Page 8 of Every Broken Piece
So, yeah, while my brother drives me crazy on a daily basis, I owe him everything.
The three of us walk the four blocks to Slice of Heaven, our favorite pizza place where the server knows our order and our corner table is always available on Thursday nights.
“How’re classes?” I ask Pax after our drinks are delivered. A beer each for Jack and me and a soda for Pax. I know he drinkson campus. I’m not dumb. I’ve been to college myself and I know what happens there. Pax and I have had candid talks about being a responsible drinker. He’s not allowed to drink while we’re out together and he’s to call either me or Jack if he needs a ride home if he's been drinking.
When he was looking at colleges, the University of Southern California was high on his list of possibilities and while I never said anything, I hated the idea of him being so far away. I’m aware that someday he may move out of state, but I’m not ready. Not yet. Probably not ever. So, I was relieved when he chose Colorado State.
It's allowed us to continue our Thursday night dinners.
“Good,” he answers my question about classes. This is his typical response, so I’m not aggravated. Eventually he’ll tell me the important things. Gone are the days he word vomited everything.
Jack nudges Pax with his shoulder. “How’s Chelsea?” He waggles his eyebrows, causing Pax to roll his eyes.
“It’s Courtney and we broke up.”
Jack’s mouth falls open. “But I thought you were all hot and heavy?”
“Jack,” I say in warning mainly because I don’t want to hear about my son being hot and heavy with anyone.
“Eh.” Pax makes a face. “She wasn’t the one.”
“Ah,” Jack says with a knowing nod. “You met someone else.”
Pax looks down but I don’t miss the pink coloring his cheeks.
“I hope you were kind to her when you broke it off,” I say.
“Of course,” Pax says.
“So tell me about her. Tell me everything,” Jack says, settling back to hear about Pax’s newest girl.
My mind wanders as the two talk. I’m not too invested because my son goes through girls like baseball players go through ball cream. As I stare out the plate glass windows at a Denversummer evening my mind travels down a path I rarely allow it to traverse.
Pax’s mother and I met at the University of Michigan during our sophomore year. She was a liberal arts major. I was a business major. We were complete opposites.
And yet, it was instant love for me. I knew the moment I saw her that someday I was going to marry her. I pursued her relentlessly until she laughingly gave in and agreed to be my wife. We were married the summer before our senior year, and I couldn’t have been happier.
She was my flower child wife. My little hippy with her flowing dresses and long, untamed hair. I could always find her by following the chimes of the dozens of bracelets lining her wrists. More often than not she was barefoot, toes painted whatever color fit her mood.
She was a dreamer, lost in her head more than she was tethered to this Earth. I could practically see her mind drift off in the middle of a conversation, a slight smile on her face. I never minded because she was so beautiful. She was my peace. My landing spot.
And yet, I never really felt she was mine.
She married me. She said she loved me. But there was a part of her she kept from me, and no matter how hard I tried to break into the deepest parts of her, I never could.
It wasn’t that she lived a secret life. It was more like there was a darker part of her. A place she would go where her demons lived.
Cara was an artist, creating magical, beautiful metal creations that could easily have sold in a New York gallery. So many times I offered to create a website for her so she could sell her creations to high end buyers, but she always declined. She preferred to set up tents at street fairs or outdoor musicvenues where she could connect with her buyers. I thought she undervalued her art and her talent.
It wasn’t until much later that I realized she didn’t care about making a name for herself. She just wanted to create. Taking her to the next level was my dream for her but it wasn’t her dream. Eventually it would have killed her creativity.
I only had five short years with her. She died right after our fourth wedding anniversary. Killed crossing a train track in front of an approaching train.
A tragic accident, people said.
But part of me, a part I very rarely allow a voice, wonders if it wasn’t an accident. Part of me wonders if Cara was simply finished with this life, and the demons she hid from me finally won.
Our pizzas are placed in front of us forcing my mind back to Pax and Jack. I sometimes find myself searching my son for the same demons that haunted his mother, but I’ve yet to find them. That doesn’t mean I let my guard down. I stay vigilant.
