Next to You (Life) (5 page)

“Does this mean you regret everything?” he asks, and I wonder if that question comes because what I’m saying comes out with a harsh tone. He says nothing further other than see you next week, the timer usually stops when I’m about to lose my shit.

Everything became simple after I fixed up my shit. My world revolved around her. There was a meticulous—fool proof—plan. It went from point A to Z, where in the end we married. But then, something happened, one fucking thing triggered her memory and our future disappeared like clouds hit by the North winds sending us in separate directions. Each time something happened I reacted and hurt her more. Like caging her after she broke her leg so nothing would touch her, isolating her from her friends, and abandoning Becca when she needed me the most because I feared she would bolt. Better me than her, plus, I couldn’t stop touching her anymore. My body began to crave more of her… hiding everything came back to bite my ass and now, she fought her demons alone. All while I treated her like shit with my nasty notes, damn it. I’m a grade A asshole.

Becca:

Happy Birthday. Enjoy the chocolates, artesian, handmade especially for you. Glad you’re getting to know yourself.

D

P.S. You safe? Safe would’ve been a gold-digger who’d sign a pre-nup and wouldn’t ask for my love. You’re radioactive material, Princess, lethal and unstable. A fact I knew the moment I fell in love with you, but couldn’t stop it from happening.

Chapter 8

A
s I cut
the engine of my motorcycle, I receive the delivery confirmation email from the shipping company. The package with truffles and the birthday note made its way to Becca. I look at my surroundings. Randy gave me this address as the place where Elijah Brightmore lived twenty five years ago. I don’t know what made me ask for more information about my past. My relationship with that man lasted all of a half hour when I visited him and his family a few years back. It wasn’t a social encounter, or a let’s bond and make up for old times. We simply exchanged pleasantries so he’d sign the NDA about his relationship with me. His only concern about the money I offered had been that it would be going toward the education of his sons, Dylan and Dexter and not him. He made a mistake, having me, and he couldn’t keep up with me. There was no other explanation, the man didn’t give a fuck about what he had done.

Damn, confronting the past again is stupid. I tell myself as I take off my helmet. It’s a nice day to ride my bike, though it feels strange and lonely to drive without Becca perched on my back. Something I notice now, that I’m sober. How I miss her legs and arms hugging me tightly while we traveled along the highways of the East Coast. The engine throbbed and hummed, smoothly driving to where I directed it, while my girl enjoyed it. Not that it matters, daily I purge the memories of her out of my mind. At this pace, I’ll be done before I die of old age, if I’m lucky.

As I take a second glance around, the almost two hundred thousand dollar motorcycle looks out of place compared to the sign of Heritage Gardens. The gold paint from the letters is peeling off each one of them. The trailers need restoration, but nothing from them remind me of my childhood. Though, the image of a narrow hallway with a light wood table, wrappings, trash in general, a stove; a bedroom at the end with a bathroom on the side that I sometimes remember, now make sense.

Elijah’s words came to mind, sharp and clear. “You need to stay here, if I get enough money, I’ll be back.” If… there was never a guarantee that he would make it back, or a real promise behind those worthless words.

Unlike the other children, I got a long hug and a pat on the back, without a lunchbox, only some papers my father handed me before leaving. I walked like a headless chicken. Tall ceilings, brick walls with colorful murals in places made me wondered why he had left me there. A woman stopped me.

“Are you lost?” I nodded. Dad didn’t specify where to go, only that it was time for me to go to school and learn more. “What’s your name?”

“Daniel, Daniel Brightmore.” I knew my name and letters, back then I already knew how to read. Though to this day there’s no recollection of who taught me. My dad, his family… it will remain a mystery.

“Well Daniel let’s find your place.” The woman who rescued me from the bright hallways of the school grabbed my hand and directed me to a classroom. “Miss Jensen.” She knocked on the door as all the other children began to sit in a circle. “Do you have Daniel on your list?” The blond woman with a denim dress nodded and extended her hand. Even back then I didn’t trust strangers, so I jolted. It had been enough to allow the other woman with black hair to hold my hand. Miss Jensen didn’t say anything and took a step toward me. She squatted and looked me in the eyes.

“You have beautiful eyes, a different color.” I share the blue-gray eye color with Elijah Brightmore, as well as his brown hair. My height comes from my mother’s side, her father and brothers are tall. Average height in the family is six foot four. Another fact Randy found out for me. “We’ll get to know each other and trust each other as time goes, Danny.”

“Daniel,” I corrected her and she nodded.

All those children didn’t know how to count, read or recognize all their letters; but they knew all their rhyming songs. I knew none of those. That made me feel foolish, the pit of my stomach filled with cramps and didn’t let me concentrate well. Getting out of there became my only goal. Some excruciating hours later the time to head home arrived. Every parent stood alert to see their child come out of the steel door, every parent except mine. I sat on the floor and leaned on the wall waiting for him. Hoping he had enough money to pick me up as he said before he dropped me off. Miss Jensen adjusted her hair several times, checked her watch and waited a few steps from where I sat. A bell rang, noise coming from inside the building went on for a long time, and then it all went silent. Another group of children with parents began to arrive, Miss Jensen continued checking her watch.

“We need to go inside, Daniel,” she said taking a couple of steps forward. “I will have you call your parents and check on what’s holding them up. Perhaps your Mom forgot.”

“I don’t have one.” She frowned, so I clarified, “A mom.” She tilted her head to the side and bobbed a few times, like other women had done in the past.

“The Principal will figure out what to do, honey.”

The Principal’s secretary asked me to sit on the chair in front of her desk and sent Miss Jensen back to her classroom. I didn’t pay attention to the adults, since they handed me something called a sandwich. Those became my favorite things and soon I learned they were easy to prepare and would fill one’s hunger. Fascinated by the two pieces of bread with meat inside, nothing affected me. As of today I have no recollection of what I ate before, who fed me or… everything is blank.

It was four when they made the call, the secretary pointed out the time to the Principal. The police and other grownups began to arrive asking me several questions I couldn’t answer. Then they escorted me into a white car. Elijah Brightmore meant, ‘I’ll come back when I get a job and can support you’. Not… I don’t remember what that five year old thought, only the fear he felt because something was terribly wrong. It seemed as if my life had started that day, when the social worker found my birth certificate and deduced that my parents had deserted me. Though, in case Dad had an accident, or they could find a family member who’d take me; they sent me to a temporary foster home.

It was a couple who treated me like their child—for an entire month according to the file Randy prepared. Tracy and Lloyd James. There are a few memories of waking up to a stack of pancakes or waffles, eggs or bacon, orange juice, fruit and a wide smile from Tracy Lloyd. James Lloyd read the paper and sipped a cup of coffee while listening to his wife rant about what the day would bring. That had been the picture of a family, two weeks of goodnight stories, games when I arrived home from school—a different school from the one Elijah had dropped me at.

“James, we should try,” Tracy said while hugging me and crying. “He’s perfect.”

“Tracy, babe, we have a deal.” She nodded. “Your health can deteriorate at any time and I can’t assume the responsibility of a child.”

“Danny, I love you sweetie,” she said, cleaning the tears from her eyes. “Never forget it. I wish things had been different for us. You’ll find happiness, I promise.”

Multiple sclerosis, read Randy’s file. She died ten years after giving me up to the social worker. Ten years I could have been in a happy safe place. She had been the first woman who I let in, who called me Danny and at the end she wished things had been different. They loved me, only, not enough.

The memories, not from the place but the past, help me discover that Becca’s departure left me wondering about my own sanity. Her breakdown shook that closure I achieved years ago. I had let go of whatever happened to that poor boy. Perhaps not sharing with her what I didn’t like about me made her feel that I didn’t trust her. Our perception about so many subjects differed. We are so different. Without a second thought I decide to head back… the hotel will have to do again. I’m in no mood to deal with the only past I haven’t let go—Becca.

Chapter 9

Dan,

Best chocolates ever, one might think you like me. We both know I’m not your favorite person at the moment. But one thing my heart knows is that you still love me—and I do you, baby. You’re right, it’s hard to know what tomorrow will bring. Then again, I wish it will bring you—no red bow necessary.

No long letters today, only a thank you note for remembering my birthday.

Kisses and love,

Becca

P.S.1 Thank you for the stationary and the colored pens.

P.S.2 I miss you, hope you do too.

P.S.3 Waiting to hear about your past life.

Becca,

Thank you for the break. Those are longer letters than the ones you used to write to Lisa. If I didn’t know better, I’d think that you’re making me your new ‘move on project’. You puzzle me, do I miss you… some days more than others. You’ve been my constant for the past several years. That person that had a warm greeting for me at any time—smiles and love included. Now I’m going back to the person I used to be before you; the one that couldn’t count on or trust anyone.

My life is exactly that, mine, Becca. Not a thing to share with strangers—or former friends.

Hope you heal,

Daniel

P. S.1 Glad you liked your presents, thank you for the paper swan and the drawing?

P. S.2 Why are you sending them? You’re getting weirder, baby.

Danny:

I made the choice for me, for you, for us. Believe me when I say that I was beyond repair. Not even a miracle could’ve saved me from what was going through my mind. Drew mentioned it once, you don’t have superpowers and you aren’t God. Though you are my personal savior and pulled me one too many times from the edge of the cliff, this time not even you could’ve saved me. There’re still things I can’t get past. Sometimes, in the middle of the night, the loud pleas for him to stop hurt my throat. Or other times when I implore Mom not to punish me, or for her to feed me, or to love me, wake me in a cold sweat.

They think my time to leave is coming soon, yet I want to ask for my money back or a lifetime membership into this place. The wounds feel like they keep tearing themselves apart, opening wider by the day, nothing looks ready to be stitched and patched. Raw open skin and gushing blood comes out along with the gawky infection created by not caring for it right when it happened.

Please don’t hate me; that makes me sad. Sadness, pain… Someday I will be back into the real world, where world hunger exists, parents don’t always love their children and some people get their happiness by seeing others in pain.

Pain, the one thing these professionals promise would soften with time, memories that would fade. But you know what they said? That none of them will leave, they’re a part of my making and because of it they will remain right next to me as badges, medals or scars of one that survived a war and barely came out alive. It is up to me, to make the rest of my life and the next memories bold and brighter, happier and worth every minute and every breath.

This sounds like a combination of a tell all and one of my famous pity parties, doesn’t it? Perhaps it’s because its night and I just woke up from a nightmare. Those dreams, my mind telling me it’s ready to remember, are now telling me that I’m ready to take on the battle of a life time—according to the doctors. If only they could understand they need to change the game plan, Rebecca Trent isn’t a fighter. I should stop myself right there and highlight that there are people who believe in me, I’m worthy of love and worth loving.

Oh lord, at this pace you might have to set my savings account into a trust fund for me to stay here for life and then a few more days. On the bright side, I’m learning new things, that’s the positive of this experience, right? Let me know your thoughts on the origami butterfly I’m mailing you along with this letter. Note: the one I sent was a crane, not a swan. My tulips should be on your refrigerator, that’s what grandma used to do when I brought home a drawing from school. The scarf is for winter, remember it’s my first try, the one I’m making now is prettier. Though, I doubt you’ll want it since it’s soft pink and white. A sweater, that’s what I’ll do for you, but only if you tell me the real story of who Daniel Brightmore is.

Love you forever,

Becca

P.S.1
Sending pink hugs and kisses. Me thinks you’re running low on them.

P.S.2 Weirder… no, I always share my triumphs with you… believe me they were a pain to make.

Women process information different than men, I for one like for everything to be over and not rehash on it several times. For most, not all women, they need to discuss and dissect each part of an episode in order to move on. That came from one of the books I discussed with my therapist. Becca’s continuous inquiries of what happened to me while growing up and why it is I don’t trust her with that piece of my life brought up the subject.

“Do you trust her then?” the expensive shrink asks. “Why not give her what she wants?”

“I trusted her with my life.”

I learned from my first time at a counselor’s office that they don’t give you a hint of what you’re doing wrong, or right. They only listen. Yet, I felt as his eyebrows arched at the same time his face scrunched, condemning me for using the past tense. Perhaps it’s only a reflection of what I feel.

“I trust her, she would never tell a soul about it.” I take a deep breath. “But those aren’t easy subjects to discuss with someone as fragile as Becca. What if she doesn’t like what she hears or—“

As I speak, I realized my hesitation to share what had happened to me is based on the events and not the fact that she isn’t next to me. That rage has simmered down and though, I was in no place to welcome her into my arms, I no longer despised her for breaking us up. Maybe sharing some more about me wouldn’t hurt, and if that piece will help Becca in some way… I could do it.

“You’re afraid of what she’ll think about you?” my counselor asks. I shake my head but then shrug, knowing that I only lie to myself. “You say you trust her, maybe you should also trust yourself on making the right decision.”

The last word is said right as the timer goes off.

Becca:

Do you need new stationary? I sent it for your letters, not to make butterflies, which are pretty, Bex. (That’s what I’m supposed to say, right?) The scarf is long and thick, surely I’ll use it as a blanket if a blizzard hits and I’m trapped inside the car—we’ll have to wait until next winter to see if it works. No to your pink and white scarf, and I’ll skip the sweater offer. I can only imagine three arms, no head and pink polka dots the size of a watermelon. I recommend you find another hobby.

Just as you, for years I had to survive. The first woman who abandoned me didn’t wait long to stick around and find out if I had a charming personality. Muriel, the sixteen year old girl who gave birth to a healthy seven pound ten ounce boy with a twenty two inch height ran away only two months after the happy event. Two years later she died, according to the records—and Randy. It was an overdose, her rich parents claimed her body and she’s now buried with her ancestors. The once kidnapped teenager returned home inside a wooden box—the story my grandparents will stick to for as long as they live. Wealthy parents, you read right. Meanwhile on the other side of the city, their grandchild was rotting in a trailer park and then began his journey through the system.

My first foster parents were James and Tracy. Tracy didn’t fight for me, though she claimed she loved me. Their choice landed me in a foster home with seven boys whose ages ranged from eleven to five—me. The house looked big enough to accommodate as many children, but we only occupied one room filled with dirty mattresses. Two men made their livings with the seven checks the government mailed them monthly to take care of us. The checks meant to provide food, clothing and the essentials for us never fulfilled their original purpose. Our meals consisted of the free breakfast program at school, and a small dinner prepared by those men. One we had to eat fast and guard well or another one of us could snatch it from under your nose—just like the belongings we owned.

It took me a month to learn how the structure worked, by then I defended myself. A tall five year old that could hit hard enough and bite wherever possible won some respect from the other six. It was a watch and learn game with statistics and possibilities, my thing. Joseph Thomas, Buddy, arrived almost a year later. He was younger than me, with a worse story than mine. You know it, his entire family died in a car accident. The child became my protégé, by then I was six—close to seven in my mind—and had the responsibility of a guy who thankfully learned the way to survive in only a few weeks. It had been me and him together getting more food, keeping a warm blanket and warm clothes. However, it hadn’t been enough. Soon we began to visit convenience stores to snatch a piece of candy here and there. It progressed to a loaf of bread at the grocery store, peanut butter, jelly, and an apple or two at the farmers market. It suited us better, the art of taking, than living off the crumbs we got at home. From items we graduated to money.

Everything, from my mother’s abandonment to when the fine state of Massachusetts took me under its neglecting wings, has been an interesting and difficult journey. Becoming a thief lead me to Raj, the man who saved mine and Buddy’s life. The second chance he granted me took me all the way to Harvard where between my GPA, sob story and perfect test scores, they gave me a full ride on a dual program.

Becca, I don’t care about those memories. They are behind me, I don’t let those ghosts lure into my present. I exorcised them a long time ago. I want to think I was able to turn a leaf; all I have is because of my hard work and desire to leave a big mark on the world. What Elijah did, was fucked up. That taught me to only trust a few, but I don’t have abandonment issues, I am past that. Though you’ve never done it before, once again, I ask you to keep my secrets between us.

D

P. S. Your drawing is framed and on display on one of the bookcases, in my office. Better?

Danny:

Thank you for the chocolates, extra stationary and the wonderful origami paper. Did you really order it from Japan? I sent you a new work of art, pretty nice lake huh? Though, you don’t need to frame them.

Where do the Swansons come into play? Your secrets are safe with me. You didn’t need to pay for the center, they just informed me about my account being paid in full when I added a few services—which please, you, mister, don’t need to pay for.

About me… There are things I keep discovering of myself, unconsciously I buried my entire childhood because of them—Donna mostly. Concealing the good to forget the bad was an awful trade, yet, a move that helped me survive and brought me all the way into adulthood. Things I remember now: Grandma used to say princesses were loved by everyone. Of course, as I craved for my mother to love me, I became obsessed with being one… pretty pitiful. To add some to that fairy tale mentality, she also said that they dressed in pink, a royal color and chocolate cures everything. That explains three of my obsessions. Though I’d like to inform her that though, I love chocolate, it doesn’t cure everything. And that princesses aren’t loved by everyone—I know that for a fact.

Those memories brought an extra along. Remember my first Christmas with you? First we went to New York, where we had dinner at a fancy hotel on Christmas Eve after ice skating in Rockefeller center. Only the two of us, you rented the rink out for the evening. That was the most magical night. It had been my freshman year of college, you flew me there so we could fly to Europe on Christmas day.

Our first stop, Switzerland, because you wanted to ski. That was my first experience skiing, well, the first time my butt and the snow began their affair because I always ended up falling. That night we spotted a shooting star and I made a wish. “What did you ask for?” you insisted on knowing, you always do.

“To someday be a princess.” Because it was an intriguing thing to be and I was in the lands where they existed. With those powers you have to make everything possible, it happened.

The day after, you gifted me a tiara with pink and white crystals. You gave me a title where it said I was a princess. You then bought an island, which became our kingdom. People think it is crazy that you call me such, but they don’t know the story behind the title, and now it means even more than before. Something tells me, you were in love with me back then, were you? I wonder if illustrated dictionaries will have my picture next to the word obtuse.

Regarding yourself, what can I say other than, you’re an extraordinary man, Danny. You turned that page and wrote a life worthy of headlines and admiration.

Hope all is well with you and the world keeps admiring the million ways how Daniel E. Brightmore conquers it.

Love,

Becca