Far From You (2 page)

Muffled voices

outside my door

that October morning

woke me

and took me

from a peaceful place

to one I’d come

to hate.

When one of them

stepped into my room,

the hallway light

landed on my

closed eyelids,

urging them

to open

like a hand

pulling on a

doorknob.

“It’s time,” Dad said.

I didn’t open my eyes.

I didn’t move.

I didn’t speak.

“Ali, you awake?”

I gave a little grunt.

The event

wasn’t worth

wasting breath on.

“We’ll call you later.

When she’s here.”

Pause.

“I love you,” he said

quickly and quietly.

It’s pretty sad

when you have to

think about it

before you say it.

The clock read

4:13 a.m.

My dog, Cobain,

slept at the foot

of my bed.

I changed directions

and curled up

next to his warm body,

feeling the rhythm

of his breathing.

I stroked his golden fur,

and my heartbeats

s o f t e n e d.

He breathed.

I breathed.

Soon my breaths

were slow and steady,

in sync with his.

Cobain.

My oxygen tank.

He breathed.

I breathed.

The garage door

rumbled open

beneath me.

They were gone.

Gone until

they’d come back

with her.

Then there’d be me.

He breathed.

I breathed.

They knew her name.

But they wouldn’t tell me.

It’ll be a surprise, Victoria had said,

like a surprise is a
good
thing.

My stepmom.

Victoria.

She reminded me

of a chameleon lizard,

with her annoying habit

of curling her tongue up

just slightly,

and touching her top lip,

when she was

concentrating.

A chameleon.

One minute sweet as chocolate cake.

The next, sour and possessive,

like an old banker.

Once upon a time

he and I were close.

Dad.

We’d cook together,

watch basketball together,

and make up silly jingles together,

since advertising

is his line of work.

Things changed.

Victoria moved in.

He changed.

It’s like he tried

to move on

to greener pastures,

but the tractor in the barn,

once adored,

became a nuisance

and kept him connected

to the painful past.

I squeezed in closer

to Cobain.

He breathed.

I breathed.

I could see Dad

holding his new

baby girl.

Smiling.

Happy.

Totally in love.

He’d breathe.

She’d breathe.

Then there’d be me.

Mom got cancer.

Cancer sucks.

She died.

Dad remarried.

The end.

After a while

I got up,

showered,

and put on my favorite jeans,

a white shirt,

my black jacket,

and my combat boots.

I grabbed my battered,

scuffed-up

guitar case

and headed outside.

The sunlight streamed

through the tree in our front yard,

lighting up the yellow leaves,

creating a brilliant

golden statue

that moved magically

when the breeze blew.

Amazing.

I love fall.

Fall in Seattle.

The season of

warm colors.

I thought about calling Blaze,

to see if I could talk him into going,

but he likes church

about as much

as the queen likes profanity.

It’s the one thing

between us

that feels like

a tiny splinter

in your foot.

Painful and annoying,

but difficult to remove.

Blaze and I met

at a concert

last spring.

Our eyes locked

just as Mudhoney

took the stage,

and it was like a rocket

blasting off

into space.

I felt heat

and my body trembled

and forces

beyond my control

pulled me

to him

as the music ripped

through our bodies.

I didn’t know his name.

He didn’t know mine.

And yet,

it was like

we’d known each other

forever.

My best friend, Claire,

was with me,

and she kept trying

to pull me away,

like she was afraid

for my life.

Silly girl.

Nothing to worry about.

If anything,

he sparked

a fire

inside of me,

making me want

to live

again.

I pulled up in my old Nova.

Claire got in

wearing a long, flowing purple skirt

and a silky, smooth black blouse.

She makes

all of her own

clothes.

Fashion

is her

passion.

I think she

should be a singer.

She’s the voice

to the music we make

at church.

Like hot cocoa

and a soft blanket

and fuzzy slippers,

warming you up

top to bottom.

Raspy and sweet

all at the

same time.

I used to envy her,

but then I decided

to just be thankful

for making

incredible music

together.

My music

was complete

because of Claire.

She got in

and threw a CD

in my lap.

“Your turn to listen.”

The church we go to,

Center for Spiritual Living,

makes CDs

of the sermons

and the music.

After I backed out,

I looked at Claire,

but my smile

didn’t want to come out

and play.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

She knows me

like a druggie knows

his best vein.

“They went to the hospital.

Early this morning.”

She gave a nod

of understanding.

I drove

in silence.

That is,

until she reached over

and popped the CD in the player

Blaze had installed for my birthday.

We listened to her sing

the words:

Pain in your heart.

You’re playing the part

of a human in need.

You beg and you plead

Wash it away.

Wash it away.

Give me the peace,

the peace I need.

I wrote that song.

Funny how

time goes on,

things change,

and yet,

some things stay

exactly the same.

It’s not that I’m

super-religious or anything.

In fact,

the Center for Spiritual Living

is not about religion.

Otherwise

it’d be called

the Center for Religious Living.

There’s a difference.

I like it because

there isn’t any

bullshit there.

They let me be

who I am,

and understand

that it’s all about

staying

connected

to the source.

I’ve been going

for as long

as I can remember.

It was my mom’s church.

She played the guitar and sang.

Dad hardly ever went with her.

But she’d take me,

and I’d sit in the audience,

hypnotized

by her voice.

Magical.

She’s the reason

I’m in love

with music.

It’s one

of the many gifts

she gave me.

She probably

helped give me

my love for

God too,

even though I get

mad at him sometimes.

Kinda like my dad.

I get mad at him a lot.

Still, I can’t help

but love him too.

After church

we went out

for doughnuts

and coffee.

Claire loves

chocolate coconut ones.

She likes to dip them

in her coffee,

and then coconut flakes

float on the top

like icicles

bobbing down

a muddy river.

I like the holes.

The little rejects

that aren’t

as alluring

but are just as

sweet.

“I’m sewing my dad’s bowling shirt this afternoon,”

Claire told me.

“A bowling shirt?”

She shrugged. “He joined a league.

His team wants cool shirts.

I said I’d make him one.

If they like it, I’ll make them for the whole team.”

“Claire.

A bowling shirt?

What’s next?

A fishing vest?”

She reached over

and took one of my

powdered-sugar

doughnut holes.

“Shut up.

It’s cool. I swear.

I’ll show you.”

Claire didn’t put

the entire hole

into her mouth.

She took a bite,

and her lips

were suddenly white,

like she kissed

a snowman

and he kissed her back.

I pictured this girl

with white lips

sewing bowling shirts,

and it made me laugh.

She grabbed another hole

and dabbed it on my cheeks.

I squealed and started

to do the same,

when my phone rang.

We froze,

doughnut holes

midair.

It rang.

And rang.

“Maybe it’s Blaze,” she said.

I glanced at the number.

I shook my head.

I stuffed the doughnut hole in my mouth.

The phone kept ringing.

Claire gave me a look.

“I’m eating!” I mumbled.

Finally

the ringing

stopped

and I noticed

my heart felt heavy,

like the holes

were stuck

right

there.

Holes in my heart.

Yeah.

That was about right.

As I drove Claire home,

she talked,

trying to get my brain

to think about other things.

It didn’t work.

“Want to come in?”

she asked when I pulled in the driveway.

I shook my head.

“Come on.

Don’t you want to see the bowling shirt?”

I smiled.

“Sorry, Claire,” I said.

“Forgive me?”

She reached over for a hug.

I liked her answer.

“Go see Blaze,” she said.

“Don’t go home and just sit there.”

She’s smart,

that girl.

“And check your messages,” she said as she got out.

Okay.

Maybe

too smart.

Blaze’s mom, Ginger, let me in

and pointed to the garage,

which meant

that’s where he was.

She doesn’t like me.

Blaze keeps telling me I’m imagining it.

I say I’m right.

When I learned she’s a tattoo artist,

I wanted her to give me one.

She’s given Blaze seven.

I wanted a little heart

on my chest

like Janis Joplin

supposedly had.

Dad would never know.

Still, she wouldn’t do it.

She used my age as an excuse.

Whatever.

She doesn’t talk to me.

Never says, “Hi, Ali, how are you?”

Or “Ali, want to stay for dinner tonight?”

Or “Ali, I hear you’re going to be a sister.”

Nothing.

Like that day.

No talking.

Just pointing.

Blaze was banging

on his drum set,

the music from the stereo

blasting so loud,

I wondered

if he could hear

himself play.

I stood there,

him oblivious

to anything

but the music.

I love to watch him play.

Muscles urging.

Passion surging.

Anger purging.

So. Powerful.

When the song ended,

I walked over,

and from behind,

I slipped my arms

around his tattoo-covered chest,

leaned down,

and kissed his neck.

He took my hand

and with a hundred kisses,

walked his lips

up my arm.

“Surprise,” I whispered in his ear.

He stood up,

turned around,

and then

the world disappeared

as I was swept up

and away

into the world

of Blaze.

Muscles urging.

Passion surging.

Anger purging.

So. Amazing.