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Part 6: Spring Unraveled

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It was the year 1988; and he alternated between trying sobriety and returning to the familiar home of liquor. An ever-changing battle that left him more exhausted than merely drinking in the first place. A battle of trying to suppress an inner nauseating need to deny he even had a problem in the first place and the hopeless realization that he had a problem and it was not going anywhere.

It was a struggle that demanded too much of him; not something he could merely contemplate when he felt like it. No, it meant integrating his very existence with the struggle – it meant having a nagging thought in the back of his head constantly. It was beyond an irritant; beyond failure.

He felt partway worthless.

He felt dense and see-through at the same time; an inexplicable feeling that only left him sinking deeper into a despair that seemed even quieter than he had imagined. Angry despair was loud; this despondency was almost absent in its quietude – silent like a void inside of him. It was too quiet to be comfortable – not like the usual skin of dark angry brooding he was used to. It felt like something within him that he had never recognized before; a little part of himself that was too fragile for daylight but could not grow without nourishment from the sun.

The first meeting he went to felt as much a requirement as a forceful shove; a group of strangers greeting him with welcoming smiles that felt too sincere – strangers exposing the most inner part of themselves while he tried to hide himself. It had both felt foreign and familiar; almost a repulsive need not to be there – and then again almost an intense feeling of wanting to be there. Obviously he was in turmoil – undecided about every goddamn little thing in his life.

He could not even decide what he wanted for dinner.

The simple little action of looking into his fridge and choosing whether he wanted salad or a leftover rice dish was too overthrown by indecision. He had given up meat after the incident with the cooler and dead bodies; he always got a faint flavor of blood and decay in his mouth when he ate meat now. Even the apprehension of suspects left him in distress now; was he being too forceful – too aggressive? Was he becoming too soft; too lenient? Fickle mood swings that really did not belong in his life; he resorted to spewing around a lot more of cursing than usual.

Wandering around his apartment he felt restless. He had left work late; eaten a homemade salad after staring emptily into his fridge for what seemed like half an hour. Leaving work late was the best insurance he had found; the later he left the more tired he would be when he arrived home. The more tired he was the more likely it was that he would merely head straight for bed. Then he could rise early and bring his ass into work again; early workout in the fitness center in the cellar of headquarters sure to make him even more tired later on.

Sometimes though he felt anything but tired, no matter how many hours he had spent doing paperwork or running after suspects. Sometimes he only felt the compulsion to relax with a beer on his couch – the compulsion to relax with other detectives and a shared bottle of whiskey. Mostly he felt he was on a one-way road to insanity.

In an attempt to force himself to bed he put on pajamas pants and a faded t-shirt, plunged himself into his couch and turned the television on – drank his fourth glass of water. He was in the middle of contemplating just going to bed – before he succumbed to going to a bar with a couple of guys from the gang unit.

His doorbell rang however; quite an unusual feature to his nights.

Trudging to the door he opened it with a scowl, ready to welcome whoever it was with a long tirade. However the sight that greeted him made him shut his mouth and made him forget about everything.

Sharon was standing on his doorstep, her boy on her hip, daughter's hand in hers and a large bag over her shoulder. Sharon in what could only be a LAPD windbreaker thrown over pajamas and disheveled hair – another unusual feature of the night – a complete unusual sight in fact. She never looked this ruffled – there was an appearance of something almost wild about her.

She had only come to him a couple of times in the duration of their acquaintance; he could recount every little event. One time she had been frantic on his doorstep – he had never seen that expression again; he knew he would never see it again unless the circumstances were somehow dire. She had been heavily pregnant with Mischa and Michael had been in Hong Kong; premature contractions and she had looked on the verge of crying. It had been false alarm but he still remembered the ride in his car to the hospital, her fingers shaking in his.

She did not look the least bit frantic now. No, just the look of something slightly broken – slightly fragmented. It reminded him of the first time he met her.

Another time – ages ago; back when they used to go to the gym together – she had merely come to his doorstep to announce he was lazy. Smug and grinning as she had watched him in her running clothes, arching an eyebrow at him – forcing him to run with her. Apparently the fitness center had been closed for maintenance and she had been in one of those moods he rarely saw and never knew what to do with.

Now she stood on his doorstep again, only there was something palpable wrong with it. It would have been a sore sight; only there was definitely something wrong with her eyes, with that smile that greeted him but bore nothing of resemblance in it. Gray eyes like a muted lake; murky and he was unable to see beyond the look. If her smile had not been so fragile he might have mistaken her for merely a little disturbed but no – the smile did not in any way allay his fears. If anything that smile frightened him.

Fragile and wild, he noticed.

She was really the last person he had expected to find on his doorstep. It was a surprise – not necessarily a pleasant one. They had not spoken to each other in almost a half year now; he could not even remember the last time they had had a truly worthwhile conversation.

Somehow he had stopped turning up on her doorstep in the middle of the night, forgone that and called his newly acquired sponsor instead. It was a gradual thing but one day he had stopped up and noticed that when they passed each other in hallways nowadays it was always with a greeting that was as fragile as the bond between them. They had always had their own different separate lives but now it seemed even more palpable – as if their orbits were slowly expanding – new planes of existences that seldom crossed.

Sometimes these things happened so slowly and in an unnoticed way that you never perceived it till it was blatantly obvious – until it was too late and it had happened. That they were drifting apart; further and further – it was now fact.

It was not a conscious decision on his part; it was not something he enjoyed or had wanted. It merely was.

He was not so sure about her. Everything about her that had once been see-through was now inscrutable. Every little detail about her that he had put together, every little piece that had seemed to fit her was now obviously distorted. He was never sure what went through her mind these days. He was very unsure of where he fit in in her life.

Sometimes he had to remind himself that they actually knew each other; he had to tell himself that even if she appeared unreadable he still knew her. Maybe he was as much of an enigma to her; maybe she found him to be just as aggravatingly difficult to read – sometimes she had a distinctive glint in her eyes when she regarded him. A glint that spoke of something unknown – as if she was studying him, trying to outweigh possibilities of his behavior. Whenever they did meet each other in hallways nowadays it was with that glint; and he supposed he was maybe just as appraising of her – calculating whether she would smile back if he greeted her with a smile.

Every now and then he stopped up and took a breath; he desperately wanted to do something about it – to somehow repair what had gone wrong. It was difficult however when he had no clue what had gone wrong; you could not repair something that did not seem visible broken. His own life always pushed him to motion again and he forgot about it for a while; they both had their own lives – both too enveloped by work and their own families. Their own lives consumed too much of their time; sometimes there was no room for her.

But tonight something was different; here she was, children in tow – sleepy brown eyes regarding him. He imagined it was past bedtime for them. They both looked ready to drop down and sleep on his floor; Mischa hanging onto her mother's hand, leaning against her. The little boy – Thomas he amended – curled into her side, small arms around her neck. He had never seen much of the boy; the rift somehow having divided them before he could get to know the little boy. But he saw recognition in Mischa's eyes.

Sharon smiled at him – a smile to reassure him but it really did nothing of the sort. She ushered the kids in when he opened the door for them. He was not stupid enough to ask her what was wrong now; it would inevitably lead to chaotic words and an even stranger smile he was sure. If he prodded into her distress she would sure grace him with nothing but a veil; possibly only turn her smile even more fragile. He never could handle seeing her in distress; it seemed to go against her nature – against his. They were not supposed to be vulnerable people.

Predators were not supposed to be vulnerable.

As it were he could only think of one reason she would be here this late at night – it was really a no-brainer; Michael. He knew the guy drank too much sometimes; it was something you noticed when you did the exact same thing yourself. He knew the guy worked too much and sometimes was absent for long periods of time, roaming across somewhere on the east coast with his work, always on the road to somewhere. It had been something that had been apparent to him back when he used to sleep on their couch; it was something he had ruminated about – but had never dared ask about.

Instinctually he knew the limits to his relationship with her; he knew that there were aspects of their lives they never shared. She never had divulged much about her past and her family – he knew not to ever bring certain subjects up. She had never once told him he drank too much – never once told him to get his life together.

Inevitably they both knew which subjects would bring them into different corners, fighting and defending themselves. Inevitably dark creatures knew when to tread lightly around another dark creature.

As much as her transfer to internal affairs was a fragile subject it was not really the crux of their slowly drifting apart; it was a small part of a larger thing he was sure. It had too much to do with their own natures as it had to do with a promotion. As much to do with their own lives not fitting with the life of the other.

Sometimes he found Michael reminded him of himself; a notion that brought nausea to surface within him. He always viciously hoped Sharon never made that comparison even though he knew she sometimes did. Maybe that was a part of their troubles; that he reminded her of someone who let her down continuously. He sincerely hoped not. He did not want to belong in a category with a man who obviously left her in this dreadful state; he had no intention of belonging to a category of people who let her down.

Unfortunately that ship had sailed; somewhere down the road he had let her down – he just had no clue when or how.

Sometimes he wondered if they had ever been close to begin with; were they too independent and solitaire to let another being in – genuinely let another person into the dark depths of your own being. He was unsure; he only knew that even if he felt adrift from her he would always know more than everyone else about her. However much she seemed changed he would always be able to detect a little flicker of something familiar in her; it was not as if she had turned into something completely different. No, it was merely a new layer of illusions he was treated to.

There was something faded and muted about her now; even as she bounced the little guy on her hip and affectionately brushed the hair away from her daughter's eyes; a smile to calm her kids and him down with. It was a smile that dug claws into his heart and wrenched it out; it was forced and artificial. A film across her gray eyes that told him that when the curtains fell aside she would look intensely disheveled.

He guided them down the hallway – to the guest room, mindful of not placing his hand on her back; he had a distinct feeling that touch would make her recoil. She had that little shadow in her eyes that told an entire story by itself; touch was out of the question. He merely consented himself with being able to lift Mischa up and carrying the sleepy seven-year old.

The guest room was fortunately prepared; his own kids nearly the same age coming to visit in the weekend. He slipped the bag from her shoulder and guided them along; he ruffled Mischa's hair as well, the girl now seven clearly able to tell that something was wrong with her mom – subdued and tired. The girl clung to him.

Turning the lights on he watched Sharon tugging her boy into the large bed in the room, helping him under the covers – stroking his hair and her quiet calm tone lulling the kid to sleep before the covers were firmly around him. He nudged Mischa and she crawled under the covers as well, joining her brother. Sharon sat on the edge of the bed and started telling them a little story – he quietly said goodnight to them and left for his bathroom; she seemed to want to be alone with them.

Brushing his teeth while he waited for her to tug both kids in, he wondered what had happened. An argument? Words spoken that should never be spoken – words meant to do harm. Maybe the guy had been too drunk? Staggered home and woken everyone up? He knew Michael; he would never lay a hand on Sharon – would never content to sleeping around. He imagined it was angry words; sometimes they did the most harm. He was all too familiar with angry words that slipped past your lips without conscious effort, too aware of what sometimes broke families apart.

Looking into the mirror as he brushed he found his own reflection just as tired looking as the kids' had been; he was maybe just as ready to drop down on the floor and fall asleep. Somehow her situation made him tired; somehow it drained him of all energy to see her like this.

She came to stand in the doorway to the bathroom, looking ready to either crumble or yell at him if he approached her, arms crossed – defensive and ready to ward anything off. The windbreaker was gone, just the soft pajamas – satin green. One hand kept pushing hair behind her ear; another little indication to her uncertainty. He wanted to pull her into a hug.

"You take the bed, I'll take the couch," he told her as he put his toothbrush under water.

She merely nodded and went in the direction of his bedroom. He followed soon after, not sure it was safe to let her merely be. Maybe she needed to talk. He needed to be sure she would not crumble all alone.

She was lying on her back in his bed, staring into his ceiling – looking distant. He hovered in the doorway; not sure if he should sit down and try to talk to her – if she would recoil if he touched her cheek. He chose to sit down on the floor next to the headrest of his bed, breathing silently as he waited for her to maybe start.

She did not say a single thing; maybe he was supposed to break the silence and not her.

"Are you alright? Did something happen?"

"I just could not stand to sleep in that house."

"Michael's home?" he ventured.

"D.C – we had a," she paused, "disagreement over the phone."

"Okay."

"Are you gonna sit on the floor for the rest of the night?" she sounded annoyed.

Uncertain as well he stood up, ready to go into his living room; maybe turn the television on again and try to fall asleep but she spoke again when he turned towards the door.

"Don't go – just don't sit on the floor."

What the heck did that mean; she still looked as if she would break into a thousand pieces if he neared her. Reluctantly he sat down on the other side of her, and then when she continued to be silent he likewise slipped beneath the covers.

He sighed, and looked up at the ceiling as well.

He was not sure what to do; did she merely want him to lie next to her, tense as a board – did she want him to hold her – grasp her hand and tightly hold it. Did she want him to whisper words of comfort? He had no idea where to begin.

Contemplative and feeling slightly distressed now himself he wondered why she had even showed up at his place; when he was obviously so ridiculously stunted when it came to giving comfort. It was something that came natural to her; but he was unsure how he was supposed to behave towards her.

He did not necessarily hate her husband he found himself thinking but he found him to be nothing short of despicable in this moment. Whoever would leave her like this; who would be able to distort her to the point of that look in her eyes and that smile to accompany it?

He ruminated about that look; such a novel look when he had opened his door and she had stared right into his eyes, before she had averted her gaze. It was cold, detached – yet so imbued by something entirely else. It was not the hurt look of winter; no it was different. He likened it to a spring morning; eyes and that smile significant of deeper woes in her being.

Spring morning, even more devastating than dead winter, he mused. Dead winter was always palpable and vivid; spring morning afforded you with ambiguity. Too many shades too it to be deciphered without a bit of complexity. Dead winter left no confusion in his mind; it was a very vivid feeling he had come to terms with – spring morning as he came to know it was at first inscrutably and could cover any number of things.

Winter in her eyes was never fragile; hurt and agonized but never fragile. Spring morning might appear just as cold and undeterred; but that smile gave her away – it was encompassed by a brittleness in her he had never encountered before.

He heard the uneven breaths suddenly; could almost feel the tension in her rigid body next to his as she tried to suppress tears.

He turned on his side, watched her in profile.

"Would you mind just sleeping on the couch," her voice was small but forceful; she desperately wanted him nowhere near her when she started crying. It nearly broke his own heart and he found it hard to swallow.

Yet he left her; gently slipping out of his bed and only turning around in the doorway and giving her a gentle look. He could never deny a request of hers; even if it seemed insane to leave her alone.

In the living room he sank down onto his couch but he hesitated.

It felt horrible; he was not equipped to handle her pain; she had never told him how to comfort her – it had always been the other way around.

In the morning however she would be collected; it was something that seemed very definite about her – somehow he knew that tomorrow her smile would be a little bit brighter. Tomorrow she would pretend nothing was wrong; the kids would most likely be fooled.

In the morning she would be even more distant than now; in the morning she would have replaced fragile with unapproachable.

Sighing, he thought he would never be able to sleep.

Getting up he went into his bedroom again, not surprised to find her in the exact same position, still awake. She did not say anything when he slipped under the covers again; her eyes however followed him. So vivid, full of unshed little watery drops, lips slightly apart as she tried not to take too shallow breaths – long deep breaths instead to steady herself.

He studied her, his head in his hand, on his side.

Cautiously he slipped his hand down an arm, tangled his fingers with hers.

She came closer, her body warm next to him – eyes flickering at the ceiling suddenly, not meeting his gaze.

It was okay.

He kissed her temple; let his head fall down on the pillow below.

She turned around suddenly, her face close to his and her lips upon his before he could draw any conclusion about her eyes.

She had never kissed him before; not in any way that counted.

The first time they met they had kissed but he only remembered it vaguely; it had not been like this. Soft lips – almost tasting of a little salt as she slowly left an imprint of herself on his mouth. It was not a long kiss or even a sensual one; it was like a gentle little caress.

Like a human anchor; a little thing to connect them – to realign and reassure that however much they drifted from each other there would always be some kind of connection.

He brought his arms around her, held her tight – felt the unsteady air she breathed against his neck.

He kissed the top of her head.

He would stay with her till she fell asleep – till the morning light slowly started showing; go and sleep on the couch before the kids woke up.

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