Page 125 of The Muse
When I return to the house, entering through the back door by the laundry room, I hear voices.Loudvoices. Rupert and Callie are home, and they’re arguing. I’ve never lived in a house where the couple didn’t scream at each other. Why should this house be any different?
“It’s a fucking decision, Callie,” Rupert says. “Right now. Not tomorrow. Not in ten years. Not in another life. Just make the choice to let go and be happy. Otherwise, what are you even doing?”
“What’s that supposed to mean? If I can’t reach your perceived level of happiness, then I shouldn’t be here? Do you mean with you? In this house? In this life?”
“I’m not saying that,” he says.
“Sounds like it. Rupert, you can’t undo what’s been done. You can’t erase it from my brain. It doesn't matter how many people you find to distract me. You can hire a hundred Flynns, and I’ll find a soft spot in my heart for every single one of them. But I don’t need a muse. I don’t need inspiration. The only thing I need is for you to accept me for who I am now. Not the woman you married. Not the person I was before he died. ME! The Callie who will have good days and bad days for the rest of her life. The grandmother who will never forget what happened and who will always feel a little dead inside. If I were disabled from a car accident, unable to walk again, you wouldn’t tell me to get out of my stupid wheelchair and just walk like it’s a decision. This heartache?—”
Her voice cracks. “This heartache is every bit as permanent and disabling as losing a physical ability. And if you weren’t such a selfish man who yearns for a time that is lost and can never be again, then you’d accept me where I’m at. You’d take the good days and magnify each moment. But you’d also give me space on the days that I just want to allow my heart to feel the grief that comes in waves.”
I step around the corner into the hallway to hear better as Rupert lowers his voice to a volume of defeat.
“I fix things,” he says. “I build things. I create things. It’s who I am. And when the woman I love more than anyone in the world has bad days, I feel incapable of doing nothing.”
“You are Flynn. He is you,” she says. “You’re both hellbent on seeing the world as you think is just and right, instead of how it is. Sometimes you have to let go and trust the process. There’s an ancient philosophy that states by doing nothing, everything is done. Stop resisting. Let yourself flow with life around you. Welcome changes in your life and how you see life around you.” She sniffles. “We buried a friend today. Of course it triggered painful memories, and I felt them because I’m alive. I get to feel. Pain. Grief. Regret. Happiness. Hope. Love. Igetto feel all the emotions. I want to feel everything. So just … let me.”
I peek around the corner into the kitchen. When their heads are bowed like there’s nothing else to say, I dash to the stairs, taking them two at a time. After a shower, I lie on my bed and type out a text to June.
If a guy from MN wanted to visit a girl in CA how would he go about doing that?
I stare at the screen for more than thirty minutes, then delete it before heading downstairs, listening for voices before descending the stairs. No one’s in the kitchen, so I check Rupert’s office. It’s empty. Then I check downstairs, and he’s hitting balls with his golf simulator.
“Do you golf?” he asks, focusing on his shot.
I open my mouth to say it’s a rich man’s sport, and he should know the answer. “Never had the opportunity,” I say instead.
“Well, let’s see whatcha got.” He hands me the club and nods for me to stand by the rubber tee.
“Slide your grip back a little.” He grabs another club and demonstrates.
I mirror him.
“Widen your stance an inch.”
I do as he instructs.
“A little bend in your knees. That’s it. When you bring it back, keep your lead arm straight like this. Rotate your torsoand shoulders, but don’t let your hip jut out too far. Keep your swing fluid, leading with your lower body, shifting your weight to your front foot like this.” He swings slowly. “Head steady. Chest facing the target.”
I take a slow swing, making little adjustments. Then I hit the ball on the tee and look at the screen.
“Not bad at all,” Rupert says, giving me an approving nod.
“I talked to Callie the other day about your grandson,” I say, setting another ball on the tee.
“Yes, she told me.”
“Well,” I hit another ball.
“Let your right elbow bend a little more,” he says.
I nod. “I don’t know how long I have to work here to pay for my joyriding incident. But I don’t think there is anything I can do to help her. So I was wondering if you’d be okay with me flying out to California?”
“To visit June?”
I nod then hit another ball. “Figured I’d sell her car since she’s not here, and I don’t see her returning. And I’ll use the money for a plane ticket and a hotel room when I get there.”
“Are you asking for permission to quit?” He lifts his golf club over his head to stretch.
