AnguiSH (24 page)

             
“Yeah, let me guess the guy at the house?” He asked.

             
“Maybe.  Are you gonna explain why you were so rude?”

             
“Terrible, awful case of the nerves.  I think it was all the buildup.  At least I’m blaming it on that.  I waited for so long to go out with you that when I finally did, I acted like an ogre with a chip on his shoulder.  But I’m dating someone else now.”

             
“Good.  Then friends.”

             
“Yeah, friends.”

             
He took my books from me and even helped me bring them to my car.  He told me he worked the next morning so I could get another Ozark cup of coffee. 

             
I went back to the apartment to change into my new pink polo shirt which read, ‘Trusted Maids’ on the left side of my chest.  My phone rang and my heart skidded and sputtered at the sound.  It was Breaker’s ringtone.

             
“Hello.”

             
“Is this okay?  Can I call you?” He’d resumed his barely there voice, one I hadn’t heard since the night we danced on the balcony.

             
“Nothing has changed, save for proximity.  I miss you.”

             
He bellowed out an enormous exhale, “You have no idea how much I miss you.  And I want you to know, I’m not angry at you.  I’m angry at myself.  I knew I wasn’t getting better.  I knew I was too dependent on you.  But I’m taking care of it.  I might not be calling but once a week from now on.  I don’t know how intense this therapy is gonna be.”

             
“Breaker, I’m here.  I’m not going anywhere.  I’m here, loving you while you get better.  No matter how long it takes.”

             
“I love you Ash.  And one day, I’m coming for you.”

             
I told him, I loved him back but it was too late, I heard the click of a hang up halfway through my response. 

             
I went to my new job. I had already form filled myself to death the day I’d come to interview.  I had a partner, Lena, and she and I rode together to our houses and cleaned each one to a sparkle.  After three houses in one afternoon, we went back to the company office and clocked out. 

             
When I got home Steph had warmed up our leftover spaghetti and we ate on our faded out futon while watching old reruns of Paranormal State. 

             
“Too bad they didn’t make any more of this show,” she said with a mouth full of spaghetti, “Ryan Buell was hot.”  She opera-ed out the ‘hot’ part.

             
“Ryan got sick.  Some kind of cancer or something.  I still like Ghost Adventures better.  Zak always shows his guns when he’s pointing out one of his ‘unidentified disembodied voices.”

             
“Aww, poor Ryan.  It’s funny how you always like guys with big arms and stuff but Breaker’s kinda skinny.”

             
I bounced my shoulders, “He claims he used to be like that—all buff.  But now he’s just him.  But it doesn’t matter.  He makes me forget that he’s not that ideal I’ve always held onto.  He makes me forget everything but us.  But, I think I will always have a weakness for the biceps.”

             
She chuckled beside me, “Damn, if Breaker was buff, you’d be done for.”

             
“I wish the lack of muscles was the only barrier.”

Breaker

             
“Dad, can you please bring my motorcycle over?”  I asked him as nicely as I could.  It had been four days since Ash left and I’d finally started to get my act together.

             
“I’m afraid, Son.  I’m afraid you’ll try to hurt yourself.” Because apparently my dad thought that the only way I could off myself was death by motorcycle.

             
“I’ve been hurting myself for two years, Dad.  But Dr. Mavis and I are going to try this intense program. I need to get better.  But it’s ninety days, five days a week and the car needs tires and a tune-up.  I need my bike.”

             
I could hear him cover up the speaker while he discussed it with my mother.  I felt like a twelve year old begging for his laptop back, empty promises not to look at porn anymore. 

             
And of course they would double check with Dr. Mavis to make sure my story was solid.  “I’ll bring it over in a few minutes, Breaker.”

             
“Thank you.  And…are we still having family dinner tomorrow night?”

             
He cleared his throat, “Yes.  Should we set a place?”  There was a twinge of ‘testing out the waters’ in his voice.

             
“Yes, please. See you later.”

             
I moved on to the next thing on my list of getting back to me.  I went to the kitchen and got the garbage can out of the bottom cabinet.  I moled through the pantry and fridge throwing out all the junk food and crap I’d been eating for so long.  I laughed as I threw out the Frosted Flakes that Ash detested so much.  She was the junk food queen and while I wasn’t as skinny as when she came, I had the beginnings of a burger and fry belly.  When Dad came to the house to deliver my bike, I’d have to somehow convince him to bring me to the grocery store.  I made a list on the kitchen counter and remembered Ash’s notes she used to leave me.  And even though I could spend a lifetime just reveling in thoughts of her—I had to focus on getting better, for me and her—for us. 

             
I took the trash out to the curb.  Yes, it took me about fifteen minutes of build up.  And I practically ran to the damned garbage can and threw the bag in and slammed it shut and then did this walk/run maneuver back inside, but I did it. I risked the neighbors thinking I was Richard Simmons, but I did it. I had to breathe into a paper bag for about twenty minutes afterwards,
but I did it.

             
A few hours later, my dad’s few minutes translated into hours, I heard a car in the drive and for a split second, I imagined it was her.  That she was coming back to me.  But it didn’t feel the same.  I almost didn’t want her here yet.  I smiled at myself.  I never would’ve thought there would be a time where I wished Ash would just stay where she was and live her life.  But I did.  I had to do this without her.  I had to learn to live without her before I could live with her.

             
My dad gave me a face of disbelief when I asked to be taken to the grocery store, but he relented.  We talked on the way about normal things: how his work was going, my sisters, what my plan was to get better.

             
“I hope you’re not just getting better because of a girl, Son.  You got into this because of a girl.”

             
“No, Dad.  I need to get better.  If she never wants to see me again. If she’s moved on by the time I am—I’ve got to do this.  I’ve got to find a way to live.”

             
He nodded and we continued on to the grocery store. He kept looking at me weird.  I swore he was gonna reach out and check my pulse at one point.  I was the one with an issue but my dad was sweating more than a sumo wrestler in a sauna. Inside the store, I followed my list, all non-carby things: eggs, steak, chicken, tuna, veggies and cheese—and tons of bottled water.  I got jittery in line but I focused on the conveyer belt.  I had to do this without her. I mesmerized myself with the way the groceries went around in a circle until they reached the cashier.  I hoped one day I wouldn’t have to look like a creepy food molester in order to get through the check-out line. 

             
I paid for my food and then Dad offered to take me somewhere to eat.  I hadn’t had dinner with my dad in years, so I said yes.  We went through a drive thru that my Dad and I used to go to when I was a kid, before his big software breakthrough.  I ordered one last carb filled meal before embarking on my new plan. 

             
He came in with me and we ate at my kitchen counter, laughing about better times.  He walked out to go and before he opened the door he stopped dead in his tracks and turned around.  Then my dad, who hadn’t reached out to me during this whole thing, stalked over to me and enveloped me in a crushing hug.  And if I didn’t know him better, I would say that when his shoulders started shaking, he cried. 

             
I stood in shock while he closed the door behind him.  Maybe I wasn’t the only one who needed to heal.  And maybe I wasn’t only hurting myself.

             
After he left, I went out to the driveway and grinned ear to ear, the reunion with my bike a long time coming.  I made sure it had gas and checked the oil.  Both were fine.  I looked around and checked out the street.  It was already way past eight and there were no cars on the road.  Forget my hang-ups about people, I hadn’t ridden my bike in years and I was afraid I’d wreck.  Then again, my head hitting the concrete might do me some good. 

             
I threw my leg over the faded black leather seat and familiarized myself with her again—every curve, every piece of chrome.  And then I started her up.  She purred for me just like I remembered she used to.  I shot the kickstand up and rolled her out of the driveway and said a prayer for the people on the street and for myself. 

             
But after only three or so minutes of awkward sputtering, I was a pro again.  I rode around the streets of Baton Rouge for hours, seeing things I hadn’t seen in years, even riding all the way out to LSU.  I thought about going to see Ash, but I wasn’t ready yet.  There was a lot of Breaker Fixing to do, and I’d just gotten started. 

             
I got home and showered, a long hot shower to relax myself.  I stood under the wet, fiery spray, my forehead against the cool tiles, my fists pounded out a poem, an ode to Ash.  I missed her.  No, this was more than missing someone. I missed my sisters and even my mom—even some of my old friends.  But this was an incurable ache.  This was being stripped of hope every time my foot hit the bottom step and I re-realized she wasn’t here anymore.  This was my heart, seizing up for a fraction of a second when I looked at her orchid she’d left behind with me, bought for her because it was the only one that came within a million miles of being comparable to her beauty.  I swore even my lips wept for hers.  After forty five minutes of an unhelpful shower and the loss of hot water, I got out and toweled off.  It was almost eleven, and already I was off my new schedule.

             
The other thing Dr. Mavis insisted on, a regular schedule with actual sleep—and she wanted me to wake up at the same time every day.  She said the schedule, exercise, plus the other intense therapy she would put me through would put me on the right path—especially since I refused most of her meds. 
Most
, because I did accept the pills meant to make me sleep at night.  Because I knew if I didn’t take them, I would never get any rest. 

             
And as I felt sleep begin its crawl around my brain and my consciousness, I whispered one final plea to whoever was listening.

             
“Please let this work.  I want this to end so badly, I can taste it.  Please.”

             
I got dressed—real clothes again since I’d be going to a building with people and offices.  The very thought sent an icy shiver through my bones.  Dr. Mavis’ first directive, other than the simple changes of diet, exercise and sleep, was to come into her office first thing the next Monday morning.  The sad thing—I didn’t even know where her office was.  She immediately texted me with her address—no more excuses. 

             
The fear of getting better plagued me.  It was kinda like asking for someone to grant you patience.  Yes, they could just pour a bucket of patience over your head like a coach who’d just won the Super Bowl.  But most likely they would put you through some tests and trials to make you
learn
patience the hard way.  I wanted the bucket—please let it be the bucket.  But I knew better.  And I didn’t
need
the bucket.