Every Rose (30 page)

I close my eyes and revel in that for a moment. I finally open them. “I love him too. I can’t believe…”

“I know. Me either. He was my little brother, ya know?” I give him a tentative smile.

“He really looked up to you, loved you.” I tell him. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

“Yeah, thanks.”

“I wish we’d met before…”

“Yeah, me too. I had to do some detective work to figure out who you were and where you were. You weren’t easy to find.”

“So, you didn’t know about me before the funeral?” I figured not, but I had to ask.

“No, I wish I would’ve, though.”

“Me too. I don’t even know where he’s buried.”

He expels a pent up breath and tells me, “He’s buried in a family plot about an hour from here where his dad and our mom grew up. I’ll write it down for you before I go.”

“Good. I’d like that. You know we’ve been friends since school, right?”

He blushes a little and replies sheepishly, “Yeah, I know a lot about you now. I’ve been reading his journals, including one that I’m guessing you started for him.”

Aah, my Christmas present. “Really? You have them. That’s wonderful. I bet you’ve gotten a lot of insight into his life.”

“I have. It’s been…very cool. To know he was that happy before…”

“I’m so happy he was happy,” I gush. I know he’s gone, but I try to focus on what we had before he left and how good it was fo
r the oh-so-brief time we had together.

“I’d…uh…like to hear your take on things if you don’t mind,” he requests.

I launch into every detail I can. I’m so thrilled to be talking to someone about him, especially someone who loved him and knew him. Jamie really seems to enjoy hearing my story, so I hardly leave any details out. When I tell him we had planned to get married this summer, he wipes a few tears from his eyes. When I tell him he’d already named our children, he loses it for a few minutes. I rub his arm as I wait for his tears to subside. All too soon my time with him is up. He leaves me the information for the cemetery.

As he opens the door, a question flies out of me that I don’t even remember mentally posing. “Jamie, was Michael buried by a Catholic priest?”

He turns to look at me, shakes his head, and says with regret, “No, no, he wasn’t. His parents haven’t practiced in years. We didn’t even realize Mike was attending church or anything.” He wrinkles his forehead at me. “I keep noticing you call him Michael. Our mom’s the only other person who called him by his given name.”

I nod my head and my gears start turning. Michael was living a dual life for sure. I’m so glad that Jamie found his things and me. I hop
e he realizes all that Michael was, and that given more time, he would’ve reconciled these two distinct parts of himself. “I love his name, so I started out calling him by it. Then, Michael wouldn’t let me call him Mike. He liked that I was the only one who called him that.” I grin thinking about the few times I used his nickname. He would get so pissed.

“Hey, I’ll be right back,” he says. “I got something for you.”

“OK.” I watch him walk out to his truck and again marvel at how different Michael and his brother are from one another.

He bounds back up my steps with a rather large box. “I wasn’t sure if I wanted to part with this stuff, but I know you’ll take care of it. I kept some things, of course. I think these things will mean a lot more to you, though.”

“Oh, Jamie,” I start and my voice cracks. He has no idea how I hate the fact that I have very few physical reminders of Michael. “Thank you, thank you so much. I’ll treasure them always.” I don’t know what’s in the box and I don’t care. The fact that they were Michael’s things is all I need to know.

“You want me to bring it in for you?”

“Oh, no, I’ll manage.” I grab the box and turn to open the door. He shuffles around me and pulls it open for me. “Jamie, thank you so much for coming here. You have no idea how much all of this meant to me.”

He smiles and I see a little of Michael in him when he does. Instant tears spring to my eyes. “I think I have an idea. Your visit did a lot for me too.”

“Jamie, I’m so sorry to ask but I have to know. What happened to Michael that night?”

He runs his hands over his face before he replies tersely, “We don’t really know. One minute Michael was there
, hanging out. The next he was gone. Everyone is messed up over it, but our mom, especially, is real tore up over it.”

“I’m so sorry for your family’s loss,” I tell him.

“Thanks. Well, you take care.”

“Thanks. You too. Bye, Jamie.”

“Bye bye, Lorraina.”

I make it back to my room without toppling my box over. I close the door and lock it even though no one will be home for quite some time. I steeple my hands under my chin and try to gather some strength. I think this will
be good for me; however, it’s also going to hurt like hell.

Chapter Thirty

The Art of Memorializing

By the time I’m half way through the box, I have more questions than ever. Michael sketched some beautiful pictures of me. Most of them were of my face
. A couple of them were nudes. You couldn’t really see anything, but it doesn’t take much imagination to figure out that I’d posed for him that way. I blush as I think of Michael’s brother looking at them, but I have to say it’s astounding to see how Michael saw me. My flaws were still there: rounded belly, flared hips, chubby toes. However, he saw the beauty even in my imperfections and managed to convey that through his work.

I found several different poems that spoke of love and loss and described perfectly how I’ve been feeling all summer, but I wonder if he wrote them recently or if they were older. Were they inspired by me or by fear of us ending? I hope he didn’t feel this way about our future. Most of me leans towards thinking they are older poems.

The journals. These slay me. Over and over. They’re beautiful but haunting. I love reading about us from his perspective. It is absolutely incredible yet absolutely terrifying. I’ve never hurt so bad other than the night I found out he was gone. I sob for what seems like hours. One particular entry really cuts deep. The night that I sought him out at Mona’s. Our first night; it held so much promise. I can hear him thinking these thoughts in his sexy baritone. All that confidence with an underlying layer of vulnerability.

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I make my way to the stage and begin setting up. Jason told me that there’s a pretty little blonde over on one of the couches waiting for me to play. It was everything I could do not to tear over there, jerk her up, and kiss her until she was a writhing mass in my arms. It had to be her. It had to be Lorraina. Any other girl wanting to see me would have wasted no time in making herself known. I know I have to put the ball in her court, though. Whatever she came here for, she would have to make that known. After the way she tortured me for all those years, I’m not gonna make it easy on her.

I get ready to get going and mentally chuck my entire set list. I’m gonna have some fun with this. I know what she likes. I know what will get her going. Even if it’s not her, it’ll be fun pretending, though. I shake that thought. It’s her. It has to be. Now that it’s a possibility, I won’t survive, otherwise.

I kick it off with a popular, catchy song with suggestive lyrics that reminds me so much of her. My good girl with a hidden desire for bad boys like me. She’s gonna have to face up to that real soon. Although in my case, I guess I would be considered a reformed bad boy.

Damn, I’m having a hard time concentrating on my performance. What is she doing here? What does she want from me? All this shit I’ve gone through to make myself better for her and I still don’t feel ready to take her on. Fuck that! I’m ready. I mentally kick myself. I’ll have to quit cursing again, dammit!

I play a couple of her favorite songs, and I sneak in one I wrote for her after our stupid fight. The fight that got me to wizen up a little too late. Thank you, God, for that fight and for that stubborn girl.

All right, I’ve had about enough of this shit, Lorraina. Come on baby. Is that you? How ‘bout this one? I transition into “Jealous Guy.” This one pretty much sums up our entire relationship. Damn! She’s still as stubborn as ever.

It takes me two more songs to get her to turn around. When she does, it’s a sucker punch to my gut. She’s more beautiful than ever. And the way she’s looking at me. I feel a slow burn move over my entire body that turns into rapid-fire movement. I need a minute to collect myself, so I motion Jason over to her. I hope he gets my drift.

I wrap up that song, and she just looks way too comfortable over there. I launch into “Every Rose Has Its Thorn.” It was the first song I’d ever shared with her. It has the desired effect. She looks like she wants to kill me and kiss me at the same time. Woman, you don’t even know the half of it, I think. You don’t stand a chance.

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When I finally come to, I hear my family stirring. I figure I’d better go make myself presentable before dinner. I surreptitiously try to make my way to the bathroom. When I reach the door handle, my mom is suddenly standing beside me. I try to hurry it along and avoid her seeing me like this. I’ve scared my own self with my look after suffering the blissful torment that is Michael’s journal.

“Lorraina, look at me,” she demands, leaving no room for hesitation. My head flies up of its own volition. I hear her sharp intake of breath. She grabs my hand and propels me into her room before slamming and locking the door. “What is going on with you, young lady? And no more lies.”

“I…” I don’t know what to say. My mom has never confronted me like this, so it is hard for me to think on my feet. I release a long pent up breath and try to take another one to calm myself, but before I can I burst into tears. My mom just pulls me over to the bed and allows me to put my head in her lap. I hear her shushing me while her hand moves over my hair. I let it all go. It feels so good. When my head begins to throb, I figure now’s a good time to stop crying.

I sit up, and she just stares at me expectantly. “I have some things to tell you. I don’t know how you’re going to feel about them, but I want you to know that I’m going to be OK.” She nods her head at me encouragingly. Of my three confessions, I’m not sure which one she will find more shocking or which one she will be more disappointed in, but there’s no time like the present. “Mamma, I have some things to tell you. I hope you’ll let me explain everything before you rush to judgment.”

“Lorraina, I just want you better. You have not been yourself all summer. You know, you haven’t been yourself for a long time, but these past few months have just been pure torture.”

“I’m sorry, Mamma,” I tell her. “I’m getting better I think, though.” Here goes nothing. I decide a head first plunge is my best bet. “First, I’m Catholic now.” Furrowed brow. “Second, I’m moving to New York to get my MFA in creative writing.” Squinty, angry eyes. “Third, I fell absolutely and indelibly in love but he…” my voice falters here, but I forge on muttering words I’d only said aloud to myself, “he died.” Utter astonishment.

“Wh…What? What are talking about? I don’t understand.”

I launch into a retelling of my past several months. I leave no details untold. Well, almost none. I don’t go into great detail on Michael’s visit to Oxford. Only the pertinent information is necessary there. I pull the pewter cross from my shirt and show her our engagement ring that is hanging from the necklace. She gasps and oohs and aahs. She cries when I tell her how I found out about Michael’s passing, and she wishes that she could’ve gotten to know him better. She tells me she was so preoccupied when were hanging out in school that she barely remembers him. I go and get her pictures of him to jog her memory. I show her some of the drawings that he did of me and various other things. I can’t help but get worked up over how amazing his work is. I can tell I’m not just biased either. My mom thinks he’s phenomenal as well.

“So Michael is responsible for your writing again and your attending church again?” She asks disbelievingly.

“Yes, Mamma. He…he reawakened me. I was sleep walking through my life before. As a matter of fact, I had no life. I had one friend left over from high school, and that was only from force of habit. We didn’t have a real relationship. I didn’t confide in her and share my life with her. I hung out with her when I came home. I was merely functioning, and Michael snapped me out of all of that.”

“I’m so happy that you’re writing again. You know I think your writing is beautiful. I’d always hoped you would do something with it. Does it have to be New York, though? It’s so far.”

“I know, but it’s my dream. I am going to do something with it. I want to write stories. I want to write stories about people who live their lives on the fringes of society. You know…outcasts and bad decision makers like Michael and me. People who have something to say and something meaningful to pass on Law was something I was interested in, but I’ve found that this is my passion. This is what I was called to do.”

“Well,” she sighs and smiles slightly, “I’ve always wanted to go to New York. I think it’s wonderful, Lorraina. I couldn’t be happier for you. I’ve always wanted you to be happy. You deserve that, honey.”

“Thank you, Mamma.”