“We Got it Back Last Night”

A Short Story by Laura L.

Summer, 1981.  “Administrative Assistant to Director” was title of the position for which I applied. When all was done I was hired and became close friend, confidante, meeting scheduler, party planner, and liaison for Abbie Engstrom, the Director of a 15 board member commission of social services. The youngest member, at 26 years old was Carl, from Brooklyn. I was 27.  I didn’t realize then that the next 15 years of my life was about to change. We became friends, then lovers and committed to each other for the next 15 years, even through each of our respective marriages.

March 21, 1996; Carl’s 40th birthday. It is 9pm in California, it’s 12 AM in Florida. I just hung up the phone. I can’t grasp onto any shred of reality or think one complete thought. I am hysterical, alone and wailing Carl’s name.  His sister just called. He was found dead in his car on the Florida interstate today from a lethal dose of heroin. What

had happened since we last spoke? Why didn’t I,  closest to him that last year, know he was living on his own borrowed time?

I knew he had been dabbling in drugs and drinking a bit too much the last few months but I didn’t know that the most horrible drug of all was even close to his universe.

Lately my life in California had been changing and I was  making new friends. My devotion to his attempts at stopping substances had been waning. I was tired of trying to determine how long he would stay clean “this time”. Within the past two years’ time his infant daughter died of SIDS, his father died from cancer, and his marriage dissolved. He became dependent on prescription Valium to treat off-the-chart anxiety and, unbeknownst to me, had recently been  “cut off” by his physician.  That is when he, allegedly, started to buy street drugs.

Formerly a gregarious, outgoing and eternally optimistic over-achiever, his life had been broken. It’s hard to believe that he had never quite grasped the fact that he was an utterly captivating, humorous, intelligent  and charismatic and handsome man. Now this same man  who always found his greatest joy in making others happy, could not work himself out of deep despair.

Summer of 1995. Both of us now divorced, he flew out to San Francisco. He was to interview for a sales position with a new  computer company in California. We wanted to spend time together; it had been five years since our last meeting in Florida.

As the passengers disembarked off the plane I heard a soft “Hey, Laura!” I turned immediately to the sound of his familiar voice, the boyish giggle -always full of enthusiasm and mischief. All stunning 6’2” of him in a classic brown suit. I always called him my Chevy Chase lookalike…and he still was. He started a quick walk towards me which broke into a run. Running into each other’s arms we hugged and kissed. He picked me up and spun me around so fast that my feet flew out behind me. We giggled, held hands and headed to baggage, then walked to my car.  After lunching  at a Chinese restaurant we walked the avenues of San Francisco.  Walking arm in arm, we laughed, teased, and collapsed in hysterics as we whispered imagined characters and lifestyles for the more interesting “characters” we passed on the street.   Exhausted by late aftenoon, we jumped in the car and drove home.

It is hard to describe the glow I felt when I was with him. It wasn’t lust, it wasn’t desire (although both existed in my heart forever) but a feeling of home and knowing he knew and understood me completely. When we were together it felt like we had been in a hilarious Saturday Night Live skit.  It seemed to be an unwritten rule that we had fun no matter what we did. It happened when I first met him in 1981 and it was still happening 14 years later.

We spent the week together and bonded stronger than ever. He flew back to Florida and we kept in close in contact. This is how it should always have been.

January, 1996. Carl seemed to be losing confidence. He became scared, less secure. He wanted a home; he wanted me, and the way we were in 1981. It was time.  He was ready to move to California, he had completed rehab for the third time.  We talked every night on the phone for at least an hour, usually more. We always said “I love you” at the end.

The last conversation was on a Wednesday  night, March 14. By then I was starting to lose patience with his recent ups and downs. I longed for a normal relationship; one that  that didn’t involve trying to read between the (sobriety) lines. He said he wanted to come to SF that Friday; and please  meet him at the airport. This time I didn’t return the  “I love you” at the end of our lengthy phone conversation.  I said “okay, thank you”. Thursday came, no call; Friday came, no call. The next contact was a voicemail message left on Saturday. He sounded incoherent, confused and lost.  I was out of town. Hearing the message on  Sunday, I  called his mother immediately, where he had been living. She hadn’t seen him all weekend. I was frightened.

Then the  call the following Wednesday from his sister Maddie. His 41st birthday. He was found in his car, on the Florida interstate. He had overdosed.  Two weeks before he had told her he was so happy and had finally decided to move back  to California and be with me.

Am I arrogant enough to think that not returning an “I love you” in our final  conversation had crushed his already-broken heart? No one I’ve been able to contact had seen or talked to him in the days between the final phone conversation  and the day he died.

Forever in my heart

About this Story…

I’m proud to present another Story written by my Beautiful and Talented Wife, Laura. She is a Guest Writer in this week’s Short Story Blog.

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