Lost In Rewind (Audio Fools #3) Read online

  It took Eddie, Louis, and William to come and knock some sense into me in order for me to wake up and realize just how much I have to live for and how blessed I really am. I went back home to try and be a half decent father to kids who, just like me, lost the most important part of their life.

  I wanted to be the man that my wife thought I was and pick up the pieces and get my family back together. I was going to beg Sara to give us a chance and hope she’d agree to play a more active role in our children’s lives, now that the only mother they ever knew was gone. I did run to Sara and Will’s apartment at The Pierre but since that day my life has never been the same. After almost losing Sara, I haven’t been able to find myself among all the memories. The lines have been blurred and my head sometimes can’t decipher who said what; was it Jacky or Sara? I’m all mixed up, and besides my children, I have nothing to anchor me down to earth.

  I haven’t yet gone back to work. I don’t feel I should be trusted with million-dollar deals when I can’t even write an email without drifting away to live inside one of my happy memories. My father-in-law has come out of retirement to help with the law firm he entrusted to me. I can’t look anyone in the eye, especially not Jacky’s parents; I can’t handle more pain. I don’t work, I don’t eat, I don’t sleep, and my heart only beats for my little ones while I try to stay strong and stop myself from perishing.

  I spoke to Emily almost every day while Sara was back at her parents’ house recovering after her near catastrophic miscarriage. Emily is my only direct link to Sara and her wellbeing, even now since Sara and Will returned to their penthouse. I’m pleasantly surprised they haven’t left New York, and somewhere in my head, I hope she comes to see her children, as they patiently wait for their guardian angel to magically fix their mother’s absence. Emily has mentioned how depressed her best friend is and how slow and painful her healing has been. Sara refuses to talk to me, and I have a feeling she blames herself for losing the baby, which was clearly out of everybody’s hands. I still give blood every fifty-six days, against the doctor’s recommendation and without anyone having knowledge of it, but it helps me to sleep better at night.

  My kids have an army of people who love them and show them every day just how important they are in their lives. Even Eddie and his wife Michelle have been over a few times to let his children spend time with their cousins. We’ve had many invitations over the summer to stay in the Hamptons with people Jacky and I once considered friends, but I haven’t been able to leave the safety of the walls within my home. I’ll be okay one day, just not right now.

  The last few weeks I’ve been having vivid dreams about being back at Brown University. I’ve refused to go talk to a therapist as my parents and brother keep suggesting. I don’t need to talk to anybody or be put on antidepressants, I just need to reprogram my brain to accept reality and wipe from my mind what I assumed would be my life. Eddie thinks it would be a good idea for me to go back to Rhode Island and revisit where Jacqueline and I first met. He feels that in order for me to have closure and move forward I need to go visit the place where we were once young, happy, and carefree. After chewing over everybody’s two cents regarding my life and wellbeing, I’ve decided it may be good for my sanity to take a short trip back to Rhode Island, not just to be back at the place where it all started for Jacky and me, but also to go find that old fortuneteller and return her key; it clearly doesn’t belong to me. I need closure and I also want to somehow give her the prophecy back—it serves no purpose in my life anymore. She made a mistake. She got the wrong guy. When I find her, I’ll finally get to ask her why she said the things she said to me that night. And how she could’ve possibly known the details that she said. It may be childish and silly, but my soul demands it.

  I walk into Jacob’s room first, but he’s already asleep with his mouth open catching flies. I tuck him in and kiss his soft, dirty-blond mane. I close the door and go find his sister who I can bet my life is still not sleeping.

  I peek in and I spy my little ballerina in training still fiddling quietly with her violin.

  “To sleep or not to sleep … that is the question,” I whisper in jest.

  “Daddy, can I sleep in your room today? I think I’m going to have a bad dream,” she cries out.

  “Juliet, everybody has their own bed. I promise that tonight you’ll only have good dreams.”

  I place her violin back on its stand and sit at the side of her ornate princess bed. She gives me a sad look that almost makes me want to cancel my silly trip. I should just stay home and sleep in her room, chasing away any nightmares, but the more I think about it, the more sense it makes that I need to leave New York City for a short time both mentally and physically and try to find myself for all our sakes. I have my whole life ahead of me and I need to be able to raise my children, run my law firm, and be happy with the cards I’ve been dealt. I ultimately need to be Juliet and Jacob’s guardian angel, even though my name isn’t Sara.

  “I’m going away on a short trip to find something. I need you to take care of Jacob and make sure he doesn’t get into any trouble. Can I count on you?” She loves being in command.

  “Where are you going? Are you going to find Sara, our guardian angel?” Her eyes enlarge with hope and anticipation.

  “I’m going back to where Mommy and I went to college. I think I lost something there. And, baby, listen, Sara will always be your guardian angel, like Mommy said, but she may not be part of our lives the way you’re imagining. We have Mommy in heaven watching over us, and we have each other here. That’s all we need.” I kiss the disappointed look on her little perfect face.

  “You’re wrong. Mommy said Sara would take care of us when she’s gone, and Mommy is always right,” Juliet protests with conviction.

  I nod. “Yes, Mommy is always right,” I concede to my seven-year-old believer.

  “Beat It” by Michael Jackson

  “Do you see that lost-looking guy?” Lauren points her shaker at a man sitting in the darkest corner of the bar.

  “Yeah, I see him. What did he do?” I’m always suspicious of the strangers that visit us on dark, rainy days. I could probably name every person that walks through those doors, and in most cases, I can tell you who they’re sleeping with or who they want to sleep with. That’s what I get for spending every waking hour at the closest and best-known bar to the Ivy League giant known as Brown University.

  “Watch this—in exactly one minute, he will get up and go upstairs to the bathroom. He’s been here for over three hours, since we opened, and every fifteen minutes, like clockwork, the idiot gets up and goes upstairs to piss or maybe do something else. Here, watch, it’s almost time.” The clock on Lauren’s phone shows a quarter past three, and the mystery man gets up and goes upstairs.

  “Heads, I kick him out, tails, he’s all yours,” I call out mid-toss.

  “No go, Frenchy. I dealt with our favorite drunk-transy last night. This bathroom creep is all yours, sister.” Lauren is already on the other side of the bar as I reluctantly follow the weirdo up the stairs.

  I cringe as the top stair squeaks. This throws my whole ambush plan to shit. I go with plan B and knock on the bathroom door instead.

  “Sir, are you all right?” Silence. I try again, “Sir, is everything okay?” Still nothing. I try the handle, and it’s unlocked. I roll my eyes, wondering why the fuck I need to deal with this bullshit, and why does the security guard’s shift only start at five? Oh yeah, because we usually have four patrons before five and their tab wouldn’t even cover an hour of his pay.

  I proceed inside the second floor bathroom that most first-time visitors of the bar have no knowledge of, and it’s dark. No fucking lights—the creep went in without turning the damn lights on. Is this the part where the crazy psycho grabs hold of me and kills me? I’m only half kidding when I feel someone tap my shoulder from behind.

  “Do you work here?” His voice startles me because of my overactive, horror-movie-filled imagination.
It’s the same man I came up to find and kindly escort out. He’s younger looking up close. He actually looks normal, perhaps even more toward the handsome side.

  “Yeah, I work here. Are you lost? The bathroom is right here.” I point in the opposite direction from where he obviously just came from.

  “Where is the woman that used to sit here?” he demands in a deep, raspy voice.

  I wasn’t expecting that question from him. His words send a frozen chill down my spine. I’m sure I’ve misheard him. “Excuse me? The bathroom is this way,” I repeat as little specks of memory begin bombarding my mind of the woman I think he’s referring to. My vision begins to blur as I feel the tears building. I’m not a crier; I’m a fighter. I need to go. Now! Without looking back, I walk toward the stairs. Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry, I chant over and over. I take a step down and then, as if I’m flying backward, I feel myself being jerked back up.

  He holds both my upper arms while standing behind me and continues with his questions. “I need to see that woman. If she moved or started working somewhere else, please tell me where I can find her. I need to speak to her; it’s important.”

  I glance back and look down at where his hands hold my arms.

  He must notice what I see, because he quickly lets go. “Forgive me, I didn’t mean to touch you or hurt you. I just need to find her. She used to sit right here.” He points to an empty corner by the oval stained glass window. When I turn around to face him, still willing my tears to stay put, he adds, “The fortuneteller. I need to find her. Maybe you can ask the owner about her.”

  “I am the owner,” I state with conviction, lifting my eyes to his. But the air is briefly knocked out of me as the chill that his words caused is replaced with recognition. The moment our eyes connect, it’s apparent that I’ve seen this man before. I don’t recall ever meeting him face to face, but somehow, I know this is no stranger.

  We’re both watching one another, and I’m suddenly hyperaware of everything: the ticking sound of the clock, the hum of the ceiling fan, even the air has a taste. The peculiar color of this man’s eyes makes me feel like I’ve been here before. I’ve lived in this point already. Déjà vu. My heart beats so fast that I can’t seem to catch my breath. Who is this person? Why is he here? How does he know about her? Why is he asking about her? Why is he making it hard to breathe? He won’t stop staring at me, as if he’s breaking down my face into features—eyes, nose, lips, cheeks. His gaze continues to scan me. He also appears flustered, as a fine layer of sweat covers his features. I can’t pinpoint or understand what’s happening, but I can tell that he senses something. It’s not just me.

  We both begin rambling questions at each other simultaneously, and then we both stop. He gestures for me to proceed, and I do. “How do you know about the woman that used to sit here?” He seems too young to know about her. She hasn’t been here in over a decade.

  “I went to school here many years ago. This was our place. She always used to sit right here.” He motions to an exact spot by the door again, the same spot that overlooks the entire bar, a spot which has been empty for years. “I need to find her, if it’s the last thing I do.”

  “Why? Does she owe you money?” I snicker.

  “No, she owes me an explanation. Did she leave a contact number when she left?” His question makes me want to laugh and cry—I choose to laugh. “This isn’t a joke, this is my life.” He briefly pauses as his voice cracks into a plea. “I drove for five hours to get here. You think this is funny?”

  I shake my head. “No, it’s actually very sad. She died two months ago.” And now my smile does nothing to hold back the tears. I look away as I wipe my wet cheeks. I hear the guy with the dual-colored eyes laughing. “Is it funny to you that she died?” What a pénis.

  “No, it’s just funny that with my luck, I’m always a dollar short and a day late … well, in this case, I’m two months late. I waited over ten years to talk to her again, and when I finally got enough balls to come back and face her, she fucking dies. Perfect!” He’s still laughing maniacally, and I’d love to know what was so important that he drove five hours to come talk to some old fortuneteller?

  “What did she say to you anyway? It obviously seems like a big deal.” I’m literally dying to know what propelled this man to come back to find her. He keeps turning around to the place he claims Joella used to sit. I always feel her presence when I come upstairs, but today more than ever.

  “I think that old woman changed the course of my future. I’ve been clinging to her words from the day she uttered them. But she made a mistake. Everything she said was a lie—a horrible, vicious lie.” He takes another look at the empty place Joella once occupied and begins to walk away.

  He’s midway down the stairs when I raise my voice and say, “She never made a mistake, and her tongue was too pure for lies.”

  He stops, turns around, and looks up at me with a smirk. “You wouldn’t understand—you’re just a kid.” His tone has a sound of melancholic defeat.

  The fighter in me needs to have the last word. I need to make this arrogant stranger, who doesn’t seem strange at all, know how great Joella was.

  “I’m no kid, and trust me when I tell you that Joella Gitanos never opened her mouth unless she had a reason. She never took a dime for a reading, and as far as I know, only offered someone the future when their present depended on it.” I hate talking about her to someone who has no idea how gifted she was. I hate having to defend her legacy to some ignorant man. Why would she waste her time on him? People couldn’t beg her enough to grant them a reading if they weren’t part of her path. Maybe this guy is confused, delusional; perhaps he imagined a reading. Back in the day, I was told she chose to spend her days sitting at the top of these stairs—she said she had the perfect view, but nobody understood of what. The one thing I am certain about is that Joella Gitanos only gave readings to a chosen few, all of whom are long gone.

  I look back into this man's eyes. I’ve never met anybody with two different eye colors—green and brown. I’m sure it would look odd, perhaps abnormal, on anybody else, but his eyes are fascinating and reluctantly they pull me in like magnets.

  I suddenly have an unexplained craving to know everything behind them. I stand and stare in awe into eyes that silently promise chaos. They are not calm seas but turbulent oceans with storms brewing at their core. And I’ve already learned early on in life to stay as far away from any body of water, but I need to know exactly what my grand-mère said to him.

  “Bringin’ On The Heartbreak” by Def Leppard

  That old woman knew nothing. Absolutely nothing. Every word was a lie. This college girl, the one who claims to own this joint, which I suspect is a lie, too, believes that the fortuneteller never made mistakes. Ha! Look at me—I am living, walking proof that all her predictions were a goddamn joke. What was I thinking? Did I really leave everybody behind and come here to confront some old hack and blame her instead of me for how my life turned out? I should’ve used my better judgment back then … and now. Isn’t that what I’m trained to do? What self-respecting attorney takes advice from a fucking fortuneteller? I pity this confused girl who obviously has some admiration for that dead old lady. I wonder what evidence she’s holding on to for her foolish convictions?

  “I have a few hours before this place becomes a mad house. If you don’t have any plans, I’d like to maybe chat,” she hesitantly invites me, while avoiding my gaze.

  “Chat?” I mock her. “About what, the quack who ruined my life?”

  I feel my face jerk back before my brain can even process that this little bitch just slapped me, hard. I’m on the verge of being pissed, but I can’t help the smirk that takes hold of my lips. I mean come on, by the look on her face, she’s more shocked by her actions than I am, which makes this whole situation amusing. This little woman looks like a vicious child who is about to cry hysterically unless I defuse this situation. She nervously watches my lips in horror, still avo
iding my eyes like the plague. I’m used to people evading my gaze, I’m aware that my condition freaks some individuals out. It’s not natural for someone to have one green eye and one brown, but this girl’s reaction is different. It’s interesting. I rub my left cheek and the tingling sensation only brings me back to Sara slapping me in the same spot six months ago. Everything can change in a heartbeat—six months ago, I lost my wife, and then I almost lost Sara. And now I’m wasting time with a confused young girl.

  “She’s not a quack, you idiot.” Her shaking voice hisses out, dragging me back to our present encounter. “Fuck you, whoever you are. Get yourself out of my bar or I’ll call security.”

  I hear a peculiar accent escape in her outburst, which I haven’t picked up on before. She finally gathers herself and looks up to meet my eyes with her dark, angry glare. It takes a split second for a chill to cover me. Where have I seen those eyes before?

  It takes me another minute to collect myself and attempt to diffuse this train wreck. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. That old lady obviously means something to you, and shame on me—I had no right to badmouth her. I can only blame myself for having taken ill counsel from a total stranger.” I don’t like how every time I open my mouth, this kid gets angrier with me.

  “Why are you so lost, sir?” Her question drips with ridicule. I hate her calling me sir, makes me feel ancient, which compared to her I probably am.

  “I’m lost because everything I love, I lose. I thought I knew how my life would play out … but I know nothing.” I’m not sure why I feel the need to explain my worthless existence to this girl. Perhaps I feel like a dirt-bag for coming off heartless regarding the death of that old fortuneteller who once worked here.

  “You can’t be mad at my grand-mère just because you can’t appreciate what she knew. You have no idea how lucky you are if she actually chose to speak to you. You may be the last person who ever got a reading from her.” Her eyes become misty again, and she scrunches her nose to hold back tears, I suspect. I took French in high school, and I’m quite certain this girl just called the old woman her grandma. And now I officially feel like the world’s biggest douche for saying what I fucking said about this poor girl’s dead grandmother.