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“‘I always loved you, and if one loves anyone, one loves the whole person, just as they are and not as one would like them to be.’” He quoted the words to me as easily as if he’d come up with them himself.
I was sure Tolstoy hadn’t had this in mind when he wrote them, but it was one of those moments when anything I might’ve said in those few seconds died in my throat.
He brought his mouth to mine, and as he pulled away, I finally had the mind to quote something in return.
“‘I can’t think of you and myself apart. You and I are one to me,’” I whispered against his lips before bringing him back to me.
He groaned against my neck, and I heard the gravel in his voice under his confession. “I must’ve read that book a million times while you were gone.”
“A wonderful, tragic little love story,” I said, stroking the skin on his back.
He picked up his head and chuckled. “A never-ending catastrophe. But it made me feel closer to you, for some reason.” He sat up and pulled me along with him. “Let’s shower. Today is the big day.”
He went ahead of me, and while I gathered my clothes from the floor, I heard a voice.
You must tell him, Noa.
I would tell him.
Once everything settled down, I would finally tell him.
* * *
I didn’t crywhen Tim was handed to me in a metal urn. It was pretty enough, but it wasn’t going to be his home for much longer. The pastor came to the podium and recited a few scriptures, telling us that God had Tim now. I tuned all of it out because that man knew nothing about Tim.
Tracey, Dexter, and Ralph were the only ones I’d invited. A few of Tim’s buddies from work came, but I figured they would. Still, not enough people to fill two rows. The pastor cleared his throat, and I snapped out of it, grabbing the urn and heading to the podium.
“I could come up here and tell you all how wonderful Tim was,” I started, “but, honestly, he wasn’t that wonderful. He was just a man. The greatest accomplishment of his life was being bilingual. Oh, and raising me for a few years.” I looked down at his urn and felt like I was screwing up this speech.
I sniffed and looked up again. “But, even as a regular guy, Tim had moments where he was exceptional. Like the day I came to him and told him I had to get out of here. We sat forhourstrying to figure out where to, but I knew—I knew my brother had my back. He paid for my flight to Seattle and gave me the couple thousand he’d managed to save. Like it was nothing. Like he hadn’t been saving it for something better than his troubled kid sister to run away from her problems. That kind of selflessness is something you don’t see. Whether it was taking me in during what was supposed to be the best years of his life or flushing away his savings so I could chase my dreams, I owe that man.”
My breath hitched and my vision blurred. “I owe himeverything.I figured, Tim, I could at least give you freedom.” I stepped off the podium and walked to the front door.
The wind was howling when I opened it, and I smiled as I continued to walk down the deserted road. I reached the old wooden bridge and lifted the lid, dumping the urn over and watching as his ashes flew away.
I blew a kiss to the sky and dropped the urn into the river.
I wished he could tell me how it felt to finally be free.
Noa
Seattle hadn’t missed me,but I sure missed it. I wrapped myself in my blanket and pulled back the curtain, looking out into the city night.
Christmas with Phoebe was fun in the way that children brought wonder and excitement. She received more than enough dolls and knick-knacks, but everyone was surprised when she opened the gift I’d managed to sneak off and get.
An easel and paint. All different kinds—sparkly, neon, basic, and even glow-in-the-dark. She was delighted, and I even offered to have her come to my studio with me, my sacred place. Dexter loved it. And if I had any second thoughts about that fact, he proved it to me that night after she went to sleep. I still felt his hands all over me as I leaned my head back with a sigh.
I missed him. It was strange. Different from missing him before. Dexter was a ghost, then. Sometimes I wondered if I made him up all on my own—a figment of my imagination. If I missed the idea of him.
But now, I was missing the familiar things. His smile, his love. It was almost tangible. And I missed the way he would slowly build me up and bring me back down. I shivered, bringing the blanket closer.
My phone rang from across the room, and I hurried over to it. Since Tim’s death, I’d been answering all my calls. Even if it was a small side effect, it still felt like I was picking up some of the figurative rubble of what peace I thought I had left.
“Hello?” I answered the phone sounding breathless, having been caught fantasizing.
“I can feel you missing me.”
Ah, my inspiration.
