True Connection_A Short Story

by Jon Mills

  “Should I be worried?”

  “That depends if you enjoy seeing flying pink unicorns or abstract swirls of color?”

  She grimaced.

  “Maybe, I’ll pass.”

  I tossed the bag, and joined her on the bed. The effects of the alcohol had kicked in. A warm, relaxing sensation took over. Sophie gazed around the room taking it in.

  “Oh,” I broke the silence. “You know what…”

  I got up and went over to my cupboard.

  “Now where did I put it?” I opened the door and took in the glorious mess. I pushed back several books; tossed a couple of videos on the floor and groped around inside.

  “There it is.”

  No sooner had I turned to show the bottle of rum, than I found myself lip- locked with Sophie. To say I felt caught off guard would have been an understatement. As I stood there feeling her warm, soft lips pressed against mine, my pulse began to race. Like an adrenaline shot to the heart, it felt as if someone had sucked out all the air from the room. I dropped the bottle on the ground and ran my hand around the back of her neck. There was intensity to the kiss, a desire so strong it made the very air between us feel electric. It was something that is only ever felt once, an experience that can never be repeated. The moment when two total strangers let down their guards. A time when nothing else matters except giving yourself fully to another. I stumbled back into the cupboard, Sophie’s body pressed against mine. The smell of her skin was intoxicating. The taste of her Chapstick distracting. What was that flavor? Cherry, strawberry? Maybe pomegranate. It was delicious, and I couldn’t get enough. I swallowed taking in the taste while every fiber of my being came alive.

  And then as quickly as it started — it stopped.

  She pulled away. Shot me a wistful smile and walked back over to the bed. I followed her gaze. It was if I had caught a glimpse of heaven and had been violently shoved back into my body. Still breathing hard, I was lost for words. The world around me could have been collapsing in on itself, and I wouldn’t have noticed. In that moment, the room ceased to exist. There was only her. My mind searched for words, anything to convey what I just felt. But it was blank. Did that just happen? I pulled my lips in, tasting the flavor again.

  Joining her at the bed, I could feel her desire, and whether it was the alcohol or mere attraction, I knew what she wanted. We fell back against the bed; my lips grazed her neck, and then brushed against her cheek. We kicked off our shoes, dropped our coats to the floor, and then slid beneath the sheets. Unwrapping each other like gifts, our bodies became a tangled mess. As I pulled the cover over us, we succumbed to our deepest longings and the sound of the rain disappeared under a mask of laughter and gasps for air.

  ***

  When we awoke on Thanksgiving morning, it took me few seconds to remember the previous night’s antics. Squeezed together on the single mattress, I unwound my legs from Sophie’s and slipped out from under the covers. Naked and stumbling around in the dark with only a shard of light penetrating the room, I pulled on my bottoms and threw a top on.

  “Hey.”

  I spun around to find Sophie sitting on the edge of the bed. The yellow sheet draped around her naked body, barely covering her up.

  “Sorry did I wake you up?”

  She groaned, stretching out her body and giving me another glimpse of her breasts.

  “What time is it?”

  I flung wide the curtains, letting in a blanket of dreary November light that singed my eyes. The alarm clock was on the floor.

  “Nearly ten.”

  She jumped up. “Shoot I need to contact my grandmother. She will be sick with worry.” I watched her as she dropped the cover and slipped on her underwear.

  God, she was divine.

  “Yeah I better give my folks a call.”

  We spent the following 10 minutes concocting two of the lamest excuses in history. Her grandparents bought hers and was just pleased to hear her voice. Mine however, was another story entirely. My father was ex-military. In his mind there was never a good excuse for tardiness. Logic told him, if I missed a train, I should have hitched it on foot - through snow, rain, or fire. “A real man never shows up late. A real man…” I held the phone between my shoulder and ear. Rolling my eyes to the back of my head, quietly mimicking the usual speech I had heard a thousand times. Sophie smirked. He really did have the old boys’ club mindset.

  After eventually calming him down, and offering apology after apology, my mother took the phone from my father and waited until he was out of earshot before asking me who she was. There was very little that I could hide from my mother. She had this inner bullshit meter that seemed to be always catch my feeble attempts at covering my ass.

  Once I got off the phone, we returned to my room.

  “So, you want to go to the bus stop now?”

  “I could — or…” she trailed off biting her bottom lip and then pulling me slowly back toward the bed. After making love again, we sat gazing out the window at the clouds. They formed and broke apart, vanishing like ghostly apparitions.

  Lying together, Sophie’s head came to rest on my chest.

  “What is that?” She pointed to a circled mark around my wrist.

  “The result of a hazing gone wrong.”

  “Do they still do that?”

  “Oh, it’s very much alive and well.”

  “What happened?”

  I breathed in deep recalling that night in the early-morning hours.

  “Well this is how it was meant to go. Sophomores kidnap you, drive you to a town house. Your wrists and ankles are bound, and they are meant to get you drunk. Eventually someone lets you out, or you pull yourself free, and that’s it.”

  “So I gather it didn’t go down that way?”

  “No. Another freshman and I were fed syrup, sandwiches, hot sauce, Jell-o shots, and a variety of liquor. Both he and I spent an hour vomiting, passing out, only to awake and go through it again. Finally when I came to, I found myself tied to a post, in just my underwear, suffering from hypothermia. The other guy was rushed to hospital.”

  “Did he survive?”

  “Yes. But the shit hit the fan once the police got involved. The university is still chasing their tail on that one.”

  “Crazy.”

  She traced her finger around the scars on my wrists.

  “I’m sure you’ve come across that in sororities?”

  “Yeah, but not that extreme.”

  I reached over and grabbed another cigarette. Blowing out a cloud of smoke, I ran my fingers through her hair.

  “So you never told me about your grandmother?”

  “Not much to say, really. She lives on Long Island with my grandfather. They kind of raised me from the age of eight.”

  “What about your parents?”

  “My mother died of cancer, and my father is behind bars for dealing.”

  I nodded. “Sorry to hear that.”

  “Ah it’s ok. Shit happens right?”

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  Rico never returned. Thompson had dropped by around mid-day. He said he was on a coffee run, but I could tell he just wanted to collect his donation money. The rest of the day went by fast. Our conversation circled between anything and everything from religion, to philosophy, marriage, and the future.

  Once the light of the day was replaced by darkness, we got dressed, and I escorted Sophie to the bus stop. We exchanged contact details, and I told her I would be in contact in a couple of days. The last glimpse I got was of her taking her seat. She smiled and gave a short wave.

  ***

  A few days passed before I tried her number. A girl by the name of Susan answered the phone on the other end of the line.

  “Is Sophie there?”

  “No. She left.”

  “Left where?”

  There was silence on the other end.

  “She’s gone back to Phoenix for a few days.”

  “Phoenix?”

  “T
hat’s where she’s from. Who are you again?”

  “Um. It doesn’t matter; I’ll try back later. Thanks.”

  I hung up. I didn’t recall her mentioning Phoenix.

  As I stood there slightly puzzled. I felt a jab on my arm. It was Rico.

  “Hey bud. You want to go to the bar with the rest of us?”

  “Sure.”

  I went off that evening not giving it another thought.

  ***

  A week passed before I tried phoning again. This time I got no answer. With my studies in full swing, another week went by before I called. This time I got a different girl on the line.

  “She’s not coming back.”

  “What?”

  “She’s pulled out of University.”

  “Do you have number or address for her?”

  “Nope. Sorry.”

  “Okay,” I muttered.

  After getting off the line, I stood there feeling bewildered. The following weeks turned into months, and before long it had been almost a year. There hadn’t been one day that I hadn’t thought about her. I had tried phoning again and even showed up in person at Cornell’s administration office. But trying to get any information out of them was like trying to pan for gold. Every time I thought I was getting closer to extracting what I wanted, my inquiries would slip through the cracks.

  It was in the month of November that following year, a few days before Thanksgiving, when the letter came. I was on the phone to my parents when Thompson came up and slipped the cream envelope between the gap in the wall and the phone.

  “Yes Dad, I will be there this year, can I call you back?” I never caught his reply, as I had already hung up and was staring at the envelope. It was rare that I got letters. If my parents or sister wanted anything, they phoned or showed up in person. Something inside me hoped this was the letter I was waiting for. I tore it open and pulled out one sheet of white, lined paper which had a slight coffee stain in the top corner.

  Dear Ryan,

  I know that you have been trying to get in contact with me. But just know that I am fine and that I truly regret having to leave so suddenly. I hope everything is well with you, and I also hope you achieve your goal of becoming a professor at NYU one day. Try not to get into trouble. Forever in my thoughts!

  Sophie

  I closed the letter. That’s it? Forever in my thoughts? What the hell? I turned the envelope over looking for a return address, but there wasn’t one. After all that time and no address? Are you kidding me?

  “You ok buddy?”

  I cast a glance over my shoulder. It was Rico. I shook my head.

  “Smoke?” he offered me his pack. I pulled one out, and he lit it.

  Heading back into our dorm room, I sat on the edge of the bed feeling despondent. Rico glanced at the letter on the side table.

  “You know I can hook you up with a pretty blonde.”

  I lifted my eyes to him. “Thanks Rico, but I’m good.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah.”

  If I was honest with myself, part of me had already given up months earlier. Yet somewhere inside of me the memories of that night never left. She wasn’t my fantasy girl, but she was different from others that I had met. On some strange level, we connected deeper in those few hours together than some experience in a lifetime. As the years passed, some called it infatuation, another fantasy. Still others dismissed it outright as nothing more than a lust-filled night. However, it was far more than that. In my mind, it went deeper. It was a connection I hadn’t or wouldn’t experience again. A girl whose very existence made me feel differently.

  ***

  “Mr. Whitter? Mr. Whitter?”

  I blinked, drifting back to the present.

  “We thought we lost you there,” a student in the front row said.

  I breathed out deeply. I glanced over my glasses at the clock on the wall.

  “Ok, everyone you are free to go. Have a good Thanksgiving. Drive safe, and don’t drink too much.”

  Among the laughter, I caught a few snide remarks. Something along the lines of these old folks don’t know how to party. I stifled a laugh thinking back to the numerous parties I had attended while at University. As they streamed out of the classroom, I tucked away files in the drawer of my desk. As I did, a letter dropped in front of me. It was old, crinkled, and curled at the edges as if an elastic band had been around it for quite some time. Pushing my glasses back into place, I looked up to see Amanda Keen. I looked back down at the unopened envelope. It had my name and address on the front, as well as a peeling stamp in the top right hand corner. It was then I recognized the handwriting.

  I glanced back up at Amanda.

  “Sophie’s your mother?”

  “Yes,” she replied.

  “But you’ve been in my class for the past year and never once mentioned that?”

  “That’s what she wanted. She asked me to wait until today.”

  I studied Amanda, trying to see the features of her mother in her. The years had faded my memory of what she looked like, but as I looked closer, I started to see the resemblance: the green eyes, the dark hair, and her smile.

  “She remarried?”

  “Yes, then divorced.”

  “How is she doing?”

  Amanda paused for a moment. I saw her eyes tear up slightly before she replied.

  “She passed away a year ago from cancer.”

  I felt my chest cave in. I removed my glasses and rubbed my face. For the longest while, I didn’t know what to say.

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” I croaked out.

  She nodded in acknowledgement. I looked down at the envelope wondering what Sophie might say, and why she had waited so long to say it.

  Amanda adjusted the bag on her shoulder.

  “Why now?” I asked.

  “She said the letter would explain.”

  “Why didn’t she contact me sooner?”

  She exhaled deeply. “My mother kept a lot of things to herself. She was quiet, loving but distant at times. In her final days, that’s when I learned about you. I kind of always knew there was something amiss in her relationship with my father. She loved him. But her mind always appeared to be preoccupied. Whenever we watched a film together, heard a song, or spent Thanksgiving together, it was always the same. I caught her smiling, wiping away a few tears, looking at a scrap of paper,” Amanda leaned against a desk. “I never got to see what was on that paper, until a week before her death. She called me in to see her. That’s when she showed me this.”

  Amanda slid a worn napkin onto my desk. I turned it over and there it was. The drawing she’d scribbled. It was slightly faded but still legible. A flood of memories came back in bringing with them all the emotion that I had felt that night.

  I looked back up.

  “Did she ever continue her art?”

  “She painted, but most of what she created ended up in storage. I have a few pieces in my dorm.”

  I nodded feeling sad.

  “Are you going to open the letter?”

  I hesitated for a moment before placing my glasses back on. Tearing one end open, I pulled the paper out. For a second I thought I caught a whiff of her sweet Chapstick.

  Dear Ryan,

  I’m not sure if you’ll remember. We met in November 1989, in Central Station under the strangest of circumstances. It was the night before Thanksgiving. You had a destiny with a concrete post, and well… I like to think I had a destiny with you — even if it was short lived. We spent the night and following day in each others’ arms. Every hour, minute, and second is now forever ingrained in my being. It was a beautiful time and meant far more to me than you will ever know. You made me feel cared for, important, and at that specific time in my life — valued.

  I know that others will turn their nose up, grimace, and maybe even laugh, but it doesn’t matter now. Staring death in the face is an odd feeling. It has a way of leveling the playing field. Making people’s mispl
aced assumptions — humorous. Everything you took so serious in life becomes so trivial, and everything that really mattered so meaningful.

  The night you met me, I was in a very dark place. I’m not proud of it, and in fact, at times I’ve felt ashamed. But what I can tell you is that meeting you lifted me out of that darkness. You gave me something for which I can never repay — hope.

  Everything I told you that night was true — barring one thing. I said that I was visiting my grandparents on Long Island for Thanksgiving. That was a lie. Truthfully, the night you crossed my path, I was about to end my life.

  A year prior to meeting you, I discovered I was pregnant. After informing the father, I was horrified to learn that not only did he want nothing to do with the child, but he also insisted that I got an abortion. I can’t begin to tell you what that felt like. All I know was I was confused, scared, and like anyone at my age, unsure of what to do. I was torn.

  What I can tell you is that I made a fateful decision to get an abortion, a decision that I deeply regret making. For the longest time, the guilt was overwhelming. It ate at me, tearing me up from the inside, until I couldn’t endure it any longer.

  The train you missed that night was the train I was about to throw myself in front of. It might be hard to hear this. Hard to imagine that the person you laughed with, the person you made love to was deeply troubled. But until I met you, that was the case. Writing this, even now, I find it hard to believe how far I had spiraled down. I was young, reckless, and had few people to turn to with my troubles.

  I only hope that with this knowledge you might understand why I chose to not get in contact with you after that night. Once I found out that I was pregnant again, this time with your child, all of the pain and fears rose to the surface. I knew you were a good person from the moment I met you, but whether it was my own personal insecurities or selfishness, I just couldn’t take the risk of telling you about the pregnancy. You seemed driven to become a professor, and even if you did accept the pregnancy — you may have come to resent it. That’s why I left. That’s why I never told you. At least that’s how I justified it at that time.

  Now, well… believe me when I say, there hasn’t been a day that has gone by when I haven’t thought about you, wondered what might have become of us, or second-guessed my decision to not tell you about Amanda. I did so many things that were foolish when I was young, Ryan. But the one regret I don’t have was saying yes to you.