Restore Me (3 page)

I didn’t know this level of fear was even
possible.

I stop at the doors of his closet. I don’t know
what the hell I’m doing. I know I need to choose his clothing, but
I haven’t the slightest idea what he would want if he were here.
Not a suit. Every time I saw him wearing a suit, it was as undone
as possible. His tie knotted, but loosened; cuffs undone and rolled
up; jacket discarded someplace; top button undone and peeled back
just enough to see the dip between his collarbones at the base of
his neck.

I make my way to the long rack of clothing. My
hands lift, of their own volition, and drift over the garments. I
grasp multiple pieces in my hands. Soft flannel. Worn chambray.
Crisp dress shirts. I know I’m only torturing myself, but I lean in
and bury my face in the fabric. I seek out his scent, drawing it
through my nose. I want to imagine him in these clothes, in this
closet with me, talking about nothing at all. Just touching and
watching one another. The clothes don’t smell of him. They don’t
smell of the Damon I know and fell for so easily. They smell clean,
almost sterile, and it only drives home the reality of what has
happened. I want him back. Whirlwind courtship or not, I want him
back; just the way he was. Just the way I had him. I want my Damon.
I want my love.

The urge to cry is all I’ve known for days now.
I sobbed initially. I ugly cried so hard I was damn near sick. The
stinging sensation of looming tears is there, but they won’t come
now. I’ve heard the saying “all out of tears” before, but I didn’t
think anything of it. I suppose I assumed that it was another one
of those stupid adages that people insist on overusing. Serious as
a heart attack; the apple never falls far from the tree; what goes
around comes around, and all those other bullshit things I usually
tune out. Actually, I think I tune out nearly everything that
others say. I consider it a gift.

I slide the clothes I need from the hangers,
shirt, pants, jacket, shoes, and tuck them neatly into a bag. I
mechanically gather some of my personal effects, too. Poor
Hemingway has no clue what’s going on. My sweet little pup has no
idea what’s going on; he just knows something is wrong. Dogs know
these things. I look down and there he is, my little Hemingway,
curious eyes peeking out of scraggly gray fur. I bend down, ruffle
his scruffy head, and scoop him up.

“Let’s get going. No use in putting it off. You
gotta do what you gotta do, right?” I ask the dog, cringing when I
hear the stupid adage sail out of my mouth.
Stupid fucking
adages.

I drift around the penthouse in a daze, one hand
on the bag of Damon’s clothes, the other cuddling Hemingway. When I
cross through the library, I pause for a beat and feel like tears
may actually come. I wait, hoping for the emotion I’m missing. It’s
a testament to my pathological self-destructive behavior. Somewhere
in my screwed up head, I think that maybe, if I could cry really
hard, I’d feel better; I’d cry it all out and get it over with. I
guess I feel like if I wept long enough and hard enough, the burden
of guilt might be lifted.

“So stupid.”

I stare blankly at the library, at the shelves
of books, at the chair where he took my mind, soul and body. No
amount of sobbing could possibly erase what I feel. It’s my fault
he did what he did. It’s me who didn’t ask for the whole story
about the accident. It’s me who assumed it was Damon driving. The
boy at the scene kept saying it was his fault. I always assumed
that meant he was driving. If I hadn’t left him, none of this
would’ve happened.

I hug Hemingway under my arm so tightly that he
lets out a contemptuous bark, as if to say, “ease up, lady!” and
make my way out. I’m supposed to meet Brian, Damon’s loyal PA, in
half an hour to sort out the dreaded “details,” and I’m running
late. I’m not looking forward to it, but I know it has to be
done.

I close the door to the penthouse as quietly as
possible; and just like that, I feel like I’ve officially closed
the door to our future.

Thirty minutes later, I’m in my office at the
store. I set my things down and take a look around at the place.
The remodel has been postponed, and a thick layer of drywall dust
has settled over everything. Boxes are stacked four and five high
throughout the deserted store. The old cash register has been
cleared out to make room for the new computer system. The place
smells odd without books crowding the shelves, giving off the scent
of ink and paper that I’m familiar with. “Pretty bad, huh?” I ask
Hemingway. He huffs out a deep breath of air and settles into his
fluffy dog bed beneath my desk. “Yeah, I know it’s a mess.” I
glance back down at my pup and find him asleep.
Great.
I’m talking to myself again
.

The bag from the penthouse stares at me, waiting
to be dealt with, and I begin doing just that. I don’t have much
time until Brian gets here, so I suppose I should hurry along. I
set Damon’s clothes carefully aside for Brian then unload my own
random stuff. I put away my four-cup coffee maker, shove a handful
of pens in the desk drawer, toss miscellaneous toiletries into my
purse, and prop a newly-framed photo of Captain on the corner of my
desk.

I just had the photo framed this week and picked
it up on my way to the store. I wanted a reminder of Captain, so I
shamelessly rummaged through his house looking for a photo of him,
finally finding one in an old footlocker in the attic. I nearly had
heatstroke digging through the stuff up there; it’s August and the
desert heat is horrid. I was dripping in sweat by the time I found
the damn thing, but it was worth it. It’s a photo of a much younger
Captain, standing in front of the store looking as proud as can be.
The handwritten note on the back said “Grand Opening, April 3,
1972.” When I pulled it from the sheaf of papers and other photos,
I knew it was exactly what I needed. It had only been two days
since I found Damon, and I was an emotional wreck with a need to
see Captain. I wanted to talk to him, but that obviously wasn’t
happening. And I’d rather talk to a picture than a headstone. I
brushed my fingers across the outline of his face in the photo and
cried for a good hour, alone in a blistering hot attic. I haven’t
cried since then.

His photo looks fitting sitting on the desk.
When the store is finished, I think I’ll move him out to the front
near the register, so he can see what his store has become. I know
he’s looking over my shoulder from up there, anyway; might as well
have an outward reminder. I miss him more than ever. I wish I had
him to bicker with; to play Battle of the Wits with; to eat shitty
Chinese takeout with. I miss him; especially now.

I never realized my attachment to Captain was as
strong as it was; what it still is, until he was gone. I loved him
and now that he’s gone, naming me as his beneficiary, I know that
the old codger loved me, too. Our relationship seemed to be based
on mutual tolerance, and I don’t know that it could’ve gone any
other way. I’m a disaster area and so was he. He spoke very little
about the nasty divorce and estranged family that did him in; I
don’t exactly know the reason for the fallout, but I know that it
destroyed him. It made him lonely and bitter, so we were lonely and
bitter together. It worked for us. I had someone to be accountable
to and he did, too. We had a bond even if we didn’t recognize
it.

A lump grows in my throat and I do my best to
swallow it before fucking choking on it. Still no tears. If he were
still alive, I’d hug him as hard as I could and tell him that it’s
okay that we’re both all fucked up, because at least we’re all
fucked up together. Even the screwed up, damaged people in the
world need someone to love and rely on. Maybe that’s why Damon and
I got along so well so fast; I’d had a lot of practice coexisting
with sad, damaged Captain.

“Knock-knock!”

I shake off my emotion and walk out of the
office into the store to see Brian standing awkwardly amidst the
construction, man-purse slung over his shoulder. He’s a textbook
gay man who’s
very
out of the closet. Actually, he may have
never been in the closet at all. I kind of think he was born
wearing skinny jeans, a fashion-forward blazer, and designer
frames.

I take a deep breath to regain my composure
after my moment of sulking. “Come on in!” I call as brightly as I
can manage. “Watch out for the shit stacked everywhere. It’s a damn
war zone in here.”

“Oh, honey, you got that right,” he says as he
surveys the place with a discriminating eye.

“C’mon in here.” I wave him back to Captain’s
office; my office.

Brian follows, picking his way through piles of
boxes and renovation supplies. He grabs my old chair and drags it
from the wall to sit closer to me. We both settle in and stare for
a moment. “How are you, honey?” he asks, patting my hand
soothingly.

I take a deep breath and let it hit the bottom
of my lungs before exhaling. I lean back in Captain’s rickety chair
and stare at the ceiling for a moment, willing myself to stay
composed. I try to remind myself that Brian might be having a hard
time, too. He and Damon were close; they’ve known each other for
years. Brian has been Damon’s assistant for a long time. He’s spent
more time with Damon than anyone else has.

“It’ll get better, honey. I promise. You can’t
beat yourself up, okay?” Brian should sound completely patronizing,
but he doesn’t. His voice is soft and melodic and I suddenly want
to tell him everything.

Of course I can beat myself up!
It’s my
fault. I could’ve stopped him. I could have prevented it all. But I
didn’t and I’m paying for it. I deserve to suffer. I pin him to his
seat with a dirty look that screams “shut the fuck up!” The problem
is, Brian has more attitude than even I do and he knows how to take
a dirty look like a pro. He raises his waxed brows, purses his
balm-covered lips, and clicks his tongue at me. I swear, this
petite, blonde-haired, blue-eyed gay man is on his way into friend
territory and I can’t say I mind. I could use another friend.

“You know, your dirty looks don’t change the
fact that I’m right.” He narrows his eyes and crosses his arms over
his chest, dramatically shaking his head from side to side.

I’m somewhere between wanting to laugh and
breaking down. I don’t know if I’m coming or going and this still
all seems like a bad dream. Brian helps, though. I like his brazen
attitude. He’s outspoken and outlandish and doesn’t take shit from
anyone. I admire him. He’s been by my side since I found Damon on
the side of the road.

If it weren’t for Brian, my gay almost-friend,
and Noni, my middle-aged almost-friend, I’d be truly alone. I
thought I was alone before, but I wasn’t. I haven’t been truly
alone in a long time. I’ve had Captain and Noni for seven years. I
never realized that, in spite of the fact that they we weren’t
technically family, they were still mine. They had my back and I
had theirs; and that should be enough for anyone. I had Damon for a
little while, and now, Brian has joined the ranks. It may be
trivial to most people, but it isn’t to me. Now that I understand
what I had; what I have; I’m creating my own little family support
system.

I finally nod. I shouldn’t beat myself up about
anything that happened, I know this in theory. And while I don’t
agree wholeheartedly, I’ll appease my new friend for now.

He gives a small smile, digs his tablet from his
bag, and opens to a checklist. “Did you bring his clothes?”

The mention of it makes this small office even
smaller. His clothes.

I lean forward in the creaky chair and rest my
forehead on my folded arms. “Yes,” I mumble weakly.

“Okay, good.” He consults his list. “I’m setting
up an appointment with Dr. Versan for you. Just show up, okay?”

“Yeah.” I have very little interest in seeing
Versan, but I have to admit that maybe he does know a little about
this psychology shit and he
does
get me thinking, though not
necessarily talking, about things. Besides, now, because of
everything with Damon, I have to see Versan regularly. It’s the
only way to handle this.

“And you’ve talked to Beatrice?”

“Grams,” I remind him. “Call her Grams when you
see her. She hates being called Beatrice.”

“Ok, Grams. And Grams has spoken with Edward?
Discussed our plans?”

I shiver a little with the mention of Damon’s
asshole of a father. “Yes, she’s been in touch with Edward,” I
confirm. “He knows, but he won’t be there.”

Brian nods and clicks through a few more pages
on his tablet, making notes. “Well, I’m ready when you are,” he
finally says, flipping the tablet closed and shoving it back into
his man-purse.

I groan on the inside, knowing what I have to
do. It’s going to take everything I have to give, but there’s no
other option. I have no choice. Damon made this decision for me. I
scoop up Hemingway and hand the pup over to Brian. “Okay. Let’s
go.”

***