Page 168 of I Dreamt That You Loved Me

I remember the purple velvet sofa, the clawfoot tub in the kitchen, the midnight blue quilt on the bed and the way her lips moved when she read poetry. Like she was tasting the words on her tongue and savoring each one.

I remember the way she said my name, like a prayer, and how much I loved her dirty laugh and how she shaved the beard off my face because I couldn’t bear to look in the mirror.

I remember how she loved me, fiercely and truly, and how she said it all the time, I love you, I love you, I love you, and how shitty I felt for never saying it back.

I remember how I ran down the stairs when I was leaving because if I slowed down, even a little, I would have turned around and gone back.

*

Bought a motorcycle and drove through the desert. Seemed like a good way to go so I kept testing fate.

Whenever I saw a car or truck in the opposite lane, I opened up the throttle and closed my eyes, letting my bike veer into oncoming traffic. But every single time I made it out alive.

One time I ended up in a ditch on the side of the road. Bruised and battered but still kicking. I cursed at the pink desert sky and took a nap. When I opened my eyes again, a rusty green Impala was parked next to my bike with music blasting from the open windows.

A girl was cracking gum and singing along at the top of her lungs.

The song was “Tin Man” by America. I knew the song. Knew all the words. No idea how or why.

A guy dressed in camo stepped out of the car with a rifle.

“Shoot me,” I told him when he lifted the rifle.

He took aim and fired.

“You ever have jackrabbit stew?” he asked.

The girl was still singing when he threw the jackrabbit into his trunk and drove away, the tires spitting gravel and dust and I was alone again in the ditch on the side of the road wishing I was dead instead of that poor innocent rabbit.

Long after they were gone, I kept thinking about that song. Why was the Tin Man desperately searching for a heart if he already had one? At least he knew what he was looking for.

When I finally dragged myself to my feet, I straddled my bike and chased the moon all the way to New Mexico.

*

I got lost in the desert.

The drugs were plentiful and easy to come by.

I snorted. Smoked. Shot up a time or ten. Popped pills like they were candy. Washed them down with tequila. Took a few wild, chaotic trips and whenever people asked if I was that singer, I told them Gabriel Francis was dead.

Wasn’t a lie. He was dead to me.

*

Woke up in a hospital. Again. The doctor told me I was lucky to be alive.

The paramedics had gotten to me just in time. They used the paddles to get my heart beating again. I was told they saved my life. Brought me back from the dead. It wasn’t true though. Cleo saved my life.

The doctor asked me if I had anyone to call.

I thought about Cleo. I thought about how fucking pissed she’d be if she knew what I’d done. I thought about asking for a phone and calling her.

I would tell her that I was ready to start living again.

I would tell her that she was my final thought before I tried to check out and that I heard her voice in my head: Come back. Come back. Come back. It’s not your time yet. You’re going to live to one hundred and one.

If not for her, I never would have called 911. Which apparently is how they found me.