You Say Goodbye Page 5

  Pivoting away, he hurried toward his car.

  “Sean, wait! Wait!”

  Sean heard the accelerating footsteps behind him but didn’t stop. As he reached for his door handle, Elliot pushed his hand against the door.

  “I’m sorry, Sean,” he told him. “I’m very sorry. You’re absolutely right. It’s not my place to tell you what you need right now. All of us who knew Merissa are hurting, but nobody more than you. I can’t even imagine.” Elliot dropped his briefcase and extended his right hand. “Please forgive me.”

  Sean stared at Elliot’s hand then glanced into his eyes for several moments before directing his attention toward the conciliatory hand again. Reaching out, he clasped it.

  “It’s all right,” he said, his voice subdued. “Baby steps, you know what I mean?”

  Elliot clasped his arm. “Yes, of course.”

  Standing back, Elliot nibbled on his upper lip and gazed into Sean’s eyes, as deep as if intent on assessing the size of his pupils. “I know you want to go,” he said, “but please let me say one more thing.” A slight smile appeared as he paused before continuing. “You know how much Merissa cared about the clinic, how much it meant to her. Maybe it would help your healing to feel a part of that. I could always use an extra hand in the office. You could input names and records into our database, organize lists of donors, help us with contribution letters, make phone calls for event locations--things like that.”

  Sean started shaking his head before Elliot completed his sentence. “Forget it, okay? Just because I played a couple of fund-raisers doesn’t mean I want to devote more time to this place. The only reason I performed was because Merissa asked me to.”

  “But you know what we’re about here. The people we help come from some of the same situations Merissa experienced herself. How could that not mean anything to you?”

  An overwhelming weariness cocooned Sean’s ability to continue. “I’ve gotta go,” he said, opening his door.

  “Just think about it, all right?” Elliot replied, grasping his briefcase. “Merissa did so much for us. Become a part of this place and see if it doesn’t make you feel better.”

  ***

  Returning home, Sean lifted the receiver and heard the repetitive, rapid-fire beeps signaling an awaiting voice mail. Craving a cigarette, he removed one from the pencil box he used to store them on the table next to his couch. With the lighter unused in his hand, he first listened with curiosity to the message left by Dr. Lodin’s assistant, Beverly, asking for a return call, “today, if possible.”

  Having forgotten about his checkup from the week before, Sean assumed Dr. Lodin wanted to talk to him about the results of his blood and X-ray work but remained puzzled why he’d elected to bypass his usual method of making all non-emergency calls at the end of the day like he always did. Had he somehow heard about Merissa? Maybe he just wanted to offer his condolences.

  “Hold on, Mr. Hightower,” Beverly told him. “The doctor told me to let him know when you called.”

  Sean continued flicking his lighter on and off as he waited, staring at the reappearing flame in anticipation of fire and tobacco lovemaking.

  “Hi, Sean,” Lodin started. “As you know, I had to rush out of here after your examination so I wasn’t able to look at your test results until this morning.”

  “Wouldn’t you normally wait until you’re done for the day before calling me to tell me I’m fine? Should I be worried?”

  “It’s too early to tell,” Lodin told him.

  Sean dropped the lighter on the table before running a hand over his mouth and chin. “Go on.”

  “Please understand that no conclusions can be drawn from this, but your X-rays show a shadowing, perhaps a widening, of the mediastinal structures in your chest. Perhaps it’s nothing serious, but I want you to make an appointment for a CAT scan so we can get a closer look. Once we get those results back, I’ll show them to an oncologist down the hall from our office. Her name’s Karen Jillson, and we’ve worked together on scans a number of times.”

  Shadowing? Perhaps it isn’t serious? Sean heard those words but not much else. In his mind, what else mattered? One plus one equals two, and shadowing plus serious equals...only one thing.

  Closing his eyes, he massaged his forehead, listening for a few moments to his own breathing. A sudden dryness overtook his throat as he prepared to ask the question. “Are you telling me...I have...cancer?”

  “What I’m telling you, Sean,” Lodin replied, his unyielding seriousness making the room’s temperature rise, “is that we don’t know anything for sure right now. False alarms happen all the time, and we’ll certainly hope this is the case with you. Let me see what Dr. Jillson has to say, and we’ll go from there.”

  “Even for a thirty-year chain smoker like me?” Sean asked, almost to himself. “Do we have false alarms, too?”

  “Stay on the line,” Lodin said. “I’ll transfer you to Beverly and she’ll set you up for an appointment.”

  “No...no, I’ll call back, okay?”

  “Sean, listen to me”

  “Not now, Dr. Lodin,” Sean said, his head spinning in confusion. “I don’t want to deal with this right now. Tell Beverly I’ll call her next week.”

  At the end of the phone call, Sean realized the cigarette he’d planned to smoke lay crushed and twisted on the floor with pieces of shredded tobacco scattered around it.

  Lifting his eyes from the floor, his attention moved from the pencil box toward the kitchen, where four unopened cartons, the sirens of nicotine, cradled his consciousness in a comforting, hypnotic allure.

  “Cancer,” he whispered. “Cancer,” he repeated out loud. “Cancer!” he shouted.

  Sean felt powerless, an impotent creature of this heartless life whose apparent intent to spare neither the victim nor the loved one continued unabated. Having already succumbed to nightmare images of Merissa’s bloodied and disfigured face, he sensed a creeping madness challenging his sanity. Now the probability of cancer left him teetering on the edge.

  He placed a hand over his misty eyes, wanting to feel the release of an explosive, pent-up sob, but nothing came. He felt detached from himself, the hanging judge of his own pessimistic thoughts--the woman he loved raped and killed, his career a sham, and now a guaranteed death sentence. Grabbing a cigarette, he fired up and called Hendrix over, cradling him to his body as he dropped on his couch. He gritted his teeth from the flash of pain passing through his hip, feeling angry over this now irrelevant intrusion to his greater concern.

  “You’re my best friend, little guy,” he told him, stroking his head. “But there’s nothing you can do for me now.”

  ***

  Six empty beer bottles on Sean’s nightstand stood like backup singers behind an ashtray filled with a night’s worth of cigarettes. Sitting on the bedcovers within the darkness of his room, he continued yo-yoing his thumb on the remote button until sunrise. He acknowledged arriving at the right answer, finding his sudden peace of mind as the determining confirmation to his decision, the one logical resolution to his private mayhem, yet he first wanted to go somewhere to bid a final goodbye.

  Pulling a sweatshirt over the clothes he still wore from the night before, Sean drove the twenty-minute early morning drive to the beach in a silent, trance-like state, his dependable dark blue convertible providing a brisk top-down ride for his friend in need. Exiting the car, he removed his shoes and socks when he reached the sand and, looking toward the water, listened with a concentrated clarity to the incomparable rhythm of the waves.

  Nerve endings tingling like never before, he inhaled the unique smell of the cool, salty air brushing his face as he headed toward the shoreline, drawing an enhanced contentment from each barefoot step.

  How many inspirational moments had enveloped Sean Hightower through the years as he marveled at the oceanic expanse, transporting himself toward the vast entrance of that sweet, glorious horizon? How often had he welcomed the mystery of it all, unso
lved yet beckoning, offering his soul a chance to soar and his heart a place to dream, validating his life as an occasion for endless possibilities?

  But as Sean’s feet touched the wet, foamy sand, he stared in dismay at an unforeseen and alarming reality. That inspirational expanse had transformed into an unkind, ominous stretch of water, and the glorious horizon now offered nothing more than a suffocating, impenetrable wall.

  Recognition of finality encased his entire being, leaving him struggling against a claustrophobic barricade overwhelming his senses. Forced to turn away, he gazed at the granular clumps around his feet, reminded of the chorus from his song “Hourglass:”

  You’re in an hourglass, no place to retreat

  Quicksand everywhere beneath your feet.

  Reality shouted at him from within, puncturing his soul with the force of undeniable truth. Sean had nothing to believe in anymore.

  Above all, not even himself.

  Chapter 7

  He showered in slow motion, an automaton responding to the wires and springs, a repetitive and robotic shell of himself preparing for the conclusion of his life. When he shaved, the razor became a paintbrush, stroking smooth, precise lines around his goatee, working the angles of his previously stubbled jaw and chin like a master sculptor. After slipping on his favorite pair of jeans and flannel shirt, he studied the final product in the mirror, satisfied in the knowledge he’d go out looking good for his last performance, unlike some of his rock ’n roll heroes whose physical demise contradicted their illustrious careers.

  Sean stared at the lone visible cloud in an otherwise clear, sunny sky, a floating white island offering a soft seduction and escape from the harshness he occupied below. A flock of birds crossed his vantage point, flying away in perfect unison and sense of purpose as a passing breeze summoned him toward his own distant freedom. He stood there in respectful silence, tearfully relishing one last act of spiritual lovemaking to the uncomplicated gifts of life he’d known since childhood.

  He stared at that same hardworking little girl next door, selling her lemonade again and making a sale to a passerby reaching into her purse for money. He couldn’t help but notice the determined expression of this puny, odd-looking kid with the egg-shaped face as she pulled the spigot on the lemonade container--a child whose simple accomplishments of youth might be the highlights of her short life.

  Sitting on the couch, Sean lit a cigarette and picked up the prescription bottle from the table. A sense of relief washed over him as he envisioned the white flag sanctuary of his barbiturates. Using light from the window to look through the plastic orange container, he shook the pills as a bartender mixes a drink, consoled by the rattling death knell of acceptance. For the third time, he reviewed the note written to his parents.

  Dear Mom and Dad,

  Let me start by saying I’m at peace with this decision. By the time you finish reading this letter, my ultimate wish is that you eventually find understanding and comfort in what I’ve done. But I know that you stand no chance of this unless I succeed in explaining my reasons. So here I go.

  My life has reached a crossroads: I could move in the direction you want for me and take over the business one day, a disheartening thought I can’t fathom, or continue chasing my elusive dream in music. The success I achieved as a man in his twenties led me to believe that the best was yet to come and that my destiny was set. I guess when you’re that age and feeling cocky it’s easy to think like that.

  Twenty years later, the verdict is in: I’m a complete failure and an even bigger fool. My music mutated into a siren’s song, enticing me further into the illusion of promising waters, hypnotizing me into thinking this fossil still had a future. But at least I had Merissa, right? She was my safe harbor, a sanctuary of cool, healing serenity within that sea of chaos and uncertainty. She inspired me and kept my dying dream alive, and I thought we’d be together forever. But I was just deceiving myself...again. She’s gone, taken from me in the cruelest, most unimaginable of ways. I know I’ll never recover from what happened to her. Never. Just as I might never recover from the probable cancer Dr. Lodin told me about yesterday.

  When hope takes enough punches to the gut, reality finally conquers us and knocks us to the ground, mocking and tormenting us in its victory dance. And so I finally give up. There’s nothing worth living for anymore. When you receive this letter, I will have left the world behind. No more pain. No more failure. No more disappointments. No more cancer. A success at last.

  All my love and gratitude,

  Sean

  He took another swig of beer, satisfied at writing everything necessary and then adding a request for them to care for Hendrix. He uncapped the bottle of yellow pills and poured them on the table, staring in calm contentment at his merciful assassins.

  “That ought to do it,” he whispered, recounting the last of the twenty-one.

  Leaving the pills in ready position, he placed the letter inside the stamped envelope and rose to his feet, intent on completing his mission from couch to mailbox to couch again. A bittersweet smile ensued as he looked at his guitar case leaning against a corner near the front door. It housed a former friend, now untouched and unwanted. He slipped the letter in his back pocket and opened the case.

  Stroking the honey-colored wood grain finish, he stared at the finger-worn frets stationed along the darkened neck, loyal soldiers in an open casket.

  The sudden ring of the telephone jolted Sean’s tranquility, making his heart race from the unexpected sound. Glancing at the caller screen, his eyebrows arched in surprise at the letters LAPD. His arm reached out after the second ring, but he pulled back, clenching his fist with indecision.

  After another ring, and nearing the moment his voice mail recording answered, he lifted the receiver and spoke, his voice hesitant and soft.

  “Mr. Hightower,” the caller said, “it’s Detective Ray Maldonado from the LAPD.” After a slight pause, he added, “I’m the one who talked with you the night of Merissa Franklin’s murder.”

  Sean remembered, despite the delirium of his shock and grief that had seemed to swallow him whole. “Yeah,” he uttered.

  “I need you to come down to the station so we can talk. And the sooner the better because it’s very important.”

  Sean stared across the room at the pills scattered on the table, anxious to finalize his exclusively personal, and final, plan. It didn’t matter what the detective had to say; he couldn’t bring Merissa back. “I can’t make it today,” he answered.

  “Tomorrow?” Maldonado asked.

  Sean realized he’d better say what Maldonado wanted to hear to end the call as quickly as possible. “Sure,” he said, “whatever.”

  “Great,” he said. “If you want to meet before or after work, that’s fine. What’s a good time?”

  “Um, I don’t know. I’m not working right now, okay?”

  “In that case can you be here tomorrow morning at ten?”

  “Yeah...sure...okay,” Sean mumbled. “Is that it?”

  “Just one more thing,” Maldonado said. “The reason for our meeting tomorrow? We think you can help us find Ms. Franklin’s killer.”

  ***

  Placing the phone on the table, Sean pulled the chord from the wall socket, determined to guarantee a quiet ending. Whatever inconsequential ideas Detective Maldonado wanted to discuss didn’t matter anymore. The time for concerning himself with this life and all its horrors had expired.

  He noticed one of Hendrix’s toys on the floor and realized his spoiled little lapdog hadn’t been in the house for a while. Intending on having his loving friend with him during his slide into unconsciousness, Sean had prepared two big bowls of kibble and two bigger ones with water to ensure his survival. Holding the envelope in his left hand, he opened the door to the backyard, expecting Hendrix to come running.

  “Hendrix!” he shouted. Receiving no response, he whistled and then called out again. “Hendrix!

  Sensing trouble, Sean hurri
ed straight toward the side gate and discovered that his idiotic pool man had failed to close the latch again, allowing an opening for Hendrix to wander out as he’d done before. With visions of ramming the man’s head through a wall, Sean rushed through the gate toward the front yard, looking straight ahead but seeing nothing. Veering right, he took several rapid steps before coming to an abrupt halt.

  Sitting on her knees with a passive, unsure expression, the girl from the lemonade stand was rubbing her hand over Hendrix’s belly as the dog lay sprawled at her feet. A dark-haired woman in a navy blue pants suit crouched beside her, observing and smiling. They both looked up when Sean approached.

  “Is this your dog?” the woman asked.

  Sean struggled to answer, nodding at first.

  “Yeah,” he replied. “Sorry if he’s bothering you.”

  “I was a little concerned when he came running toward us,” she said, “but as you can see, everything’s fine.”

  The girl gasped and lurched back a bit when her hand movement triggered a piston-like reaction from the black, furry little leg of Hendrix.

  The woman giggled and patted the girl on the leg. “It’s okay, honey,” she told her, “dogs do that sometimes when you scratch their tummy.”

  “What’s his name?” the girl asked, tilting her head up again.

  Sean’s first opportunity to observe the girl up close confirmed the illness he’d suspected before. He noticed how her cookie-round head appeared too large for her frail upper frame and that the fuzz of hair under her purple and gold Lakers cap offered no clue as to whether the strands were coming or going. The thin straps of her oversized Lakers jersey accentuated the bony shoulders, almost skeletal in their lack of a natural round form. Her right eyelid held itself at a partially closed three-quarter position, creating an unhealthy peek-a-boo effect in combination with the normal-sized left one. She continued looking at him, tightening her mouth and revealing two prominent dimples on her puffy, pale cheeks.