Leave the Night On Pt. 05

***

I know what you're thinking:

"Has she died?"

The answer is no.

An excuse I have not (I do. It's my job. It's soul-sucking).

It took some time (a very, very long time), but I managed to give Pearl and Julian their Happy Ending (because I'm optimistic in my writing, if not in real life).

Forgive me for the typos and any mistakes you'll undoubtedly find (Because every single person who knows English as a second language will agree that your prepositions are insane. Plus, I actually was an ADHD child and turning 30 hasn't changed a thing).

ENJOY!

XOXO,

Nana.

P.S.: Oh! I almost forgot. Contrary to what some Gringos (and I don't use this term derogatorily here) may think, we Brazilians speak no Spanish (and what a shame that is). That being said, my apologies to any one of you who actually can speak this sexy language, but I used Google translator. And Google is known to make mistakes.

*I should learn some Spanish, though. Best day of my life was when I spent two hours locked in a toilet with a Chilean boy.

***

5

PEARL

MY FINGERTIPS ARE TAINTED with every hue on the rainbow. My watercolor drawings are strewn across my bedroom's floor, limiting the walking space and proving that my creativity hasn't deserted me, even if people have. I've been wringing my brain dry these past weeks searching for distractions, filling up my head with inventive stories to avoid being alone with my own regrets.

If I can imagine something, a new world to sink into, I won't have time to think. I can't allow my brain to conjure up thoughts of him even if, more often than not, he slips through the cracks in my mind.

"Knock, knock."

I swivel in my chair pushing away from my desk and my best friend comes into view. Lil stands by my door wearing her most aggrieved expression, as she often is lately. "I was thinking," she begins, tentatively. "Maybe we could go out for brunch?"

Hard as I try, my face grimaces all on its own. I hate the fact that I'm the source of my friend's worry. "Can't we order in?"

"Again?" She doesn't disguise her disappointment. She can't. It is a weight that pulls her eyes down, turning them into two droopy emeralds.

"We have successfully lived on delivery service for years, Liliane."

"Pearl." She bathes my name in her worry and the guilt I've been cultivating sprouts to life.

"Lil, please," I plead, squeezing my eyes shut. "Please. I'm not in the mood."

I haven't been easy company for Lil lately, I know. The awareness of it only increases the enormous shame I've been sitting on because I've let myself spiral down into this hole of self-pity.

Tiptoeing to avoid stepping on my work, Lil comes to sit cross-legged on my bed beside the furry curled ball that is our cat. She releases a long, heavy sigh I know precedes a scolding. "Honey, how long do you plan on keeping this up?"

I don't want to have this conversation with her. I don't want to have this conversation with anyone. Impossibly, I wish she were someone I knew how to lie to. "Lil..."

"It's a new year," she says. "It's the first day of a new year and I thought we should celebrate it."

"Didn't we celebrate the New Year enough last night?" I retort, acidly. "My head is still pounding. All those damn fireworks." All that booze, too.

"Honey, you barely leave this room," she says, cutting to the chase. "When you do, you run yourself ragged, sleep all day then haunt the loft all night. You've been ignoring the world for weeks now. This isn't healthy."

I throw sudden exasperated hands up. "What are you talking about? We were out until 5am just last night!"

"Yeah, and you drank too much!" She rebukes me. "You're lucky Cami isn't back yet. She'd never let you wallow in your drama like this!"

"Lucky me I don't have two of you to pester me all day!"

"Arrg!" Lil groans with uncharacteristic frustration. "This is bullshit, Pearl!"

"Well, Liliane! What would you have me do all day? I don't have a job anymore!" I regret my acerbity as soon as I've spilled it.

"Oh, great! You're being a bitch now!"

"Fuck!" I press the heels of my hands to my eyes. The lingering throbbing of a hangover headache has been plaguing me all day. Still, it is no excuse for my being an asshole. Lil has done nothing but support me. She isn't the one who hurt me. She isn't the one who deserves my bitchiness. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Lil." I drop my limp hands to my lap. "It's just that I...I'm..."

"I know," she intervenes, soothingly. "You're heartbroken, Pearl. I get it."

I look up from my own hands to meet my friend's firm empathetic gaze. "You lost a job you loved. Two people you cared about walked out on you. You've had a ton of shit happen to you all at once."

I let out a humorless chuckle. "I sense a but coming."

"But I've had it with your victimizing act." The softness in her big green eyes doesn't soothe the sharpness of her admonishment. "It's been almost two months now. You are not this pathetic whining baby! When you're not running yourself to death all you do is write and draw and listen to the same playlist on and on and on! I mean, I'm almost memorizing these lyrics and I don't even know what the hell kind of languages these are! What is this anyway?"

Try to go through what I'm going through

Try to wear the clothes I'm wearing

Following Lil's outburst, the bluesy song overpowers the room. The lyrics are reminders of him that I keep playing on a loop, adding meanings of us to every line. I tell myself I don't want to think about him, yet I surround myself with elements that bring him back to me.

"Uh...It's...Uh...Brazilian popular music," I tell Lil. The song is ironically called Black Pearl. The singer keeps crooning Baby, I love you...I don't even know if I love you...Black Pearl, I love you, I love you....

I'm pathetic.

"It doesn't sound very uplifting," Lil remarks.

My lower lip wobbles. "You're sick of me, aren't you?"

My vision starts swimming, distorted by salt water. My dearest friend's disregarding feet make a crunching sound on water colored papers. My tears come in full force once her waifish arms curl around me. "I love you, you idiot," she says, laying a kiss on my forehead. "If you need to wallow in heartbreak some more, wallow all you need. All I'm saying is this: I think it'd get easier if you left this shrine of bitterness for a while."

I release a sob-laugh. "Shrine of bitterness?" Lil withdraws, standing at arm's length. "Spit it out," I say, sensing the diffidence in her.

She purses her freckled lips. "You know I'm not Cami. I don't like to meddle."

"I thank God every day for that."

She hesitates a beat, then says, "I think you should talk to him, honey. It would help you get some closure, at least."

I wince against the icy water sloshing around in my stomach. His name, his existence even, has become a curse. The mere suggestion of him deepens the hole in my chest a little. "There's nothing to talk about," I say. I lie.

Countless chances to talk have come and gone. He's seen me. He's ignored me. I've allowed myself to be ignored. He was the one to walk away, why should I be the one to run after him? Things couldn't be clearer between us. He doesn't feel the same way. Period.

Thankfully, because Lil isn't Cami, she doesn't press me. She simply nods and allows me to be stubborn and proud. I couldn't be happier for her inherent empathy.

I wipe the tears I don't want to be crying right off of my face. "You know what, Miss Liliane? You're right. I should get out of this room. In fact, I need a fancy, expensive gown for the thingy my parents are flying in for. Wanna help me choose one?"

Lil beams at me. She's won this battle. "Can we grab some brunch, too?"

"Yeah, yeah, we can," I concede, waving the proverbial white flag. "We can eat somewhere."

***

JULIAN

IT'S ANOTHER FRIDAY TODAY. A perfectly bland mid-winter day. Sunny, even. The plans ahead of me are bleak and uneventful. My life is an incessant repetition of events. I wake up, make my daughter breakfast, feed our dog, run through the farm's daily work with Mr. McCullough, drive Hannah to school, drive to my mother's, go to work.

I'm fulfilling the drive Hannah to school part before I head to Umma's. The new teacher is standing by the school's wide-open doors waving hello to parents dropping their kids off for the day. Mrs. Andrews is a sweet middle-aged woman who, according to Hannah, isn't very funny. From my own enquiries, I've gathered she is a perfectly adequate teacher. Even if she isn't very funny. Not as fun as Miss Jones, anyway. Truth be told, no one is. She's too rare a creature to be mimicked.

The principal went through the trouble of hiring someone experienced in the delicate field of young children's education, as she so eloquently explained in a special post-holidays meeting. In other words, someone older, less attractive, less interesting and therefore less likely to sleep with a parent.

The school's official excuse for Pearl's replacement was that Miss Jones chose a professional path that didn't follow the school's methods of education. Principal Isherwood, whenever she sees me, greets me with a polite smile. I've received no judgment, no condemning words, no reproach on my conduct from her. She's fired Pearl for engaging in a sexual relationship with me. Yet, her treatment of me is unaltered.

Pearl loved this job. She adored the children. Now she's lost both because of me and I endure no consequences at all. Nothing but my own stupidity and self-pity.

There are days, Fridays to be more specific, when I'm disgusted with myself. My only punishment is the harrowing loneliness that creeps in with the twilight every Friday and lingers through the rest of my week.

I park the truck close to our new spot where Hannah and I wait for Dr. Cohen's car to pull over so our two girls can walk inside the school together. These days, Hannah doesn't really mind having me accompany her all the way to the door. I'm secretly glad of it. Every time I have to go into that school knowing Pearl isn't there I hate myself a little more. Even so, I'm not sure I fully regret my decision. Not with my life the way it is.

"Daddy!"

I catch Hannah's reflection on the rearview mirror. She's cranking her neck to peek outside, plump little finger pointing to a spot ahead. "They're here!"

I climb out of the truck before Hannah rushes out in her customary excitement. She's a new kid now she's a first grader interacting more with children her own age. She loves life at the farm, yet I've always worried it might be too secluded for her. As far as I'm concerned, Olivia Cohen is a God-sent. Hannah has never had a friend like her.

"Easy there, kiddo." I help her out of the backseat and as soon as her feet are on the ground she's running towards the Cohen's SUV without so much as a backwards glance to her father. My own steps are much slower behind hers.

"Hey, man." Daniel Cohen slaps his hand on mine, greeting me with a firm, friendly grip. "They can't get rid of us fast enough," he says, pointing with his chin to our children who are already walking towards their new teacher.

"They won't even hug us goodbye anymore," I tell him. "Hannah used to require a hug."

Daniel laughs, tucking his hands inside his coat's pockets. He's wearing his dark green scrubs underneath. Leaning against his car's door, he assumes the same posture as every morning at drop out. Hannah's and Olivia's friendship forced us together, fortunately. Daniel is a great guy. He's laid back, quick to laugh and devoted to his daughter. His life is just as crowded as mine. He's juggling fatherhood and a life serving others as a doctor. He's a new friend. One who won't disavow me for my unavailability. If anything, he understands it.

"So, hey," he starts. "Apparently the girls have planned another sleepover."

"Apparently they do that now," I say. "Without consulting us."

"Soon enough they'll be embarrassed to be seen with us."

"About this sleepover...Want me to host it this time?" I offer.

He tries to hide his relief. He had them last time and two seven-year-old girls can be a handful. Especially for a guy who sometimes works around the clock. "You sure?"

"Sure." If I need help, I have Karen, at least. He doesn't even have this option.

"Thanks man," he says then falls quiet, staring at his feet as if uncertain. "Listen, I've been meaning to ask you something."

I haven't really had a buddy in ages. Not since Hannah, anyway. It's sort of a relief to be able to small talk to another guy. We haven't known each other long. We've shared some beers, watched a few soccer games together, driven our girls back and forth between our places. Somewhere along these few months, we bonded over our kids and our mutual wifeless, never-having-enough- time situation.

He scratches the back of his neck, smiling a little bashfully. "It's nothing serious. I just wanted to check if you knew that redhead Miss Jones was talking to that day in the park? Career Day day, I mean."

My eyebrows rise close to my hairline. "Lil?"

"You do know her." His expression is transformed by joy. "I noticed you seemed to personally know Miss Jones and I wondered if..." He trails off, laughing at himself. "Shit. Forget I asked anything, man. I don't know what I'm doing."

Was I that close to Pearl that day?

Career Day was two months ago. I remember it too well. I remember Pearl made me laugh so much that day. She was wearing the dress I'd asked her to wear for me while I was inside her the night before.

Was I too obviously fascinated by Pearl that day? Enough so that people noticed us? Noticed me being unable to look away from her that entire day?

Time with Pearl was always fluid, continuing and endless. Hours went by without me noticing. When she was around, she flooded me with her presence. Nothing else seemed to be important. I had all the time in the world when I had her near.

"I kind of know her," I say, choosing to focus on Daniel's interest in Lil other than my obsession with her friend. "Her name is Liliane. Thirtyish, I guess. She's a botanist. Single, as far as I know. At least, she was single last I heard. She's really sweet, Dan." If I met her now, she probably wouldn't be so sweet to me. Not after my colossal fuck up.

Daniel laughs again. The sound is incredulous, almost self-deprecating. "I haven't really dated since Anna died," he says. It's not the first time he's mentioned his late wife. There's no grief in his tone, only a lingering affection I suspect will never leave him. "It's been what? Almost four years now. It's strange how I keep thinking about that redheaded girl in the lemonade stand. I didn't think I was ready to test the waters again. At the same time, I know I wouldn't mind getting to know someone like her a little better. There was something about her. Does that make any sense?"

His tone suggests his question is insane, yet I do get it. "It does, actually," I say.

The first time I laid eyes on Pearl it felt like gravity tugging at my gut, directing me to her. She was dancing, swaying her hips to the beat of the music, so enthralled by it, lost to it even, until she opened her eyes and saw me. She saw me. Something in me caused her rhythm to falter for a small heartbeat of a second. Likely the same force tugging at her. Once she regained control of her body, she moved for my benefit, smiling to let me know I was meant to watch. After that, I had to walk over to her and use my best pick up line because, for the first time in years, I wanted a woman with a visceral lust so crushing I knew I'd be thinking of her days later. Months later. Maybe even years.

That was before I discovered she is even more amazing than she's beautiful.

"Anyway." Daniel's voice cuts through the blur of my reveries. "I have no idea how I'd manage dating right now. Not with Oli and the hospital."

"I know what you mean." All too well.

"Guess it might not be in the cards for guys like us," he says.

"Yeah. I guess not." Even as I agree, I'm hoping we're both wrong.

***

I HEAR MY TWIN BROTHER'S panicked shrikes even before I've fully stepped into my mother's kitchen. On his best day, Henry has an expansive personality, filling up the space around him with too much noise of his own making. That's probably why he's always been one of Karen's favorite people and my polar opposite even though we share an exact DNA.

Inside, I find Umma, Henry and my sister-in-law, Sun-Hi, all crowded by the sink. Phrases composed of a hybrid of Korean-English are merging into something unintelligible. Henry keeps shouting at Umma, Umma keeps telling Henry to watch his mouth and Sun-Hi is crying.

"What the hell is going on here?" I have to shout to be heard over the commotion.

Henry looks back over his shoulder. His features, our features, are drawn in panic. "Dude!" he half-yells. "Umma almost cut her fucking pinky off!"

"Language, Jin-Woo!" Umma sounds perfectly fine as she calls my brother out on his choice of words.

To say Henry tends to exaggerate is a euphemism.

I walk over to my discomposed family members, wedging myself between my brother and our mother. There's a small cut on top of Umma's right pinky. I turn it over in my hand, inspecting it better. "Jesus, Henry! It's not that bad." It is deeper than its long, which explains the never-ending flow of blood coloring the water swirling down the drain.

"It is bad," he says and the sheer urgency in his eerily familiar eyes sets an alarm blaring off in my head.

I turn to his wife. "Sun-Hi, watch over Umma, please," I say, then turning back to my brother, "Let's get the first-aid kit."

With a motion of my head, I silently tell my nervous twin to follow me. Leaving Sun-Hi to deal with Umma's insistent remarks that she's fine, Henry and I climb the stairs to the upstairs bathroom, where Umma keeps the band-aids and whatnot.

"What happened this time?" I ask in a low voice, once we're far enough to be sure the women downstairs can't hear us.

The cut in itself is insignificant. Umma has hurt herself cooking a million times before. The panic widening Henry's eyes is kindling my own fears. This accident has precedence.

A month ago, when I dropped Hannah at Umma's, entering the house through the kitchen's back door, a fire was forgotten on the stove. The blue spiky flames burned lonely, no pan, no kettle, just the fire. Last week was a tap running on and on, crystal clear water being wasted down the drain. A few days before that Umma forgot to turn off the rice cooker. Day by day, her mind appears to lapse. She'll tell me a story I've heard before, but the details will change, borrowed from a different point in time, meshing life stories together to create something new. Yesterday, when I came for lunch, she kept calling me by Henry's Korean name while Henry himself was sitting right across from her.

She's been feeling dizzy lately. Complaining about headaches which is unlike her. A woman worn to the hardships of the world, Umma isn't prone to complaining. When I was a kid, my parents worked the farm fields, growing vegetables for an entire day. They were up before the sun and the work wasn't done until the purple sky signaling the coming night robbed them of light. Manual labor like that takes a toll on a body and yet, I have never heard a word of lament from either of my parents.

Every now and then, I insist with Umma we need to see a doctor. Whenever I do though, she tells me she doesn't need one. Every now and again, I suggest she might be safer living with me back at the farm, but at every turn she'll argue the farm is my home now. Her house is hers. My house is mine. She won't leave hers. She's done leaving homes.