by L. Duarte
Oblivious to my misery, she grins. “Ready.”
“After you.” I sprint from the couch.
The ten-minute drive passes in bliss and, regretfully, I park across from the police station to let her go.
“Thank you, Tarry. I appreciate the ride. Thanks for keeping it a secret from Will.”
“What time you want me to pick you up?”
“I’ll text you. Maybe I’ll get my car back today.”
“Bye, Mel.” I want to lean in and kiss her. But using a supernatural strength I never knew to possess, I restrain myself, as an honorable man would.
I watch as she disappears behind the building’s door. Although it feels impossible to keep my hands away from her, I liked her relaxed and carefree demeanor.
Mel tumbled my previous notion of what I expected when approaching a woman. My mind spins with naughty images of her naked under me, and I crave her lips. I want to fuck her. Oddly, it seems I also want her company. I like the serene aura surrounding her. It feels as if I’m drifting on a tranquil wave. It’s all a novelty and, honestly, I’m clueless about how to handle it.
After a successful visit with the doctor, I head to the church. I’m officially down to two pills a day. I glace at the digital clock, counting the minutes to tell Mel the exciting news. The surge of emotions gushing through me scares the shit out of me. Until recently, the only people that I ever felt a similar attachment were Portia and Nillie.
I suppress my confused feelings and knock on the preacher’s door. Apparently, I’ve had my visits increased to three times a week.
“Come in.” He grins when I slide inside the door.
“Please, have a seat.” He waves to a chair.
I sit in front of him, automatically back to a guarded posture. I hate this part of recovery. It feels as if I have to crack open a door to my soul and say, “Hey, come take a peek at my fucking world, so you can dissect it into small pieces and come up with a potion that will cure me from my evil.” No, thank you.
“I’ve heard some of your work.” He grins. “Mel has burned me some CDs of your music.”
I squirm in my seat. Seriously? I usually don’t give a damn about what people think of my music. But the way he stares at me stirs this stupid self-conscious feeling of fear of disappointing someone. The drugs. I blame the drugs for changing me. I read somewhere that it does that to you.
“You are very talented. I guess you don’t doubt for a day what’s your calling in this world. A talent like yours is a true gift.” He grins.
“Thank you.”
“Tell me the favorite song you composed,” he asks.
“I haven’t recorded it yet.” I almost cringe. It’s the one about fucking your daughter I wrote last week. Shit. I stare at the wall.
“I would like to hear it someday.”
“Absolutely.” I quickly respond.
“Tell me about your parents,” he says, leaning back.
“There is not much to tell. My parents are not a big part of my life.”
“Tell me how they were, when you were growing up.”
“That would be difficult, impossible, even. My parents were never part of my life,” I say, matter-of-factly.
“What did they say after you overdosed?”
“To get help.”
“And…”
“That’s it.”
“How do you feel about their lack of response?”
“I don’t care.”
“Why is that?”
“In all honesty, if I died today, my parents probably would be sad. Then, they would count all the profits from my death and move on with their busy lives.”
“I see.”
“Besides music, what else do you enjoy?”
“Getting high, but as you can see, I have a small impasse with that.”
“You are very honest, Tarry.”
What does he mean?
“Do you know honesty is a quality?”
“I guess.” I shrug, oblivious to his point.
“We are beautifully complex beings, Tarry.”
“Sure.” What this is supposed to mean?
“There is the good, the ugly, and everything in between.” He grins. Did I ever mention how unnerving his grin is? Yeah, it has been established. He seems to possess the talent of the grin. When all else fails, smile your way through it. Honestly, I have no clue as to where he is headed.
“In an ideal world, your parents would have taught you this basic principle in your formative years. But they neglected to do so. Now you are left to deal with the ugly, without the understanding that there is a good and an in between.”
He has my mind in a spin.
“You have a serious problem, son. Lack of self-worth breeds self-destruction.”
“Yeah, I guess.” My ass I am buying into the crappy theory that a self-esteem issue is the root of all my problems.
“List me your greatest flaw and your greatest quality.”
I’m silent. It isn’t hard to come up with a list of flaws. I just hate the direction he is going.
“Can I think about it?” I ask.
“Sure, son. What do you like about getting high?”
“I think I like the oblivion and all.”
“Yes, I see. I suppose when we don’t reach the immeasurable potential instilled inside us, it creates a void. Our DNA is designed to evolve, so we seek artificial ways to fill the void. You do it through addictions to drugs. However, I have faith that a time came for you to overcome this void.”
“Hmm-hmm.” Yep, and there is a pot of gold waiting for me at the end of a rainbow.
“At one point in our lives we need to make choices regarding the values our character holds. These are defining moments that determine how we live our lives and to whether or not we will fulfill our purposes. We have free will, son, and can choose for our true essence to prevail. And, although we all carry good and bad, we are all predestined for the good.”
“I don’t get any of it, Dan.” I don’t want to say this, but I think I pout.
“We build protective walls surrounding our hearts because they are special. However, our hearts live to strive, to experiment. We can’t evade our true inner being from experimenting with that which it was purposed for.”
“The paths of our journeys cross with unlimited sorrows, unreachable goals, and unattainable dreams. We carry demons that we try to tame, when what we need to do is annihilate them. Mercilessly. We internalize these challenges and wrap them in pitiful packages we label fear. Fear has the tremendous power to force us to crouch in a corner of our heart. Thus, our inner self turns into an unbeatable foe. It takes tremendous faith to win this battle and believe in ourselves.”
“I’m not afraid, Dan, I just don’t know how to have faith.”
“You fear your own success, son.”
“Oh.”
“Why don’t you tell me about the song ‘Sweet Death Agony?’”
“It’s one of my favorite songs.” And the one I composed after I overdosed for the first time, but the hell I’m telling him that.
“I’ve read a great deal about your music.”
“Yeah.” I never know which direction he is going. Frustrating much? Understatement.
“Your lyrics are unbelievable and the melodies are fascinating. Your songs tell of vulnerabilities I wish you voiced in our session.”
“Making music absorbs all parts of my mind. It’s when I have an easier time expressing myself.” Can’t believe I confessed this.
“Precisely my point, Tarry. Through music, you have an insight of your soul. My theory, son, is that you use music as a baby uses a favorite blanket. It soothes you. During childhood development, a kid craves the nurturing of a parent. You lacked that essential element.”
Bull’s-eye. I hate Dan. How does he get inside my brain like this?
His eyes burn into me for a moment, then he says, “Tell me more about ‘Sweet Death Agony.’”
For the remainder of the
session, we talk about the song. His interpretation of the song has me in a spin. I try to explain to him what I meant, but no matter my efforts, he twists things from his view, and I can’t convince him to the contrary.
“Well, I’ll see you on Thursday,” he says and ends our appointment.
The sentence reminds me that this is a therapy session. The thought is a whiplash. For the last hour, we’ve talked about my music and he acted like a friend I met at a bar.
Weird.
“Sure, I’ll see you.” I’m back to the uptight patient.
Five minutes before five o’clock and I’m at the police station, anxiously waiting Mel. She texted me earlier and had appointed a time to pick her up.
A tall police officer opens the door and, with a stupid smile on his face, ushers Mel out of the building. Red daggers blind me. The idiot has his hand on her back. Then, he tugs on her hair, leans in to her ear, and whispers something in an intimate way. What the hell? I lunge out of the car.
“So, do you want me to pick you up tomorrow?” He asks with that stupid smile on his face.
Noticing me, Mel blushes an adorable shade of pink. “I’ll text you,” she says and approaches the Jeep.
“No need, I’ll drive her to work,” I say with my voice harsher than I anticipated.
“And you are?” He instinctively rests his hand on his gun. At least he is off Mel. Ignoring his question, I meet his glare.
“Oh, this is Tarry Francis. Tarry, this is my coworker Steven Banks.” She shoots me a deadly stare. I disregard it. The hell he’s driving her.
“Are you ready?” I ask brusquely, grabbing hold of her arm.
“Sure, thank you, Steve, I’ll see you tomorrow.”
I open the door, and she slides in.
“Good-bye, Banks.”
The pompous officer nods my way. I circle the car and get behind the steering wheel.
“What was that all about? You were so rude to Steve.” She scowls at me.
“The hell, Mel, are you always that cozy with your coworkers?” I snap.
“You’re such an arrogant ass. There was no reason for you to mistreat him like that. Do you know I’ve been friends with Steve since the fourth grade?”
“Whatever.” I glower and refuse to apologize. “Where to?” I ask. From the corner of my eye, I see her sagging in the seat and hear her let out a long breath.
“To Ella’s school. She’s in the aftercare program today.” In a monotone, she gives the directions. We ride in silence. Within a few minutes, I’m outside the school waiting for them.
I lean back in the seat and consider my reaction to seeing his hand on her. It pissed me off, especially when she laughed so carefree under his touch and all. With me, she is always guarded. It is unsettling.
Guilt ripples through me. I acted like a jerk. Sometimes even I can’t keep up with my mood swings. Though it has considerably improved, I still have these occasional outbursts of anger.
That’s not what I had in mind for when I first saw Mel at the police station. I run my hand over my face. She takes me off my tracks. I lose focus at the sight of her.
Mel escorts Ella across the parking lot. An involuntary grin spreads across my face when I see the two smiling girls, strolling my way. Right then I know I’m in too deep.
“Hi, Uncle Tarry.” Ella buckles her belt.
“Hey, Ella. How was school?”
“It was cool, but I couldn’t wait for to end it. Are you teaching me to play the guitar?” She glances anxiously from me to her mom.
“Yeah, that’s the plan.” I search for confirmation on Mel’s eyes. She smiles adoringly at Ella.
“I guess you can start while I cook dinner.” She indulges Ella.
Silence hangs heavily between Mel and me during the ride. Ella does all the talking. After we enter the house, Mel immediately unloads her gun and locks it away. I focus on Mrs. Nichol’s horrendous voice. Mel and her gun will be the death of me.
“I’m going to change. Please help yourself to anything to eat or drink,” she says curtly.
“C’mon, Uncle Tarry.” Ella tugs my hand, hauling me to the living room. I sink on the red couch and hold the guitar.
“How about I teach you what I learned at my very first lesson. Happy birthday, on three strings,” I say, strumming a few notes. “Here are the strings we are going to use.” I begin instructing Ella and, immediately I know, she’s a natural. Wearing a frown on her cute face, she absorbs all my words.
Mel strides to the kitchen and my eyes follow her. I feel calm and at ease. This house, Ella, and Mel are calming to my raw soul. The realization whacks me like a roundhouse kick straight to my gut.
For the next hour, while Mel prepares dinner, I go over the basic finger positions for playing the guitar. My eyes alternate from watching Ella and observing how hot Mel is. At the end, I confirm that Ella is very skilled with her hands. She can already produce somewhat of a tune.
“Okay, guys. Dinner is ready, enough for tonight,” Mel calls from the kitchen.
I place the guitar on its side and smile at Ella. “Wow, you did so much better, than me on my first lesson.”
“Really?” She dashes to the kitchen.
“Did you hear that, Mom?”
“Yes, honey. Go wash your hands.”
I stride into the kitchen and sit on a barstool.
“Thank you for doing this, Tarry.” Mel gazes at me, and I feel my dick responding to the deep sweetness of her stare. If only I wasn’t this horny. It’s getting difficult not to get my dick hard around Mel. Impossible, even.
“Actually, I enjoyed it more than I thought I would.” I drum my fingers on my thighs.
“Listen, regarding my behavior earlier today, I’m sorry.” It actually feels good to say. Realization sweeps through me. I’m not one to apologize. What’s gotten into me?
“That’s okay. I know it is a pain for me to add another load to your day. I apologize.”
“No, no. I won’t take your apology. It was my crappy moodiness. I was actually looking forward to seeing you. I’ve just been on edge lately.”
“So, how was your day?” She places a bowl of vegetables and stir-fried chicken and rice on the island.
“I had quite a busy day, actually. I saw my new doctor and he reduced my meds.” I smile.
“Whoa, that’s great news.” She hands me three plates. “How was your visit with Dad?”
“It was interesting, to say the least.” I answer as I place the plates and utensils on the island counter. “So you have all my music, huh?” I can only imagine how foolish my grin looks.
“Yeah.” She pours apple juice.
“Your father has this really weird interpretation of one of my songs. We got into this deep discussion.” I chuckle. “Regardless that I’m the one who wrote the lyrics, he thinks his interpretation is the more accurate one.” I shrug and Mel laughs.
“I guarantee his interpretation was a ridiculously positive one.” She shakes her head.
“Yeah, he totally missed the point. But who am I to disagree with him?”
Ella storms on the room and sits next to me. “I’m starving, Mommy.”
Mel serves us. I perch back, my eyes follow her every movement. She is wearing a floral thermal shirt and yoga pants. She looks sexy as hell.
“So, tell me about your car.” I take a bite of the food. It is delicious.
“It’s just the starter that went bad, but there is a back order on the part. It can take a week or two to get.” She sits next to me. I can feel her warmth radiating from her thighs. I want to touch her so badly, the familiar prickling spreads over my hands.
“If it is too much for you to drive us every day, I’ll rent a car. Just please tell me if it is,” she says awkwardly. I know Mel is on a tight budget and I wish to help her, somehow. But, I remember the way she reacted to Will’s offer and I remain silent.
“It actually feels good to have something to fill my day.” I lie. What feels good is to have
a reason to be near her.
We continue to eat, and I enjoy the meal and the company more than I should.
When Mel stands up to clear the kitchen, I stand with her.
“Let me help. It’s the least I can do. Thank you for feeding me again. I could get used to this, you know,” I say, bringing the plates to the sink.
“Ella, do you have homework?”
“No, Mommy, I did everything after school.”
“Go take a shower then.”
Before she goes, she grins at me. “Again tomorrow, right, Uncle Tarry?”
“Same time, same place.” I grin back, like an idiot. I can see I’ll never be able to say no to Ella.
“Ella really likes you.” Mel dries the plates I hand to her.
“I have a feeling she likes everybody,” I say.
“True, she does. But there is something else. It’s almost as if she is drawn to you.” She stops and ponders that before moving to put the plates away.
“Come to think of, I feel a weird connection to her. She reminds me of myself when I was a kid.” I confess, promptly regretting it. I don’t feel comfortable speaking about myself, especially about anything regarding my hollow childhood.
“Thank you for helping her. It’ll be an experience she’ll brag about for the rest of her life, ‘Tarry Francis taught me to play the guitar.’”
I don’t like the way Mel puts it. It implies that I won’t be around for long. And, confusingly, I don’t like the thought of not being around.
FOR TWO WEEKS, I establish a routine. I train with Lucas at the crack of dawn (who would have thought?), I drive Mel to work, compose, go for a jog, and have my therapy with the preacher. At the preacher’s request, I now refer to him as Dan. He has dragged me to the church’s food bank, where we talk as we pile donated cans and other goods onto shelves. I’m okay with it, as long as Dan gives me credit toward my counseling hours. Soon, I’ll have to report to the judge so he can free me to come and go as I please.
Every afternoon, I pick up Mel and Ella and we spend part of the evening at their house. It’s the best part of my day and, with my addictive personality, I wonder if I can give that up.