Note: I know the narration is confusing, but just to clear it up, it alternates. If you ever read the book The Pigman, it's like that. The same person narrates every other segment. I'm just stuck on first person narration.
Rated: PG-13 for language, subject matter, angst (gotta love the angst!).
I hold her hand as she sleeps. I have this
feeling deep in me that this is it. I'm relieved in a way, just because
she's been so sick these last few days. There really isn't much good
in her struggling to live if she's just going to die anyway. I realize
how awful that sounds and remind myself I need to justify her death somehow.
It seems so pointless to me. I finger her hands and cringe as she
coughs, the sound hollow and deep. Her beautiful eyes open and I
find the effort to smile for her. She smiles back, her muscles so
weak that it barely moves her lips. I know it isn't going to be much
longer.
"I….I love you…" she whispers. I feel my eyes
well up at the possibility that this is the last time I will ever have
the chance to hear this from her, and I brush my fingers over her cheek.
"I know, baby. I love you too," I say softly.
Tears start to run down her cheeks. I can't stop mine either, despite
the practice I've had ever since she's entered the hospital.
"I know….I…I can see it…in your…eyes," she says
with a smile. I hold back a sob and kiss her on the lips. I
feel her kiss back, probably with the last of her strength.
"Go ahead, baby. Go towards the light, don't
let Angel stop you this time," I say. I'm crying hard now, but I
can't stop myself. "Remind her we miss her down here." She
nods.
"Goodbye, love," she whispers. Her eyes close
and her hand turns limp in my grasp.
"Goodbye, love," I sob back. I push her curls
back from her forehead and kiss it. I sit in the chair for a minute,
letting the tears leave me freely. My shoulders shake and I hold
my head in my hands, feeling weaker than I've ever felt in my life.
I stand up, still sobbing and open the door to the hallway, where my friends
are waiting. Maureen bursts into tears just looking at me.
Everyone else looks devastated.
"That's it?" Collins asks gently.
"That's it," I say. "Mimi's gone."
I think it was just automatic for us to go to the
Life Café. It's a pretty ironic place to go after a funeral,
but I don't think we knew where else to go. The place wasn't the
same after Angel died, and it certainly wasn't the same now. How
can you sit at a place that used to be filled with people who loved living
and actually have a good time?
Today's not supposed to be good. It doesn't
matter that Mimi was finally relieved from her suffering. She's gone.
It reminds me of a song we used to sing at camp when I was little.
"Seven bullfrogs sitting on a log, one jumps in and then there were six…Six
bullfrogs sitting on a log, one jumps in…" And then there were five.
Collins and Roger, who would be the next to go. There is no way of
knowing who will go first or when, but I'm already dreading the day.
Maureen and Joanne, who may outlive us all, but who have already lost parts
of themselves with each death. I fear Maureen may be completely gone
by the time the three of us are left. And then there's me.
Maureen, Joanne and I get a table as Collins and
Roger pay the cabbie. I look out the window and see the two of them
talking, Collins with his hands. He gives Roger a sad smile and bear
hug and Roger walks away, his shoulders slumped. Collins comes over
to the table.
"Roger said he's going back to loft to think.
He doesn't feel like talking, that's completely understandable," Collins
says.
"Yeah…" Maureen trails off. "God, I can't
believe he made it through that song. I would have been a mess."
"You were a mess," I remind her with a sad smile.
She gives me a look and then starts to laugh softly.
"I know," she says. "I know, Jesus…"
Roger had asked all four of us to speak at the service. Maureen had
gone first and burst into tears within the first minute. Joanne remained
solemn and cried afterwards. Collins and I both tried to remember
Mimi's life instead of her death, but we couldn't help the sadness in our
voices. Roger had sung his song for her. The song that he wrote
after a year of trying. He had been singing it to her when she died
for the first time and he sang it again. His voice hadn't cracked
once as he sang the beautiful song, and when he ended it, he had whispered,
"I love you, Mimi," and that had been it. No tears, just a constant
emptiness and sadness in his voice. I couldn't keep my eyes off him
for the rest of the service, I was just waiting for him to crumble again
like he did when he came out of the hospital room, but he didn't.
I have this fear that he isn't going to again, and I can't help but dread
that's the case. When April killed herself, he completely shut down,
and it's not good for him. If there's anything I've been telling
Roger for as long as I've known him, it's that he needs to let his emotions
out.
"God, I just can't believe this," Collins whispers.
"And to think it's still going to go downhill from here."
"Collins, don't say that," Maureen says. "You
and Roger are still really healthy. You've got a lot of time ahead
of you."
"Yeah, but I still have those days when I don't
want to get out of bed in the morning. It's been almost a year since
I've lost Angel and I'm not close to getting over it," he says, his voice
deep and sad. It surprises me a little, because he's always so upbeat.
He knows that Angel would hate for him to be depressed and missing him
all the time, and Collins does a pretty good job of going on with his life.
I know it's hard for him, but he makes it hard to believe. He looks
down at the table and then back up at us. "I'm going back to the
loft. Roger shouldn't be alone right now."
"Collins, he said he needed to be alone," Joanne
reminds him gently.
"Yeah, and all I'm thinking about is the thing I
had to stop myself from doing God knows how many times after Angel died."
My eyes widen and I jump up from my chair.
"I'm coming with you!" I exclaim. Collins
shakes his head slightly.
"He doesn't need to poked at. He doesn't need
to be talked to. I just don't want him to be alone. I'll be
fine," he says.
"No. I'm coming," I say, a tone of confidence
in my voice.
"We're just going to go home, then," Joanne says.
"We'll call later to see how things are going."
"Okay," Collins says. He hands me my coat
and we leave the Life Café, headed for the loft.
I sit staring at the wall of the loft. My eyes
are focused on a series of cracks that climb from the ceiling to the floor.
On rainy days, water spurts from them. Not a lot of water, just enough
to make the floor a little slippery. Enough to remind us that we
still live in this crappy apartment.
I look at my hands, calloused from years of guitar
playing. My guitar sits in the corner, collecting dust. I notice
that I haven't played it for at least two weeks, when everything started.
I spent every waking moment at the hospital. I had no time for anything
or anyone else. My heart feels empty. My eyes feel tight.
My throat feels dry. It feels like my body is shutting down around
me.
No! It can't! I can't shut down this
time! I always do that, I always shut out the world around me when
I get hurt, and I can't do it anymore, because it always comes back to
bite me. It makes people worry about me and watch me constantly.
I stand up and start walking toward the kitchen. I look out the huge
window and stare at the building next door. I turn the water on and
start running my hands underneath, the water soothing and cooling.
I splash my face and I start to scream. I scream because of the unfairness,
I scream because of the pain, I scream because I can't believe I have to
go through this again. I continue screaming as I grab a glass from
the cabinet and throw it at the floor. It smashes to a million pieces,
and I feel the tension leaving my body. I grab another and throw
it at the wall. It chips the paint and breaks, this time into three
big pieces. I laugh hysterically, as I grab another and another and
keep throwing them at the wall, watching the glass shine in the sunlight
streaming into the room. The pieces fly toward me, sometimes piercing
my skin, but I don't care at all. The noise sounds great in my ears, the
way a new song sounds right after I finish writing it. I think of
the first song that started me on the writing spree that landed me a record
deal and I scream the lyrics, hating and loving the song at the same time.
"Your eyes!" I scream. "As we said our
goodbyes! Can't get them out of my MIND! When I see MOONLIGHT
I see your fuckin' EYES!" Her eyes, her whole face, they all materialize
in front of me, and before I know it, I'm slumped on the floor, in a helpless
torrent of tears.
Collins and I start up the stairs, our footsteps
heavy. I realize for the umpteenth time that someday I'm going to
be coming home from something like this alone. Instead of letting
it get me, I am grateful Collins is still around and here with me.
The door to the loft is unlocked and I open it carefully. The quietness
of the loft grabs me. Collins walks into the kitchen area and I hear
crunching beneath his feet.
"Mark? Maybe you should come here,"
he calmly calls. I go toward him, and feel my heart sink.
"Oh my God," I whisper. I bend down
and finger a piece of the glass lying on the floor. Collins carefully
lifts another piece, which is covered in blood. "Oh, Jesus….you don't…"
I start to say, but I can't. I would never be able to live with myself.
My voice is caught in my throat. I reach out for the piece of glass
but Collins stops me.
"Don't touch it!" he says strongly.
Right. I always tend to forget that I don't have what they have,
that it's yet another reason I'm separated from them. "He has to
be here somewhere. Let's not lose it yet."
"Roger! Roger, are you here?" I yell
out, my voice shaking. I walk into his room, afraid of what I might
see. He's standing in front of the closet, his dress shirt untucked,
his tie undone and hanging around his neck. He is staring at the
clothes, and I quickly notice why. All of her stuff is in there;
everything that is Mimi is in there. "Roger?"
He turns his head towards mine, and I see a broken man.
His eyes are red, his face stained with tears.
"What am I going to do with it all, Mark?"
He looks at me desperately and I walk toward him. I place my hands
gently on his shoulders and he tenses. I step back slightly, carefully
being sure not to be too invasive.
"I don't know," I say.
"How can something so inevitable hurt so much?"
he asks. He looks at me again, and this time he moves closer to me.
I feel my arms go around him, and he collapses in them. He doesn't
cry, he just rests his head on my shoulder, slumped because he's taller
than me. I put my arms around him tightly.
"I don't know that either. You'll get
through it, though. I'm here for you, I promise you that, I'm here,"
I say.
I smile. I laugh. I even
make conversation. To all outsiders, I am a happy man. A man
ready to start again, for the third time in my short twenty-five years.
But I'm dead inside. I vowed to myself, and to Mimi, that I would
not fall apart when she was gone. I told myself that I had to keep
going, that I had to live life and take advantage of the time I have.
I knew how hard it would be, being that I've been in the situation before,
but I promised anyway, just because I didn't think I could bear going through
the hell I went through after April died again.
Now, there's also the whole record deal.
I had sent a tape a few weeks before Mimi had died, a tape full of songs
that had just flowed out of me, as if the months of writer's block was
all coming out in one big spurt. Most of them were about her, because
I hadn't felt so good or happy since God knows when. The guys I sent
it to liked the songs a lot. They're an independent label, but it's
still the outlet I've always been looking for. I don't know if I'm
going to be able to do it anymore. I mean, the songs are about this
beautiful, wonderful woman who made me love the life I was living, and
now she's gone. How am I supposed to go into a studio and record
those songs with the feeling I once had, the feeling that only she could
give me? I don't think I can.
"Hey," the familiar nasal voice says as the
door to the loft opens.
"Hey," I reply. I look up and see Mark
enter into the kitchen with a bag of groceries. He unpacks it and
puts the few items into the empty cabinets.
"Have you done anything today?" he asks.
"Um, I fiddled around with the guitar a little,"
I say. I know he's making sure that I'm not sitting at home, wallowing
in my loss.
"Oh yeah? When's that meeting with the
studio guys?"
"Next week. But I'm not sure I'm going
to be able to go," I say. Mark turns around and stares at me.
"Why not?" he demands.
"I'm not sure that I'll be able to do it.
I wrote all those songs when Mimi was still alive. I don't know that
I'll be able to sing them as if she still is."
"Roger, no one is asking you to deny her death.
I know it's hard…"
"No you don't. You don't have a clue,"
I say. The words leave my mouth on their own, and Mark is obviously
shocked by them.
"Look, I know that she wasn't as much to me
as she was to you, but Mimi was my friend. And I loved her and I
miss her too. It's not easy for me either. But you have to
go on with your life."
"You should talk," I say.
"What's that supposed to mean? I'm not
the one sitting here turning down the best chance I've ever had!
You can make it, Roger! You can get everything you've wanted!" Mark
exclaims, his hands in the air.
"Don't you understand that it won't MEAN anything?
Mimi is DEAD, Mark! She's everything I want, not some worthless record
deal! It all means nothing without her!"
"How can you say that?" Mark whispers.
"How can you say that when you know that Mimi is the reason you have this
chance? How can you just pass it up like this?"
"I don't need this right now," I say.
I don't blow up at him, I just calmly stand and start out the door.
"Well, Roger's back to being depressed and
walking away from the situation!"
"Fuck you, Mark," I say coldly.
"Right! Fuck me! Fuck me!
This has NOTHING to do with you!" I let him go off on himself as
I walk out the door. I run down the stairs without even a second
glance at Mimi's old apartment.
