Chapter 65
CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE
Cleo
The next week flew.
Gabriel and I settled into a rhythm. Every morning, we had breakfast on the deck. Then I’d head to the studio, and he’d vanish to the front porch to work on his music, and we’d meet up again for a late dinner.
Gabriel needed to write two more songs for the album, and I needed to finish my canvas by the following Thursday when Jack was sending a courier to pick it up.
There were a lot of heated phone calls on Gabriel’s end, culminating in a meeting in the city on Friday from which he emerged victorious. Barry would not be producing the album, and to appease Gabriel, the label assigned a new A&R executive to oversee the recording process.
All in all, it was a happy and productive week. On the creative side of things, anyway. But my emotions were wreaking havoc on me.
I found the Moleskine notebook sandwiched between Henry Miller and Toni Morrison on Gabriel’s bookshelves on Friday evening when I was waiting for him to come home from the city. He’d called from a pay phone earlier, jubilant, and said he wanted to take me out to dinner to celebrate.
So I was all dressed and ready to go in a black cotton dress with sky blue embroidered flowers when I plucked the notebook off the shelf. It was the one I gave him before he left with everyone’s phone numbers written in it.
I guess I should have known that if Gabriel was in possession of a notebook, he would fill it.
When I flipped through the pages, a photo fell out. I plucked it off the floor and sat on the orange velvet sofa with Otis curled up next to me and the notebook on my lap.
It was just me in the photo, in my leopard print coat, in Tompkins Square Park with russet leaves on the ground. The camera caught me mid-laugh. I remember exactly when this photo was taken.
It was a few months after Gabriel signed the record deal and we were walking to Loisaida Avenue for some strong Spanish coffee.
Gabriel had been up all night working on a song for the album and he was punch-drunk, telling a rambling story about the time he was in high school, and a guy in his class thought he was Jesus.
Fake Jesus claimed that he could walk on water.
Turns out that he could because the lake in Michigan had frozen over but not all the way.
The guy ended up with hypothermia and lost his pinkie and ring finger, so whenever he held out his right hand it looked like he was pointing a finger gun.
After that, everyone called him Trigger Happy.
Gabriel wanted to write a song about it. I was doubled over with laughter when he said, “Hey, Cleo. Check it out.” When I looked over at him, he snapped the photo.
Now, I set it aside and opened the notebook, fully aware that these were his private thoughts, and I had no right to read any of this. But curiosity compelled me to read it anyway.
I’m so fucking sick and tired of the whole goddamn world.
I don’t want to be here anymore.
But I don’t have the guts to leave.
Tried and failed.
Tried…
and failed.
I sucked in a deep breath and flipped to the next page when I should have returned the notebook to the shelf or better yet, burned it.
I knew by the dates at the top that these words were written years ago and that his head was in a better place now, but it was still hard to read. And yet, I persevered.
Spent the night in jail for being drunk and disorderly. I wasn’t drunk but I threw empty 40s at a BMW. Messed up the kid’s paint job.
Some punk in a polo spit on a homeless guy and then his friends started beating the shit out of the poor guy just for being alive. No provocation whatsoever. Where is the humanity? You won’t find it on the streets, that’s for damn sure.
As the cop was arresting me, the punk in the BMW shouted out the open window, “Get a job, you worthless piece of shit!” I told the cop he was arresting the wrong guy, but he cuffed me and threw me in the back of the cruiser anyway and the real criminals got off.
What a world we live in. What a fucking world.
As soon as I got out of jail, I joined the homeless guy on the street. These are my people. I told him I was homeless too. Not a lie. I’m homeless. Before I left, I emptied my pockets and gave him all my cash. He said, God bless you. It was a good moment, but it didn’t last.
Now I feel empty again.
What would Cleo think if she saw me sleeping on the streets? She’d be angry (hurt?) that I traded in a good life with her for THIS. But there’s a lot of relief in that, too. I was such a drag before I left. Who needs that kind of bad energy in their life? Not Cleo. She deserves better.
*
I REMEMBER
I remember the scent of her perfume, spring rain and wildflowers and how everything she wore looked like art.
I remember her messy shelves, weighed down with well-loved books and the souvenirs she picked up in her travels (with me, apparently) and how she sat at her sewing machine making thick curtains for the windows because the light hurt my eyes and my head was pounding.
I remember the purple velvet sofa, the clawfoot tub in the kitchen, the midnight blue quilt on the bed and the way her lips moved when she read poetry. Like she was tasting the words on her tongue and savoring each one.
I remember the way she said my name, like a prayer, and how much I loved her dirty laugh and how she shaved the beard off my face because I couldn’t bear to look in the mirror.
I remember how she loved me, fiercely and truly, and how she said it all the time, I love you, I love you, I love you, and how shitty I felt for never saying it back.
I remember how I ran down the stairs when I was leaving because if I slowed down, even a little, I would have turned around and gone back.
*
Bought a motorcycle and drove through the desert. Seemed like a good way to go so I kept testing fate.
Whenever I saw a car or truck in the opposite lane, I opened up the throttle and closed my eyes, letting my bike veer into oncoming traffic. But every single time I made it out alive.
One time I ended up in a ditch on the side of the road. Bruised and battered but still kicking. I cursed at the pink desert sky and took a nap. When I opened my eyes again, a rusty green Impala was parked next to my bike with music blasting from the open windows.
A girl was cracking gum and singing along at the top of her lungs.
The song was “Tin Man” by America. I knew the song. Knew all the words. No idea how or why.
A guy dressed in camo stepped out of the car with a rifle.
“Shoot me,” I told him when he lifted the rifle.
He took aim and fired.
“You ever have jackrabbit stew?” he asked.
The girl was still singing when he threw the jackrabbit into his trunk and drove away, the tires spitting gravel and dust and I was alone again in the ditch on the side of the road wishing I was dead instead of that poor innocent rabbit.
Long after they were gone, I kept thinking about that song. Why was the Tin Man desperately searching for a heart if he already had one? At least he knew what he was looking for.
When I finally dragged myself to my feet, I straddled my bike and chased the moon all the way to New Mexico.
*
I got lost in the desert.
The drugs were plentiful and easy to come by.
I snorted. Smoked. Shot up a time or ten. Popped pills like they were candy. Washed them down with tequila. Took a few wild, chaotic trips and whenever people asked if I was that singer, I told them Gabriel Francis was dead.
Wasn’t a lie. He was dead to me.
*
Woke up in a hospital. Again. The doctor told me I was lucky to be alive.
The paramedics had gotten to me just in time. They used the paddles to get my heart beating again. I was told they saved my life. Brought me back from the dead. It wasn’t true though. Cleo saved my life.
The doctor asked me if I had anyone to call.
I thought about Cleo. I thought about how fucking pissed she’d be if she knew what I’d done. I thought about asking for a phone and calling her.
I would tell her that I was ready to start living again.
I would tell her that she was my final thought before I tried to check out and that I heard her voice in my head: Come back. Come back. Come back. It’s not your time yet. You’re going to live to one hundred and one.
If not for her, I never would have called 911. Which apparently is how they found me.
But what a burden to put on someone. You saved my life (again) so now you’re responsible for keeping me alive.
No. I had to figure out my own shit. I had to find a way to live again.
So in the end, I shook my head and told the doctor, “No one.”
When I heard his motorcycle coming up the driveway, I wiped my tears and tucked the photo back into the notebook then returned it to the shelf where I’d found it.
I’d read almost every entry save for a few at the end, but I didn’t need to keep reading to know that Gabriel had gone to hell and back. And that he’d truly believed he was broken and would have only dragged me down if he’d stayed.
Through it all, he had never once forgotten me. But to think I’d come so close to losing him tore me to shreds.
When Gabriel walked through the door, Otis greeted him as if he’d been gone for years. And so did I. I threw my arms around him and kissed him dizzy even as my heart ached.
“Wow,” he said with a big smile. “I was only gone for a day. Imagine if I’d been gone for a week.”
“Imagine,” I said, biting my tongue to keep from saying, It’s almost like you’ve been gone for three and a half years , but instead I tossed out, “I’d probably be rolling around in your bed naked.”
He grabbed his backpack from the floor and pretended to head back out the door, but I grabbed his hand, laughing, and pulled him back inside. “You promised me dinner.”
“I did. And I’m starving.” He looked me up and down, a smile tugging at his lips. “You look beautiful. I’d better take a quick shower. Be down in a minute.”
I gave him a sweet smile. “Okay. I’ll be right here waiting for you.”
He turned on the stairs and looked down at me, perplexed. “Did something happen while I was gone?”
“No, not really. Why?” I asked, the picture of innocence. Someday I would tell him I read the notebook, but right now I just wanted to enjoy our evening, and I wanted him to enjoy it, too.
“I don’t know,” he said. “You just seem… extra happy to see me.”
I smiled, feeling lightheaded and giddy. “I’m so happy and grateful that you exist. This world would be so much emptier without you in it.”
He was quiet for a few seconds. “Good thing I decided to stick around then. Look at what I would have missed,” he said, his voice filled with awe like he couldn’t get over just how lucky he was to have me here.
I felt the same about him. What a gift.
When he disappeared upstairs, it hit me.
All along, that had been my greatest fear—not only that he would leave me, but that he would cease to exist.
Ever since Gabriel came back into my life five weeks ago, I’d been holding back. Withholding my love out of fear that he’d break my heart again. Fear that he’d abandon me. Fear that I’d get burned if I got too close.
I’d been telling myself that I couldn’t trust him or put my faith in him without some guarantee, some proof that he loved me enough to stay and that he would knock himself out trying to win me back.
To some extent, maybe that still held true. Maybe my fears were perfectly valid. Forgiveness took time. Trust had to be earned. Love couldn’t be frittered away on the undeserving.
But he’d been trying to show me in so many ways that he loved me. The tattoo. The music. Giving me the studio to work in. Staying loyal to me all these years.
He came back to New York for me. He came to London for me. He came to the art gallery for me. He was here. Full stop.
Gabriel would never have come back into my life now if he wasn’t ready to fight for me. For us . And for himself, too.
So, I had to let go of some of the baggage weighing me down.
And I could start by believing in him again.