Not Looking For Love: Episode 1 (3 page)

I move to massage her back, hoping to ease the coughing, but she nods that she's alright.
 

"You can't lie to me, Gail," my mom whispers. "Who is he?"

"No one really. I hardly know him, and I'm pretty sure he wants nothing to do with me," I say. It'd be useless to lie now. Pointless. I've never lied to my mom, not much anyway.

On the screen, Rose is posing nude while Jack draws her. I wonder what it would feel like to have Scott look at me like that. Somehow, the anticipation of the touch, seeing but not being allowed to feel, seems even more erotic than the real thing.

Mom is studying my face seriously now. "You should convince him then. Regret is not something you want to die with, Gail."

This time, I feel the blood drain from my face, as a cold, relentless vice clutches down on my chest. I'm rigid with fear. I don't want to talk of death with my mom. My mom's death.
 

Tears are brimming in my eyes, and my throat is so tight, so constricted I couldn't say a word even if I tried. Even if I knew what to say.

I hug her tightly, and all I want to say, all I have ever wanted to say is in that hug.
 

She strokes my hair, and holds me loosely. She has no strength left. "Promise me, Gail, that you'll live. Promise me."

She's shaking as she says it, like a leaf trying to hang on in the strong fall wind, but her voice is firm. "We live and then we die. So we must live. You must live."

I nod into her shoulder. I can't imagine the day she will no longer be here; not really, I see no life beyond that day. There is only the dark abyss like I'm standing on a cliff, darkness around me, darkness below. But she sounds so strong today. I have to be strong for her.
 

Coughing overtakes her again, and I let go, giving her air. She can't stifle it this time, and a few minutes later Edna rushes in to give her the medicine.

Pain flashes across Mom's face with each breath she manages to take between the bouts of coughing and the terrifying gasps, when she can't get any air into her lungs. The prickly ball of tears spreads out from my throat, into my chest, settling in my stomach. I want to wail; I want to scream and stomp. I don't want my mom to die. I don't want to live if she dies.
 

I dig my nails into my palms and concentrate on that pain to chase away the other. It rarely works anymore and doesn't today.

"Maybe she needs oxygen?" I say to Edna, but my mom is shaking her head, her eyes wide. She always says the oxygen burns her nose and doesn't really help.
 

Edna gives my mom a shot of morphine and lays her down gently on the bed. On the screen, the ship is going down, the people scurrying, and screaming to live. My mom's eyes close, and my heart thunders to life. I'm on my knees next to her bed, clutching her hand, certain that she'll never open her eyes again.

But she does. They flutter open for a second, and her lips twitch like she's trying to smile. She can't keep her eyes open though, and she can't smile.

"Let your mom rest now," Edna says and pushes herself off the bed.

I stand up slowly, not wanting to let go of Mom's hand.

Dad comes home an hour or so later. He catches the four o'clock train from Grand Central these days and is always home by five. No more late nights for him, not now. Though he spends most nights working at the dining room table after I've already gone to bed. I wonder if I'll ever be able to lose myself in the work like that. Law. The more I study it, the less I want to actually practice it. But there are other careers in human rights. I could be a consultant, like my dad, skip law school altogether and just get a specialized degree. There will be time to decide all that later, time enough.

"How's Mom?" Dad asks, unfastening his tie and draping it over one of the dining room chairs.
 

"She was better today. We watched a movie," I say.

He smiles sadly and walks over to the bar to pour a glass of whiskey. Half the bottle or more will be gone before he goes to bed tonight. His drinking worries me, but I don't say anything anymore. He needs to come to terms with this too, and I understand his need to escape, if only for a little while. I just hope it won't be at the bottom of the bottle that he finds the answers.

I follow him to the sofa and sit beside him.
 

"I'm taking the semester off," I blurt out. I'm not even sure why I'm telling him what I decided, but it's better that he knows. "I want to stay with Mom."

His hand jerks a little, and he sloshes some of the drink on his pants. He's a slosher too. "You can't, Gail. This is your final year."

"I can't concentrate on studying anyway," I counter. "As it is, I'll have to redo some of my exams to get my GPA back up."

"Your mother would not want you to drop out of school."

"I'm not dropping out." It's always the same with him. He knows I don't love the law, and thinks I'd still rather be majoring in history. The way they both pressured me to change my major back then, urged me to be sensible, and to get a degree I can actually make money off, as though going poor was actually a possibility in our old money family. I gave in to their advice, and I don't regret it anymore. The future is uncertain after all, and Mom can be quite persuasive. I made my choices, and I will see them through.
 

"It happens sometimes," he says and takes a slow sip. "And what about after..." He chokes on the rest of the sentence. Mom's death is not something we speak about, unless we're forced to.
 

Frustration is constricting my throat. Why does he have to bring this up now? Why can't he just let me make my own choices?
 

"Why can't you trust me?" I yell and shoot to my feet.

"After... you might not want to go back," he finishes. "You can live here and still go to classes."

I'm shaking now, anger and sadness consuming me, and swallowing me whole. I can't study now, and I can't even think about anything but Mom. Why can't he see that? Why does he have to make me feel so guilty about it? He can work through it sure, but I can't.

"I'm taking the semester off," I say and run from the room. To the garage and my car. Tears are blinding me, but I can't stay in the house any longer and can't listen to this talk of what life after my mom's funeral will be like.

The garage door takes forever to open. I drive out too fast when it finally does. I don't look once I reach the end of the driveway. All I want to do is get to the beach, watch the waves roll in, and understand how small we really are, all of us, how transient. The jolt and screech of metal grinding against metal jars me back to reality.
 

I've run smack into the back of a red pick-up. If I'd left the house two seconds later, I could be dead. I'm clutching the steering wheel with both hands, my foot shaking on the brake, my face frozen, and my brain still processing what might have happened.

Scott's banging on my window. "Are you hurt?"

It's sounds like it's not the first time he's asked.

I release the steering wheel and flex my fingers to get the blood flowing again but can't find my voice to answer.

Scott shakes his head and walks over to the front of my car.

I manage to put it in park, and get out slowly, hoping to hell my dad didn't hear anything.
 

"Are you alright? Maybe you should go to the hospital," Scott says when he sees me.

I shake my head. I'm fine, hardly got jolted, I was too lucky by far right now.
Bart's Gardening Service
is written in cursive green letters against white on the side of the pick-up. A black smear is etched into the back of Scott's truck.

"You really should be more careful. I never even saw you coming," he says. His eyes are wide, and his jaw tightens as soon as he finishes speaking. He looks around, and the tendon in his neck stands out sharply. I wonder what that would feel like touching it. We're still alone. No one heard the accident, thankfully.
 

He turns back at me, his eyes dark green now. His grin reveals a row of perfectly white, straight teeth. "I'd appreciate it if you didn't mention this to your neighbors."

He looks too perfect to just be a gardener; he really should be on the cover of some magazine, with that blond hair, hard, bulky muscles, and mysterious eyes. The white t-shirt that must have dried since this morning hangs loosely over his chest, but I can still see the tips of his nipples poking through the thin fabric.

I can't believe I'm thinking this. I'm worse than some sex-crazed guy. Maybe I did bang my head.
 

"I won't tell anyone," I say and flick my finger at the side of the truck. "Though Bart might wonder what happened."

He shrugs and points to the scratch on my car, before folding his arms across his chest like he wants to stop me from staring. "You'll have to take that nasty scratch in, or it'll rust. It's too nice a car for that."

"It's just a car," I say a little too loudly.
 

His eyes narrow in the same way they did before, when he thought I was crazy. He probably still does. "Are you sure you're alright? Maybe you shouldn't be driving today."

His rejection from earlier flitters back to my mind and coupled with my mom's instruction to go for it makes it all unbearable. I've now made a fool of myself with this guy for the third time in one day. There's no way anything will happen. He thinks I'm crazy. Still, I'd so much rather have those strong arms around me. His right bicep twitches a little like he knows what I'm thinking and it's suddenly all too much.

"Don't worry, no one will know," I say, lunge back in the car and slam the door before backing up and driving away. I don't check my rearview mirror because I don't want to see him muttering anything after me. I know what a fool I've made of myself.

CHAPTER THREE

The beach I'm heading to is far enough away from my neighborhood that I never meet anyone I know there. I visit it to be alone. Wanting to avoid the rush hour traffic, I don't get on the thruway. The decision that gets me hopelessly lost on all the little side roads. The beach is only about six miles from my home, but it still takes me almost an hour to get there. It's good; focusing on finding my way calms me, maybe better than the sea could.
 

I park right next to the sand and slip off my shoes, carrying them as I walk onto the beach. The sand is dry and brittle against my toes. The thought I might step onto a piece of glass or a needle passes through my mind, but I chase it away. I'll take my chances. I'm sick of fearing fate, and I dare it to do its worst. At least that way, I get some control back. Because my life is slipping from beneath me as though it's all just so much sand, and I'll fall right through, cut to pieces by the little grains, and disappear.

There will be no sunset tonight. Dark blue clouds are already rolling in from the sea, and the humidity in the air is like a physical presence, stretching across the beach with arms open wide welcoming the winds and the rains.
 

To my left a few stubborn beach goers are still sitting in the sand, so I turn right and walk
 
toward the old pier that the last hurricane finally destroyed. I can't be still. Not today. From this far away, the pier looks like just a few piles of driftwood. I sometimes wish they'd rebuild it, but at least as it is, people avoid this part of the beach.
 

The wind is picking up now, flinging my hair in my face, but I don't do anything to stop it. I love the strong winds that blow right before a storm hits. It feels like change, like all my problems will be blown away, and I'll be strong again. Not that it ever happens, but each windy day renews my hope regardless.

The pier is actually more than just driftwood. The stairs that lead up to the platform are still intact, as is a few feet of the platform. It's the rest of it that lies in heaps across the beach, as though someone began to clear it up but gave up halfway.
 

The pier isn't deserted as I hoped though. A guy is sitting on what remains of the platform, hunched over what looks like a notebook. A bright yellow bolt of lightning shoots across the dark clouds. He looks up, and my breath hitches in my throat. Scott. No way. I should stop, turn around, and walk back. But the command doesn't reach my feet. They're still moving stubbornly forward. The last thing I need is to make a fool of myself in front of him for the fourth time today.
 

Yet somehow, it's as though an invisible rope is pulling me toward the pier. Before I even realize it, I'm right under the pier, and Scott hasn't seen me yet. I drop my shoes in the sand at the foot of the steps and begin to climb up. The step creaks ominously, but if it held his weight, it will support mine. It's like my fantasy of the two of us together is driving me forward, and it makes no sense, but I want it to be reality. That fantasy is the only thing that chased away the prickly tears from my throat and the dark abyss from my mind in a long time, if only for a few moments.

"Hey," I say as I reach the top. There's such a shocked expression in his eyes when he sees me that I have to laugh. He flips closed his sketchbook and sits up straighter.

I walk over and sit next to him, hugging my knees to my chest. He's wearing a black long sleeved shirt now, and it strains against his biceps. He still hasn't said anything.

"So, you come here often?" I ask. It's lame, but the best I can do. His eyes are a dark blue now, almost black, and he's still staring at me like he can't believe I'm really there. Maybe I'm not. This isn't the sensible and dreamy Gail I was before my mom fell sick. This Gail wants no regrets and no pain, and it feels nice sitting here. Like it's just the two of us in the whole world and time is frozen still.

Scott clears his throat and puts his sketchbook on the ground between us. "Are you following me or something?"

I throw my head back and laugh. He sounds almost like he's scared of me. "Maybe I am."

He's smiling now too.

"No, seriously, I'm not following you. I'm not that crazy," I say. "I'm sorry about before. It's been a long day."