All of It

by Kim Holden

  Surprisingly, the meal’s not too bad. “Good job, Dimitri, this is almost edible.”

  He glares playfully at me.

  “Kidding.”

  “If you must know, I watched the Food Network all afternoon,” he says.

  I raise my eyebrows.

  “I’m determined to figure this cooking thing out, alright?”

  I smile at the effort. “It’s actually pretty good. Thanks for cooking. I had kind of a hard day, and I wasn’t really looking forward to making dinner. If it were up to me we probably would’ve ended up eating cereal and toast.”

  He frowns. “I suspected you probably didn’t have a good day when I couldn’t get you on your phone earlier. Do you want to talk about it?” He reaches across the small kitchen table to take my hand.

  “No, I don’t think I do. But thanks for asking.” I have trouble looking him in the eye. I almost always feel better when I talk to him. But tonight, I just feel sad and don’t want to even try.

  The saddest smile crosses his lips for only a second, and he waits patiently for me to speak again.

  I don’t.

  “You did get to meet Bob though, right?”

  Bob, sweet Bob. “Yes, Bob’s great. Very cool. We listened to jazz. Have you ever heard of Billie Holiday? She’s good. You’d like her.”

  He smiles that knowing smile. “Yes, I’ve heard of Billie Holiday. She’s amazing. What song did you hear? Good Morning Heartache? Lover Man? God Bless the Child? That one’s my favorite.”

  I’m astounded. I realize everyone doesn’t live in my insular world, but Dimitri always surprises me. Excellent memory aside, he’s a walking, breathing encyclopedia.

  He’s smirking at me and knows I’m impressed. “Well, Ronnie, which song was it? I could name a few more to jog your memory.”

  “I don’t remember the name of the song. Bob hummed along, and it was lovely,” I say. Suddenly, I’m agitated.

  He’s still smirking. “You have to be careful of Bob, always the southern gentleman. He’s incredibly charming. I’ll have to watch myself or I may end up losing you to an older man.”

  Funny, but where did this vast knowledge mid-century jazz come from? I finally shake my head and the agitation begins to wane. “How do you know Billie Holiday anyway?”

  His smile widens. “I like to think of myself as … cultured.”

  I can’t resist his confident smile and the twinkle in his gray eyes. I exhale completely as he reels me in with his charm, though I haven’t lost my sarcastic edge. “You’re something alright.”

  “Hah.” It’s guttural and unforced. “You know you secretly love it … I impress you.”

  Was that a question? “Incessantly,” I say.

  His voice drops and the corners of his mouth allude to his notorious, mischievous grin. “Incessantly … I like that.”

  The flame is rising through me and it awakens my body from the numbness that’s consumed me for over a week. Slowly, life, or more accurately lust, is inching its way back into my veins. My ears begin to hum. Life, lust, whatever it is—I’ll take it. I stand up and walk around the table to stand in front of him, leaving myself completely unguarded and vulnerable, waiting for a further invitation, ready and willing for whatever may come. His eyebrows pinch slightly as he tries to read my face. The flash of a smile ghosts across his lips so quickly I wonder if I’ve only imagined it. Finally, without taking his eyes off mine, he pushes back his chair and extends the invitation, pulling me down to sit on his lap.

  I hitch up my skirt slightly and straddle his legs with mine. I take off his glasses and set them on the table behind me without breaking his gaze. My hands move to his cheeks, softly over his ears, and to the nape of his neck where his hair is so, so soft.

  His hands, which have been hanging limply at his sides, brush lightly over my calves, slowly pausing with a gentle squeeze at the backs of my knees, before shifting and grazing the top of my thighs. The pressure increases slightly as his hands move up, up and over my skirt, except his thumbs, which clasp unapologetically under the hem. My skirt inches its way up … creeping deliberately.

  He leans forward and kisses the hollow of my neck. It’s an electric shock. The slightest touch puts my body into overdrive, hyperaware. His hair feels like silk under my hands. I feel the gentle pull of my skin under his kisses as his lips move their way up my neck.

  I bow my head until my lips just touch his ear and whisper, “Incessantly … yes, you incessantly impress me,” before pulling his mouth hungrily to mine.

  I don’t want him to leave. I want him. And I give in to the want.

  Life is sometimes … incessant.

  Chapter 18

  Hiding and waiting

  For the worst

  Or the end

  In the end, it turns out lust only numbs the pain for a short time. Dimitri went home that night around eleven, like every other night, at my gentle insistence.

  The routine continues, an endless loop. Every day is the same unless he’s out of town at a gallery showing or an art sale. Variety has ceased to exist in my world, and it seems I’ve forced it out of his as well. He always comes over when I get home from work; we always eat dinner; we always watch TV until around eleven, at which time he always offers to stay, but I always decline. I have to get through this on my own.

  Days turn into weeks, summer passes. Weeks turn into months, then winter passes. I find myself withdrawing into my own inner world of despair. In the beginning it wasn’t so difficult to put on the “happy” face for work, the occasional visit with friends, and for Dimitri. Months later the desire to care has evaporated. The “happy” face is gone. I choose not to enroll in school, much to Dimitri and Sunny’s dismay. Merely waking and going to work has become a monumental struggle, and school feels completely out of the question.

  Isolation and utter numbness have replaced the sadness. Sadness is pain; it’s something you physically feel in your heart. Depression is something different altogether—it’s destructive. It creeps up on you and strangles you and before you even realize it you’re paralyzed and nothing matters anymore. It transforms entirely.

  I can still manage to lose myself in my work, though I’ve become a new, different me. We’re always busy and Bob is very intuitive. He knows I don’t want to talk and he never forces it. We have yet to finish a lunch in silence, though. He always has a bit of news to share, or a story about one of his grandchildren, or a volunteer project he’s working on. He’s brief and has learned that the stories are better if he doesn’t expect a response from me in return. It’s just Bob’s kind way of keeping the channels of communication open between us, which is extremely generous given that it’s been one way for months.

  My friends called and visited during the first few weeks after my parents’ deaths, but my attempts to stay connected waned as summer passed and then their respective colleges stole them away in fall. And then they forgot about me, or at least that what I told myself. The distance I put between us was certainly more to blame, but the idea that they simply forgot about me eased my guilt at first. That guilt slowly faded to indifference, and then I began to forget about them. As the months passed, even Teagan stopped sending text messages because I never responded. That one hurt. But I no longer have the strength to bridge the gap. Gap? The Grand Canyon pales in comparison to this one. It’s monumental at this point. Impossible to bridge.

  Dimitri was and remains the constant in my life; a saint sent to endure me. There’s no other way to put it. He simply … lovingly … endures me. I want him. I need him. He’s all I have in this world, the only thing that rouses any emotion inside me. But feeling this dead inside, it’s become hard to convey, to show, to share any type of emotion with him. When he’s around I have to touch him, but I can’t bring myself to be intimate. Passion is dead. I love him, more than anything, certainly more than myself, but I can’t bring myself to physically show him. That desire is gone. All desire is gone. The desire to live is gone.


  Every night after Dimitri tucks me into bed on the sofa (because even after almost a year I can’t bring myself to sleep in my own bed), he kisses me on the forehead, tells me he loves me and leaves, and I pray to God and I thank him for Dimitri Glenn, for sending this angel to me. I used to pray for my own happiness. When that didn’t work I started praying for the sadness to leave. And when that didn’t work I pleaded for the constant, aching, all-consuming hopelessness to lessen so that I could breathe—just breathe. It didn’t. I’m still choking. So through tears, sometimes silent, sometimes sobbing, but always present, I pray every night for everything good in this world to be bestowed upon Dimitri, especially happiness … even if that happiness cannot include me.

  On the one-year anniversary of the accident, I make up my mind to do something radical. Dimitri is out of town for a week at an art gallery exhibition, and I manage to pull it off while he’s away. I sell or give away everything in the house and garage except a few items of clothing, a blanket, a towel, a pan, a few dishes and a small box of mementos: photos and my parents’ wedding rings. The furniture is gone. The TV is gone. Jezebel and the other cars are gone. I tell myself I don’t need these objects anymore. I would feel almost relieved, if I could feel.

  It’s not until Dimitri returns and breaks down into tears when he sees the house empty that it hits me. It’s been decided. I’ve surrendered. I’m done. Through his crying and my haze it’s hard to understand everything he’s saying until he’s kneeling before me, clutching at my pant legs and I hear the words: “I won’t let this happen.”

  He’s still pleading. “Ronnie, I’ve helplessly watched you destroying yourself every day and it’s breaking my heart. I’ve tried everything to make you happy again, but I keep failing. All the classic signs were there. You don’t eat like you should, you don’t talk, you walk around in a fog, you just … exist. And now this,” he gestures to the empty house. “This final preparation scares the hell out of me. What can I do? You need help.”

  I kneel down and blink in disbelief. “Dimitri, you haven’t failed me; I’ve failed me.” The tears, which I almost never notice anymore, start flowing. “None of this is your fault. Please don’t blame yourself; that would kill me. I’m already dying. I have been for a year now. I just didn’t realize it was completely unavoidable until now.”

  He pulls me tightly against him and we sit on the floor crying and holding each other in the empty, echoing house. After nearly an hour, Dimitri pulls back from me. He wipes my cheeks with the sleeve of his shirt. “I have to get you out of here. We’re leaving tonight. We’re going somewhere for a few days, just the two us, until we can get this figured out and come up with a plan.”

  I begin to protest, but I don’t have it in me to do much of anything, let alone put up a fight.

  He stands up and goes downstairs for a few minutes, arriving back in the living room with my bag, the remains of my clothes, and my toothbrush under his arm. He helps me up. “Where are your house keys?” he asks.

  I feel around on the outside of my pants pockets. “They’re in my pocket. Why?”

  “Good. Come on, we’re leaving.” With a final, desperate look around at the blank walls and empty hallway, he ushers me out the front door to his car (he stopped using the back door months ago, when I did). After he opens the door, deposits me in the passenger seat, and gently buckles me in like a parent would for a small child, he runs around the car and jumps in the driver’s seat. He’s already dialing his phone before the car is in gear.

  “Mom, Ronnie and I need to leave town.” I can faintly hear her questioning, but he doesn’t let her finish. “I just can’t let this go on any longer. I’m taking her away for a few days. Maybe a change of scenery will … I know …. just until I can get her some real help.” His voice is controlled but tense. “I don’t know where we’re going yet, but I’ll call you when I know more.”

  I drift off to sleep and when he wakes me we’re in the airport parking lot. He skips the clothes and stuffs my toothbrush in my bag and says he’ll buy me some clothes when we get where we’re going.

  “Where are we going, anyway?” I ask sleepily.

  The fear and pain is still in his eyes though I can tell he’s trying very hard to keep calm. “I don’t know yet.” He smiles weakly. “I thought we’d leave it up to fate. Are you up for an adventure?”

  My voice is dead. “Whatever.”

  He takes my hand and leads me to the United Airlines ticket counter. It’s late and there’s no line. “When does the next domestic flight leave?” he politely asks the woman at the counter.

  The woman is confused. “Where are you flying this evening, sir?” she asks.

  “It doesn’t matter. When does the next flight leave?” His composure is fading.

  The woman narrows her eyes a bit, and asks again, “Sir, I need to know what your destination is?”

  Dimitri’s voice is low and harsh, and his composure is gone, but he manages to display the authority of someone twice his age. “I don’t care where the next damn flight is headed, I would like to purchase two seats on it, preferably first class.” He slides his American Express and United Airlines frequent flier card across the counter at her.

  She starts pecking away at her keyboard and looks sufficiently annoyed but it doesn’t seem to slow her down. “Las Vegas, flight leaves in fifteen minutes. The plane is already boarding.”

  “Perfect.”

  In two minutes, the transaction is finished and we have our tickets in hand. We literally run through the concourse for the gate, Dimitri clutching my hand and practically dragging me. We arrive just in time to squeeze through before they close the doors. I hear the sound of seatbelts clicking just as the plane begins to taxi away from the gate.

  I’m sitting next to the window in the comfortable and generous first class seat and mutter quietly to myself as I watch the lights of Denver grow smaller and smaller as we raise high into the sky, “This is my first time on an airplane.”

  His voice is pained and probably not meant for me to hear. “And I’ll make sure it’s not your last.”

  I stare out the window for ten or fifteen minutes until the clouds grow thick and blot out the twinkling lights far below. My ears pop, and the sound of the jets roaring seems to get louder. I glance at my watch, as is always my habit around this time.

  Dimitri has been silently watching me. “What’s wrong?” he asks gently.

  I tap my watch. “It’s eleven o’clock; time for you to go home.”

  His arm circles around me protectively and a kiss falls on my temple. The whisper is so soft, I have to strain to hear the words, “I’m never going home again,” he says. “I promise. Now, get some rest, baby.”

  I snuggle in against his shoulder and fall quickly into a deep, dreamless sleep. The dreams, once so vivid, have been absent for months and sleep feels heavy, dark, almost drug-induced; a barren wasteland of nothingness. It is not restorative, but merely a preferable alternative to consciousness.

  “Wake up baby, we’re here.” Dimitri whispers in my ear. I’m lying across his lap drooling on the thigh of his pants.

  I wipe my cheek and mouth with the cuff of my shirt and look up at him out of the corner of my eye. “Sorry about your pants,” I say, groggily.

  He’s still hovering over me and the corners of his mouth turn up in a gentle smile. “No problem.” He kisses my temple again before helping me sit upright.

  I yawn widely and rub my eyes trying to chase away sleepiness as I look out the window as we taxi toward the gate. The sky is dark, but the airport lights are bright. “What time is it?” I ask through another wide yawn.

  “It’s eleven-thirty, Vegas time.”

  “Oh,” I say. Time has also become somewhat irrelevant in my world unless I’m at work.

  The chirpy flight attendant welcomes us to Las Vegas and instructs us we’re allowed to unfasten our seatbelts and disembark the plane. Dimitri gathers my bag from the overhead compartment. Since
we’re in first class we’re able to quickly exit the plane before the rest of the passengers. With one arm tightly around my shoulders, Dimitri removes his phone from his pocket and begins reading and responding to text messages as he guides me through the airport. He’s been here a couple of times over the past year to meet with clients commissioning paintings, so he knows his way around.

  The air outside the terminal is hot and dry. It’s almost midnight, but it feels like a summer afternoon. The lights are bright and taxis line both sides of the street. Dimitri walks to the front of the line of endless taxis, opens the door and motions for me to get in. When the driver asks, “Where to?” he responds with what I only assume is the name of a hotel.

  Though I don’t value my life much these days, I certainly fear for it during the next several minutes. The cab ride is terrifying. The driver excessively breaks the speed limit, runs red lights, and cuts other vehicles off by mere inches. The tires squeal against the hot pavement in protest, trying to gain purchase. I close my eyes after the first few minutes and when we screech to a halt Dimitri whispers in my ear, “You survived your first cab ride. Would you mind getting out here and taking a short walk with me, Ronnie?”

  “A walk sounds nice.” Especially if it means getting out of this cab.

  He pays the driver with a folded up wad of cash, and we step out of the taxi.

  For the first time I really open my eyes to the Las Vegas strip. The place is surreal, crawling with people and neon. Everything is huge, loud, and bright. The lights are colorful and ever-present in all directions, competing, tempting, and overwhelming. It’s sensory overload, but it’s beautiful in a strange way.