To Catch a Falling Star (30 page)

Yeah, I’m pissed. He can’t disregard me like this.

“Tell me how you feel when you remember your parents’ words,” he finally says with a deep and serious tone.

“Shitty. How else can I feel when I remember I’m worthless?”

“See, I like to compartmentalize things in my mind. And we sure can pull out a few things from this little story of yours.”

Dan walks to a window and I follow him.

“First, you are not worthless. Second, the fact you are so mad with my lack of response is just great. Third, the negative way your parents handled you should never be used as a trigger or an excuse,” Dan says.

“Oh. Since it never occurred to me that there was a correct protocol on how to behave when the only people I relied on hated me, yeah, drinking and shooting up sounded just swell.” I spray the Windex and forcefully wipe the smooth glass.

“There isn’t a particular protocol, Tarry. There is a variety of choices, though. However, when you are buried in self-pity you are unequipped to produce a better response.”

“I don’t feel sorry for my lame self.”

“You do, son. And that’s okay. The vulnerable little boy inside you struggles to be more resilient. It’s a daily battle.”

“I don’t want to feel this huge void that consumes me day in and day out.”

“You don’t have to.”

“How?”

“By reacting, Tarry. You are a passive spectator in your own life. It’s okay to get pissed at your life, your parents, and yourself. Feel all of it, Tarry. You need to feel. To live. Being angry can be very cathartic. You do have a voice. Learn to use it.”

“You are right. Sometimes it feels as if I’m outside my own life, looking without being allowed in,” I say.

“When you compose and perform you channel all your anger and sorrows. I can feel it with each note. But there is a real world out here, son. You need to navigate through your feelings in the real world. Suppressing and ignoring your emotions makes you numb. But numbness can be more harmful than the pain it replaces.”

“When I stand on stage I feel the rush through my body. It’s just my music and me even though millions of people are watching. Even when I’m high—which was always, I feel every atom of my being alive.”

“But life is not a rehearsal or a performance, son. You’ve only got one shot.”

“I just don’t know how to do it in real life, Dan,” I whisper.

“Deep down you do, son. At this very moment, you are confronting the inertia consuming your being. That’s a step toward freedom.”

“I want to be free. I really do,” I say without giving a damn to the fact I sound like a wimp.

“What your parents said to you that day, and throughout your childhood, is a lie. They lied to you. But the worst part is that you bought into it.”

“The part they didn’t love in me is very much true.”

“You need to know who you really are. Then you will understand your worth. We are intricately and uniquely created. There is an infinite well of precious treasures flowing inside us.”

“I want to believe you, Dan, I really do.”

“Now that you relapsed, what is your greatest fear?”

“To actually succeed and remain sober.”

“That’s progress, son. It is.” He taps my shoulder and to my disbelief, I’m disappointed the session is over.

“READY?” I ASK Ella.

“Yes, Mommy.” She blows a kiss to Tim and says a lighthearted “Bye, Daddy.” I wrap her hand inside mine as we leave the graveyard.

“Is Uncle Tarry coming today?” she asks.

“Yeah, at seven, after his workout with Uncle Lucas.”

We stroll back home. It feels strange to go back to Tim’s grave. The last time I was here was when Tarry took me home. My memories of Tim are fading, slowly and unmercifully. They now seem like black-and-white, and crumpled snapshots of a previous life.

Today, Ella drew a picture at school and asked if we could bring it to her dad. To my surprise, not once during the past two weeks had I remembered to come back. My heart clenches at the realization. But for the first time in the last five years, grief doesn’t consume me.

“Mommy, do you like Uncle Tarry a lot?” Ella asks.

“Sure I do. Don’t you?

“I don’t know.”

“I thought you did.”

“I do, but I don’t.”

“What you mean, sweetie?”

“He is nice, and I really like that he teaches me to play guitar. But what if you like him more than you like me?” She glances up at me, her green eyes big and stormy. They are too intense for her young years.

“Oh, I see. You have mixed feelings. That’s okay to feel that way, Ella.”

“But I feel bad. Uncle Tarry is so sad. Maybe he really needs you to be his friend. He always looks at you funny,” she says.

Ella’s worries hit me. She needs reassurance of my unconditional love. I wonder if I have let Tarry get to close to us. He has been coming over every night for the past two weeks. He has dinner with us and, after Ella’s guitar lesson, he lights the fireplace and sits with us until Ella’s bedtime. Truth is, I know better, but I can’t push him away. I feel awful. This reckless behavior can harm Ella. For once, I want to be irresponsible. But not to the expense of Ella’s emotions.

To my defense, Tarry has not touched me since that night in the bathroom. Sometimes I catch him staring at me, as if I’m his last meal before he walks the line. But other than those almost furtive glances, he has treated me as the best of friends. Which honestly has started to disappoint me deeply.

“Mommy, what are mixed feeling? It sounds like pancake mix.”

“That’s exactly right. It is when different feelings mix, sort of liking and disliking someone all in one bowl,” I say with a laugh, but kneel down in front of her.

“Ella, I like Uncle Tarry. He is a good friend. But the place you have inside my heart is yours alone. Never, not ever, will anyone else occupy that space.”

“I don’t want to have guitar lessons anymore,” she whispers.

“But you’re doing so well.” I wonder what she is thinking.

“It’s boring,” she says.

“Ella, please tell me the real reason.”

“Mommy, is it mixed feelings to want someone to never go away?”

“What you mean, Ella?”

“I don’t want Uncle Tarry to go away. But he told me he would. Then, I’m going to miss him, like you miss Daddy. I don’t want to miss him when he goes away. So, I thought I could miss him before he goes. Then, I can still see him and not cry the way you do when you don’t see Daddy.”

“Oh, sweetheart, guess what? I’ll ask Uncle Tarry to give you his cell phone number. When you miss him, you can call him. Okay?”

She thinks for a moment. “Remember when we did a place mat for Grandpa and Pop to remember us during their meals? Can we make one for Uncle Tarry, and write all the numbers of our phone on it for him to call us? Miss Mary said it’s good to practice my numbers,” she says, referring to her kindergarten teacher.

“Then, we’re going to need some very special leaves. I’ll help you pick the best ones.”

Today is the third Wednesday of the month and Ella has only a half a day, so I took time off work. We walk for another hour, giggling and picking leaves. A carpet of hued foliage has spread on the sidewalk. Each leaf seems to be murmuring pleas of “Pick me, pick me!” It’s as if they know this to be the last chance to display their beauty.

We sit at the desk and select leaves for the collage.

She proudly admires her work. “Do you think he’ll like it?” she asks.

“I’m sure he will.” On the bottom of the mat, she signs her name in pink crayon and uneven letters. Together, we laminate the mat.

“Let’s wash our hands and prepare dinner.” A soft tap at the door interrupts us. As if I’m one of Pavlov’s salivating dogs, my heart does a regular little flip at this time of the day when Tarry arrives.

Before I answer, he opens the door and walks in.

“Hi, I’m early, but I got dinner,” he says, placing a paper bag on the counter.

“Uncle Tarry!” Ella storms to him. Tarry embraces her small body and picks her up. “What is my favorite student doing?” He kisses her cheeks.

“Look, I did this for you.” She hands him the laminated paper clutched in her fingers.

“Wow, thanks, Ella,” he says, examining the artwork.

“This is my number, so when you go away, you will call me. Mommy says that if you call me I won’t have to cry like she cries when she misses Daddy.”

My face flushes red with embarrassment at the crude reality her innocent words convey. Jeez, Ella has no filter on what comes out of her little mouth.

“I’ll call you under one condition.” Tarry gazes my way. In his stormy eyes, I see a battle of emotions. But he looks back at Ella, and says, “That you’ll call me every time you miss me.” He cocks his head and smiles. But I see he is touched by Ella’s gift.

“I promise.” She beams at him.

It hits me that Ella is falling for the guy as fast and hard as I am. Again, I question my wisdom in allowing her to get so close to Tarry. I need to put some distance between us all. Ella has a pure heart; I don’t want her to get attached to Tarry to the point where she will suffer when he leaves.

I can handle my broken heart when Tarry leaves, but it is unforgivable that I place Ella in the position of suffering over him.

After dinner, Ella and Tarry have their customary lesson. Then, Ella heads to bed while I talk to Tarry.

“That’s a nice gift.” Tarry is sitting on the barstool.

“Yeah, Ella likes you.”

“What’s not to like?” He cocks his head.

“Fresh ass, you are.”

“So, do you want to get some soup tomorrow? Since I don’t have therapy, I can pick you guys up after my workout.”

“Actually, Ella and I have some plans,” I say nonchalantly. “Maybe Saturday?” I ask, fully aware it’s only Wednesday. Mom and Dad went away to a pastors’ convention for the week. It’s a perfect opportunity to spend extra time with Tarry, but I need to taper the time we spend with him.

“Oh, okay.” His eyes turn a deeper shade of gray. “I’ll text you tomorrow. Maybe Friday I can stop by.”

My heart clenches. Tarry senses something is off. How can I put his needs and my needs before Ella’s well-being? I wish I could explain to him. But any conversation would sound presumptuous.