It was pretty cool seeing Ash again. On tour with Funkasaurus Rex, singing, playing guitar. The cocaine pretty much behind me. Okay, maybe I had a bump here and there but it was nowhere near where it was, not thousands of dollars every day right up my nose. Just a bump if one came my way. I've never been a purest. And I was taking my meds, mostly. Usually.
So seeing Ashley was cool. She looked different, but not since I was in Toronto last. That trip was a blur, a drugged out blur, and I barely saw her that time, just saw her once at the first show sitting with Jimmy. I mean, I always think of her like how she looked in grade 11, the short hair, the punky clothes. Now she's all sophisticated. A woman. It was almost scary, but in a good way.
I was in the little hallway that leads to backstage when I hear my name. I kind of froze. I recognized her voice, the way she says my name and makes it carry. I shivered, turned around, and there she was. Long curly hair shiny and sleek, those different clothes, little shirt, black high heeled boots. She'd reinvented herself again.
"Ash," I said, and her wide smile, the blue eyes. She gave me her kindest smile and maybe I read a thousand things into it, like she forgave me for all the shit and hoped I forgave her, too. That we could move on now since we were older.
Talking with her before the show I realized how much I had missed her, how much of my fucking up was because I was lost without her. Manny never compared to her. Ellie…it was too bad about Ellie. She was always just a friend for me but I know she had wanted more. I know I really hurt Ellie when I told her I loved her and I kissed her backstage.
We had coffee and talked, and I thought I could keep things in perspective. I could function without Ashley. It had taken me awhile to figure out how but I had, and I could do it. It was just real nice to see her again. So I asked her if she'd like to come up and sing with us, and I told her sincerely that her voice was awesome. It was no line or flattery. She was incredibly talented. At song writing, at composing, at singing. So she couldn't handle things with us in grade 11. There was a lot I couldn't handle, either.
The show was awesome. I glimpsed Manny dancing with Jay and she didn't even look up at the stage once. It's okay. I looked at Ashley, her eyes that light blue under the long lashes, and I could hear her voice next to mine.
I didn't want to officially say we were back together but it felt like it. Getting coffee every morning, talking, reading the paper, kisses on the cheek. Playing the shows, taking her hand, listening to her voice, her amazing voice rising over everything.
At night, in all the different hotel rooms, just me and her. Candles lit, the eerie flickery glow making her look kind of scary and mysterious. Beautiful. I was still in love with her. Maybe I always had been, it hadn't gone away. Manny and cocaine and the record deal and moving to Vancouver was all just a way to escape it.
All those late night talks with her, her hand trailing along my arm, tracing my veins. I told myself if she asked about my dad and all that happened with him I'd tell her. I knew we were having those tell all kind of talks. I listened to her talk about her dad leaving them and then finding out he was gay. I'd ask her questions to avoid her asking me questions. She talked about taking ecstasy in grade eight, just casually popping it into her mouth and how she had felt different and insightful and loving and that maybe it wasn't the evil they tried to brain wash her into believing it was.
"Craig," she said, and I could tell it was coming, felt her fingertip brushing along the inside of my arm. I closed my eyes.
"What happened with your dad in grade nine?"
"Uh, well…" I hadn't ever told her or hardly anyone. I'd kind of walled it off, it was this room in my mind I never went into. But I'd tell her. Even though it scared me, kind of, to talk about it and remember it.
"My dad, he was always stressed out. It was his job. And it was the fact that my mother left him…us. And he'd get so angry, and I used to think I was this terrible kid that made him angry. I thought I could be good enough, that I could be better and he wouldn't, he wouldn't get so mad. But I don't think that anymore because I wasn't really that bad. I'd come home late sometimes or not clean up stuff or talk about my mother…and I can see now that that's not so terrible. But back then I couldn't, I couldn't separate my behavior from his reactions,"
I looked at her, her face calm and thoughtful in the candlelight. She was leaning her head on her hand and her hair spilled over her shoulder.
"And I was a lot worse at Joey's. I mean, at Joey's I skipped school and stole his car and got in fights and stole from him and all kinds of shit," I laughed, she smiled.
"So, uh, he'd hit me with his belt. And it wasn't like one hit, it was so many…and it just came out of nowhere, he'd be so angry…" I closed my eyes again, remembering it. I could still see his face, his eyes behind his glasses, the belt in his raised fist and nowhere to go.
"He said I couldn't see Angela, and I was seeing her anyway. I knew I wasn't supposed to and that if he found out he'd…that he'd beat me. I knew that so I tried to hide it, tried to not let him find out about it but he did, he found out about everything, he took everything," It was so hard to talk about him. I kept looking down. She touched my shoulder so gently and I looked up at her.
"Oh, Craig," she said softly. I felt kind of stupid. I always felt stupid because my father had been abusive. How did that make sense?
"I used to take pictures back then, remember? Well, when I lived with my dad I had this dark room in the cellar and…he trashed it. Everything was wrecked and I went down there, I had this sinking feeling. I mean, I knew what was coming. It was the worst feeling, knowing that he was gonna hurt me and I couldn't do anything about it. So he comes down and he's so mad, and there was nowhere to go. He's yelling at me, being kind of sarcastic like he used to be, and hitting me with this photo album I had made. That was what really made him angry. It was this photo album of Joey and Angela and me and it was the family I wanted to have, not him, and he found it and he was pissed. I was so scared,"
I took a deep breath, looked up. Those blue eyes of hers just steadily on me. God, I loved her. If she wanted to hear this I'd tell her. I owed her that.
"Do you want to hear this?" I said, head down but looking up at her.
"Yes,"
"Okay. He was hitting me with that photo album and then he shoved me against the shelf, knocking everything off of it, and he grabbed my wrists and kind of pulled me forward, and I looked right into his face. It was all twisted with this rage, like he hated me. Like he could kill me. And he pushed me to the ground and kicked me so hard, so many times, and he was still talking, still yelling but I couldn't hear him anymore, I couldn't understand…and each time he kicked me I couldn't breathe and it hurt so much…"
I was crying. I was like reliving it. I could feel those kicks again. I could see his face and hear his voice. I felt what a terrible kid I was, how I had caused it all. I covered my face with my hands. She pulled my hands away and held them.
"Craig. It's okay. It's okay now," she said, and pulled me close to her and I cried against her shoulder, tasting the salt, feeling her touch my hair and the side of my face.