Page 50 of Truth Be Told
He reads it over in an instant and then says, “What is this?” He looks to me again, then back to the paper. “This is some random address and phone number. I don’t know what this is.”
“You wouldn’t,” I say. “It’s… the address of Brianna Sterling’s husband. I tracked it down for you, so you could, you know, maybe call him up. Get some closure.” I continue to talk quickly so he doesn’t have a chance to interrupt. “Maybe you could give him some closure, too. It’s wasn’t exactly professional of me to track down that information, so I put my ass on the line for it, but–”
“Shit, Stella.” I try to read him, but he’s suddenly turned into a blank book.
“Please don’t tell me you’re mad.”
He hasn’t looked away from the paper. “I’m not mad, I’m… shit. Stella,” he finally looks up, “I don’t think I can do this. I can’t just call him up, or show up at his house. That’s not how this works.”
“Isn’t it, though? I thought getting some closure might help with your nightmares. It’s worth a shot, right?”
He shakes his head. “I’m not so sure it is.” He thinks, then lets out a laugh and puts the papers down. He rubs his face. I expect him to say more, the way he always does when one of us breaches this subject, now that we’re comfortable with each other. Instead, he’s speechless. Maybe I was wrong, after all. Maybe this was a mistake.
I place my arm around him and lean in. A tear falls, absorbed by his shirt. “Please just try,” I say.
He looks down at me with those eyes. The deep brown ones, the ones that always seem to know all about me. He strokes my cheek and finishes wiping away the tear. “This means this much to you.” It’s not a question, it’s a statement. Heknowsthis means this much to me. He breathes in. “Okay. If it means this much to you, then I’ll do it. I’lltryto do it.”
I smile weakly. I’m glad he’ll try, but the weight of what it’s all about keeps me from being truly happy. He knows this. I know he does.
Sure enough, he takes me by the shoulder and pulls me closer.
COHEN
“Please,” Troy Sterling says. “Come in. Take a seat.”
It took courage to actually do this, I remind myself when I cross over the threshold, so I can’t fuck this up. That thought quickly goes out the window, though, when I feel an overwhelming sense of shame when we lock eyes. He knows me. We’ve never met, and yet in some ways, he knows me better than I know myself.
The man gestures to a couch that’s visible from here, but located a ways from the door, so we have to walk through a good portion of the house to reach it. I pass pictures on the wall, plenty of which are of Brianna. She’s happy in all of them. Blissful, even. Her smile is wide and bright, but I have no memories to compare it to. The only way I’ve ever seen her was in a state that was anything but happy.
The décor is outdated, and when I sit down on the velvet couch, its age causes me to sink a little too far into it. A musty smell fills my nose. These must be hand-me-downs, I figure, maybe from some sympathetic member of their family. The rest of the room is empty, save for a grandfather clock that ticks against the farthest wall. A fireplace sits to our right, and on it sits a single picture that I can’t make out from here. The mantle is dusty though, that I can see even from this far away. This is the house of a single man who doesn’t have time for such petty things as decorating and upkeep – not after what he’s been through.
My first impression of the man is he isn’t what I expected. Although I don’t know what the hell I expected. Not him, that’s for sure. This guy looks like someone I’d be friends with, given any other circumstances. He’s much older than me, but there’s a clean-cut look about him. I expected someone… visibly struggling, although I realize how wrong it is of me to assume such a thing.
He hands me a glass of ice water.
“Thanks,” I say.
He drinks his own, standing awkwardly for a moment next to the sofa. “Here,” he says, going to the window. “Let me open these for us.” He pulls on a single cord and sunlight floods in. “It’s been a while since it happened. What made you decide to come see me now?” He turns. “I have to admit, I wasn’t expecting it.”
“I should have come to see you much sooner. I have to apologize for that.”
“There’s nothing to apologize for. Things happen precisely when they’re meant to.” He hikes up his pant leg and takes a seat. “Most of the time.”
I clear my throat. “The truth is, I wanted to see you because I still dream about her.” I look away and laugh absently, unable to look at him after such an awkward confession. “That feels crazy to say.”
He shakes his head. “It’s not crazy. I wish I still dreamed.”
“What do you mean?”
“I can’t dream at all anymore. Since it happened.”
I don’t move. I only watch him, and listen to whatever it is he has to share.
“After she died, it’s like my brain, the most fundamental parts of it, the parts buried deep down in there that make a person who they are – they stopped working. Broken. Just like that. And ever since that night,” he shrugs, “I haven’t dreamed.” He stands and takes hold of a framed picture off the nearby mantle. “It’s the weirdest thing. I sleep fine most nights, but I never dream. Not anymore. I haven’t had a single dream since the night before she died.” He looks up at me. “Do you think that’ll ever come back?”
I don’t know how to respond to that. All I know is that my heart hurts. I wipe at my eye and stiffen my upper lip. “It will. I’m sure it will.”
The man smiles a little, giving one last look to the picture, then turns it around so I can see it. Framed in the picture is the woman from my dreams, except she doesn’t look the same as she does in my dreams. She’s smiling perfectly over her shoulder, lifting a drink in one hand and raising her shoulder to her chin.
