To Catch a Falling Star Page 4

  “Of course, honey. Your daddy would not miss it for the world.”

  “Then, how come he was not there when I was born?”

  “Oh, honey, because he had gone to heaven already.”

  “Can we ever visit him in heaven, maybe on his birthday?”

  My heart cracks another tiny piece. How can I explain to her when I don’t fully understand myself?

  “Well, the point is, heaven is a very special place. We can only go there when we are ready. Dad was so special he was ready to go very, very young. But we still have a long time to be on earth before we are ready to go.”

  “I wish he could visit us, Mommy. Most kids have mommies and daddies.”

  “Dad will always be here with us, Ella. When Dad went to heaven, he left his love behind. And love is like a giant rope keeping us tied to him forever.” I sit up and tickle her tummy.

  “Now, how do you want your hair today?” I clasp her small hand inside mine and tug her out of bed.

  “Can you braid it like on Sundays when we go to church?” She beams.

  “Of course, sweetie.”

  I DRIVE ELLA to Will’s. It’s almost eight o’clock, Ella’s bedtime. I’m tired from the long day, but my second shift starts at eleven.

  I read a book and sing a few lullaby songs to Dominick and Ella.

  After Will collects Dominick to settle him in his room, I tuck Ella under the covers.

  “Good night, princess.” I kiss her cheek and brush her curls away from her eyes.

  “Night, Mommy.” A soft yawn escapes her lips.

  “I’ll be back in the morning to drive you to school, okay?”

  “Yeah…” she whispers. Her lids are heavy. I give her a butterfly kiss and she giggles in between another yawn.

  “Sleep tight. Don’t let the bed bugs bite.” I walk away and shut the door behind me.

  I take a deep breath of air and head to the kitchen. I wish I didn’t have to work night shifts. But I need the overtime money. Pop, Tim’s father, told me last week that Jon needs new cleats and a new uniform. It will cost a few hundred dollars. I know Pop can’t afford it.

  Kathy, Tim’s sister, left her three children with Pop one day and never went back. For the last ten years, Pop has been raising them. At seventeen years old, Jonathan is the oldest. He is sweet, smart, and fast on his size-thirteen feet. He has won all the local and state track competitions. Scouts from across the nation have their eyes on him. He works on Saturdays to help Pop, but it’s not enough money to pay for any additional expense.

  Before Tim died, he assisted Pop financially. Now, I’m the only one Pop has.

  “Hey, Mel. I made some coffee,” Portia says as I enter the kitchen.

  “Oh, thanks. I’ll need it.” I slide on the barstool and prop my elbows on the cold marble counter and rub my eyes. It’s going to be a long night.

  “When is Tarry going back to a counseling session?”

  “Tomorrow.” I sigh, realizing I won’t get much sleep tomorrow either. God, I hope Dad comes back soon.

  “How did the first session go?” She hands me a cup of coffee and sits next to me.

  “Better than I expected.” I sip the hot liquid.

  “I’m worried about him.”

  “Yeah, he’s got it hard.”

  “This is the third time he OD’d.”

  “Let’s hope it’s the last.”

  “He really needs help. I’m so hopeful this time he will get sober.”

  “I’ll do my very best to help him, Portia.”

  “Please, Mel. Despite his tremendous success, Tarry is a very vulnerable and lonely person.”

  “What about his parents? They’re not supportive?”

  “They lead busy lives. But to them it’s as if Tarry doesn’t exist.”

  “Wow. That alone would be a good reason to drive anyone to drink.”

  “Yeah. Growing up I had it good compared to Tarry. My parents neglected me, but never meant to hurt me. Tarry’s parents took a twisted pleasure in reminding him of his intrusion on their lives.”

  “How can parents feel or even act that way toward their children?” I ask.

  “Oh, they have their sickening, selfish reasons.” Portia looks inside her cup of coffee and inhales deeply. “Tarry’s grandparents loved him. When Tarry was born, it became obvious that his parents rejected him. His grandparents unofficially adopted him. They lived in a castle in France. Tarry is fluent in French, you know,” Portia brags proudly. “Anyway, when Tarry was four, his grandmother died. According to Tarry, his grandfather got ill from his broken heart after her death. He died a year later.” Portia sips from her coffee. “That’s when the rejection turned into hate for Tarry’s parents. Before dying, Tarry’s grandfather made a will. Tarry is not the son of the owner of Highma Music, Mel. Tarry is the sole owner of the company.”

  I almost fall off the stool.

  “I thought his parents owned it,” I respond while trying to grasp the magnitude of Tarry’s fortune.

  “That’s what everyone thinks. Tarry doesn’t care to clarify it or take control of the company.”

  “That’s why they hate him?” I ask, perplexed.

  “Yeah, the will had complicated stipulations. Tarry’s grandfather made sure to tie his parents to conditions.”

  “Yeah?” I raise my brows.

  “For instance, if Tarry died under the age of eighteen, the entire fortune would go to charities appointed by the executors of the will. His parents would not get the thirty percent of the inheritance left to them.”

  “Wow.”

  “Yeah, I wonder what kind of people they are for his grandfather to be so harsh in his will. Tarry grew up by himself, Mel.”

  “How were his grandparents?”

  “That’s the one subject Tarry never discussed with Nillie and me. Only once, at Christmastime. We were about thirteen years old. His parents went to the Alps and refused to take him. Mel, they didn’t even buy him a gift. Tarry, Nillie, and I got drunk and watched hours of home videos of Tarry with his grandparents. When we shut off the TV, I asked Tarry if he missed them and how it was to live with them in a castle. He simply said, ‘I don’t want to talk about it.’ Whenever we bring it up, he diverts the conversation. It’s a taboo subject.” She pauses. “He needs help; he’s lost.”

  “He’s in a deep depression, Portia. You are aware of that. We need him to snap out of it.”

  “God, Mel. I know, and it scares the hell out of me. Since growing up, Tarry is the closest I had to a family. He tries to give off this image that he doesn’t care, but it’s all a façade to hide his fears and protect himself from being hurt. I remember once when we were little he told me that if love had to hurt so much, he would never love anyone other than Nillie and me. It breaks my heart to see him so lost and hollow,” Portia says.

  “I’ll do all that I can to help him, Portia. But you know if he doesn’t want to fix himself, I’m hindered.”

  “I know, Mel. But I have this gut feeling he’ll get sober and win this battle against addiction. Tarry reached rock bottom. He knows it. Between you and your dad, I think he has a good chance of turning this around.”

  “I hope so, Portia.” I get up and give her a tight embrace. I’ve never seen friends love each other as much as Portia, Tarry, and Nillie love each other.

  “I’ve got to go. Thanks again for taking care of Ella. Mom will be back soon and I won’t be bothering you anymore.”

  “You know it is never a bother, Mel.” Portia flashes me a genuine smile.

  I walk to my car. The warm air whispers on my skin. The conversation we had reels in my mind. I open my window and drive away.

  The lights are on in the barn. After a moment of hesitation, I pull over. In all honesty, I think Tarry is not coming back for therapy tomorrow. I need to talk to him.

  I tap on the door. Tarry’s deep voice, singing a song from his latest album, croons from speakers inside. I don’t really like the cynical lyrics, but his v
oice is tantalizing.

  Immersed in the sound of his husky voice, I’m startled when the door swings open. Nola, the supermodel who dates Tarry stares at me.

  Surprised, I mumble like a stupid schoolchild. “Oh, hi… I…, um… I’m looking for Tarry?” I say, sounding unsure. Great. I just made an ass of myself.

  “Hey there, officer. Is Tarry in trouble with the law?” She purrs with a French accent. She drags from a cigarette and her cherry red lips curve in a smile before she blows the smoke away.

  “Oh, no. I’m sorry. I’m Mel, Will’s sister.” I just remember I’m wearing my police uniform.

  “Oui, oui. Please come in, ma cherie,” she says. Her face lightens up like a jack-o’-lantern. She steps aside allowing me to enter into a dense cloud of smoke.

  I curse myself for the brilliant idea of stopping by. Nola closes the door and treads to the bed. Jeez, her gait is of someone on a catwalk or runway. Her platinum-blond hair is up in a messy bun. All she wears is a T-shirt that I’m pretty sure belongs to Tarry. She manages to intimidate me with her phenomenal beauty.

  “Um, I’ll come back later. It’s not important,” I say, feeling inept.

  “Tarry is showering. He’ll be out soon.” She clips the cigarette in between her plump lips, retrieves black, lacy underwear from the floor, and slides it up her long, long legs.

  I feel a rush of warmth rushing over my skin. I’m probably red as a Christmas bow.

  “So you are Tarry’s family, oui?” She flashes a forced smile. Her voice is warm and sweet, reminding me of molasses. I hate molasses.

  “Well, I’m family with Portia,” I say. “Listen, um, I’ve got to go. I’ll talk to Tarry later.”

  “What’s the rush, mon amour?” She crushes the cigarette on an ashtray and strides my way. “Wow, a police officer, oui?”

  “Yes,” I say. Her “oui” is starting to annoy me. We are in America. Can’t she simply say yes?

  “And une belle fille,” she says, unabashedly examining me from head to toe. Based on my precarious French I think she said I’m a beautiful female. Can this moment get anymore awkward?

  “You must’ve heard the terrible news with our cherie Monique, oui?” She stops on a stance in front of me. Yes, she’s invading my personal space. I step back.

  “Yeah, I did. I’m sorry for your loss. I understand you were close.”

  “Oui, she… complemented us. You know Tarry and me.” She smiles and her eyes widen as if been stricken with divine revelation. “We are yet to replace her.” Her long fingers brush lightly on the badge over my left breast. Instinctively, my hand reaches and hovers protectively over my gun.

  “You are not Tarry’s type, but I can convince him. Oh, we can do so many naughty things with those handcuffs. The possibilities are endless…” She purrs seductively, her tongue drawling on the last words. I need either an Imodium or a Valium. Stat.

  Dumbfounded, I withdraw another step. Before I have the chance to collect my wits, now splattered on the floor of my brain, I hear a door opening. I glance in the direction of the sound. Wearing a towel low on his hips, Tarry steps out of the bathroom. Droplets of water roll down his gorgeous torso. He blinks slightly when our eyes meet. My mouth goes dry and a nervous energy hums through my body at the mere sight of his naked chest.

  “And a real gun. Oh, mon Dieu!” Nola says. Add an anti-nausea to the list of meds I need.

  With my brief distraction, Monique advances toward me. From the corner of my eyes, I see her hand reaching for my gun.

  The police academy drills one thing in our minds—never, ever let anyone touch your gun.

  On a rehearsed and automatic movement, I grab her small wrist and twist her arm. Before I proceed to break it, I remind myself she is not a criminal and just a silly dumb bimbo.

  “Never touch my gun again,” I calmly advise her before releasing her hand.

  “Wow that was hot.” She rubs her reddened wrist. Make it a double dose of Valium.

  “I see you’ve met each other.” Tarry smirks and strides our way.

  “Yeah, I was about to leave.” I step back. Nola puts me on edge. Hell no, who am I trying to fool? His naked chest has me in uncharted territory of lust and wanton desires. I swallow the lump on my throat.

  “What do you need, Mel?” Tarry asks as he retrieves a cigarette from a small table in the kitchen area.

  “Nothing important. Just wanted to remind you of our appointment tomorrow,” I say, faking poise I don’t have.

  Nola perches on his side and places a possessive hand on his shoulder.

  “Oh,” he sighs. I see brief frustration cross his face.

  “Well, I need to go,” I say.

  “Pity, pity,” Nola says as her fingers idly trace a tattoo on Tarry’s chest.

  “See you soon. Nola, Tarry.” With a wry nod, I spin on my combat boots, and storm out of the red barn.

  “That went well.” I say, and then breathe in the warm and clean outdoor air.

  “MAY I COME in?” Tarry ducks his head in the open door.

  “You’re here.” I glance up from behind my desk.

  “Sure, you said today, right?” He enters the office and sinks in the chair.

  “Yeah, but it was all over your face that you weren’t coming back. Tell me, what made you change your mind?” I ask, diving right into the session.

  “What?” He frowns.

  “Let me guess, pressure from Portia.” I open my notebook, but he is silent. I sigh. “How are you feeling today?” I regard him for a moment. He arches his brows, but finally replies.

  “Lousy.”

  “Good. I mean, not good that you are feeling lousy. But good that you can tell me that.” I backpedal. Jeez, Tarry looks like a rock god. Tall, tousled hair, and enigmatic eyes. What’s wrong with me? Rein in your feelings, Mel.

  “Are you familiar with cognitive behavior therapy?” I ask.

  “No.”

  I proceed to explain CBT and its benefits.

  “In this approach, one of the goals is for us to work together and determine the pattern of thought, emotions, and environments that trigger the use of drugs and or drinking.”

  “Sure,” he says, twiddling his thumbs.

  “Most importantly and what I most hope to achieve is to identify what are the areas in which you have difficulty coping.”

  “Yeah, of course.” He glances at his watch and his fingers drum on his thigh.

  “Looking at your history with drug and alcohol abuse will give us precious information on how to come up with new habits. You can develop a new thinking pattern that will be vital for you to remain sober. Also, by looking back and uncovering what didn’t work, you can learn new coping skills.”

  Unsuccessfully, I spend the session attempting to engage Tarry. In vain, I try to coax him to participate in the creation of goals. He shuts himself off. The little gain we made in the first session is lost to a multitude of monotones. Though Tarry is agreeable, he appears as comfortable as one confessing on national television to have syphilis. Yeah, his records will read, “Passive-aggressive and resistant.” Crap.

  After we reschedule the next visit, he sprints out of his seat.

  “See you Thursday,” he mutters.

  “Hey, Tarry?” His hand, already on the doorknob, comes to a halt.

  “It’s okay to have a bad day. But try to be present in your next session, will ya? Or I’ll drop your ass. I’m not here to waste our time.”

  Without a word, he cracks the door open and disappears into the hall.

  HOW DARE SHE treat me like a five-year-old? Because you fucking acted as such, you moron.

  I take a drag of my cigarette. And where the hell is Will? I just want to disappear. Become invisible. If I was not under court orders to stay under the tutelage of Will and Portia, I would be gone.

  I have more fucking money than I can spend. I have millions of people who fucking kiss the ground where I step. I have thousands of hot women throwing themselves at
me. But, no, here I’m with the hots for my therapist, who’s the sister-in-law of my best friend. Oh, to add to the offense, she’s a fucking prude. The worst part, one might add, is she is damn hot and I can’t take my mind off her.

  I pace the vacant parking lot. What is it about her anyway? She is pretty. I admit. However, that’s not what makes her so appealing. I’ve dated the most beautiful women of our species. Maybe it’s the fact that when she looks my way she sees me. I dunno. What I do know is that, since I saw her last week, I can’t stop thinking of her. Just impossible. It really is.

  For this reason alone, it was goddamn hard to come to therapy. Then, I get here and she expects me to continue to spill my guts out. No fucking way. I learned my lesson last week. I left here raw and vulnerable. I’m not exposing myself that way again. I don’t care how pissed she is. I don’t even care if she “drops my ass.”

  I see Will’s car approaching. I toss the cigarette out and, before he comes to a complete stop, my hand reaches for the door. I want away from the depth of the golden flecks inside her startling green eyes.

  “Wow, you okay?” Will asks when I bang the car door closed.

  “I’m fine.”

  “I’m not asking how it went.”

  “Thanks.”

  “She gets on my nerves too. Thank God, she has never been my therapist.”

  “Lucky you.”

  “What can I say? She knows what she is doing.” He laughs proudly, the idiot. It must to be real fun seeing people miserable.

  “Fuck it.”

  “Yeah, it’ll get better.”

  If he knew the source of my frustration, he would punch me instead of laugh.

  Shit, I have to find a way to satisfy her probing questions without saying too much. Now that’s going to be a challenge.

  I LOOK AT Tarry sprawled on the chair in front of me. He laces his fingers together. Every other minute he glances at his watch. He might think he has me fooled.

  For the last two weeks, he has pretended to engage in the sessions. But, his answers were superficial without any insight or depth to his real feelings. I sigh. It’s been almost three weeks of counseling without any indication of catharsis. I hope Dad can do better with him.