boats anchored out off the shore of the bay looked mysterious, the mist layered over them softening their edges.
Within a couple hours the sun will have burned through the fog. This time of year boasted some of the best weather. We would still have a few cool, wet days through the rest of August, but as September and October arrived I expected and looked forward to the sunny warm days.
At eight in the morning there were plenty of other people out enjoying some morning exercise. I stepped to the right of the sandy path, as an older couple walked toward me hand-in-hand. I smiled as they passed, then took a long sip of my coffee.
It was a couple minutes later that I realized that I hadn't pictured me and Ian and what could have, and should have been, when I saw that older couple. I had done that so often over the years it was almost automatic. We had planned to grow old together. I was encouraged that I had managed to see people in love without getting jealous or mopey.
The gallery was housed in a small converted cottage with gray weathered exterior walls. The trim was a light blue that reminded me of the sky on clear, sunny days. White wooden trellises were nestled at the front of the building with an evergreen vine covering nearly every inch of trellis. Early spring these vines would be covered in dark blue flower clusters.
Gray cobblestones lined the pathway from the street to the door, winding in a lazy path.
Native dune plants and sea grasses filled in the areas around the front of the building. A large, redwood sign sat out front with Seaglass Gallery carved into it in ornate lettering, painted in with gold-leaf.
Situated on one of the main streets in Pacific Grove we had a lot of foot traffic from tourists and locals out shopping or visiting a nearby restaurant. I had worked at the gallery for close to two years; nearly since I had moved here. The owner was in a crocheting club with Evelyn and when Evelyn told her I had an artist’s eye and was looking for work, she was happy to bring in the extra help.
Besides paintings, photographs and jewelry creations from local artists, the gallery also hung eight of my photographs. All blown up in size to allow the viewer to appreciate the details and be drawn into the image.
My displayed work was mostly nautical in nature as that is what sold best to the tourists. A close up of a seagull, with the ocean reflecting in his eye. A seascape with an enormous wave crashing over a distant rock. And one of my favorite photos, of a dolphin surfing the waves with it's calf beside it. I imagined it was a training session, the baby’s first surfing lesson. Some of my photos were in black and white, some in color. I was proud to be allowed to hang them and the extra money from sales bolstered my salary.
One photo stood out from the rest, and although it wasn't of the ocean, it was a beautiful landscape. The full color photo of Pinecrest Lake had been taken very early in the morning, just as the sun had started to rise over the back of the lake. Pinks, oranges, streaks of blue stood out against the silhouette of the pine trees in the distance. The vibrant colors reflected in the glassy surface of the lake, making the water feel alive with the color.
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