Louder Than Love

by Topper, Jessica

  I quickly moved to another room. “I’m not a reporter . . . just a really good researcher. I’m a friend of Adr . . . Doug Graves. Digger.”

  “Dandy. I am sure Billy No-Mates needs all the friends he can get. Please refrain from—”

  “Wait . . . að blanda blóði saman. The blood oath. I know about that. And the misericorde. Please don’t hang up.”

  There was a silence. I held my breath and prayed. “You are quite the wealth of information, aren’t you?”

  “Just a librarian with a really good memory. He said your last words to him were ‘See you in hell, me old China.’”

  “Now that I don’t remember. But I’ve been told I have a flair for the dramatic.” I heard a clinking of what sounded like ice into a glass. I pictured him pouring himself a fistful of fingers’ worth of scotch over those rocks in preparation for the rest of our conversation. “So, Katrina. Care to catch me up on the last sixteen years?”

  “You can call me Kat. And in all honesty . . . Adrian—he goes by Adrian now—he came into my life four months ago.” Saying it out loud made it seem so insignificant, and therefore even less possible. Could it really only have been four months? Did it really happen at all? Some nights I have dreams that span longer periods of time. “Corny as it sounds, I feel like we’ve lived a lifetime together.” I ignored Rick’s snort and plowed on, thinking of what Adrian might want him to know. “He’s been clean for over a decade. He’s still making music, some great music. More for himself and for those around him than for mass public consumption . . .” I chose my words carefully. “He’s found some peace with his past, and love . . .” I swallowed hard. “I know he’s still hurting, though. He feels a lot was left unsaid with you . . . with Simone. He shared a lot with me . . . but I know there are some things he wants to tell you, and you alone. I told him a while back I would try my best to find you.”

  “A for effort, luv,” came his gruff reply.

  “God, I know this must seem out of left field. A complete stranger out of the blue telling you things about you that you yourself haven’t thought of in years—”

  “Who says I haven’t thought of them? Who says I don’t spend each day of my life wondering what I could have done differently? If Simone were still . . . You know about Simone, I’m assuming? Stomach cancer. Ticked her off your tidy little research list, I reckon?” His voice was caustic, causing me to cringe.

  “Yes . . . I . . . He doesn’t know. I can say I . . . I know how you . . . I lost my husband four years ago. I still flounder, lost at sea daily.”

  Rick backed down a bit, his voice resuming its normal octave. “It doesn’t get any better after ten years, I’m sorry to say.” We both paused to reflect on this. “Have you ever been here?”

  “Where’s here?”

  “Hawaii, Miss Marple.” He chuckled. “Here on the island of Kauai, there’s a beach called Polihale. It’s the westernmost point in the United States, actually. Miles and miles of beach, mostly deserted; there’s no swimming or surfing there, as the currents are just fierce. Simone and I were on holiday, right after that blasted last tour finished. I stood on that beach for, I don’t know, hours it seemed. It’s got these incredible sand dunes, like a hundred feet high, and in the distance you can see the beginning of the cliffs of the Na Pali.”

  “It sounds incredible.”

  “It’s the kind of place that makes one realize how insignificant one really is in the grand scheme of things. Pulled my ego down a few pegs and got my priorities in line straightaway. We relocated here with the children shortly after; family became my number-one priority, and it still is to this day. After Simone died, I went off of my head. The locals talked about the powerful Polihale heiau just north of the beach, a sacred site. It is believed to be one of the points from which the souls of the dead depart the island into the setting sun. It sounded so beautiful, so peaceful. I wanted to go and die there, to travel with her. The kids were the only things holding me back.”

  “My daughter, too, she was the only thing that kept me sane.” I curled my legs up under me and switched ears. Abbey was eating ravioli and singing a song to herself in the kitchen.

  “How old?”

  “She’s turning five soon. Adores Adrian. He’s so good with her.” It took an effort to stay in the present tense.

  “Really. I remember his Natalie at five. Damn shame. I hope he’s managed to salvage that wreck of a relationship.”

  “He’s been trying.” Silence buzzed through the line.

  “So if I call him . . . it’s not going to spell instant reunion of the band. Just so we’re clear.”

  “I think you’re of the same mind on that front.”

  ***

  The phone cut through my dreams the next night. Twelve thirty a.m. Please. Just let it be him. I picked up the phone and tried my best to mask my startled and sleepy salutation as one that exuded casual and confident. “Hi?”

  “Where did you say you and Digger met again?” It was Rick.

  I rolled onto my side. “I don’t think I did say. At the library.”

  “The library, seriously?” He laughed.

  “It was a case of mistaken identity, I suppose.” I yawned.

  “The phone numbers you gave me, luv. They’re both out of service.”

  My heart sank into the futon mattress, where I could feel it struggling to beat. “Shit.” I couldn’t help it. I was so tired. The tears came too easily. “Damn him.”

  “Ah, luv.” Something was being poured into a glass. “How did it end? Did you piss him off, fuck him off, scare him off?”

  “The hell if I know. He never let me in on the punch line.”

  “I’m so sorry you’re sad, luv.” And he sounded as if he truly was.

  “I was sad. Now I’m more angry than anything. How could he just remove himself like that? Why was it so easy to walk away?”

  “Because it’s easy to live with your eyes closed . . .”

  “And to misunderstand what you see,” I automatically replied before I knew what I was doing. I saw Adrian in my mind’s eye, leaping over the Imagine mosaic and into my heart.

  “The problem with Digger is that everything was always so black-and-white with him. He was never able to accept the gray matter. Either the hero or the victim . . . he couldn’t seem to find a way to exist in between. He’s always been like that, since I’ve known him. Hero to victim in three seconds flat.”

  I pondered that for a moment. If I had been beyond fighting for, did that mean I was the enemy?

  “Got a pen, luv?” I scrambled through my bedside table drawer to find one, and took down the digits he dictated. “If you talk to him . . . you can pass him this number. You take care, now.”

  Handle with Care

  Dear Adrian,

  I once told you how proving something didn’t exist was infinitely harder than proving something did exist. Well, you haven’t replied to any of my e-mails or my calls, so I guess my theory has been blown out of the water—you have proved there are things that really don’t exist. I thought we had stumbled upon something, the two of us. And that we were beginning to explore it together. But as the days go by and the silence in this house becomes unbearable, I am convinced there must’ve never been anything there. And I can’t continue to exhaust my resources trying to prove it otherwise.

  Here is something that is real: your friend Rick. He’d like you to call him. And Abbey wanted you to have these.

  There’s been enough grief. I wish you only joy.

  Kat

  I closed the letter with Rick’s phone number, slipped it into Abbey’s handmade card, and placed it in a small box with the pencil holder she had made. With a heavy heart, I worked Adrian’s ring over my knuckle and dropped it into the container. WE KNOW WHAT WE ARE, it twinkled its reminder at me once more as I reached for the packing tape.

 
; “Anything fragile, perishable, or potentially hazardous?” the postal worker asked as she reached to take the box that now contained my hopes, dreams, and fears about the future.

  All I could do was shake my head and let it go.

  A Man Said to the Universe

  A man said to the universe:

  “Sir, I exist!”

  “However,” replied the universe,

  “The fact has not created in me

  A sense of obligation.”

  — Stephen Crane

  Better Man

  “Soho. Rhymes with ho-ho.”

  “And don’t forget yo-yo.”

  Abbey and I were playing games as we walked toward Luke’s photography gallery. We hadn’t strolled together on a city block since July Fourth. It was on my mind, but I hoped it wasn’t on hers.

  “Wooster. Rhymes with . . . rooster!” she crowed triumphantly, pointing at the street sign.

  “Now that’s a silly but good one.”

  “Silly . . . rhymes with Philly!”

  Abbey was excited to see Unkie Luke and the rest of my in-laws, but she was especially excited to travel with Pete’s parents to their house in Philadelphia after the opening. They were both high school teachers and they enjoyed spending the last week of their vacation each year with their only granddaughter.

  “Here’s Spring . . . rhymes with?” I prompted.

  “Spring! Ring and sing . . .”

  The scent hit us both, seemingly at the same time. Peppery, with a hint of bergamot. Maybe basil.

  “Spring Street smells like Adrian,” Abbey said matter-of-factly.

  My head had jerked up, pivoting around to every quadrant in search of him. “Oh, look.” I pointed to Molton Brown, a shop well known for their luxurious grooming products. “That must be where Adrian buys his cologne.”

  It’s amazing how a simple scent can heighten all the senses. One whiff and I was lost. My eyes wanted to search for him; I longed to hear his voice. And the thought of his touch ignited me. A thousand memories and moods flooded my mind.

  The large double L sign ahead was like a beacon. I ushered Abbey into the cool confines of Luke’s gallery. All year long he had exhibits and installations of photographers from around the globe, but it was the first time he had the entire place filled with his own work.

  We were immediately enveloped by Veronica and Ben, my in-laws. Several other relatives and friends of the Lewis family were on hand as well. Kimon and Luke both looked suave and artsy in crisp white buttoned shirts and linen khakis. They each took Abbey by a hand and led her toward a display of color shots from the trip to the Cloisters and large black-and-whites from their Cape May weekend.

  Liz had arrived through the back door, a covered tray of food in her hands. “Tree? A hand, please?” I helped her slide the mammoth tray onto a long table and followed her down the long hallway to the service door. “I brought an assistant,” she announced, stepping aside and allowing me to peer out the square of mesh wired glass.

  Adrian was slouching and smoking against the open back end of her catering van, cigarette barely leaving his lips as he puffed anxiously. I jumped away from the window before he could spot me. “How in the hell . . . ?”

  She shook her bob of red hair, a small smirk on her lips. “He was waiting at the shop when I arrived this morning. What a sight.”

  “Was he . . . high?”

  “Drunk. Tenacious. Tearful.” She began a one-woman dialogue alternating between a British accent worse than Marissa’s and her own fly girl–speak. “He got up in my face with ‘I know you didn’t approve of me, but,’ and I was like, ‘Get out of town,’ and then he was all, ‘Just tell me wot I need to do to get ’er back. I don’t give a flying monkey’s wot she did.’ And I go ‘What she did? You’re delusional if you think she did anything but love you, warts and all!’ And he was like, ‘Come again?’ So then I got Doom Boy some coffee, sobered him up, and told him he was coming with me.” She smiled proudly.

  “Does he know it’s me . . . that I’m here?”

  “He’s about to.”

  Before I could protest, Liz pushed open the door and marched toward him. He barely reacted as she went through the motions of scolding him for smoking near the food. I watched the scene play out like a comical silent movie as she plucked the cigarette from his fingers, smoked the rest of it, and directed him to grab another tray of food to bring in. He did as he was told. And found himself face-to-face with me.

  “You can bring it right in to the table here.” I tried to keep my voice even.

  I turned quickly, not wanting to linger on his shocked expression for fear it might morph into something even more unfamiliar to me. The corridor felt as endless as a cathedral aisle. I could feel his eyes on me as my heels clicked manically, but I didn’t dare turn to look or speak any more. He deposited the tray as he was instructed. I watched his hands, normally so dexterous and assured, shake slightly. The Shakespeare ring was back on his left pinky finger.

  “You’re drunk again,” I said softly.

  “And you’re still beautiful.”

  I felt my heart surge with love, even as it was breaking apart. I had dreamed of him before I met him and had fallen for him the moment he had stumbled into the library that April day.

  “Tree, is everything okay? Do you know this guy?” Luke had left Abbey admiring the photographs with Kimon and warily approached us. Behind him, the quizzical faces of my extended family looked on.

  “Oh, she knows me. But do I know her? And do you?” He gulped a half laugh. “Ah, Kat. And Schrödinger’s cat.” He poked a stunned Luke in the chest. “Are you in a superposition of states? Are you alive or dead? Do you even know?”

  “Quantum physicist?” I heard my father-in-law ask Liz.

  “No. Rock star,” came Liz’s stage-whispered reply.

  The entire room was staring at the scene now, the art forgotten. Kimon and Abbey rounded the corner, and stopped in their tracks. I tried to keep my voice calm and controlled. “Everyone, excuse me. Give us a minute. Please.” To Abbey, I said, “Stay here, baby. I’ll be right back.” She said nothing, just gaped at Adrian as I pulled him into Luke’s office.

  Staying calm was not working; I was so relieved to see him, I wanted to cry, to yell, to push him and hold him all at once. “Tell me what made you feel you had to rip apart my life and my daughter’s life all over again? After all we had lost! What possessed you?”

  He immediately began pacing the small room, hand running through his hair. “I did what I thought was best, but it killed me to walk away from you.”

  “Best? Best? Putting Abbey and myself on a train home that day was the worst thing I’ve had to go through since . . . since . . .” Tears strangled my words.

  “Since what, Kat? I don’t fucking know because you wouldn’t ever tell me!” He punched his heaving chest in emphasis.

  “Since Pete died! He got on a goddamn train and left me!” I thought of the bullet holes engraved across his heart, hidden from view. I felt each word rip through both of us, riddling us with the sorrow, the knowledge . . . the burden and the relief. “And then . . . and then you left me,” I choked out quietly, my hands finding my face.

  “I had to. After seeing you that day. With him.” I jerked my hands away to stare at him. Biting his lip, he continued. “England, my family . . . the bloody fans and press coming out of the woodwork, they all mucked about with my head, and I missed you so terribly. I wanted to whisk you away somewhere beautiful and peaceful. I wanted to show Abbey the Cloisters. Even without crenellations, it’s the most castlelike, amazing place in the city. And there are these unicorn tapestries there, they tell a story of a creature in captivity. The poor beast has magical powers, does great things, and everyone wants a piece of him. They hunt him down. Trick him and attack him. Destroy him! Does that sound like anyone you know?
” His voice gained a hard edge. “In the end, he is miraculously reborn. I wanted to show you that. But you refused to meet me and you wouldn’t tell me why. But there you were,” he spat. “With him. And the three of you looked so goddamned happy.”

  “I can explain—”

  “Now you can explain? I never forced you to talk about Pete. I used to see the bleedin’ picture every day I entered your damn house; I tried to make peace with the fact I was competing with a ghost. I tried to be there for you, but you refused to be pried open. Time, you said to give you time. And I did, because I thought you loved me like I loved you and we would have all the time ahead of us. Then I leave for three weeks and you bring a bloody carbon copy of him into the picture?”

  Picture.

  I calmly, quietly walked behind the desk and picked up a frame. Putting it in his hands, I then turned to walk to the window, my back to him.

  It was my wedding picture. I could see it in my mind’s eye. Smiling with Pete, surrounded by my parents and Kevin, Pete’s mom, dad, and Luke. The photo was almost a decade old. Luke was scrawnier back then, perhaps with a bit more hair, but other than that, he looked the same . . . and so much like Pete.

  “His brother. Luke. The three of us spend every July Fourth together. Pete’s birthday. This party . . . it’s Luke’s engagement party. His partner, his parents, Abbey . . . they’re all in the next room. But I’m going to stay in here with you until you hear what I have to say.”

  I turned. Adrian seemed rendered speechless. He put the picture down. Picked it up again, put it back down.

  “I opened my heart to you . . . but not my heartbreak. I was afraid, so I kept it private. To deal with on my own. Because I do love you . . . but I am always going to have moments when I miss him. And when I miss him, I am not the same person you know. So, yes, I am probably as flawed as you feel everyone else in your life is. That’s life! I never wanted to be your saint!”