Chapter Forty-One Clinging Part One: To A Life 4 страница

She smiled at me once more, a little weaker, the corners of her mouth drooping down, weighed by her age and wrinkles.

I nodded, not knowing what else to say. I wanted to thank her too for letting me into her exterior, when it occurred to me that she never had one. She had a hobby, something that brought her joy, but she didn’t hide it. Her hobby was her husband, and she talked about him constantly. I didn’t need to thank her for letting me in, because if you knew her, you were already inside. You didn’t even have to know her name to know her, but now that I did, I repeated it inside my head as I got off the bus, and began to walk up the street.

Elisabeth. With an s.

She saw what she wanted to see when she looked at me. She said she wouldn’t be able to tell her husband and myself apart if she was blind. We were the same person to her, and she was going to pretend all the while. I was never good at pretending, and even after her teaching me, I still wasn’t that good. What I was good at was clinging onto some kind of hope, some kind of faith to believe in to keep me afloat. I may not have been her husband wholly, but it was still some kind of identity for me to grasp onto.

***

I wandered around the aisles of the electronic store for hours. I had picked up my batteries instantly, and clutched them tightly in my hands, as I browsed through other aisles. Just walking seemed to take forever, the rainwater still dampening my clothing and making me feel weighed down again. I felt a lot better from before, but I still realized that after I left this store, I would be going back to an empty house, regardless if there were people inside or not. My mother was distancing herself from me more and more, just when we had been getting close. I could understand her dilemma, or at least parts of it, but it didn’t make the home life any easier to bear. My father – or Anthony - wasn’t helping matters either and I hoped that they both just calmed down when the rape kit results came back and they saw that in fact, Gerard was not a pedophile. That would be awhile though, and until then I didn’t feel like being at home. So I wandered aimlessly.

Batteries in tow, I found myself wandering over to the stereo and speaker section, looking at amps for electric guitars. I really had no idea what I was doing there; I had no idea what I was looking for. I didn’t even feel right as I touched a speaker, tracing my fingers along its black outline. I had smashed the guitar the night before, and that seemed like it was not only the end of my father’s role in my life, but the end of the instrument’s supposed significance to me too. I didn’t want to play it anymore; I didn’t have the urge to. It reminded me of my father, and even if this was an electric and not an acoustic, the principle was still there. Besides, this thing was fucking expensive, and I would have needed a whole bunch of other shit to go with it. It wasn’t worth it anymore. Guitar wasn’t in my hands, and whatever had kept it there before was slowly slipping out my grasp and down my long fingers, like the raindrops only moments before. I couldn’t even carry on a conversation about guitar with Elisabeth. It was pointless.

I looked around the store some more, passing by some high tech CD and MP3 players, computer software, and even a Paint By Numbers game for the computer. It made me think back to Gerard and our lessons, and I realized that I didn’t want to paint anymore either. It too wasn’t in my hands, and I saw no point in pursuing things any longer. It was only a waste of time, and I was beginning to discover that time was a fucking valuable thing. I needed more of it to spend with Gerard, but was stuck ticking it away in solitude. I needed to find something to do with myself, passion or not, in my hands or not.

Even after the small ego boost with Elisabeth and Bonnie, I was feeling down and depressed. Though I didn’t feel like ever trying guitar or painting again, I knew I wanted to do something. I needed to do something. I could feel an urge inside of me, pushing up against my chest and itching to get out. I needed to do something with my hands, mind, body, and soul in order to keep fucking sane. I was bordering on insanity at that moment, stuck in hell in my home with my father who began to look more and more like Satan as the hours passed. My thoughts felt like they were underwater; the rushed around me, so fleeting and never tangible enough to touch. They capsized my boat, surrounded me, and when I tried to vocalize, the water only filled my lungs. I was drowning inside my own head. I may have been finding steps and life rafts in people like Bonnie and Elisabeth to cling onto, but they were only keeping my head above water. And they were just as fleeting as the water of thoughts they pooled onto. I knew I would never see Elisabeth again and probably wouldn’t see Dr. Lansing either. I would be drowning soon if I didn’t find something else to save me, and something fast.

Maybe that was why I stayed inside the store for so long. It was a vain attempt to find myself something creative among twists of wire and metal, but I had a feeling here would be easier than inside my house. I would drown for sure by the time I got there if I had nothing to cling onto.

And at one point, I was ready to drown. I was about to give up, take my batteries and go home to call it a day. I even got into the line up to pay for my purchase and leave. The rain had stopped, and I could make the rest of the walk to my house in relative peace, drowning out my island of purgatory with loud beats echoing in my ears. The saddened desperation from the bus etched its way back into my system, until something caught my eye. I got out of the line, only one person away from my turn, and went towards it.

There was a display erected in the front of the store, advertising items that were half-priced. There were a lot of old model things, like video games and stereos, but also cameras. They were what had caught my eye, and there was one in specific. It reminded me of ones I used to always see reporters carrying around their necks in old movies. It was black mostly, with spots of white and gray. Its lens was thick and big, and there were knobs and buttons on the back, making me think that the lens adjusted. I knew nothing about cameras that were beyond anything disposable, but there was something about this that just drew me it. Just like Elisabeth, something fascinated me here. I was getting better and better at trusting my instincts and just listening to what was going on in my head. As I picked up the object, and felt its heavy state, I instantly felt enlightened.

A camera cannot lie, I realized, my thoughts pushing through the rapids and collecting together into a cohesive statement. Unlike paintings and music, the artist could not distort images to make what they want in photography. They could not have their own opinions reflected in a photograph; the photograph just was. It held the truth, it showed the truth, in good and bad, black and white, positives and negatives. A camera held nothing back. It showed reality. Clarity. No mistakes. No misinterpretations.

And now I held one in my hands. As I looked down at the black thing taking up the surface of my palm, I was shaking. Just barely, but I could see my fingers twitching against the solid surface.

I knew I had to buy this. It was expensive, but I had my debit card, and I put back my batteries. I didn’t need music as much as I needed this.

A camera was what I needed to tell people my story, I told myself rocking the object palm to palm. Everyone was getting everything wrong with Gerard and I, but what if I could show them what was right? I looked up abruptly at the world of people in the store. They all passed me by, passed right through me, not even noticing that I existed. But I did exist. I could take my picture and prove it to them. I could take any picture and have proof now. I shifted the camera from my palm until I was actually holding it like I should have. I looked through the lens, and I felt like I could see again. I saw the people pass by, and instead of feeling out of context inside the store, I felt like I belonged. Not because they accepted me, but because the camera did. I couldn’t even explain the sensation I got to myself until I looked down at the camera in my hands. It fit into them. I saw the way it curved around and into the space between my thumb and index finger, filling it up and making it complete. Making me complete. Whole.

Painting and guitar are not in your hands, Vivian’s voice echoed into my head, as if she was standing right here beside me. Painting and guitar weren’t there. But this camera was.

I got back in line with no regrets, still clinging onto the small object. It was going to save me, Gerard, and everyone else I knew from drowning. One breath, one snap at a time.