quintessence.

by Buhl, Sarah

  He was courageous.

  “I’m bisexual.” He pulled his lips in a tight smile. His eyes were beautiful as he spoke.

  My jaw dropped. That was not what I expected him to say. It didn’t faze me though. It didn’t feel wrong or odd; it was just a fact.

  “You don’t say?” I asked.

  “Yes, for the longest time, I thought I had to be one or the other. I told you how I experimented in high school. But that wasn’t the right person. Then I thought—I must for sure be heterosexual because of my attraction to you. So, we were the right people. But, I just don’t think we still are. Yes, we had some great sex and I love you, I will always love you, but we aren’t meant to be. You know what I mean? You’re one of my closest friends and I don’t want this to be too much right now. With your health issues I don’t want to make it harder on you. But, I had to say it. I’m sorry.”

  I stood from the chair, stepped toward him, sat on his lap and wrapped my arm around his neck. “No, there is no need to apologize—not at all. I will always love you because you’re Toby and you and I have our time to remember. So what does this mean for you, though?” I asked, before kissing his cheek and resting my head on his shoulder.

  “It means, I need to just do what I need to do for me so I can be the me I need to be for the person I’m meant to be with.” He laughed. “There was a lot of me’s in there.”

  “Well, there should be, don’t you think?” I asked.

  “I suppose you’re right.” He pushed my hair behind my ear and then kissed my forehead. “I love you, Maggie. Maybe someday we will end up back together, but I think this is for the best—me figuring my shit out and you being the you that you are.”

  “Something I’ve realized is that I’ve needed to figure that out myself. I thought I had my shit together. But, this illness has caused everything I thought to be real and true to turn into something false. I see how false everything was before. And don’t take this wrong, but even our relationship was—for both of us. You did your thing, I did mine. But we weren’t together. I had a plan for my life. That plan has been screwed over. So, here I sit, trying to figure it all out.”

  “What do you feel the need to figure out?” he asked, leaning his forehead onto the top of my head.

  “I’ve been thinking a lot about my grandma,” I said, feeling sad at the mention of her. I still missed her.

  “Grandma Margaret?” he asked.

  I nodded. “Yeah—I didn’t acknowledge how much she taught me until recently. I focused on making a name for myself with my job, and I forgot what my name was. I think I need to do some things for other people and not for me for a change.”

  “What are you talking about? You do things for others all the time. If you hadn’t always pushed me—though you were rude when you did it, but if you hadn’t done that—I wouldn’t have had the strength to go do what I’ve done. Not to mention how you helped Hannah. I know you did something for her. You were the one who wouldn’t let her crash. You are the one that helps those you love. There is no way around it. You always have your shield raised and you fight for each of us. Now you just have to let me fight for you for once. You need to let me help you. Will you do that?” he asked.

  I wrapped my arm around his waist. “Yes, I will do that. Toby, can I confess something?” I asked.

  “Of course,” he said, pulling me tighter to him.

  “I think I might have fallen in love with Karl,” I said in a hushed tone.

  “I thought so.” I could hear the smile in his voice.

  I sat up from him. “What do you mean?” I asked, surprised.

  “Well, you looked at him in a way I’ve never seen you look at me. You had this expression where you saw him. You didn’t just look at him or listen to him. But you saw every aspect of him—the deeper parts inside, not just the exterior. I was kind of jealous of that—not that I wanted you to look at me that way, but I want that someday.” He smiled at me and ran his thumb across my cheek. “Karl’s one of the most authentic people I know and I’m happy to see you two together. He’s had a rough go at it the last few years and deserves to be happy. He and I talked after the Christmas party last year. I told him about my dad and he and I had some good conversations.”

  “Your dad?” I asked, even though I remembered Karl mentioning it.

  “Yeah, with how sick my dad was. We talked about that, with Karl’s issue you know.”

  “What do you mean with his issue?” I asked.

  Old Toby stepped in and stiffened under my hand that rested on his arm. “Um, yeah, no issue, just about them both having been in the military.”

  I knew he was lying. Toby was a terrible liar.

  32

  Karl

  Summer five years ago

  “So, are we going to that place in Tijuana again when we get back?” Jackson asked.

  I laughed. “No, I don’t think I ever want to go back to that place.”

  “You’re no fun anymore.” Jackson turned his face from me and looked back to his letter from Sabrina again. “I don’t want to go either. I want to spend every minute back home with her. No offense, dude, but I’ve seen your fucking ass too much. Not that it’s a bad ass, it’s just I am sick of it.”

  I laughed, going back to my notebook and sketching out my ideas.

  “What’re you drawing, Karl?” Jackson asked.

  “Same shit I always draw.” I turned the notebook to him and he laughed.

  “You’ve put every fucking cartoon from my childhood in that drawing.”

  “Yep, I need a big place to put this. I want to do a mural of it, like Michelangelo, with cartoons.”

  “And what is the point in it?” Jackson asked.

  “The point, my friend, is that there is no point to any of it. There’s no point to us being here right now, and there’s no point to cartoons being used to recreate famous paintings. That is the point of it—I’m recreating a product. The original painting was a product of that time; cartoons are a product of this time. We’ve turned our entire lives into products. All of us are products. As soldiers we’re products of the military. As citizens we’re products of the country—just a factory line of products.”

  Jackson turned and raised an eyebrow.

  “I’m serious. We are products. The thing we can do is realize it and think for ourselves.” I looked back to my book and flipped to the page where I had drawn the portrait of Rachel.

  She looked beautiful that day, and I loved her all the more every time I saw the photo. But the love was different. It was the love of a memory. I loved her memory and the way we were. I still loved her, but it was different. It morphed into something that neither of us understood, but we knew it was over.

  “Thank you, you’ve ruined my mood—are you ready to play some cards? Carmichael and Lopez want a rematch.”

  “Yeah, we can do that,” I said, not focusing on the conversation. I studied Rachel’s image and tried to remember what it was like to love and to feel loved. I didn’t get it, but I understood that now wasn’t the time. I also understood that some people don't love the way I love. I wanted it all. She couldn’t give that. I wanted to give all of myself—plunge full force into it while remembering everything about me, and feel this deep fucking connection with another human soul. That’s what I wanted. She didn’t get that. I wasn’t sure if I did either.

  I imagine it was just the thoughts of a guy fighting and dreaming of some romantic interlude to the bullshit I saw day in and day out. I wanted a story that left people wondering what hit them.

  But, now I was part of this story and it felt empty. Being here, firing upon civilians, and hoping they were the enemy—because he was an elusive son of a bitch—wasn’t romantic. What we were doing was scary as hell. No one would admit it though. We couldn’t admit that. Emotions and thoughts adjust to it, and it becomes white noise. Killing became that. A sick part of me wished it was that way all the time, that we had no down time. Because in the down time, the time
back in my bunk—that was the time when I had a chance to close my eyes and think.

  Thinking sucks.

  Thinking brings memories.

  Thinking puts you in the place to question what you did and why.

  Thinking shows the monster lurking on the edges. It was an indifferent monster, that if I did those things on my own, I’d be in jail. My face would be on the newspaper and everyone would talk about me. Late night news programs would come up with their own ideas why I did what I did and the masses would define me as they saw fit.

  But no, what I did in quiet had approval.

  I turned to a blank page and drew a scene. There was a house with a little boy sitting on the step in front of it. I imagine that boy had the clearest eyes I’d ever seen, and they’d haunt me forever. That boy didn’t mind us being there either when he would see me; he would smile. That smile would be why I did this. He reminded me of the reasons I did it. I wanted to be a hero. I wanted to help them. I wanted to eradicate the enemy, and I did it for my country, but I did it for them too.

  I wanted to change the world.

  Instead I learned that the world was changing me.

  At one time, I thought Rachel was who I was to be with. But I realized it wasn’t the case because I wouldn’t give up anything to be with her. She just was, and I just was. The weaving of us could be pulled apart. There were no threads holding us together. We were just two separate pieces, not held by anything. We just sat close to one another.

  I saw how Jackson and Sabrina were. They pulled together so tight there was no way around it—those seams were unbreakable.

  It didn’t bother me we weren’t together. Thinking of her was just somewhere to go with my thoughts. I did that more and more—thought about things outside myself and analyzed them because it made it easier to cope with the days. The days that drug on and on—if I thought of someone or something else, it made them easier.

  I could analyze and rationalize my life and relationships. My mom? My mom wanted a paycheck, not a relationship. That’s why she was with my stepdad. My sister? My sister was the one thing in my life that felt important anymore. I didn’t have friends outside the military anymore—other than the McNetts. They were still friends. But other than that, people drifted away. They didn’t know what to say, so they said nothing.

  I didn’t exist anymore.

  I had this time, right here and nothing else. I set my pencil down and rested my forehead on my notebook. With eyes closed, I could just listen to the wind that rushed past the building. I could pretend I was home. It was summer there, and I was sitting on my porch, just listening to the wind and daydreaming. I daydreamed now, but it wasn’t so much to think on things as it was to think away things.

  I kept going back to that—analyzing my thoughts to analyze my thoughts—any way to stop remembering.

  __________

  Fall two years ago

  I sat in my bedroom—my old bedroom. It was the room in my mother’s home I lived in from high school on. It was in this room I had sex for the first time. In here, I painted all the images that filled the walls. I played games on the computer that now sat on the desk, untouched. It was my escape to come in here. Now it just felt like a foreign dream. It was a place that was no longer mine because I didn’t fit in it. I had grown out of it.

  I tried to rationalize who I once was with what I had done. Who I was before, who I was there, and who I was now formed into this strange being that walked around, trying to grasp and understand what life was.

  Leaning against the wall, I stretched my feet out in front of me. I had the bed to the side of me and kept myself trapped between the two. I hadn’t wanted to come back here. They told me I had to come home though. I wasn’t fit for duty anymore. But duty and serving were what made me, me.

  It was yet another reason I didn’t feel like I fit in any longer.

  I would die for my country and for my friends. But, I didn’t die. I survived and I’m here, trying to figure out what the hell to do with this past and move forward. What was I supposed to do now that I was a civilian? I was there, sitting by my bed that held memories of fornicating as a teenager, and all thoughts drifted to being cut short from doing what I wanted to do in the military. I wanted a life worth being proud of. But when I look back on what I did, pride was not what filled me.

  I closed my eyes and leaned my head against the wall. I sat that way for I don’t know how long. Sometimes I sat still, no movements, quiet breaths, and it lasted for several minutes. It was easier to sit in silence than with other people. When I heard their stories and their thanks, I wanted to yell. I wanted to throw shit. I wanted to punch things. I wanted to explode.

  I wanted to destroy myself.

  Parts of me felt I needed it.

  I needed to destroy myself.

  A knock sounded at my door and my mom peeked her head through. “Hey honey, do you want to go to dinner with us?” she asked.

  “No, I’m fine,” I said, looking at my hands and intertwining my fingers. This is the church, this is the steeple.

  “You are looking so thin though,” she said, looking me over, I looked back at my hands.

  “I know Mom. I just don’t feel hungry.” I feel nothing.

  She closed my door and left without another word. She didn’t know what to say anymore. I had already blown up on her. I didn’t hold back my thoughts or emotions. I couldn’t hold them back. The one thing that worked was sitting here and closing myself off to the world.

  I examined my hands, and thought of all they had done now. I couldn’t look at them anymore.

  I didn’t know what to do because no one told me what to do anymore. I didn’t have the structure, or the time laid out for me. I needed to relearn how to exist. Possibilities and what could happen stung. I didn’t know what to do with my future.

  I had to figure my shit out, some way.

  I listened for her car to pull away from the drive before I stood from my spot. I walked through the house and looked at the family photos hanging on the stairway wall. There was a photo of my sister as a flower girl when she was child. There was a photo of me dressed as Superman.

  There were random photos of us together. I smiled at one I paused on. We were in the old part of town watching a parade. We both stood on top of a bench so we could see over the people in front of us. It was the annual Fourth of July parade. The flags lined the streets. I sighed as I turned to leave the house.

  I needed to walk.

  I walked, and walked, and walked, until I found myself in the old part of town. I hadn’t noticed I stood in the same spot that photo was taken of my sister and me. I envisioned the ten year old me standing there. I sat on the bench and looked across the street. An older gentleman with the longest beard I’d ever seen walked along the sidewalk. He wore an old derby hat and turned to look at me.

  He walked toward me and took a seat on the bench next to me.

  “What are you doing?” the man asked.

  I laughed. “I’m sitting on a bench. What are you up to?” I asked.

  “I’m going into the gallery. You want to come see it?” he asked.

  “What kind of gallery?” I asked.

  “An art gallery. Do you like art?” he asked. I nodded. “My name’s Pike. What’s yours?”

  “Karl.”

  “Well, Karl, I need some help with things. How about it?” he asked.

  “Sure,” I said as I stood from the bench.

  33

  Margaret

  Fall

  Toby left this morning, and it was an easy good-bye. He said he had to get back to the road and to figuring out where he belonged. I thanked him for coming and staying for as long as he did. He stayed for two days and it was eye-opening being with him.

  I noticed every detail of every movement he made and I made note that it didn’t have the same effect on me it once had. I had always watched him just being Toby, and I’d feel a tug. But it never felt like something long-standing with h
im. We walked beside each other, but never with each other.

  I hugged him good-bye and that was it.

  The attachment to him snapped like a string that unraveled from a shirt.

  Now, there was me.

  I laid on my bed and thought of that statement—me, alone, here, now, and no one else.

  I picked up my phone and dialed Hannah. I missed my friend.

  “Maggie!” Hannah said on the second ring.

  “Hannah!” I yelled back with a laugh. “What are you doing today?”

  “Well, I’m hanging out at home with Smee before I head over to see Wynn at Sid’s shop. He’s almost finished with his apprenticeship; then he’ll be all on his own with tattoos.”

  “Oh sweet,” I said, smiling at the light tone of her voice. “Mind if I join you?”

  “Not at all—you should get something tattooed, Maggie,” she said with seriousness. “It could be a claiming of this time for you. It would be a representation you are growing, despite what it may seem like. I see it.”

  I smiled at her words. “I know. You’re right. I’ve always wanted a tattoo. But what would I get? I must think about it. I don’t think it’s something I can just pick from a book.”

  “Oh, no, no, no. I wouldn’t want you to. I don’t mean you have to today—just give it some thought.”

  “Okay. What time you heading over there?” I asked.

  “Soon,” she said. “You want me to pick you up on my way?”

  I looked at my car keys, sitting on the table next to my bed. I needed to do this. I have five days until my appointment to get the results of my tests. I have five days to believe that I was still me and that I will always still be me.

  “No, that’s okay. I will meet you there,” I said.

  “Okay, sounds good. I love you Maggie.”