So Much More (21 page)

She doesn’t answer, so I knock again in desperation because anxiety is starting to fill my lungs like water.

Tears accompany the silence that follows the unanswered knock.

I lean my forehead against in the door and beg, “Faith,
please answer the door
. I need you.” And then I cover my mouth to cap off the sound and I sob.

I never thought I had a type

present

Seamus.

Seamus McIntyre.

The first time I laid eyes on him, he literally took my breath away. That’s never happened. I stopped breathing for several seconds, as if it was physically impossible for me to draw air into my lungs until my brain let the imprint of his perfection settle in and develop into a memory I’d be able to recall at will when I needed something beautiful to focus on. I never thought I had a type. Apparently that’s because I’d never met Seamus McIntyre. As soon as I saw him, I didn’t want to look away. Ever. He was tall, the kind of tall that denotes a definite presence, but the way he moved and postured himself signaled a kind and laid-back nature. His dark hair was short but looked like he was overdue for a cut, the perfect mix of untamed and messy that a little extra length creates. It also hinted that he wasn’t the kind of guy who was hung up on his appearance—the worn out jeans, scuffed up Doc Martens, and simple white t-shirt backed up my theory. Everything about his face, the set of his jaw covered in days old scruff, high cheekbones, strong nose, and dark, deep-set, mysterious eyes, was a contradiction. Intensity versus gentleness. Youth versus wisdom. Strength versus vulnerability. I’d never seen such an expressive resting face. And after getting to know him, I realize it’s because he doesn’t hide anything— it’s all there written all over his features.
     

The first thing that attracted me to Seamus, the man, was when I watched him squat down on the sidewalk to talk to his little girl, Kira. She was crying, a hiccupping, distressed howl. The transition from standing to kneeling isn’t a big deal for most people, but for him it is. He could’ve patted her on the head or just talked to her, but he didn’t. He struggled to get down on his knees, the progression slow and painful, but also beautiful to watch, because I knew at that moment, that he would do anything for his kids.
Anything for his kids
. It was so simple, but so telling. And that’s when I realized that being attracted to someone happens at a visceral level. It happens when you see and feel the other person’s heart and your heart twinges in your chest in reaction. I watched him get face to face with his daughter, so he could look her in the eye while he consoled and then hugged her. That’s when my heart decided it liked Seamus McIntyre more than any other person I’d ever met before.

The first time I kissed Seamus, my mind went blank and ran wild all at once. I was stunned by physical sensation. And decided that though other men’s mouths had moved against mine, I had never been kissed until that moment. Seamus’s lips told a story. A story I wanted to live in. Forever. A realistic story that was sprinkled with darkness, but that always came back to light. A light that made me believe love exists. Pure, intentional, forgiving, enduring love. Bone-jarringly beautiful love. He took his time, pace was part of the allure and signified sincerity. There was presence and intent in every movement, every sigh, every moan. Seamus’s kiss was a kiss within a kiss…within a kiss…within a kiss. Layers upon layers of Seamus assaulting my senses in the most satisfying, impassioned way.

The first, and only time we had sex, Seamus gave me a gift. He didn’t know he was giving it to me. He doesn’t know my past because I haven’t burdened him with the truth, but he vanquished some of my demons that night. He made love to me. It was everything he’d previously poured into a kiss amplified until it was pure bliss. A deep connection of mind, body, and spirit I didn’t think could exist between two people, especially within the confines of sex. Only Seamus. That’s the night I fell in love with him. All of him.

The first time I said goodbye to Seamus, my heart shattered. It was a blast that obliterated me, leaving only dust and making the task of putting the pieces back together impossible. But through it, my mind kept going back to something he told me,
so much more than thank you
. So. Much. More. Seamus was so much more. He needed to fight for his kids. They were, and should be, the most important things in his life. And I needed to find and fix myself. I call it research, and it’s far from complete. I like to think that given another place and another time, we could’ve turned into something more. We could’ve been a
we
.

My time here is up. I gave myself six months to find my birth mother. I knew it was a long shot, I don’t even know her name, but I thought faith, not me but the incredible, unseen force, would lead me to her. An invisible force in the universe would grant me my wish because I believe in miracles. I believe everyone gets one in their lifetime.

I guess it’s not time for mine yet.
 

I said good riddance to my job last night and vowed to never do it again. I’m walking away with some perspective, though; everyone does what they need to do to survive. Some of the girls were single parents trying to raise a child on their own. Some girls were students trying to put themselves through college. Some girls were drug addicts trying to numb a pain no human being deserves. We all stripped to survive, it’s only the
what we were surviving
part that was different.
 

I talked to Mrs. L early this morning and thanked her for her hospitality. I told her I might be back in a few weeks. I won’t. I think she knew. She gave me a toasted pastrami on rye and the tie-dye scarf she was wearing as a parting gift. The sandwich was delicious, and the scarf smells like patchouli.

I visited Hope this afternoon. I took a bag of groceries, mostly fruit because she eats like shit otherwise, and told her goodbye. I hugged her like I always do when I leave. I don’t think she understands that she’ll never see me again, that’s what goodbye means this time. It means I won’t be back tomorrow to say hello and check on her, even though I worry about her and want to. It means I won’t bring her leftovers, even though I worry she doesn’t eat regularly and she’s too thin. It means I won’t bring her clothes when I find something in her size at the thrift shop on sale, even though I like to replace her threadbare, worn out, dirty clothes, with something new to her and clean. It means I won’t watch her favorite movie with her again, even though it makes us both laugh every time we watch it. It means I won’t buy her toothpaste or deodorant when she runs out, even though she needs the reminder sometimes, and I don’t mind being that reminder.
 

It means I’ll miss her. I’ll miss her dry sense of humor that peeks out when I least expect it. I’ll miss her mismatched outfits and her rumpled, constant bedhead that she won’t let me brush. I’ll miss her obsession with the pop radio station and her need to randomly sing at the oddest times. I’ll miss that look in her eyes she gets sometimes that makes me think she sees things the rest of us don’t.

I gave Hope an envelope with Seamus’s name on it and asked her to give it to him. It’s a letter telling him I’m leaving and that I’ll miss him, and asking him to watch out for Hope. I don’t know if she’ll do it, but I’m hoping that her delivering the letter will ease them into interaction. She’s standoffish at first.

Sadness I didn’t expect overtook me as I walked out of her apartment. I tried to hide the emotion, but Hope felt it. There are a lot of things she doesn’t understand—she’s a simple woman—but there’s almost a sixth sense about her. She always knows what I’m feeling. I told her goodbye a second time. She told me she loved me. I told her I loved her too, and that’s when the tears fell and I had to leave. No one’s ever told me that.

It’s late now, way past dark. I’m sitting under the tree in the spot that Seamus and I ate our first picnic. I’m watching his front window, the light’s still on. I’m waiting for him to go to bed, but until then I’m soaking up this last of our time together. I’m recalling every memory, every conversation, every smile I shared with him and his kids. And I’m wishing for their future, a future together and happy because they all deserve it. I’ve been waiting for it for hours, but when, in a fraction of a second, light blinks to dark, it’s jolting. The inevitable turned into a surprise. I hate surprises.

I also hate goodbyes.

That’s why I’m walking up the stairs to his apartment, and I’m not going to knock on his door. Instead, I stand on the W…E mat, right in the center, and I kiss the number three on his door. “So much more, Seamus. So much more.”

French onion dip and damage control compost

present

Three more days pass until I’m able to pick up Justine’s envelope again. It’s Friday night, or more accurately Saturday morning, just past one o’clock. I’ve had a few beers, and I don’t want to take my sleeping pill. I’m restless. It’s restlessness that demands action of some sort or another. I’ve paced the living room. That wrapped up quickly because my legs hurt. I watched a movie on Netflix that was so unimpressive I can’t recall the plot thirty minutes after finishing it. I ate the rest of the French onion dip I had in the fridge with the crumb-sized pieces of chips left in the bag in the pantry. The French onion dip expired last week, I’ll probably end up with the runs; it wasn’t my best judgment call. I’m blaming the alcohol.

I need something, anything, to occupy me.

And then my eyes land on it and I’m backpedaling, taking back the word
anything
and just leaving it at
something
to occupy me; it’s Justine’s letter.
 

My name and address are still scowling.

I pick it up from the end table and walk into the kitchen to drop it in the trash. It lands amongst today’s still soppy coffee grounds and the mostly empty dip container. I watch as the stark white paper greedily wicks up the moisture from both, tinting one side deep brown and speckling the other side with spots of creamy curdle.

Satisfied I’ve stripped the letter of all its dignity, I return to the couch and flip through the Netflix menu. The futile act distracts me for about five seconds before I walk back to the kitchen and pull the disgraced envelope from the trash. Wiping the coffee grounds off of it with my hand, I open it over the bin and let the envelope fall back to its fate as compost.

The letter is only a single sheet of paper. Unlined. Each word, just like on the envelope, written purposefully with a heavy hand, as if the pressure used to write the words would translate into a dramatic delivery stressing the importance of the message. The stationary is lightweight, but the slickness in texture notes its high quality. It’s dry and unblemished on the right side, and the left side is a blotchy watercolor of various shades of brown that make the paper translucent, though still legible.

I walk to the sink and stand over it while I begin to read. I don’t know why because the paper isn’t wet enough to drip. Maybe I just need the counter to lean against and prop me, and my sanity, up.