Restore Me Read online

  I thought of Damon all those years. He’d been in my head all this time. I never forgot the big boy who kept saying how sorry he was and that he would make sure I was okay. He did, too. He made sure I was more than okay. He found me again that day in the bookstore and everything changed in an instant. I had to find him. I had to tell him that it’s not his fault. It was never his fault. I had to tell him how much I love him.

  I greatly exceeded the speed limit and drove carelessly to the outskirts of town. When I turned onto the familiar, narrow road, my heart ached in my chest. A terrible knot formed in my stomach. Something’s wrong. Something’s wrong. I knew it. I could feel it, like I felt it when Sutton died. My foot bore down on the gas and the car surged forward even faster. I hauled ass down the road until I saw taillights come into focus. I leaned forward in my seat and squinted.

  “The truck!” I drove up behind the truck and came screeching to a halt, kicking up dust in the process. I threw the car in park and jumped out. I couldn’t see him sitting in there. I ran and climbed up on the running board to peek in.

  “Damon!” I gasped and jumped down. I jerked the door open and the scent of alcohol smacked me in the face. “Damon! Baby, wake up!”

  I climbed into the truck and use every ounce of strength I had to lift him from his position laying across the seat. I managed to get him upright and then realized that the best news just turned into the worst. A prescription bottle was clutched in his lifeless hand.

  “Oh shit! Oh shit! What did you do?” I screamed. I jumped from the truck and ran back to the car.

  “Come on. Come on. Come on.” I found my phone and called for help. “Please help! We’re on Scenic Loop! There’s been an accident. Send an ambulance!” I ran back to the truck and jumped in.

  “Oh, please, baby! Baby, wake up!” I slapped his face a few times, but he didn’t respond. I held two fingers to his neck, then to his wrist; nothing.

  “No. No. No. Damon!” I cradled his heavy, limp body across my lap and rocked back and forth. “Please no! Not you. Don’t leave me. Don’t leave me. I love you! Please, Damon!” He didn’t respond and I feared that he was really gone.

  I heard the ambulance arrive and doors slamming.

  “Ma’am, we need you to move now.”

  I slipped from under him, leaving his unresponsive body in the seat. A police officer grabbed me up and hauled me back, out of the cab and away from the truck.

  “Damon! Please! Wake up!”

  I watched helplessly as they pulled his body from his truck and laid him on a stretcher. One paramedic straddled his body and started resuscitation. The other two hauled the gurney into the back of the ambulance with the one paramedic still working on Damon.

  I fell to my knees, the pain of the pavement beneath them not even a blip on the radar compared to the ache in my chest. I watched the flashing lights of the ambulance fade into the distance and remained staring, paralyzed with shock and fear.

  Here I am, one week later. Still a Monday. Still standing in the same place I was last week; the place where I met my Damon.

  ***

  Everything just tilted on its axis. The world beneath my feet jarred and twisted until it all became a distorted mess. My entire life has been put through the wringer and I’m feeling the effects. I’m like a zombie, walking around with no clue what to do or how to do it. I have no recollection of ever having suffered this way, not even when Maman and Papa died. The man I love chose to take his own life, and I don’t know what the hell to make of it. Finding him there, in his truck on the side of the road, completely ripped me apart. When I found him, I felt true and absolute terror. Never in my life have I felt such an encompassing sense of dread. Not when my parents died. Not when I was on the streets. Not when I knew the store was going under. Not even when I saw Captain lying on his floor with just the tiniest bit of life left in his eyes. Seeing Damon, unresponsive and lifeless, elicited an unfathomable level of fear.

  I didn’t know this level of fear was even possible.

  I stop at the doors of his closet. I don’t know what the hell I’m doing. I know I need to choose his clothing, but I haven’t the slightest idea what he would want if he were here. Not a suit. Every time I saw him wearing a suit, it was as undone as possible. His tie knotted, but loosened; cuffs undone and rolled up; jacket discarded someplace; top button undone and peeled back just enough to see the dip between his collarbones at the base of his neck.

  I make my way to the long rack of clothing. My hands lift, of their own volition, and drift over the garments. I grasp multiple pieces in my hands. Soft flannel. Worn chambray. Crisp dress shirts. I know I’m only torturing myself, but I lean in and bury my face in the fabric. I seek out his scent, drawing it through my nose. I want to imagine him in these clothes, in this closet with me, talking about nothing at all. Just touching and watching one another. The clothes don’t smell of him. They don’t smell of the Damon I know and fell for so easily. They smell clean, almost sterile, and it only drives home the reality of what has happened. I want him back. Whirlwind courtship or not, I want him back; just the way he was. Just the way I had him. I want my Damon. I want my love.

  The urge to cry is all I’ve known for days now. I sobbed initially. I ugly cried so hard I was damn near sick. The stinging sensation of looming tears is there, but they won’t come now. I’ve heard the saying “all out of tears” before, but I didn’t think anything of it. I suppose I assumed that it was another one of those stupid adages that people insist on overusing. Serious as a heart attack; the apple never falls far from the tree; what goes around comes around, and all those other bullshit things I usually tune out. Actually, I think I tune out nearly everything that others say. I consider it a gift.

  I slide the clothes I need from the hangers, shirt, pants, jacket, shoes, and tuck them neatly into a bag. I mechanically gather some of my personal effects, too. Poor Hemingway has no clue what’s going on. My sweet little pup has no idea what’s going on; he just knows something is wrong. Dogs know these things. I look down and there he is, my little Hemingway, curious eyes peeking out of scraggly gray fur. I bend down, ruffle his scruffy head, and scoop him up.

  “Let’s get going. No use in putting it off. You gotta do what you gotta do, right?” I ask the dog, cringing when I hear the stupid adage sail out of my mouth. Stupid fucking adages.

  I drift around the penthouse in a daze, one hand on the bag of Damon’s clothes, the other cuddling Hemingway. When I cross through the library, I pause for a beat and feel like tears may actually come. I wait, hoping for the emotion I’m missing. It’s a testament to my pathological self-destructive behavior. Somewhere in my screwed up head, I think that maybe, if I could cry really hard, I’d feel better; I’d cry it all out and get it over with. I guess I feel like if I wept long enough and hard enough, the burden of guilt might be lifted.

  “So stupid.”

  I stare blankly at the library, at the shelves of books, at the chair where he took my mind, soul and body. No amount of sobbing could possibly erase what I feel. It’s my fault he did what he did. It’s me who didn’t ask for the whole story about the accident. It’s me who assumed it was Damon driving. The boy at the scene kept saying it was his fault. I always assumed that meant he was driving. If I hadn’t left him, none of this would’ve happened.

  I hug Hemingway under my arm so tightly that he lets out a contemptuous bark, as if to say, “ease up, lady!” and make my way out. I’m supposed to meet Brian, Damon’s loyal PA, in half an hour to sort out the dreaded “details,” and I’m running late. I’m not looking forward to it, but I know it has to be done.

  I close the door to the penthouse as quietly as possible; and just like that, I feel like I’ve officially closed the door to our future.

  Thirty minutes later, I’m in my office at the store. I set my things down and take a look around at the place. The remodel has been postponed, and a thick layer of drywall dust has settled over everything. Boxes are stacked four an
d five high throughout the deserted store. The old cash register has been cleared out to make room for the new computer system. The place smells odd without books crowding the shelves, giving off the scent of ink and paper that I’m familiar with. “Pretty bad, huh?” I ask Hemingway. He huffs out a deep breath of air and settles into his fluffy dog bed beneath my desk. “Yeah, I know it’s a mess.” I glance back down at my pup and find him asleep. Great. I’m talking to myself again.

  The bag from the penthouse stares at me, waiting to be dealt with, and I begin doing just that. I don’t have much time until Brian gets here, so I suppose I should hurry along. I set Damon’s clothes carefully aside for Brian then unload my own random stuff. I put away my four-cup coffee maker, shove a handful of pens in the desk drawer, toss miscellaneous toiletries into my purse, and prop a newly-framed photo of Captain on the corner of my desk.

  I just had the photo framed this week and picked it up on my way to the store. I wanted a reminder of Captain, so I shamelessly rummaged through his house looking for a photo of him, finally finding one in an old footlocker in the attic. I nearly had heatstroke digging through the stuff up there; it’s August and the desert heat is horrid. I was dripping in sweat by the time I found the damn thing, but it was worth it. It’s a photo of a much younger Captain, standing in front of the store looking as proud as can be. The handwritten note on the back said “Grand Opening, April 3, 1972.” When I pulled it from the sheaf of papers and other photos, I knew it was exactly what I needed. It had only been two days since I found Damon, and I was an emotional wreck with a need to see Captain. I wanted to talk to him, but that obviously wasn’t happening. And I’d rather talk to a picture than a headstone. I brushed my fingers across the outline of his face in the photo and cried for a good hour, alone in a blistering hot attic. I haven’t cried since then.

  His photo looks fitting sitting on the desk. When the store is finished, I think I’ll move him out to the front near the register, so he can see what his store has become. I know he’s looking over my shoulder from up there, anyway; might as well have an outward reminder. I miss him more than ever. I wish I had him to bicker with; to play Battle of the Wits with; to eat shitty Chinese takeout with. I miss him; especially now.

  I never realized my attachment to Captain was as strong as it was; what it still is, until he was gone. I loved him and now that he’s gone, naming me as his beneficiary, I know that the old codger loved me, too. Our relationship seemed to be based on mutual tolerance, and I don’t know that it could’ve gone any other way. I’m a disaster area and so was he. He spoke very little about the nasty divorce and estranged family that did him in; I don’t exactly know the reason for the fallout, but I know that it destroyed him. It made him lonely and bitter, so we were lonely and bitter together. It worked for us. I had someone to be accountable to and he did, too. We had a bond even if we didn’t recognize it.

  A lump grows in my throat and I do my best to swallow it before fucking choking on it. Still no tears. If he were still alive, I’d hug him as hard as I could and tell him that it’s okay that we’re both all fucked up, because at least we’re all fucked up together. Even the screwed up, damaged people in the world need someone to love and rely on. Maybe that’s why Damon and I got along so well so fast; I’d had a lot of practice coexisting with sad, damaged Captain.

  “Knock-knock!”

  I shake off my emotion and walk out of the office into the store to see Brian standing awkwardly amidst the construction, man-purse slung over his shoulder. He’s a textbook gay man who’s very out of the closet. Actually, he may have never been in the closet at all. I kind of think he was born wearing skinny jeans, a fashion-forward blazer, and designer frames.

  I take a deep breath to regain my composure after my moment of sulking. “Come on in!” I call as brightly as I can manage. “Watch out for the shit stacked everywhere. It’s a damn war zone in here.”

  “Oh, honey, you got that right,” he says as he surveys the place with a discriminating eye.

  “C’mon in here.” I wave him back to Captain’s office; my office.

  Brian follows, picking his way through piles of boxes and renovation supplies. He grabs my old chair and drags it from the wall to sit closer to me. We both settle in and stare for a moment. “How are you, honey?” he asks, patting my hand soothingly.

  I take a deep breath and let it hit the bottom of my lungs before exhaling. I lean back in Captain’s rickety chair and stare at the ceiling for a moment, willing myself to stay composed. I try to remind myself that Brian might be having a hard time, too. He and Damon were close; they’ve known each other for years. Brian has been Damon’s assistant for a long time. He’s spent more time with Damon than anyone else has.

  “It’ll get better, honey. I promise. You can’t beat yourself up, okay?” Brian should sound completely patronizing, but he doesn’t. His voice is soft and melodic and I suddenly want to tell him everything.

  Of course I can beat myself up! It’s my fault. I could’ve stopped him. I could have prevented it all. But I didn’t and I’m paying for it. I deserve to suffer. I pin him to his seat with a dirty look that screams “shut the fuck up!” The problem is, Brian has more attitude than even I do and he knows how to take a dirty look like a pro. He raises his waxed brows, purses his balm-covered lips, and clicks his tongue at me. I swear, this petite, blonde-haired, blue-eyed gay man is on his way into friend territory and I can’t say I mind. I could use another friend.

  “You know, your dirty looks don’t change the fact that I’m right.” He narrows his eyes and crosses his arms over his chest, dramatically shaking his head from side to side.

  I’m somewhere between wanting to laugh and breaking down. I don’t know if I’m coming or going and this still all seems like a bad dream. Brian helps, though. I like his brazen attitude. He’s outspoken and outlandish and doesn’t take shit from anyone. I admire him. He’s been by my side since I found Damon on the side of the road.

  If it weren’t for Brian, my gay almost-friend, and Noni, my middle-aged almost-friend, I’d be truly alone. I thought I was alone before, but I wasn’t. I haven’t been truly alone in a long time. I’ve had Captain and Noni for seven years. I never realized that, in spite of the fact that they we weren’t technically family, they were still mine. They had my back and I had theirs; and that should be enough for anyone. I had Damon for a little while, and now, Brian has joined the ranks. It may be trivial to most people, but it isn’t to me. Now that I understand what I had; what I have; I’m creating my own little family support system.

  I finally nod. I shouldn’t beat myself up about anything that happened, I know this in theory. And while I don’t agree wholeheartedly, I’ll appease my new friend for now.

  He gives a small smile, digs his tablet from his bag, and opens to a checklist. “Did you bring his clothes?”

  The mention of it makes this small office even smaller. His clothes.

  I lean forward in the creaky chair and rest my forehead on my folded arms. “Yes,” I mumble weakly.

  “Okay, good.” He consults his list. “I’m setting up an appointment with Dr. Versan for you. Just show up, okay?”

  “Yeah.” I have very little interest in seeing Versan, but I have to admit that maybe he does know a little about this psychology shit and he does get me thinking, though not necessarily talking, about things. Besides, now, because of everything with Damon, I have to see Versan regularly. It’s the only way to handle this.

  “And you’ve talked to Beatrice?”

  “Grams,” I remind him. “Call her Grams when you see her. She hates being called Beatrice.”

  “Ok, Grams. And Grams has spoken with Edward? Discussed our plans?”

  I shiver a little with the mention of Damon’s asshole of a father. “Yes, she’s been in touch with Edward,” I confirm. “He knows, but he won’t be there.”

  Brian nods and clicks through a few more pages on his tablet, making notes. “Well, I’m ready when
you are,” he finally says, flipping the tablet closed and shoving it back into his man-purse.

  I groan on the inside, knowing what I have to do. It’s going to take everything I have to give, but there’s no other option. I have no choice. Damon made this decision for me. I scoop up Hemingway and hand the pup over to Brian. “Okay. Let’s go.”

  ***

  I tap two times on the barely open door of room 210, and slip in as quietly as I can. I see my favorite nurse, Diane, checking Damon’s vitals, and I wait patiently for her to finish her routine. She’s been his day nurse since he got here a week ago and I love her, so much more than the night nurses. She’s an older woman, friendly and approachable. She always asking me how I’m doing and does what she can to make me feel comfortable. She never laughs at my questions and always gives me as much information as she can. And she’s never been patronizing. I like her so much more than the doctors I’ve seen in and out of his room.

  She turns when she hears me step into the quiet room. Her small smile tells me nothing has changed and I feel defeated as hell but still want to ask, just in case. She nods, indicating that we can talk in a moment, pats Damon’s big hand, and leaves his bedside. “I think that’s the longest you’ve been gone since he was admitted,” she says with a knowing smile.

  Geez! I’ve been gone a few hours! I know she doesn’t mean it in a shitty way, but her comment has me feeling guilty. And apparently she can read minds, because when I look down at my feet, she continues.

  “I’m glad you were able to take a break, Jo. There’s nothing wrong with stepping back for a little while. Sometimes it gives you a fresh perspective.”

  “I just had to get some shi—I mean things, together and figure out how to handle him coming home. I’m scared.” The words fall out of my mouth before I even realize it and I feel dumb as hell. She isn’t a shrink, why would she need to know I’m scared out of my mind to get Damon home?