Page 26 of I Dreamt That You Loved Me
He lived a nomadic lifestyle. He couldn’t commit to one city or one permanent residence, so he came in and out of our lives whenever the spirit moved him. My mother never shut the door on him, and if I lived to be a hundred, I don’t think I'd ever understand their brand of love.
Whenever he’d call, she would drop everything to be with him. London. Paris. Los Angeles. Tangiers. Stolen weekends in the Hudson Valley.
This cabin and the surrounding ten acres was his private oasis where he could shut out the world and retreat into one of his dark moods.
His relationship with fame was notoriously rocky and his struggles with addiction were widely publicized.
Self-destruction doesn’t only destroy one person. It destroys everyone around you. How convenient for him to check out without eventryingto repair the damage.
I tossed the photo across the table. “How could you have settled for so little?”
Her brows knitted. She looked confused, but more than that, she looked hurt that I would dare to ask such a question. Probably because I never had. I’d always kept my anger and resentment hidden, simmering just below the surface.
“I loved him,” she said simply.
As if that was reason enough to let a man treat you like a disposable object. A shiny toy he’d toss aside whenever one of his groupies caught his fancy or the lure of drugs made him disappear for months, sometimes years at a time.
What I remember most about the summer of ‘79 were the late-night parties in hotel suites, my parents getting drunk andlaughing in the next room while I watched TV shows in foreign languages and played cards with the roadies and swam in hotel pools under the watchful eye of sunbathing groupies.
In Dublin, I swiped a bottle of whiskey and spiked my Coke, and in Amsterdam I nibbled on a hash brownie, just to see if my mom would notice. She never did.
She was the best mother in the world when she wasn’t with Nicky. But whenever he was in the picture, her entire world revolved around him and his mercurial nature.
I stood from the table and scraped my uneaten cake into the trash then retreated to my bedroom and packed up my things, shoving my clothes and the books and set of paints and brushes my mom gave me for my birthday into my duffel bag.
Packed and ready to go, I dropped onto the bed and stared at the guitars hanging on the paneled wall like trophies. Why did she have to keep all his stuff? His coats and boots were still in the hallway closet as if she expected him to waltz through the door looking for them.
The last time I saw him, he showed up drunk in the middle of the night. On his way out the door the following morning, he said, “I never asked for this, you know.”
Bythis, I’d assumed he meant me.
But then he’d said, “I’m sorry I haven’t been around much.”
I was fourteen, already jaded, but still hopeful. “It’s okay. We still have plenty of time.”
Making excuses for him was in my DNA. After all, I was still my mother’s daughter.
He smiled and it was glorious. Like the sun coming out after a long, dark winter. “I’ll see you soon, Baby Blue. We’ll spend some time together, just you and me, yeah?” He hugged me and kissed the crown of my head and told me that he loved me. “Take care of your mum for me.”
And I think that’s when I realized why my mom kept going back to him.
When Nick Ashby tossed you a few crumbs and a smile, it made you feel all warm and glowing inside, like you were someone special. Something precious to him.
As soon as the door closed behind him, I retreated to my bedroom, took out my sketchbook and pencils and filled pages and pages with drawings of him. And of us. A happy family of three.
But it was all just a silly dream. It always had been.
One month later, he was found dead in a Mayfair hotel. Cause of death: “accidental” overdose. And I always thought that it would have been so much better if he’d left that day without saying a word. Without filling my head with false hope.Again.
Because hope is a cruel mistress. It keeps you holding on even when you’d be better off letting go.
I slung my duffel bag over my shoulder and walked into the living room. “Can you give me a ride or should I call a taxi?”
My mom looked up from the table and set down her pen. “I thought you were taking a later train.”
“You look like you’re busy.” I sounded like a petulant child but I didn’t care.
I just wanted to move on. Why dredge up ancient history? What good would it do to dwell on something you couldn’t change or fix? My mother couldn’t rewrite history, no matter how hard she tried.
