by Kim Bailey
On my own.
It’s been this way for so long now, I forgot that it was by choice and not by default. The world is not closed off from me. I’m only as alone as I want to be.
Even in my attempted solitude, people have managed to squeeze into my space, showing me they care. There really are good people in this world - I just needed to be open enough to let them in. Or in this case, vulnerable enough to have one sick boy swindle his way inside, opening the door for others.
I feel lucky that Caleb decided to turn his charm on me. I’ve never been more thankful to be caught off guard in all my life. If it hadn’t been for his mischievous ways, I would have been alone when my father passed. I wouldn’t have had Eric right there at my side, lending me his strength and compassion, keeping me from falling into a puddle of self-doubt and despair.
“You look as exhausted as I feel,” I tell him quietly as I pace the lounge, waiting for reality to sink in and for the coroner to collect my father’s body.
I’m not required to wait, but I’m reluctant to leave. In my mind, leaving now would be a final kick of spite at the man who I held with such contempt and loathing, but also once held so dear. I want to see him off properly. I want to witness that he’s still being cared for, even if it’s just his body with no trace of him left to inhabit it.
As I pace incessantly, I feel like time has come to a standstill. I just want to wipe this slate clean.
“I’m fine but you look like you’re ready to collapse,” Eric remarks from his seat on one of the uncomfortable waiting room chairs.
Why don’t they put good furniture in these places? Don’t they know that people will be spending hours upon hours sitting, waiting? I think a comfortable place for your world to end or restart isn’t too much to ask.
“Come here, beautiful.”
He’s right. I’m ready to fall over. The pacing is really an effort to keep myself conscious. Or maybe emotional exhaustion is just setting in again. Maybe my pacing is an effort to hold my grief at bay, just a little longer.
Eric’s strong arms and sturdy assurance are inviting, and I surrender myself to his offered comfort. He makes no complaints as I join him in his uncomfortable chair. His solid lap, an island of reprieve. I find myself sinking into him, getting soaked into his comforting embrace.
Smoothing his hand over my hair and down my back, he rubs at my sore muscles, caressing away my stress.
“Thank you.” I tell him honestly, “I don’t know if I could have done this on my own.”
“Yes, you absolutely could have. You’re so strong, Jamie. A tough girl, remember? But, there’s no reason for you to be alone when I’m right here.”
“You are. You have been from the day we met. Why?” Maybe I should have more faith, but I’m still at a loss for all the kindness he’s shown to me.
“Because I want to be. Because I’ve never met a person more willing to give to others - who expects absolutely nothing in return.”
“I think you’ve gotten that confused. It sounds like you’re describing yourself.”
“No, beautiful girl. I have a very solid expectation of getting something back,” his dimpled smile is soft and sweet. “When I saw you with Caleb that first time – hell, you gave him that gorgeous smile, and I was a goner. Completely enamored by you. But when you cried in my arms? I can’t explain it, Jamie. I just wanted to be the one to make you smile again. Because it feels so fucking good to make you happy. Collecting those joyful moments - you giving them to me so freely – that makes me feel like the luckiest man alive.”
“Wow. That was kind of poetic, you know.” I kiss his cheek. “But honestly, you being here with me means so much more than I can express. You’ve been so reliable, and I appreciate that, even though I’ve made you prove yourself over and over. It means the world. I’m sorry if I seem ungrateful.”
“No need to be sorry. I’m happy to keep proving myself to you, for as long as it takes.”
“I think it’s my turn to prove myself to you, Eric.” I implore, while he shakes his head with a small smirk playing on his face.
Inappropriate timing be damned - my lips find his in an eager entanglement.
His mouth is soft and yielding. Comforting. Yet, hot and enticing at the same time. It would be so easy to let this kiss consume me. This man makes me feel things I’ve never experienced, in ways I never imagined I could. There’s no room in my vocabulary to express the depth of what’s happening here.
But I have no time to further examine it.
Eric breaks from me, his eyes shifting from mine. Watching something behind me, his features harden, and I’m reminded of what’s happening around us.
The coroner is here. It’s time for me to move on.
The nurses didn’t rush me. They suggested I spend as much time with the body as I needed. The body. I refused to think of my father that way - as just a body – and I couldn’t stand sitting there with his lifeless form, mocking me, reminding me of its truth. Stark proof of my denial.
Now he’s being wheeled away, with a white sheet draped over him.
I want more time.
My balled fists press to my aching chest, holding back the temptation to chase down the coroner. He probably feels nothing about carting a dead man off to the incinerator. This is just his job, after all. He’s probably done this hundreds, maybe thousands of times. But I want to yell at him. I can’t stand the thought of his indifference. This is not just another corpse. Doesn’t he understand the gravity of this moment? Doesn’t he know that this is the end? That I don’t want to let go?
Don’t take away my daddy!
A painful and unexpected sob escapes my chest. Just one, like a hiccup. I tamp it down with all the strength I have remaining, some of it borrowed from the man who stands behind me, his arms firmly wrapped around my middle. Without his tight grip holding me back, I may have actually gone chasing after the gurney and the man pushing it away. Feeling raw desperation, it’s possible I would have simply launched myself at the innocent man to stop him from committing such an atrocity.
Eric holds me until I stop straining against him. Until my urge to run is gone. Until I’m sagging back against him in defeated despair.
“I think you need to get out of here.”
“I don’t think I can leave,” I whisper. My voice feeling disconnected from the rest of me. My mind a fog of sorrow.
“You need peace and comfort at home, not to be surrounded by strangers in a hospital. Come on. I’ll carry you if I have too.” His arms, already a strong band around me, fully capable of the task.
“No.” Somehow, my survival instincts take over. Ten years ago, I chose to leave my dad behind. Now, I have no other choice but the will I need to carry on feels achingly familiar. “I can walk.”
Leaving suddenly sounds like the most amazing idea. The only sensible option, really.
I can walk.
I can run.
* * *
As exhausted as I am, sleep still evades me.
My father’s death is playing on my mind. Not because of the way he died, or my moment of weakness in saying goodbye. Not even the past week’s exchange of heated and sorrowful words bothers me. The events and choices made, leading to this point, are far out of my mind. I’ve agonized over those things enough. Eric was right, when he pointed out that the past is the past, no matter how much we dote on it, it will never change. I can’t move on if I’m stuck worrying about the things that have already happened. It’s time to learn from them and move forward.
This is what has my brain turning.
Moving on. Figuring out what the hell comes next.
It seems like such an impossible task. I haven’t just lost my father. It feels like everything’s changed. Even myself.
All it took was one week - the best and worst week of my life – to figure out that my protective bubble was impossibly fragile, that I was smothering to death within it.
Well, that bubble’s popped and now I’m fe
eling lost, out in the open. I’m exposed to everything but it all still feels out of reach. It’s like looking out over the Grand Canyon. I’m stuck here on this side of the divide, all my old protective patterns waiting enticingly behind me, while bright future possibilities call to me from the other side. In-between the dull cushy comfort and the bright optical possibility, stands a chasm of doubt and fear, piled over old guilt and resentments. Without a bridge it’s insurmountable. My bridge is already started – Eric has been building it for me. I think for his sake, and mine, I need to be the one to finish it.
I watch Eric’s peaceful form as he slumbers soundly. It’s good to see his normally hard, chiseled jaw without its anxious edge. Even his untamed eyebrows look calmer somehow. I’ve been so caught up in my own trauma, I keep pushing his aside. Seeing him rest helps me feel like maybe things will be okay.
Crashing to bed the minute we arrived, he pulled me into his big warm body, put his head on the pillow and was out like a light. I’d wanted to talk to him more about the conversation started yesterday - I want to know if he meant what he said, about making things with us real. I really want to know how he sees that happening.
There are still so many variables to consider. The biggest one being our proximity. If I go back to my life in Toronto, how would we build a real relationship? The next month or more will be filled with anxiety over Caleb. Eric won’t want to leave here - he’s said as much - and I would never expect that. But if I’m back in the big city, back to my day job, back to my two-person bubble with Hunter, how will I give Eric what he needs?
But more importantly, can I live with myself if I don’t try?
I’m still so torn. The divide, still so ominous.
Eric’s given me zero reason to doubt him. Yet, in the weird, fucked up part of my brain - the part that devises fake health problems, and urges me to run away from this emotional suffering - I don’t fully trust that what he wants is me. My doubts are not of Eric’s intention or his honesty, he’s the most honest person I’ve ever met. My doubts are all in our situation. How can I we be sure that our connection isn’t just a need for comfort? How can we know if our circumstantial meeting was meant to be anything more than the diversion we intended?
That chasm stretches just a little wider, as I ponder all the ways in which things could still go so horribly wrong.
How do I get across? What happens if I find a way over, and then feel differently when the dust all settles? What happens if Eric’s feelings change and I’m lost all over again? I’d be on my own again - surrounded by new territory, with no idea how to navigate it.
Eric stirs in his sleep. Not wanting to disturb him any further, I decide to get out of bed and put my restless mind to work.
Standing at the closed door of what was once my parents’ bedroom, I hesitate to enter. This will be my first time breaching this threshold in over a decade. My hesitation is a mixture of fear and respect. As children, my sister and I were never allowed to enter this room, unless expressly invited. Now, even as an adult, just opening the door has me feeling like I’m intruding on a sacred space. But it can’t be avoided forever. I have to remind myself that there’s no one left to protest my entry.
The door swings open, and I’m stunned. Nothing remains of what I remember. As unchanged as Trina’s room is, my father’s room is the opposite. Almost fully unrecognizable. It is now simply his - no trace of my mother at all.
The space is clean and clutter free. Masculine and bold. The furniture is all newer. The pieces my mother hand-picked, gone. Even the ensuite bath has been completely redone in cool blue tones, with marble flooring and countertops.
I wonder if he made all of these changes as a way to dispose of the thoughts and feelings that had been dragging him down. Maybe it was part of his recovery from alcohol. A way to face his loss. A way to cleanse, not just his mind but also his personal space, of the things that haunted him.
It’s fabulous. Not just the way it looks, but the way it feels. I bet this helped him move on with his life. I’m just sorry he didn’t do something like this sooner. I’m sorry it took him years of drinking and losing himself before he could make a change.
Wow.
How reflective of my own situation. Years of hiding away, lost in a city of strangers, and it took losing my father to bring me back into the world.
Now I just need to find the strength to stay.
* * *
Waking to a dark room, I'm immediately aware of the cold, empty space beside me. The space where Jamie should be. Once again, it seems I’ve fallen asleep, leaving her to cope on her own.
Knowing I won’t rest again until she’s sleeping comfortably at my side, I get up to look for her.
It’s not a long search. A soft glow of light spills out from the doorway, just down the hall. Looking in, I see Jamie sitting on the floor of her father’s room. Surrounded by papers, she’s clutching one to her chest as tears flow freely down her cheeks. Her hair is disheveled, her eyes are puffy and her cheeks are stained red. She looks completely miserable and exhausted. It hurts to see her this way. Hurts to know, no matter what I say, what I do, I can’t take away her pain. The grief she’s experiencing can’t be glossed over but I’ll do whatever it takes to ease her suffering, as much as possible.
“Hey beautiful girl,” I lull, “What are you doing?”
Her eyes meet mine, engulfing me in heartbreak. She looks like she’s falling apart again. Like a woman in the throes of grief.
“I don’t know,” her voice is thick and full of sorrow.
Coming fully into the room, I carefully move aside some of the papers, making space so I can sit beside her.
“What’ve you got there?” I nod at the document she’s still firmly clutching in her hands.
Looking down, as though seeing it for the first time, she contemplates the item in front of her. “It’s from my dad.” It’s all she can manage before her words are choked out by the tears. Instead of continuing to struggle in her explanation, she simply hands the paper over to me.
It’s a business license for Hartley Home Renovations. Listed as the registered owners, both Frank and Jameson Hartley.
“Wow. Looks like you’re a small business owner.”
“I didn’t even know he was running his own company. He started it six years ago, and I had no idea. I’ve been named in it from the start. He was thinking about me, even back then. And I was busy pretending that he didn’t exist.”
“You can’t keep beating yourself up over that, it won’t do you any good.” Shuffling through a few of the papers I’d set aside, I see more legal documents, including what looks like a will. “From the look of all this stuff, he’s been organizing things for a long time.” My words seem to do nothing but increase her pain. “But Jamie, you have to realize, while he was busy doing this, you were busy raising your son. You had your priorities straight. Don’t ever doubt that.”
Needing to soothe her, my thumb traces down her cheek, trailing through the wet of her tears. One lone droplet of water hangs from her lashes, threatening to fall at any moment. This solitary tear reminds me of her strength – her ability to stand on her own.
But she’s not alone – I won’t let her be. Cupping my hand over her jaw, Jamie leans into my simple touch, seeking reassurance, providing me the same.
“I’ll never be allowed to doubt myself as long as you’re around, will I?”
“Never,” I tell her, before kissing her softly on the forehead.
With a big sigh she raises her eyes to mine. “Alright, I guess I can live with that.”
I don’t want to read too much into anything she’s saying right now, not when there are so many things left unsaid between us. Any one of those unspoken things could destroy the hope building in me. The hope that she’s going to stay.
Agreeing to leave the mess for now, I pull Jamie back to the bed we’re sharing, for the second time. It’s too small for me, even alone. But I don’t complain when Jamie drapes her
self over me, her head tucked under my chin. With her snuggled up like this, I’d be happy sleeping on a concrete floor.
It’s not long before sleep is trying to pull me back under. But I struggle against it, knowing Jamie’s still awake.
“What can I do to help you sleep, beautiful?”
“Nothing. I’ll fall asleep soon, I promise. I’m just having a hard time shutting off my brain. Every time I think I’ll drift off, another thought enters my head.”
“What are you thinking so hard about?”
“I don’t know. Life?”
“How very specific,” I chuckle.
“It sounds so stupid when I say it all out loud,” she groans, “I was just thinking … it’s been over twelve hours since I talked to Hunter. The last time I was away from him for this long I was such a mess – well, you saw me – you know what I was like. I literally made myself sick with worry. It physically hurt to be away from him for so long. But this time, I don’t feel any of that. It might sound selfish, but being away from him right now feels more like a gift.”
“Doesn’t sound selfish to me.”
“No? All the parents I know - at least all the supposedly good ones - would judge me for that. I’m sure Vanessa and her crew would have quite a few opinions on the topic.”
“Yeah, but we’ve already agreed that people like her are assholes. My parents are good parents. They wouldn’t judge you. They’d tell you it’s okay to feel this way.”
“It’s not like I’m wishing for more free time or anything. I just know that he’s spending the time in a healthy, beneficial way. He’s getting to know his father better. And I think being around me when I’m so upset would be unhealthy. I think having time to absorb this is good for me and ultimately, for him too.”
“Can I make a confession?”
“Of course, you’ve listened to enough of mine.”
“I really enjoyed spending time with Hunter. He’s great, Jamie. Truly. And maybe, if you decide that I didn’t mess up too much with the bad language and stuff, you’ll let us hang out again some time.”