Promises of Forever, page 5
“Where will reconnecting with Jersey get me?” I mused aloud for Rask’s sake. “Is there a point in rehashing the past? Meeting with him objectively changes nothing. I don’t need apologies, and I’m sure that’s what he’s after. Besides, a rendezvous risks stirring more problems. I was a mess back then. Everyone knew it. Everyone saw it.”
Rask purred and lifted his head so I would scratch under his chin.
“There is no reason to respond. Right?”
Closure was the word that flashed through my mind. It was a therapy word, and I did not appreciate its implication. Closure for what? I didn’t need closure. What had happened between Jersey and me was a childhood misunderstanding. It had been thirty years. How pointless to rehash bygone hurts. A waste of time and energy.
But no matter how hard I tried to refocus my thoughts, adorn the attitude of indifference I’d written about in my convoluted philosophy—as Niles had so bluntly put it—I couldn’t.
After dinner arrived, I ate and returned to my book, but the words blurred. Jersey had packed his bags and moved into my mind without invitation or notice. Worse, the unwanted guest didn’t seem to plan on leaving until I took action.
Inevitably, at ten o’clock that evening, I landed at my desk, awash in a pool of amber light cast from a shaded lamp. Strewn with countless notebooks, journals, essays, and failed poetry, it took a moment to uncover a crisp notepad and pen.
An hour later, I sealed a handwritten response in an envelope and wrote Jersey’s name and address across the front. On Monday, I would stop by the post office, buy a stamp, and mail it. If he expected a phone call or text response, he would be disappointed. I wasn’t sure I was ready to reconnect so intimately. Correspondence through the written word provided a much-needed separation and offered time and space to decide how I wanted this connection to play out.
5
Jersey
Boxes littered the living room and kitchen floor, most packed to the gills and waiting to be taken to the donation bins. I’d kept precious few of my parents’ belongings: a handful of framed photographs, the knitted afghan my long-dead grandmother had made, and a box of my dad’s dated sports magazines.
He’d collected ones featuring his son at the peak of his career. I hadn’t taken the time to read them when they were published. Mom had spent a great deal of my later teen years lecturing me about ego and vanity and not letting stardom go to my head, so I hadn’t. Mostly. My sole focus had always been on the game. Besides, sitting for photoshoots and interviews was a rarity. I hadn’t been the most sought-after player. History books would never mention my name. In my professional career, side by side with the best the world had to offer, I’d been mediocre at best.
No one had missed me when I’d been permanently taken out of the game. A brief headline one day, forgotten the next. Easily replaceable.
The late afternoon sun angled through the blinds, cutting bright lines across the kitchen table and floor, highlighting floating dust motes. I’d spent the past week traveling between Toronto and Lakefield, working reduced hours at the clinic so I could take care of my parents’ affairs.
Grief lingered like an unpleasant bruise in an especially tender spot, and no matter how careful I was, I banged it often, lancing a new ache through my heart. Memories surfaced unexpectedly. Some were so profound they cut me off at the knees and left me grappling for a drink to soothe the pain.
If I wasn’t wallowing in sadness and self-pity, I was bitterly angry for the years of stubbornness that had kept me away from my home and family. I’d gotten clean of oxy five years after the accident—around the same time I’d decided to return to school—but I’d refused to make amends with the people who’d tossed me out like last week’s trash.
On a particularly rough evening a few days into my task and tipsy from too much drink, I’d called Christine, insisting she let me talk to my son. We’d argued, and Derby had refused to come to the phone. In his mind, he had no father. A court order had rescinded my rights years ago, and I’d never fought back when I’d managed to come off the drugs. The scant visits were dictated by my ex-wife and had dwindled in recent years. Derby had become a surly teenager with his own thoughts and opinions, and he opted to pretend I didn’t exist.
The morning following the drunken phone call, my mountain of regrets grew.
I didn’t call Christine again. She and Derby had attended the funeral, and what condolences she’d offered, what tenderness she’d displayed at my situation, had been put to rest. I was back to being the irresponsible one. The guy she’d grown to hate.
While wrapping my mother’s fine china in newspaper, a tea set I subconsciously knew was a family heirloom, a noise outside broke my concentration—the familiar squeak and clattering of the metal mailbox lid lifting and falling shut.
I poked my head into the living room in time to see the postal carrier cross in front of the house, scurrying off to his next destination.
All week, I’d been making phone calls, informing people of my parents’ death. All week, I’d been submersed in condolences I didn’t feel I deserved.
More mail meant more phone calls.
Abandoning the china teacups, saucers, and newsprint, I aimed for the front door. It was a cool afternoon, chilly enough that my breath fogged the air. A dusting of snow had fallen overnight, and the fresh, glimmering remains coated the front lawn. Spears of grass poked through in places, but as I’d predicted, winter had returned, snuffing out the attempt of an early spring.
Inspecting the contents of the mailbox, I found a single envelope. It wasn’t for my parents. It was addressed to Jersey Reid, and the calligraphic scrawl on the front could only have belonged to one person.
He’d responded. When I’d written to Koa, I’d half expected to never hear back, but I was wrong. Three decades of silence had officially been broken.
I returned to the kitchen and moved a partly full box off the chair to the floor so I could sit. The table was strewn with newsprint and other debris, so I shuffled the delicate dishes out of the way, giving myself ample space.
My fingers were blackened with ink, leaving imprints on the white envelope as I turned it over in my hands, too eager to bother washing.
Koa had responded. Not a text. Not an email or a phone call. He’d written back like old times. I’d given the address in Lakefield for nostalgic purposes, hoping he’d recognize it.
The return address in the corner belonged to the academy. Koa had gone out of his way to ensure I wouldn’t learn where he lived. I didn’t take the time to evaluate his decision for discretion. He’d written back, so it barely mattered, and my stomach fluttered unexpectedly with excitement. Three decades hadn’t erased the way I’d once felt.
I tore into the envelope and unveiled a single sheet of lined notepaper. Tightly uniform cursive filled the page. Koa didn’t use the same playful greeting. He stuck to formality. It stabbed, but I let it go. We were adults, not children. Tom and Huck were part of the past. As were old feelings. I needed to remember that.
Leaning back, I read.
Jersey,
I would appreciate it if you could forgive what I’m about to write in advance. I fear it may come across as rambling and disjointed, but I assure you, I’ve sat with it for many hours, compiling my thoughts as cohesively as possible in order to respond to your letter.
To say hearing from you was a shock is an understatement. I considered letting sleeping dogs lie (ugh, I’m resorting to ancient proverbs. How cliché. I would rip my students apart for such things), but like always, your presence in my mind is demanding and won’t be ignored.
It’s been a long time, Jersey. Three decades.
I’m forty-four, and ignoring your letter seemed entirely unfair and immature, so here we are. I wish I could say you’ve barely crossed my mind in three decades, but that would be a lie. Don’t fear I lingered on your memory. I didn’t do that either. I don’t intend this to be a slight, but life goes on, and so did I. Childhood is nothing more than a passing phase, and we’ve moved beyond it.
You allude to old hurts and seem to feel it necessary to make amends. I assure you, time has erased any need for apologies. Not only are they unnecessary, but they would be meaningless in the grand scheme of things. What happened happened. If it’s forgiveness you seek, consider it given.
I hope life has treated you well. Although the notion of reconnecting for nostalgic purposes might seem inviting or exciting to some people, I fear it could open old wounds (and before you selfishly think this has anything to do with you, it doesn’t.)
If you feel compelled to continue corresponding, I would prefer we do it through letters, the formality suits me better, but as for coffee or beer, I must decline.
Koa
The paper fell from my hand onto the table. A numbness crept through my limbs as I absorbed Koa’s words—biting, formal, and achingly distant.
What had I expected? Our parting had been brutal.
His response didn’t quell my guilt and suffering. It amplified it. Brushing the past aside and facing forward might be easy in theory, but ever since I’d found our childhood correspondence in the attic, I’d been unable to get Koa off my mind. Every moment we’d spent together was etched into my memory until that last day when it had all fallen apart.
I opened a cold beer and paced the kitchen, considering my next step. Koa had insisted on keeping things formal and distant. Despite suggesting it, the notion of exchanging letters didn’t sound like something he desired, but he’d drawn a hard line at meeting face-to-face.
That stung. What I wouldn’t give to see him in the flesh.
I checked the time on my phone. It was after four on a Friday afternoon. Even if I decided to drive to Timber Creek Academy on the off chance of running into Koa on school premises, he would likely have left for the day.
Monday then.
How angry would he be?
An influx of new patients at the clinic meant I didn’t get to seek out Koa until Wednesday afternoon. I was one of three physiotherapists at Olympus Medical Center, a facility specializing in sports medicine, so taking extended time off to deal with my parents’ affairs wasn’t feasible. When Chevy St. John, a longtime buddy and fellow coworker, had called Saturday morning to say they were swamped, I’d headed home for a couple of days of work and to reorganize a few appointments.
Timber Creek Academy was roughly the same distance from home as my parents’ house. Once I hit Peterborough, I headed northwest instead of northeast for the remaining fifteen minutes of the drive.
A few minutes before three, unsure when classes got out, I pulled into the isolated property and parked in the lot beside a stately, late nineteenth or early twentieth-century four-story brick institute. After browsing the school’s website, I learned the students and many staff lived on the premises in dormitories or cottages respectively. The handful of cars in the parking lot suggested several teachers commuted.
Not having a clue what category Koa claimed, I parked the Gladiator at the edge of the lot, aiming her nose in such a way that I had a decent view of what seemed to be a much-used courtyard, thick with an abundance of healthy cedars and wooden benches, and the back exit of the academy.
The teasing spring temperatures had returned, typical of our fluctuating weather. A pale sun shone through a thin veil of clouds. A breeze from the south brought balmy warmth. I powered the window down, inhaling the crisp cedar-scented air. The fragrances of a rejuvenating earth filled my nostrils, and I savored it. Nothing was so crisp and clean in the city.
The courtyard and surrounding fields were quiet. Not a single soul wandered. Birds chittered and bounced from perch to perch, and if I strained, the churning waters of Chemong Lake whispered on the wind.
At precisely three fifteen, an obnoxious bell sounded, invading the tranquility of the day and sending the wildlife to scatter. It was another seven minutes before the school hemorrhaged students like a fatal wound. Nothing would stop their escape. Once given freedom, they wouldn’t offer it back.
I remembered those days, racing from class as though another minute of suffering would mean imminent death.
I scanned the student body, faces glowing with youth and excitement, eyes alight with evening plans. Their trill voices echoed and carried as they joined friends and scattered in several directions; some moved to the recreation hall I’d tagged when driving in, and others aimed for the football field. A few, slower in pace, headed to the dormitories, overfull backpacks giving them a sideways lean.
I had yet to spot an adult. Before leaving home that morning, I’d studied Koa’s staff photo on the website. In my mind’s eye, he was still a fourteen-year-old boy with freckles and secrets and a special smile he reserved for me alone.
Those days were gone.
The man on the registry was older. The sandy brown hair I remembered had darkened to a rich mahogany and was threaded with silver. Koa wore it longer now, or at least he had when the photograph was taken. It curled some with the new length, escaping any order. Youth might have packed her bags and gone, but the maturity that had replaced her suited him better. He was stunningly gorgeous, which didn’t help my quest to forget old feelings.
The crystallized amber color of his eyes still held unimaginable secrets in their depths. As a stubborn child, those secrets had nagged me. I’d hated Koa’s refusal to share, especially when I unburdened my heart almost daily.
Time, as it did to us all, had stolen Koa’s radiant glow, and the man on the Timber Creek Academy website had developed a handsomeness unique to middle age instead.
And how would Koa react if he heard me think of him as handsome?
The outflux of exiting students calmed to a trickle. When the first adult appeared at the back door, I sat up straighter. Two female teachers chatted as they moved toward a different building across the parking lot. I hadn’t determined its purpose, but the structure was more modern, possibly administrative in purpose.
A tall, slender man with a cell phone pressed to his ear headed to a nearby Coupe and got in, starting it up but sitting as he finished his conversation.
All was quiet after that, and a swell of disappointment pressed against my sternum. It made sense that teachers would linger after hours, but I had been riding an eager wave of adrenaline all afternoon, and it was slowly petering off.
At ten to four, two more men left through the parking lot exit, both similarly built and dressed semi-professionally. They paused a few steps from the door to converse. The man facing me wore his hair in a messy man bun, loose strands framing his face. He had his shirt sleeves pushed to his elbows and carried a leather satchel over one arm and a case for a moderate-sized musical instrument of some kind in the other. The devil-may-care glimmered in his eyes, and he wore a coy smile for his friend. A smile that spoke of familiarity.
The second man had his back to me. He wore dark jeans and a cable-knit beige cardigan wrapped protectively around his middle as though the balmy spring air was a brisk arctic wind. He too carried a satchel, fat with whatever it was teachers lugged around. The second man had the same color hair as Koa on the website—same length, controlled disarray, and soft curl—but I resisted getting my hopes up until he turned to face me.
I observed the conversation, and it went on for a long time. With the Gladiator’s window down, I caught snippets, but not enough to piece together what was being said. They exchanged a handful of smiles and a few arm touches—initiated by the man carrying the instrument. The intimacy between the two was apparent, and for the first time since I’d discovered the tin of letters in the attic, I considered the fact that Koa might be married or in a relationship. All this time, my mind had considered him the awkward, outcast youth I’d left behind at Camp Kawartha.
A surprising knot of jealousy cinched tighter under my ribs, and I picked at a thumbnail, shunning the perplexing and unexpected emotion the idea had stirred.
I’d never consciously considered my purpose for contacting Koa, but a small part of me was undeniably and unfairly disappointed at the thought that he was, possibly—probably—involved with someone else. How stupid. I had childhood love on the brain and needed to get with the program.
Their conversation ended, and they continued their stroll through the parking lot, shoulder to shoulder, bumping on occasion. At a silver Audi, they stopped. The man with the instrument pivoted to face his friend. He brushed a stray curl off the other man’s forehead and cupped his cheek. Definitely familiar. His final words were unclear, but after a time, Instrument Man dropped his hand and backed away with a grin.
Then he was off. He aimed for the courtyard and took a path among the cedars. Before long, he was out of sight.
The second man, seemingly lost in thought, followed his friend’s retreat as he remained beside the newer model Audi, keys in hand. Although he’d turned in my direction, he was oblivious to my presence.
But it was him.
It was Koa.
He was in front of me for the first time in thirty years.
And I couldn’t bring myself to get out of the Gladiator and say hi.
Under the cardigan, he wore a tweed vest over a collared shirt and tie. The thick layers and his insistence on hugging the knitted sweater around his body gave the impression not of someone cold but of someone like the boy I’d known, who was perpetually trying to hold himself together and using the only thing he had on hand.
Koa’s dazed expression persisted long after his friend vanished, and I was hurled back in time to an archery field where I’d first experienced a similar disconnect. How many times had I caught Koa locked in a trance, staring vacantly into thin air, trapped and unable to escape whatever he saw in his mind? How many times had the other boys teased him and called him retarded, as preteen boys are wont to do with someone who doesn’t fit in or acts strange?
