To Catch a Falling Star Read online

  Portia is one of the most acclaimed movie stars of our era. Before she met Will, she led a wild life. Now she has it all with a brilliant career and a dreamy family. I’m thrilled for her. I really am. Throughout her life she has lacked for love just as much as I have. She deserves to be happy. I just wish she understood it is not for everybody.

  Portia and Nillie have been my only and best friends since I was nine. I will do anything to keep them happy. However, I know certain demons will always get the best of me. It’s only a matter of time.

  “Uncle Tally, can you sing my favorite song after dinner?” Dominick jumps on my lap.

  “Sure, but only if I can get a real good drum player. Every musician needs a band, y’know.” I muss his dark hair.

  “I’m really good. And guess what? We can even use my set of drums.” He grins and, I swear to God, I think it is a mini-Will staring at me.

  “Dinner is ready,” Will shouts from the grill.

  “Let’s go, spikes.” I put him down and he dashes to his father.

  “Daddy, Uncle Tally told me I can be his band.”

  “Oh, really cool.” Will picks him up and seats him on a chair at the patio table.

  Portia holds my hand as we stroll to the patio. It all seems surreal, like some twilight-zone shit. I wonder if the pain tugging at my heart is longing to find what Portia has found. Maybe that’s why I avoided her these last few years.

  I slump in the chair. Will comes around the table with a pathetic grin on his face and he dumps a huge steak on my plate. I glance up at him, and he shrugs. He knows I’m not hungry. But we both know Portia is regarding my every move. He is such a smartass.

  “OKAY, CHAMP. I have to go to bed; it’s past my bedtime.” I raise my hand and high-five Dominick. After a session of awfully noisy drumming and guitar playing, my body aches as if I were an arthritic eighty-year-old man.

  “Oh, don’t go yet, Uncle Tally.” He clings to me.

  “I have a curfew, ya know.” I kiss his round cheek. I love this kid. He’s found a way into my heart just like his mother. It is hard as hell saying no to him.

  “That’s true, Dominick. It’s way past his bedtime.” Portia snatches him from me.

  “Don’t forget to call Nillie. She’s anxious to know how the therapy went.” Portia kisses me.

  “Sure, thanks for dinner and… for everything.” I kiss her head.

  “I love you, Tarry. We got each other’s back, right?”

  “I love you too, peaches.”

  “Bye, Will.” I wave to Will sprawled on the couch. He sprints up and shakes my hand.

  “Bye, dude. See you tomorrow.”

  Before I leave, I look over my shoulder into the spacious living room. Will embraces Portia’s waist, kiss her lips, and says, “I’ll put him to bed. Wait for me.” They exchange a secretive smile, and Will takes Dominick.

  I let out a long breath of air. Yeah, tacky, but I do have a self-pity party when I look at their bond. The worst part is I am alone in my party. I don’t have anybody to invite. Misery loves company, so they say, yet my misery has no company.

  The warm summer breeze greets me outside. I snatch the last cigarette from my pocket. Trembling, I light it up. I hate this withdrawal shit. It’s been over two months and my body still cries out for the damn drugs. I pull a long drag of smoke and the end of the cigarette brightens the terrifying blackness of the night.

  I look up. A few stars surround a half-moon. They seem to exchange ancient secrets not meant for humans. It makes me want to compose. A night like this is perfect for booze and writing. I kick the gravel and drag another pull of smoke. Damn this craving.

  I remember when Mel asked me if I feel tired. Hell, yeah, dead tired. It starts with my aching body and extends into my crippled soul.

  I stand outside the barn to finish my cigarette and watch the night sky. Fatigued, I hear the sounds of the night. Summer evenings offer an endless symphony of unique music. It would be soothing to my soul, should my soul still be repairable.

  I stamp on the stub of the cigarette and go inside. The place is inviting and warm. However, it still carries a faint smell of oil paints. It used to be Will’s painting studio. Portia thought the barn was too far from the house and so they built a large addition onto the house to be his studio. They agreed a two-minute walk was too long. Corny and embarrassing, but, I have to admit, they are so happy together. They really are.

  Unconsciously, I scratch the patch of skin on my chest. The itch drives me nuts through the day and the evening. Yeah, I’m embarrassed to scratch myself in public. It’s as if I’m announcing, “Hey, look at me, the bastard speedball addict who just crashed.” No, I save the goddamn scratching for private. And, yeah, I look like a goddamned flea-infested dog. I go to the bathroom and open the medicine cabinet. The tremors in my hands have increased. I’m due for my meds. I’m a pathetic addict. Whether it’s illegal or prescribed, my body dictates when it needs the drugs.

  A brutal urge to find an ending grips me. Why not me, instead of Monique? I pop three pills in my mouth and chug them down with water. Right now I’m dying for a snort, but I could die from an overdose. Does it make any sense? Either way I am doomed. It’s like jumping from the Titanic when it hit the iceberg.

  I dump the rest of the water in the sink. Waves of pain ripple inside my skull. Even my brain hurts. I open the faucet and splash cold water on my face.

  Images of the last night I spent with Monique twist in my mind. I only remember flashes, as if a sliding disc rotates repeatedly on my mind’s eyes. We didn’t talk or laugh, we just sat on the luscious, carpeted floor and injected speedballs, snorted, and tried to chase our individual demons away. I had “Sweet Death Agony” on repeat. Each one of us retreated into our own zone, competing about who could snort more lines or get to the end of the line first. She won.

  I think of when we met more than three years ago. I was in Milan for a concert and she was there to do a spread for Vogue. During my concert’s after-party, she pulled me to a rough wall and pretty much violated me. It rates on the top of the chart as the best sex I’ve ever had. We never loved each other. But, boy, did we have carnal chemistry. Fuck, she could suck my dick like no one. She could also snort a line of cocaine like no one.

  Guilt and regret sweeps over me. I fear I’ll drown in it.

  My entire body shudders and my heart rate skyrockets. My skin tingles. I try to breathe, but it is as if a pillow is shoved against my face. I scramble toward the king-sized bed in the middle of the barn. I tug the covers and crawl in. I huddle, wrapping the covers around my shaking body. I inhale deeply, willing the tremors to go away.

  My body feels cold and I wonder if I have a temperature. I close my eyes and, firmly, I press the palm of my hand against my diaphragm. I remember my former therapist saying through her nasal voice, “Smell the roses and blow the candles.” Slowly, my heart rate decreases and the tremors subside. I hate these anxiety attacks. They make me feel like a pussy.

  I continue to take long deep breathes and my mind drifts to the session with Mel.

  Wings. Mel’s eyes were sad when she handed me the coin. At the time I was too absorbed by the lust of staring at her damn beautiful face. But, in hindsight, she was sad, but not for me. Her eyes were broken. How did I not notice? Her words, “We all have chips on our shoulders.” I fish for the golden coin. My thumb slides across the wings. I’ve just had too much of this pain. Does she know I want an end? Is that why she said this is a lifeline token?

  I hold the coin and scrape my chest with it. Oh, it feels good, another cheesy benefit to the piece of shit, a scratcher.

  The buzz of my cell startles me. Jumpy rock star. I am getting lamer by the minute. I rummage my pocket for my cell. The screen displays a picture of Nillie blowing me a kiss.

  “Hello, Nillie. What’s up?”

  “Hey, favorite rock star, how did it go?”

  “It, uh, you know, it went all right.” I wince, relieved she can’t see
me.

  “When are you going back?”

  “Tuesday.”

  “Good. I know this is hard for you, Tarry. But you just need to hang in there.”

  “No shit, this is fucking hard, Nillie.”

  “How do you like your new therapist?”

  “Mel? She’s all right. But I want to wait for the pastor to come back. I don’t know, but it is weird talking to her.”

  “Oh, God, no, you can’t afford to wait, Tarry.” She pauses. “Did you tell Portia?”

  “Hell no, she would deliver that baby of hers prematurely. I don’t want any additional guilt over my head.”

  “Yeah, she would freak out.”

  “How is everything with you? How is Mr. CEO?” I change the conversation.

  “Not you too, Tarry,” she complains.

  “How is my little guy?” I smile at the thought of her son, Noah.

  “He asked about you the other day. We were at the grocery store and he saw a picture of you on a tabloid cover.”

  “Tell him I said hello. I miss him. Are you still coming to visit?”

  “Yeah, I’ll do my best to come out. You know Ray. He likes everything planned way ahead.”

  “Yeah, I hope you can make it.”

  “Me too.”

  “Listen, I gotta go. I’m dead tired.”

  “Talk to you tomorrow. Good night, Tarry, love ya.”

  “Bye, Nillie. Love you too.”

  I switch off the phone and stare at the coin burning the palm of my hand. I study the wings. It’s stupid, but I want to call Mel, just to hear her melodic voice. It’s soothing. It really is.

  I slide the coin back inside my wallet. I know it’s lame as hell, but I want to believe the golden piece connects me to a lifeline. There is not much more keeping me afloat. I force my eyes closed. Yeah, I’m at the very edge of the end.

  I SNAP MY eyes open. Five thirty. My half hour begins now. I lean toward the bedside table and rummage through the drawer. I find the handmade leather clutch holding the letters Tim wrote me starting when we were five. Clasping the clutch, I bring it to my chest. Pain slithers through my heart and sorrow grips my soul, squeezing it tight. Pain or void usually fills my lonely moments. I prefer pain. It makes me feel alive.

  Tears burn my eyes. How can I be forgetting his face? I can’t lose him all over again. But every day our memories become hazier. My trembling fingers unravel the lace and I pull out one of the letters he wrote me. I can’t betray Tim by forgetting him, letting him go. It will be as if he never existed. Worse, his sacrifice will be mute, in vain.

  Tim had the most clear and charming smile. I’ll never like a smile as much as I loved his. Why then did my insides melt when Tarry smiled at Ella?

  It’s been a few days since I saw Tarry, but his hollowed eyes chase me.

  I wipe away my tears, smooth the crumpled paper, and reread the letter:

  My beloved wife,

  I write this as I watch you sleep. Beside the fact that your snores take away the perfection of the sight, I could spend the rest of my life just watching your chest going up and down. (Kidding, other than the most wonderful sound of your sighing, not a peep leaves your pretty pouted lips.) But I can’t stay and watch you. Reality is, today I head back to the war zone where the memory of your lovely face is my safe haven.

  First, let me apologize for not being here when you wake up. Honestly, I know it’s selfish of me, but I don’t want you to see me hopping on that bus.

  Remember last night when I held you in my arms as we made love? That’s the memory I want you to carry for the next months. I know the golden depth of your eyes will sustain me on the parched lands in the war zone.

  You know I don’t like to share stories of war with you or anybody. I honestly think what happens there should stay there. Well, another point for me to remain silent about is that most stories are not as heroic as some of us make it to be. Most importantly, sweetheart, I don’t want you to think of me as a wimp. However, today I felt an urge to share one of my stories with you.

  Last night, after we made love, and I heard you silently wiping away your tears, it broke a piece of me. Your pain tugged deep inside my heart. I wish I never had to leave your side again. Please forgive me for putting you through this ordeal. I promise this will be my last time away from you. A year, Mel, that’s all we have to endure before our forever.

  Anyway going back to the dorky story. It all happened during my first assignment on a remote village on the mountains of Afghanistan. It was so cold there it could freeze your soul. But that’s not what bothered me. In fact, I barely noticed the frigid temperature; the lack of your warmth was what froze my heart. Instead of the brave soldier defending his country, I became a zombie.

  We were stationed in a village for almost a week before enemy forces attacked us. Then, it began.

  I killed, Mel. I killed the sons of many mothers who waited for them to return home. I cried for hours, Mel. I cried while I killed more of them. I felt confused. I killed teenagers holding automatic weapons to ensure the right of our teens back home to play with their paintball guns. I killed so we could continue to be a free country. I killed to stay alive. I killed to go back home. I killed to defend the children playing on the dusty fields of that village. But I killed.

  I managed to save the son of the village’s healer. And me, a killer, was hailed as hero. They claimed that by saving the boy, I had saved their seed. See, the thirteen-year-old boy was being groomed to become the next generation’s healer.

  Nothing made me feel better though. All I wanted was to lose myself into your love, Mel. In a dark moment, I prayed one of my stupidest prayers. I asked God to give me wings, Mel, so I could fly to you. Funny thing though, because it was not a figurative prayer. I meant it.

  I swear to you, Mel, when I got up from that prayer, the healer of the village approached me and gave me a coin. I shoved it back into his hands and told him I could not accept his money. We argued back and forth until I examined the coin. It had wings, Mel, just like my prayer. Now some might think of it as a coincidence, but I know better.

  The healer explained to me the myth behind the ancient coin. It was known to them that more than a thousand years before our time, a princess warrior killed the man she loved to save her people. Out of her personal sacrifice, her people strived but her soul perished. Her people, knowing her suffering, put all their healing love into a piece of gold. They designed it with wings, claiming that their love would set her soul free from the suffering.

  This coin, Mel, has since been passed from one broken soul to another. When one accepts it, he or she commits to be the holder of the healing power for as long as there is a need. According to the legend, some have kept it for as little as a day while others kept it for as long as a lifetime. The point is to pass it along when you no longer require its help or when you find someone who needs it more than you.

  Last night when we made love, Mel, I swear to you, I heard a voice in my heart saying that you would have more of me than I could understand. I can’t really describe it, but it seems like part of me left my body to stay with yours. Dorky and cheesy, but that’s what I felt, Mel.

  But, I still have this overwhelming need of knowing that you are not suffering for me. So, here is the coin that I’ve carried for the last year. I don’t want you to suffer, sweetheart. I love you more than I love my own life. Take this coin and remember that we have wings on our hearts that take us beyond the barrier of time or place.

  I love you, my dear, please always remember that.

  I’ll come back to you soon. Until then, fly, my dear, fly to my arms, whenever you miss me. I’ll always be with my arms open, waiting for you to come to me.

  Yours forever,

  T.

  Each time I read this letter, my heart breaks into a million little pieces. I wish I knew how to put my heart back together into one piece. I feel like that would require me to forget Tim, to let go of him completely. I can’t bear to los
e my memories when that’s all I have left of him to hold on to.

  I glance at the picture of him beside my bed. “I gave it away, Tim. He needs it more than I do. I have to be truthful to the legend. But I hurt still, my love. I hurt so much that I wonder how much longer I can go on. My wings, Tim, I feel like they’re clipped and broken. I can’t fly to you. I’m forgetting the way you slightly tilted your head when you looked at me, the way you held my hips right before you moved inside me.

  Our daughter, Tim. She suffers from not knowing you. I wanted you to be here so bad, especially today. It’s Ella’s first day of kindergarten. We all pretend you are here and, for a while, it worked. But now, she wants more of you and I can’t give it to her, Tim.”

  The blare of my alarm clock brings me out of the bottomless sea of pain. I push its button, wipe the slobber off my face, place the letter inside the clutch, and return it to the drawer.

  With automatic movements, I climb out of bed. The familiar aroma of coffee invites me to the start of a new day. I pad along the hall, the wood floor squeaking under my bare feet.

  “Mommy,” I hear Ella calling from her room.

  “Yes, baby.” I peek inside her room.

  “Come sleep with me.”

  “Oh, honey, it’s time to get up. Today is your big day.” I sit on the edge of her bed and muss her disheveled hair.

  “Were you crying?”

  “No, sweetie. Mommy has a serious case of the sniffles.”

  “I heard you talking to Dad. You always cry when you talk to him. I wish you wouldn’t talk to him anymore.”

  “Oh, honey.” I climb in bed with her and wrap my arms around her small frame. My little girl is growing and becoming so perceptive. Oh, Tim, why aren’t you here with me? With us?

  We lie still, safely tucked inside our cocoon, until Ella stares at me. Her eyes are wide and curious.

  “Mommy, do you think Daddy would go to school with us today?” she asks.