Secret Back Pages

Secret Back Pages

Ohio City

Cleveland, OH

Every time I try to hold him, he says it hurts.

After a few years of this, I stop trying. Seeing it for what it is, I came up with the following facts and figures:

$8,000.00 = a down payment on a cheap, one-bedroom condo. Nothing fancy.

$300/month = groceries, gas. No restaurants.

$500 + $200/month = mortgage and condo maintenance costs

$300/month = healthcare

$250/month = incidentals, (haircuts, clothes, hygiene products)

It’s all there in my little black notebook. I think I’m clever, keeping this defeated account in the back pages. I fill the front of my journal with inspirational things: life goals, ways to improve my YouTube channel, boards I’d like to sit on one day. Business in the front, heartbreak in the back.

There have been times that I have torn out those back pages, feeling guilty for my ingratitude. My favorite journals have these nice, perforated edges. It makes for a neat and clean separation. But there only sixteen of these pages. I know I’m going through a rough time when I run out of space for these terrible calculations!

As careful as I try to be, I know there are times I have left my black book on the table or chair. Perhaps my subconscious mind just wanted the truth to be out. But with the way we have built our lives, this will not happen so easily. Yet—what would he say if he ever saw those numbers? What would I say?

I am a relationship coach, therefore my YouTube channel depends on us staying together. It is my audience, my purpose, my job. Or maybe I should say, it’s my main job, as I also work in a thrift store.

Everyday, I scroll through the comments. I feel at ease with the mostly harmless, watered down responses such as: “Y’all are so cute together! When’s the wedding?” or “I agree, Sasha! Not every guy with a microphone is a cheater!” Yes, these are so reaffirming. But three years in, I’m bound to come across something unsettling. It started with a skip in my heart and has amped up to a chill in my spine.

‘Sasha, these pictures are from five years ago. Before you started your channel. Are you two even together?’ Or, ‘Saw you walking to get coffee by yourself. Saturday morning. You didn’t get one for him? Where was he?’

So someone saw me, or someone made a wild reach. Yes, my pictures are old. Yes, when he is touring with “Acid Wash” I get coffees alone. But just to be on the safe side, I go to the police. Who knows who lurks in my neighborhood? Valda, the friendliest police officer, speaks with me about internet safety and suggests I turn the camera off for a while and just go on voice alone.

I’m not doing that. My fans will suspect something. But I thank her, and off I go.

Serja and I live in Ohio City, the perfect “Cleveland” neighborhood. Rust-belt chic at its finest! Our modest Craftsman style home looks cozy on this winter day as I pull up to it. Serja’s car is still in the driveway. For some reason, he is still at home. He must not be feeling well. Again. I start thinking about what type of soup to make for him. I walk in to find him sitting calmly at the table, hands folded. I gasp; something about this isn’t right.

“Serja, are you all right?” I ask. He looks past me.

“Somebody was in our home, Sasha. A man. I didn’t get a good look at him,” he said.

“Did you see him in our home?” I asked. I studied our door knob. It didn’t appear to be damaged. Perhaps it was a little looser than I remember. I couldn’t be sure.

“I had gone out for a coffee, and as I was pulling up, this guy ran out the back door and through our yard. But that’s all I saw,” Serja says as he shrugs.

“Have you called the police?” I ask, my voice shaking.

“No. I mean, I think one of us left the back door unlocked. I’m sorry, Sasha. It was probably me.” He apologetically looks at me, and it’s then that I notice the gauntness in his face, the dark circles under his eyes. “Nothing was stolen, Sasha.”

How could he know that?

“Are you feeling okay, Serja?” I ask again.

“I’m okay, I’m okay. Listen, I’m going to lie down. Can you have a look around? See if he took any of your things? If so, we’ll call the police. If not, then why bother?” It takes extra effort for him to push himself up to a standing position. I find this strange, but I know he doesn’t want to be nagged about seeing a doctor.

I slowly walk up the high-pitched stairs. Although he and I share a room, he has taken to the guest bedroom for the past few years. Our room has really become more of my room. My recording equipment is still sitting on my antique oak dresser, along with my laptop. Low hanging fruit, if one is a thief. I sit on the edge of the bed, and that’s when I notice the bottom drawer slightly ajar.

That is where my book and a few extra dollars are stashed.

Of all things, I worry more about that black book than I do my own laptop or hidden money. My heart starts a descent—I feel that this drawer has been rummaged through. I open the bottom drawer all the way.

I pick up my black journal, sighing. Even if it was not where I had left it (underneath a gray hoodie) I am relieved it is here. I take a look at my emergency fund stashed away at the back of the drawer. It appears undisturbed. Again, a moment of relief. I rub my hand down the cover of the journal over and over, comforted by the matte smoothness while I wonder what to do about Serja.

Suddenly, my fingers rub against what feels like a paper-thin bookmark. I look down at the journal, and notice a pale-green edge of paper; the tip of it poking up between the back pages.

I clumsily turn to that page.

My eyes take in the fact that it is a check, with my name on it.

$20,000.00

This can’t be happening.

I place the journal back down on the bed.

I must be losing my mind. My heart beats out of rhythm like two broken pieces rubbing up against the other. Mechanically, I stand up and then sit back down. I reach for the journal, keeping my eyes closed. My fingers feel for the check and I open my eyes again.

It is still has my name on it—for the same amount. On the upper left hand corner, the account reads “Happy Fan Productions”. I don’t recognize this account or the signature.

The placement of the check is interesting— it is right where my personal accounting starts. The left page has writing that is not my own. My heart grinds against itself once more. Finally, I attempt to read it:

Dear Sasha,

Life is too short for such unhappiness. Of course you love him and you waited for a different outcome. Wait no longer. Please. Take this, and start over. By my estimations, it will take every bit of this check for a comfortable transition.

Best of luck,

Your Biggest Fan. Ever.

I sit on that bed for over half an hour, revolted and yet relieved. What kind of strings are attached to such a gift? Has the giver left any other clues behind? I immediately check the back inside pocket, but there is nothing in there except some of my business receipts.

I go downstairs to start the soup, but Serja isn’t there. I look outside and see that his car is gone. He must have felt better and decided to go to work.

I go to my bank. I am curious to see if this is just a well-planned hoax, or if it is for real.

Two days later, the check clears.

What should I share with Serja?

***

I haven’t seen Serja for three days now. He texted to let me know he is singing with “Acid Wash” for a few weeks and apologizes for not having told me. I tell him I want to talk, I want to know about us, his health, our issues, but there is no privacy on a tour bus. He promises we’ll talk when he gets back.

Two days later, my sister calls and tells me to get on FaceBook and look at Serja’s post. She tells me to put the phone down and to sit down while I am at it.

I’m frustrated, in the middle of packing, and irritated at this sudden hairpin turn my life is taking at the moment. But I do as she asks. I read Serja’s post:

“Yesterday, I collapsed doing what I love: which is being onstage. Don’t waste your pity: I lived life and dealt with cancer on my own terms! I’d rather die onstage than be in pain, and be in a hospital. If you received some token, some money, clothing—or whatever, it’s because I wanted you to have it before I left this earth. You know I suck at good-byes! Why shouldn’t we choose the way we part? Just know I loved you, and if you thought you were a fan of me—actually, I was a fan of you.

Have peace, enjoy!

Love and love all,

Serja

I couldn’t stop crying. My sister said something about getting a plane ticket and flying out tomorrow. I didn’t know what to agree to. But finally, conceded to her request.

She arrived, having brought two black dresses, just in case I didn’t have a proper one. I asked why. She sat me down and explained that he had passed away about an hour after his last post. I thought I had dreamt that. She cooked, cleaned and shopped. I stayed in bed.

At his calling hours, I recognized some of his clothes on old bandmates, friends, people he went to school with. Someone showed me an old wrist watch: a simple Seiko. Another was wearing one of his trademark berets.

It wasn’t the value or the amount, but there was thought and purpose behind each gift. Someone asked me what Serja had given me, seeing that we lived together. I didn’t have the heart to tell them about the check.

“Serja gave me some of the best years of my life,” I say aloud. “He saw me through some difficult times, yet he spared me his own. I don’t know why.”

And so that was his gift. It wasn’t so much about the check; he didn’t want me to see him suffer. The check was a gift without strings attached.

I take my black book, and I rip out the back pages for the last time. In it, I write everything I am grateful for in our relationship. When the funeral ends, I quietly read these words to him, placing the black book next to him in his casket.

I want to embrace him, but I stop myself. It would go against his wishes.

All that time, he must have been in too much pain. How I wished he would have said so! I rub his hand instead, wondering if he ever meant to tell me.

In my grief, my sister whispers to me, “When you are ready, Sasha, have a party for him. Celebrate his life. I’ll kick in a few bucks if needed.”

What a beautiful idea! “Thanks,” I say, wiping a stream of tears, “but I think I can cover this.”