September - Last Words 10 страница

I went downstairs to make food for Gerard and myself, like I had done every morning for the past few months, working on autopilot. Everything was the same as it had been, and considering last night between Hunter and myself, everything should have felt even better. But a tension still lingered around me. I held the plate of food and began the return trip up the stairs, and the anxiety descended more. I tried to push forward, thinking of those few split seconds in the dream where I had seen Gerard's face, his hair dark like it had been years ago, and pushed on. I needed to go to his room. I needed to see him before I left for work. I needed to know if he was okay.

In my head, the lines of poetry repeated, going through me like a ghost. In the room, he comes and goes, talking of Picasso. I knocked on the door, and no answer came. He comes and goes, I thought again, and I finally put the plate of food down and stood in front of the entrance. I knocked again, one final time, and I just knew. He was gone. The anxiety disappeared because I knew it had finally happened. I wasn't falling anymore. I didn't think that the culmination of all that stress would be this overwhelming conclusion. I hadn't let myself get that far ahead. But when I finally gathered the strength to open the door and face that reality, his state did not surprise me. Instead I was baffled by my own, because I was not scared at all.

He was in his bed, half on his back and half to the side. He looked almost peaceful, as if he wasn't really dead at all. A smell lingered in the room, from a small pool of vomit on the far side of the bed. It was far enough away that it looked as if he had tried to get up, thrown up instead, and then just lay back down again. I swallowed hard, and tried not to breathe through my nose. I had to look away from that display to gather myself and that was when I noticed the whiteboard. It was blank. No madness, no names and dates, but blankness. Pure white. I scanned his night table for more clues and saw a bottle of empty pills that he had taken since the stroke, a glass of water, and one of his sketch books. I listened in the room again, holding my breath, and I heard no other sound than the mourning doves outside our windows in the early morning.

There was nothing I could do or could have done, and I knew it. I didn't run away and I didn't try and reach for the phone. He was dead and had been for some time. I knew it would probably look like he had had another stroke. When they affect the brain stem, they could cause vomiting, Vivian had told me. She had witnessed this type of reaction firsthand, just before he had his second stroke and nearly fell down her stairs. While Hunter had tried to become an expert in Alzheimer's, her specialty had been those strokes that seemed to roll through her house. I knew how each person, having a different piece of his life and their own distinct knowledge, would see the situation and make their own interpretations from it.

I took a deep breath, though it was hard, and I stared at the art on the walls, and out the tiny window that reminded him of Paris. I had not become a medical expert, not even close. But I knew what I knew, and that was art. I went to the window and watched the sun come up over the skyline, the pink blurring with the upcoming yellow. I watched the world discover and unfold itself before I finally gazed at the pictures on his walls and his final words to all of us. The triptych of his favorite artists was still above his bed, the handprint we had recreated together on the ceiling, the color of the rainbow from Kandinsky on the side, his own canvas of The Rainbow, the portrait of Hunter pregnant, the dove box, his supplies, and finally, that little tiny window. He was always looking outside of it, wondering what was next. In the dawn sunlight that was slowly coming in the room, I wondered what was next for him, darkness or light, and I realized it didn't really matter because he was gone. As the realization of what had happened hit me slowly and made my stomach fall out of me, I was not scared. Tears were rolling down my face silently, but I did not shake with fear.

I sat on the bed with him, and touched his body to be sure. I needed to be sure. It was cold, and when I leaned down closer to him, I still heard no breath in the room. I lay down with him, my body collapsing on his, and I let my sorrow out. Though I was crying and screaming and yelling, I was also relieved, so relieved. I felt so terrible and awful, but I was also so happy. It was dawn, and we were surrounded by art, and I knew with every part of me that this was how he wanted to leave this world. He would stare out that window as if he could step outside that barrier and somehow fall back through time. Knowing that was impossible, he decorated and dedicated everything around him that made him love and made him feel things that he didn't quite know how to express anymore. He had now gone to wherever he was going to next, and I was no longer waiting for him. I had always been waiting for him, my entire life, because my life only really started when I met him. I waited for him to let me come to Paris, to let me paint, to let me touch him, to let me know it was okay to be alive, to let me be free, and then finally, I waited for him to die. And now he had done it. He had finally let me go again.

I heaved a sudden sob, and placed both hands on my chest to steady my breathing. He stuck around long enough to see Paloma, I reassured myself. He was here to see Hunter really become Hunter, and then, to have those last few days together. He was an asshole a lot of the time, but I knew, I knew it because I saw it with my eyes, that he was not selfish. He was one of the most giving people I had ever met. I lay down in the bed with him, and I touched his hair. I kissed his forehead, and I held his hand. I ignored the smell inside the room and the dead-weight heaviness of his body. I was happy, in spite of the tears the kept falling down my face. For once, I didn't feel like a failure. We had done something right, I knew, to keep him around this long. Especially in the way that he had chosen to live. I thought of our last few days together, and the simplicity of it all; eating oranges with our hands, shaving, and pretending to be doves with Paloma. We touched her, held her, and marveled in her. He had been a father, and he had loved her to death.

I wanted him to live. Though it felt like I had been waiting for this moment forever, I wanted him to live. I wanted him to get better or to hang around longer. I wished that he could have loved and experienced more of his daughter, seen Hunter and I in the mornings, and made more art. I wanted him to live, and I felt it so fiercely inside of me. But, in the end, I knew that was never my choice. I took back my regrets of him only being fifty-six, because that was still so much life. He had no regrets, I knew he didn't, because it was a waste of an emotion and he lost too much in his past to feel any regret at the moment of his death. He had so much feeling inside of him that he could not contain it inside himself anymore, and he had to let it go. I thought of his description of Kandinsky's colors and what would happen when they all merged into one. Alexa had been right, I told myself. It was not darkness, but light. Gerard shone through a prism and his mind exploded with color like the light of dawn that came into the room and exposed the paintings to the morning. There was nothing but madness all around, until he could not take it anymore. He left us with everything, nothing, and this infinite sadness that felt as if it would never pass, but I knew it would. It always would.

I was in that fugue again, hearing his voice and feeling him next to me. I heard him whisper in my ear and tell me everything he had said since I was seventeen. My life flashed before my eyes, too, and in the end, it wasn't that Kandinsky painting, it was his own. The title I Remember Everything echoed in my ears and I saw the colors cascade into gold on the one piece he made for his first show after Paris and refused to sell. I ran my hands down his back, over his lapel, and touched the dove that lay there in the fabric, never moving. I lay with him for a long time, letting him go. I wondered, at one point, if I was ever going to get up. I wondered if I could sink down into this bed, into this body that I swore was mine and physically attached to me some days. I wondered why I didn't feel him die, and then I remembered the stars and how matter didn't really die, it just got moved around, and all the things that Gwen said which didn't really make sense then, but were taking form now. The dust in the room became visible with the morning light and I saw particles flying. It was matter, it was him, and nothing had really changed in the universe as a whole. It had just been shifted, transitioned.

But that body, I lamented. My grief was so heavy it was his body, weighing and pressing on me. I wanted his body and I would miss his body even if he was everywhere now. It was his body that had explored mine and that I had explored; it was his body that I knew to be a part of my own. I wanted to hold onto him a little while longer, though the room smelled bad and he was getting stiff.

And then, I got up. I didn't want to, but I did it, somehow. It was the hardest and the easiest action at the same time. I had to leave him, because I could not stay there forever. I looked around the room, and I said goodbye. The moment I had been waiting for had come, and I was free.

I believed, so deeply, that so was he.

Hunter came up next, also knowing what I had known intuitively, and confirmed his worst suspicions. He found me looking out the window again, now that dawn had fully been reached. I had heard him come up the stairs, and I kissed Gerard's forehead one final time, before I met his eyes. His face broke and he started to sob instantly. His fists slammed against the wall at one point and though he tried to twist out broken syllables, they did not come. I didn't tell him anything, because I knew it was no use. Instead I touched his shoulders and kissed his forehead too, leaving him alone in the room so that he could now grieve. I closed the door for the two of them, picked up the food that was now cold, and then slowly trudged down the stairs to inform the rest of the house.

I knew I would have to call most people, but as soon as I picked up the phone and dialed Vivian, she took over the rest. All she could do was sob into the receiver, but we all knew what that meant. Everyone dropped what they were doing, and they all started to fill up the house again. Vivian and Cassandra were first, and Vivian tried to run up the stairs to see him, but I had to hold her back and told her that Hunter was there. It was utter agony to watch the pain spread across her face and have there be nothing I could do about it, but I breathed jaggedly in and out and tried to calm myself. Cassandra, to my surprised, rushed over to me and began to sob into my shirt. She stomped her foot and kept calling him an asshole, and I just held her head. I let her keep going, and I watched as Dean and Callie came up the driveway and into our front hall next. They were not as distraught as everyone else, but shed a few tears and made their presence known because they knew we needed them. Vivian ran over to them and they dealt with her until Hunter came back down, and by that time Mikey and Alexa had showed up. Everyone was here again, and the house erupted into sorrow and tears. I moved through the people, having already felt what I needed to feel, but knowing that I was not done yet. After Vivian had gone upstairs, Dean went into our kitchen, already being familiar with where everything was and began to make breakfast.

"Can you make French toast?" I asked him, and he nodded. He had already gotten quite skilled at figuring out vegan substitutions, and I didn't need to show him anything.

In the middle of all the sobbing and grieving that the house had suddenly produced, I heard Paloma's faint wail. Hunter was in the arms of Alexa, and he was still crying softly though he had had his moments with Gerard. They were at the kitchen table, and Mikey was in the next room with his kids, most of them still in pajamas. Everyone was calling in sick today and no one was going to school. Cassandra still clung to me, and I knew she would not want to go upstairs after her mother. I took her with me, telling her I needed to see Paloma. "Although it's hard to believe, I can hear her over all of this right now."

She nodded, her face still caked with tears. She was breathing unevenly, but had stopped crying for the most part. She welcomed the distraction, but as we walked past the irises that he had painted in Paloma's room, she let out a gasp and ragged breath.

"Oh god," she said, and spun around the room slowly, taking in each plant in every color. I went right to Paloma, and my eyes stayed on her.

"Hey, you, good morning," I told her, picking her up gently. I could smell that she needed to be changed, and I took her over to the table. I wanted to tell her why everyone was here, to explain what had happened, but it was too hard. I could feel my throat welling up anytime I thought about explaining it with words, so I focused my attention on changing her instead, getting the new cloth diaper, and cleaning her up. Cassandra watched me curiously.

"How can you do that?" she asked me, and I thought she meant the trick with the pin. I was beginning to show her when she shook her head. "No, you're calm. How are you calm?"

When she pointed it out, I began to cry again, but not as strongly as before. Tears ran down my cheeks, but I brushed them aside with my palm. It wasn't a masculine defense technique, pretending that I wasn't crying as much as I was, although I knew that Cassandra would interpret it that way. This was just what I needed to do. I got Paloma ready and back into one of her sleepers, and then I held her in my arms. I knew that she was the main reason I was so calm, but I didn't know how to articulate that to Cassandra. I just wanted to hold my daughter, my child with him, and let the grief of his death dissipate. I knew that in a week, we would all be okay. We would sit around the table and laugh and joke about him, and that he would never really die that way because we would always be talking about him. It was inevitable. He would be on the tips of our tongues and inside our minds for the rest of our lives. There was nothing to be sad about, except that I would no longer hold his body in my arms.

I held Paloma in my arms tightly, and I tried to tell Cassandra, "I've been sad for enough of my life, and I know he's gone, but he's still here, sometimes, you know? There are stars, and they don't end. There are some things that are never-ending, I'm sure of that. Even when stars burn out, the constellation is still the same."

Cassandra didn't know what I meant, and she seemed particularly angry by my insinuation. She started to cry through her anger, and told me I had been listening to Alexa too much, before she stormed off. I did not take her anger personally, and in a way, I almost envied it. She was angry at Gerard for leaving, when I understood why he had to go. That was what it really came down to. I did not want him to go, but I was never going to make him stay. I never was and I never had that power. But I also wasn't going to wait anymore, either.

Cassandra would have her time to grieve, I told myself. She may even hit the body and tell him he's a jerk, whatever she needed to do to make herself feel okay. I had been grieving my whole life, it felt, for this moment when I would be alone again. But I wasn't alone, I had to remind myself. I held a baby in my arms, and a husband upstairs, and though he was dead now, I still had Gerard inside of me, a part of me, somewhere. The whole house filled with echoes of sorrow, and I knew I held each one of them inside of me, and more.

Holding Paloma, I walked upstairs to my floor, being careful to not disturb the precise grieving that was taking place. I brought along some bedding for her and set her up by the mural, close to me as I dipped inside the small closet to take out what I had completed the night before. She and I stayed outside my room and I sat down cross-legged next to her with my pile of newly developed photos. I rocked her back and forth on the pillow she was on, and smiled to her anytime she looked up at me. We were in the middle of the garden, it felt like, and I told her that we were going to need to add her handprint soon. I picked her up for a moment, forgetting the photos, and we found Gerard's blue handprint together. We traced it with our fingers, and touched it together, feeling the bumps and ridges of the dried acrylic paint. I felt a chill run through me, and I looked around to see what had caused it, finding nothing.

Hunter came into the room soon after. I stood up with Paloma, and without words, we kissed one another softly. We were both devastated, but he also knew it was finally over. He held Paloma, and I went to finish up my photos. When I came back out, Hunter was with Alexa, and they handed me the baby before they went off. I told them I needed to be alone, and they were busy, too. The house was in a stir of echoes and whispers, the small sounds of grief spreading through it. The origin was Gerard's bedroom, and then the waves slowly rolled down the stairs. It would not end with our door, either. It would go down the street, around the corner, and spread and touch each person that he had ever known. Maybe only a tear would be shed, or a ragged breath, but people would be moved. I knew they would be, because that was how Gerard had lived his life. He spread himself out and embedded himself in people's lives, all over, even when he lived alone in Paris. The women across the street from us, the ones who gave us day old bread, I wondered if they could feel his loss. If they shivered right then, if they knew it was for him. He was gone, but he hadn't really left.

As each person walked past me on the stairs, I stayed in the garden with Paloma. Each person had their time with the artist one last time. I stirred through all my photos, and then found the one I had been looking for. It was the one from the day before, where he held her for the last time, and they could not take their eyes off of one another. I sighed, seeing the two of them, frozen, and always there. Taking Paloma in one arm, I held the photo in another. I held it up to her to see if she could recognize herself in his arms. I opened my mouth, and finally began to let my feelings spill forth.

"Hey," I told her softly. "That's you. And him? The man next to you? Well, that's a long story, Paloma, but he is your Papa. Papa Gerard. Whatever anyone else tells you, he is your Papa. But it's a long story," I told her, putting her down on the pillow, "and you look really tired. You're a baby, though, and babies get tired. You should sleep, Paloma, sleep, and I'll tell you about doves some other time."

She had taken my advice and was now sleeping. See? I was already a fantastic father and my daughter was listening to me. My heart pounded in my chest, knowing that he would never have that same feeling. But when I looked at the photo, I saw it in his face. He had been a fantastic father, and he had given her the best gift. Leaving the photo next to her temporarily, I went into my bedroom to pull out the archive. Next to her once again, I slid this photo in the back. I called it, "Did you know that Picasso painted doves? - Gerard and Paloma Wyatt. Otherwise known as The Dove Keeper." The title was too long, I was sure, but never long enough.

"I will never forget you," I said into the air, and then I closed the book.

Postscript

All of these stories have already happened. If you ask Vivian, Mikey, Alexa, or Hunter what happened, they will tell you a very different story. We are all not liars, so all of these stories must be true. There is no origin, only story upon story upon story where the reader plays the most important part. You keep it going, and you never let it rest. You adapt, you change, and you must always survive.

This is what I know for sure: there is no such thing as realism, there is only what happens to you. I loved a man who died too soon, and I loved a man that I never knew existed. I have a daughter and I have a family. People don't change, but that's the beauty of life, and there is always beauty. I can't promise you you'll find it, but I promise you it's there, because he showed me it the first time, and then I learned how to do it on my own.

Look back at the beginning. It's all there, all the pieces of the puzzle, all the bits and parts that never made sense before suddenly seem to have a purpose. Go back and look, but don't get stuck there. Make sure it makes sense again, and then move on. We all need to understand the beginnings before we reach the ends, and what we really understand we speak about in past tense. But don't get stuck in that time yourself. There is a world outside that you're missing if you do and there is too much love possible to keep it all a secret.

All of these stories have already happened. It's still happening, in some place and in some time. Gerard will always be alive that way. But right now, this is all I can tell you, because this is all I've ever known. I am Frank, and this is what happened. To him, to us, to everyone who came in contact with us, to every last one of you. And that is it, but it's definitely not the end.

Дата добавления: 2015-11-14