Subterfuge

The Pain, Ch.1

         I listened to his CD again today. It was the blue one, his only one. The only one he needed, really. There would be no reason to write or sing again aside from merely wanting to. If he could, that is. The fame and wealth that followed the release of his masterpiece was overwhelming at a minimum. Even if it was short lived, it was intense and surpassed any other artist of his time.
         Everyone in the world seemed to have a copy of his CD. But mine was special. In his own words it was, "Un-fooled around with,". It was the only live CD he made, and it was mine. The songs were mine. A passionate, raw, honest interpretation of his own music; an outpouring of his heart.
         Even the home answering machine is suffering my compulsive need to hear Cannon's voice one last time. His generic message which once seemed too ordinary for a superstar is now what I cling to. His simple yet polite, "You've reached the Bestous, please leave a message...." is sadly all that I seem to have left.
         It helps to know how supportive his grieving fans are. His songs have stayed at the number one slot for weeks, possibly months. I don't know anymore. It's all such a blur. All I know is that the news has finally died down. I no longer receive phone calls from my media friends and the fan letters are beginning to lessen. It's relieving in one way, but heart breaking in another. It seems the world will be able to move on; to replace Cannon Bestous. They will march forward, a captive audience basking in the light of the newest superstar, chanting their mantra, loving their style, their sayings, their hair. Cannon will fade into memory and perhaps be featured on an unfortunate show like "One Hit Wonders" where he will be remembered briefly one last time by the world. For a moment they will remember the hurt and the shock of his untimely death. But just as soon as it arrives, it will vanish and the happiness of the world will remain intact. I, however, will not be so fortunate. I will never be whole again. For me, there is no moving on.
         Jezzy is my only company as of late. A sausage link of a dog, her Labrador face looks as sad as mine, I think. I'm sure she's missing him. It seems to me that even her pretty black coat has dulled from the ache. Occasionally she tires of searching for him and lies down for a nap. Every once in a while she will leap from her sleep, certain Cannon is home, and run to find him only to be faced with disappointment once more. I can't explain to her that he's gone; I barely believe it myself.
         My new place of rest is his closet. I wear his clothes to gather his smell; my own eventually overtaking the clothing. Often I awaken with a bent and aching neck and back. It's obvious that sleeping in my own bed will prevent this, but nightmares are lurking in that corner of the room. Restful sleep evades me in my own bed. I much prefer to wake up to pain that to dream of it. My mother thinks this is absurd. On more than one occasion she has tried convincing me to sell the house and move in with her. She's even gone to putting a sign in the front yard. Her actions would infuriate me had I the strength left to become angry with her. Still, the closet is a perfect hiding place from her and the nightmares.
         "You can't hide from me forever!" she calls up the stairwell to my room. She's right, but only because I won't live forever. "I brought a peace offering of hot tea and scones!" I swear she thinks she's from Europe or something. The woman pretends to be sophisticated because her daughters once "deadbeat husband", as she so eloquently put it, hit it big quite suddenly. She believes this elevated her own status in the world. I have news for her.
         I push open the closet door. It was time to face the music. Momentarily I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. It caused me to stop and shudder all at once. The picture before me was hard to accept. Cannon's clothing hangs like Spanish moss from my tree limbs for a body. What was once beautiful, shiny dark hair is now a pile of some kind of road kill on my head. The color seems to have left my eyes, and I can't help but think I somehow look on the outside how I have felt on the inside for so long. This was the look of pain.
         "Get down here NOW!" I almost jumped at my mothers shriek. At least it took my mind from my appearance and back to the task at hand. Oh, if only death would come swiftly for me. Please, sweet death! Do not torture me with life.
         The dining room table had been cleared of my mess and cleaned. Place mats were out and fine china was set upon it. A beautiful setting amidst a dreary place. I could smell the hot tea and pumpkin scones from where I stood at the foot of the steps. I glanced over at my mother standing in the kitchen and watched as she swiftly moved from sink to counter, sink to counter, cleaning dishes. I hadn't realized the pile that had accumulated. It was enormous. I was grateful for her ability to clean swiftly, thoroughly, and voluntarily. My mother wasn't a complete waste of human genetics after all.
         For a while I stood and studied her appearance. Yoga pants and a work out cotton zip up jacket. Laughable. As though she would even know what a gym looks like. Her short red hair was styled masterfully, as always. Appearances were important to her, and mine was a thorn in her side. Her height always baffled me, though. She was short and thick and shaped so differently from me that we were never pointed out as an obvious mother-daughter pair. Thank God.
         She turned to me, "Oh, you're down. Good. Go sit and pour us some tea. I will be finished shortly." I hadn't noticed the apron straps around her neck until now. Curious. Normally she would not mind getting a little soapy water on her shirt.
         Then I noticed the place settings. "Why are there three?"
         "I invited over a friend," she explained as she opened a window. "How do you stand it in here? It's disgusting!"
         I ignore the bait to start an argument. "Who?"
         "It's a surprise," she said excitedly, clasping her manicured hands together. It seems my dead husbands money has been treating her well.
         I swallow hard, weighing the consequences of my next statement. Silence seemed the best reply.
         And it would seem i was right because the doorbell rang then. My mother whipped off the apron, ran her fingers through her hair, and raced to the door. "Why HELLO!" she announced too loudly and excitedly to be authentic. "Come in, you are just in time!"
         I fought the urge to turn around and see who the guest was. Instead I studied the china set absentmindedly, tracing the tiny floral pattern with my eyes. Ignoring them would only work for a moment, though. They approached the table and I was forced to look up and introduce myself. As I offered my hand, I felt a jolt race through my body. My jaw loosened, and I forgot how to speak. I could not believe who stood before me.
         Immediately I turned away, remembering him as the childhood friend he once was to me. Then as the acquaintance that lived in the same city. And finally as the shadow of a memory, rusted from the passage of time; making his once so familiar laugh unfamiliar, his unforgettable smile forgotten, and his unwavering kindness tossed away. "I can't believe it's you, Olivia. It's been so long. How are you?" he grabbed my hands as he sat down in the chair across from mine. "I see you are now wearing a Wedding ring. Who's the lucky man?"
         So my mother hadn't told him? How odd. I wondered what dramatic story she had given him to replace the truth. My face twisted almost painfully, "He died." I muttered. My voice was like a wisp of air. It was half the voice it used to be and I was almost surprised by its lack.
         Sitting back, he dropped my hands. It seemed as though a light bulb had clicked on or a puzzle had been completed in his mind, revealing the whole picture. "Tea?" My mother chimed awkwardly in her too loud voice at just the wrong moment. His gray eyes crinkled with his genuine smile, "Of course," he said, turning to my mother. "Liv, I am terribly sorry for your loss. If there is anything I can do, let me know. Please. I've moved back to town and I don't live far from you. Down the street, in fact."
         "You already knew," I said suddenly, not realizing it was me. "Why pretend?" He looked shocked and glanced back at my mother, deciding what to say next. When it seemed he wouldn't speak, I continued, "What did she pay you? How much did it cost her of my dead husbands money to fly you down here, a long lost friend, to take care of her broken daughter?" My voice no longer seemed so small. It had regained some of its old rasp and ruggedness as my anger continued. I stood from the table, disgusted by the underhandedness of my own mother, and walked away.
         "My job moved me here," he called. I could tell he had stood up and was near me, though I did not look back, my foot on the first step. "I was interested in reconnecting with you, Liv. I found your mother in the phone book because I couldn't find you. Stands to reason now that it's because your last name had changed in recent years. I'm telling the truth and I'm sorry if I have offended you in any way."
         He was certainly the Preston I remembered. And he always told the truth. "It doesn't matter," I mumbled, my voice but air again, as I made my way up the stairs. I was now embarrassed by my own behavior and wanted nothing more than for the day to end.
         From my room I could hear them talking. He did not linger for very long after my scene, and I couldn't blame him. He thanked my mother and graciously excused himself. Always the gentleman. He was much older than me, but always my best friend as a child. Seeing him now brought back floods of good and innocent memories I had not thought about in years. It was nice to dwell on something other than Cannon. It was good to see him again, even if it was short lived. He was more handsome than ever, and time only served him well. It was too bad I had scared him away.
         I knew it was safe to exit my room when the clamor of dishes downstairs stopped. My mother would never leave a house any less than spotless, and I was glad for that. Cleaning was something I only overlooked out of sheer exhaustion. I wasn't a dirty or slob like person at all; I just had let it all go. None of it mattered to me anymore, and as I glanced around my sullen castle it suddenly struck me as quite dreary and cold. Noiseless except for Jezzy and the jingling of her collar tags. Almost lifeless, the house was. It was hard to believe it had once been such a lively place full of laughter and parties and music and fun. Now all that remained were the faded memories of such times. It seemed to me that even the house mourned the loss of my husband in its own sad, inanimate way. I decided to climb back up the stairs and sleep the rest of the day away. It was my only escape from this sad, sad place.

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