Close to You Page 11

  “Iain was just telling me that he’s a private investigator,” Shannon said when I’d joined them. Her face was unreadable as she said this, but I knew what she was thinking.

  Brandon.

  “Yeah, he’s freelance,” I told her. I felt too uncomfortable with this conversation; I’d wanted to tell Shannon about Iain on my own terms, in my own words. Instead, I was walking into it blind, not knowing what he’d said or how he’d said it. Did they talk about Brandon? I prayed to God they hadn’t.

  “So he said. Fascinating work, really.”

  “Definitely not what I imagined myself doing after the Army,” Iain said casually, as if this conversation was as normal as could be. He was watching me, too, his face alight with something I couldn’t name. Despite this situation, despite him saying way more than I would have liked, I felt my heart racing as his eyes were on me, as if the path they trailed over my face was something I could feel. I bit my lip nervously, breaking his gaze, looking down into my cup.

  “I’m sure.” Shannon’s phone beeped, and she rolled her eyes after checking it. “Ugh. That’s my cue. Gotta go.” She dumped her coffee and put the mug in the sink, heading toward the pegs where our coats hung. She bundled up, then peeked her head around the wall. “Will I be seeing you tonight, Michele?”

  “Yeah, of course,” I replied. She nodded and disappeared. I heard the sound of her keys jingling, of her boots being pulled on, their heavy thumps reverberating through the floor.

  “See you later, then. Nice to meet you, Iain.”

  With that, the door shut firmly, and I rounded on him the second I was sure she was out of earshot.

  “Remember how I’d asked you to let me do the talking?”

  He held his mug up to me, as if in a silent toast. “Well, my dear, I would have been glad to do it if you’d actually, you know, done some talking.”

  My mouth popped open and I moved around the counter so that I was facing him. I jabbed a finger into his chest and he only laughed.

  “Hey! It’s not funny. Shannon’s pissed at me now. And who’s gotta deal with it? Sure isn’t you.”

  “She didn’t seem pissed to me.”

  I rolled my eyes, waving a hand at him. “That’s because you don’t know her like I do. She’s pissed that I brought you here, but mostly because she thinks I’ve been holding out.”

  “Why have you been holding out, then?”

  “Gee, I don’t know. Maybe because up until yesterday I wasn’t even going to see you again?”

  He held a hand up to his chest, mock hurt crowding his face. “I’m wounded.”

  I held back a laugh, remembering that I was supposed to be mad at him.

  “You don’t know wounded yet, buddy.”

  “Is that a… threat?” he asked me, setting his mug down. Something in his body language shifted, and my face colored as he began to step toward me. My breath caught in my throat, and I stepped backward, hitting the end table next to the living room couch with the back of my thigh. It stung, but faintly, like it had happened to someone else and I was only imagining the way it would feel.

  My world had gone white. I no longer saw Iain before me, but Brandon, prowling, predatory. I could see that look in his eyes, that familiar look indicating that he knew his prey was caught. I had only been kidding, but it was obvious that I’d taken it too far. I reached blindly behind me, my hand landing on hard wood, the sound of something falling from somewhere behind me. I didn’t look to see what it was.

  “Woah, what’s wrong? What’s the matter?”

  I blinked. Brandon disappeared, and Iain stood in sharp focus, his face concerned.

  “Michele, you’re crying.” He stepped forward, tentatively, so differently than he had just a second ago. My heart was in overdrive, and I jumped out of the way before he could touch me.

  “Just - give me a minute. I’m fine.”

  I rushed to the bathroom, shutting the door behind me and pushing the lock in. When it clicked into place, I leaned against the door, sagging against it, forcing myself to breathe.

  xxx

  The subway was warm with so many bodies, and Iain and I rode silently to the hospital.

  I refused to say anything to him about what happened after the incident in Shannon’s apartment, instead telling him it was time and we’d better get going. He had tried to press, but I held my hand up.

  How could I explain to him what I didn’t even understand myself?

  Instead of retreating from him, I let him guide me to the subway. I let him rest his hand on my lower back, and I leaned against him as the movements of the train swayed us to and fro.

  At our exit, we piled out, and Iain caught my eye before we left the station.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to talk about it?” he asked me. We walked through the gates and through a short tunnel, colorful posters advertising a better life decorating the walls. Perfume, watches, vodka, plane tickets. If only it were that simple.

  “I’m fine,” I said again. I wondered if he had any idea what I had just experienced, or if he was completely in the dark and trying to make sense of it in any way he could.

  Judging by the way he was looking at me, as if I were made of something glass, it was the former.

  “You know I was just teasing you, right? That I would never, ever hurt you?”

  We approached the steps that led to the street, and sunlight shone down, meeting our shoes. I nodded, then began to climb.

  It was still Brooklyn above, but the neighborhood had a completely different feel to it than where I was staying. The shops and food places were smaller, the windows covered with stickers and signs advertising brands and money services. We passed a coffee shop with a line out the door. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but everything felt rougher, grittier. By now, the snow had been partly cleared, or at least it had been trampled down by hundreds of pedestrians making their ways to their destinations.

  I began to walk, but Iain pulled me gently to the side, stopping me. He stood so close that I could smell him, that I could see the flecks in his eyes.

  “We can’t set foot in that hospital without me understanding what happened back there.”

  I considered not telling him anything and turning back around. But I remembered the way he had looked this morning, after he got off the phone with his dad. His face was full of grief, and full of something else, too. He was conflicted. I thought of my own mother, living the life she’d always wanted in Tampa. Without me.

  I didn’t want that for Iain. I wanted him to see his dying mother, even if it meant I had to face my fears.

  “I saw Brandon,” I said, quietly. “In the living room.”

  His face transformed from concern to panic, and I held my hand to stop him.

  “Not like that. Like, like a memory. Like it was happening right in front of me.”

  Iain nodded, his expression darkening, his lips in a fine line.

  “Since you left him, have you gone to see anyone? You know, like a therapist?”

  I shook my head. “I haven’t, and I really can’t afford it. I never….” I trailed off, not quite sure what I had been about to say. I never what? Never intended to stay here? Never meant to leave in the first place? Never thought any of it through?

  “Michele, I’m sorry I made you feel that way.” He pulled me close, kissing the top of my head lightly before letting me go. “When Emily left me, at first, I thought I saw her everywhere.” I watched him swallow, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. “Everywhere.”

  “Did you see a therapist?”

  “No. I thought I was a tough guy. But if I had, maybe I would have gotten over it sooner.” He regarded me for a moment, and offered me his arm, which I took before we started to walk again. “But I didn’t go through what you went through. Not even close.”

  “But you… you lost your baby.” He was quiet after that, and I cursed myself for saying that aloud. “Fuck, I shouldn’t have said that. I’m sorry to bring it up.”<
br />
  “No, it’s okay. It was five years ago.” I looked at him, and he smiled at me. “That isn’t to say I don’t still think about it, but I can’t… dwell on it. You know what I mean?”

  I thought that maybe I did. It gave me hope that maybe one day, I wouldn’t dwell on Brandon. That he would only be a painful memory that I could keep locked away, only to bring out when necessary. Which I hoped would be never.

  The hospital came into view, and I couldn’t help but feel a surge of hope. Even though nothing about my life would ever be perfect, I had hope that maybe, one day, it could at least be normal.

  Chapter 21.

  Iain

  The hospital was cold.

  Michele’s gloved hand was wrapped around mine as we made our way to the elevator. Our footsteps squeaked across the floor, that strange, sterile smell only reserved for hospitals overpowering everything else. Wet Floor signs were scattered throughout the lobby.

  What happened in Michele’s apartment had confused the hell out of me. We went from playing around to something else in the span of just a few seconds. And when she told me that she had seen Brandon….

  Fuck. That wasn’t easy to hear.

  I had to be more careful around her. I couldn’t just assume I could come up on her any time I felt like it, even if I thought we were kidding. Whatever had happened between them, it obviously still lived within her.

  At the elevator, Michele hit the call button. She glanced at me, curiosity on her face, as we waited.

  “When was the last time you saw her?”

  “My mom?”

  “Yeah.”

  The elevator arrived, and we stepped on. I considered her question, trying to envision it: right before my deployment, at a going away party that Emily put together, my mother had come. Drunk, I assumed, based on the way she had swayed in the doorway on her way in.

  “About five years ago.”

  “Wow.”

  Her hand tightened around mine, and I shrugged. “It doesn’t feel like that long.” I hit the button for the second floor, turning to look at her, hoping my face wasn’t as hard as it felt. “Our relationship has always been… strained.”

  She nodded, as if she understood exactly what I meant. I thought about her own mother, who she said lived in Florida. I remembered the way she had asked me, “Would he find me there?” Why didn’t she go there in the first place? Why had she come here?

  There was a lot I didn’t know about her still. The elevator stopped, and we got off onto the hushed floor.

  282 was toward the end of the hall. My stomach lurched as we neared it. The reality was really sinking in, what I was doing. Seeing my mother for the first time in five years.

  Would I recognize her? She’d been sober that long, according to my dad. Even though they were divorced, he still looked after her. They talked all the time. I had never understood that—his need to constantly be sure that she was okay, even after, legally, it wasn’t his responsibility anymore.

  The door was open, and I let go of Michele’s hand before walking in. My dad was there, looking the same as he always did in a tucked in t-shirt and jeans, his scuffed work boots squeaking as he stood to greet us. His blue eyes flicked between Michele and I.

  I saw movement in the hospital bed, but I couldn’t look yet. I gestured behind me toward Michele, clearing my throat.

  “Dad, this is Michele,” I said quietly, in the same kind of voice you reserve for funerals.

  “Son.” He nodded at me, and extended his hand toward her. They shook. “Nice to meet you. I’m Larry, Iain’s father.”

  “It’s nice to meet you, too,” she said.

  “Iain?”

  The sound of my mother’s voice, soft and gruff, implored me to look at her. I approached the bed, eyes skimming from her pale hand with short fingernails, up her arm which had an IV line attached to it, and finally landing on her face. She had more gray in her hair than I was used to. She looked sick, pale and drawn. And she wasn’t drunk.

  Not like my mother at all.

  “Yeah, it’s me.” I sat on the hard chair next to the bed, not sure what to do with my hands. I settled with clasping them together. She was staring at me.

  “I can’t believe you’re here,” she said.

  I glanced over at my dad, who was sitting back down, and at Michele, who was standing by the window, watching the scene like she didn’t know how she fit into it. I wondered, again, why she would want to be here at all. Any moment now, the ball was going to drop, and I would have preferred that Michele didn’t have to witness it.

  “I hear you’re not feeling well,” I said to my mother, watching her. I waited for any sign of irritation, for an eye roll, for the click of her tongue.

  None of that happened. She cast her eyes down to the foot of the bed, nodding. “Looks like I gave it up too late.”

  “What do the doctors say?”

  “They say I have less than a month.”

  I sat back in my chair, the hard, stiff backing jarring my spine. To know my mother was sick was one thing, but to hear her say that she had less than a month to live was another. I swallowed, licking my lips and flicking my eyes over at my dad, then at Michele again. They both looked as grim as I felt.

  The room suddenly felt too hot. I stood and walked toward the window, looking out, not knowing what to say. I thought of the last five years, letting it all wash over me as I considered all the times I’d ignored her phone calls, the letters I’d ripped up without reading. So much time wasted.

  How the fuck was I supposed to know she’d get sick? I couldn’t have. And now, looking back, was any of it worth it? The anger I’d felt toward her, the five years I’d spent ignoring her, what did it amount to?

  None of it was stopping me from feeling the pain, from knowing that I was about to lose her.

  I startled at a light touch on my back. Michele stood beside me, her eyes searching mine. Silently asking if I was alright.

  I turned around and looked at my mom again, lying there so thin in that white bed. Her cheeks were sunken in, something I didn’t notice before.

  “Who is the girl, Iain? Aren’t you gonna introduce me?”

  Frozen, I stood there, uncertain. It would have been an easy three words - This is Michele - but all I could think about was my mother’s voice in my head, a broken record playing over and over: It’s all your fault. I had, momentarily, forgotten about that. This woman blamed Emily’s miscarriage on me.

  How could I pity her?

  Michele’s hand squeezed against my back, a light pressure that brought me back to the present.

  “This is Michele, Mom,” I said, doing everything I could to shove those thoughts away. To forget about the past. “Michele, this is my mom, Sandra.”

  “And how long have you been together?”

  Michele and I exchanged glances.

  “Just a couple of weeks,” she said, dropping her hand from my back.

  There was an awkward silence after that, and it occurred to me that this would have normally been the time when my mother began to interrogate her. To ask her about her family, her education, her hometown. To ask what she did for a living and how long she’d been doing it. To measure her against some arbitrary idea of what a woman should be in her mind.

  But I realized that she wouldn’t do that because she didn’t even know who I was anymore.

  She lost that right, if she ever had it at all, a long time ago.

  “I’m glad to see you happy,” she said.

  xxx

  Mom fell asleep shortly after that. I stared numbly at her for a few moments before my dad cleared his throat.

  “It means the world to her that you came, son.”

  I looked at him, at his earnest face and frayed shirt collar. I didn’t know what to say.

  Michele and I left, not saying a word until we were on the wet, salted sidewalk.

  “All things considered, your mom seemed… nice,” Michele said, taking my arm. We made our way
to the subway, leisurely.

  “I’ve never seen her sober before,” I said. I hadn’t even known that that was on my mind until I uttered the words. But it was true.

  “That must have been a shock.” Michele’s grip tightened; she leaned her head against my shoulder as we strolled. “I can’t imagine… what it would be like to see my mom again.”

  “You said she was in Florida?”

  She lifted her head, nodding. “Yeah. I haven’t seen her in a long time. She moved to Tampa right after I started at Indianapolis.”

  “Why?”

  “Um… I don’t know, really.” She kicked at some slush on the sidewalk, the sound of salt crunching under our feet as we walked. “She had me too young. She never got to live her life. I mean, that’s all I can rationalize.”

  “So, what? You turned 18 and she packed up, just like that?”

  “Yes. But... it really didn’t bother me. I mean, it still doesn’t bother me. I know how it sounds, but… in a way, I get it. Growing up, she was a decent mom. She worked hard, and we always had food on the table and a roof over our heads. She just wasn’t… present, in some ways. You know? But I don’t begrudge her a happy life now.”

  I wasn’t sure I understood how she could feel that way, but I nodded anyway.

  “You’re bigger than me,” I told her.

  “I don’t know if that’s true,” she said. We were approaching the subway now, and she lifted her head as we neared the steps. “I just realized that… nothing about my relationship with my mother was anything I could change. I’d done my part, you know? So why get mad?”

  “The fact that she left you the moment she could doesn’t… upset you?”

  She shook her head. “No. I came to terms with our relationship long before that.”

  I couldn’t think of a reply for that, so we descended the stairs into the subway station silently. I tried to imagine myself free from anger at my mother but couldn’t. It was something that came so naturally to me, something I’d been harboring for so long. It was indisputably a part of me that couldn’t be extracted. Even now, while she lay sick on her deathbed, the anger was persistent, resolute.