by Megan Rivers
He released his embrace, putting his hands on my arms, forcing a smile. “Go back home to Antony,” he finally said. “He deserves you more than I ever could.”
“Friends?” I asked, trying not to be emotional.
“Always,” Galvin said, taking my hand and squeezing it.
VII.
Death Wore a Hoodie
“A Drop in the Ocean” – Ron Pope
Spring grew into summer with intensity. Antony and I planned for our wedding to be September tenth in his hometown in Italy so his whole family could be there. Kevin and Meadow had booked their plane tickets too—how could I have a wedding without my maid-of-honor and the man who would give me away?
Each day we spent together and it was never a burden. I'd come home from work and there he'd be with that silly grin popping out of the kitchen. Antony worked all day at the deli and would always cook us dinner. “Aren't you tired of food?” I'd ask. “You work with food all day and come home to work with food some more.”
“Ah,” he'd say, placing a plate, bowl, or platter on the table and wink at me. “When you do what you love, you never work a day in your life.”
The man was always happy and optimistic—he was a ray of sunshine that lit up my gray world. Even when I'd leave my wet towel on our bed or forget to unload the dishwasher (things that drove Meadow nuts), didn't seem to phase him. He was the rock that anchored my often frantic, caught-in-troubled-breezes balloon.
It was 10:30 at night on August 11, 2011 when it happened—a Thursday night. I was helping out at The Meat Up. Okay, really, my math skills are non-existent even with the help of a cash register, and as far as cooking, I could burn water. So, Joe had commissioned me to do a mural for the restaurant on the east wall. We were seated at a table going over sketches.
It was late, nearly closing time. The regular late night crowd was around. Tina, the late middle-aged woman who carried her cat in her handbag (we pretended not to notice as “widdle bitty Sammy” was her world), sat at the counter, surreptitiously slipping bits of her salisbury steak into her bag. Carl, a heavy set Hispanic man who worked nights at the convenient store down the block, was finishing his ruben sandwich before heading to his shift.
“These are great. Here are more photographs I found, though,” Joe said, sliding a stack of glossy prints across the table. The mural was supposed to be a timeline of the restaurant and Joe was always bringing more photographs of old staff, regulars, meals, menu designs, designs of the original building...
While he talked, the bell over the door jingled. Our conversation momentarily paused as we looked at the entrance and then at the clock. Joe continued to describe his vision for the project, but my eye caught Antony's. “Hey what can I get you?” he asked the stranger. He always had a smile; the man loved what he did.
The stranger in the black hoodie approached the counter, but his whole demeanor was muted—he didn't speak and I never saw his face from where we sat. My eyes met Antony's and he winked at me before turning his attention back to the stranger.
It all happened too fast in the moment, but as I think back to it, everything played out in slow motion. Joe was talking about the menu designs in my sketches and Tina stood, cradling her handbag and headed for the door. Carl raised his glass for a refill and Antony nodded at him, putting up a finger, signaling that he'd be right with him.
“Would you like a minute?” Antony asked the stranger, wiping his hands on his apron. “I can recommend the Meatball Supreme.”
I had just waved away the uneasy notion the stranger gave me—after all, Antony was at ease with him—and turned my attention back to the sketches in which Joe was referring.
I jumped—my heart in my chest—to what sounded like a firecracker. Everybody in the deli moved quickly except for me. My mind was trying to connect the pieces—what was happening? Antony—oh god!—where was he?
Springing from my seat like a tightly wound spring I barreled over the counter to find Antony on the ground, clutching his stomach as a dark stain began to appear. The world was beginning to move too fast. Time was no longer measured in hours and days but in seconds and milliseconds.
Reaching for him, I didn't think about us, I didn't think about the future in either direction. My mind frantically tried to pull first aid protocols from somewhere—television episodes, novels, that summer I was a camp counselor—OH GOD! How do I help him? I had never felt so useless and helpless before.
Joe was on the phone, Carl chased the culprit, and Tina had left before the incident. It was me beside Antony. It was all up to me.
I watched the blood spread across his white shirt at a loss. What do I do? Oh god, please, someone, tell me what am I supposed to do!
His eyes searched—or were they following something? His hands moved, reaching out. I took it immediately. “I'm sorry,” I said. I was crying and didn't realize it until I tasted the tears. “I don't know what to do. I don't know how to help.”
He didn't get a chance to speak. He sputtered with pellets of blood shooting to the corners of his face. It scared me. “Don't speak, just rest. Help will be here soon. You'll get through this.”
That light in his eyes began to fade, they began searching the ceiling. I took his face in my hands. “Just look at me. Focus on me. I will get you through this.” His eyes found mine and I tried to hold them. “Remember R.I.C.E.? Remember how you helped me get through that twisted ankle? It's my turn. Keep looking at me. I will get you through this. You're going to be okay.”
For a moment, a short savory moment, he seemed to have strength, and hope flared inside me. His hand, the one that had clutched his stomach with such shock, cupped my check. Yes! Antony! You're doing great! You're going to push through this! I should have said that; I should have encouraged him, but I held his hand to my cheek as he gurgled again and... and he slipped away.
I cried and yelled and shook his face, begging and pleading for him to come back.
But he was lost, gone.
That beautiful, wonderful, patient, passionate man who would have been my husband in a few short weeks died on the sticky floor of a deli, next to a tub of stale bread, because of man on bath salts. Antony Vanchello, a beautiful soul such as his, did not deserve to die that way.
All at once the world turned into an ocean and I was a guppy lost in the open vastness.
Have you ever seen that special effect in music videos where the person in the foreground is clear as day but the rest of the world moves by in blurs? I became that person in the foreground. I had trouble trying to keep my grasp on reality. I remember sitting at The Meat Up with police, paramedics and other first responders whizzing around me, but I sat staring at my hands. It's three in the morning, I thought to myself, I should be in bed, next to my fiance dreaming... not here.
Somehow, through that blurry world, I found myself back at my apartment. Was it Joe or a policeman that dropped me off? Did I take a cab? Why was the sun rising? Why is the world still turning?
I fell asleep on the couch, somehow, wondering if this was really reality.
I awoke to knocking on the door. For a moment the thoughts of last night were whispers of a dream and I was almost sure Antony was knocking, that he had lost his key. Hope poured through my limbs, giving me stability to stand as I optimistically opened the door. My face fell as I saw Meadow standing there, her purple rolling suitcase beside her. “What are you doing here?” I asked, my voice quiet and weak.
Confusion ,and then worry, came in waves across Meadow's face. “I came as soon as I heard. Why didn't you call me?” she asked, walking into the apartment.
Like a tower of blocks tumbling to the ground, my hope capsized. It wasn't a dream. Every memory from last night was like a needle to my heart. When the puzzle pieces fit back together to show me my world, I felt like crawling into a dark corner and letting the shadows suck my life dry. “I love him,” was all I could sputter before I broke down in tears.
Meadow scooped me up, letting me cry over he
r shoulder, as she stroked my back, encouraging me to let it all out.
Each day was like waking to a nightmare. Not a nightmare full of goblins and murders and heart-thudding mysteries in the dark. No, these were Hitchcock, all-in-your-mind nightmares. There were moments when I thought this couldn't be true, that he was just at work, or I must have hit my head. There was no reality without him.
Joe asked me to accompany him when taking care of the final arrangements since I was Antony's fiance. I agreed half-heartedly. We visited a funeral home, picked out a casket and flowers, but it still didn't stick. The idea that Antony was dead kept slipping through my fingers like a cracked egg. I kept thinking it was a mistake and the hospital or morgue would call and say, “There has been a grave mistake! This man is not dead!” and we would have a jubilant reunion where Antony would say something witty like, “Didn't think you'd get rid of me that easy, did you?” Being in denial was so much better than experiencing that first heart-crushing wave of pain.
Each night Meadow slept on the couch and I was convinced that Antony would walk in, during the middle of the night, and crawl into bed. I imagined him brushing back my hair and kissing my cheek saying, “Did you miss me?” or “Sorry I'm late, didn't mean to scare you.” Then two nights without him turned into three, which turned into four.
Why wasn't he coming home?
The morning after that fourth night, I barely slept. I stared at his pillow, at that dent his head made the last time he slept next to me. If he had been there, he would have been up before the sun to open the deli. He would have knelt on the bed and kissed my forehead before heading out the door because that is what he always did.
Instead, I heard Meadow stir from the couch only a few yards from me. She went straight to the coffee pot. Instead of rising, I continued to lie under our covers and fantasize about what my day would be like—what my week would be like—if Antony were here. He would bring me a meatball sub and we'd take our lunch in Central Park. We'd talk about our wedding and debate further on where we were going for our honeymoon. He'd kiss me goodbye—what I wouldn't do to hold him once more!
I felt weight on the foot of the bed and my heart skipped a beat with daydreams of Antony. “Christie, I made you breakfast,” Meadow said, tapping my leg. Bless her soul for being so sweet, but she wasn't Antony and that fact started to irk me.
Trying to hide my surliness, I silently made my way out of bed, avoiding eye contact. I slumped down into the kitchen chair as Meadow sat in the other chair... Antony's chair.
Meadow plopped a waffle on my plate and I looked up to an array of sugar: chocolate chips, whipped cream, peanut butter, jelly, jelly beans, and both chocolate and maple syrup. “Sorry it isn't more, I had to work with what was in your cupboards. I'm not sure how long the jelly beans have been behind the cereal boxes, though.”
I bit my bottom lip. “You made Sometimes Waffles?”
Meadow nodded, hesitantly.
“The last time I had—”
“I know, hun.” Meadow took a deep breath. “I just thought, maybe, you could use a little something from your mom today, to get you through the funeral.”
Honestly, my heart needed this gesture, but on the other hand, “I want to be mad,” I admitted. Mad at Meadow for being supportive, mad at my mom for not being here, mad at the world for taking Antony away.
“It's okay if you're mad, as long as you feel something. Christie, it's going to hurt; I'll be here for you as a shoulder, a punching bag, a tissue, or a friend. You've gone through so much in your life that most people never experience, but it's made you tenacious. This will pass too, and it will make you so much stronger.”
My arms were crossed over my chest. “I know you have to say that, but they're just words to me. What possible life is there that I have to be that strong? Is it really worth it? Why does life hate me so much?”
Meadow shook her head, the curls sticking out of her messy bun bobbed like clouds in a stormy sky. She got up and knelt down beside me and took my hand. “Christie, you make people want to be better. What Antony did for you, you have done for so many people. Don't think of this as the end, you mustn't; the sky is always darkest right before the sunrise.”
And that was my mantra—or, better yet, my saving grace; my lifejacket—that got me through the morning: the sky is always darkest right before the sunrise. I repeated the words to myself, picturing a sparrow on a picket fence in the pitch black, trembling until the first rays of the morning sun began to punch its way through the piercing darkness, as I got dressed and put one foot in front of the other, on my way to my fiance's funeral.
The last time I attended a funeral it was my mother's, all those years ago. Some things were similar, like the folding chairs, the floral patterns, and nondescript paintings on the walls. Other things were different like the person surrounded by flowers and my feelings. I was angry, so very angry at the world, but I kept punching down the monster inside because it was irrational, no one deserved to be on the receiving end of my fumes.
When Kevin showed up he gave me an extra long hug and it made me even more angry. Meadow took Kevin to pay his respects, which fueled the fire—now that my fiance was dead Kevin could take the time to meet him?
Ugh! What's wrong with me? I kept my head down and stayed in the same seat in the corner, for fear of lashing out at someone.
Morning had turned into afternoon. Many regulars from the deli came to pay their respects and Joe introduced me to some friends of the family. I could only imagine what they thought of Antony's fiance who didn't cry but quietly stewed in the corner.
“Are you hungry? Dad is going to run out for some sandwiches,” Meadow asked as I walked out of the bathroom and into the hallway, which led to either the viewing room or the entrance.
I shook my head and forced the corners of my lips up into a smile that was probably more aggressive than limp. As Meadow walked towards the lobby, I watched another person walk into the dimly lit entrance. As the door opened, sunlight assaulted the room making the mourning remember that many other people were going on with their happy little lives.
That figure was Galvin. Galvin in his six feet plus frame, in his dark suit, and slick hair. What the hell was he doing at my fiance's funeral? I made a beeline straight towards him, he was holding out his hand to Kevin while Meadow looked nervously down the hallway [I'm sure] hoping not to spot me. With more force than was necessary, I pulled his arm from Kevin's grasp and dragged him outside and a few yards down the street.
That one summer Meadow and I were camp counselors we did this science experiment with the kids. We had a glass bottle which we filled with baking soda and vinegar, then we'd cork it. We'd guess how many shakes it would take before the cork came exploding off. The kids would go wild at the amount of pressure it could produce. Now I felt like the glass jar. Every little thing that made me angry was a shake of the jar but I kept the cork plugged securely. Only Galvin was the shake I couldn't hold anymore and my glass bottle violently exploded its contents.
“Why are you here? Why would you show up to your ex-girlfriend's fiance's funeral?” I started poking him with my index finger, which might have seemed more like punching to anyone else. “How could you do this to me? To him? What gives you the right to be here? Why do you think seeing you would be a good idea for me right now?”
“Christie, I—“ he started, but I cut him off.
“NO! You have no right to speak to me right now. In no universe do you have the right to be here. You're just the—“
Galvin suddenly pulled me into a very tight hug. “What in the hell are you doing?” I struggled, fighting him. “Let me go!”
“I'm not letting go of you this time, Christie. Not until—at least, not until you calm down.”
I looked up at him, disgusted, still trying to pry myself from his grip. “You were the one who left me! Antony left me! My mom left me. Everyone leaves me! Just let me go!”
Breaking away from his grip, I put several feet
between us. “Just go away,” I said backing down the sidewalk, before turning into the parking lot where no eyes were on me. Behind the funeral home, just outside the back door, next to the dumpster, I cried harder than I ever did and the pain that seared through me was unlike any other I ever felt. For a moment I thought for sure I would die there, in that alley, from a broken heart.
The August sun beat down, birds flew overhead, I heard the beeping of a truck backing up and men yelling somewhere within ear shot. The rest of the world was moving forward with their lives, but I found myself stuck, unable to keep up.
VIII.
Stuck in the Pillow Abyss
“Almost Lover” – Jasmine Thompson
After the funeral, there was a reception at The Meat Up, but I did not want to go back there. Not yet. It might have been rude or insulting, but I just couldn't do it. Kevin offered to stay in my place while Meadow escorted me home.
Sleep was numbing. For a little while I could forget about the pain and the mind-numbing truth. Unconscious, I was blissfully unaware of the world. It was an escape—a reprieve—where I could forget about trying to put the jagged pieces of my life back together again.
I'm not sure how much time had gone by, but the sun had set when knocking at the front door aroused me from sleep. The apartment was dark, except for the light from the television. I saw Meadow's outline rise from the couch and answer the door. “Hey Meadow,” that voice drifted into the apartment like a tentative cat.
“Galvin, what are you doing here?” Meadow sighed and then walked into the hallway but left the door ajar so that a sliver of light mixed with the leaping shadows from the TV. I felt a pang of guilt for being so awful to him earlier. “I hope you're not—”
“No,” Galvin cut her off. “I just want to be a friend. She has helped me more than you know and I just want to do the same for her. No ulterior motive. I swear.”