To Catch a Falling Star

by L. Duarte

  I kneel beside him. His legs are spread out, his long arms slack along his torso. His head tilts to the side and his long blond hair clings to his face. The front of his shirt and pants are wet. He reeks of liquor, urine, and vomit. I wonder if he has used any drugs as well.

  “Hey, Tarry,” I call him. He is passed out. I brush the hair away from his face. He mumbles and pushes my hand away.

  I see Lucas and Steve talking to the bartender. I shake Tarry’s shoulder, he doesn’t respond. I glace around and a few patrons ignore us. They must be used to this kind of show.

  Lucas approaches. “Hey, Mel, we need to get him in the car. I took care of everything with the bartender.”

  Lucas and Steve manage to straighten up Tarry. I hear the thud of something hitting the floor and I look down but don’t see anything. I follow Steve and Lucas as they drag-walk him to the car. Once he is settled in the passenger seat, I buckle his belt and wait for Lucas and Steve to get in.

  During the drive home, a heavy silence bounces against the walls of the car. After a few minutes, Lucas asks, “You’re heading to your place? We are not taking him to his house?”

  “And risk Portia seeing him inebriated like this? Are you out of your mind?” Portia worries too much about Tarry. She needs peace during the pregnancy. I don’t want her to see Tarry like this.

  “Yeah, you have a point,” he says.

  “Lucas, don’t say a word of this to anyone. I don’t want Portia to hear about it. I’ll talk to Dad later. We’ll find a way to handle this.”

  “Sure, Mel. I wasn’t gonna anyway.”

  When we get home I park as close to the door as possible. Thank the Lord Steve is with us because Lucas and I alone could never get Tarry to my bed. I don’t want to call Will and put him in the position of lying to Portia. He despises lies.

  It takes a great deal of effort to get Tarry upstairs.

  “Take him to my room.”

  “Your room?” Lucas and Steve repeat at once.

  “Yeah, I don’t have a guest room!”

  “He smells, Mel,” Steve snaps. He’s upset.

  I just roll my eyes at him. They look at each other, shrug, but follow me into my room. I tear the covers away and they literally dump him in my bed. I remove his combat boots. After I confirm that Tarry is tucked in the covers, which I’ll probably have to dispose of, I turn to Lucas.

  “I need to get Ella from Will’s. Would you stay and make sure Tarry is okay?”

  “Mel, he is out, he doesn’t need a babysitter,” Steve says.

  “I won’t be long.” I ignore Steve.

  “Take your time,” Lucas says.

  I park in front of Will’s garage and gather courage to go inside. Like Will, I hate lies. Dad instilled a fear of God in me that allows no room for lies. Not even white lies. I compose my crumbling self, and head to the front door.

  Before I knock, a smiling Portia opens the door. “Hi, you’re back already, come on in.”

  “Yeah, I need to be up early tomorrow, so does Ella. So I cut it short.” I smile sweetly at her.

  Ella appears at the door, her tinted cheeks tell me she was running around the house.

  “Hi, Mom, can I sleep over?” She clamps her hands together and pleads.

  “Sorry, honey, you’ve got school tomorrow. Get your jacket, we need to go.”

  “Oh.” She pouts, but obeys.

  “Thank you for keeping her,” I say.

  “Dominick and she had a good time.” Portia flashes me her famous smile.

  Ella comes out and we turn to leave.

  “Portia, before I forget, Tarry ended up going with us. He asked me to tell you he was going straight to bed, but will call you tomorrow,” I say casually.

  “Oh, that’s great news. Honestly, I was worried about him tonight, he was off.” She pats her enlarged tummy and looks relieved.

  I shrug nonchalantly, smile genuinely, and stroll to the car.

  “Mommy, you’re hurting my hand,” Ella complains as we approach the car.

  “Sorry, baby.”

  I hastily open the door and buckle Ella in.

  I drive home in silence. I’m grateful that Ella is a chatterbox, and all that is required of me is to nod and smile at whatever she is telling me.

  At home, Lucas and Steve wait for me in the living room. I allow Ella to hug them good night and tell her to wait for me to tuck her in.

  Promising to return my car from Dad’s, Lucas and Steve leave.

  After I drink a glass of milk, I tuck Ella in. She remains bouncy and electric. It takes half an hour of reading Heidi and two lullabies for her to settle in.

  “Mommy, was Uncle Tarry mad at me?” Ella asks in between a yawn.

  “Of course not, honey.”

  “Why was he so mad then?” she asks in a whisper.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Can we ask him?”

  “Sure, honey. But now is way past your bedtime. Good night, Ella.” I kiss her sleepy face, shut off the light, and close the door to her room.

  I pad down the hall and hesitate before entering my room. It’s surreal to have a man sleeping in my bed. Even under the circumstances.

  Quietly, I push the door open. I stand in the middle of the room, unsure of what to do. I circle the bed. Patches of moonlight filter through the window and cast a dim light on his face.

  I inhale deeply, and pull the covers away. I assess the sight of him for a moment. With trembling, uncertain fingers, I grab the hem of his knitted sweater and pull from under the expanse of his chest and over his head. He mumbles, but remains undisturbed in his sleep. I chuckle a bit at Tarry’s sense of fashion. Today, he wore a button-down shirt under a preppy checkered sweater, a soft pair of ripped blue jeans, and combat boots. He completed the outfit with a few leather bracelets and had the front of his shaggy hair pulled back with a tie. It is preppy look, meets hippie, meets all-American boy, meets rocker, with an accent of a biker. Jeez, he looks badass and sexy as hell.

  I strip him down. He is going commando. I pick out gym shorts that belonged to Tim and dress him. I cover him and leave the room. I put his clothes in the washer. I fold clothes I retrieve from the dryer. When I finish, I sit on top of dryer waiting for the washing machine to end the cycle that will clean any vestige of what transpired today.

  I can’t help but remember the first time Will brought Portia to our home. It was after she showed up at his door, drunk. He told me at the time that there was a reason she had crossed his path. He is such a dork. But, I remember the passion in his voice when he described the vulnerability he saw in her sleeping face and how it felt to have her sleep in his arms. At the time, I was overwhelmed by an uprightness from being sheltered my entire life but I could not dispute my brother’s faith. So, even though skeptical of her intentions, I never said anything to Will.

  A few days ago, I denied having feelings to Tarry. A few hours ago, I was convinced he didn’t have any feelings for me. Now, as the washer spurts another jet of water and shakes beside me, I catch myself thinking—or hoping—there is more to Tarry and I, other than crazy as hell chemistry. I can’t discard the fact that I’m attracted to Tarry, and his behavior today indicates he reciprocates my attraction. Or so I suspect. Prior to meeting Tarry, I was a woman with strong beliefs and a healthy dose of confidence. Now I feel volatile and lost. My emotions toward Tarry are confusing and agonizing. And so is my perception of his feelings toward me. I like to have rein over my emotions. I like to categorize my feelings, give them a proper label, and place them inside a proper drawer. However, it’s impossible to do that regarding Tarry.

  The machine comes to a halt, ending the washing cycle. I shovel his clothes inside the dryer, hang his sweater to air dry, and go to the living room.

  I grab a pillow and a quilt. The red couch beckons invitingly to me. I sink in it and, immediately, I feel submerged by its soft embrace. I drift to a land of dreams.

  After I wake up, I feel briefly disoriented of wher
e I’m. The ache in my body reminds me I slept on the couch. I get up and quietly climb the stairs. I gently push against the door, careful not to wake up Tarry. I just want to check on him.

  I DON’T KNOW where I’m or how I got here. But I know one thing: I feel like shit. My body feels as if it has gone through a meat grinder. Muted steps pad on the floor, and I try to focus my hazy mind on my surroundings. A dim light filters from a sheer curtain. How the hell did I get here?

  A hundred and twenty-four days, that’s how long it took from the time I was found OD’d to having a relapse.

  I had a game plan. Thousands of strategies. Medication. Meditation. Counseling. Hope. All in vain. Again, I’m a bastard wimp unable to turn away from the seductive siren of substances. Tonight was alcohol. Tomorrow, drugs?

  This is it. This is who I am. Weak, worthless, and a fraud.

  They say you lose a piece of yourself each time you relapse. They’re wrong. You lose your entire self, only to find it again with renewed self-loathing.

  What to do with all the trust placed on me? How to face the ones who have fiercely cheered, hoped, and believed this to be the final recovery? That this would stick. I sit on the edge of the bed and grab my head with both my hands.

  I hear the squeak of a door opening. I glance up and see Mel. Her eyes are shining like a beacon of hope in the midst of the darkened room.

  She sees me sitting on the bed. “Tarry, you’re up?”

  I want her to go away. I can’t stand the sight of her.

  “Can I come in?” she asks.

  I remain silent.

  “Hey, are you feeling okay?” As a tiger approaches its prey, she moves toward me slowly.

  “Fucking fantastic,” I say with a bite to my voice.

  “Do you want an aspirin?” she asks, pointing to the side table.

  I ignore her, though it seems I have an ax pushed into my skull.

  I sink my eyes into the heels of my hands. I sense when she kneels in front of me. Her chamomile scent slowly envelops me and all I can think is for a way to escape from here, from her intoxicating presence.

  “Tarry, please talk to me,” she pleads in a whisper.

  “Is my car here?” I ask.

  “Yes…,” she says. “Lucas and Steve left it here for you. But you’re not leaving.”

  “Says who?” I can almost smile at her fierce attempt at being bossy. I’m fucking Tarry Francis.

  “Please, Tarry. Look at me.” Her voice trembles. It shatters me to think my fucking relapse affects her.

  “I need to go,” I say harshly.

  “Don’t you understand I can’t let you leave? This is a crucial moment for you.” She stands. My eyes remain closed, but I can hear her pacing the wood floor. I can feel the tension rippling out of her body and pounding on me like waves of an agitated ocean.

  “If you leave, you risk using again, going on a binge. God, Tarry. Do you realize this is a crossroad? I won’t allow it,” she says with resolve.

  “No one has told me what to do since I was five, Melody,” I say bitterly.

  “Tarry, addiction is considered a bio-psychosocial disease. That’s why sometimes it’s beyond the scope of your own will.” Her words sound like fingernails scraping against a blackboard.

  “That’s why you want me to stay? Because of your goddamn knowledge of the disease. Guess what, Mel? I don’t give a damn about your textbook description of addiction. I know firsthand what it is. It damn nearly killed me. Many times.” Her professional concern infuriates me. I look up and meet her gaze. Her eyes have shades of desperation. But there is something else in them. I just can’t discern it.

  “No. No. No.” She moves my way. I shrink a little. And, yes, I feel like a fucking pussy. “I want to help you because… because… I care about you. Please stay. Deal with it. Don’t run,” she pleads, staring at me in the darkness of her room.

  A lump blocks my airway and my lungs burn with the lack of oxygen. I study her features in the dark room. She is so fucking beautiful. But it’s beyond her beauty. It’s beyond her genuine concern. It’s beyond her compassion. Inside, my heart shatters. I can’t name what I see in her eyes because no one ever looked at me this way before.

  I crumble. As if having a life of its own, my arms snake around her waist and I draw her to me. I bury my face in her chest. The generous swell of her breasts feels soft against my face. Though I’m fully aware she is not wearing a bra, this is beyond sexual tension. This is some unknown shit. This is a haven where I want to spend the rest of my days. This is the fairy tales for which many kill or die.

  What happens to me next is beyond the scope of words. I cry. No, I sob into her chest. Mel’s arms clench around my head, my neck. I cling to her, needy and vulnerable, as an infant latching on his mother’s breast.

  We remain woven together for a long time. Just us. The dark sky out her window yields to a new dawn. After a while, I release her from my deadly grasp.

  “I’ll get your clothes.” As silently as she walked in, she walks out. I retrieve the aspirin and water and swallow it in a gulp.

  Mel finds me on the same spot she left me. She places my clothes—now laundered, on the bed. The smell of laundry detergent is comforting. The small act warms my heart. No one—other than paid help—has ever done something like this for me.

  “Lucas and Steve got your car last night. Your keys are on the kitchen counter,” she adds with a pained voice and turns to leave.

  “Mel.” I grab her wrist.

  Her hopeful eyes meet mine.

  “Can I stay?” I ask with a small voice.

  She stares at me with those burning eyes. They carry an indescribable expression that has me puzzled. “Do you want to?”

  “Yes.” I don’t know what staying entails, but I am enthralled by the tenderness of this woman. The pull of getting high is less than the pull of staying with Mel. The thought is sobering and refreshing.

  She reaches up and brushes wisps of hair away from my eyes. I’m still. Her touch is feathery, but it reaches deep inside my soul. It’s soothing, like the perfect concoction of a balm, calming a raw wound. I want to stop time and harness the moment.

  “Okay,” she whispers.

  ELLA WAVES TO Tarry and me from the bus window.

  “Well, that was lie number two. Let’s go inside I need to make a phone call.”

  “What was a lie?”

  “Telling Ella that you came over this morning,” I explain.

  “By the way, when you call Portia, tell her you went to Green Pool with us, and were too tired to call her. That was lie number one.” I fill him in.

  “All right.”

  While Tarry calls Portia from the landline, I use my cell to dial my work number. Lie number three: I call in sick. My heart is thundering. I’ve never done that before.

  In Tarry’s brief conversation with Portia, he is so convincing that if I hadn’t been present last night I would never have guessed he was lying. He then calls his personal assistant.

  “Yes, I need you to send me a new iPhone with all my contacts and music. No, dude, I need it ASAP. Yes, I lost it. Yes, cancel all the credit cards as well.” He looks at me. “Yes, get me new credit cards and a new driver’s license, too.” He runs his hand over his hair. “Well, find a way. Call in some favors. I can’t go to LA for a new license.”

  He hangs up and looks at me expectantly, but so vulnerable. He looks like a child waiting for a parent to issue a punishment.

  “Tarry, the golden coin I gave you during our first therapy, did you have it last night?” I ask.

  “I had it with my wallet. I remember getting it out with your card. I was going to call you. Apparently, I lost it along with my cell and wallet, or someone stole it.”

  I act nonchalantly. Tarry is clueless to the importance of that coin. I should have told it to him when I gave him the coin. Now it’s too late.

  “You ride motorcycles, right?”

  “Yeah, haven’t done in a while, b
ut I do have a Harley.”

  “Would you take me on a ride then?”

  “Um, I thought you wanted me to do therapy or something. Have you called your father yet?”

  “No, I thought you could use time to cool off before talking to Dad and having to witness his well-intended attempt to hide his disappointment.” I smile.

  “No, shit. I feel like a bloody murderer caught with a weapon in my hands,” he says lightly, trying to mask the guilt stamped on his face.

  “No need for condemnation, Tarry. Conviction is enough.”

  “A bike, huh, but where are we gonna get one? No! Don’t tell me you own one, or I will drop to my knees and propose. And that wouldn’t be very romantic.” He flashes me a sad smile. Immediately his eyes fill with regret. He is probably afraid of how I’m going to take the comment. I’m skilled in the area of reading people. Besides studying human behavior in school, my job as a cop requires me to sharpen the skill daily. However it’s different with Tarry. I wonder if lust clouds my judgment regarding him. After all this time, I’m just starting to read him. He is insecure. Hmm, that’s puzzling. I’ll have to dwell on the thought later. Right now, I’m too excited.

  I let out a small laugh. “No, silly, I’m not that badass. Lucas has a Harley. I texted him and he’s lending it to us.” I grab a leather jacket I haven’t worn in ages.

  “Let’s go.”

  MY MIND IS spinning. Contrary to what I thought yesterday, Mel is not immune to me. The pull grounding me to her appears reciprocated. Though I wonder how strong it is at her end, I’m relieved. I just need to figure how to go from here. Ridiculous and a novelty since never before I had to worry about—for lack of better word, serenading a girl. My relationships began and ended. Period. Most times, I was blissfully unaware of when, how, and with whom. We are two broken souls trying to mend our pieces back as a whole. A tiny dose of hope infuses me with resolve. With Mel by my side, I’ll learn to handle this new and confusing me. Then, I’ll learn to handle her.