Your Song (26 page)

Kalia 555-335-0935

I leave the slip of paper lying on the dresser with my other stuff and crawl into bed. Pulling the sheets over me, I then reach over and grab my iPad. It’s 12:19 A.M. and now Sunday, so I tap onto the Postsecret.com app ready to read this week’s posted entries. Time to read about the secrets of my fellow friends. I notice some of the usual posts as I slide my finger down the screen; body weight issues, political messages, adopted children looking for their birth mothers, workers outing their scumbag bosses. Then, for the second time tonight, I freeze. I read the post written on a postcard featuring the Toronto skyline. It’s there.
My secret.

I miss my deceased friend so much that sometimes I pretend I’m him. I lie about my identity when I’m screwing married women.

Holy shit.
I mailed in this entry at least six months ago. How ironic is it that since the weight of this lie has been lifted off my shoulders, it is now out there for the world to read?
And I’m okay with that.
I’m able to
find peace and acceptance with what I have done because I am able to see it through a different lens.

All the angst, the pain, the everyday–little-things-missing-Danny-moments bottled up inside of me that finding women and distrac
ting myself with them helped fill the void of losing him. A dangerous pastime, no doubt, and a deceitful one to both them and me. Danny is not coming back.  This is my new life; missing him comes in great waves but it also comes in small-unexpected moments every day.  But, what I’m finding is that sometimes the most painful is also the most therapeutic…keeping him alive by talking about him and remembering the unique
Danny-isms
that made him real. Danny is not a ghost. He
lived.
He was here with us. I just wish the whole world had the chance to know him.

I roll over in bed and pull the sheets tighter around my shoulders. I think of my messed up life right now and how I can make it better.
More meaningful. And then, out of the blue, he starts singing to me.
Bon Jovi?
King of the 80s, coming to me?
The eighties
? It dawns on me that I’m starting to think forward. I toss and turn some more. Thoughts of Caroline, the stalker, about Mr. Callahan, about Lara and Rob and… Rob’s daughter. David. Me.

And then the idea comes to me. 
It’s my life.
I know what I am going to do.

17 “One”

It’s 6:58 A.M.  I see her coming down the winding path towards me. Full speed. I stand at our meeting spot holding my bike by the handlebars as Leslie comes screeching to a halt beside me. It’s just the two of us here at the Georges Pier monument in Mount Pleasant Cemetery on this late June Monday morning. When I called to book an appointment
, Leslie suggested we have our session today riding outdoors on our bikes instead of sitting inside her office. She picked the time and location and here we are setting off through theses low traffic and winding roads.

“You didn’t picture me much of a rider, did you, Eric?” She asks within the first five minutes of our ride. Leslie is dressed in cyclist gear: black helmet, black riding shorts, and a black t-shirt. Consistent with her typical coordinating fashion style, she is wearing purple leather riding gloves and matching purple sneakers. The Ray Ban sunglasses do up her cool factor, I must admit.

“You’re doing great. You know, in all my years of riding in Toronto, I’ve never been here. It’s very…. quiet,” I say as we cycle along glancing at the dozens upon dozens of tombstones around us. The irony of meeting in a cemetery, Toronto’s most famous cemetery, the resting place of Mackenzie King and Captain Fluke, while we are talking about grief and loss is not lost on me. I get the way Leslie works.

“I read somewhere that this is the resting place for more than 168,000 people,” Leslie says taking in the view. There lies a sea of hundreds of bouquets of fresh and dried flowers on each side of us brightening the lawns and slate tombstones everywhere.

“That’s a lot of funerals,” I add taking my water bottle out and having my first sip of the ride.

“Tell me about Danny’s funeral.” And that is how our conversation begins. Over the next 45 minutes, we talk about Danny, about our friendship and about all the ways I miss him. I share with Leslie about the imminent death of Mr. Callahan and about my visit with him yesterday at the hospice.

Sitting next to him on the bed and watching his frail, pale, and much weakened body take the better of him, I realized that death this way, slow and pain-free, could be peaceful. As I sat there holding his hand, I felt Danny’s hand in mine comforting me. Between staring at the pictures of Danny posted on the walls of Mr. Callahan’s room and watching Mr. Callahan’s labored breaths, a single tear trickled down my cheek. Another ending in my life with a Callahan. Finally, when it was time to leave, I reached down and gave a hug to the man who was like a father to me. I held tight to the green and white cycling jersey Mr. Callahan was wearing,
one of Danny’s I remember,
and took a last whiff. It no longer smelled of Danny no matter how deeply I breathed into the shirt. He’s gone. I know. He’s gone.

“There’s something I haven’t told you, Leslie…that I think I’m finally ready to share,” I say as we make our way back to our meeting point from earlier this morning.

“Please do…I’m listening,” she says this time a little more out of breath.

“I have someone…who’s been stalking me. It’s a woman…seriously haunting me,” I say staring at the road ahead.

“Really? How long has this been going on?”

“About a month or so now. Emails, hang up phone calls, blocked texts…she sends me cryptic messages about wanting to talk to me and not liking that I’m ignoring her
. . .she even sent me a dozen black roses.”

“
Black roses?
Wow. Sounds like someone is pretty upset with you. Any ideas who it might be?” I pause before answering, embarrassed about what my answer will be.

“It’s… one of the women…one of the married women. That I know for sure.” We reach our stop and both Leslie and I get off our bikes. The look on Leslie’s face speaks volumes.

“So, what are you doing about this woman? Why haven’t you replied to any of her emails or texts?”

“Because I was hopi
ng…she’d just go away…that I . . . wouldn’t have to face her…what I did was something I did on my travels, miles away from my life in Toronto…I never thought it would’ve caught up with me,” Leslie is silent for a few seconds.

“And now that it has caught up with you?” her voice trails off and I’m left with my nagging conscience weighing down on me. I think of disgracing Danny’s memory by taking on his identity in such a sick act of deceit. I picture a future relationship with Caroline and know that I have to come clean with my less than stellar ways of the past.  I think of moving forward with my plans for my post-Wells and Fraser life and understand that, in order to help others, I will need to ask forgiveness from not only myself but from my stalker.

“What I did was wrong, Leslie. I’m going to own up to it. I’m not sure how, but I will. In the mean time, I have an amazing plan for my future and I’m dying to share it with you. Can I take you out for breakfast and tell you about it?” I ask as the two of us climb up the steep hill and make our way to the parking lot. 

“Well, since we’ve already shared some tear soup this morning, I don’t know about you, but I’m ready for some bacon and eggs,” she smiles as we hook both of our bikes onto the bike rack at the back of her Honda and make our way to one of Toronto’s many greasy spoons.

____________________

Cate knocks lightly and I look up from my computer. Walking over with an espresso in hand, she places it on my desk and takes a seat in the chair opposite me. Suddenly, the energy in the room has changed entirely and I’m not sure why. Cate and I have been working together for over three years and over that time have become friends. I’ve come to respect her not only as a big sister,
my big sister here at work
, but as a friend. Last summer at her wedding in Jamaica, I was honored to have been asked to give a speech. I remember the laughs from the crowd when I described some of the pranks I’ve played on her and Adrian, her husband.  Cate is professional, discreet and intelligent which is why I am sad to think about our working relationship coming to an end much sooner than later.

“Is everything all right?” I ask her sitting back in my seat. I remove the lid from the espresso cup and take my first sip. Cate looks down at her hands uncomfortably.

“I just heard the news, Eric. I’m in shock, I have to say. You’re selling out.”

“It’s true. I couldn’t say anything until it was official,” I say looking out at the bright and sunny skies.
I can’t wait to get outside
.

“So, what are your plans…after the takeover, that is?” I pause before answering her trying to contain my excitement.

“Umm…I have a few ideas in mind…very early stages, of course…but I think I have… a plan.” I look over at Cate and suddenly think of how I could include her in my new venture, somehow or some way.

“What will you do after I’m gone? Start by looking for a better boss, I’m sure,” I tease.

“Oh, Eric, I’ve no clue what I’m going to do. Part of me would love to try something different….to get back to working with my hands again like I did when I completing my fine arts degree years ago…sculpting, clay creations, painting…  I’ve been with Wells and Fraser for sixteen years and I’m ready for a change…but . . . .”

“Yeah, change is…important. But what?”

“Well, there will be enough change happening…with the baby coming…” Cate’s face breaks into the greatest smile and so does mine.

“You’re pregnant?”

“Just seven weeks along…early stages,” she replies nodding her head while rubbing her as of yet nonexistent baby belly. Suddenly, a surge of happiness swells through me, real excitement for Cate and Adrian and the arrival of their baby.

“Congratulations,”
I say as I make my way over to her and give her a big hug, “tell me, if you have any cravings, any cravings whatsoever, I’m on it…French fries with cottage cheese? Root beer and pickles? All of Tim Horton’s donuts?” Cate laughs and I see a slight tear form in the corner of her eye. Tears of happiness, I’m sure.

“So will this make me an Uncle Eric for a second time then? David is going to have some competition…”

“Uncle Eric it will be,” she replies, wiping her nose with a tissue.

“You’ll see, everything will work out once the deal is done. I’ll make sure you’ll end up in a good place with someone who deserves having the best assistant anyone can ask for. But in the interim, you’re stuck with me for two more months.”

Cate gets up from her seat and heads for the door. She looks back after she has crossed the threshold.

“By the way, someone named Caroline called for you…from France…said she couldn’t reach your cell this morning and hoped you were all right.”

“What did you tell her?”

“I told her the truth, of course…that you went bike riding and never came back,” she says with a deadpan face. “Just kidding…I just told her you’d
be in later today. Is that all right?”

“Yes, of course. Thanks for letting me know,” I say as Cate shuts my office door behind her. I quickly reach for my iPhone and see 3 missed calls, all from Caroline.
And a text from her as well.

Haven’t heard from you from you since Saturday night. You didn’t reply to my email from earlier today. Everything all right?
C

I check my inbox on my desktop. It’s 1:10.

From: Caroline Durand

Date: Monday, June 25, 2012 12:06 PM

Subject: Hyst
ERIC
al without you

To: Eric Martin

Hi Eric;

Hope things are all right with you and that you had a great weekend.

All day yesterday, I waited anxiously for a reply to the email that I had sent you the night before. I was looking forward to hearing from you, anything from you, that when a reply didn’t come, I started to worry.  Did I upset you in any way?

Yours,

Caroline

I read the email a couple of times and think about why I haven’t contacted her. Of course I’ve been thinking about her and wishing she was here but I’ve purposely kept away because I want her to figure out her feelings for this guy, if any, now that she’s with him again. You’d think jealousy would cause me to react impulsively or threateningly towards her:
it’s either him or me, you choose, Caroline
. But, I refuse to stoop to that level.

Before I reply to Caroline’s email, I decide to refer to my friend Google and type in
Marc
+
Vins  Durand
Tricon,
the name of her father’s winery. Within seconds, Google delivers the goods and I proceed to click on every link connecting me to
Monsieur Marc Tricon.
Why I didn’t research him earlier is beyond me but here I’m staring at some pictures of the man himself.
Good looking Frenchman
, I was right. Looks to be in his late thirties or early forties or so, tall, blue eyed, short buzz cut-like hair. He reminds me of that James Bond actor, the British one…what’s his name again…Daniel Craig? Many of the images I see are of him with a much shorter, older man.  I look closer and see that this man is Caroline’s father, Monsieur Gerard Durand.