The Year I Left Read online

  Other Books by Christine Brae

  The Light in the Wound

  His Wounded Light

  Insipid

  In this Life

  Eight Goodbyes

  The Year I Left

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2019 Christine Brae

  All rights reserved.

  Edited by Jim Thomas (JimThomasEditor.com)

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without written permission from the publisher, except where permitted by law.

  ISBN: 978-1-944109-91-2

  Published by Vesuvian Books

  www.vesuvianbooks.com

  For all of us who once suffered in silence. Come out into the light –

  we deserve to live in the sunshine just like everyone else. CB

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One: A Thousand Half Loves

  Chapter Two: Not Since You

  Chapter Three: Your Voice

  Chapter Four: Home Life

  Chapter Five: Namaste

  Chapter Six: The Plan

  Chapter Seven: Voicemails

  Chapter Eight: Triple Date

  Chapter Nine: Pretty Woman

  Chapter Ten: Trouble

  Chapter Eleven: The Godfrey

  Chapter Twelve: My Brutus

  Chapter Thirteen: Imagine No Dragons

  Chapter Fourteen: Crazy Phase

  Chapter Fifteen: Not This Time

  Chapter Sixteen: It is Him

  Chapter Seventeen: GONE

  Chapter Eighteen: You’re My Buddy

  Chapter Nineteen: Love

  Chapter Twenty: Divorce

  Chapter Twenty-One: New Normal

  Chapter Twenty-Two: Away We Go

  Chapter Twenty-Three: History

  Chapter Twenty-Four: Because of You

  Chapter Twenty-Five: Into the Sea

  Chapter Twenty-Six: The Place for Miracles

  Chapter Twenty-Seven: Woodpecker

  Chapter Twenty-Eight: The Rules

  Chapter Twenty-Nine: Sarong

  Chapter Thirty: Short

  Chapter Thirty-One: Breakfast

  Chapter Thirty-Two: The Monsoon

  Chapter Thirty-Three: Art

  Chapter Thirty-Four: What You See

  Chapter Thirty-Five: Secrets

  Chapter Thirty-Six: Sudden Loss

  Chapter Thirty-Seven: Windchimes

  Chapter Thirty-Eight: Love

  Chapter Thirty-Nine: We are one

  Chapter Forty: CNN

  Chapter Forty-One: The Beginning

  Chapter Forty-Two: Gratitude

  Chapter Forty-Three: Temporary

  Chapter Forty-Four: Death and Dying

  Chapter Forty-Five: The End

  Chapter Forty-Six: Back At Home

  Chapter Forty-Seven: Why Not?

  Chapter Forty-Eight: The Letters

  Epilogue –Three Months Later

  About the Author

  Part I: MY FALL AND WINTER

  “A thousand half loves must be forsaken to take one whole heart home.”

  Rumi

  Chapter One

  A Thousand Half Loves

  Sometime in the late summer when the air began to tingle and the leaves started to fall, I opened my eyes one morning and my view of the world had changed.

  Just like that. I can still see it in my head. The way I let it all unfold. It was a train wreck waiting to happen, and I let it.

  I left for a business trip that morning with my house in total disarray. I had no good reason for refusing to take Charlie to his school bus, and despite having some time to change our dog’s water bowl, I chose not to do it. There it lay, next to the unwashed food dish, crusted with the remains of last night’s dinner. I figured Jack would get home from the gym and handle it all.

  Piles of paper gathering dust on the floor and debit card receipts busting out of a little white box screamed for my attention. I ignored them. My home office, the place where I used to hide all day, was like a war zone.

  And it wasn’t like we had money issues. Paying our bills was the least of my worries. Jack had made a killing when his startup was bought out, and I was the head of client services at a global real-estate company.

  I just stopped giving a damn. Nothing interested me. I was beset by indifference. I just couldn’t keep up anymore. The sleepless nights, the exhaustion, the constant streaming in my head. Everything seemed so insignificant, so mundane. My successes, my accomplishments, they had lost all meaning.

  All I wanted was a chance to get out of the house, to leave that life for the only thing I seemed to do well these days—work.

  That was my morning.

  And this was my afternoon.

  I took a deep whiff of the cool sea air, filling my lungs to the brim with relief, grateful for the reprieve of being far from home. Our San Francisco sales office was located right by the Embarcadero, a quick walk from where I sat. The wharf was crowded that afternoon, something I hadn’t expected in mid-September. Save for a few young students on field trips, there were tourists everywhere. The sun was so bright that the tips of the waves sparkled like diamonds. I don’t know why I thought of gilded stones and shiny white pearls, but I did. I imagined them bobbing up and down in the water while I leaned on the wooden rail surrounding the deck.

  Maybe it’s because of my mother and my grandmother—they both loved pearls. Whenever Jack wanted to buy me jewelry, I begged him to stay away from those misshapen, ugly white things. They age you. Make you look old.

  “Well, we are kind of old,” he’d tease.

  “You’re old. Thirty-five is not that old,” I’d snap back. Although it did feel old when you’d married at twenty-five and this was the only life you’d known.

  “Hello?” A woman’s voice coupled with a light touch of my shoulder filled me with a surge of energy. There she was, my friend Valerie, leaning in to give me a kiss on both cheeks, her long brown hair blowing in the wind, almond-shaped eyes squinting from the sun’s glare.

  “Hi, you!” I squealed before wrapping my arms around her and glancing around for another familiar face. “Dylan?” I asked.

  “He had to take a call at the office. He’ll meet us for dinner tonight.”

  She opened her purse and handed me what I’d been waiting for all morning. I leaned my head toward the flame and lit that glorious cigarette.

  Birds gathered at our feet, dirty, bedraggled pigeons. I stiffened up and let out a shriek as one of them came too close. Valerie flapped her hands and stamped her feet. “Shoo,” she mewed, sounding more sexy than scary.

  “We can’t stay here,” I said. “There’s too many of them.” My fear of birds had started when I was only three years old. I think it’s because I had broken out in hives the first time I’d touched feathers. After that, my older sister Trish would use a feather duster to scare me into submission while we were growing up.

  When they all flew away, I calmed down somewhat. “Hey, before I forget, I got us a room at the Clift on Geary. It’s by Union Square, so you know what that means?” I asked.

  Val continued to stomp at the birds even after they had scurried off. She turned to face the ocean.

  “So, yes?”

  “Oh,” she said. “Actually, I booked my own room so I can work late into the night.”

  “Huh.”

  I slipped past her and close
r to the water. “Oh, God, that feels so good.” I turned my head to the side to avoid blowing smoke in her face.

  Valerie scrunched her nose in response. I watched her shift her weight from right leg to left, a familiar motion required by the stilettos she wore with every single outfit. As consultants who’d developed the sales tracking system for our company, we’d worked together for a year now. In the realm of professional relationships, I shouldn’t have allowed our friendship to develop as it had—it went against my own advice to wait until the end of the project. But we’d hit it off so well, I convinced myself that being friends with a coworker was no one’s business.

  “Jack still does not know.”

  “Nope. They’d kill me. Charlie’s on this health kick with soccer season starting and all.”

  Another deep, wonderful, invigorating drag. This time I made smoke circles.

  Valerie laughed and shook her head. And while basking in the silence, all I could think about was that I was where I belonged. Far away from home where the air wasn’t so suffocating and my indifference wasn’t so evident.

  I loved everything about Val. She spoke English with a thick French accent and lived in a messy apartment in Paris with shoes and purses lined up along the hallway and ashtrays on every single thing that would hold them up. To me, she epitomized independence.

  We kept walking.

  “Hey, look, churros!” I exclaimed. “I think I’m going to get one. Want one too?”

  Valerie laughed and shook her head. “Go get your fix, I’m going to the restroom. See you by the fortune teller, over”—she pointed to the far left corner past the aquarium—“there. It’s next to that oyster place we like.”

  “How ‘bout right there.” I pointed to the floating docks and the benches stacked with onlookers. “I want to send Charlie some pictures.”

  The sea lions at Pier 39 were especially boisterous that day, barking and grunting as they slid in and out of the water. I was minding my own business, enjoying my snack when Valerie emerged from the washroom with a phone to her ear. I licked the crusted sugar granules from the top of my lips and stood for a few minutes, mesmerized by the lolling movement of a frolicking mother and sea pup.

  Just as I turned away from the landing, my vision was blocked by two giant orange feet that lay flat against my cheeks. A drooping, pointy beak brushed against my lips and snatched the churro right out of my mouth. A strong burst of air and a flapping of wings knocked me to the ground. I fell to my knees and stared out in front of me, stunned and flustered at the same time.

  “Mommy, that seagull just stole the lady’s food!” said a little girl in pigtails.

  My biggest phobia had just been realized. Not only had gross webbed feet touch my face, I had been kissed by a bird.

  “Miss, are you all right?”

  I heard your voice for the first time. I heard it before I saw you in front of me, one knee up, the other on the ground to keep your balance. Your face was so close to mine, I thought for a moment you were someone I knew. And then I realized that you were a stranger, one with kind consoling eyes. I struggled to lift my knees up while you helped me keep my balance. You looked polished, business-like—your white shirt uncreased and tucked into gray dress pants.

  Valerie came running, phone in hand, heels click-clacking. “Carin!” she yelled. “What happened?”

  Her voice, familiar, woke me up. Slowly I pushed up with my hands, lifting myself off the ground. When you sprang to your feet and hoisted me up by the shoulders, I finally saw your face. You looked like winter. Dark and deep-set eyes whose gaze could cut through ice. With your brows furrowed and lips pursed, you looked genuinely worried. I noticed how thick your hair was—it blew in the wind and covered your face.

  Soon enough, Valerie had reached us.

  I turned to address her, ignoring the fact that you were still standing right in front of me. “I’m okay.” Embarrassment began to set in. I straightened my shirt, patted down my hair, and directed a forced smile at both of you. Valerie took my hand and led me away.

  “Miss?” you called to me. Softly at first and then louder. “Miss.”

  I didn’t stop to look at you, kept on walking. “I’m okay, thank you!”

  Chapter Two

  Not Since You

  Valerie slowed to a stop as soon as we were out of the crowds, far from Pier 39. I kept my eyes fixed on her feet. They made me nervous. I could just imagine those skinny stilettos getting stuck in one of those wooden slats and her falling flat on her face.

  I grabbed her arm instinctively as if trying to fasten her to the ground.

  “Who was that guy?” she asked.

  I shook my head. “No idea.”

  “The way he helped you up, I thought he was a friend.”

  “Nope.”

  “He would make a nice friend, wouldn’t he?” she said with a giggle.

  I laughed too. “Valerie, the walking guy-dar.”

  “Well, are you saying it isn’t true? The way those men all flock to you, the interesting experiences you have, even when you’re not looking.”

  “It’s all in your mind, my friend.”

  “Yes, I suppose the fact that the people at your office named you ‘Legs Frost’ is just a figment of my imagination,” she quipped to get the last word. As always.

  We found a bench directly facing the ocean, our view obscured by tourists hanging on to the railings for dear life. “Spaghetti,” I muttered out loud, referring to the arms and legs twisted around the rails right in front of me.

  These accidental thoughts did not discriminate. They never gave me a moment to myself.

  Val’s gentle nudge brought me back. “Spaghetti? You want Italian?”

  She searched on Open Table, so focused on that little red app until she looked up at me with a smile.

  “No, no!” I stressed. “I was thinking about something else.”

  “Oh.” Val swiped her screen a few times. “Butterfly? I feel like Asian fusion tonight.”

  “I don’t care,” I responded. “I’m just happy I’m here. I needed a break.”

  “From what? You’ve got a pretty good life, from what I can see.” She did this all the time—tried to make me see the good side of things. And I swear, I used to. I had been grateful once. These days I was impervious to the passion I used to have for life.

  I agreed that nothing made sense when you looked at me from the outside. Everything was so in place, it was ridiculous. I had no secrets, no scandalous past. Just an ordinary life with ordinary joys and ordinary sorrows. At least that’s how it looked to me.

  That was all before I met you.

  “If only you knew,” I answered, looking away. I wondered whether she’d heard me. Our conversation was drowned out by the buzz of other chatter, exclamations, excited yelps and shrieks.

  She looked at me, a smile breaking on her face. “It’s your birthday! We have to do something special.”

  “Next week.”

  “Yeah but I won’t be with you, so it’s got to be tonight,” she said, clutching her hands together. Valerie paused before placing a hand on my forearm. “So, Paris next month? I’ll clean my apartment, I promise. We’re going to see Imagine Dragons, right?”

  “Does their tour take them somewhere else a few weeks later? Mid-November, perhaps? Can’t do it the week of Halloween—still deciding what to do for my mom’s thing.”

  The atmosphere always turned awkward every time I mentioned my mother. I was ten years older than Val, and when my mother had died suddenly, the fragility of life, the vulnerability that often accompanied random tragedy smacked me in the face.

  We stayed quiet for a while. The clouds rolled across the water and turned into a heavy mist of fog. Alcatraz faded in the distance.

  “You miss her, I know.”

  I kept staring into the heavy gray haze. “If she were here, she’d know what to tell me. She always had the answers, you know?”

  “I do.” Valerie took my hand. I le
aned my head on her shoulder. She played with her phone, swiped up and down before holding it up. “London, but it’s the week of Thanksgiving!”

  “So what? Let’s do it then.”

  She glared at me. “Thanksgiving. Did you hear me?”

  “Jack’s with his family. I’m sure he’ll manage.”

  “What about Charlie? Should we take him with us?”

  “He’ll be with his cousins. He won’t even notice I’m gone.”

  Val knew not to go further. She shrugged and leaned back into the bench. “Were you able to find someone?” Her voice had turned into a whisper. “You know, to talk to about those night attacks?”

  “Attacks?” I giggled. “You mean when the pillows come alive in the middle of the night and try to smother me?”

  Valerie’s face was always too kind; even when she tried to assume a dirty look. “You are just so funny. You know what I mean. Panic.”

  “Oh, those.” I fidgeted with my front pockets, crossing my right leg over my left and then uncrossing it. I wished I’d never told her. When you open up to even your closest allies, they always turn your deepest darkest secrets against you. “They only last for about five minutes. Nothing I can’t handle.”

  “Until you get some help.” She grabbed my arm and shook it. “Right?”

  Right.

  Nights out with Valerie were always eventful. I’d learned from my French friends that sometimes Americans were too uptight, too concerned with so much political correctness.

  “Why are you Americans always so indecisive, so noncommittal?” she’d asked me once.

  “What do you mean?”

  “When I ask you, did you like it? Do you like them? You never say yes or no. You say, so-so, or yeah, it was okay, or not really. It’s always gray with you. With us, it’s either yes or no. Nothing in between.”

  Her European-ness rubbed off on me whenever we were together. There was a different feeling of boldness, of not having a care in the world. Valerie was never fazed by the server’s dazed expression when we left the table in the middle of dinner to step outside for a cigarette.

  “We will be back, okay?” she’d say.