Distraction

Ignorance is bliss.

My only priority today is to keep my mind from what might be taking place at any moment at Naomi’s home. I am in no position to see a shrink, so the best course of action is to suppress anything that would create the need to see one. Whatever transpires is now out of my hands. The discovery of that ‘whatever’ will be hell enough without being torn to shreds by guilt and anxiety in the meantime.

Leaving the house isn’t an option. If I do venture outside, one way or another, instinct would lead me toward her home and if there is an investigation taking place, it is best that I remain unseen.

Earlier today, I turned my attention to the myriad of missed calls and messages that have congregated on my phone these past few weeks.

You have 22 Missed Calls.

Six were from Raymond, on the 4th of July. They were in the afternoon and early evening – between my last message to him and his time of death. I can only assume he was trying to call me back in an attempt to discipline me further or fire me. I am fairly definite that by the end of the day I was no longer an employee of Celestial Reinvention. I most certainly am not now.

Four were from my landlord on the 17th, 24th and 31st of July, as well as the 7th of August. Thursdays – the day after ‘rent’ day. Of course, he hadn’t heard from his tenant in about three weeks and was missing rent. Needless to say, I have probably been evicted by now.

Damn.

Before leaving for dad’s I had only grabbed my essentials. Some clothes, wallet, phone, laptop, spare set of keys for dad’s place. Everything else is gone. They’ve probably been auctioned, or sold in some way; thrown out, destroyed or lying obliterated at the bottom of some land fill.

The vinyl records, photo albums, little relics from my (distant) past.

Irene’s book.

Whenever a dash of inspiration would take Irene, the book would be her best friend. She wrote, she drew, she came alive on those pages. A whole other world existed in its confines. She didn’t care much for typing. She felt it dehumanised the written word, robbed it of its spirit. She said a person’s soul is conferred onto a page when they write or draw – it was a romance that no form of digital expression could ever match.

The book was where her image of ‘Death as a Willow Tree’ was born. She entrusted it to the book’s care the night before she died – the last thing she ever wrote. It was the last time she lived through the ink and pages. After she died, I kept the book. In a way, through its company, she would always be alive for me.

Now it is gone. Lost.

The other mementos wouldn’t matter if I had taken the book with me. If only I’d known that I would never return. So stupid!

The albums are gone, but perhaps I can find some photos of her on my laptop. I’ll look later on.

Three of the missed calls were from dad. August 3rd, 18th and 29th. Knowing him, they were all intended to express how awe-inspiring Europe is. Not that I wouldn’t believe him, but his travels never really interested me beyond the independence they entailed – especially the first few trips after the divorce.

The nine remaining calls came at various times over the past eight weeks. All of them were from ‘Unknown Caller’. I wouldn’t have answered them anyway.

You have 53 Unread Messages.

Most of them were various forms of advertising and ‘hellos’ from casual acquaintances that had collected in my inbox. Nothing worth a second glance. But within the heap, there were two that caught my attention.

From: Raymond McCalister on 04/07/08 at 17:26
I know you’re pissed but we need to talk. call me when you cool down and grow up – ray

As important as the meeting was, and as much as I blew it, I wasn’t sorry for how aggressively I responded to him. After three years of this shit, the least I had expected from him was a bit of compassion and empathy, but all he did was rant on and on about the lack of professionalism in being deathly ill. For all his lecturing, Raymond was a hypocrite. Professionalism is knowing the limits of your staff and professional is addressing them and dealing with them in a civilised and rational manner.

“Get off your fucking arse and meet that client” hardly qualified as professionalism.

It was as though we were publicists first and humans second. When it came to how he treated other people, he was a complete corpse – devoid of any warmth or humanity. Every other bastard who worked for him was too gutless to say it to his face, regardless of how aggressive they were. I was the same, until I cracked.

As much as I was shocked to find out he died, I felt a strange sense of ‘good fucking riddance.’ It was that feeling that kept me from catching a train to attend his funeral.

Spilt milk.

The second was more recent, and caused a panic.

From: Dad on 08/09/08 at 12:38
hey kiddo. will be back on saturday – how about a lift? my flight gets in at 6 in the eve. dinner afterwards? my treat for a late birthday. love, dad

The calendar on my fridge was my first port of call. How could I have missed it?

“September 13: back home!”

Shit! Shit Shit! Shit!

Fuck!

I had become so preoccupied these past weeks that I didn’t tear the August page off the calendar. There it was in red, bold, ominous marker.

This isn’t good.

If dad returns on Saturday, I cannot stay here any more. If he sees me here, he will begin asking questions and I cannot guarantee a lack of answers. If he finds me here, and I run off, he will try and find me.

I cannot be here when he returns.

I need to think my next few days through carefully.

I cannot find another place to stay without communicating.

My flat is no longer my flat.

This is bad.

I should have never come here.

So much for a day of ignorant relaxation.

Don’t be pushed by your problems. Be led by yours dreams.

- Some foolish dreamer