Desafinado: Slightly Out of Tune - 13. Mess U Made

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CHAPTER 13: MESS U MADE

I didn’t follow him back to the kubo that afternoon. I resolved to sit underneath a coconut tree bent diagonally, with its trunk stemming across the beach and out into the ocean. As I sat there, listening to the splashes of the water below the ridge where I had first saved him, there was a kite surfing spot to my left where the guests had crowded. It was a group of Americans having a small party. Loud techno music blasted in every direction. The bacchanal was lively, almost a rave, but somehow it lost the rhythmic beat from where I sat. It became a minor thud—a slow pounding, like the heart when it’s calm and collected.

As the sunset bid its farewell to say hello to the evening, I walked to the edge of the water, feeling the cool waters on my feet. I gazed up to see the indigos meet with the purples and the dark blues; the loud voices in my head telling me what I did wrong, what I could’ve done, and what I didn’t do were muffled by my resolution that the only thing that truly matters is to be there. To show Albert I’m there, regardless of how he feels. Even if my brain was telling me to run, to escape, to pack my things and never look back. My heart was screaming louder and harder, to the point where a reverberating echo could be heard inside my head that said, stay by his side, cling to him, and don’t you even dare to think of letting him go.

I arrived at the kubo, and the stars were in full bloom. Pockets of bright, shiny dots pointed to where I was and where I should be. The crickets were chirping, and the frogs were croaking. Some bleated and others grunted as they all welcomed me home. I opened the door, and the air conditioning was on full blast. A single light glowed beside the bed. The television turned on, but it was muted. Albert was asleep. His head was turned to the side. I didn’t want to wake him up. I was grappling with myself with what I was doing there; I didn’t know the answer to that question, but I was there. Maybe I’d watch him sleep and doze off right on the couch. Maybe I’d watch a basketball game on the flat screen, hoping I’d wake up the next morning with the awkwardness intended for two people after a big fight. All I wanted was to be there, in his vicinity, in his proximity, and in his presence. I took a step forward, and with a creak from the slats of the wood flooring, he woke up.

"Hello there," he said, rubbing his eyes. "I put your yoghurt bowl in the fridge." I couldn’t look him in the eye, so I stared at the floors. He rose and went over to the sink. He got a placemat on top of the sack of rice and a spoon from the dish-drying rack. Inside the fridge, he took out a bowl and placed it on the dining table on top of the placemat, and he fished out the glass of orange juice. He was meticulous and organised, as though he’d been living in this kubo for years. He pulled up a chair and said, "You better start eating that. You don’t want that turning into sour milk."

Sitting across from him felt odd. It was as though I’d done something wrong, and what I’d done was unforgivable. If you see it my way, what I did was horrible. I was expecting he’d be upset, or at least give me the cold shoulder. I glanced at the table setting in front of me and said, "That was quick."

"I used to have a husband who worked nights. I know the drill." Glancing at him, I was not expecting that response, so I took what I could get.

I was hesitant to keep the conversation going because I had nothing worthwhile to say. I took my spoon and started eating. There was this film of silence between us as he watched me eat my bowl of yoghurt, take a sip of the orange juice, and stare at each other to infinity, only to repeat the process like it was a task reserved for old, bitter couples who'd exhausted everything there was to say.

It was like watching my family eat at a dinner table. In goes the spoon to the mouth, and out goes the spoon to be refilled with an expensive blend of herbs as a soup that tasted like wet socks and resentment. It was droll, unimaginative, and boring. But somehow, whenever I filled the spoon with the yoghurt and nuts, it was like his eyes were speaking to me every time I put that spoon in my mouth. It was like he was saying, I forgive you. Maybe I was imagining things. But this felt like penitence. So I ate slower, relishing every flavour of the pecans, the almonds, the pistachios, and the hazelnuts. I peered into those green orbs like it was a confessional for the guilty. I know I was. I certainly was.

He said, "I have to go to the city."

There was a wrench in my heart when I heard him say that he wanted to leave. "When?" I asked.

"Three days from now."

And like a person who’s outraged when something ridiculous is bolstered and courageously said in the open, I slammed my fist on the table and shouted, "Enough with these ideas of you leaving me again, Albert. How many times have I told you, you’re not going anywhere? You’re meant to be here. With me."

He gazed at me like I was the crazy one. "What are you talking about? I have an appointment at the hospital this Friday."

"I’m sorry," I said, seizing the moment of my limited bravery. "I really am sorry."

He peered at me as he reached out across the table and held my hand. "I know," he answered. "You don’t have to say anything. I know you are."

The words were blades slicing my very insides. I was swiping my face and rubbing my eyes when I said, "I wasn’t thinking. The thing is, I’m very judgmental about certain things. It’s a character flaw. I know. I’m owning up to it. I’m a judgmental piece of jerk. And so, I judged you. And for that, I’m sorry. I’m really sorry, Albert. Please don’t leave me."

"I won’t," he said, smiling. "You sound exactly like him. I always manage to get the clingy ones, it seems."

"Like him? Who are you talking about? Are you referring to Daniel?"

"Yes."

"Well, he’s not here, is he?"

"Oh, he is," he insisted.

"Albert, are you ok?" I reached over to feel his forehead to see if he was sick or had the flu. But his temperature was okay. "Albert, he’s not here. Your husband is dead. Gone. Nadah," I said, emphasising the dead part. "He’s not coming back."

"He’s definitely here." He smiled as he stood up and went around me. He placed the jar in front of me. "Damien, meet Daniel. Daniel, this is Damien."

"What the fu—sorry. I was just surprised." Definitely, this was a surprise I wasn’t expecting.

He laughed and said, "It’s okay. Your reaction is expected."

"Er, I don’t mean to say anything that would piss Daniel’s ghost off, but you put him inside a kimchi fermentation crock jar. Why?"

"There was a sale at Tesco in the jar section. Well, I couldn’t put Daniel’s ashes in a literal urn. People would get freaked out or start asking me questions. I don’t want to be bothered to explain." I was biting my inner cheeks from laughing, but it was hilarious how I didn’t notice that his dead husband’s ashes had been stuffed inside a kimchi jar. "I know it’s funny."

"I’m not going to say anything. But it is concerning," I said.

"You should see the number of people staring at me when Daniel was in his original cremation urn. I travelled to Scotland one weekend and visited Dunnottar Castle. I visited the castle, and I had been there once when Daniel and I were still dating." He sighed and said, "We had an amazing time. That’s why I came back. Then this old lady who was part of the tour asked me who it was I’d brought with me. Apparently, she recognised Daniel was in the same urn as her dead husband."

"Who did you say it was?"

"My beloved dead fox, Mr. Abernathy. She stopped pestering me after that, thank heavens."

I chuckled. "Why do you always sound crazy even when you’re not?"

"I know it’s an endearing quality of mine. It’s also a character flaw."

"It’s not a flaw. You’re just special."

The corner of his mouth turned up as he rose and boiled some water to make his tea. "Did you know, Daniel’s the sole reason I’m here? He planned for this trip. That sneaky bastard."

While he was busy, I looked at the jar in front of me. I wanted to ask so many questions. When did you two meet? When did the two of you get married? How was Albert five years ago? However, asking such things would be answered by silence, or by my head filling out the details of my own questions. But if someone could truly answer the things I could ask this jar in front of me, this jar holding the essence of Daniel, I’d ask him: "Why did you let Albert suffer? Why didn’t you take care of him? What happened to you that inevitably broke him? Why did you die and leave him in pieces?

"You have questions," said Albert, leaning his back on the counter.

"I do. A lot, actually."

When the sound of the kettle's steam whistled, he poured himself the hot water and made himself a cup of tea. Sitting at the table, he grinned and said, "Where do I begin?"