Your Song
Page 18
Indeed, it has been five days since Caroline left for France and I have mustered every bit of strength and restraint in me not to contact her this past week. With the threat of Monsieur Marc on the horizon, I have retreated into as safe a place I can find within me. I’m falling hard for her and the last thing I need is to be hurt, especially now. With visions of her reuniting with her ex, who doesn’t take ‘no’ very easily, I’ve made myself scarce and have decided to watch and wait this one out. It’s not as though I don’t have anything else going on anyways.
I feel like my life, lately, has been teetering on a precipice. With the ink almost dry on the Wells and Fraser closure deal, I’m starting to think about new directions my life could take far away from the corporate world, putting those jet-setting days behind me. About to pocket upwards of seventy million dollars in this deal, I’ll have what many people only dream about, millions of dollars, the youth to enjoy it and the ability to help others, if I choose. I think of those lottery commercials on television where they say something to the effect of imagine the possibilities and it hits me that I now can envision a different life for myself.
With the news of the deal embargoed for another few weeks and the transaction scheduled to close at the end of August, I’ve decided not to share the information with my family or friends, not even Caroline, until I have figured out what I’m going to do with my life. With the way things may be heading, who knows, there may be no Caroline at the end of August to share any of this news with anyways.
From: Eric Martin
Date: Saturday, June 23, 2012 8:13 PM
Subject: Things are well
To: Caroline Durand
Hi there;
Hope your trip has been relaxing and enjoyable…and relatively unremarkable.
Eric
P.S. What are you doing awake at 2:07A.M.?
I hit Send and glance at my watch. 8:08 P.M.. Lara and Rob should be here any minute. I look over at the restaurant entrance hoping to catch sight of Lara and instead, find the hostess, looking scrumptiously appetizing, staring at me. Wearing tight black leather pants and fitted black leather vest highlighting her striking dark Asian features, my eyes are glued to her. Maybe she’s Thai or Lao, I wonder, and right away remember a girl I went out with in my university days, Gabby was her name, who was Laotian. This hostess is every bit of this side of exotic and hot. Ping.
From: Caroline Durand
Date: Sunday, June 24, 2012 2:18 AM
Subject: Dreaming of You
To: Eric Martin
Thoughts of you are keeping me awake. Pleasant thoughts, I might add.
What are you doing right now?
Caroline
Hmmm…thoughts of me? Interesting.
From: Eric Martin
Date: Saturday, June 23, 2012 8:21PM
Subject: For the Record
To: Caroline Durand
If I kept a tally of every time I have thought of you this past week, it would be ‘MARK-ed’ by at least a million tick ‘MARKs.’
I am sitting by myself at a restaurant waiting for some friends to join me for dinner.
How have you been spending your days?
Eric
From: Caroline Durand
Date: Sunday, June 24, 2012 2:26PM
Subject: Wish I Was There
To: Eric Martin
Eric,
Between my daily walks to the MARKet, passing several landMARKS along the way, I usually stop by the library for a couple of hours each day where I have bookMARKed numerous reference books for some research I am doing.
Is there something you want to ask me?
Caroline
Oh, isn’t she playful. I glance up and notice Lara and her boyfriend speaking to Hot Hostess Donning Leather. I quickly reply to Caroline before they arrive at our table.
From: Eric Martin
Date: Saturday, June 23, 2012 8:29PM
Subject: Oui
To: Caroline Durand
Have you seen him?
Eric
“Great to finally meet you,” Rob says extending his hand out for a handshake forcing me away from the temptation of my iPhone. A tall guy… about my height, with a full head of blond wavy hair, green eyes and a fair, very fair, complexion. Nordic heritage perhaps? Standing next to Lara, a statuesque woman, they make a great looking pair. All legs and… blondness between the two of them. I bend over and kiss Lara in my typical European-style-on-both-cheeks. She looks tanned, rested and happy.
“It’s my fault why we’re late,” Lara apologizes, “that client is back in town and she kept me later than scheduled,” Lara rolls her eyes as she takes her seat at the table. Rob takes his seat after he tucks her chair in. Hot Hostess lingers longer than normal at our table. After taking our cocktail order (a martini for Lara and gin and tonics for Rob and me), her royal Hotness is off. Suddenly, I feel the vibration of my iPhone in my blazer pocket. Caroline’s reply to my email. Shit, I can’t check it now.
“Which client was that?” I ask Lara feigning interest while feeling the weight of the iPhone against my chest. Has she seen Marc?
“Oh, you know the one I was telling you about…the babe from Chicago with the mega-rich old guy husband. Demanding one. Tonight it was the full facial, glycolic peel, and the works. She’s in town for a week this time…wish us luck,” Lara is nattering on about spa treatments while all I can think of what’s waiting for me on my phone. Of course Caroline has seen Marc…didn’t she say he was picking her up at the airport? The image of some wealthy, charming and not to mention, handsome French dude laying his hands on Caroline burns me up with rage. Clearly, I am a jealous guy. When it comes to Caroline, that is.
These disturbing thoughts of Caroline with Marc are interrupted when Hot Leather Pants returns to our table. Placing Lara’s and Rob’s drinks in front of them first, she makes her way over to my side of the table, where she rests my gin and tonic down and tucked beneath the glass is a folded up slip of paper. Her phone number, no doubt. I look up at Lara and Rob who’ve also taken notice of Her Hotness’ smooth move.
“And this is the Eric I’ve been telling you about, Rob. Heart breaker. Ever so suave lady-killer,” she says after our server has walked away. I grin and look away.
So, how was Bahamas?” I ask changing the topic.
“Very relaxing. Hot as hell. We loved it,” Rob says looking lovingly at Lara as he says it. She’s nodding and smiling back at him.
“Apart from missing Paige, Rob’s daughter, we had a beautiful holiday,” Lara adds. She is so in love. Missing his daughter too? Wow.
“Tell me about your daughter. How old is she?”
“And that’s another thing about Eric, Rob. He loves kids. You should see him with his nephew,” Lara cuts in. My thoughts turn towards David. She’s right. I do love kids. Especially David, he’s my favorite.
“Paige just turned six last week. Growing like a weed. She’s at a sleepover at my parents’ place tonight. Tomorrow we’re going horseback riding with her support group.”
“Support group?” I ask.
“Paige has been in a bereavement group for children who’ve lost a parent. She goes to therapy sessions twice a month and a few times a year; the group plans outings and events for the children to participate in with their living parent. You know…like nature hikes, fishing trips, cross country skiing…”
“Sounds like communing with nature activities, my favorite kind.” I envision myself on my bike riding the trails, bathing in the forest.
“Exactly. Lara tells me you cycle?” And I’m off…waxing on and on with tales from my biking adventures. I realize how amazing I feel just talking about cycling; I could only imagine how excited I must sound. Rob is a great conversationalist. He tells me all about his building projects at work and about his love for sailing. In between all this talking, the three of us have ordered our steak dinners and finished off our second round of drinks.
The iPhone in my pocket has pinged once aga
in and I am brought back to the angst and anxiety I was feeling before Lara and Rob arrived. Caroline’s response. Nerves fully rattled now, I get up and excuse myself from the table and make my way to the men’s room. When I reach the restroom door, I glance up and spot Hostess-Dressed-As-Dominatrix watching me. Not now, I think and push the door with a little too much force and speed.
Settled into the stall, I pull the phone out of my pocket, like a revolver, ever so carefully, dreading the power it has over me in this minute.
From: Caroline Durand
Date: Sunday, June 24, 2012 2: 38 AM
Subject: Oui
To: Eric Martin
I have seen him. In fact, I see him every day. Marc works here in my father’s winery…he’s my father’s business partner.
Have your friends arrived for dinner?
Missing you,
Caroline
And then another email.
From: Caroline Durand
Date: Sunday, June 24, 2012 3:31 AM
Subject: How’s dinner?
To: Eric Martin
Eric,
I hope my last email didn’t leave your imagination running wild. I assure you that Marc and I are done.
I hope you’re enjoying dinner with your friends.
Going to sleep now dreaming of you.
Caroline
I reread both emails at least a dozen times. He’s her father’s business partner? I remember her telling me she would never join the family business. Is that because of him? There’s a lot more to this story than she’s letting on and I endeavor to find out more. In time. But for now with Caroline on the other side of the world, there’s nothing I can do. Except send her one last email before she falls asleep.
From: Eric Martin
Date: Saturday, June 23, 2012 9:45 PM
Subject: My Imagination
To: Caroline Durand
I can tell there’s a lot more to this story about you and this Frenchman. MARK my words; I look forward to hearing all about it.
In the mean time, sweet dreams.
Eric
I tuck my phone away and take a piss while I am still in the stall. As I’m washing my hands in the sink, I look up at myself in the mirror and see an older version of me staring back at me. A few flecks of grey hair hover over my ears. When did those get there? The young, mischievous look that used to reside on my face has been replaced by a more severe, burdened frown. When did I get so old looking? All those complaints I’ve been hearing my parents make about aging over the years…is this where it starts? And I’m only 32! You have some serious thinking to do about your life. I know that I can’t continue with the pace I have been living these past few years… nor do I want to.
Money in the bank…I can do something with that, something more…impactful…something that could make a difference. Change is ahead, I assure myself, as I make my way out of the washroom and back to Lara and Rob. Ping.
From: Caroline Durand
Date: Sunday, June 24, 2012 3:51 AM
Subject: Skeletons
To: Eric Martin
The ‘story’ between Marc and I… is a long and complicated one…and one that, frankly, I am less than proud of.
I am going to dismiss your reMARK about wanting to hear all about it. Some things are just better left in the past. I am looking ahead to future days with you.
Good night,
C
P.S. Are you still reading Les Miserables?
P.S.S. Would love to know what your song of the day is…
Skeletons in her closet, too. Now, that I can relate to.
Over espressos and dessert, I mention to Lara and Rob that I’ve been seeing someone. I share with them the story of how we met and the nothing less than ironic role Amy played in it. Lara seems happy for me and makes a point of asking if we can all get together again soon once Caroline returns from France so she they could all meet. Knowing both Lara and Caroline, I’ve no doubt they will hit it off and get along like two peas in a pod.
For the rest of the evening, Lara and I talk about Mr. Callahan’s rapidly declining health. Unfortunately, it looks like his days are numbered. In palliative care at a Toronto hospice, Mary and Mrs. Callahan have been keeping vigil day and night. Lara visits often, she tells me, and has run into my parents and Claudia there as well. Feeling the tinge of guilt for not having visited him in a few weeks, I vow to go by the hospice tomorrow. Thinking of Mrs. Callahan now, I’m reminded of the Grandy character, in the Tear Soup book that Leslie lent me, who was grieving an unnamed loss. Mrs. Callahan will soon be starting on her second pot of Tear Soup in three years.
On the short walk home from the restaurant feeling somewhat morose, it dawns on me that tomorrow when I visit Mr. Callahan for likely the last time, I’ll have the chance to say goodbye. An opportunity I was robbed of, that we were all robbed of, when Danny died. How do you say goodbye to a man who has been there, just a few doors away, all your life? Who watched you, together with his son, play and wrestle and watch sports for countless hours on end? I laugh quietly as I think about the night when Danny and I, both of us fifteen or sixteen years old at the time, got piss drunk for the first time and Mr. Callahan was hiding behind the living room curtains watching and laughing at us as we puked our brains out on their front lawn.
Memories come flooding in as I walk into the foyer of my condo building and make my way to the elevator. Unlocking my condo door, I recall Mr. Callahan, numb with shock and doubled over in pain, at Danny’s funeral. I shudder at the thought of his pain; a father losing his son. Unimaginable to me.
The red flashing light from my answering machine welcomes me home and sidetracks me from further depressing thoughts.
Beep.
Hello, Eric. It’s me.
I freeze. A woman’s voice. I can’t place it but I’ve heard it before.
“You’ve been ignoring me. I need to talk to you. I’d like to see you. I will try you again.”
Beep.
The stalker! I quickly check the call display and once again, a blocked call that came in at 9:50 P.M. Why won’t she reveal herself to me? I’m ready to talk to her and to finally confront her, I think, as I make my over to my bedroom and start to undress. Taking my keys, wallet, change, and phone out of my pockets, I notice the slip of paper that hostess gave me in the pile of stuff I place on my dresser. I unfold the paper.
Kalia 555-335-0935
I leave the slip of paper lying on the dresser with my other stuff and crawl into bed. Pulling the sheets over me, I then reach over and grab my iPad. It’s 12:19 A.M. and now Sunday, so I tap onto the Postsecret.com app ready to read this week’s posted entries. Time to read about the secrets of my fellow friends. I notice some of the usual posts as I slide my finger down the screen; body weight issues, political messages, adopted children looking for their birth mothers, workers outing their scumbag bosses. Then, for the second time tonight, I freeze. I read the post written on a postcard featuring the Toronto skyline. It’s there. My secret.
I miss my deceased friend so much that sometimes I pretend I’m him. I lie about my identity when I’m screwing married women.
Holy shit. I mailed in this entry at least six months ago. How ironic is it that since the weight of this lie has been lifted off my shoulders, it is now out there for the world to read? And I’m okay with that. I’m able to find peace and acceptance with what I have done because I am able to see it through a different lens.
All the angst, the pain, the everyday–little-things-missing-Danny-moments bottled up inside of me that finding women and distracting myself with them helped fill the void of losing him. A dangerous pastime, no doubt, and a deceitful one to both them and me. Danny is not coming back. This is my new life; missing him comes in great waves but it also comes in small-unexpected moments every day. But, what I’m finding is that sometimes the most painful is also the most therapeutic…keeping him alive by talking about him and remembering the unique Danny-isms that made him real. Da
nny is not a ghost. He lived. He was here with us. I just wish the whole world had the chance to know him.
I roll over in bed and pull the sheets tighter around my shoulders. I think of my messed up life right now and how I can make it better. More meaningful. And then, out of the blue, he starts singing to me. Bon Jovi? King of the 80s, coming to me? The eighties? It dawns on me that I’m starting to think forward. I toss and turn some more. Thoughts of Caroline, the stalker, about Mr. Callahan, about Lara and Rob and… Rob’s daughter. David. Me.
And then the idea comes to me. It’s my life. I know what I am going to do.
17 “One”
It’s 6:58 A.M. I see her coming down the winding path towards me. Full speed. I stand at our meeting spot holding my bike by the handlebars as Leslie comes screeching to a halt beside me. It’s just the two of us here at the Georges Pier monument in Mount Pleasant Cemetery on this late June Monday morning. When I called to book an appointment, Leslie suggested we have our session today riding outdoors on our bikes instead of sitting inside her office. She picked the time and location and here we are setting off through theses low traffic and winding roads.
“You didn’t picture me much of a rider, did you, Eric?” She asks within the first five minutes of our ride. Leslie is dressed in cyclist gear: black helmet, black riding shorts, and a black t-shirt. Consistent with her typical coordinating fashion style, she is wearing purple leather riding gloves and matching purple sneakers. The Ray Ban sunglasses do up her cool factor, I must admit.
“You’re doing great. You know, in all my years of riding in Toronto, I’ve never been here. It’s very…. quiet,” I say as we cycle along glancing at the dozens upon dozens of tombstones around us. The irony of meeting in a cemetery, Toronto’s most famous cemetery, the resting place of Mackenzie King and Captain Fluke, while we are talking about grief and loss is not lost on me. I get the way Leslie works.