Page 54 of Through Quick and Quinn
I should talk to our folks about it. I should, but I won’t. Now that I think about it, this holiday is probably why Mom seems extra doped up.
I love you so much.
Happy Boom Boom Day, brother.
-Deck
07/04/24
3:03 a.m.
My heavy eyes follow the retreating form of my mother and I strain to see other details in the strange room. There is little furniture: three other empty beds against the side walls, an old wooden desk with a tucked chair and a wired telephone, and a few scattered office chairs. I notice my dad kneeling near the back of the room, his elbows on the seat of a chair with his hands clasped together and his eyes closed. “He looks so small,” I think to myself, but my thought is interrupted by a deep voice resonating from across the room.
Dressed in uniform, the man is massive in stature. He approaches my father and introduces himself kindly, but his tone commands attention and respect. He begins to converse with my father and I can see the anguish on my dad’s face. He is silently wiping the tears as they drip down his cheeks, not really participating in the conversation. The tears begin to slow, and I notice that his skin is turning a deeper and darker shade of red as the man continues to talk to him.
“Mr. Williams, if you could just walk me through this one more time, I’d—”
And with that, my dad snaps.
“I’ve already told you people everything I know! Where we were, what he was wearing, all of it! Now why don’t you tell me your plan as to how in the hell you’re going to find my son!”
Quinn:
Better Than a Movie
He deserves to have sparklers in his life.
That assertion, penned by my own hand, kept me up most of the night that bridged July third to July fourth. The more I considered the proclamation, the more strongly it took hold of my heart. Yes, darn it, Quick deserved sparklers. He was worthy of frolicking in the middle of the street, unabashedly releasing all reservation while waving a stick of popping, crackling bursts of firelight and giggling with the silliness that I knew he craved deep down. But even more so, Quick deserved the sparklers of life: Love for himself. Love for others. Love from others. As I had done most nights, I wished and prayed that Quick would someday see that he was worthy of the joys of life.
At some point during my somnolent phase of the evening, I crafted a scenario in my mind where I celebrated the holiday with Quick. Half-asleep, I played out an entire feature film, starting with the initial scene of purchasing sparklers and fireworks at the nearby pop-up stand and continuing on to the moment I surprised him at his house, arms full of red, white, and blue entertainment. He was so thrilled to see me that all was forgiven and forgotten, and we spent hours upon hours setting off fireworks, hooting and hollering as if each one we lit was the most exciting of them all.
Perhaps it was because of my dozy state, but I really started to believe that my mind’s movie could become reality. I contemplated the pros and the cons of my choice to knock on Quick’s door unannounced and uninvited, and the list of pros weighed so much more than its rival. “What’s the worst that can happen?” I asked myself out loud, knowing in that moment that I was indubitably going to the pop-up stand first thing in the morning.
Aware that I would spend the afternoon and early evening with my parents, I decided to time the trek to Quick’s house to put me there around six o’clock. I figured that was good timing. As the time drew nearer and nearer, I could feel the nerves rising up and the bravery simmering down, but I refused to concede to the worries that came with the “what if” questions. Most of those never happened anyway. I remembered reading once that only 8 percent of what people worry about actually occurs. I took that to mean that there was a 92 percent chance Quick would talk to me that night.
As I approached his front door, a thick wooden one behind a locked wrought iron entry, I rubbed my pink opal stone in my left hand. I closed my eyes to take three deep breaths, manifesting forgiveness and calming my heart center before mustering up all of my courage to ring the doorbell. My quivering pointer finger reached out to connect with the brass-trimmed button and I realized that my knees were wobbly from their tremors as well. One more deep breath, I told myself, and then I’ll push it. Deep breath in. Big sigh out. Ding dong.
There was no turning back.
I looked around as I waited. Their porch was bare. There was not one potted plant. No wreath. No lantern. No rocking chair. Nothing. Not one sign that anyone lived there. I turned to take in the details of their front lawn, and it looked just as barren. Desert rocks. No bushes. No cacti. No trees. Not even one boulder to break up the flat sea of one-inch tan rocks. I shifted again and faced the house to see the paint chipping away, along with massive piles of wind-blown leaves and dry brush building up at the base of the wall corners. My heart sank as reality sunk in: This house looked completely abandoned. Totally unloved. It reminded me of my lost oasis, and as a frown began to form on my face, I was alerted to the fact that I must have been standing at the front door for at least three minutes. I mustered up the bravery once again.
Ding dong.
This time, I heard shuffling within the house and someone fumbling with the lock inside. The heavy door finally creaked opened to reveal who was once a stunning woman, tall and slender with lovely facial features and long locks of black hair. Now with hollow and bloodshot eyes, the middle-aged woman pushed her matted hair away from her face with her trembling hand to stare vacantly at the stranger on her doorstep. “Who the hell are you?” her raspy voice muttered, almost as though she was voicing her thought aloud, not really intending it for me at all.
“Hi, I—” I began, but my stammering was abruptly suspended as Quick pushed past his mother, swung open the iron door, grabbed me under my upper arm, and forcefully led me off his porch, around the front of his house, and onto his driveway out of sight from his mom. It all happened so quickly. There he was, standing right in front of me. Our eyes locked, and I found myself completely frozen with a thousand questions and even more realizations. Quick’s mother was an unavailable addict. Oh. My. Gosh. It made so much sense.
Quick released his grip on my arm and then slowly lowered his hand to his side, maintaining eye contact the entire time. After what seemed like an eternity, he cleared his throat and softly whispered, “I’m sorry if I hurt your arm.” I shook my head to signal that he hadn’t. “And I’m sorry that you had to see that,” he gestured toward the front door as his sad eyes glanced downward. He noticed the basket I had dropped along the way and started to apologize again. “And I’m sorry that I made you drop—”
“No, I’m sorry, Quick.” I reached my hands towards his face and cradled his cheeks in my palms. “I’m so, so sorry,” I whispered. I gazed into his eyes, trying to fill them with all the love I had to give while simultaneously searching for answers within them. He slowly blinked as he covered my hands with his and lowered his forehead to mine. No more words were spoken. We stood there, swaying softly together, both of us with tears streaming down our faces. Tears of sadness and regret, friendship and gratitude. Tears of love.
It was I who finally drew the moment to a close as I turned my palms to grasp his hands and then guided us to a seated position on the driveway, facing one another. Although we remained silent, still with hands held and eyes locked, the communication between us was monumental.
Never in my life had I ever been more certain of the timing of things. As painful as the time without Quick was for me, it was necessary. For both of us. I could sense that he had grown over the course of those few months, and an eager feeling of excitement welled up within me as I anticipated learning of it. I was already proud of him and I didn’t even know why yet.
Never had I ever been more certain of our friendship, that it was authentically raw, perfectly imperfect, and wholly unconditional. No matter what was to come, we would experience it together. The good, the bad, the happy, the sad. We would do it all together.
And as I gazed at my best friend that early evening, never had I ever been more certain that I loved him. While I didn’t understand the nuances and variations of love, whether it was that of friendship or more or both, the magnitude of love that radiated from me that night was undeniable.
