Lost In Rewind (Audio Fools #3) (9 page)

It took Eddie, Louis, and William to come and knock some sense into me in order for me to wake up and realize just how much I have to live for and how blessed I really am. I went back home to try and be a half decent father to kids who, just like me, lost the most important part of their life.

I wanted to be the man that my wife thought I was and pick up the pieces and get my family back together. I was going to beg Sara to give us a chance and hope she’d agree to play a more active role in our children’s lives, now that the only mother they ever knew was gone. I did run to Sara and Will’s apartment at The Pierre but since that day my life has never been the same. After almost losing Sara, I haven’t been able to find myself among all the memories. The lines have been blurred and my head sometimes can’t decipher who said what; was it Jacky or Sara? I’m all mixed up, and besides my children, I have nothing to anchor me down to earth.

I haven’t yet gone back to work. I don’t feel I should be trusted with million-dollar deals when I can’t even write an email without drifting away to live inside one of my happy memories. My father-in-law has come out of retirement to help with the law firm he entrusted to me. I can’t look anyone in the eye, especially not Jacky’s parents; I can’t handle more pain. I don’t work, I don’t eat, I don’t sleep, and my heart only beats for my little ones while I try to stay strong and stop myself from perishing.

I spoke to Emily almost every day while Sara was back at her parents’ house recovering after her near catastrophic miscarriage. Emily is my only direct link to Sara and her wellbeing, even now since Sara and Will returned to their penthouse. I’m pleasantly surprised they haven’t left New York, and somewhere in my head, I hope she comes to see her children, as they patiently wait for their guardian angel to magically fix their mother’s absence. Emily has mentioned how depressed her best friend is and how slow and painful her healing has been. Sara refuses to talk to me, and I have a feeling she blames herself for losing the baby, which was clearly out of everybody’s hands. I still give blood every fifty-six days, against the doctor’s recommendation and without anyone having knowledge of it, but it helps me to sleep better at night.

My kids have an army of people who love them and show them every day just how important they are in their lives. Even Eddie and his wife Michelle have been over a few times to let his children spend time with their cousins. We’ve had many invitations over the summer to stay in the Hamptons with people Jacky and I once considered friends, but I haven’t been able to leave the safety of the walls within my home. I’ll be okay one day, just not right now.

The last few weeks I’ve been having vivid dreams about being back at Brown University. I’ve refused to go talk to a therapist as my parents and brother keep suggesting. I don’t need to talk to anybody or be put on antidepressants, I just need to reprogram my brain to accept reality and wipe from my mind what I assumed would be my life. Eddie thinks it would be a good idea for me to go back to Rhode Island and revisit where Jacqueline and I first met. He feels that in order for me to have closure and move forward I need to go visit the place where we were once young, happy, and carefree. After chewing over everybody’s two cents regarding my life and wellbeing, I’ve decided it may be good for my sanity to take a short trip back to Rhode Island, not just to be back at the place where it all started for Jacky and me, but also to go find that old fortuneteller and return her key; it clearly doesn’t belong to me. I need closure and I also want to somehow give her the prophecy back—it serves no purpose in my life anymore. She made a mistake. She got the wrong guy. When I find her, I’ll finally get to ask her why she said the things she said to me that night. And how she could’ve possibly known the details that she said. It may be childish and silly, but my soul demands it.

I walk into Jacob’s room first, but he’s already asleep with his mouth open catching flies. I tuck him in and kiss his soft, dirty-blond mane. I close the door and go find his sister who I can bet my life is still not sleeping.

I peek in and I spy my little ballerina in training still fiddling quietly with her violin.

“To sleep or not to sleep … that is the question,” I whisper in jest.

“Daddy, can I sleep in your room today? I think I’m going to have a bad dream,” she cries out.

“Juliet, everybody has their own bed. I promise that tonight you’ll only have good dreams.”

I place her violin back on its stand and sit at the side of her ornate princess bed. She gives me a sad look that almost makes me want to cancel my silly trip. I should just stay home and sleep in her room, chasing away any nightmares, but the more I think about it, the more sense it makes that I need to leave New York City for a short time both mentally and physically and try to find myself for all our sakes. I have my whole life ahead of me and I need to be able to raise my children, run my law firm, and be happy with the cards I’ve been dealt. I ultimately need to be Juliet and Jacob’s guardian angel, even though my name isn’t Sara.

“I’m going away on a short trip to find something. I need you to take care of Jacob and make sure he doesn’t get into any trouble. Can I count on you?” She loves being in command.

“Where are you going? Are you going to find Sara, our guardian angel?” Her eyes enlarge with hope and anticipation.

“I’m going back to where Mommy and I went to college. I think I lost something there. And, baby, listen, Sara will always be your guardian angel, like Mommy said, but she may not be part of our lives the way you’re imagining. We have Mommy in heaven watching over us, and we have each other here. That’s all we need.” I kiss the disappointed look on her little perfect face.

“You’re wrong. Mommy said Sara would take care of us when she’s gone, and Mommy is always right,” Juliet protests with conviction.

I nod. “Yes, Mommy is always right,” I concede to my seven-year-old believer.

“
Beat It
” by Michael Jackson

“D
o you see that lost-looking guy?” Lauren points her shaker at a man sitting in the darkest corner of the bar.

“Yeah, I see him. What did he do?” I’m always suspicious of the strangers that visit us on dark, rainy days. I could probably name every person that walks through those doors, and in most cases, I can tell you who they’re sleeping with or who they
want
to sleep with. That’s what I get for spending every waking hour at the closest and best-known bar to the Ivy League giant known as Brown University.

“Watch this—in exactly one minute, he will get up and go upstairs to the bathroom. He’s been here for over three hours, since we opened, and every fifteen minutes, like clockwork, the idiot gets up and goes upstairs to piss or maybe do something else. Here, watch, it’s almost time.” The clock on Lauren’s phone shows a quarter past three, and the mystery man gets up and goes upstairs.

“Heads, I kick him out, tails, he’s all yours,” I call out mid-toss.

“No go, Frenchy. I dealt with our favorite drunk-transy last night. This bathroom creep is all yours, sister.” Lauren is already on the other side of the bar as I reluctantly follow the weirdo up the stairs.

I cringe as the top stair squeaks. This throws my whole ambush plan to shit. I go with plan B and knock on the bathroom door instead.

“Sir, are you all right?” Silence. I try again, “Sir, is everything okay?” Still nothing. I try the handle, and it’s unlocked. I roll my eyes, wondering why the fuck I need to deal with this bullshit, and why does the security guard’s shift only start at five? Oh yeah, because we usually have four patrons before five and their tab wouldn’t even cover an hour of his pay.

I proceed inside the second floor bathroom that most first-time visitors of the bar have no knowledge of, and it’s dark. No fucking lights—the creep went in without turning the damn lights on. Is this the part where the crazy psycho grabs hold of me and kills me? I’m only half kidding when I feel someone tap my shoulder from behind.

“Do you work here?” His voice startles me because of my overactive, horror-movie-filled imagination. It’s the same man I came up to find and kindly escort out. He’s younger looking up close. He actually looks normal, perhaps even more toward the handsome side.

“Yeah, I work here. Are you lost? The bathroom is right here.” I point in the opposite direction from where he obviously just came from.

“Where is the woman that used to sit here?” he demands in a deep, raspy voice.

I wasn’t expecting that question from him. His words send a frozen chill down my spine. I’m sure I’ve misheard him. “Excuse me? The bathroom is this way,” I repeat as little specks of memory begin bombarding my mind of the woman I think he’s referring to. My vision begins to blur as I feel the tears building.
I’m not a crier; I’m a fighter.
I need to go. Now!
Without looking back, I walk toward the stairs.
Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry,
I chant over and over. I take a step down and then, as if I’m flying backward, I feel myself being jerked back up.

He holds both my upper arms while standing behind me and continues with his questions. “I need to see that woman. If she moved or started working somewhere else, please tell me where I can find her. I need to speak to her; it’s important.”

I glance back and look down at where his hands hold my arms.

He must notice what I see, because he quickly lets go. “Forgive me, I didn’t mean to touch you or hurt you. I just need to find her. She used to sit right here.” He points to an empty corner by the oval stained glass window. When I turn around to face him, still willing my tears to stay put, he adds, “The fortuneteller. I need to find her. Maybe you can ask the owner about her.”

“I am the owner,” I state with conviction, lifting my eyes to his. But the air is briefly knocked out of me as the chill that his words caused is replaced with recognition. The moment our eyes connect, it’s apparent that I’ve seen this man before. I don’t recall ever meeting him face to face, but somehow, I know this is no stranger.

We’re both watching one another, and I’m suddenly hyperaware of everything: the ticking sound of the clock, the hum of the ceiling fan, even the air has a taste. The peculiar color of this man’s eyes makes me feel like I’ve been here before. I’ve lived in this point already
. Déjà vu.
My heart beats so fast that I can’t seem to catch my breath. Who is this person? Why is he here? How does he know about her? Why is he asking about her? Why is he making it hard to breathe? He won’t stop staring at me, as if he’s breaking down my face into features—eyes, nose, lips, cheeks. His gaze continues to scan me. He also appears flustered, as a fine layer of sweat covers his features. I can’t pinpoint or understand what’s happening, but I can tell that he senses something. It’s not just me.

We both begin rambling questions at each other simultaneously, and then we both stop. He gestures for me to proceed, and I do. “How do you know about the woman that used to sit here?” He seems too young to know about her. She hasn’t been here in over a decade.

“I went to school here many years ago. This was our place. She always used to sit right here.” He motions to an exact spot by the door again, the same spot that overlooks the entire bar, a spot which has been empty for years. “I need to find her, if it’s the last thing I do.”