Lost In Rewind (Audio Fools #3) Page 16

  “No, I was only married once. Jacky and I moved to the city right after we got married. It was a small ceremony for our closest friends and family. We couldn’t even go on a real honeymoon due to all her scheduled treatments, but I didn’t care. I just wanted to give her the fairy tale like a stupid delusional kid. Her parents moved us into a multi million-dollar townhouse on the Upper East Side,” I say as I look around my home. “I had it made. I was surrounded by everything I loved. I was even within walking distance to my best friend—Eddie—and his family. I began working for my father-in-law’s firm. If I closed my eyes, it almost felt perfect, like everything would be okay.

  “Her parents did everything to make our lives more bearable—they hired a chef to cook special foods to keep her strong, and every other imaginable luxury money could buy. Our days revolved around Jacky’s chemotherapy and attempting to get her as comfortable as possible. It was awful. I wouldn’t wish cancer on my worst fucking enemy. I chose this life with her, and I had to be strong, keep the morale high, be positive, be her rock and continue fighting and believing, or I would lose her even sooner.

  “If I were the one diagnosed with cancer, I’d lock myself in a room and fall into a deep depression, or possibly just jump off a building. Not Jacky, though. She was amazing. She never complained, never demanded a thing. She was usually more concerned about everybody going out of their way for her than her own wellbeing. I constantly felt like the asshole who was mad at the world on her behalf. I wanted to blame someone and hold them accountable for her suffering. Why her? She was a fucking saint; she didn’t deserve it. I hated feeling sorry for myself when she was the one getting punched and beaten by life—not me. I couldn’t watch her die. I know I promised to be by her side physically, but emotionally, I was shattered and I had to cling onto some kind of hope or I would go insane.

  “Jacky was always upset about me spending too much time in the hospital or at home with her. She wanted me to go out and try to pretend I had a normal life, make friends at work and other places. She was stubborn, forcing me to socialize and live for the both of us. She wasn’t just my wife, she was my best friend, and she could read me better than anyone else could. She knew what watching her suffer did to me, and she tried to keep me busy. The times that she would be too tired or too sick to leave the house, she would somehow find errands for me to do all over town, or literally arrange meet-ups with some of my buddies. I was a weak, spineless fool who had plenty of escapism when I should’ve had more realism. I wasn’t a good friend or husband to her. I was always selfish.”

  “How were you selfish?” Kali’s voice is defensive on my account. I can sense her growing irritated with my negative self-assessment, but she just experienced my egotism firsthand, so how is she asking me this?

  “Remember I told you that I will be presenting two stories in order for your grandmother’s words to mean anything?” She immediately “a-has” me. “Ask me that same question after you hear the second part of my story, deal?” She agrees with an “a-ha” once again.

  I know once she finds out about Sara, she’ll understand exactly what kind of selfish person I really am.

  “Do you believe in miracles?” I question, already knowing her answer.

  “No, there are no miracles. My life has proven that whatever is meant to be will be, and nothing a person does can change their destiny.”

  I smile, even though I don’t agree.

  “What if a person that had a year to live was granted fourteen instead?” She’s silent, probably doing math in her head.

  “Jacqueline, your wife, survived cancer and lived for fourteen years?” Her voice is alert and shocked.

  “She was never cancer free, or worry free, but she was in remission, and we had fourteen years together. If that’s not a miracle I don’t know what is. I prayed for my best friend to get better and stay with me for as long as possible, and my prayers were answered—to a certain degree. I can’t tell you how much she suffered, the fear I felt every time we sat down to talk to one of her physicians, or how many surgeries we lived through, but she was always the happy one, convincing me how blessed she felt, even though I felt cursed. Instead of trying to cram a lifetime’s worth of happiness into a year, we got almost fourteen. We’ve never spent a day away from each other and I always woke up to Jacqueline in my arms.” Every word I tell Kali is true, it’s just that in my case, I have two truths.

  “Tell me about your enfants. I’d love to hear about them … if that’s okay,” she questions cautiously.

  Her voice sounds different—hopeful—and it makes me want to smile, but before I answer, I look down and unclench my left hand. I touch my colorless tattoo that lived silently for years under the place my wedding band once occupied, and I no longer want to smile.

  One life, two women, two truths, two lies—infinite pain.

  “My wife was the most nurturing, caring, loving person I’ve ever met. Us having kids was never something she allowed herself to dream about. But after her surgery, and after living cancer free for over two years, she started to bring up the subject of us having babies. At the time, the doctors told us it was possible since she didn’t have a hysterectomy, but nature wouldn’t allow it. We couldn’t have kids and I’m glad we didn’t; her body didn’t need more exertion. I think part of Jacky’s problem was that she never permitted herself to stop and feel sick and fully acknowledge her condition. In her mind, she was just another girl trying to get pregnant. We all deal with things in different ways. I guess that’s how she protected her sanity and dealt with our fucked-up reality.”

  “But you guys did have kids. Did you adopt?”

  I clench my fist again and try to swallow the memories. But some memories aren’t meant to go down smoothly; they’re meant to choke you until you suffocate.

  I graze over one truth and choose to tell her another … the one that will be easier for her to comprehend, at this point. It’s the same truth I’ve used to lie to myself every day. I hold on to this truth with both hands every minute of my life, because the second I let my mind recall the other, my life becomes unbearable.

  “Jacqueline wanted our children to be biologically mine. She was extremely pragmatic when it came to our future. Her exact words were, ‘We don’t have time, we just have a moment in time.’ She longed to raise her own family like everybody else around us. I could see how much she wanted a child every time she would hold one of her friend’s babies, and the sad look that would take over her face when spotting random strangers with strollers walking down the street. She wanted to be someone’s mother, even if it was for one day. She stupidly felt that she somehow robbed me of a normal life, and she was adamant about our children being biologically mine. She told me, ‘I’m just a visitor that got held up, but once I’m gone, I want you to be able to look at your kids and always see yourself in them the way I get to see you.’

  “We used a surrogate. At first we were going to choose an egg donor that we both knew. It was Jacky’s idea to have the egg donor not be a stranger. She preferred someone that would care and have a relationship with the baby if and when she wouldn’t be around. But we ended up using a donor she didn’t know.” I swallow the tears I feel in the back of my throat at the memory of my kids being born. “We didn’t get one baby; we had twins—Juliet and Jacob.” My voice cracks as I expel their names. I smile past the pain as their faces appear before me in my mind’s eye. Another name floats around at the tip of my tongue, and my grin disappears, her name is not ready to come out yet.

  “How old are your children?” Kali quickly pulls me out of the dark haze with her melodic voice.

  “They’re almost eight. Next question.” I help Kali along, knowing what question should logically come next.

  “When did their mother die?”

  I want to tell her that their biological mom isn’t dead, but she won’t understand yet.

  “Six months ago. My wife lost her battle to cancer, six months ago. She didn’t want to go into
a hospital. She refused further treatment and died in our bed, in my arms.” I say all that in one breath without permitting myself to hear my own words, or I may die, too.

  Kali doesn’t need to say a word. I’ve started to recognize every emotion just by listening to the rhythm of her breathing. She can’t hide how she feels from me.

  “Go on, say it,” I goad her. “What kind of asshole sleeps with another woman six months after his wife dies? Isn’t that what you’re thinking?” I question with a fake smile plastered on the surface to hide the excruciating pain inside. “I told you … I’m a monster. I warned you not to touch me or you’d get dirty.”

  I straighten my posture as my body instinctively braces itself for an attack. In an attempt to calm the rage I’ve just ignited, I hear her slowly inhale as I’m sure she deliberates on the tainted words I left between us. No doubt she wants to un-know me. I want to un-know me, too.

  “I’m not here to judge you, Jeff. You seem to have that under control,” she says my name with unearned familiarity. “I’m just some girl you fucked six months after your wife died, to get your mind off your real life.” We both know that’s a lie, but it still stings to hear her say it. “I’m just here to listen and figure out why my grand-mère wasted her time and waited at the top of those stairs for you for all those years.” I can hear the defiant smile in her voice, which is in direct contrast to her comment. I’m not the only one telling stories out of order. Kali clearly knows more about her grandmother and her life-ruining prophesies than she’s let on.

  “You’re not some girl.” She needs to know I wasn’t looking to get laid.

  “No? You mean you don’t go around fucking random girls you meet in bars?”

  My body reacts to her statement before my brain catches up. In a blink of an eye, I slap my hand against the stone counter. But the sharp ache I feel is in the empty space my heart once occupied. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t using you. This isn’t about the sex, it was about the warmth—the sex was just unavoidable. I didn’t intend to drag you into my hell. I’m sorry,” I repeat, hoping she believes me.

  She doesn’t say a word. I’m not some kind of misogynist. I care deeply about every woman I’ve ever had the honor to touch. I didn’t love them the same, but I did love them, and it was never just about the sex. I lived over two years without having sex. It’s about being with someone who makes you want to live.

  After a long awkward silence, she asks, “You said you haven’t been with a woman in two years, I assumed your wife passed away two years ago. I wouldn’t have come on to you if I knew how recent it all happened. I wouldn’t have behaved like I did. I feel like a dirty prostitué.”

  I’m to blame, not her.

  There is so much she needs to know, but am I ready to tell her about the last woman I’ve been with before her? The woman that I’ve slowly ruined because I was a gluttonous pig waiting for a prophecy that never came true? I’m not ready to tell her, yet I also know our time is running out.

  “Don’t Stop Believin’” by Journey

  When someone tells you a story, especially their life story, with each revelation you should feel closer to that person. However, every new piece of information I collect from this enigma of a human sends me down another bottomless spiral of questions. His wife died freaking six months ago! That’s twenty-four weeks, one hundred and sixty-eight days, four thousand and thirty-two hours ago. Fuck. The guilt of my actions makes it hard for me to stay objective. He has enfants and he was here, fucking a stupid French girl that literally attacked him and begged him to kiss her. Merde!

  I recall how I fell asleep in his arms as he stroked my hair melodically as if to music, and with all the guilt and taboo surrounding what we’ve done, a small, tiny part of me still can’t help but believe that he was here for a reason. That he was singled out for a purpose, which I pray to God isn’t some kind of cruel joke at my expense.

  I pace my room, philosophizing our interaction, while withdrawn to the point of forgetting that I have a phone pressed to my ear and Jeff is still on the line.

  “How do you know that Joella was waiting at the top of the stairs for me? Did she tell you about it?” His question drags me back to our present predicament.

  “No, not exactly, but a short time after I got to know her, I asked her why she hasn’t sold this bar. I mean, I think you get the picture of how wealthy she was. She didn’t need this place and the headache of running some bistro. I thought she would tell me about the sentimental value of BlackGod because of my maman growing up here. But that wasn’t her answer. She told me she couldn’t sell this place because she was waiting for someone, and I naively thought she was waiting for me to come back, but perhaps it was you she was waiting for?”

  I think about the key he had hanging around his neck. She must’ve given him that key. I shake my head to stop the silly thoughts running loose in my mind. Joella was old and mostly spoke to me about my maman, because I suspect she thought I was her half the time, like everybody else.

  “Journal, diary, you mentioned something about reading from her book. Is there a way for you to read it and maybe see if she mentioned talking to me and giving me a reading fourteen years ago?”

  I hope I don’t find anything about him in the book he’s referring to. I’m not even sure exactly how to explain her journal to him. He’ll want to see it, and that’s not an option. He’s not going to like what I’m about to say.

  “She kept a ledger, an account, a book about all the people in her life that were once important. It doesn’t have names marked prominently before each entry; it’s not really clear. I only found the prophecy about my maman’s future amongst others I didn’t recognize because I knew how she died. Joella wrote down her premonitions in a kind of long sentence without any commas or periods. It’s almost as if it had no beginning or end. Once I read her words, I understood why my maman left America and pretended to be an orphan.” I close my eyes as I reread that passage in my mind.

  If I could see his face, I’m sure he’d look frantic with his mind racing. Without a doubt, he’s already mentally on his way back here reading Joella’s journal, trying to find his fortune among her scribbles. He thinks I’ll just hand him that book. He thinks it’s as simple as coming here and finding an old gypsy waiting for him at the top of the staircase fourteen years later. But that’s not going to happen. That book is titled “The Dead, le mort,” and unless he’s dying on me, I won’t let him read it. The living does not need to know about their end of days, because that’s when they stop living and start dying.

  “You won’t be reading that book, Jeff.” I close my eyes. I don’t need to see him to witness his disappointment at my statement. I can imagine it vividly. I’m sure I’ve just crushed his hopes of getting an explanation of his so-called fortune. “You need to trust me and accept that you are not permitted to see if and what has been written about you.”

  “I trust you,” he offers instantly without any hesitation.

  His voice travels and warms my body.

  “I don’t know what I want, or need anymore, and I don’t think it matters what that book says. I just want to set things right, but I can’t … it’s too late. I can’t undo the years of damage I’ve caused, and I will be reminded of my sins for the rest of my life. That book can’t help me now.”

  It hurts listening to him, and I don’t believe for one minute that he’s this horrible person he deems himself to be, even if he slept with me six months after his wife died. What kind of monster can make you feel safe and loved without being anywhere near you? The kind that isn’t really a monster at all, I suppose. I almost want to make him believe that he’s not a monster. And a small voice inside me whispers for me to go find my grand-mère’s book and look for anything that has similarities to his attributes amongst the many inscribed, because her written words might possibly be his salvation.

  I hear the sound of another phone ringing coming from his end of the line.

  “Kali, could yo
u excuse me for a minute? That’s the house phone. Let me see who’s calling.”

  “Yes, sure, answer, I’ll wait.”

  I hear him pick up the phone, silencing the ringing. I can’t pretend to not be curious. I want naively to be a part of every aspect of his life, whether I admit it to myself or not. I sit quietly and listen to every word I can make out from his one-sided conversation.

  “Hello … Hi … Emily, what’s wrong?”

  Emily, Emily, Emily … I search my mind. He never mentioned anyone named Emily. Who’s Emily? With each word, he sounds as if he’s walking away from me—one step, two steps, more steps. I listen intently as I hear him, a-ha-ing and yea-ing, whomever he’s talking to, but he sounds far.

  “Thank you for calling me. I was away on a … business trip.” His voice begins to diminish and he sounds even farther away now. The last thing I hear before his conversation disappears is “…I’ll bring the kids with me when I come.” I can’t hear him anymore. He must’ve walked into another room, and then it hits me—I may have kissed him, slept with him, I may have even listened to him recap a huge portion of his early life, but I still know close to nothing about him, and sadly, what upsets me most, is that I don’t know if I’ll ever get to know more of him.

  I walk back to my bedroom. I need to get dressed and get back to my own life. I have a bar downstairs waiting for me. I think I have enough strength to finally go and check if Joella’s old apartment was left unlocked. I could always call a locksmith and break the lock. It’s time for me to look through her belongings and decide what to keep and what to part with. In the past five years she’s sold, with my consent, almost all the properties that once belonged to my maman, except, of course, this building. But perhaps, it’s time to separate with all my past and forge a new beginning for myself.