Chapter 32
Thirty-Two
S ybil
People have told me all sorts of things about grief over the years. They’ve said helpful things and not-so helpful things, beautiful lines about loving and hearts, and bullshit antidotes about fate and better places. Everyone is entitled to their own definition of grief, but here is mine.
Grief is a shadow.
It’s always there. In the darkness, it’s everything.
In the light, it’s still there, but it’s sometimes small and sometimes large.
The brightest things in life can make that shadow more pronounced, like when I’m having the best day, and it suddenly hits me I’ll never get to experience a day like this again with the people I’ve lost. How dare I be happy and laugh when Dad will never do that again?
Then the shadow recedes, and I almost forget it’s there.
It’s not only the people who are dead that I’ve had to grieve, but also some of the living.
And it’s the soft landing I na?vely thought would be there, but instead a hard foundation full of cracks, and when I crashed, I also crumbled.
I grieve the innocent, carefree girl I once was, but I’ve picked myself up and I’m okay with the woman I am now. I’m finally someone who leads her own life, even if that means accepting that I can’t control everything, especially death.
I went to therapy yesterday, and it helped a little. One more baby step toward healing. One more layer off the never-ending proverbial onion, so to speak.
I still woke up crying this morning.
Today is the one-year anniversary of my dad’s death, so it’s no surprise I’m hurting. Since I’m not working, I’m going to do whatever I feel like doing.
By lunch I’m ready to escape the loft, so I get out, sinking into myself while I eat a hummus plate alone at my favorite neighborhood lunch spot.
After that, I head toward The Paris Theatre, another one of my favorite New York City spots. It’s an old landmark that plays foreign and independent films, with the occasional classic thrown in. It’s small and dark and quiet, with a nice anonymous atmosphere for a Friday afternoon.
I’ll watch whatever the next film is. I don’t even care what’s playing.
I buy my ticket and head in for a screening of the 1991 queer film My Own Private Idaho starring River Phoenix and Keanu Reeves. I’ve never seen it before, and as I watch the story unfold, I’m not so sure this was the best decision.
The movie is incredibly sad, and tears stream down my face before the credits even roll.
This is a story about a gay sex worker searching for belonging and home. Spoiler alert, he doesn’t find it. Spoiler alert, the last scene is him unconscious in the street, being picked up by a faceless driver.
Holy shit, what was I thinking?
At least I can cry for someone else instead of my sorry ass, especially because the actor, River Phoenix, died young of a drug overdose.
Now I’m crying for the actor as well as the character.
The few patrons in the theatre get up to leave, but I stay burrowed in the padded seat, silently crying like a damn has burst. It’s cathartic, letting myself feel this deeply. As much as it hurts, I know I need it.
A man sits next to me, and without even looking at him, I immediately know it’s Cooper. My Cooper. God, what did I do to him? How could I have been so cruel? I ruined such a beautiful friendship, and it’s my fault.
My aching heart doesn’t know what to do with itself.
He takes my hand, squeezing once before setting it on the armrest and folding his own hands over his lap.
I keep my eyes trained on his body, avoiding his face.
But I know him so well, even in the darkness of the theatre as the credits roll.
From his tan arm next to mine and the way his veins run to his hands in his hands, to his long-outstretched legs so comfortable in his jeans, even with the prosthetic on his right side.
More than knowing what he looks like, I know what he feels like. I know his comforting sandalwood and soap scent, his magnetic energy, and his kind soul. I could have had my eyes closed for this interaction, and I’d still have known it was him.
Cooper is as familiar to me as my own reflection.
“You had the same idea as me, huh?” I ask. “You did love coming to this theatre as much as I did.”
“We both love going to lots of places in Manhattan,” Cooper says. “This city is huge.”
“Are you saying it’s fate you’re here at the same time as me?”
“I’m not sure I believe in fate. I do believe it was a lucky coincidence, and this was definitely luck I found you here to today of all days.”
That makes my heart swell a little, and the tears slow. “Seeing me is lucky?”
He’s quiet for a moment. “It is for me. I was already sitting in the back row when you came in. I thought I’d leave you in peace to enjoy the film.”
“ Enjoy is not the word I would use for what I just saw. More like experience .”
“Same.” His voice trails off, and I wonder where his mind took him.
Is he hurting like I’m hurting? This isn’t the anniversary of the day he lost his father, but it is the anniversary of the day he lost his leg. He’s been through a hell of a lot, more than most people.
The screen goes dark. Without saying a word, we get up and walk into the bright June day.
It’s beautiful weather, the kind that’s unfair when you’re sad. Maybe that’s exactly what I need, even if I don’t want it.
Cooper and I don’t make polite conversation; we walk together in comfortable silence. The theatre is only a couple blocks from the south side of Central Park, so naturally, we end up walking around the iconic duck pond until we’re standing in front of the ticket booth for the zoo.
“Do you want to go in?” Cooper asks, and I accept the offer. I’m not ready to go home yet. Being outside feels good to my soul, especially being among the trees. The birds chirping are music to a broken heart, and maybe more animals will help me feel better.
I’m not a big fan of zoos, but this one has a lot of wonderful memories with my family attached to it, so I try to let that slide.
Cooper pays and once inside, I take in the lush landscape juxtaposed to the towering skyscrapers on the horizon. It’s such a familiar scene that it soothes me. I have happy memories of coming here with Dad as a kid, but also memories of coming here with Ethan and Cooper, and many with our moms.
It’s still so hard to think my dad and Victoria had an affair, and even worse to accept that they’re both dead now. Thanks to therapy, I’ve embraced the truth that it’s okay to focus on the good times instead of the bad.
When we’re watching an adorable red panda eating bamboo, I burst into tears.
Again.
Cooper pulls me into a hug, and I hide my face in his black cotton shirt. I should be embarrassed by the people staring at me, but I don’t care.
“I don’t know why you’re here with me, today of all days,” I choke out.
He smiles softly and wipes the tears away from my cheeks, shaking his head slowly, a worry line forming between his eyebrows.
“I don’t hate you, Valentine. I never did. It’s important that you understand that. I was angry with you, but there’s a difference between anger and hate.”
I hiccup. “Really?”
“Yes, really. And for the record, I’m not angry at you anymore, either.”
I’m a complete mess, and he’s comforting me when I don’t deserve him. “I’m sorry, Cooper. I’m sorry for everything. For hurting you when I left. For your leg. For all of it.”
“I know,” he whispers. “That’s in the past now.”
This is the part where I want to ask for forgiveness, but I can’t.
Even though I can offer my apology, I don’t deserve his forgiveness.
I was a heinous bitch; I threw him away, because I didn’t know how to handle myself.
I didn’t know what to do. I was immature and hurt.
I am still hurting , but maybe I am mature now.
“I don’t blame you, Sybil.” He peers directly into my eyes. “And I’ve been thinking about it a lot, thinking about what you said, and I’m ready for us to be friends again. Actually, I think we already are friends again, but I’m ready to embrace it fully. I want you back.”
My heart swells and the weight of years carrying around shame at the loss of him lifts away.
I smile, hug him tight, then step away and mop up my tears with my sleeves. “Thank you. You have no idea how much I needed that.”
He shrugs. “No need to thank me. Let’s move past it, okay? I think we should start with finding you a bathroom, so you can wash off your raccoon eyes.”
Oh, shit. “I knew I shouldn’t have worn mascara today,” I grumble. “How bad is it?”
He gives me a mocking-horrified face. “Bad, Valentine. You’ve been walking around with black rings around your eyes ever since we left that depressing-as-fuck movie.”
I laugh, and it feels amazing. “Thanks for telling me earlier.” I elbow him, and he laughs too, and that feels even better.
“I don’t have a problem with your cute raccoon eyes. I think you’re beautiful no matter what, but I also know you well enough to know you’ll want to clean yourself up.”
Has Cooper ever called me beautiful before? Maybe when we were young, but I don’t think so, at least not that I remember. I tuck the compliment away to analyze later.
We head to the bathroom, and yes, I do look a mess, but I feel so much better.
I wash my face, staring into the mirror for a minute and noticing the way my eyes are brighter and greener from the tears.
I look a little younger without any makeup on and frizzy hair, but I feel more me than I’ve felt in forever. Years, maybe.
This was a horrible day that has become a good one. I only have Cooper to thank for that.
Funny how life works sometimes.
I return to Cooper, and we finish walking the zoo, making small talk about Top of the World and Arden and Ethan’s wild affair that led to an elopement.
There’s a lot I know about their relationship that Cooper doesn’t and vice versa, and it’s fun having friendly gossip about his brother and my half-sister.
We never mention my dad or his leg. We don’t have to.
We both know we lost too much, but at least we’re friends again.
Friends is enough for me.
Friends is everything, actually.
Now that I have Cooper, there’s no way I’m going to let anything jeopardize our friendship again. I want to keep him, keep us , like this, forever.