Impulses (25 page)

Turning on my heel I walk deeper into, Mountain View Cemetery.

“Hayden,” I am halted by her voice, and gingerly turn to face her. “He would have loved those.” She smiles sadly, bowing her head and waving her finger toward the white lilies I hold in my possession. I half-smile as a tear escapes my eye while I continue my journey along the tarmac paving, surrounded by white headstones, and prestige crypts.

“Mom...” I stand behind the kneeling figure and she turns to look up at me from her position alongside black marble headstone, engraved with gold script.

She pushes herself up from the maintained, green lawn and welcomes me with open arms as she approaches me. “Hayden. Thank you for coming,” she whispers in my ear as I enfold her like a loving son would. She sniffles several times before releasing me and holds me at arm’s length. The contrast of her gaze is heartening, mourned and suffering, yet brimming with profuse love and gratitude.

She wears her black, wide-fitted, straight leg pants and black tunic with slits that reach up to her hips on either side. For eleven months now, she hasn’t strayed away from black or dark gray. Her thinning, chestnut locks with dusting of silver around her temples are pulled back into a chignon.

The corners of her mouth curls into a saddened and disconsolate, tightlipped grin.

“You remembered.” She stares pointedly at the flowers I possess in my right hand. Her bloodshot, swollen eyes appear hollow and vacant.

“Always,” I respond. I offer a reassuring, wistful smile while she walks around me and takes position on the oak bench with intricate, black iron patterns upon the backrest just behind me.

I regard the polished, black marble headstone direct and meticulously:

Leonard Matthew Wentworth

Beloved husband, devoted father

Born: October 20
^nd
1952 – Died: November 20
^th
2011.

“Happy birthday, Dad,” I mutter, my eyes filling and stinging with grieving tears. I lower myself to place the arrangement on the grave. Recovering the cross from the inside of my shirt, I grasp it with a firm clutch in my left hand. My eyelids feel heavy as I screw them closed, willing my grief to subside…for my mother’s sake.

“This brings me comfort in my time of need; I wear it in memory of you, close to my heart. I’ll never forget.” I am overawed with emotion; the comfort of knowing I am in his presence brings me the solace that I have sought. I sniffle and the barrage I have clutched at for so long begins to crumble then realization bores in. “I love you, Dad,” I pass through the swelling in my throat, my voice fragmenting with each syllable I strain.

Heated, inexorable tears blur my vision and roll down my cheeks.

With my left hand still embracing the warm, silver symbol that brings me hope and contentment, I lean forward, and place my right hand on the cool, smooth surface of the marble. My fingers studiously graze over the gold script.

“I should have done more. I should have listened and done it sooner. I’m so sorry.” Watching my fingers slid across his name, I finally raise myself and look straight ahead at the scenic, peaceful view beyond the cemetery. I look passed the outlining of scattered trees, their branches bearing as the crisping leaves dwindle lifelessly to the ground and the dissemination of headstones and monuments below. The bay is upon the horizon, the I-80 spread out in the distance to my left––the perfect place to be laid to rest.

Staggering back to the bench, I take place next to my mother. My legs outstretched and crossed at the ankles my fingers locked and resting on my lower abdomen. I sigh with what feels like the mass of the world sealing up my throat. With motherly affection, she deposits her right hand on my leg and squeezes. Even in her state, she still offers me her support.

“We all miss him, darling,” she murmurs in her comforting, heartfelt tone. I shake my head resigned, the ache and loss I feel in my heart is palpable in my disposition. “Come on, darling. Do you think he would like to see you like this on his birthday? It is a painful time, Hayden, but we can still celebrate this day…
his
day.”

We talk for hours about childhood memories, and the surprise fiftieth birthday party we had organized. The look on his face was definitely a Kodak moment. We laugh and shed happy tears as we reminisce, and I find my mood uplifts dramatically.

“So, Hayden, tell me more about this, Samantha. You never elaborate on the phone and I must say, I have noticed a certain…buoyancy in your voice when you mention her name.” Her hazel eyes widen and twinkle with nascent curiosity.

The image of Samantha, her eyes, her flowing hair, her smile and laugh, renders me incapable of concealing the face-splitting grin that overlooks the sentiments of the day so far.

“I recognize that look.” She shifts and props her head up onto her right hand while her elbow rests on the backrest of the bench.

“What look?”

“That look,”––she arches her brow and with a nod, motions toward me––“that is the exact same look your father carried for thirty-five years when he looked at me.” Removing her head from her palm, my mother extends her arm and brushes her fingertips with attachment and fondness through my hair, using the same technique she used so many times when I was younger. It’s placating, comforting.

“I’m in love with her, Mom.” I feel my body sag with relief, the burdening weight uplifted from my shoulders. I’ve said it, I love her. Numerous opportunities arose last weekend to give my emotions a voice, but I couldn’t in fear that she would run. I would go to Hell and back to make sure she was safe, to make sure she remained at my side.

Sinking my hand into my inner breast pocket, I retrieve my wallet. “We went to Yosemite last weekend.” I remove the cropped-photograph from the leather encasement, and hand it to her.

My mom stares at it intently, her expression overpowering. There are no words to describe how glowing she looks at this moment. “She is very beautiful, Hayden. You look so happy together.”

“We are. We have our insecurities––obviously, but together…we are learning to get passed them.”

With apparent distraction she traces her finger over the rainbow that fades into the mist of the waterfall behind us.

“People say you find treasure at the end of the rainbow,” she darts her tongue across her lips and I wait patiently for to finish. “What treasure is more sought after, than love?”

I reposition myself against the wooden slabs of the bench. My mother seemingly deep in thought while she continues to gape at the photo.

“I have more on my cell-phone.” I tap down at my breast and pants pockets. I sigh, click my tongue against the roof of my mouth and then shake my head in annoyance. “I left it in the car. I’m going to have to show you next time.”

“It’s okay; there will be plenty of time. I’m glad to see you have started hiking again.” She stretches her arm and I seize the photo from between her fingers.

“I can concentrate more with, Samantha. She really has been my light at the end of the tunnel, Mom. Everything makes…sense. I can’t imagine a day ensuing without seeing her, or hearing her voice.” My smile shrinks as my organs are drowned in concrete. I glance down at my laced fingers and dread finds its way into my vacant tone. “It’s too painful for me to even contemplate losing her.”

The thought of Samantha not being in my life is like waking up with no sun, powerless to breathe in the light and fresh air, and having to tolerate the stifling, stale form of humidity. That is what life without her would revert to. I’ve already been there and experienced it; I never thought I would triumph over it, and I wouldn’t have, had it not been for Samantha.

“So, when am I going to have the pleasure of meeting the young woman who has given me back my son?”

“I don’t know. I don’t want to inundate her with…” I gesture at our peaceful surroundings and shake my head, searching for the correct way to express myself, “all of this, family stuff.”

“Have you not talked to her…about the past?”

My arm warms as she glides her hand along it. I shake my head.

It’s not something one can just blurt out after dinner. Well, I could, if I wanted her to look down on me in revulsion and disappointment. Seized by worry and trepidation, my stomach prepares to orbital launch as I contemplate how Samantha may no longer recognize the confident man that embraces her, kisses her, who pulls her close at night when she is unsettled and painfully rasping that she’s sorry, while deep in sleep…but a reduced, failed man. The humiliating aspect of my years of travail is something that I never wanted to speak of again, something that I never wanted to relive––I relive it enough subconsciously.

“I don’t want her pity, Mother.”

“Oh, Hayden…” she sighs and her shoulders slouch, “it is not pity, it is sympathy, and compassion.” Her mouth forms a firm-set line, disappointment reflected in her eyes as I have once again berated myself in her presence.

I glance away, unwilling to stare at the same expression that my father had portrayed for so long before his last day…on his final day.

“How about Christmas?” her voice is as smooth as warm caramel.

I lift my head to look her in the eye. Bemused at the sudden change of topic, I pull my eyebrows in, feeling the skin on my forehead crease with the gesture.

“You and Samantha could come to the house on Christmas. Oh, Hayden, it would be lovely, we could have a proper holiday this year.” She’s practically pleading, and looks as though she is suppressing the urge to bounce up and down like a child begging for a puppy.

I snigger at her response.

“We will see. I’ll let you know.” And her arms are immediately wrapped around my neck, pulling me down into a motherly embrace.

“Dana, it is nearly 4:00 p.m.” I hear Cassandra’s velvet, throaty voice reverberate from my right side. My mother releases her arms from around my neck and we both glance up in unison at the tanned, mid-forties––but definitely wouldn’t assume it––woman beside the arm of the bench.

“Thank you, Cassandra,” Mother purrs.

Cassandra nods dutifully, before focusing on an invisible spot on her black, patent, court shoes.

Standing, I offer my hand to aid my mother in renouncing the left side of the rigid bench. I tower over her five-foot two-inch frame.

She frames my face with her hands and cocks her head to the right.

“There is no gift that gives a mother as much pleasure, than knowing that her child is happy. Thank you, Hayden, for taking the time to come here today. Apologize to Samantha for me…for keeping you away from your plans,” she apologizes, narrowing her eyes, which adds further depth to her wrinkles. I idly think back to when Samantha had point out about my wrinkles and offer a wry smile.

“I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.”

She slips her hand away from my face, tapping my cheek twice before pulling away completely.

“Are you going to make a move, too?”

“No, I am going to stay with him a little while longer.”

Kissing my mother on the cheek goodbye, I sink back down onto the oak pew.

She turns to face the headstone, whispering, “Happy Birthday Leo. I love you with all my heart. Keep our son safe,” before turning back to me and flashes a reserved grin. She then walks away into the distance, with Cassandra’s arm hung around her shoulders, offering her best friend and employer the support, and tenderness that she needs.

I sit for what seems like a lifetime talking to my dad, asking for forgiveness for all of the matters and incidents which cause my regrets. I tell him that I have found the one, someone who feels for me the exact way that I feel for her, and that she is the complete opposite of Addison
.
Samantha would never hurt me and degraded me the way in which Addison had the pleasure of doing for so long. He would have adored Samantha.

I watch the sun sink in the sky, transforming the heavens from a blank canvas into a stunning creation of aquamarines, burnish-orange, lilacs and pinks as they blend together to form a unique, tranquil view along the horizon. A light breeze wavers past making the last of the leaves rustle from their branches, some snapping away from the cold bark of the hundred year old trees, and spiral wistfully to their fate.

I glance down at my watch, 6:45 p.m.

Pushing myself up from the oak slabs, I stretch out my muscles. My ass feels unsurprisingly numb. I think idly about having cushions for that pew, to save the aftermath of sitting on it for hours at a time.

I say my goodbyes to my father before leaving him, and the chilly, darkening cemetery behind.

The leather cracks and squeaks as I sink back into the driver’s seat. Inclining my head back against the rest, I close my eyes and breathe in a refreshing, cool breath. Today has been an emotional rollercoaster, full of sadness, grief, affection, and the liberation of a now voiced hidden love…I shake my head and feel the left side of my mouth lift; I love her.

With my head lingering against the icy material, I peek down at the armrest to my right, and retrieve my cell. Reluctant to bare weight upon my neck, I lazily lift the phone up to the periphery of my vision and gently sweep my finger from the top to the bottom of the screen to unlock it.

I’m overcome with apprehension, my blood running cold, my stomach contorting and my heart is speared with a shard of ice. I pull my head away from the headrest and stare at the screen intently.

Thirteen missed calls from Samantha?

Fear and dread braids its way through my body, and surfs upon the adrenaline that is sweeping through my veins. A montage plays like a slideshow in my mind. Is she okay? Is she hurt? Has there been an accident? Is she in the hospital? Was she ringing me for help? Dammit. I am inundated with guilt and only the bitter taste and burning of the bile rising up to my throat recoups my ability to take control.

I press the button to return her call, hoping and praying to a higher power that no harm has come to her.

“Hayden!” a voice barks down the earpiece on the fourth ring.