http://trailbrazin.blogspot.com/2015/10/prompt-5.html
By random pick, these were my elements:
Place -- Nashville
Plot -- Overcoming a monster
Strange Element -- rose quartz crystal mala beads
Tone -- grief-stricken
Room 2023
by Helen Sadler
A train whistle blew in the early morning hours. Light was
just starting to creep into the room. I was sleeping deeply when the distant sound made its way to
my consciousness. My hand reached out for my water bottle on the nightstand, my
eyes still closed, seeking refreshment from the dry hotel room. Instead, I felt
the cool shape of a hand in mine. Stunned and frightened, I withdrew quickly.
Then, a calm voice spoke, “Amanda.”
****
I have been holed up in room 2023 in the Renaissance hotel,
Nashville, Tennessee since last Monday.
It is now Sunday morning. My time here is done. I came to confront
something I was not ready to battle – my own loss, my own abandonment, my own
guilt, my own grief.
It was Monday morning when I had gotten the call that my
brother Patrick was dead: hit by a drunk driver on the streets of Nashville on
a brilliant sunny day. The call came from his musician friend Braydon, the guy
who had suggested my brother move to Nashville. Thanks a lot, Braydon, I had thought to myself. Thanks for setting my brother up to fail.
Now I know this is nowhere near the truth.
Tuesday
When I met up with Braydon to have lunch at a Mexican
restaurant (although I wasn’t the least bit hungry) he told me that Patrick was
making waves in Nashville with his songs. There were people interested in his
demos, and it appeared that things were going to be happening soon. He really had a talent, Braydon said,
sipping his Coronoa. In six months,
Patrick had made strides. It had all
looked so promising. This is a loss
in so many ways.
Knowing things were going well for Patrick was bittersweet
for me. I was sure the town was going to eat him alive. I hated being wrong.
So, I did what I always do. I tucked it away. That was all
in the past now, I thought to myself. Time to get down to business. What about Patrick’s belongings? He was
living with you, right? I’m his family, and I’d like to deal with it.
What Braydon told me whirled my head around. Patrick had
moved to Nashville with his girlfriend Gabby. They had married shortly after
their arrival, and had moved to their own place. Braydon was point blank on this: You will have to talk to Gabby.
Shocked is not a strong enough word to explain how I felt in
that moment. I nearly threw up the little bit of chips and salsa I had
eaten. Married? And he never told
me? In five months, he never TOLD
me?
I stumbled out of the restaurant, incoherent and blubbering,
knowing by the time I hit my hotel room bed in a rage of tears that this was
all my fault. I had unleashed this monster upon myself.
And now I’m on the 20th floor, high above
Nashville skyline, battling it alone.
Wednesday
I called Braydon again.
Could you give me
Gabby’s number? I would like to speak with her. Tell her I’m at the
Renaissance. If she is uncomfortable with me coming to her home, we can meet
here if she’d like. I’ll leave a key at the desk.
He hesitated. I will see
what I can do.
Fine. I tossed my
phone to the floor. That hesitation really pissed me off.
Thursday
I had barely left the room. I wasn’t eating much. When the
maid came by, I simply slipped down to the Starbucks lounge downstairs and hung
out, watching the tourists and business execs having fun, gossiping, trading
stories. I was alone in a big city, something I was not used to, and
disconnected from everything I knew. This Nashville was a weird and wired place
– so unlike my hometown of Ashland, Ohio, with farms in every direction. So
unlike my current home of Pagosa Springs, Colorado, mountains framing the
greens and blues and beautiful natural springs. Here it was all concrete and
tall buildings and bars galore and heartbreak. Here my brother died on the
streets trying to make a dream come true.
Heartless. It was all heartless.
Like me.
Friday
I allowed myself to remember.
No word from Gabby. Why should she call me? When had I ever
showed her the least bit of respect? I didn’t even know she was my
sister-in-law until three days ago.
She must know Patrick never told me.
And why should he have? I didn’t deserve it.
Patrick. My only sibling who was just a year and five days
younger than me. Our father – a failed drug addict, incarcerated, non-existent.
Our mother, happy to have married a rich man and moved us to a country mansion
– a place Patrick and I never felt comfortable. I escaped to Ohio University
when Patrick entered his senior year in high school. He fell apart. He wanted a relationship with our father, who died
that autumn in prison. The finality of it nearly killed my brother then. Patrick
fell into his own chemical dependency; drugs and booze, DUI’s and barely
graduating high school. I refused to worry about him. If he wanted to take the
same loser path as our father, let him.
I got a degree in journalism and fled west. Southern Ohio
was simply not far enough away from the pain and craziness called home. I left it
all behind. Shut it away. Pagosa Springs was perfect. Cool and high blue sky
and rodeos in the summer. The river and the springs kept the winter
temperatures moderate.
I started anew. I pretended I didn’t have a family.
That lasted a couple of years. Then one day, Patrick called.
Can I move in with you
for a while? I’d like to come to Pagosa Springs. I’m tired of Ohio.
I agreed. Reluctantly. I didn’t know anything about my
brother any more. He caught me off guard – that is the only answer I could give
myself on why I said yes. He could be a hot, addicted mess for all I know.
But he wasn’t. He had sobered up. He was writing his own
music. He was studying Buddhism.
As a token, he gave me a beautiful set of rose quartz mala
beads. I wasn’t Buddhist, but I loved the feel of those cool, smooth beads in
my hand. It was a healing token, for sure. There were no words needed about our
previous separation. We were together again.
*
Then, Gabby.
He met her at the Buddhist meditation center a month after
arriving in Pagosa Springs. He brought her home a week after that for me to
meet her. I was not impressed.
My brother is one of those forever young looking guys –
floppy blonde hair, brilliant and piercing blue eyes, never a bit of fat on his
body. A head-turner in jeans and a leather jacket.
Gabby was part Blackfoot Indian, part Hispanic, part
Russian. She rarely smiled, and when she did it always had a wryness or irony
about it. Her hair was thick, straight black, heavy and cut in sharp angles. On
her right forearm was a tattoo of the Blackfoot Indian Warrior symbol – a
stylized sun. On her left forearm was a Buddha. I saw this as very mixed up and
I said so.
It’s about balance,
she had told me.
Right.
I made sure Patrick knew how disappointed and angry I was
when they decided to live together. This girl was not for him. I felt abandoned and alone. How
dare he come and make everything great again between us, and then ruin it with
this bitch?
I’m sorry you feel
that way was all he had to say to me.
We were never going to get along. After that, Patrick and I rarely
spoke. I didn’t even know what he was doing for a living.
*
About a year later, Patrick came to me with the news they
were moving to Nashville.
Remember Braydon Boyd?
I’ve been in touch with him. He is going to set me up with some people to meet.
He has lived in Nashville for five years, and works on Music Row. This is a
great chance for me.
My only reply: Is she
going with you?
Of course.
I had nothing more to say.
While he was out of the room, I slipped the mala beads into his
leather jacket pocket.
Adios, little brother.
Saturday
I wouldn’t open the door for the maid. Braydon called saying
he had finally heard from Gabby and gave me her number.
Just text her, he
said.
So I did. Gabby, he
was my brother. I understand you are his wife. I would just like something of
his. Some small thing.
I’m not really sure what
is appropriate, she responded.
Please.
That’s all I had. I went back to sleep. And slept. And
slept.
****
Then, the train whistle. Someone saying my name.
Gabby was sitting in my room. In the early morning light I
saw something in her that I had never seen before; something I never allowed
myself to see before. A certain beauty and grace and humility.
And now, a grieving widow.
She reached out and handed me the mala beads.
He was so sad when you
returned these to him. Perhaps now they can be a healing force.
What could I say but I’m
sorry.
There were no words.
Gabby and I sat in silence for a while. Then she told me he
had been cremated.
I’d like his ashes
spread in the mountains of Pagosa, she said. Somewhere near the river. There is nothing left in Nashville for any
of us.
This surprised me. And pleased me.
Then I saw how deeply sorrowful she looked. For the first
time I allowed that her devastation at this loss had to at least be as great as
mine. And for the first time in a long time, my heart broke open for her. And
for my brother, who could not be honest with me, and for the horrible way he
had to die.
And for myself, for all the abandonment and loss I’ve suffered for
far too long. It felt like a
river, a river of surrender and acceptance and healing love that was rolling
along, carrying away everything hurtful and leaving behind all which could save
us.
I would never have him again. Neither would Gabby.
I had the mala beads. I would have his ashes nearby. Maybe I
would get to know his wife.
It would have to be enough.
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