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“Jesus, Cameron, what have we done?” I said as I raced toward the train.
I had him. I found him, I had the love I envied in spades. And I lost it to my insecurity and fear and he did the same. Did he know that? Did he realize it? And why wasn’t he here fighting for us, for me?
The answer was clear. He’d given up.
And I’d given him every reason to.
Utter panic ripped through me as for the first time, I ran for my life.
Moving past one of the twin lion statues, I walked up the steps of The Art Institute. I didn’t know the fate of the night, but what I did know was Abbie had reached out and I wasn’t going to deny her the chance to say whatever she wanted to say to me. But she’d made it clear with her silence, after my shitty attempts to talk to her, that she wanted shit to do with me. And I didn’t want her to be another casualty of my ex-wife. I wanted her as far removed as possible from the hurt I caused her with my decep
tion. She deserved better. Kat had only just signed the divorce papers that morning. Billy had seen to the rest. I would soon be a free man.
Fuck you life.
At the ticket booth, I couldn’t help my smile as the attendant asked me if I was there for the rain exhibit. I nodded with an ironic smirk and waited as she handed my credit card along with my ticket back to me. Helpless to her pull, I looked around for any sign of long, fire-kissed hair and brilliant blue eyes. I’d missed her so much my chest screamed, and my head pounded. It was just as physical as it was mental.
She’d become so much a part of my life, without her I stumbled in my footing as if life never existed before her. Even if our night was laced with a goodbye, I had to see her again. But my fear was that she wouldn’t see the same man when she looked at me.
Water poured from the ceiling in every form as I walked through the glass door to the exhibit. My heart beats mimicking the rain trickling down the multiple installs that filled the space. A multi-colored waterfall fell at my feet as the scent of fresh water hit my nose. It was nostalgic and hurt at the same time. I wandered aimlessly around and was stopped short when I saw a large photograph with a rain install on either side and small spray cascading over the picture.
The title was “My House.”
Photo taken by Nancy Gorman.
Abbie’s mother.
I read the digital prompt.
In two thousand and four, a Tsunami stemming from a megathrust earthquake swept Thailand and thirteen other countries killing more than 230,000 people.Photographed here is a young boy bathing an elephant in the rain who was covered in the aftermath. When Nancy asked the boy where he lived, he proudly pointed to the five by five shack pictured next to the animal and said “My house.” Nancy won the Pulitzer Prize for her humanitarian efforts to raise relief funds with this photograph. This picture is also featured in the Smithsonian museum of art. Copyright 2004 Nancy Gorman.
I was speechless as I stood staring at the photograph that looked like something out of the Jungle Book. Inexplicably drawn to it as I imagined most people were when they first saw it. The boy had barely made a dent in the mud covering the elephant’s skin, as the rain thundered down on them both when the photo was captured.
It was in that moment that I felt convinced Abbie had done the same thing for me. She’d wiped years of debris away from me and cleansed me with her love and by doing so freed me from the disappointment and loss. And I rewarded her by betraying her trust.
But maybe, there was a way for us to just . . . move on. Maybe with the right perspective, we could remain free of what tainted us, of the lies we told ourselves and each other and just let it go. With Abbie, I could. I had. I knew it was possible. If she could just look at me the way she did before. And maybe, the power to do that was in an act as basic as washing it away from view. That was how we started.
For the first time in my adult life, I appreciated the rain because Abbie was my rain. She embodied hope for me.
“My mother is a genius behind the camera,” she spoke up behind me. I clenched my fists trying to keep my emotions in check.
“Somehow she managed to capture that picture with a broken leg. She was fifty and had taken that trip for her birthday. It’s ironic, isn’t it? She survived one of the worst Tsunamis in history and was there at that exact moment to take this picture and share it with the world. She told me that when she saw this boy washing this elephant it helped a lot to erase all the horrible things she’d seen as a career photo-journalist. That it renewed her sense of humanity when she needed it most. She’d almost given up. She’s insanely gifted and raised Oliver and I to believe we could be just as extraordinary as she is, but I’m not. I’m just not. Oliver’s a brilliant doctor with a sub-par bedside manner. In short, he’s a bit of a dick.”
I couldn’t agree more.
“He’s good at being a doctor. That’s true of him. But I’ve been looking for something to be good at my whole life. Cameron,” she whispered, her voice on a plea, “please look at me.”
My body flushed with a mix of nerves and emotion when he didn’t move. But I pressed on, too afraid to stop. It occurred to me then, that in all our conversations Cameron had never said a word to indicate his childhood was anything but typical, if not wholesome, and something resembling the norm. His mother was on a high pedestal, and he respected and loved his father.
We had that in common.
Never in my wildest dreams did addiction and abuse factor into the life Cameron had lived or the one we shared. It was so far removed from who we were as a couple. It was the kind of thing that happened to other people, much like what happened between Luke and me.
I felt sick as I studied his tall form and not for one second could I believe he was a battered husband, it was unfathomable. In the strength he showed, in how he cared for me, it was inconceivable. But the reality was, he was. I needed to somehow break through, to show him it was okay to be both men with me. The one who could show strength and weakness, and to let him know I would love him the same no matter what.
“I’m nothing special and I’m okay with that. It’s like with Bree and all her talents. I’ve always tried to adapt to some of her ways to make myself more interesting, to be a little more adventurous. Learn to belly dance like her or go on one of her safari’s, but that’s Bree. That’s part of her allure. Me, well I study crazy human behavior, eat dinner regularly with an eighty-six-year-old and count numbers for a living. My kind of exciting is so lame that I have a hard time explaining myself to others. But not you. I never had to explain myself to you.” He stood statue-still as I spoke to his back.
“I can count.” My voice cracked as I choked on a threatening sob. “I can tell you how many cups of coffee we’ve shared. Fifty-six. Or how many times you told me I was beautiful. Twenty-two times you’ve said that to me, twenty-two times that you’ve made me feel like heaven existed on earth. I can tell you how many times you’ve kissed me and taken my body, and I promise you, it wasn’t nearly enough. Twice you told me you loved me,” I was crying quietly at his back. “And both times I felt like I could be myself and nothing else and that was enough for you. It’s the best thing I’ve ever felt in my life.”
