“Very little.” Sophie thought a moment more. “Okay, nothing. I know nothing about Buddhism. Except that the Dalai Lama is Buddhist.”
“I’m not trying to sound condescending, but it might be kind of hard to explain the book’s appeal to someone who hasn’t read it.”
Sophie gave him an expectant smile.
He turned on the coffee maker, leaning against the counter as it began its gurgling and percolating.
“All right,” Sam conceded. He scratched his chin, considering where to begin. “Like I said, I read it while in college, and at that time, it didn’t have much of an impact on me. Then a few years later, my mom started having health problems from smoking. Chronic bronchitis, high blood pressure. Didn’t matter how bad it got, she just kept smoking. And as I told you before, I was always mad at her. I didn’t get it. I wouldn’t just talk to her about it, I would lecture her, then we’d get into it because she didn’t like me telling her what to do. I got to the point where I kept it to myself, but every time her symptoms got worse, I got pissed off at her because in my mind, it was something she could fix.”
The first signs of dawn were peeking through the window, its pastel ribbons lacing the sky. The coffee finished brewing, and Sam poured a couple cups.
“One day after I had gotten really angry with her, I remembered the Dhammapada mentioning something about not judging others.” Sam absently stirred cream into his coffee. “Not a novel idea, obviously. It’s mentioned in the Bible. But all I remembered was that you shouldn’t judge others, unless you want to be judged. Well, I didn’t care if someone wanted to judge me.” His laughter was self-deprecating. “Anyway, I decided to reread Dhammapada.”
As they took their mugs to the dining table, Sophie asked, “Does it tell you how to stop? Judging, I mean. ‘Cause I could really use that where Christian is concerned.”
“I’m not going to comment on that,” he replied impishly. “Because I would never judge you. See how I did that?” He nodded, as if impressed with himself.
Sophie squinted and crooked the corner of her mouth. “Yeah, I see. Smarty pants. Anyway, does it? Does it tell you?”
“Uhhh . . . no.”
Sophie’s shoulders sagged. “Well, what good does that do?”
“It’s more like. . . .” He tapped his finger against his mug, as he struggled to think of a comparison. “You know how we always tell the kids to stop worrying about what their neighbor is doing, and start worrying about what they’re supposed to be doing?”
“Psh! Yeah.” Sophie made a face and shook her head. “They don’t get that.”
“Neither do we! We spend so much time focusing on what’s wrong with other people. Oh, that person is so rude!” he declared in a catty voice. “That old fart seriously needs to learn how to drive or get off the road. Why doesn’t she teach her kids how to act right? On and on and on.” He paused to take a sip of his coffee. “If everyone spent half that energy looking at themselves and how they could be better, think how different things would be.”
Sophie tilted her head and raised her eyebrows, considering his point. “So that’s it? That little bit from the book is what makes you so even keel?”
“Oh, no. There’s more. It’s about having compassion, for everyone. Even our friend, Jake.” He listed on his fingers. “Non-judgment, non-attachment.” Sam shook his head. “Non-attachment, that’s the part where I can’t get on board.”
“What do they mean by non-attachment? To what?” Sophie sipped her coffee, immensely enjoying this conversation. Buddhism 101.
Sam stopped to admire those bright blue eyes peeking over her cup, as she waited on his reply so expectantly. Wearing the Tinkerbell t-shirt he’d bought her at Disneyland, disheveled curls around her face, she couldn’t have been more captivating.
“What?” she asked.
“Nothing.”
“Well, are you going to tell me about the non-attachment thing?”
“Why certainly,” he replied in a professorial tone. Sophie smirked at his affectation.
“Buddhists believe that all of our suffering stems from attachment—to things, people, and circumstances,” he continued in a refined manner. “Because all the things we love in this world are impermanent, when we lose them we suffer. Loss of a loved one, a job, a home, money, wouldn’t be painful if we didn’t foster attachments to them.
“I mean, I get it in theory.” Sam returned to his normal voice. “But explain to me how you’re not supposed to be attached to your family, your friends. How, when you lose a parent or a child, you’re just supposed to be okay with it.”
“You’re not!” Sophie answered. “That actually sounds pretty lame.” They both laughed. “What can I say?” she added. “I guess I’m not very enlightened.”
She stood up and kissed him on the forehead. “But apparently, you are.” She ran her fingers along his forearm as she walked toward the French doors to watch the sunrise.
At times, Sam felt uncomfortable having conversations like this with Sophie, worried that he might come off as an arrogant know-it-all. She already looked at him as if he were an enigma to be worshipped, and that was nothing short of ridiculous.
Sophie turned and smiled at him. His eyes never left her as he reflected on some of the things they talked about—her constant aggravation with Christian, how she battled it daily.
Sam believed he had become pretty good at surrendering judgments. He accepted the reality that his mother was going to do whatever she wanted. Yes, it would very likely take her life at some point, and probably in an unpleasant manner. But it was her decision. Not his. Why spend what time he did have with her angry because of the choices she made? Sophie could do the same with her sister.
When he applied this philosophy to all of his personal interactions, it was liberating. No. It was more than liberating. It was gratifying. Without obligation to be judge and juror for everyone else, the only person he needed to be responsible for was himself. And it felt damned good.
However, he hated that he had failed so miserably that day with Jake. His fondness for Ian muddied his vision, turning him into a callous, mean-spirited creature. No matter what Jake had done, he was still a child with a story of his own. In most cases, kids didn’t do bad things unless they were dealing with their own brand of suffering. He could see it in Jake’s eyes, the contrived insolence meant to conceal remorse. But Sam didn’t care. All he knew for certain was that Jake’s actions had injured Ian.
Attachments. They certainly were a bitch.
But as he watched Sophie gazing out the window at the sunrise, quietly enjoying her morning brew, he was reminded how attachments made life quite sublime. He was all about taking the good and managing the bad as best he could. Determined to enjoy every passion to its fullest, fully aware of the torment that was often an accessory, it would likely be eons before he’d be willing to give attachments the slip.
His beloved Sophie was utterly clueless as to the power she held in her hands. How, in a single breath, she could blast his soul to pieces by the simple withdrawal of her love. This kind of existence was entirely non-Buddhist.
And he would have it no other way.
Twenty-Three
Those worthless steroids meant to combat Evelyn’s pleurisy weren’t doing the job. The stabbing in her chest, the struggle for air, became too much. She hated calling her mother to take her to the hospital, nearly frustrated to tears as she dialed the phone, but she refused to ask anything of Christian.
“Of course, I’ll be right there,” Abby said. “But where’s Christian?”
Abby still knew nothing about Christian’s betrayal. Evie wanted to keep it that way, but wasn’t sure how long she could pull it off. “He’s out right now. I told him to just meet us down there.” She’d worry about the rest later. Maybe she could concoct a believable story by then.
Although Christian had come home after a brief stay at a hotel, they’d had little interaction. They were in a holding pattern. Evie nee
ded time to figure out what she wanted to do, and Christian had been making himself scarce, either holed up in a room with his work or spending the time with his mother.
Had he confided in her? Christian’s mother had always been good to Evie and treated her as a daughter. Still, Christian was forever her one and only perfect baby. Her fixation only intensified when his father moved back east following the divorce.
Once Evie was settled into a hospital room, Abby propped several pillows behind Evie’s back in an attempt to ease her breathing. “Sweetie, I called Christian while they were taking your vitals,” Abby admitted. “To find out why he isn’t here yet. I don’t know what’s going on, but haven’t you two patched things up since the holidays?”
Damn it! Evie covered her face and shook her head. “Everything will be fine. We’re just going through a rough patch.”
“I called Sophie, too, to let her know you’re here. And Christian is on his way.”
Evie groaned. “Mom, I wish you hadn’t. I don’t want him here right now.”
“You’re in the hospital! Seriously, you think he’s not going to notice when you’re not home?” Abby stopped fussing with the blankets. “Or has he moved out?”
“He hasn’t moved out, but there’s no need for him to be here. How many times have I had this done? They’ll drain off the fluid, and I’ll call him later.”
Abby folded her arms. “Honey, are you high? Yes, you’ve done this before, but it has serious risks, and your husband should be here.”
Evie grimaced, holding her chest as another invisible blade pierced her insides. Abby gently rubbed her back. “I’m sorry you’re going through this. Just hang on. They’re going to make it better.”
Evie nodded through short breaths, but looked up when she felt the presence of a visitor. Christian stood in the doorway, and something pattered through her stomach. God, why did she have to get the patter? Would she ever be able to let go of the boy she fell in love with?
Abby excused herself, giving Christian’s arm an affectionate pat on her way out. Christian remained frozen in the doorway. Evie briefly met his eyes, before averting her gaze to where her toes made a little peak underneath the blanket.
“Damn you,” she whispered. Realizing that she was still gripping her chest, she let her hand fall to her lap.
Out of the corner of her eye, she could see him hesitate in the doorway, waiting for some sort of permission from her. When she didn’t give it, he inched into the room and took the chair beside her. He stared down at the floor as he took her hand in both of his. Evie didn’t pull away, but she would not acknowledge him. She felt his eyes settle on her, imploring, and she drew a short breath as another bullet ripped through her chest. Christian squeezed her hand, almost painfully, and buried his head in her lap. His back and shoulders were tense, rigid with emotion.
Evie didn’t want to feel bad for him. But she did. She didn’t want to continue loving him. But she did. She always would, and she knew it.
Powerless, her hand clenched his for a fraction of a second. Her response, however brief, did not go unnoticed. He pressed her fingers to his lips.
The doctor entered, pushing a rolling tray ahead of him. Evie’s mouth went dry at the sight of the syringes and small-bore catheters he would use to drain the fluid from around her lungs. Christian sat upright.
“Well, are you ready for some relief, Miss Evelyn?” the doctor asked.
Evie exhaled. “I’m way past ready.”
“Is hubby staying?” The doctor began arranging the necessary items on the tray.
Christian looked at her. “I want to stay. Please . . . let me stay.”
The doctor paused to eye them briefly, as if he sensed a double meaning in Christian’s request. “That’s all up to the patient. What would you prefer, dear?”
The few times that Evie underwent this procedure in the past, she had requested that Christian wait outside. He always became so anxious whenever one of her health issues reared its Medusa-like head, so she tried to shield him. But he was not her child. He was her partner. And in many ways, she had been treating him like a child, not trusting him, not allowing him to take care of her, when at times that’s what she so desperately wanted. Studying his face, she now recognized that’s what he wanted, too.
“I’m staying,” Christian stated.
Evie pursed her lips and stared at Christian a few seconds longer, then gave the doctor a brief nod.
“All right, then,” the doctor replied. “Young man, why don’t you help her into this seat over here?” He directed him to an armless chair that was brought in for the procedure. “Close the door, and bring over that extra rolling table and a pillow for her to lean on.”
Christian did as instructed. As the doctor placed the sterile draping over Evelyn’s back, he added, “Your only job now is to sit there and hold her hand.”
Christian sat down across from Evelyn as she rested her arms on the table, mentally readying herself for the puncture.
“I will hold your hand,” he whispered. “For as long as you’ll let me.” His hands remained on his knees as he waited for a sign that she welcomed his touch. His eyes entreated.
Uncertain, but with a guarded yearning to forgive, she believed he was truly sorry. That he never meant to hurt her. However, the trust was now damaged in a most unimaginable, maybe even irreparable way. It would be a long, grueling journey.
She stretched open her fingers to accept his offering.
An unexpected but profound sense of relief swept through her, and she didn’t even feel the stick of the needle. Her only awareness—his hand gripping hers.
Twenty-Four
Christian leaned on the arm of his chair as he watched the even rise and fall of Evie’s chest. His hand held hers in a loose grip, his thumb stroking her fingers. His guilt mingled with his long-held sense of worthlessness, reminding him of the events in his life that planted the seeds of bad decisions, the deep-seated roots of inferiority that grew from them.
The torment began in early junior high, when he first moved to Las Vegas. The teasing, the intimidating comments, the occasional shoves in the hallway. Although he made every attempt to stay under the radar, it wasn’t in the cards. Christian told himself that it was just going to be a bad year because he was new, that the next year would be different.
It was different, all right. It was worse. And it seemed the harder he tried to be invisible, the more noticeable he became. It was as if he had a target on his forehead, and he had no idea why it was there or how to remove it.
By the time he started high school, his spirit had been well shredded. He kept it from his parents, but he could no longer stomach the thought of going to school each day. He was six feet tall, one hundred thirty-five pounds soaking wet, and didn’t know how to fight. When he finally went to his father, he insisted that Christian learn how to defend himself.
His father worked with him, got him a heavy bag and taught him how to punch. Christian embraced this time with his dad, but a nagging inside whispered that when the time came, he wouldn’t have it in him. He would be a disappointment. No matter how much his father wished it, he would never be a fighter. He was a scrawny, artsy, uncomfortable kid.
Then one rainy day during his junior year, the moment of truth, the test, finally came. As Christian was leaving school, Ryan, a kid who had been messing with him since junior high, yanked Christian’s backpack from his shoulder and flung it into a puddle. Ryan stood there with a self-satisfied smirk on his face, silently challenging Christian to do something about it.
It was now or never; blood surged through Christian’s body. But he remained frozen, unable to react.
Ryan sauntered deliberately toward him, then gave Christian a controlled, purposeful shove. At the rage in Christian’s eyes, Ryan mocked a look of alarm before a haughty grin spread across his face. When Christian still did nothing, Ryan closed in, his face inches away.
“That’s what I thought.” Ryan turned toward his
two friends, who were standing close by. “What a fucking pussy,” he said. The boys laughed as they started to walk away.
Somewhere in those next few seconds, Christian lost awareness of his surroundings. Everything became a pulsating blur. The next thing he knew, he was on top of Ryan, pounding him without mercy. The only bit he could remember before things went bad was the utter shock, even panic, in the bully’s face.
Before he could truly revel in the moment, Ryan’s friends pulled him off. Ryan sprung from the ground—then the three of them proceeded to beat Christian to a bloody pulp. He had no recollection of how long it lasted before a security monitor appeared and saved him.
He would never forget how his mother recoiled when she laid eyes upon his mangled face, breaking into hysterical sobs. That’s when he got scared; he hadn’t seen the damage yet. His dad was momentarily paralyzed, then slowly made his way into the room. His mouth opened and closed, a wavering smile on his face. “You did good, son,” he mumbled as he gingerly wrapped an arm around him.
Christian was relieved at his remark, but never truly believed it. “Ah, you should see the other guys.”
“How can you be joking about this?” his mother snapped before turning to the security monitor. “Have these boys been arrested? Because they should be!”
“Ma’am, we’re still trying to work out what happened, but word is that it was your son who threw the first punch.”
“If he did,” his father’s voice abruptly rose to a holler, “the asshole deserved it! And then the piece of shit gets his friends do his fighting for him, making it three against one!”
“John,” Christian’s mother whispered with embarrassment.
In most cases, Christian’s dad was a man of reserve. His day-to-day dealings as a pharmacist didn’t require him to be aggressive or confrontational. However, at that moment Christian could see the vein pulsing in his father’s neck as he continued his tirade against the security monitor, the person who actually came to his rescue.
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