Behind His Lens (32 page)

“I hated him,
” she screams.

I don’t move a muscle.

“I hate him!” she cries, lashing out and hitting her hand against my chest. In a flash of limbs, our bodies collide. I tug her into my lap and her hands clench my shirt into tight fists. She thrashes against me and cries out, letting the tears wreck through her. She has so much pain stowed away. I know how it feels to implode from within. She pushes against me, slaps my arms, my chest, my cheek. Her pounding feels like beautiful caresses though; it means she’s opening up and letting her demons see the light of day. She’s finally facing the past.

“He left me!” she cries once more before collapsing into in silent sobs.

We sit there rocking back and forth for hours.

Charley

Jude didn’t leave me once last night. I didn’t think he would come; I didn’t let myself truly wish for his presence until he was pounding on the door outside. When his loud yells broke through the silence in my apartment, the tears started pouring down all over again. He came back, he ignored my stubbornness, and he wasn’t going to give up where so many others had before him.

After he made sure I wasn’t physically injured
, he just laid there with me, never pressuring me to talk. Mrs. Jenkins brought me tea and soup, and Jude fed me bite by bite. I fell asleep with him on the floor, but I stirred when he carried me up onto my twin size bed and wrapped himself around me. I let myself soak in everything about him. His intoxicating aroma, his soft words wishing the darkness away, his strong arms wrapped around me telling me he’d never let me go.

I’ve never slept so peacefully than cradled in his arms on that tiny twin bed.

But he left ten minutes ago and I’ve used those few minutes to assess the complete mess that is my apartment. Hopefully all of the acrylic paint will come off the wood floor or I’ll owe Mrs. Jenkins a fortune.

I thought I wouldn’t be able to look at the canvases in the light of day,
as though the dark secret was better kept in the night. But I don’t glaze over them. I lay in bed, flicking my eyes from one to the next, taking them in from the distorted angles of my horizontal position. They’re truly haunting, but so magnificent. I don’t have any idea what I’ll do with them.

Suddenly my door crash
es open. “Up and at em’!” Jude commands, storming into my room just like he stormed into my life: fast and uninvited.

I jump back against my pillow. “What? Why?” I ask as he strides across the room and places two bagels and two small coffees on the nightstand by my bed.

“Up. Get dressed,” he demands, leaning down and kissing my hair. His hand strokes down my cheek and I glance up into his earnest blue eyes. He’s the one I always dreamed of. A dream I can’t possibly possess.

“Jude… I don’t know. I think I just want to res…”

“Charley. I will drag you out of this room or you will come willingly. It’s up to you.” He grips the sides of his waist in a predatory stance. His broad shoulders tug on his dark green shirt that he’s paired with grey pants. His brow is raised in a cool arch, as though he welcomes the challenge of dragging me out of bed.

I g
roan and crawl out of my warm blankets to throw on some clothes.

“There’s a bagel here for you. Sesame or blueberry?”

“Who eats sesame bagels?” I glare over my shoulder teasingly as I tug on my jeans.

“A lot of people.” He smiles, leaning down to kiss me with strong, tender lips. I arch my neck to kiss him back. It’s such a natural feeling to open up to him
and I’m tired of fighting it.

“Blueberry, please.” I smile wistfully.

I’m absolutely ravenous now that he’s here.

“I
picked up some cream cheese as well,” he offers with a contented sigh.

We’re not out of the storm, more like we’re in the calm eye of a hurricane. Jude and I didn’t have a heartfelt discussion about how much we’ve missed each other; it’s written all over our actions. When I wrapped around him with every inch of my body last night, I gave him every apology I could muster. I don’t know where we’ll go from
here, but we’re in it together. That much is clear.

After I’ve dressed in a sweater dress, cashmere scarf
, and warm boots, he pushes me out of the apartment and locks the door behind me.

There, on the ground beside my door
, are the first clues to where Jude is taking me. My breathing shallows.

Jude

I picked up a New York Times
and some red roses from the shop across the street, but I left them all outside of her apartment, lest she catch on too soon. I don’t know how she’ll react when I tell her we’re going to her father’s grave, but I know no matter what, I’ll try to persuade her to let me take her. There’s no way of knowing how it’ll affect her, but it’s clear that she’s built a wall of guilt around her heart in the past four years. Hopefully today she’ll begin to break away some of it, enough for her to start letting love in.

The moment her eyes fall on the contents
outside her door, her posture straightens and her coffee pauses mid way to her mouth. Her eyebrows furrow in thought and then her eyes slowly scan up from the newspaper toward me.

“Do you know the address of the cemetery, Charley?” I ask
calmly, trying to gauge her reaction. Her tongue dips along the edge of her bottom lip as she examines me, trying to read between the lines.

“Yes,” she offers simply. The plastic wrapper around her bagel crinkles as she moves to tuck it under her arm. With her spare hand, she reaches down to grab the
fresh roses. Their fragrance wafts through the air and the ends of her mouth curl up gently when she gets a whiff.

“Here, let me get your coffee so you can get the newspaper too,” I offer, already reaching for her drink.

We don’t say a word on the cab ride over, but her shaking hand squeezes mine every now and then, reassuring me of my decision. She scans the road outside as the autumn leaves swirl like tiny tornadoes across the asphalt. Her head swivels as her gaze locks onto the people we pass on the sidewalk. She follows their movements until they’re out of sight as if their small cameos in her life is worth the effort. I don’t think that will ever change; I think Charley will always be tucked between two worlds, daydreaming and thoughtfully watching life move around her. Her gut instinct isn’t to participate, but then again, for the past four years, mine wasn’t either.

As we pass through the
elaborate wrought iron gates of the cemetery, suddenly, I wish I had brought her in spring. Autumn hasn’t been kind to the cemetery grounds. The grass is dying and most of the leaves are falling off the trees, leaving them haunting and bare. It’s quite a bleak sight and since we’re early, no other visitors have arrived. The cemetery is quiet and completely empty, as though even the resting memories haven’t awoken yet.

“I know where the plot is. I’ve looked online a few times. They have a map of all the different sections, but I’ve never actually made it this far,” she mutters as the taxi begins to slow to a stop
next to the first section of graves.

“It’s okay.
” I squeeze her hand. “We’ll find it.”

With one last timid smile, we hop out of the cab. I’ve got a pack of tissues in my back pocket and a silent plea that I’m doing the right thing for her. I hold the newspaper, she clutches the red roses, and we link our spare hands, stepping onto the desolate landscape in search of Charley’s peace.

Tombstones pop up every now and then. Gold and crimson leaves cover most of them, but we don’t bend to unbury any until we arrive in the section where she knows her father is buried. There, we start meticulously cleaning each stone, reading the name and moving on.

“Do you think he’d have a statue or anything?” I ask, trying to narrow down our search.

“No. He wouldn’t have wanted that,” she declares, scanning the bleak horizon for any tombstones that stand out.

I nod and continue searching, inspecting each tombstone we pass. Names and dates are etched in marble, commemorating the lost lives beneath us. Most of them are much older than the time frame we’re looking for and then it hits me that I don’t even know her father’s name. I’ve just been looking for a 2009 year of death.

“Charley, what was your father’s…” I begin to ask, but then I look up and see her slowly slide to the ground in front of a glistening slab of marble.

Beneath a giant oak tree, on the border of the cemetery, is a single tombstone: her father’s. The oak’s branches wind over our heads and a few of the heavier limbs bend gradually toward the ground. It hasn’t lost its leaves like many of
the other trees in the cemetery. The blanket of leaves funnels the light in intricate shadows, cocooning us in a sliver of natural paradise.

Her trembling hand reaches out to brush away debris, and the movement catches my attention, drawing me toward her. I keep my distance at first, wanting her to process everything without my presence. But when her hand cups her mouth, and she reclines back onto her heels in silent study, I step closer, hoping my slow steps won’t disturb her.

When I’m a few feet away, I can finally discern the words written on the marble. The epitaph is much less elaborate than I was expecting, simply his name and years of life.

Charles Lock III

1957-2009

“His death made every single headline,” she begins sof
tly. “My senior year of high school, it came to light that his company was participating in countless criminal acts: accounting fraud, insider trading, embezzlement. He got caught up in the riches, in providing for his family and having it all. He started out as mid-level management, and I remember noticing that he was under more and more pressure. His stress and irritability only worsened with each new promotion, but he never lost his temper with me. I’d hear snippets of hushed phone conversations that would turn into brutal yelling matches between him and the rest of the board.”

“
Everything he did, or
approved
of, at least, cost a lot of families their livelihood. I had to change my name when I went to college, but I didn’t want to leave him behind.” Her voice descends into a soft murmur by the end of her sentence. She pauses to rebuild her courage.

“I loved him so much,” she continues. “He was the only real family I had, and I wanted to keep a part of him. So, I changed my name from Clarissa Lock to Charley Whitlock, and for the most part, people from my old life have left me alone.”

She pauses, tilting her head to the side and reaching out to run her pointer finger along the sunken script. Her finger carries away a layer of dirt that had settled over
Charles
— cleansing his name and her soul all at once.

“The media tore him to shreds
, and I listened to every single word, hoping their image of him would tarnish mine, but nothing they said could take away the memories he gave me. He was the most loving father I could have ever asked for. I don’t know why he took his own life instead of going to prison, but I have to believe it was because he was sick…”

“I walked in as he was about to kick the chair away. He hung himself in our garage. I was going in to grab my sneakers.”

Her eyes glance up to me as she clutches her hands on top of each knee, gripping them as if her life depends on it.

“I had run
in the rain the morning before and my sneakers were muddy, so I left them in the garage to dry out. I can still picture it in my mind as clear as this gravestone in front of me. But he didn’t stop when I walked in; he was already too far gone. He’d made up his mind a long time ago and nothing I said could have changed it.”

“When we locked eyes as he toed the edge of that chair, he had a tortured expression
across his features. He knew how much it would hurt me to witness him take his own life. By that point, I was the only thing he had left to live for. Which is why I’ve never been able to comprehend how he still kicked the chair away.”

“
But now I realize that for him, it was the only outcome he could reconcile— the only option that truly set me free from his mistakes. He didn’t want me to watch him get dragged through the mud, rotting away in prison for the rest of his life. He didn’t want me to spend my weekends and holidays in the visitation room of a federal penitentiary.”

She
pauses, allowing a few shallow inhales to pass. For a moment I think she might not continue, but then her brows furrow in frustration.

“
For the past four years I’ve clutched onto my mother’s guilt like a lifeline. She was already planning her next marriage to his best friend, Brad Temple, before the charges against my dad were even investigated. She broke his heart. She didn’t give a shit about him or his arrest. He busted his ass and broke the law to provide her with the kind of lifestyle she demanded, and in return, she left him without a second glance.” I cringe at the hatred in her tone as she continues, “I’ve wished every day that I found her hanging there instead of him, but I know that wish will get me nowhere. It’s been eating away at me for the past four years.”