Page 96 of Something Like Forever
As dehydrated as his bodywas, it still managed to produce more tears. Tim let them wrack hisbody. Then he forced himself out of bed. The room was unfamiliar tohim. He had chosen a different guest room last night, or maybeMarcello had moved him for some reason. The past few days were toomuch of a blur to piece together. He had fallen asleep in hisclothes again, the outfit not the same one he had been wearing theday she died, but the T-shirt and jeans belonged to him. Ben hadprobably sent them. He’d been thoughtful enough to make sure theclothes were black. Guilt intermingled with the pain. Tim wasincapable of facing either, so he stumbled from theroom.
Marcello’s house was toodamn big. Reaching the kitchen took an eternity. He winced againstthe natural daylight streaming through the windows and glared atspeakers that were playing gentle classical music. He saw Marcelloat the far end of the room, loading fruit into a juicer. Were theyhaving cocktails? He wouldn’t wait to find out. Tim needed to startwith something cold. Beer. Wine. Champagne. Anything.
“It’s ten in the morning,”Marcello said pleasantly.
Tim paused.“And?”
“Let’sbegin with breakfast.”
“That’swhat I’m doing.” Tim opened the refrigerator, annoyed when hedidn’t find what he was looking for. “You forgot to restock,” hegrumbled.
Booze was never in shortsupply at Marcello’s house. Tim walked into the pantry and switchedon the light. The bottom shelves were bare. He had been drinking alot, but not that much! He checked the other shelves too, but theconspicuously empty patches confirmed that all alcohol had beenremoved.
Tim returned to thekitchen, where Marcello had just finished running the juicer.“What’s going on?” he demanded.
“What’sgoing on?” Marcello repeated, albeit in kinder tones. “Well, forstarters, your son is getting married tomorrow.”
Tim stared. Then he workedhis jaw. “How many days have I been here?”
“Five.”
“You’reserious?”
“Aren’t Ialways?”
“I’m missing a coupledays.”
“Acommon occurrence in this home,” Marcello said, pouring two glassesof juice. “Someday I suspect we’ll find a room stuffed full ofmissing days. For now, let’s focus on the present, shall we? Beginwith this, slowly, and I’ll whip up something more substantial forus to enjoy. I must warn you. I don’t possess Eric’s level ofculinary talent.” He looked over. “Does it bother you when Imention his name?”
“No,”Tim said, taking a tentative sip of the juice. “It makes me happythat we still talk about him.”
“You’llfind the same is true for anyone you lose. Not at first, of course.The process is gradual, but eventually, she’ll return to being asource of joy.”
“Okay,”Tim said, his throat tight. “I’m going to go sitdown.”
“I won’t be long,”Marcello promised.
The kitchen was, like therest of the house, huge. At the far end, away from the stove andcounters, were two small couches that faced a table. These werenext to a tall window, so Tim forced himself to sit in the sunlighteven though it made his head hurt worse. Marcello was right. It wastime to pull himself together. Tim had hidden himself away forselfish reasons. Oh sure, he had wanted to spare Ben seeing himlike this and the burden of taking care of him, but mostly he hadneeded somewhere to curl up and ache. Marcello had been asaccommodating as ever and infinitely patient. Funny how, past theinitial drink or two together, he couldn’t remember Marcellogetting wasted with him, or drinking anything at all in the lastfew days—or however long it had been. When the large man walkedover to the couch carrying two plates of hash browns and eggs, Timrose to help arrange the table.
“Thankyou,” he said with enough emphasis to mean more than just thefood.
Marcello nodded and satdown across from him. “Despite the unjust nature of this world,there is still much to celebrate, and perhaps even an opportunityto help spread happiness. Let’s find out, shall we?”
Tim nodded, ready to facereality. His mind was. His body still wasn’t pleased with him.After breakfast he took a long shower and found another freshoutfit that had come from his home. He longed to return there, eventhough he knew it wouldn’t be the same. How could it be? Once cleanand shaven, he really wanted a nap, but he had imposed on Marcellolong enough. After saying goodbye to his friend and hugging himtight, he got into his car and drove home.
He approached the frontdoor with a lump in his throat. Chinchilla would always greet himat the door when he came home, except when she was in the backyard.In such circumstances, Tim would walk through the house and makethe yard his first stop, just so he could see her. He supposedthat’s how it always would be from now on. He would still go to thebackyard to greet her, but no longer would he expect aresponse.
The front door wasunlocked. Tim opened it, tears escaping from his eyes as he did so.He looked to the floor out of habit, knowing his little girlwouldn’t be there. Except a little girlwasthere, four years old, andsitting in the entryway. A woven basket was between her legs as shetook out a flower and tossed it away. Plenty more littered thefloor. The little girl looked up, brushing the blonde hair awayfrom her brown eyes to see. Then she froze.
Tim did too. “Hi,” hesaid, sniffing and wiping the tears from his cheeks.
“Hi,” Daisy replied. Shesized him up. “Are you sad?”
“I guessso,” he admitted, shutting the door behind him. “What are youdoing?”
“Practicing,” Daisy said, taking out another flower andtossing it aside. “You’re going to be my newgrandpa.”
“That’sright,” Tim said with a laugh. Then he stiffened, his body notknowing how to react anymore. He didn’t want to feel happy. Notwithout Chinchilla.
