Gus

by Kim Holden

  Gracie pinches her eyes shut tight. Her lips are pursed. There’s a lot of concentration and focus going into this wish.

  When her face relaxes slightly, the girl called Kate asks, “Did you make a good one?”

  “I made a good one. I wished that—”

  A deep male voice cuts her off. “Don’t tell your wish, Gracie. It won’t come true if you tell us.” I’d bet money that was Gustov.

  Gracie pulls her lips in between her teeth, like she’s physically restraining her secret wish, holding it inside so it doesn’t force its way out.

  “You ready to blow out the candles, Gracie?” It’s Kate.

  Gracie nods excitedly. She’s bouncing in her chair.

  Kate laughs. She has a great laugh. It comes from deep in her belly. It’s genuine. “You’ve got this. One blow, and all the candles will be history. Okay?”

  Gracie nods again. The look of concentration has taken over her face again. She’s focused and her eyebrows pull in toward the center. She closes her eyes as Kate starts the count.

  “On the count of three, Gracie. One. Two. Three!”

  Gracie leans forward, eyes still closed, and blows on the candles. Two flicker out, but before she can open her eyes, Kate and another blond head that pops into the screen blow the rest of the candles out.

  Gracie leans back and opens her eyes, astonished that all of the candles are extinguished. “I did it!” she cheers.

  “You did it!” Kate and Gustov cheer together.

  Gracie turns in her seat and looks at Kate with hope in her eyes. “I get my wish?” she asks.

  Kate wraps her arms around Gracie’s neck and hugs her. “Always. I’ll make sure of it.”

  And just as I’m enjoying myself and getting sucked into the innocence, the screen goes dark again.

  “Goddamn, Gracie loved birthdays, didn’t she, Ma?” Gus asks from beside me. He sounds like he’s reminiscing.

  Audrey nods. “She did. I don’t know what she liked more: the cupcakes, or the candles, or the wishes.”

  The screen lights up again. It looks like a stage in an auditorium, maybe at a school or rec center.

  A voice announces, “I’d like to introduce Kate Sedgwick.”

  Loud cheering and whistling comes from the audience.

  Kate walks onto the stage holding a violin. She looks to be about eighteen, carrying the same grace and beauty as before. Her eyes are downcast, as if she’s trying to ignore the crowd in front of her.

  “That’s my girl!” A guy’s voice yells from the audience. It sounds like Gustov.

  A smile creeps across her mouth as she looks up. She shakes her head, but she’s smiling. Her smile seems to say, Stop, you’re embarrassing me and Thank you at the same time.

  She tucks the violin under her chin, and for the next ten minutes I can’t take my eyes off the screen. I’m riveted. She’s amazingly talented. I’ve gone to the symphony in New York. She’s that kind of good.

  When her violin falls silent, I can’t help but say, “Wow.” It’s a whisper only for me, but I can’t help myself.

  Gustov looks at me, his eyes brimming with pride. “Damn right,” he says.

  Audrey sniffles beside me as the screen fades to black again. She pauses it. “She could tell a story with a song. That was beautiful. I need a tissue.”

  When Audrey returns and starts the video again, we watch Rook play a song down in the basement of this house, their faces bright with youth. Franco doesn’t have as many tattoos. After some coaxing, albeit crude, Franco persuades Kate to sing with them. I'm stunned by her voice. Even though the sound quality of the video isn’t great, her voice is massive, especially for such a small woman. She’s as good as Gustov and I have to admit he has a great voice. They sing well together.

  After the fade to black, a song starts playing. It’s a single violin. And then a photo slideshow begins. It’s three minutes of a heartbreaking song, which has to be Rook and Kate, accompanied by dozens of photos of Gustov, Gracie, Kate, and Audrey. The photos must span twenty years. The kids are toddlers in some but others look more recent. I don’t know if it’s the song fueling my emotional swings, but as I watch it I feel elated one second and sick to my stomach the next.

  By the end, I feel spent. I don’t know who Kate and Gracie are, but I have a very bad feeling. These girls were obviously as close as family their entire lives, and I haven’t heard about or seen either of them in the months I’ve been around the Hawthornes.

  Gustov pushes off the sofa. “Thanks for that, Ma. I’m going outside.”

  He needs a cigarette. Or he’s escaping. Probably both, the way his voice just sounded. He doesn’t hide his emotions. Even when he doesn’t talk his mannerisms speak loud and clear.

  I should let him go out alone. I know that. They’ve just let me in on something very private; I should take that gift graciously and keep my damn mouth shut. But I can’t. I feel like this is the key to something; that this is the reason there are parts of Gustov that I don’t get. Because watching the Gustov in those videos—he was so free and happy.

  He’s in one of the lounge chairs on the deck facing the water when I step outside. He doesn’t look at me when I approach, he just lights his cigarette. His first pull is long and focused.

  I feel like I need to ask, to make peace before I barge into his life completely. “Can I sit down?”

  He doesn’t take his eyes off the horizon, but his answer is gentle, “Sure. It’s showtime.” It’s not what I was expecting, but I can’t believe how relieved I am at the acceptance.

  I take a seat in the chair next to him. “Showtime?” I ask.

  Pointing to the water, cigarette held firmly between his fingers, he looks at me as if I should understand. After he takes in my puzzled look, he elaborates. “The sunset. It’s showtime.”

  And the realization sinks in. “Oh,” I answer lamely. I settle back into my chair and for the next ten minutes Gustov and I watch the water swallow the glowing orange orb. Piercing the darkness with words is startling given the solitude, so I speak quietly. “I don’t think I’ve ever watched the sunset.” Because I honestly don’t think I have. I grew up in New York, surrounded by buildings and hustle and bustle. I was aware that the sun did set every day, but I never took the time to actually watch it happen. I feel a little cheated now, because this was breathtaking.

  His eyes narrow infinitesimally. “Are you shitting me?”

  I shake my head. “No. Never.” The admission has we wondering how many other important things in life I’ve glossed over.

  “How does a person grow to be twenty-something years old and never watch a sunset? Were you raised in a cave, or underground? It’s one of the finer spectacles mother nature has to offer, and it happens every night.” He widens his teasing eyes for effect. “Every damn night.”

  I want to laugh, but I sigh instead and it still sounds like I’m amused because I can’t hide it. “I know. I grew up in New York—”

  He interrupts me with a smirk, “Ah, I was right, a cave. That also explains the accent.”

  I just stare at him.

  He stares back.

  And then we both laugh. It feels good, so I go with it.

  “I love New York, but yeah, not a lot of opportunity for things like sunsets. Lots of tall buildings and not a lot of horizon.”

  He nods. “Do you miss it?”

  “Sometimes. Usually not.”

  “Do you like it here? San Diego, I mean?” The way he’s looking at me would be unnerving if he wasn’t listening so intently. He wants to hear the answer. Most people I’ve dealt with in life talk but they don’t listen. Even those closest to me. People have their own issues that keep them from devoting their full attention to me when we’re together. That’s fine. I understand. It’s what I do, too. I listen with half my brain and focus on everything else that’s going on with the other half. It’s how I multi-task. How I take everything in. Gustov doesn’t. He gives whatever he’s doing his full att
ention.

  I can’t look away when I answer him. “I do. The people are different. No one’s in a hurry. People talk a lot more. It’s kind of hard to get used to, but I like it.”

  “That’s because San Diego’s the real deal.” He winks at me before he lights another cigarette. After that first long drag, he looks at it thoughtfully. “How come you never complain about my smoking? I mean, you don’t smoke and you take really good care of yourself. I know you probably don’t like it.”

  I shrug. “It’s not my place. I used to smoke. I know how hard it is to quit.” It’s as simple as that.

  He’s still looking at the cigarette in his hand, regarding it like it’s a burden. “I need to quit.” His voice lowers. “I know I do. But I can’t. I’ve tried so many times.” He looks at me like he needs me to console him or tell him it’s okay.

  “You’ll figure it out. When the time’s right it’ll happen. You have to want it though. No one can do it for you.”

  He nods solemnly and silence settles between us.

  I take that as my chance to ask, “Who are Gracie and Kate?”

  He smiles again. It’s small and loving. The same smile he wore inside. The same smile I wish he wore all the time now that I’ve seen it, because it transforms him. “My best friends,” he answers.

  It makes me smile. “Looks like you’ve known them your whole life.”

  He nods, but he’s still smiling.

  “Where are they?” I ask hesitantly, and that eerie feeling creeps back in.

  His gaze drifts upward, toward the sky. “Heaven, I suppose. Gracie went first and I sure as hell know Bright Side would’ve beat down the goddamn door to get in if she knew her sister was inside. They’re together, I have no doubt.”

  A chill runs through me. “I’m sorry.”

  He looks at me and though the smile is still in place the joy has drained from his eyes. “Yeah. It’s fucked up. Today would’ve been Gracie’s twenty-second birthday. Three days ago would’ve been Bright Side’s twenty-first.”

  “They were so young,” I say in disbelief.

  He nods again. “Old souls. Young bodies. Gracie got sick and died almost a year and a half ago. It took us all by surprise. And cancer stole Bright Side from us in January.” The smile has faded completely, replaced with glistening eyes.

  I don’t know what to say, so I say again what I’ve already said. “I’m sorry.”

  He’s still nodding, the repetitive gesture of someone lost in thought. “Yeah.”

  I want to hug him, which I never have the urge to do with anyone other than Paxton and Jane. I want to comfort him, but I feel removed from the situation, suddenly like an intruder. “I’m sorry,” I echo. I hope he hears the comfort in my words. I’m not good at showing my feelings.

  His eyes turn to me, still shiny with grief. “What’s the story with Michael?”

  I’m caught off guard. “What?”

  “You know what I mean, what’s your history?” He’s talking quietly, but loud enough that I can hear him. He’s not demanding information from me, he’s just asking.

  “Old boyfriend.” I answer and that’s where I leave it.

  “Sorry, I don’t mean to dredge up the past … or the present,” he adds. He’s asking, without asking, if we’re together.

  I shake my head. “No. It’s fine. I’m glad it’s over ...” I trail off.

  “But you still love him?” he asks softly. Goddamn, I wish he didn’t read me so well.

  I shrug. “I do, but I don’t. It’s complicated.” I decide now’s as good a time as any and ask, “What about the woman who you went out with a couple weeks ago? Girlfriend?”

  He looks confused for a few seconds. “Clare? Hell no. Cool girl. Now. But, no. Definitely no.”

  I don’t know why, but that lightens my heart.

  He sighs and returns to our conversation, but he shifts it. I felt it. This is about pain now. “Love’s a pisser.”

  I drop my head back against the cushion and roll it to look at him. He’s staring at me again. His eyes are open, a gateway. He’s honest, and he’s kind, and most importantly he’s not judging me. I nod in agreement. “Yeah, it sure as hell is.” I don’t know how I know, but I know his heart is broken, too. “Have you ever been in love?”

  He hasn’t blinked. “Once.”

  “How long did it last?”

  Looking back up to the sky, he answers. “Twenty-one years … and three days.”

  It hits me hard. Kate. He’s talking about Kate. His Bright Side. No wonder he’s walking around like a shell of a man. He lost the love of his life. Instead of fighting the urge, I don’t hesitate this time. I slide my legs off the lounge chair and place them on the deck between our chairs and shift my weight from mine over onto his. I sit there on the edge of his seat against his hip and I just look at him. I guess I’m asking for permission. I don’t usually do things like this. I don’t usually offer comfort. He balls up my shirt just above my hip in his fist. His eyes are pleading now—begging for friendship, comfort, and consolation. He needs to let this out. I could analyze this. I could overthink it until I talk myself out of it. But I don’t, instead I lean down slowly until my head’s resting on his chest and slide my hands underneath his back until I’m squeezing him. Until I feel his warmth against me. And when his big arms wrap around me, I realize in this moment that I’ve never really been hugged. This is a hug. This is what human contact is supposed to feel like. It’s supposed to feel … human. Distilled until it’s nothing but one human being transferring support to another human being in the form of touch that’s unselfish and pure in intention. And I know he feels it, too, because his chest rises in a few stuttered breaths and he lets the tears go. I just hold him until his breathing evens out, at which point he pulls me up until my head is resting on the cushion next to his and the front of my body is molded to the side of his. Our arms are still wrapped around each other and I feel pressure from both sides, which tells me neither one of us wants to let go.

  “Can we just lie here for a while? Like this?” he asks with a tremble in his voice. The vulnerability I hear makes my heart ache.

  “Sure,” I answer, because in all honesty, I don’t want to let go either. This hug, him crying and opening up to me, the humanity in all of it is something I can feel in my heart. I feel alive and heavy with emotion, heavy like a tide that threatens to pull you under, but you somehow know it won’t because your heart is buoyant enough to keep you afloat no matter what. It’s blind faith … hope, or at least as close to hope as anything I’ve ever felt. A faint, reluctant hope that I can feel in both of us. Buried deep.

  Wednesday, November 1

  (Gus)

  “Can I ask you a question?” I’m a little nervous to initiate this conversation, because I know she’ll get defensive. And I want her to open up to me like she did last night; I don’t want to take a step backwards with her. I want her to trust me enough to give me her whole story. I’m learning to lay it all out there and I want her to do the same, because it feels so fucking good. I guess more than anything I want her to feel like she can be Scout around me, even if she’s never been Scout around anyone else. She’s so guarded. It must be fucking exhausting. I want to remove the burden. Everyone deserves to live free.

  “You can always ask me a question. Doesn’t mean I’m going to answer it.”

  Well, that was validation of my fear. Though I get the feeling self-preservation is such habit with her that she doesn’t really think things through before she says stuff like that. “How’d you get your scars?” I’m not sugarcoating it, because I’m not really a sugarcoating kind of guy. And she’s not a sugarcoating kind of girl. Besides, getting right to the point with her is the easiest way to communicate.

  “That’s rude,” she says with little emotion, though there’s mild shock in her eyes. This is a topic she avoids at all costs. A topic she doesn’t know how to navigate openly.

  “It’s not rude. It’s part of who you are,
like your hazel eyes or your bad attitude,” she shoots me a glare that’s more embarrassed than it is angry. I meet it with a smile so she knows I’m kidding about the bad attitude, and then I continue, “Or the fact that you have stellar legs.”

  She shakes her head. It’s a soft gesture, non-combative, but resolute, and returns her gaze to the TV.

  I wait several seconds. “That’s it?”

  “Yup. That’s it.”

  “We’re not gonna discuss?”

  “Nope.” Eyes still fixed on a commercial I know she’s not even watching. Nope sounds more maybe.

  “Why?” I push.

  “I don’t … discuss it.” The pause tells me she’s torn. Like she wants to tell me, but she doesn’t know how to have this conversation. So that’s where it ends. She’s done.

  Damn, I’m almost scared she’s going to get up and leave to avoid this further, so I shut up even though I have a million questions I want to ask. I’m always full of questions. But I really want to know how? And when? And why? And where? It’s not morbid curiosity, and I'm not trying to make her uncomfortable. I’m asking because I want her to be comfortable. In her own skin. Literally and figuratively. I want her to just say, Fuck it. I am who I am. Nobody’s perfect. Because nobody is perfect. Some people wear their scars on the outside. Others wear them on the inside. Same difference. Your character, your heart, your essence, that’s what’s important, because that’s the real you. All the rest, our looks, the material stuff? It's just meaningless bullshit.

  Saturday, November 4

  (Scout)

  My phone beeps while I’m out running early this morning. I glance down at the screen. It's a text from Michael that reads, Pick you up at 11:30.

  My stomach immediately clenches and I have to stop running. I feel nauseous. I don’t intend to pick up a relationship with him again. His last visit was a moment of weakness, mixed with the closure I needed. Instead of running again, I walk back to Audrey’s. A slow walk. A sad walk. A shameful walk.