by Anthology
He sighs and rubs the back of his neck. It’s unfair of me to ask him because reading isn’t something that comes easy to Dutch. He’s been labelled in the past, but he’s always managed to disguise his difficulties with whatever smooth talking he has dug up from his repertoire. “You’re not serious.”
I shrug and watch him from the corner of my eyes. “Kinda.”
“Jess. Don’t be a pussy. And don’t be a bitch.”
“Ok fine. Give it here.” I whip it from the cushion and pull out the paper angrily.
“Should I stay or should I go? Duh nuh nuh nuh nuh nuh nuh” Dutch sings in a low growl, his eyes dancing with amusement in an attempt to lighten the mood. It's good to see this side of him re-surface, even if it is only fleeting. Even if he retreats back into the safety net of the dark despair that accompanies the death of a loved one.
I punch him in the arm, biting back the smile that I want to give him but am too pent up inside to show. As I look at him, Molly’s theory of love makes an unwelcome appearance and I find myself looking away, unable to hold his gaze with my own for more than a few more seconds.
Does Dutch love me?
Bringing my mind back to the situation at hand, I blow out the air from my cheeks and give him one last look before I nod, curl myself up into the corner of the sofa and start to read again.
Dearest Jessica,
“WHY WON’T YOU come with me?”
His fingers pinch the bridge of his nose in the way I hate as he huffs out, eyes downcast. I want to slap him across the face so that he will look at me and give me some kind of reaction that I can respond to.
“Dutch!”
I’m standing in front of him, my hands on my hips as he sits on the edge of his bed. He’s pretty much just woken up from his nap and I am completely aware I have caught him at the worst possible time. However, as my best friend, he should be available at the drop of a hat in times of need. Right? Right.
“Can you just let me please wake up and digest this, hmm?” He peers up at me and I sigh, storming out of the bedroom and downstairs into the kitchen. I return not five minutes later with a steaming mug of coffee and a paracetamol.
“Here.”
My demeanour is less than friendly, and the sensible side of Jessica Walton is advising the reactive, impulsive and impatient side to chill the fuck out and to take a step back from all of this.
Obviously, she is not listening.
Dutch takes the tablet and washes it down with a swig of his drink, setting the mug down on his bedside table before peering up at me.
“I can’t just pack up and go trekking around Ireland on a whim. I’ve got three jobs Jess. I just can’t.”
I scan his face and try to read him a little better before sitting down next to him and leaning my head on his shoulder. I know what I am asking is massive. I know that it’s not ideal. He's still wrapped up in a blanket of grief and although he isn't shutting me out anymore, the pain of his broke heart is etched across his face from morning til night every day. But this is important to me, and I need him. Perhaps he needs this too…
“I can’t do this on my own though. I need you to come with me. We can call it our holiday. We haven’t had a holiday in ages. I just need you to be there when I meet her.” I pick up his hand and let it drop from a height back to his knee, but he takes control of it again before it gets there and pulls away from me.
“Fucks sake, Jess.” He stands up and walks to the window, his hands on top of his head. I stare at his back and clear my throat.
“I think you’re being a bit unfair really.”
Yea-a-ah… I regret that as soon as it falls from my lips and wince in preparation for his retort, which incidentally doesn’t come. Not in the form of words anyway. It comes like a fire bolt of body language and unspoken fury that lasts way longer than I expect.
Way longer.
Before I know it, though—despite the ‘one step forward, seven steps back’ dance that we have been doing for the past few weeks—we are chucking hold-alls and carrier bags into the back of his mate’s beat up Nissan pickup that he has managed to borrow.
There wasn’t all that much discussion about why he agreed, just a pointed finger that told me that I owed him big time, and that I shouldn’t expect him to enjoy himself. I had squealed and hugged him of course, to the tune of his eyes rolling, and then proceed to pack.
I am in a perpetual state of frustration at the moment, not knowing which Dutch I will wake up to. We have days of relaxed laughter and camaraderie, and then other days where he buries himself into a tunnel of silence and I feel like I have lost him again.
Today, we have morose Dutch.
So far, despite the mood and personality swings and roundabouts, he hasn’t shown any signs of losing it like I’d feared, and I hold onto this like a precious jewel.
IT HAD TAKEN me nearly a fortnight between receiving the letter and coming to a decision about whether or not I would go.
Edith’s words turned my whole world upside down and there is still a chunk of me that thinks it is an utterly stupid idea. I have managed on my own for so long, so it’s not like I need my supposed family now. Dutch is my family. He’s all I have ever needed and that’s not about to change. Meeting up with blood relatives does not mean that I will need or want Dutch any less.
However, for the most part, it is the thought that my whole life—which is and has been full of gaps and empty spaces for as long as I have lived—could be filled and brimming over if I go. With what, I don’t know. I don’t have any answers: just gut instinct. And gut instinct was ultimately the deciding factor.
Dutch cares about me. I know he does. But it’s not quite the same is it? I’m assuming not anyway. I have never ever understood that feeling of being loved by someone who will continue to love you regardless of how many times you fuck life up.
Unconditional love.
I don’t know what that feels like. I don’t know what it’s like when someone looks at you and they just ooze love because you are blood.
I have a grandma out there somewhere who loves me unconditionally, even though she hasn’t seen me since I was a baby.
I have a father out there, who must have some love for me stored away in a closet somewhere, right? That’s what I am telling myself anyway. And although I have a few choice words lined up for him, there is a massive part of me that wants to see him, wants to look into his eyes to see if they mirror my own.
So it is this that pushes me forwards and makes the decision for me: the possibility of being loved, unconditionally by someone, even if that someone is essentially a stranger.
“We’ll need to fill up before we head off. Have you got the money out?”
I look up from the back of the truck as Dutch opens the driver side door and climbs in, leaving the question outside. I pull a wad of notes from my back pocket, cash I have withdrawn so that we are not caught short. We have worked out that is going to cost us at least eighty quid to get there, plus ferry fees, the same to get back and then any driving we do in-between. Edith has space at her house for us to stay, but I’ll decline her offer, for now, meaning that accommodation costs will pile on top along with food and drink expense.
I’ve been saving money for a while now, not loads a month, but a decent amount so that I have a bit of a nest egg for whenever I need it: a deposit on a house, perhaps? A car? Something to call my own… but my decision puts an end to those dreams, for now at least, as my money now sits in my current account, waiting to be guzzled by the price of petrol. I have it covered, but I am still nervous about spending the money, so I have to keep telling myself that it’s going to be worth it.
That part of me that believes I can continue living my life without these new people—even with the scars now ripped open—keeps rearing it’s ugly head, trying to get me to change my mind. The pain of knowing for sure that no-one really loves you, is one I think will never heal unless my circumstances change and so we are going… we are getting
in the car, and my money will lead us to my unconditional love…
I climb in beside Dutch, my lips tight as I turn to him. “Ready?”
“Yep.”
“Road trip!”
He rolls his eyes at me and starts the engine.
IT IS INSTINCTIVE. No thought process occurs, and there is no premeditation. It just happens…
We’ve been driving for hours and the silence sits between us, solid and prominent. I’ve never thought of silence as having a sound, but it is loud: piercing and uncomfortable. I’m not sure what I can say to cut through it. Even the crackle of the un-tuned radio is a faded noise in the background in comparison. The rolled down window lets in a welcome breeze, and my hand weaves lazy patterns in the emptiness of the air as we speed forwards, the jangle of my bracelets tinkling along with the sound of Buddy Holly. I close my eyes against the noises and breathe in through my nose.
He isn’t happy doing this and is acting like I’ve not given him a choice.
Ok I might have begged.
I didn’t force him, though. I didn’t physically put him in the car, yet here he is, begrudgingly obliging.
I allow my head loll to the side along the back of the plastic seat and peek at his profile from between scrunched up lashes. He hasn’t taken his eyes off the road all morning, but I don’t need to look into them to read his mood. His name is on my lips, and I wet them with the tip of my tongue to try and force it out. It turns out his name is stuck in my throat too, and the urge to clear it and shout it out is practically irrepressible.
I swallow down, almost choking on the dry feel in the back of my mouth, curling my fingers into a fist in order to release the frustration that is running in circles around my head.
It’s very slow at first, and gentle, and it almost doesn’t register with me, but my eyes are drawn to the tiny movements in the tips of his fingers and I watch with great interest. They are interesting because they are the only part of him that is alive in that moment. The rest of him sits motionless as it has done all morning: a steely facade, jaw muscles clenched. So, I watch them dance up and down to the sputter of the radio. His sleeve is rolled part way up his left arm and I glance at the tattoo that walks up and inside of it… Alea iacta est: The die has been cast.
I know it by heart.
My mind wanders back to the day he had revealed it to me. I’d not really understood it back then, but I know now. I know what those three words mean to him today.
There’s a clear open road ahead of us, and the mid-morning sunlight is to the west, casting a glow down his left side.
And still his fingers dance.
It’s when their pace picks up a little and the heel of his hand joins in, tapping out a light rhythm on the steering wheel, that my arm reaches over. The jangle of my bracelets tinkles along with the sound of the Beatles and without warning, my hand covers his.
And his fingers stopped dancing.
I huff out of my nose and bite the tip of my tongue. “Do you love me?”
The car swerves as Dutch’s head whips towards me, then back and forth between my face and the road, his eyes wide and his mouth slightly open. I instinctively grab the steering wheel and steer the car quickly to the side of the road where Dutch slams on the brake. His hands grip the wheel tightly, his knuckles are white and I can see the veins and tendons in his forearm bulging.
I bite down on the inside of my lips to stop from saying anything unhelpful and hang my head a little to hide my face. I have no clue where that came from really, even thought it was partly premeditated. When I opened my mouth, I wasn’t entirely sure what was going to come out until I watched the words floating in slow motion from my lips to his ears.
Good lord.
What have I done?
The muscle in his jaw flexes and still there is no response. Every single second booms past in my head like a giant’s footstep or something and I am not entirely sure what to do. I gingerly reach into the foot-well and pull out a can of pop, cracking it open and taking a sip.
“Drink?”
The situation suddenly becomes funny to me, and not because it is funny, but because I have no idea how else to react right now. I suck in my bottom lip and peek at him—all steely and moody—and I fight against my cheeks that are pulling themselves up into a smile that I know for a fact will infuriate him. He glances at the can and shakes his head, turns the key and pulls back out onto the road.
Conversation terminated then, I guess.
ANOTHER COUPLE OF hours have passed now, and the moment we are still completely ignoring bangs around in the back of my head with no input from him. Lunchtime comes and goes and I force him to pull over again to take a break.
I turn and walk away to give him the space he so obviously craves, scraping my hair back from my face in frustration. Kicking at the dirt on the roadside, small stones and dust scattering as I walk from the car, I shove my hands into the pockets of my jean shorts before sauntering towards a narrow path that leads down to a cove. I fight hard against the urge that runs through my body to turn around and watch him; to turn around and wait in case he turns too.
The slam of his door still rings in my ears and I curl my fingers into fists inside my pockets as I go against all my instincts and head to the comfort of the ocean. There is no need for his silence at all. We are best mates and have never had nothing to say to each other except for the whole Bobby thing. This is something we would usually laugh off.
Although, I suppose, it’s not every day that I ask him if he loves me. I roll my eyes at myself and continue to walk away from him.
The mid afternoon sun has hidden itself behind a murky sky now, but its heat still forces its way through the expanse of clouds and warms the skin on my bare arms and legs. It’s muggy on the mainland, and the air in the car has been stifling, so I am glad of the cooler breeze as I descend and near the water’s edge.
Slipping out of my flip-flops, I step onto the beach, stopping for a moment to linger on the feeling of the sand between my toes. Memories of childhood day trips with Jean, Dutch and the other kids flood my mind and the small smile that creeps across my face means that the predicament I find myself in is momentarily pushed aside, replaced by simpler memories of me and him where love and lust didn’t come into it.
Lifting my head towards the cliffs, I squint in the dimming light and continue to fill my mind with the beauty of my surroundings in an attempt to empty it of him completely: a futile exercise really. He is all I have thought about all day. Sitting beside him in the car for so long has made the distance between us all the more poignant. I need this moment alone as much as he does.
I haven't nagged him once. I've let him deal with the hole in our lives exactly as he sees fit and have remained a constant, silent observer just like he asked of me. I have respected his wishes to do this by himself so I am at a loss now. I really don't know why he continues to close down. The night I was locked out seemed so positive and I was sure we were on the right path, but today… well today seems a world away from the me and Dutch that I know—a world away from normal.
As I reach the tiny waves that lap against the shore, I let out a sigh and dip my toes into the iciness. Stepping up onto a large rock, I stare out to the horizon, breathing in the salt air that whips gently around my face. Standing so close to the edge on the raised platform it’s as if it is just the sea and me. I spread my arms and tilt my head back. The feeling of almost flying above the water wraps itself around me, and my smile returns. I lazily dance my hands through the nothingness, my bangles tinkling once again, but this time to the beat of my own heart.
He felt it—I know he did—and it scares the shit out of me that I felt it too.
“JESS. WAKE UP.”
Being shaken awake has to be the most irritating thing on the planet and the irritated side of the bit of me that is awake lashes out angrily and gives Dutch a dead arm.
“Fucking hell, Jessica. Is there any need?”
“Don’t sha
ke me the fuck awake, dufus.”
“It’s your turn to drive. Get out.”
I rub the heel of my hand into my eyes angrily. “Give me a cotton picking minute to wake up then, will you.”
At least he's talking to me. It's better than nothing.
His door opens and the blast of cold air hits me causing my body to instinctively curl up on the seat where I pull my oversized cardigan down over my naked legs and knees.
“Jess!”
“Yep. Two minutes.” My eyes close without any prompting from me and I feel myself drifting off again until the car begins to rock.
“Ok! Ok!” I kick my legs like a tantruming toddler and rag the door open. “Do you…”
He cuts me off. “Yes. I do. Or we can turn around and go home. This is not my idea of fun—you know it—and I’m not in the best of moods, so can you please sit your scrawny arse down in this driver’s seat and do the last leg of the journey so I can get some sleep?”
He looks so cute standing there, his face all scrunched up… I stop myself immediately. Where on earth that thought has come from it can bloody well crawl back. I stretch my arms above my head and yawn as I saunter around to where he is pulling furiously on a cigarette. “Alright grumpy knickers, keep your hair on.” I bump his hip with mine and he grabs me in a headlock before kissing my cheek.
“‘Course I love you. You’re my best mate.”
My body stills, and my heart beats a little faster at the words that lodge themselves into my head bounce around on my ear drum, echoing and whispering over and over.
Aside from anything else, Dutch never says stuff like this, so even at face value, the sentiment is enough to floor me. However, with everything else—Molly’s theory, Dutch’s reaction earlier and the moment I know for sure I felt in the air in the car—something inside of me twists a little and doesn’t twist back.
After those words are spoken, I am forever changed inside. Something within my core has altered its shape and I know that no matter what happens from this point forwards, I will ache for something I am not sure I can define right now.