Red Lights, Black Hearts

by Fabiola Francisco

  I pick up the picture of my grandfather from the floor and tear it apart.

  I loved him. I thought he loved us. He was so normal.

  I grab the broken pieces and rush to the kitchen. I shove the pieces into the sink and turn on the water. With the water running, I turn on the garbage disposal. I don’t turn it off until I’m sure there’s nothing left of it. If only I could grind my memory.

  Like a mad woman, I look through the rest of the pictures. I find a family picture with my grandparents. My mother looking beyond the camera. How did I never notice it? Maybe I just ignored it because it was easier than acknowledging the truth. Maybe that was her normal, so I never questioned it. I also never would have imagined what she had lived.

  I shove that picture down the garbage disposal also.

  I take a deep breath.

  I need to stop seeking revenge for someone else. For whatever reason, my mother lived it the way she did.

  I look around my apartment at the disaster that is left behind from the storm of my emotions. The tension eases and takes with it my strength. I didn’t think dealing with this would spin me so out of control. Bale was right about taking a couple of days to assimilate what I’m doing. He also knows I’ve been working differently. He takes in my clients and charges them. He knows what they’re paying for. And what I’ve put a stop to.

  I leave the mess behind me and jump in the shower. I’m running away. I’m great at that.

  “I’m coming!” I yell as I walk from the bathroom to answer the incessant banging on my door.

  “What?” I snap.

  “Hello to you, too.”

  “Do you have to knock like the world was coming to an end and this was the only portal to a new planet?”

  “You weren’t at work,” Max states seriously.

  He walks in without an invitation. This is firm Max. He stops when he sees all the photos scattered on the floor. His sigh makes me look at him.

  “Care to explain?”

  “Not really.” I walk into my room and put on sweatpants and a t-shirt hanging my robe behind my bathroom door.

  “I’m waiting.”

  “Well, don’t let me stop you from spending your time trying to assess a situation that isn’t yours.”

  “Your situation is as much mine as yours.”

  I roll my eyes at his play on words. His reference to soulmates is getting old.

  “Tell me what happened,” he softens.

  Cue gentle Max.

  “I was cleaning.”

  “Sam . . .”

  “Can’t you tell? There’s always a mess before you complete a cleaning.”

  I look at the pictures and laugh. There must be a hundred photographs thrown on the floor of my apartment.

  Insanity.

  I can tell Max is holding in his laughter. I can’t. I keep on laughing at the scene in front of me. He finally gives in and laughs with me. I sit on the floor holding my side. This really looks like a war zone.

  “I’m insane.”

  “You’re beautiful.”

  “Look around, Max. I went crazy and threw everything like confetti at a funeral.”

  “Confetti at a funeral?” He raises his eyebrows.

  “I don’t know. It’s not a good situation so I can compare it to a funeral. Whatever. I stuck two pictures down the garbage disposal. They needed to go.”

  “And the garbage wasn’t enough?”

  “No.”

  “Okay.” He sits beside me.

  “I went to Anne Frank’s house yesterday. Your grandparents were saints for caring about each other as much as they did. You were also right. It’s all about perception.”

  “So no more indifference?”

  “No more.”

  “I wish I could help you.”

  “Just stay by my side.” I sink further onto the ground and lay on the floor with my knees tucked into my chest.

  “Always,” Max whispers.

  As I release more of who I’ve been these past few years, something else happens inside of me. I’m not sure what. I’m not sure I want to understand it. Instead I slip into nothingness. I like it there.

  “Why didn’t you work tonight?” Max interrupts my moment of nothingness.

  “I wasn’t up to it.”

  “Because?”

  “I sit up and stare at him. Because I wasn’t up for it.”

  “Are you ever going to be up for it again?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Max leans in and kisses me. He takes his time to explore my mouth while I lean into him seeking the warmth his energy provides. And right there on my kitchen floor, he loves me.

  I can tell the difference, and I let him. And maybe, I love him back.

  I slip out of bed and grab the notebook I’ve been using to write stuff down. Still not sure what that stuff is. It’s like a faucet turns on and words come out but I’m somewhere else. The only proof I have is the scribble on the papers.

  I quietly walk into my living room in the darkness of the night and turn on the small lamp by my sofa. I think I’ve turned this lamp on a total of ten times since I’ve lived here. I’ve become more aware of my actions.

  A dream woke me up but I can’t remember it. It’s been happening a lot more lately. I have things to let out, so I write. I write while I stare at the light.

  “Hey,” Max’s groggy voice surprises me.

  I look at him wide-eyed. My pen stops midway through a word. He sits next to me.

  “You write?”

  “No.”

  “What are you doing then?”

  “Writing.”

  “So you write.”

  “Not really. I never read what comes out and I can’t really control when and where.”

  “Isn’t it great to not have control?”

  I stare blankly. That’s like telling an addict that it’s great to not have a drop of liquor.

  He chuckles. “What I meant is that you’re following what comes to you without questioning it.”

  “Why are you awake?”

  “Because you are.”

  I place the pen on the page I was writing and close the notebook.

  “I had a dream the other night that my grandfather had returned. From the dead I guess. Everyone praised him but I stared petrified. He shared a secretive smile. What if . . .”

  “You need to let go of the what if. It will kill you. Just flow from your heart.”

  “How?”

  “By being you. No more hiding.”

  “No more hiding?”

  He shakes his head. All I’ve known to do for years is hide. I hide from the truth and from the lie. I hide from perception and criticize reality. I believe in hatred and despise honesty. I no longer know what I believe.

  “Lie with me a while?”

  Max looks tired. I nod and lie next to him. My mind wanders to butterflies. I fall asleep not giving in to the butterflies in my head.

  “It’s spring. Let’s take a trip.”

  “What?” My heart beats fast in my chest. I almost choke on the pancake I’m eating. Max has grabbed the sails of my ship and gone full force. Ever since he heard me say I wasn’t sure if I would ever be up to my career again he has taken another stance. Seems like I wasn’t the only one hiding.

  “Tulips. They grow wild just outside of Amsterdam. Fields full of flowers too precious to pick.”

  In response to my silences he says, “It’s a day trip. If you want to work, you still can. We’ll be back in time. A bus takes you out there and brings you back.”

  “Tulips.”

  “Tulips,” he echoes.

  Butterflies transform when they’re ready. Caterpillars live a life to prepare for it. When they do, they’re given wings to fly. They’re no longer attached to the tree or branch that provides for them. They can move from flower to flower sipping nectar and showing off their gorgeous colors. They’re delicate beings. The transformation may be odd, maybe even painful at first. They adjust
.

  I’m adjusting. My wings must still be drying before I take off.

  “I’m off on Monday.”

  “You’ve been off a lot more.”

  “I’m dealing with things.”

  “I’m not complaining.”

  “Tulips on Monday,” I say.

  Two weeks of self-evaluation. Two weeks of realization. Two weeks of uncertainty. I think it’s been two weeks. Now I’ve agreed to visit tulip fields with Max. I’m still torturing myself with memories I do recall and those I have hidden so deep within my conscious mind. I want to remember the truth, but I’m also afraid of it. I’ll never admit that to anyone.

  There are things you never need to know and things that are inevitable. We must learn the difference. We must learn to be brave enough to accept the life we’ve chosen. Whether we’re ready for it or not. I’m not ready for it. I’m not ready to discover what my experiences have been, but they’ve been flooding my mind with questions and possibilities. Is it better to live reality or a fictional torture? I’ve always promoted truth and reality, but now that it is directed to me I find it hard to surrender.

  Perception.

  “You haven’t gone to Germany in some time.”

  “I’ve had work here.”

  “You’ve been around more.”

  “You’ve been working less.”

  “You’re hopeful.”

  “You’re doubtful. Don’t be. Flow.”

  We pay and leave. I don’t know where. Last night when Max found me writing it gave him a different view of me. We just walk. We walk around the city exploring each neighborhood. We walk silently.

  “Do you believe in fairy tales? Not the Disney kind, but the kind that truly steal your heart away?”

  “No,” I respond.

  “I told you once I was going to prove you wrong.”

  “I don’t need a fairy tale. I just need real life. Real emotions. Real scenarios.”

  “You have real if you want it.”

  “I’m scared.” I confess the words I previously thought I never would. I confess my biggest truth. I hold on tight to him in hope that his words will comfort me, but I know they won’t. Or they will only temporarily because I need to comfort myself permanently. I need to believe in myself.

  “Everyone is capable of real. Everyone is capable of love.”

  “Is everyone capable of healing?”

  “That depends on how much desire you have for it.”

  I liked when I was cynical and hated the world. I liked when I believed indifference was reality and the blood on my hands was necessary. I liked when the dead stayed dead and the living stayed away. I still have parts of me that believe in this instilled in my being. I still stray to those thoughts, but then the little girl wants to be freed and I’m reminded of everything. Everything. Every detail that has led me to where I am and every person responsible for it.

  When do I stop and take responsibility for my life? When do I stop hammering myself for what I lived? When do I stop questioning everything and just be?

  I just want to kill everyone who has hurt someone. I want to make sure all those bastards that have caused someone pain get the punishment they deserve. I may not be the one to judge other’s karma, but if no one else is going to do it then I might as well do it.

  A judge of pain and a judge of dreams. A judge that tears apart those she seems fit and honors those who have suffered.

  But I can’t.

  In order to be free I need to stop judging. Forgive. There isn’t enough forgiveness to let go of the lies fed to me. Why can’t people just be who they are? You want to be a monster, go ahead. You want to be a saint, dress in white. You want to live a lie, live it honestly. I know this is ironic coming from someone who has been hiding, but I’ve always been honest with my words and thoughts.

  If people just reveal who they truly are, you save the world from a life of deception. The deception is what kills you. The break in trust is what destroys you.

  We cross bridges, connecting pieces of the city to each other. Max stops half way across a bridge.

  “This city is beautiful.” He’s pensive.

  I near him and say, “It is.” I look out across the canal and streets, the people traveling by boat and those by feet.

  Max pulls me in and breathes into my hair. “Whatever you need as support to help you heal, I will make it a priority.”

  Veils have lifted. Eyes have cleared. Scars are mending. Souls are freed.

  I allow him to hold me and envelop me with feelings. I allow him to care. I inwardly thank him for being real.

  How does someone who has resisted real emotions and damned connections understand what she is now feeling? I feel a tug within me, but I don’t know if it’s the illusion that has taken over my mind or the new reality I am now trying to see. The only truth I understand at the moment is that Max is here.

  “Let’s jump on a boat.”

  “What?”

  “Let’s go down there and get on a boat.”

  “That’s not something I’d expect you to want to do.”

  I shrug and walk down the bridge. “I want to do something different?”

  Max follows me with surprise painted on his face. We get on one of the boats traveling through the canals with no specific destination in mind.

  When I was a little girl we would go to a park that had pedal boats. I used to love getting on and moving across the lake. I was young still and used to fear alligators popping up. My dad would laugh and assure me no alligators were in that part of the lake.

  On one of our last visits there, I was standing on the shore and saw two little bumps in the distance. Anyone who grew up in South Florida knows how to quickly spot gators. I looked at my dad, calling him out on his lie. He chuckled again and shrugged his shoulders.

  “I wanted you to enjoy yourself without letting fear interrupt. I would never let you get hurt,” he had said.

  I was mad he lied. He wanted to protect me. He wanted me to enjoy life without pausing every moment to analyze my fear. My dad loved me. Why didn’t I try to keep in touch?

  Resentment. Disappointment.

  “I love boats,” I tell Max. The cool air blows my hair in all directions. I open my arms and just feel the breeze whip all around me, blowing off pieces of me that have been glued on for far too long.

  Max smiles, and I just look up at the sky, arms still open, and close my eyes. In the darkness of my eyelids I see the light of the sun dancing playfully. I follow its movements and begin to laugh. I have no idea what has gotten into me, but I laugh harder when I look at Max’s expression.

  I drop my arms and breathe deeply. I watch the city float by. Tourists wave at us on the boat and you hear the oohs and aahs of the other passengers as they admire the neighborhoods. Some laugh when we pass by the Red Light District.

  I don’t. I just stare. I see the girls working the earlier hours of the day and something shifts. I miss it and I don’t. I miss the escape it gives me. I crave the control it provides. I know it’s all a cover up to the truth.

  The closer to the truth we get, the more we resist. I can almost feel the freedom that will come with releasing my past, yet I can’t stretch enough to reach it. I’m not ready for it.

  We pass the Red Light District and continue on around the city.

  “Let’s get off here,” Max says.

  I follow Max off the boat and onto the street bordering the canal. We stop in front of a church.

  “Really?”

  “It’s Westerkerk.”

  “And that explains why you stopped here?”

  “Have you ever climbed the bell tower?”

  “No.”

  He grabs my hand and gets our entries for the tour. A few minutes later we begin to ascend the spiral staircase until we reach the forty meters. The air out on the platform is colder and the wind stronger.

  I look out onto the city below me in awe. Everything looks smaller. The people dots. The expanse of Am
sterdam in front of me.

  “Perspective,” Max whispers.

  “It looks so pretty.”

  “Sometimes we just need to change our view for a little while to fully grasp what we’re looking at.”

  I turn sideways to look at him. “What’s your favorite color?” There’s still so much I don’t know about Max. I haven’t given him the chance to show me who he is.

  “I don’t have one.”

  “Even I have a favorite color.”

  “I like them all. Each color represents something.”

  “Are you human?”

  He laughs. “I sure as hell hope so.”

  We stay up at the tower for a while watching the boats move through the canals. I stare at the houses and buildings. I wonder what it would be like to always have this view. To live at this level.

  I can’t. I know we need all heights to function, but being here away from the world makes it a little easier to breathe and accept what is. Rapunzel felt incarcerated in her tower, and I feel free in this one.

  “Did you like the view?” Small talk doesn’t really suit Max.

  “Yes.”

  We pass by a spring festival with children laughing, playing, and riding the swings. The inner girl in me is winning in the battle to expose herself. All the children seem so happy. I want to protect them all. I can’t.

  “You’re making progress, babe. Have you tried ho’oponopono?”

  “How’s the window?”

  “Don’t change the subject.” The only thing softening Bale’s tough exterior is the look in his eyes.

  “I miss it.”

  “That’s normal.”

  “I’ve tried ho’oponopono a few times.”

  “You seem better,” he says.

  “I’m not sure if I feel it. I lost it the other day. Threw pictures across my apartment and argued with dead people.”

  “As long as they didn’t respond,” Bale tries to joke.

  We’re sitting at the back of a coffee shop. Bale smoking his weed and me drinking a Moscow Mule. He wanted to see how I was doing but didn’t want to impose on my free time. In other words, he wanted to make sure I didn’t have an excuse to get rid of Max.