by H. M. Ward
Is that what I’ve been doing? Hiding? Not from people, but from life. I toss the thought aside as I pull into the parking lot, and pull my car into the back of the high school. Trystan looks at me like I’m nuts. "Feeling homesick?”
“I still have a key to the basement and, thanks to Tucker, I have permission to be in the school theater whenever I want.”
He sits up straight, and his jaw drops. “What? I donate piles of money to this theater department, and they didn’t do that for me!”
“That’s because you were a pain in the ass when you were here. Come on, loose lines. Let’s nail that part into your head,” I say as we get out of the car and walk across the dark parking lot.
“You had me at ‘nailed.’” His lips pull up into a twitchy grin.
I elbow him and scold. “Be serious. You’re running out of time. If Seth hadn’t died, they wouldn’t have given you an extension. So, tell me the truth—why can’t you seem to remember any of this script?” We’re at the side door. I pull it open and head inside. I pass a custodian and show him my badge. So, maybe I’m not really supposed to be in here, but it’s not like he knows that.
Trystan follows with his head down. He’s easily recognized, so he doesn’t speak until I unlock the basement door and flip on the lights. They hum to life as we stand on the metal grate at the top of the landing. This is where I was standing when I heard Trystan talking to Seth about the girl he couldn’t have. The words float up to me and the past crashes with the present in a surreal way.
That girl had been me.
Trystan stands there for a moment, looking at walls covered in familiar dingy yellow paint. He puts his hands on his hips and inhales deeply. “That smell never gets old.”
“No, it doesn’t.” It’s a combination of basement aroma coupled with the faint odor of paint. Add in the old furniture, dust, and dampness, and it becomes its own signature scent. “If these walls could talk, huh?”
I feel his eyes on my cheek and glance over at him. “Yeah. The last time I was down here was with you. You patched me up and covered…” His voice trails off, and he swallows hard. “You hid the beating my father had given me the night before.” The corner of his mouth pulls up, and he looks away, placing his hand on the railing. He glances down at the old couches and unused props below. Flats still line the walls and stretch from floor to ceiling.
Trystan doesn’t talk about his dad, and I can’t blame him. The man is scary. “Have you talked to him at all since then?”
He shakes his head and stares at the old couch. “Nah, there’s nothing to say.”
“Come on.” I reach out to touch his hand, but stop short, hesitating. My palm hovers above his and I pull it back. He pretends he doesn’t see, but I know he did because of the way he flinched when I was about to touch him.
Ignoring it, I bound down the metal steps, past the old canvas flats the school uses in productions and head over to the couch. “Is this the same one?”
Trystan passes me and jumps on it. The black pleather couch is fluffy and worn. It’s been patched up with duct tape to hide signs of wear. When Trystan’s weight comes down on the furniture, I can hear the air rush out of the holes in the upholstery. It hisses between the gaps in the tape. He sits up and pats the seat next to him. “Yup, it’s the same one.” He’s grinning.
“What’s that look?”
He shrugs and beams at me. “I don’t know, happiness?”
“You’re happy to be at school?” I offer a crooked smile. “Maybe I should have examined your head more closely when I had the chance.”
“Ha! Funny girl. Okay, come on. Shove those lines into my head. Work your magic, Mari.” He hands me the script, and we jump in.
This movie isn’t bad. Actually, it’s pretty good. It’s got a lot of kickassery where Trystan won't have to speak, save a few one-liners, but those aren’t sticking either.
Back in high school, Trystan was chosen to play the lead in school plays because he’s so charismatic. Even then, Tucker claimed his mind was a sieve—nothing stayed in there very long.
That’s not quite right, though. It was more like text couldn't get past his eyes, like there was a disconnect between printed words and his memory. There’s no way for them to spill out of his mouth by just looking at the paper. I think that’s why running lines with him had worked back then, but it’s not working now. Adding another person and creating a connection to the text isn’t overpowering whatever is occurring.
Something else is going on.
A few hours pass and we’re both frustrated and tired. Trystan sits on the edge of the couch hunched over with his head in his hands. He tugs at his cap and sighs. When he sits back and looks over at me. “We tried, but this isn’t working. I should just back out of this now.”
“You can’t. They already stalled the production timeline for you. If you back out, they’ll charge you an insane amount of money.” I toss the script on the table and sink back into the couch, pulling my feet up under me. I wrap my arms around my ankles and press my pointer and index fingers to my temple.
“I can afford it. It’s better than dealing with this.”
I drop my hand, annoyed, and unable to hide it. “It’s not the money, Trystan. You’re rich, and you’ve paid for it. Dear God, you’ve earned every cent you have, and you can spend it however you want, but this isn’t you.” My hands are out in front of me, palms up, and I can’t wipe the frustrated expression off my face. “You can remember song lyrics and can dance every step of every show you’ve ever done, right?”
“Mari, it’s not the same.”
“Then explain it to me, because I don’t understand how you remember all those things but not this.” I’m snapping, and I don’t mean to. He feels bad enough as it is, but I can’t seem to shut up. “Trystan, if you blow off this movie it’s going to look bad. People will say all sorts of crap and it’ll damage your brand in a way that might not be fixable.”
“Actors drop out of movies all the time.” He pulls his cap down tighter and threads his fingers together, resting them on top of his head as he stares at the concrete floor.
“No they don’t, not like this, not for this reason. Hollywood came knocking and gave you a chance along with your huge paycheck. Everyone knows. They know you’re excited about the part. They know the speculation that you’ll ease into the limelight there as easily as you did with singing, so how are you supposed to explain why you can’t do it?”
His fingers clamp down tightly on the top of his hat before ripping it from his head and hurling it at the wall. It hits the painted cinderblocks and falls behind a couch. “I don’t know! I don’t know why I can’t, but whatever talent I had before is gone. I thought it was you. I thought if Mari helps me, that’ll fix it, but that’s not helping, so that means it's me, and I don’t know why.” By the time he’s done speaking his shoulders are up to his ears and his arms are sticking out, palms up.
I pick up the script and toss it to him. It smacks him in the chest before he moves to catch it. I push myself up so that I’m sitting on the arm of the couch. “Read it, Trystan. Pick a part and read it to me.”
“Thanks, mom, but I can read fine.” He throws the papers on the floor and starts pacing.
I slip off the couch and pick them up, open the booklet, and shove it back into his hands. I point to a paragraph. “Read this to me.”
Trystan’s eyes slowly lift until he’s watching me from behind dark lashes. His heart is pounding like a cornered cat, and I know he’s going to lash out—but I don’t know why. I know he can read, but I’m starting to wonder if he can see.
“Mari.” His voice is deep and rumbles with warning. “Don’t press this. Not now.”
I put my hands on the script because it looks like he’s going to toss it again. I hold my hands over his and stand opposite him, pushing the script at his face. “Read it!”
He’s frozen in place, his lips slightly parted, his azure eyes blazing with shame. The pit of m
y stomach bottoms out. “Trystan? What’s happening to you?”
A tremble works its way up his arms, and he shakes me off. “I didn’t hit that tree on purpose. I was driving and suddenly then it was just there. Trees don’t just jump out in front of cars, but I had no explanation for what happened. I didn’t see that I’d swerved off the road. You know I wasn’t drunk and driving around, Mari. I wouldn’t do that.” His shoulders are tense as he walks toward one of the flats. He reaches out and touches it, sliding his fingers along the canvas, feeling the texture beneath his fingers.
In that moment, I feel it—I can hear his terror silently screaming across the room. I step toward him and place a hand on his shoulder. I pull until he turns to me. Those deep blue eyes are downcast and won’t look at me. I put my hand on his cheek and lean in toward his face. “Trystan? Please tell me what’s going on.”
He pulls away from me, no longer able to meet my eyes. “I have an unusual form of macular degeneration. That’s why I crashed, that’s why I can’t learn my lines—I can’t see them. I’m going blind, Mari.”
Chapter 30
Mari
My lower lip trembles as words fail me. “That can’t be right. Are they sure? You’re not even thirty! Have you seen a doctor about this, Trystan?” I’m behind him, talking to his back asking stupid questions. His white t-shirt is pulled tight across his shoulders, highlighting the toned muscles beneath.
He won’t turn around. His head is lowered, hanging between his shoulders as he kicks the floor with his Chucks. “Of course. I went to the doctor the day after Seth’s funeral. At first, I thought I had something dark in my eye—like an eyelash—but it wouldn’t go away. It’s hard and getting harder to see at night, well at all, really. In the daylight, what I can see is blurry and I struggle to make out subtle details. I’m tripping over cracks in the sidewalk, missing my marks on stage—earlier this week I didn’t see the edge and took a header off the stage into the pit. I’d rather people thought I was a drunk asshole than know about this, Mari. I’ve been making sure everyone sees me with liquor in my hand, hoping they’ll jump to conclusions.” He turns to me and it feels like I’m choking.
I can’t swallow or move. Can he even see my face anymore? “Trystan, who have you told about this?”
“No one. Bob noticed he’s suddenly driving me everywhere, uncontested. I told him it was to avoid the press, but he senses something’s up.” He breathes in deeply, making his chest expand before releasing it. “Shittiest few weeks ever. I find out I’m going blind, Seth dies, and someone claiming to be my Mom suddenly shows up.”
“I’m sorry.” I say it because I don’t know what to tell him. I usually have all the answers, but not this time. I know what macular degeneration is and what happens. I know that there’s nothing to do about it—it’s a disease that destroys the retina and burns a hole in the center of his vision. If he’s lucky, he'll still see a little bit outside that area.
He backs up to the couch and sits on the arm. He offers a trademark Trystan Scott smile. “There’s nothing to be sorry about. I’m actually glad I hit that tree or I wouldn’t have seen you again. Literally.”
I pad toward him slowly and stop in front of him. “How bad is it?”
His mouth is dry. He presses his lips together and tries to swallow. “I can still see the outline of your hand.” He takes my wrist and intertwines our fingers. “I can catch the highlight of your nail, and I see your engagement ring. It’s like it’s underwater and I’m looking into a pond. It’s murky, but it’s there.”
I place my hands on either side of his face and tip his head back. “Can you see my face anymore?”
His lips part and then close quickly. He looks away and shakes his head. “Not if I look directly at you. I can sort of see you out of the corner of my eye, but I can’t see the freckles across the bridge of your nose or those long dark eyelashes you have.” He chews on the side of his mouth for a moment and then stands. He leans in and kisses my forehead. “Thanks for listening.”
“Of course I’d listen. So, it seems like you have two options—learn this, with me, or back out.”
“I don’t have time to finish filming before this turns noticeable.”
I suck in air through my teeth when an idea hits me. “This isn’t like a play, so you don’t need to remember the whole thing, cover to cover all at once. What if they started shooting right away and I helped you with each scene, one at a time?”
“You’d have to come with me, and I can’t ask you to do that.”
“You don’t have to. If this is your last big thing before your life changes, I want to do it with you.”
He turns and looks up at me. It kills me to think those gorgeous eyes can no longer see my face. “I don’t think your fiancé will agree to that.”
I smile and wrap my fingers around his forearm. “My fiancé wants to be man-friends with you, and have you sing at our engagement party, so I’m pretty sure he’ll let me follow you to a set for a week, especially if Katie came along. And getting Katie out of sweatpants would be an amazing thing to do right now. She spends half the day sitting next to Seth’s headstone, staring at the ground.”
I’m worried about her, but nothing I do seems to matter. I've been living at her apartment and trying to keep her afloat, but she’s not here. She’s still drowning in grief. Taking her somewhere routinely would help a lot.
“I didn’t know she was that bad.”
“She hides it, but she's having trouble.”
Trystan makes a face. “Derrick wants me to sing at your engagement party?”
“Apparently. Can you handle it, Scotty? I know it’s a little weird.”
“It’s fine. You know I’d do anything for you, including befriending Derrick. Should I invite him over to sleep on my couch? Order pizza and do man things?”
I snort a laugh and slap my hands over my mouth. He pries them away. “I love that sound, and yeah, man things. I like manly things.” He smirks and adds, “Thank you, Mari. This has been horrible, and I didn’t know how to tell you.”
Chapter 31
Mari
Suddenly all my problems seem small. He’s been dealing with this on his own. Trystan’s a poet at heart. The way he makes sense of life is to take it in through his senses, filter it through his heart, and pour it out onto paper. What happens when he loses his sight?
I can’t imagine. It’d be similar to losing my sight. If I went blind, the past ten years of working my ass off would have been for nothing. I’d be paralyzed in the universe I built assuming I’d be able to rely on my vision well into old age.
Trystan’s a young man. It’s not fair. Everything has been so hard for him.
I’ve been quiet for way too long. We’re in my car, driving back toward a different drop off location on Route 110. It should be fairly empty at this time of night.
Trystan has one foot on top of his knee and stares straight ahead. I wonder if he can see the streaks of red and white as the cars blur past. He clears his throat and glances over at me. “So your car smells like Pop Tarts.” He sniffs the air before winking at me. “Is there a sugar stash in your glove box?”
“No! It’s in the backseat.” We both laugh and then it goes quiet again. I hate this. I should just talk and say what I need to say. I’ve held in too many words for too long. “I was going to officially invite you to the engagement party, but things took a turn tonight and parties didn’t seem so important.”
Trystan twists in his seat until he can reach into the seatback pocket of his chair. “Score.” He pulls out a silver foil packet of toaster pastries and rips open the top. The scent of cinnamon and brown sugar fills my head.
He bites into one and after he swallows he tells me, “Maybe it is a good time for a party. The moments in life that tend to hold the most meaning are the ones where everything goes wrong. In the end, it doesn’t matter what happened, only who was there.”
I glance over at him. “Are you going to tell anyone
else?”
“Not until I have to.” He bites into the other rectangle and then hands me a piece.
I stuff it into my mouth. “Okay, so we need to keep this a secret until you’re ready to tell people.”
“Or until there’s no way to hide it anymore—like when I fall off the stage twice in a row and I’m not drunk.” He lifts a Pop Tart like it’s a beer mug and grins.
“That’s not funny.” Tears blur my vision, and suddenly I can’t see. I pull the car over to the shoulder and flick on my hazards so no one plows into us. Trystan is leisurely eating the remainder of the package and avoiding my gaze.
I want to slap him and throw my arms around him. I’m torn between feeling betrayed and relieved. I smack his head with the back of my hand.
“Hey! What was that for?”
“Because you made me worry about you! You stupid, idiotic, boy!” I say it between laughter and tears. When I go to slap him again, he manages to grab my wrist. Those blue eyes lock on mine like he can still see me perfectly.
Those beautiful lips twist into a relieved smile. “I’m glad you know, and I didn’t mean to worry you. I honestly didn’t know if you hated me. You should have, after everything I did to you.” His grip on my arm loosens, and he’s about to let go.
My heart is pounding in my chest and I want to cry. A decade of emotions surges to the surface and I start babbling. Tears run down my cheeks as my hands wave around like a deranged Italian. “Hate you? I couldn’t! I wanted to despise you. I wanted to see your picture in the paper and vomit, but I couldn’t. There was always this place in the pit of my stomach that cringed when I saw you, and until now I thought it was because of everything that happened—that the thought of you just made me sick. And to some extent it did, but that’s not the reason why—it was me. I was sick with remorse for letting you walk away.
“I never went after you. I never said a word to you—I just let you pass by. That feeling in the pit of my stomach is regret, for a decade of loss, for seeing you become an amazing man and having nothing to do with it. You went on without me and lived your life. I thought I’d never have the chance to talk to you again, but when you came into the ER—” I can’t say it. The words stick in my throat, and although everything else came out in a rush, this won’t pass over my lips. My face is cold and wet. My nose is running and I’m sobbing at my ex on the side of the road.