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Tommy always remembered the sounds first. Glass jostling glass, the crisp tinkling that was as familiar as the low hum of the Santa Ana’s blowing past his window. The rustling of Batman bedsheets pulled far and tight over his head, finding escape where he could. Escape from his dad’s shouts and the sharp crack of skin hitting skin. Each noise crystalized a bad memory, and Tommy had enough bad memories to know you could never really escape them.
Deep under the covers, he would press his hands hard against his ears and pretend to be underwater, the sunlight fractured and sparkling above. Falling asleep curled in a tight ball, Tommy dreamt of floating.
——
When he closed his eyes and thought about it, Tommy’s mother smelled like Camel cigarettes and warm bread. Her hugs were fierce and years later, when his therapist asked him to visualize a safe place, he felt the steady pressure of her arms wrapped around him, rocking him slowly in their kitchen. The counter still far above his head was a buttery yellow and matching curtains fluttered gently in the breeze. He stayed there as long as he could, but at the edge of his memory and out of his mother’s arms, the blood always found a way to seep in.
——
Tommy didn’t think the sun ever reached his grandparents house and he remembers no noise. Not their mean old pet chihuahua snapping its jaws at him whenever he got close, or the constant drone of Vin Scully calling plays on his grandpa’s ancient TV with the broken knob. It all plays back like a silent film, and the only thing he does recall is the ice cold feeling of grief and confusion encasing him like a tomb.
After, when he was forced to move inland and into their home, Tommy sometimes wondered if he had died too. There were full years where he was sure that all he did was drift through rooms like a ghost. Later, he would realize they were in mourning too— unsure of what to do with a traumatized child, just trying to get by.
He thought there was love, maybe just once, on his thirteenth birthday. He couldn’t remember the taste of cake or well wishes from friends, but the cherry red Huffy Striker flickers in his head like a neon sign. Hopping on his new bike, Tommy rode for hours, cresting higher and higher hills before finally pitching downward, speeding along the pavement with his hand off the brakes. At the time he thought it was the closest he’d ever get to flying.
——
Right before he ships out for his first tour, Tommy takes a drive. By then he’s swapped the bike for a beater, but it was cheap enough and gets him where he needs to go. Switching between Prince and Springsteen, his only two cassettes, the moment he sees the San Francisco skyline is another precious snapshot. He knows his impulsive choice to head north was the right one.
Later, Tommy remembers too much from that night. The disco ball draping the club in a dizzying kaleidoscope of lights, the feel of a pill pressed into his palm then swallowed dry. Bodies pressed together and moving against him. He remembers the first feel of his hand against a man’s bare chest, the soft hair dragging between his fingers. Dank air smothering the dance floor and lips against his ear, inviting him home.
A large hand clasped in his, a blurry BART ride, the sound of zippers then jeans hitting the floor. The last clear thing Tommy remembers from that night is thinking that he’d never had a home.
——
When he gets out of the military, there’s not much Tommy cares to remember. It’s easier on autopilot and he finds burning buildings are a great distraction. He spends hours working on his car, hours working on his body, starts taking flying lessons and learning about helicopters. His mind is consumed by macro calculations and diagrams of fuel lines, his nose clogged with sweat and gasoline.
Tommy makes sure that there’s always something that needs fixing. Other than flying, he thought the only way he’d ever find peace was by taking things apart then putting them back together.
Among the clutter of wrenches and protein packs, he hadn’t left room to put love on the table.
——
Tommy is a 42 year old man but for all the world, he feels like a character from one of Jee-Yun’s fairytales, kissed awake from a never-ending slumber. It’s not until he’s walking back to his car after his first visit to Evan’s apartment and feels the electric shock of tiny hairs sticking up all over his body, that he realizes.
Like the knob on an old TV that’s finally clicked into place, the static clears and everything rushes in at once. He bends at the waist, hands on his knees, overwhelmed by a feeling not even soaring 10,000 feet in the sky could touch.
Later, as he’s trying to sleep while the love of his life snores softly beside him, Tommy lays on his back and invites the memories in. He lets himself think of his mother and her brown curly hair. If it’s quiet enough he can even hear the faint sounds of a forgotten lullaby. He dreams of a life where he gets to introduce her to his boyfriend, fantasizes about them all going to Europe someday. She’d beam at him during their wedding, smile bright, joy ringing around them clear as a bell.
——
Lying in his hospital bed, their now grown daughters chattering softly in the corner, Tommy takes his love’s hand one last time. Blue eyes holding his, holding a lifetime between them, there are no words left to say. He thinks he hears a helicopter landing in the distance, waiting for its pilot.