Authors: Vivienne Harris-Scott
After
a pause, I said,
”
She
’
s not with me, I worry about her
constantly, and this is why I need to go and see him. I can
’
t call him out of the blue and discuss
this over a phone conversation. It needs to be face to face
…”
At
the mention of Maddie, Marcus had paled; he knew I never, ever, spoke her name.
I
could see from his expression, my admission was very unsettling for him. I
could see he was now more worried than ever, but he decided to go back to the
subject at hand, by asking,
“
Even if there
’
s a chance she doesn
’
t feel as you do? After all, what if she
doesn
’
t
share your feelings?
”
looking at me quizzically.
“
Yes. I know in my gut she feels the same
way I do; but even if I
’
m
wrong, I want her safe. I need to know she doesn
’
t live in fear, and if I can do that for
her by talking to Ethan, then it simply needs to be done.
”
“
How long will you stay there?
”
he had asked, with a worried expression.
“
As long as I need to.
”
He
had chuckled,
“
Ari
will be pissed
…”
I
brushed the argument aside,
“
Ari
is already pissed, but I don
’
t
care about any of that
…
I
just need to do this for her, for us.
”
We
had looked at each other for a long time, until Marcus finally said with a
grin,
“
All
right. Nothing I
’
ll
say will dissuade you. So, do whatever it takes.
”
((~~!~~))
Yeah, maybe Marcus was right. I had felt
so sure, but 8 hours into this trip, with my memories assaulting me without
reprieve, I wondered if I had made the right decision to confront Ethan about
Vi.
Did
I really want to dredge up whatever it was that happened between them, when I
felt my own life spiralling out of control because of her?
I
wasn
’
t
so sure anymore.
She
had managed to awaken my heart. A feat, no one else had succeeded in doing, and
I figured I owed her this much for that reason alone, but I won
’
t lie, I was scared she would break it
just as easily.
If
that was the case, that would be it for me. There wouldn
’
t be anything or anyone who could ever
mend it.
Maybe,
this trip was a terrible idea after all, I said to myself as I reclined the
leather seat, and tried to catch some dreamless sleep.
How do you mend a broken heart?
Julian
August 2004. Sydney. Australia.
I needed to leave.
Yes,
leave and never come back.
I
swore to Belinda that she would pay for what she did, even if it was the last
thing I did on this earth.
Call
me cruel, but when I last saw her in her hospital room, silent and unmoving in
her bed, while the attending was telling me her condition was tenuous at best
and even if it improved she might be a prisoner of her body for the rest of her
life, I smiled.
Yes,
I smiled. And then, told her I was happy fate took care of her punishment but
if she ever got better, I
’
d
be the one to put her back in the hell she deserved.
I
meant it.
((~~!~~))
My daughter was dead. His son was fighting
for his life. His wife was in a
coma.
He
was an empty shell. I was a ghost of myself.
We
were at the hospital cafeteria. My lawyer, Todd Spencer, was doing the talking
in the administrator
’
s
office. Ethan and I just looked at each other, unable to speak.
Our
meeting wasn
’
t
a coincidence. I wished to leave the country as soon as possible, but because I
wanted to take my daughter
’
s
remains, Ethan was the one yielding power to make it happen, applying pressure
to members of the hospital board and coroner
’
s office.
((~~!~~))
After the death of his daughter, Julian
seemed to turn in on himself, taking the pain of his loss somewhere deep down
into his psyche. He had no outcry, shed no tears, and sadly, a gulf seemed to
open between him and the rest of the world, his sister included.
A
private ceremony at St. Patrick Church was held for the funeral of his daughter
three days after her death. Only six people were privy of the details and
attended it. Himself, his sister and her husband, Marcus, Todd and Ethan.
He
would leave the country the very same evening.
The
death of his mother had been harder than expected, and he had hardly recovered.
His daughter had been his unique motivation for not letting himself fall
completely into a deep depression.
Now,
for the second time in his life in so many months, Julian was flung into the
abyss of despair. He wouldn
’
t
fight it. There simply was nothing left in him.
Ethan
was with him at the airport on this last night. As the men held each other,
both suffering tremendous pain, they said their goodbyes, and Julian parting
words to his dear friend were,
“
Thank
you for everything E. If you ever need help, just let me know. I will be there.
”
Ethan had just nodded and said,
“
Just take care of yourself Jay, just try.
You will survive this.
”
And he had walked away;
leaving for the hospital where an uncertain future awaited him.
When
Julian boarded the private jet taking him back to LA, he looked through the
window and thought:
”
I
’
ll never set foot in Sydney ever again.
”
((~~!~~))
When he got home, Consuela was waiting for
him. When he entered the house and was alone, she gave him a questioning look.
He realized no one had told her. Unable to explain, he just said,
“
They are both gone. Consuela, I need you
to pack up and leave...Please call Marcus, he
’
ll take care of you.
”
and proceed to go to his room where he
stayed for three days straight unable to move.
Those
who knew him were amazed. Knowing Julian
’
s usually extravert personality, and his natural
love of all things living, people were waiting for temperamental signs of his
loss while a speedy recovery was in the works.
Instead,
the love that had always flowed easily between brother and sister, between
Julian and is core inner circle, was brutally interrupted. Melissa and the
people close to him had expected signs of great grief, floods of tears, some
external signs of bereavement. They saw none, apart from a grim isolation as he
went into his own inner prisons of grief.
The
pain of his beloved daughter's passing was too great for him to be interested
in anything or anyone, including his now only living relative. He couldn
’
t work, stayed home, barely ate, and spent
most of his time going through the family photo albums, watching videos of his daughter
or simply sat staring into space, in silence.
The
‘
why
’
s
’
questions, the guilt and
‘
If
only's
’
obsessed him and prevented him to return
amongst the livings. He was angry at the world, with himself, but also with
Belinda. She got her punishment, and was in a world of suffering until death
took her according to the doctor he saw last, and he was glad for it; but he
would never get his.
He
was truly broken hearted. His guilt swallowing his every breath. Yet, he
hadn
’
t
shed a single tear since that day at the hospital when he had learned of her
death. He couldn
’
t.
Friends,
relatives and acquaintances ceased calling after the first few weeks of his
return to LA, as his messaging service was disconnected. Even Consuela wasn
’
t allowed back in the house. He lived in
the dark world of his loss. His mansion, a no-go zone.
For
the first four months, he dropped out of the face of the earth and lived in a
castle of loneliness neither his sister nor his friends could enter. Finally,
as the New Year of 2005 came, so did a change in focus. He couldn
’
t bear to be alone anymore, so he decided
to go back to work and made the decision to wrap himself into it. He made his
first phone call of the year, in the morning of the first day of the year,
waking Ari up at 7:00 a.m., and begged him to have him involved in as many
features as possible as soon as possible, money and location were irrelevant as
long as he didn
’
t
have to be anywhere near Australia. Independently or studio produced, he didn
’
t care, he would even star in plays if
someone asked. He
NEEDED
to work. Ari, shell-shocked by the impromptu
return of his infamous client, jumped for joy and promised to have him signed
up by the end of the day.
Julian
left his house and filmed a record of 17 movie pictures during the course of
the next 8 months, going from one project to the next, city-to-city,
country-to-country, in a blur.
It
was on the day of the first anniversary of his daughter
’
s death that the storm finally broke. Four
days prior, Julian had flown back to LA from his latest project, rehired
Consuela, and for the first time since returning from Australia, unwrapped the
urn where Maddie
’
s
remains were stored, and looked at it. He had called Marcus and told him he
wanted to edify a gravesite for his daughter, in his garden. He wanted a
statute of his daughter representing her resting place; they would bury the urn
underneath it.
Marcus
had commissioned a local sculptor to get the job done and ready in 72 hours in
exchange of the lump sum of $60,000.
On
the day of the anniversary, as the two men stood in front of her gravesite
site, tears were finally streaming down his face. His friend put his arms
round him and wept with him.
He
flew to London the next day to finish yet another movie.
((~~!~~))
Julian had clung to his work instead of continued weeping and mourning
that most people had expected and looked for; and as can so often happen in
times of great emotional crisis, the undiscriminating emotions turned down
strange and unexpected channels.
September
2005 rolled in, and Julian was back in LA, as his latest project had wrapped up
in London. The
Emmy
’
s were his first public appearance since
his daughter
’
s
death. A dazzling starlet accompanied him, - courtesy of Ari
’
s ever working agent
’
s mind -, and when he won a double award
that night, he celebrated by sleeping with her.
Julian
had not been sexually close to a woman for over a year, - filming
notwithstanding -, his sexual needs had been buried with his grief, and now, as
his grief was bursting to the surface, he needed a conduit to let it out.
He
wasn
’
t
feeling like his old self again, but could behave like him. With one glaring
difference: Julian was now %100 cerebral. Emotional Julian had died with his
baby.
He
came back among the living. With a vengeance. From then on, he decided he would
never let his emotions or his heart control his life. He
’
d never, ever, let himself be in a
position to lose control, and get hurt again.
He
wanted to feel alive, every day for the rest of his life. He had to expunge the
grief that threatened to swallow him alive at every minute.
Sex
would be his outlet.