Authors: Samantha Garman
Chapter 8
Kai
I wondered where I was as the countryside whizzed by the train window. I unscrewed my flask, took a long sip, and tapped my foot to the beat I heard in my head.
The prostitute in the Red Light District had been nice. I’d paid her, only to realize I didn’t want to sleep with her. Instead, we’d reclined in her bed, not saying a word. After my hour was up, I went down to a café, bought a blunt and smoked it.
Tristan would’ve told me I was crazy. Dream Tristan
did
tell me I was crazy. Dream Reece, softer, gentler, didn’t judge me aloud.
I’d seen and done so many things after they died. I started with the Great Wall of China and then journeyed to Hong Kong. The pollution in the air made the sun appear blood red, and had made me feel like I’d landed on an alien planet. The Great Pyramids of Egypt were hot and dusty, and I’d almost gotten spit on by a camel. Camels were mean bastards. I drank beer in mass quantities to combat the dourness of Prague. One night I’d even stripped and went for a midnight swim in the Vltava River. I’d gone sport fishing off the coast of Croatia, fallen off the boat and almost drowned. Almost.
None of it had made an impact.
I hadn’t made my way to South America yet. Maybe I’d go see the Mayan ruins and offer a blood sacrifice—to what end, I didn’t know.
The train stopped, and I got off. It was raining. God, did every place I traveled have to rain so much? I should visit an island with nothing but sun and white sand, and an endless supply of rum.
My baseball cap was sodden, and my clothes stuck to me; it’s what I got for not carrying an umbrella. Maybe I’d get pneumonia and die. A guy had to have dreams, didn’t he?
I walked around the old cobblestone square, dried off in a pub, and then soaked my blood in alcohol. I supposed I should find a place to sleep, if I didn’t want it to be a park bench.
Everything was written in French. I was in France, or so I believed—for the time being anyway.
•••
I picked up the mandolin and stroked its body like I would a woman. My fingers glided over the strings; it was familiar, comforting. It hadn’t always been the case. My grandfather had been relentless when teaching me to play. I remembered the hours of practice, the anger when I couldn’t move my hands the way they needed to, until one day everything connected.
My grandfather had been able to pick up any stringed instrument and master it, given enough time—it had been one of his many talents. I hoped I had inherited some of them, but I doubted it. The mandolin was the only thing I stuck with; nothing else held my interest. I was decent at many things, but proficient at few.
I was too smart for my own damn good—my parents had said it often enough. I’m not sure I believed them, since I felt steeped in mediocrity.
The moon shone through the window of the tiny studio I’d found in place of a park bench. No lights were on—not because I didn’t have electricity, but because I found the dark comforting, like this little town somewhere in the Loire Valley.
The notes came out mournful, poetic—a eulogy for the friends I’d lost. I’d played them many eulogies.
I uncorked the bourbon and drank straight from the bottle. When I was drunk enough, I asked, “Tristan? Reece? It’s your turn. Take a swig.”
But there was no answer from the ghosts that followed me; silence was the only reply—the bottle of bourbon and an old, scarred mandolin my only companions.
•••
“How did you get a girl like Lucy?” I demand, casting into the lake. Tristan catches his first fish while I reel in my fifth.
“Son of a bitch,” Tristan curses. “How am I supposed to win this competition?”
“My dream, my rules, remember?”
“Right.”
“Tell me about Lucy.”
“Fuck if I know. She’s the perfect woman. Not only did she knock beer bottles out of my hands, but she knocked sense into me on more than one occasion.” Tristan grins.
“You’ll find it, you know.”
“Will I? I’m not sure.”
“You won’t wander forever. You’ll find a reason to stay somewhere.”
“You were closer to her than you were to us, weren’t you?”
“It’s different,” Tristan explains. “When you meet the woman you’re supposed to spend your life with, you’ll understand.”
I shake my head. “You grew up, didn’t you? I didn’t even notice.”
“Happens to the best of us. It’s going to happen to you.”
I laugh. “Not if I have anything to say about it.”
Chapter 9
Sage
One night, when I’d been in France for a little over a week, Luc came to my door and demanded I get dressed. “Where are you taking me?” I asked, even as I grabbed my coat.
Luc grinned. “A dive.”
Dive was a generous description of the bar. It was a seedy hole-in-the-wall with an old jukebox and a few scarred, un-level pool tables. It was stuck in the ‘80’s, but as I was learning,
Tours
was a mishmash of culture from the past. That was part of its charm.
“What are you having?” Luc asked.
“How about a beer and a game of pool?”
“Rack ’em.”
I kicked his ass in pool, or he let me, and I introduced him to “Eye of the Tiger”. I didn’t think I would laugh again, not so soon after losing my mother. But laugh I did when a ridiculously drunk Luc played the song
over and over on the wailing jukebox, singing along off key and annoying the other patrons.
Taking pity on them, I selected a Tom Petty song, hoping Luc didn’t know the lyrics. I set down the pool cue and headed to the middle of the dance floor. I wasn’t a dancer by any means, but tonight, I wanted to move. It was probably the five beers I’d consumed, but still, I felt
good.
I was paying homage to Mom. She had loved classic rock, and had hundreds of compilation playlists on iTunes. Some days it had been nothing but Zeppelin, on others it was Simon and Garfunkel. I could always tell her mood by what music was playing.
Neon lights from beer signs painted my skin in a medley of fluorescent glow. I drank and danced until the world spun, and then I let Luc cart me out into the crisp night.
“You’re beautiful—did you know that?” he said, his hands steadying me while I stumbled like a clown on stilts.
“It’s not polite to lie to a woman,” I teased.
“I’m not lying.”
“Thanks for being here. You’re a good sport to put up with me.”
He gazed down into my eyes. “Sage, I—”
I stopped him from speaking by placing a hand on his chest. “I just need a friend, okay? I’m not ready for anything else.”
Luc squeezed my shoulder gently before turning me in the direction of home. “Okay.”
•••
The next morning, I threw on a pair of old sweats and a sweatshirt, and went in search of coffee and Luc in the main house.
Luc seemed to be a relationship kind of man. Until recently, I had been a relationship kind of woman, but I had been down that road with Connor, becoming entrapped in a loveless relationship. I didn’t want to make the same mistake again, and I needed time.
“Where’s Luc?” I asked Celia, who was at the desk sending an email. After typing something, she looked up.
“He went to visit his grandmother early this morning.”
I frowned.
“Do you want to tell me what happened? Don’t think of me as Luc’s mother.”
I smiled. “But you are, and I’d never say anything that would make you—”
“Look at him differently? You think I’m blinded by the love I have for my son?”
“Not if you’re anything like my mother.”
My mother’s revelations about me had often left me breathless, my feelings casualties in her war with truth.
Celia came out from behind the desk and led me into the kitchen. She poured me a cup of coffee and made me sit down. I began to talk. She had that look about her; her face was the blank page of a journal I wanted to fill.
I’d ruin Luc. My pain nearly smothered me—I wouldn’t willingly invite him in to share the weight of it. He deserved a woman who had things figured out, and that wasn’t me.
I never expected my mother’s death to be my release from a life on autopilot. Why did it take her dying for me to realize what life
wasn’t
about? Floating through experiences that failed to shape me was something I never wanted again. Would I ever want to be a writer? Did I really have a choice? The battlefield of life was strewn with shattered dreams. In my own war, would I triumph or fall?
•••
A week later, Luc still hadn’t returned. Though he had been graceful about being denied, it appeared I had wounded him deeper than I knew.
I started helping Celia work the front desk, putting my fluent French to good use, answering emails and phone calls, and giving directions to guests. Nights were spent holed up in my cottage with a bottle of wine.
Some days, my sadness was an annoying buzz in the back of my head and I managed to compartmentalize it. On other days, it was an unchained beast snapping its ugly jaws around my heart. Tears caught me at strange moments, and at times I couldn’t contain them. I lost hours trapped in sorrow with no hope for escape.
One afternoon, Celia said to me, “It’s time for you to go.”
Startled, I looked at her. “What?”
She grinned. “Go enjoy
Tours
. You’ve hardly seen the city. Don’t you want to explore?”
“No, I don’t. I’m not ready.”
“Yes, you are. Go. I’m serious.”
I’d been hiding, but it seemed I wouldn’t be allowed to anymore. With no choice, I did as commanded.
•••
I wandered through the heart of downtown. Compact cars littered the main drag of the idyllic city. The streets were nearly empty of pedestrians due to the impending rain, and it felt like I had the town to myself. I passed
pâtisseries
, and the tantalizing aromas of freshly baked goods pierced the damp winter air. I ambled along curvy, cobblestone streets, and found myself in front of an inconspicuous bookstore. Before I could stop myself, I went inside, and a tiny brass bell announced my presence to the shopkeeper. The aisles were narrow, and the store seemed to be bursting with books from floor to ceiling, yet there was a certain efficiency about the quaint shop. I spotted a section containing pens and notebooks, picked up a dark brown leather journal and held it in my hands. I brought it to my nose and inhaled the scent of
Tours
.
It was afternoon when I entered a café and sat at a small table, ordered a glass of wine, and pulled out my new journal and pen. I wanted to put down words, but nothing came. Had they finally abandoned me, or had I forced them away?
Staring out the window, I watched evening come. A waiter moved around the restaurant lighting candles on the tables. Customers, eager to be out of the cold, filled the doorway and began to take seats. I studied the menu and thought about ordering three entrees when I heard a voice in English say, “You’re what Michelangelo hoped to create.”
I looked up, a wry grin on my lips. I saw a stubble-spattered jaw, dark hair sticking out from under a University of Tennessee cap, and wounded blue-gray eyes. Sitting back in my chair, I projected lazy insolence, hoping it would scare him off. “Does that line
really
work?”
“You tell me.” He plopped down in the vacant chair across from me without invitation.
I frowned. “I’m waiting for someone.”
“No, you’re not.”
“I’m not?” I tapped the pen rapidly on the table.
“Nope, because I’m here.” He pushed back his hat and smiled.
I sighed. “Why did you speak English?”
He plucked the pen from my fingertips and moved it through his knuckles like I’d seen musicians do with a guitar pick. I hated that I was mesmerized by the action. Shaking it off, I realized he was just another careless, handsome man who knew that he was universally adored by women.
But not me.
“Look around you,” he said. “You dress differently than the rest of this lot. I took a gamble and spoke in English. And I was right, wasn’t I?”
“So what? You spotted an American in France. Big deal.”
His joking demeanor disappeared as he said, “You’re sad.”
His accurate assessment took me completely off guard. “No, I’m not.”
“Yeah, you are.”
“What makes you say that?” I crossed my arms over my chest in a subconsciously defensive gesture.
He peered at me before answering. “I’ve traveled the world. I know sadness when I see it.”
All my effort at hiding my anguish in plain sight had been for nothing. Unbidden tears began to flood my eyes. I was starting to cry in front of a complete stranger.
His hand reached for mine in a gesture of comfort that Connor never could have mustered. Despite not knowing my new companion, I didn’t pull away. I was lost in an ocean of feeling, but I managed to pull myself together. I finally withdrew my hand, grabbed my pen and journal, and shoved them into my bag.
“Wait,” he said, realizing I was about to depart.
With great reluctance, I glanced at him.
“I’m supposed to play here tonight. Will you stay for just one song?”
Without waiting for my response, he rose and went to a stool at the back of the restaurant. He picked up a mandolin resting in the corner, and I watched his fingers press against the strings as he struck a chord. He began to play a song that made me feel more alone than I thought possible. It evoked a memory so powerful, that it made me rise from my seat and rush out into the night.
I was light-headed, shaky, and terrified.
The song was a trigger, a broken melody of a summer long ago in Prospect Park when Béla Fleck had given a concert. My mother and I had sat on the grass, a picnic basket between us, drinking wine out of plastic red cups. When I heard that song for the first time, it stuck in my mind, lingering like a hazy dream. For months after, I repeatedly listened to the song on my iPod while words spilled from my pen, forming into a manuscript.
It was the manuscript my mother had found.
Needing to escape my feelings, I walked through the rain, unmindful of where my legs carried me. I wanted to find a liquor store so I could drown my emotions. I entertained the idea of getting a bottle of my mother’s favorite scotch, but this was no celebration. It was a time of forgetting, so a bottle of anything would do.