silk, the color of honey?
"Jimmy. Listen to me. You can't see Adam tonight."
"No?"
"Not tonight. Not tomorrow. Not ever."
Pain, hot as lava, boiled through his body. He felt his chest tighten, his stomach knot. He wanted to scream at Sharon to stop.
I don't want to hear this!
"Adam's dead," she breathed into his ear. "He's been dead over a year. A Saturday morning on the P.C.H. You were driving the car."
Payne's head throbbed. Boulders careened down a mountain slope, crashed into one another, shook the ground.
Still cupping his face, she wouldn't let him look away, even as his eyes moistened. "Why torture yourself this way? Why torture me?"
A boulder landed on top of him, crushing his skull, grinding him into dust.
Tears tracked down her face. "Our little boy is gone, Jimmy. It doesn't mean we should forget him. But we can't pretend he's still here. Do you understand?"
A tremble ran through his body.
"Jimmy! Answer me!" Her voice sharpening, a finger poked in his eye.
"I understand."
"Do you? Because it's not enough just to say it."
What is enough?
Nothing he could think of.
He'd visited therapists, studied the motel artwork on their walls, listened to their New Age music, all flutes and zithers. Answered their questions as they tiptoed around the stages of grief. Denial. Anger. Bargaining. Blah-blah-blah.
"Do you have suicidal ideations?"
"I have homicidal ideations."
"You want to kill the other driver? The illegal alien."
"Didn't matter he was illegal. He was drunk. And he ran."
Another shrink touted the "healing placidity of Zen." Oddly, the guy had nervous, fluttering hands with nicotine-stained fingernails. He told Jimmy a parable about a man being chased by a tiger. The man leaps off a cliff and grabs a vine. Looking down, he sees another tiger, waiting to devour him. Terrified, the man notices a wild strawberry growing out of the cliff. He swings on the vine and plucks the strawberry from its bush.
"Oh, how sweet it tasted!" the shrink burbled.
"I see the tigers," Payne said. "But where's my fucking strawberry?"
Now Sharon gently ran a hand through his hair. When she spoke, her voice was strained, a dam holding back a flood. "You have to accept our losing Adam. You have to move on, Jimmy. If you don't, you won't make it. You'll die."
SEVENTEEN
Payne drives a vintage Pontiac Firebird, gold as the setting sun. Just like Jim Rockford in the old TV series.
Growling at 60 on a straight stretch of the Pacific Coast Highway, north of the Palisades. Gray, misty morning, onshore breeze ripping at the sand, two fun boards lashed to the roof rack.
Adam says something about the waves looking small and mushy, and if it's not a good day, maybe they can leave early and play catch at the park. Payne saying, fine with him, the water looking cold as steel.
Nearing Malibu, Payne's eyes flick toward the beach, appraising the waves, watching gray terns scavenging the shorebreak.
The blink of an eye, a flash of red to his right, the mere notion of a color, nothing more.
A pickup truck runs the red light at Topanga Canyon, slashes at them from the passenger side. Never braking, just plowing into the Firebird.
Payne instinctively reaches across Adam's chest to press him into his seat. Even belted, Adam is thrown sideways, his head whipping left and right, a rag doll, the crack and snap of vertebrae lost in the explosion of steel and glass. The Firebird catapults across the highway and smashes into a concrete barrier.
Adam doesn't cry out. Just a whoosh of air from his lungs, a gurgling from his throat.
Payne blinks to clear his eyes, hot rivulets of blood streaming from his scalp. He's pinned between his son and the driver's door, which itself is jammed against the concrete barrier. Then the pain. It hits Payne so hard he cannot isolate it, cannot tell torso from limb, but he is reasonably certain his right leg is twisted into an unnatural position. He cannot see his son, though he feels the dead weight
"Jimmy. Listen to me. You can't see Adam tonight."
"No?"
"Not tonight. Not tomorrow. Not ever."
Pain, hot as lava, boiled through his body. He felt his chest tighten, his stomach knot. He wanted to scream at Sharon to stop.
I don't want to hear this!
"Adam's dead," she breathed into his ear. "He's been dead over a year. A Saturday morning on the P.C.H. You were driving the car."
Payne's head throbbed. Boulders careened down a mountain slope, crashed into one another, shook the ground.
Still cupping his face, she wouldn't let him look away, even as his eyes moistened. "Why torture yourself this way? Why torture me?"
A boulder landed on top of him, crushing his skull, grinding him into dust.
Tears tracked down her face. "Our little boy is gone, Jimmy. It doesn't mean we should forget him. But we can't pretend he's still here. Do you understand?"
A tremble ran through his body.
"Jimmy! Answer me!" Her voice sharpening, a finger poked in his eye.
"I understand."
"Do you? Because it's not enough just to say it."
What is enough?
Nothing he could think of.
He'd visited therapists, studied the motel artwork on their walls, listened to their New Age music, all flutes and zithers. Answered their questions as they tiptoed around the stages of grief. Denial. Anger. Bargaining. Blah-blah-blah.
"Do you have suicidal ideations?"
"I have homicidal ideations."
"You want to kill the other driver? The illegal alien."
"Didn't matter he was illegal. He was drunk. And he ran."
Another shrink touted the "healing placidity of Zen." Oddly, the guy had nervous, fluttering hands with nicotine-stained fingernails. He told Jimmy a parable about a man being chased by a tiger. The man leaps off a cliff and grabs a vine. Looking down, he sees another tiger, waiting to devour him. Terrified, the man notices a wild strawberry growing out of the cliff. He swings on the vine and plucks the strawberry from its bush.
"Oh, how sweet it tasted!" the shrink burbled.
"I see the tigers," Payne said. "But where's my fucking strawberry?"
Now Sharon gently ran a hand through his hair. When she spoke, her voice was strained, a dam holding back a flood. "You have to accept our losing Adam. You have to move on, Jimmy. If you don't, you won't make it. You'll die."
SEVENTEEN
Payne drives a vintage Pontiac Firebird, gold as the setting sun. Just like Jim Rockford in the old TV series.
Growling at 60 on a straight stretch of the Pacific Coast Highway, north of the Palisades. Gray, misty morning, onshore breeze ripping at the sand, two fun boards lashed to the roof rack.
Adam says something about the waves looking small and mushy, and if it's not a good day, maybe they can leave early and play catch at the park. Payne saying, fine with him, the water looking cold as steel.
Nearing Malibu, Payne's eyes flick toward the beach, appraising the waves, watching gray terns scavenging the shorebreak.
The blink of an eye, a flash of red to his right, the mere notion of a color, nothing more.
A pickup truck runs the red light at Topanga Canyon, slashes at them from the passenger side. Never braking, just plowing into the Firebird.
Payne instinctively reaches across Adam's chest to press him into his seat. Even belted, Adam is thrown sideways, his head whipping left and right, a rag doll, the crack and snap of vertebrae lost in the explosion of steel and glass. The Firebird catapults across the highway and smashes into a concrete barrier.
Adam doesn't cry out. Just a whoosh of air from his lungs, a gurgling from his throat.
Payne blinks to clear his eyes, hot rivulets of blood streaming from his scalp. He's pinned between his son and the driver's door, which itself is jammed against the concrete barrier. Then the pain. It hits Payne so hard he cannot isolate it, cannot tell torso from limb, but he is reasonably certain his right leg is twisted into an unnatural position. He cannot see his son, though he feels the dead weight
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