Brisé (13 page)

“Pheebs,” Brett calls. Ugh, I hate that nickname, but it doesn’t matter, I love Brett. He’s the one person I wasn’t able to disengage from. He wormed his way into my life and heart, with no encouragement from me. He just wouldn’t take no for an answer. It didn’t matter how many times I blew him off, or acted like a snarky bitch, he kept coming back for more. “James and I are having a wine night in, you should be there at seven.” He knows I don’t drink, but he also knows I won’t pass up an evening with James and him together. They are an amazing couple, despite the small-minded opinions of their families. Apparently being gay is not acceptable behavior in their parents’ eyes, but love is love. To each their own is my motto. Or as my dad used to say, “Not my monkey, not my circus.” In other words, if it doesn’t directly harm you . . . stay the fuck out of it and let people live. I do remember my dad’s wisdom, it was few and far between when he had an opinion, or at least when he verbalized it, so those lessons will be with me forever.

“See you then, Brett. Only because I miss James.” He just laughs at me and brushes my insult off. I roll my eyes at him and chuckle at his demeanor. It’s just our way. He’s held my hand more times than I can count at doctor’s appointments and was there with a gentle smile or a kick in the ass when I needed it. As I walk into my studio dump (I cannot classify this as an apartment) my cell is ringing. Checking the caller ID I see it is Myra. Once the pleasantries are out the way he dives into the crux of why he called. The lawsuit. The one I never let him talk about. My parents’ deaths. Taboo subject. He found out the contractor they hired for the new office had subbed the construction out, without the approval of my father or Myra. The company that picked up the bid had been fined and cited numerous times, shotty work, illegal parameters, cutting corners . . . anything shady to earn more cash to line their pockets. The concrete that had been poured for the second floor wasn’t braced right, wasn’t poured the correct depth or with ample footers. Structurally, it was a nightmare, and my parents just happened to be there when it gave way. As a partner, Myra can sue, but as their daughter I need to agree to proceed as well. The deadline is up, and I have to make a decision.

“I won’t have to be there? I don’t want to hear their excuses, I don’t want to see their faces, and I don’t want to hear about the demise of my parents, ever again. If you can promise me all of that, send the papers, and I’ll sign them.”

“I can promise you all that, Phoebe. How are you doing?” I can tell from his resigned voice and deep sigh that this isn’t any easier on him.

“Fine. Last dose of maintenance chemo was six months ago, I’m back to my full strength. No sign of cancer.” Every time he calls I repeat the same thing, maybe he needs the reassurance as much as I do.

“I know all that from our last conversation. How are
you
doing?” He feels such a responsibility to try and be a parental figure, and it’s awkward. I owe him so much, but I just want to be left alone. Having one more person care when I have tried my best not to, is weakening my resolve to live in this blissfully numb state I have created.

“Okay, Myra. I am here, living the dream.”

“Your dream?” My sarcasm didn’t go unnoticed by him.

“For now.”

“Lucas came by my office a few weeks ago.” I don’t say a word. He won’t get a reaction from me. “That boy packed up and moved. Finished his degree and is soldiering on.” The change of subject was almost enough to give me whiplash, but Myra knew he had to throw it in there, any easing into the subject and I would have shut it down.

“That’s nice.” I know there is a bite to my tone, but we have an agreement. No talking about my past, no talking about Lucas, and no trying to make me face what I left behind.

“I thought so. You aren’t even going to ask where he moved to.” I wonder why he keeps trying if he expects the reaction I am going to give him.

“Nope. I don’t care.” He laughs at me. Fucker. “Listen, I have plans.” I don’t wait for the niceties. I just end the call. I’m frazzled and trying to stop my mind from replaying the images of my life. I can’t afford this distraction right now. I need to keep my head in the game of rehearsals and securing my spot. After a hot shower, I head over to James and Brett’s deciding tonight may just be the night I partake in wine. It’s essential that I forget tonight and the conversation I just had. Of course I wonder where he is, how he’s doing . . . I wonder daily if he misses me as much as I miss him. Only in the darkest of hours, late at night when I’m alone do I start to remember. Some nights I can’t stop the memories, they fill my mind like explosions.

Right away Brett knows something’s wrong. He knows about my parents and the leukemia recurring, but I have never told another soul about Luke or the baby. I keep that love all to myself, I don’t want to share it with anyone. It’s my scar, one I want to wear and shoulder the burden on my own. Letting someone else in would minimize the agony, and I don’t want anyone else to carry that. “What’s wrong, Buttercup?” I hate this name worse. Luke always told me my hair was like his mom’s icing,
buttercream icing
, and now I’m Buttercup. No matter how many times I tell him to stop calling me that, he keeps on.

“Stop calling me that!” is the only thing that comes out of my mouth before I pause trying to gain composure. The tears are pooling in my eyes, and my breath is coming in sporadic pants. I can’t do this here. I can’t do this now, after so long. My mental mantra doesn’t work, and the first choked sob releases from me. An onslaught follows, and I can’t stop. Almost three years and not a tear shed in front of another person, and now it is like a torrential rainstorm pouring from my body. A glass of something is shoved in my hands, whatever it is burns as I drink it, so I drink it quickly. Brett is consoling me and James is looking at me like he wants to make an escape, but it’s his house.

I hold up the glass and wave it. James immediately grabs it, and after refilling it, I slam it again. This time the coughing starts, but at least it stops my tears. “Pheebs, you’re scaring me. What happened before you got here?”

Through my hiccups I tell him, “My-Myra ca-called,” a spoon full of sugar is given to me by James and after swallowing it I can speak fluidly. “Myra called. He wants me to sign papers for the lawsuit.”

Brett nods at me but is studying my face. “That isn’t all. Something has you rattled.” Each time my parents have been talked about between us, I’ve gotten teary, but never wept. I have to come to terms with them being gone. It hurts every day but they’re together, in a better place if rumors are true. I miss them, but I still talk to them daily. In the silence of the evenings or before I go out to dance, I chat internally with them. Even though I can’t have an actual conversation with them, I know they’re listening.

“Yes, the rehearsals and then bringing everything up. It just got to be too much.” I lie to him, but luckily he doesn’t comment, which tells me he’s debating my answer. Instead he starts dissecting my performances. Critiquing every flaw, but still not helping me get where I need to be. Brett has become a Phoebe-expert and knows pushing the subject won’t do anything but shut me down faster. If he thinks I will eventually open up to him, he’s mistaken. The second I do, he’ll pounce on the opportunity to make things right.

In the middle of tearing apart my lack of performance, he has an ‘aha’ moment. “You dance impeccably. It’s graceful and beautiful, but lacking passion. You need to allow yourself to feel the pain in your life, feel the beat in the music, and let it go. You’re supposed to be telling a story up there, and all you do is give them blank chapters. You’re stealing the connection.” Oh God, he doesn’t know what he’s asking of me. “Is there something we can do, something to make it come out of you.” I nod. I know what I have to do. I send a message to Myra, asking for the box of CDs in my closet. The music Luke made for me. Heaven help me, I’m about to rip open some deep scars and bleed all over the wooden floors. If emotion and feeling is what they want, they are going to get it. It may not be what they bargained for, but it is what they are getting. “Why do you look so scared, Phoebe?”

I am petrified, not scared. I am afraid once I open this floodgate, I won’t be able to shut it. I tell him my deepest fear, “Luke.” I get up and walk out of their apartment, needing to get home to my comfort. He’s calling out after me, but I ignore him. Tonight I need to barricade myself inside, prepare for the onslaught of pain I am about to inflict on myself. Hearing his voice, singing to me . . . it will be the first time I have allowed myself to hear it. I didn’t try and replay it over the years, the opposite of what I did with the memories of my parents. I wanted to savor their words, always remember and hear them. They’re gone, unobtainable. Luke’s wasn’t just a memory. He’s alive and it’s within me to reach out but I never do. I buried him so deep, our love and bond are now making their way to the surface, to the most relevant place in me . . . my heart.

I give it my all the next day. I’m exhausted, up all night trying to forget, but being hit constantly with images of
us
. Luke and Phoebe. My eyes are so swollen from the tears I am surprised I haven’t broken an ankle. I give it all I have, leaving each rehearsal drenched in sweat and worn out. That’s my goal so I can sleep, or turn off my mind with exhaustion. Each day that passes Claude isn’t screaming at me, but is telling me, “More.” How much more does he want? I don’t know how much more I can give to him, or anyone else, I am teetering on a fine line between
more
and falling into a dark abyss right now. There isn’t a safety net that can catch me if I fall, and I don’t have Luke’s arm for my salvation. Brett is relentlessly nagging me, open up, I’m here, and talk to me . . . those phrases drop from his lips as easily as I love you did from Luke’s. My protector turned into my opponent, and it is a daily battle. My heart made its decision a long time ago; it never wanted to believe the worst of Luke.

I wasn’t prepared for the package to arrive so soon, but leave it to Myra to use two-day shipping. I don’t tear it open, instead I stare at it like it will sprout a head and bite me; which in fact it will bite me right in the ass when I open it. I start to remove the tape, slowly and meticulously, trying to prolong the inevitable. I slide the box out and open it. What the fuck is this? This isn’t my box of music I asked him to send. Instead it’s filled with letters, from Luke. My hands are trembling, but I can’t stop myself from reaching for the top one. I rip off the top and read the first few lines, and I drop it immediately. The words are haunting me, calling to me to read them, but tormenting me at the same time. I grab it and finish reading it. When I finish that one, I grab the next, and the next, I keep going . . . until I reach the one he wrote on the day our child would have been born. It is a rough estimate, based on how far along I was the day Luke made the decision.

Phoebe,

Today is the worst of days I have faced yet. Without you each day is a struggle, but today I can barely breathe. I want you to know this was hard on me too. You wanted the baby more than your life and I wanted a forever with you. I wanted both, and the only way I could accomplish that was saving you. I never imagined you would leave me, cutting me out of your life so easily. I know nothing could ever replace the angel we lost, but we could have had more. You believe I took that choice, the baby from you, but I didn’t. I chose you, I will always choose you and I am beginning to understand you can’t say the same.

I’m angry at you, myself, fucking cancer, and God. I feel hateful for the first time in my life and I don’t like it but can’t control it. You left this mess, you created the turmoil I live with, and you aren’t even here to help me straighten it out, to put us back together.

I had a plan for us, it veered off course many times, but I was always hoping for smooth sailing. I guess that isn’t our fate, but this emptiness shouldn’t be either.

I love you. I cherish you, and I miss you and I will always mourn what might have been.

Love,

Luke

I have been sitting in the same spot for seven hours, never moving, just devouring his words, his life in my absence. My beautiful, challenging Luke. I know the unrelenting ache he feels in his heart, because it has taken up permanent residence in mine. He may think I destroyed us, but if I had stayed I would have destroyed him. My hatred for him and for life in general; it was ugly, it isn’t pretty now but I am working on it. I pick up the last letter and under it is a CD.

Reading the letter, my heart ceases to beat several times. Each letter was sharing his life, his feelings, his day-to-day, month-to-month, and year-to-year activity. I’m grateful he shared this with me in his own way, but how did Myra get these? Once I finish the last letter – it makes sense. He left town, he’s moving on . . . and holy shit…he’s in New York.

Will I run into him? Probably not, this city is huge and if I continue to hide I can put it off for the next year. I’m not ready to move forward yet, I’m still trudging through the sludge of my feelings and slowly working on healing. I have to complete the past dreams to make room for new ones. Does he know I’m here? No, I know him well enough, he would’ve been at my door, or mentioned it in his letter. I forgive him, I have for a long time but holding on to the anger is an easier way to cope, and I need easy right now. That may not be an option though, with him so close. Love isn’t always pretty, and life is messy. Sometimes it’s a fun messy and other times it is just plain messy.

Needing to know where he is, I call Brett and get his log-in for Facebook. He questions me, and when I lose my temper he hands over the information. Thank God most of my friend’s and Luke’s aren’t set to private. I see my worst nightmare. He and Katie, packing up a moving truck surrounded by a whole bunch of friends with a caption that says ‘Bon voyage to the dashing duo.’ I want to go back to my numb place, but I can’t. I’m vying for the position of my mom’s dreams and for my own sanity, the chance to live and not just subsist. Complacency is not the life I want for myself. I miss smiling, I miss laughing, and I miss loving. I know my mom would be proud of how far I’ve made it, being a featured principal dancer is nothing to snub your nose at, but she wanted me to shine, she wanted my name in lights and that’s what she’ll get. I grab the CD and put it in my bag. When I dance tomorrow will be the first time I hear it. I need it to be raw, fresh, and push me to where I need to be. His words, his love . . . they can surround me and allow me to feel the passion I have been lacking.