To Catch a Falling Star

by L. Duarte

  I follow her, trying to take in the beauty surrounding the place. Hell, I would have raised ten kids in this place without complaining. Ever.

  “Look, the swans.”

  “Fuck me,” I say. Mel grimaces slightly.

  “Sorry,” I mumble before my mind register the words. Did I just apologize for fucking cussing? I guess I fucking did. I really am a pussy. Let’s agree on that, and move on.

  “That’s cute,” she beams.

  “What?” I say defensively.

  “You, apologizing for using curse words.”

  “Well, if it bothers you, I won’t say them around you. That’s all,” I say.

  She stops near the water and spreads the quilt. I miss the warmth of her hand inside mine. She sits on the blanket and I sit next to her.

  “I’m starving. It must be all the adrenaline,” she says.

  “You barely ate breakfast,” I say.

  “Well, thank the Lord, there is plenty of food.”

  She opens the backpack and pulls out cold sandwiches, grapes, all sorts of berries, and a stainless steel thermos bottle.

  “Coffee?” I ask, hopeful.

  “No, special hot cocoa. I hope it’s hot, because this thermos cost a fortune.” She pours the rich brown liquid inside the lid. “Here, we’ll have to share this, I forgot cups.”

  I sip from the steamy liquid. “Ouch, it is hot. Too hot. Worth every penny,” I say. Then, my taste buds detect the spiced chocolate flavor. “What the hell is this? It’s fuc—delicious.”

  Mel laughs and hands me a sandwich. We eat silently. It’s a silence that, in the past, has been deafening. But each day I’m learning to enjoy it. It’s soothing. The sun wins the battle against the clouds and radiates its warmth over us. It dissolves the shadows lurking on the lake. I hear the wind salute the water and kiss the treetops—a perfect note. Music that is pure and unattainable.

  I think of things from childhood—lost dreams and stupid hopes. I sigh deeply and soak in my surroundings. The day has a yellowish haze to it and a dreamy quality that transports me to a special childhood place.

  There was a willow tree on the back of my parent’s property. That was my special spot. It was secluded and peaceful. A long bench, like a La-Z-Boy chair, spread out on a horizontal curve. As a boy, I climbed the tree often and sat in it for hours. Funny and corny, but it felt like the tree hugged me, tightly. It really did. If I focused hard enough I could feel the embrace surround my body, applying gentle and loving pressure on my shoulders, kissing my temples, and patting my hair.

  I shared the tree with a bird. I don’t recall what kind of bird, but it had such an intricate little nest. Whenever I looked at the bird, I thought of me as one too, but with broken wings—as Mel once described me—and the tree as my nest. In the childhood fantasy, I was confined to the tree. But I didn’t mind. No one on the tree could harm me, because, as with that bird, I was alone. Within the tree, the bird and I found company. Then, in the nest, appeared tiny blue-and-brown eggs. I watched the entire process, fascinated by the mysterious circle of life. One day the eggs hatched. A few days later the entire family, poof, disappeared. I suppose they never looked back.

  I look at Mel and see that she has returned the empty containers and thermos to the backpack.

  I stand up, reach out my hand, and ask, “Dance with me?”

  “But there is no music,” she says.

  I take her hand in mine and I want to kiss the hell out of her. I get a rush every time my lips touch hers, but I know better.

  “Mel, singing is one thing I do damn well in this life. I’ll provide the music.”

  I snake my arms around her waist and pull her close to me. Every inch of her body is touching mine. I lean into her, and begin whistling one of my favorite tunes in her ear.

  Being next to her gives me peace and a warmth that I’ve never felt before. Though she doesn’t mean to, she holds me captive with her sweetness. My life feels in a normal orbit. I’m elated just to hear the slow hum of her laughter. I have a tingling sensation every damn time Mel stares at Ella and her eyes exhibit tenderness and warmth. I get a high when I inhale the soft scent of chamomile from her hair. I want to make wild sex, followed by tender lovemaking, and snuggle on the couch as we watch chick flicks. A pussy, that’s what I’ve become.

  “‘PATIENCE,’ BY GUNS and Roses?” I ask, as I recognize the familiar tune.

  “Hmm-hmm,” he says and continues his whistling. He holds me close.

  Sometimes we judge a situation based on the limited information before us. The judgment in itself is fair, but when we look at the greater scheme of things, we get a more accurate picture.

  For five years, I have whimsically wallowed in nostalgia. I’ve become so fragile, that the slightest rattle can crack me into pieces. When Tim and I were young we spent a lot of time here. Back then, everything seemed to move slowly. We rode our bikes along Main Street in Green Hill’s downtown. After stopping at the ice cream parlor, we would sit on the bench under a white gazebo. We would savor the strawberry and cream flavors until the cone wilted and became soggy. Elated from the sugar, we would ride back to the shack and sit by the lake, until the sun went down and the stars came out. Then, it would happen, those rare moments in life that touch every atom of us—the midst of twilight. The perfect moment of a summer evening, crowned with a violet horizon. That moment when fireflies light, crickets croon, and the air becomes hazy.

  I realize that those memories will live on and I’ll always treasure them, but I want to create new ones.

  Before my bravado wavers, I surrender and rest my head on Tarry’s chest. I release the heap of fears, memories, and disappointments I have collected throughout the years. I dive into this moment. I want to feel the rawness of it. I lose myself in the arms of this fascinating man. Tarry has been so tender. Yeah, I miss his predatory stares, and his seductive smiles. But they fill me with guilt and fear. Today I feel giddy and as if I’m floating.

  I gaze at Tarry. Usually, there are pools of sadness and longing inside his smoke-gray eyes. Today they are deep blue. Joy tinged with guilt fills me. For a moment I dwell on it, finally settling for the joy and ditching the guilt. I won’t worry.

  Still whistling, he looks at me and the sadness in his eyes is back. It tugs at my heart. His eyes seek mine. This tender side of Tarry is fascinating. My hips sway following his lead. Our bodies move fluidly, in perfect rhythm. We move hip to hip, chest to chest. His body exudes sex appeal and warmth. It chases away my pain and disillusions. I want to stay here, imprisoned in his embrace and forget about the world.

  His low, raspy voice begins to sing the lyrics of the song. I’m an open fan of Tarry’s, but at this moment, I’m in awe of his ability to touch so deep inside a soul using only his vocal cords. He sounds like he’s making a confession of sorts. It’s as if the song is pertinent to the two of us. God, am I imagining this? My head feels hazy and dizzy. I breathe in his scent. It is a heady mixture of my softener and his male citrus scent. Clear of any trace of tobacco. Oh, I want, want so badly to have his lips covering mine.

  The song ends, leaving me craving his kiss.

  I FINISH THE song. Mel gazes up. Her vivid eyes stare at me. Deeply and sharply, they seep through the barriers of indifference and eclipse the numbness of my soul. She is silent. I’m dying to kiss her. I think she will kiss me. Her eyes flick to my lips. But she glances up again and the desire I see seems to evaporate. She smiles and, escaping my embrace, she returns to the blanket.

  I follow her, wondering if she can see how much I want her. Restraint is something I’ve never acquired. Until now. I’m in uncharted territory. I’ve never had to seduce a woman nor have I ever denied my lust. I’ve seen what I wanted and took it. No resistance from my prey and no effort from me. But with Mel, the courtship I never mastered is required. I find myself in a relentless pursuit of wooing her. I never know if I have succeeded. It seems every time I corner her, I push her further away.

  Th
ough I crave cigarettes like crazy and my chest is itching as hell, I want to claim her under the vast blue sky. Instead, I simply lie down next to her. I place my hand near hers. If I stretch my fingers a little, I can touch her. But I don’t. I don’t want to ruin the moment. This day with Mel tops my list of the best days of my life. I guess Mel is topping many of my lists.

  Then, life graces me with one of its hidden surprises. Mel’s small and soft hand curls inside mine. It radiates warmth and generates odd feelings I can’t give a name to.

  “Thank you for bringing me here,” she says softly.

  “Huh, you’re thanking me?” I ask.

  “Yeah, since Tim’s death I haven’t had the courage to come back. Too many memories.” She sighs and her thumb caresses the back of my hand. “You know when you treasure the memory of a place so much you don’t want to tarnish it? All these years, I refused to relive the moments I spent here with Tim, too afraid to lose the perfection in them.”

  “I know what you mean. Before my grandfather died, we talked a lot. I guess he was old, and old folks have more time and patience with kids. Anyway, I have these memories… I remember me with this mane of blond curls bouncing up and down, while I sat on his lap. I don’t know how much is memory and how much is from the footage I’ve seen of us.” I pause. “His voice was weak, raspy, and wavering. I remember riding horses and I sat on the saddle in front of him. It was so high, but his hands were always so tight around me, protecting me. His hands are the most perfect and clear memory I have from my childhood.” I look at my own hand. “My hands look like his. His touch was so loving and firm. Sometimes, I can feel the warmth of his hands around me. It’s so real, yet so distant. I don’t talk about him because I feel afraid the wind will carry the memories away from me, and they are the only good memories I have. Sometimes I feel like a wimpy kid.”

  “This morning, when I asked you to stay, I knew I asked a lot of you, Tarry. When you chose to stay, you chose to fight against the very demons that inhabit your soul and are battling for control.”

  “I stayed because of you, Mel,” I say, looking at her.

  “No.” She meets my gaze. “Unlike me, you’re brave.”

  “I’m just a pathetic drug addict, Mel.”

  “No, you are not. Look at my life, Tarry. I believe in an amazing God. I have a family that adores me. God, I have Ella. And earlier in my life, I had the privilege of having Tim. Then, I lost him. And it broke me. It broke me so badly that you can’t find the pieces to repair me. I’ve lived life as a coward and didn’t even realize. To live this fearfully is less than to simply exist, it is to have half an existence.”

  “You’re the bravest person I ever met.”

  “Bravery is having the courage to do the things we are most afraid of. That’s what you’re doing, Tarry. Alone. I have all the support some can only dream of. Yet I succumbed to the first real trial I had. There is no bravery in that.”

  I don’t respond to that. Mel is so far from the truth. Yes, I stayed. But not out of bravery. I stayed because I’m confused. I see in her a glimpse of a life I would have died to have. I want to make sense of all my thoughts and emotions. But I can’t. The questions stretching in my mind are as vast as the Milky Way. I want to explore all of them, but I don’t. I fear that my current reality is as elusive as the limbs of the willow tree hugging me on those lonely childhood days. I just want to live in this moment. For however long I’m allowed.

  I bring her hand to my lips and kiss it. Mel smiles at me. My heart does a strange somersault. Yeah, a fucking pussy has nothing on me.

  “HAVING YOU WAS just a mistake, an unfortunate accident,” Mom says in her even and cold tone. Mom reserves her snobby voice for when she talks to me.

  “I hate you,” I say and fight the tears burning the back of my eyes.

  Mom laughs. “That’s not mutual, Tarry. I can’t get myself to have any feelings for you. Maybe it makes me a horrible person. I honestly don’t give a damn. I wish I could take time back and find out I was pregnant in time to have had an abortion. Then I wouldn’t have to stand here staring at your pathetic, boozed face.”

  Her eyes glint with a familiar shade of pleasure as she pauses and allows the words to sink into my heart and do their intended damage.

  “You know, Tarry. I recall one single moment of blissful happiness during my pregnancy.” Her eyes turn menacing. “It was when I fell down the stairs and, for a fraction of a minute, I thought the impact caused a miscarriage. Unfortunately, you were already too stubborn and insisted on making an appearance where you were unwelcomed.”

  “Enough, Karen,” Dad interjects.

  I suck in a breath of relief and surprise. Dad is always impartial when Mom and I argue. He never intervenes, no matter how cruel Mom is with her slithering words.

  “He is not worth your time or energy.”

  Ten thousand tiny little darts pierce my heart, slashing any hope of belonging. I don’t want to cry anymore. I close my eyes. The tears dry up and a trail of obscure shapes, similar to the cracks in the mud of a dry riverbed, spread along the landscape of my heart. Dad and Mom’s words echo in my mind and resonate into my bone marrow. I die a little. I die a whole lot. When I open my eyes I know I’m wounded for life. It hurts so badly and I don’t like the pain. All I want is for it to go away and never return. I need to go numb again.

  “FINALLY, WE ARE done with the cans.” Dan brings me out of my memories and back to the pantry. Is he fucking kidding me? I just spilled my soul and heart into his hand and he casually refers to the damn cans as if we just found the cure for cancer. Fuck it.

  Yesterday, when we got back from the lake shack, Mel called her father and told him of my relapse. After reassuring him that I was fine to be alone, she scheduled an early morning counseling session. We have already organized the entire pantry and he has yet to address it.

  Dan is unnerving and confusing to say the least. On one day, he is full of compassion. On the other, he acts as if my heart-wracking story is not at all important. It sure gets me mad.

  “You know, Dan, it was a stretch for me to tell you all this shit about my parents,” I snap with a bite of resentment in my voice.

  An unnerving grin spreads across Dan’s face. Silently, he hands me a bottle of Windex and a bundle of rags. “Let’s clean the windows.”

  Yeah, I’m pissed. He can’t disregard me like this.

  “Tell me how you feel when you remember your parents’ words,” he finally says with a deep and serious tone.

  “Shitty. How else can I feel when I remember I’m worthless?”

  “See, I like to compartmentalize things in my mind. And we sure can pull out a few things from this little story of yours.”

  Dan walks to a window and I follow him.

  “First, you are not worthless. Second, the fact you are so mad with my lack of response is just great. Third, the negative way your parents handled you should never be used as a trigger or an excuse,” Dan says.

  “Oh. Since it never occurred to me that there was a correct protocol on how to behave when the only people I relied on hated me, yeah, drinking and shooting up sounded just swell.” I spray the Windex and forcefully wipe the smooth glass.

  “There isn’t a particular protocol, Tarry. There is a variety of choices, though. However, when you are buried in self-pity you are unequipped to produce a better response.”

  “I don’t feel sorry for my lame self.”

  “You do, son. And that’s okay. The vulnerable little boy inside you struggles to be more resilient. It’s a daily battle.”

  “I don’t want to feel this huge void that consumes me day in and day out.”

  “You don’t have to.”

  “How?”

  “By reacting, Tarry. You are a passive spectator in your own life. It’s okay to get pissed at your life, your parents, and yourself. Feel all of it, Tarry. You need to feel. To live. Being angry can be very cathartic. You do have a voice. Learn to use it.”
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br />   “You are right. Sometimes it feels as if I’m outside my own life, looking without being allowed in,” I say.

  “When you compose and perform you channel all your anger and sorrows. I can feel it with each note. But there is a real world out here, son. You need to navigate through your feelings in the real world. Suppressing and ignoring your emotions makes you numb. But numbness can be more harmful than the pain it replaces.”

  “When I stand on stage I feel the rush through my body. It’s just my music and me even though millions of people are watching. Even when I’m high—which was always, I feel every atom of my being alive.”

  “But life is not a rehearsal or a performance, son. You’ve only got one shot.”

  “I just don’t know how to do it in real life, Dan,” I whisper.

  “Deep down you do, son. At this very moment, you are confronting the inertia consuming your being. That’s a step toward freedom.”

  “I want to be free. I really do,” I say without giving a damn to the fact I sound like a wimp.

  “What your parents said to you that day, and throughout your childhood, is a lie. They lied to you. But the worst part is that you bought into it.”

  “The part they didn’t love in me is very much true.”

  “You need to know who you really are. Then you will understand your worth. We are intricately and uniquely created. There is an infinite well of precious treasures flowing inside us.”

  “I want to believe you, Dan, I really do.”

  “Now that you relapsed, what is your greatest fear?”

  “To actually succeed and remain sober.”

  “That’s progress, son. It is.” He taps my shoulder and to my disbelief, I’m disappointed the session is over.