Damaged, The Romance of Nick and Layla (Part 4)

Damaged

The Romance of Nick and Layla

(Part Four)

Crystal Cierlak

Text copyright © 2013 Crystal Cierlak

All Rights Reserved

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

For Jeffrey P.

As a young girl I looked at my parents as the standard of quality life. They were the shining example of what a healthy relationship - a healthy marriage - should be, should look like. They were on the happier side of the divorce demographic, the 50% that didn’t end in dissolution of a partnership, of a life. They were in love. They lived, laughed, and loved, and even sometimes fought. What couple doesn’t fight? I knew from an early age they would be my guiding light of how to navigate the sometimes-complicated waters of being in a relationship.

They never did the things Nick and I have done. They did things the
right
way. Or at least, the way I learned as right. I looked at them and knew that they represented what my marriage should look like, should function as.

And yet, marriage seems to be the worst thing to happen to me. Though there are days I would argue that that wasn’t true at all, and that the worst thing to happen to me is Nick Hudson. Not that picking one definitive answer would change the outcome. Nothing can change that now. Nothing dead can be brought back to life, literally or otherwise.

Not the death of my marriage.

Not the death of my love.

Not the death of my child.

The very worst moments of my life, the most pain I have ever suffered, and the darkest days I have ever known, all have one thing in common.
Nick
.

When I see his name appear like a long forgotten ghost on the incoming call screen of my phone my stomach turns inwards, roiling on itself in a mutilated wave of nausea and contempt. It’s been years. I’d finally put myself back into something resembling an actual life and there his name is, drawing me back into the dark place I fought and clawed my way out of in the years following the aftermath.

I make no move to acknowledge the call, but stare at it anyway, allowing myself to feel every awful sensation that twists inside me until the phone stops ringing and the screen goes dark again. I breathe in and breathe out, and the dark place begins to fade. My stomach calms and my heart steadies. The ghost is gone.

And just when I think I’ve survived the onslaught of my painful past, the phone lights up again.

Nick Hudson Calling
.

The house in I grew up in has changed with the times, but still remains the same. Home. Nestled in the hills above Santa Barbara it is a nod to the area’s famous Spanish-Mediterranean aesthetic and still the most beautiful house I have ever seen. My parents bought it as a young married couple when they had a little bit of money and a lot of sense, and it grew with them over the decades to pace the rise of their modest wealth and wise investment. I grew up wanting for nothing, and because of them I never had to worry about how I’d pay my bills or feed myself. I had a trust fund. I went to amazing schools. Now in their golden years of retirement they have left the comforts of home and taken off around the world, enjoying the fruits of their many years of hard work and modest living.

Graciously and without reservation they invited me to live in the house they built and I grew up in, perhaps sensing my desire to find some comforting constant after the devastation that was Nick and Layla Hudson. It was months before I could comfortably rise to see the sun in the morning and bring myself back into my life, and they were at my side throughout, silently encouraging me to put the pieces back together at my own pace. Eventually they resumed their life of travel and adventure, but only after I could assure them that life for me had begun again and that I would live it, however empty it might have felt.

That was nearly four years ago.

Life has quieted considerably. With my parents gone it is just me in the house, and I live a life of quiet solitude absent of the trappings of notoriety. Once in a while I’ll notice a man with a camera focused on me, snapping away as I walk around the local farmer’s market or down busy State Street lined with shops and restaurants. Occasionally someone will glance at me and their eyes will linger just a fraction too long as they try to place my face, but for the most part I am anonymous. There are far more famous people in Santa Barbara to care about, and for that I am grateful. I’m no longer Mrs. Nick Hudson, and for all I know my name has been retired into the vaults of pop culture history as a rare and sad story of absolute tragedy. It’s likely much worse for Nick, but I wouldn’t know anything about that anymore. I can only imagine.

It’s raining outside. Winter is slipping into early spring and I’m better for it. The holidays are still unbearable for me, and now they’re at the opposite end of the calendar. I know my birthday falls this time of year - it always rains on my birthday - but there isn’t an ounce in me that feels like celebrating. I think I’m turning 30.

My phone started ringing and beeping more a week ago, and since then it seems like every day someone new is calling to check up on me, to wish me well, to wish me a happy birthday or to inquire about a party. I’m polite and occasionally crack a joke or allow myself to smile, and thank them for their well wishes. I don’t bother telling them that I’ve forgotten about my birthday. If I did they might be shocked or sense that I’m in a mood, and then they might ask how I’m doing or how I’m feeling and if there is anything they can do for me. They know there isn’t; I know there isn’t. But they’re polite about it and I appreciate the effort.

I realize as if for the first time that I’m sitting on the couch staring absentmindedly out towards the pool, its surface in dozens of ripples as it catches the drops of rain. Next to me something is humming with life and I look down to find my phone lit up again.

Nick Hudson Calling
.

It’s maybe the fifth call of his I’ve ignored. The sight of his name doesn’t catapult my senses into darkness like it did the first time, but my heart still grows cold and I have no desire to answer him. Not after what happened.

After a moment of silence the phone begins to vibrate again and I’m relieved to see my mother’s name and picture appear on the screen. She’s posing next to an unsmiling and unmoving Queen’s Guard in London, making the most ridiculous face possible to get him to laugh. Of course he doesn’t, but she looks blissfully happy and carefree, and it makes me smile every time.

“Hi, Mom,” I answer on the second ring.

“Hi, dear! How’s things?” She sounds cheerful and alive with light. Traveling the world has been a long held dream of hers and the reality seems to be far better than the fantasy.

“Fine. Just watching the rain fall. Where are you guys?”

“Oh, good! Rain! Darling it’s raining, how different!” she laughs to someone, my father presumably. “We’re at Heathrow and it’s raining here too. I rains a lot here, did you know?”

“I did know that,” I reply, vaguely recalling from my own experiences long ago in another life. “So, are you arriving or departing?”

“Departing. Destination: home. We’ll be landing at LAX sometime tomorrow morning, I think. I’m not so great with time changes. Here, let me put your father on and he’ll explain everything.”

Before I can say anything my father’s brisk voice is on the line, greeting me hello. “Hi, Dad.”

“Your mother really is terrible at time zones, Lala. And numbers in general, come to think of it,” he teases. I laugh and picture him in a Burberry trench coat, tutting at my mother lovingly in the middle of the airport. They’re always adorable with each other.

“I know it’s short notice, Kiddo, but would you mind terribly picking us up tomorrow? I don’t think I could stand renting a car and driving for hours after this never ending flight your mother has scheduled us for. It wouldn’t be so bad if there wasn’t such a long layover once we reach the States”

I smile sympathetically and agree, grabbing a pen and paper from a nearby table to write down their flight information. For a moment I consider offering him the option of emailing it all to me from his phone, but remember the last time I attempted to impart such knowledge and decide against it.

“I’ll be waiting for you at baggage claim,” I confirm.

“Thank you. Anything you want from duty free? I can see your mother eyeing it from across the terminal and reaching for her purse.”

“I’m good, thanks,” I laugh. As we talk on for a few more minutes the phone sounds a new notification in my ear but I ignore it. It’s been too long since I’ve seen my mom and dad, and in spite of myself I’m looking forward to seeing them.

Finally we say our goodbyes and I move the phone away from my ear to end the call. The screen changes and I see the notification alert. It’s a text message.

Layla please answer.

I involuntarily shudder. Years without any contact and now calls and a text message. It almost feels like a violation. He’s broken through an invisible wall that had kept us from communicating for four years and his words are suddenly there, visible if not audible. I set the phone down on the coffee table in front of me like I’m setting down a hot cup, touching just the edges as though to save my fingers from getting burnt. The screen goes dark again and reflects an upside-down image of the palm trees outside, leaves soaked with water and swaying gently in the wind. Maybe five minutes goes by before I move again, finally picking myself up from the couch and going to the kitchen to grab my purse.

Errands. I can run errands. I double check the refrigerator and note it is in need of replenishment. It occurs to me I don’t remember the last time I ate, and I wonder momentarily how I’ve accomplished to forget something so vital. Food, check. Flowers? That might be a nice welcoming for my parents. ATM for some cash. Gas for the car. The list builds in my mind as I collect my keys and purse, and finally the still-dark phone from the coffee table.

Rainy Santa Barbara is just as lovely as sunny Santa Barbara. I’ve always loved the contrast of grey skies, green trees and brown mountains. I drive along Cathedral Oaks in my Range Rover under the speed limit, taking into account the rain. No one else ever does but that’s California for you. A little sprinkling of water and no one knows what to do behind the wheel. I’m careful to the point of annoyance, but I don’t care. I’d rather arrive to my destination late than not at all.

A hard knot like a walnut forms in my throat as dark memories threaten to surface again. I swallow it down and push them aside, focusing my mind on driving, not reliving the past. I only resumed driving again three years ago, and have no desire to go beyond the recommended parameters of the Department of Motor Vehicles.

As I turn off the ignition in the parking lot outside Gelson’s and grab for my belongings I notice someone in a hoodie with a camera. My heart stops for a moment and I feel as though I have to force myself to take a fresh breath of air. I shake my head and open the door, making a beeline for the entrance as I haphazardly hold a scarf over my head and cling my purse to my chest. Inside the grocery store is warm and inviting, and I only feel slightly silly. I grab a cart and head for the farthest aisle to the right.

A trunk full of groceries and flowers later I make my way over to the San Roque area and park outside the bank. Not willing to stand in the rain to withdrawal money I head inside. It’s not busy at all and I’m seen by a teller almost immediately.

“Hi, I’d like to make a withdrawal,” I smile at the teller. He’s nicely dressed in a jacket and tie though he looks like he couldn’t be older than 21. I swipe my bank card and show him my driver’s license as he pulls me up. I think I see him do a double take as the screen changes and lights up his eyes.

“Miss Garrett, how much would you like to withdrawal?” he asks with a polite smile.

“Three hundred should be fine. In smaller bills, please.”

“Of course,” he acquiesces, removing a series of 20’s and 50’s from his top cash drawer. He counts the bills out in front of me and slides them forward. “If I may?” he starts again as I slip the bills into my wallet. He leans forward a bit. “We have several excellent accounts you might be interested in. Investment accounts, stocks, savings. Can I give you any information about either of those today?”

I let my wallet fall into my purse and give him a quizzical look. “Why?” I ask, and he has the decency to look almost embarrassed, but also a bit excited.

“We like to inform our valued clients of our available account options. You have a basic checking and savings account and I think you might be interested in something a bit more secure.”

What? “Are you telling me as a bank teller that my money is
not
secure?”

“Oh, no, no!” he concedes in horror. “Of course not, Miss Garrett. I just meant that we have several investment accounts you might be interested in while we keep your money secure for you.”

This is very odd. “What exactly is my balance?” I ask.

“Exactly?” he smiles, looking back to his screen. “$1,481,216.23.”

I can practically feel my face blanching as the blood drains away.

“And about double that in your savings.”

I vaguely remember having a similar conversation the last time I was in the bank, though I don’t remember how long ago that was.

“I’ll take care of that later. Thanks,” I add almost as an afterthought.

“If at any time you’d like that information about our account options please do not hesitate to ask.”

“I won’t,” I say with a tight smile before leaving. As I turn to exit I feel a small vibration coming from within my purse. I fish out my phone and see a new text notification across the middle of the screen.

Please. I’d like to talk.

Without a second glance I shove the phone back into my purse and retrieve my car keys. I fill up the Range Rover at a gas station a mile away from the house and then make my way back up the hill, regaining a sense of privacy and solitude the further up I go.

I spend the afternoon immersing myself in putting away groceries, setting out vases of flowers throughout the house and turning down the bed in my parent’s bedroom with freshly laundered sheets. The house is not particularly out of order but I make myself busy with fixing it up and making it clean and fresh anyway.

By the time I look up outside again the clouds have ceased raining and the sky has grown dark. I glance at my watch and see it’s just after 7pm and I realize I’m hungry. Purse and keys in hand, coat over my shoulders, I head out to the Rover and make the drive down to State Street. For a Wednesday night the shopping center at Paseo Nuevo is relatively free of people, but California Pizza Kitchen is buzzing with hungry patrons.

I’m greeted by a very cheerful blonde hostess who leads me to a section of tables where couples and groups of four have formed for dinner. She seats me at a table set for two and discreetly removes the extra set of silverware sitting at the opposite end of me.

There was a time I would have balked at seeing a woman sitting alone for dinner in a restaurant. I would have wondered why she was alone, if she was missing anyone, if she’d been stood up for a date, or if she had a dozen cats at home eagerly awaiting her return. I’ve since learned not to care.

After ordering a glass of white wine and a Waldorf salad I absentmindedly remove my phone from my purse and hit the home button.

I miss you.

Nick’s text is dominating the screen before I’ve even had a chance to unlock it. Half a dozen calls and three text messages and I’m no longer feeling nauseous and cold when I see his name. Instead I feel nothing. Or empty. A void.

I tap the photos app and a long gallery of colorful pictures pops up. Scrolling up and up I find my favorite: Tyler on his first birthday. Half his face and blonde hair is covered in thick white frosting and he is smiling profusely, frozen in a moment of utter bliss. Even with his eyes half shut I can see his bright blue eyes, see how they twinkle in delight and happiness. I can still hear the lilt in his giggle.

“Oh my, what an adorable child!” I look up to find a man being seated at the table next to me. He’s dressed in a finely tailored gray suit with a black tie loosened at his neck. He smiles up at the hostess and takes the menu from her as he sits.

“Sorry,” he smiles apologetically at me. “It’s rude for me to look. Yours?” he asks with interest.