Traces of the Indefinite

Chapter 1

Heather couldn’t stop grinning as she fumbled with her new set of keys. This was it; a new life for her and her son, and a better one, at that. Miles, her scruffy, somewhat unsympathetic eighteen-year-old on the other hand, couldn’t be less excited; for him, this was just a new house, a new home for the same old issues. 

Miles grunts in discomfort as he struggles to haul in a trolley with stacks of boxes of their things. Heather meets him on the other side of the trolley, supporting the already-unstable stack that could have fallen over had Miles jerked the trolley even more.

Once inside what would probably be their living room, Miles begins unstacking the boxes from the trolley. Heather watches her son work and can’t help but take a good look at how Miles has grown. He was barely a teenager anymore; dark brown eyes, long, dark, neglected wavy hair awkwardly falling by his cheeks, and a tall, somewhat stocky build he had definitely inherited from his father. As much as she’d like to deny it, Miles is definitely Abe in every shape and form; just with her eyes.

She sighs to herself. She would have loved to have seen him grow into the fine young man that he is now; she would have loved to have been there as he grew out of his comic books and Superman pajamas, and into bigger, more mature things, like guitars, bands, and girls; she would’ve loved to have bought him his first drink in a seedy dive bar in town as a rite of passage; she would have loved to have been a mother who was there. 

But everything took too much of her. Abe, their failing marriage, her career rut… she was spread too thin, and the years went by too fast. A few months ago, little Miles would just climb up her bed in his superhero pajamas and sleep curled up next to her; now, he smells like cigarettes, buys shaving cream, and comes home drunk. He had grown up, alright; and they had grown apart, too.

Miles manages to clear the trolley of boxes, wiping trickles of sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand. Heather desperately wanted to come over with a towel and wipe sweat off her son’s face, like she would after his little soccer games when he was little, back when she would enjoy his gleeful “Thanks, mommy!” every time. But things are a lot different now, and she realized she had to remind herself of that far too often.

She fishes out a bottle of water for him from a grocery bag that she had shopped for their move.

“Here you go, hon,” says Heather, with a small, warm smile on her face. She keeps her distance, knowing that after all these years, she knows her place in her son’s life.

But she never stopped hoping.

Miles quietly takes the bottle from his mother, mumbling a barely audible ‘Thanks’ as he pops the cap off and chugs down some much-needed hydration. After finishing off a bottle of water in just a few gulps, he realizes how tired he is driving, lifting boxes, dealing with the constant drama, blocking out all the yelling, suffering through all the tenseness in the dinner table when all he wants is to eat. He is tired of it all.

He decided that if his mother gets to move, then he does, too. He has barely any idea what to do with his life, but it doesn’t matter, doesn’t it? He’ll figure it out as he goes along; he always does.   

Finish high school. Get a job. Move out. It was like a mantra that gave him a little solace in an emotionally turbulent home. He would block out the screaming matches with earphones and some tunes. And then he would say it. In his head. Sometimes out loud. Over and over, until he slept.

Heather, looking to break the ice, begins going on about the apartment’s smooth, shiny hardwood floor, the fresh white paint on the walls, the spacious living room they could put a nice big couch and some beanie bags in - partly because it was indeed a nice place, with much bigger windows that let more sunlight in, and partly because she barely knew how to break the uncomfortable silence that she would always find herself in with her son. 

Miles gives his mother a small shrug. 

“It’s not bad,” he says, coolly, unforgivingly. “Better than living in a can.”

Heather’s face falls a bit. While she’s used to Miles’ signature coldness to her, it doesn’t mean it hurt her any less. Her mind wanders off into the time when she, Abe and little Miles had just moved into their smaller, cheaper apartment in the earlier years of their family. She remembers Miles running around in his small legs, gleefully screaming “This is my house! This is my house!”. 

However small, it hurt her to hear him call their former home a “can” when he used to love it so much. The years must have been that terrible. They must have been that terrible. 

“You can pick out a room, honey,” Heather says softly, almost apologetic, possibly a small peace offering of sorts, she isn’t sure. Her hand tries to reach out to ruffle her son’s hair. 

Miles brown doe eyes - her brown doe eyes - dart to hers, tense, cold, unsure. Heather puts her hand down, slowly beginning to feel the usual sharp, sinking hole in her chest whenever she tries to silently ask her son for a chance, for some reassurance, for anything at all. She turns away, blinks back some tears, and faces him with a small, sad smile. 

Miles looks away from his mother, in guilt or contempt, he isn’t entirely sure. He knows it hurts her. He’s not that cold to want to see his mother cry, to see her suffer. He knew the years hadn’t been kind to her either. 

But she hadn’t been kind to him, too, when she could have chosen to be. After all, it is her job to give him love, to give him a home. 

And to him, she did neither. And it was something that hurt him too much to forgive that easily, if at all. 

As Heather watches, Miles begins to pace around the apartment, taking in the newness of the place - the smooth, unscathed hardwood floor, the freshly painted walls, the immaculate window sills. He notices it has two bedrooms, a spacious living room, a kitchen with a bar counter, polished hardwood floors and windows with white frames and shutters. While he and his mother have astronomical differences, he must admit, he does agree with her on this one.

He sees one of the bedroom doors slightly ajar, and, from the c***k in the nearly half-open doorway, he could see a big window pane inside the room that overlooks the city skyline. He abandons the empty water bottle on the counter, and walks out of his mother’s sight and into the slightly open door. This is it. This is going to be his room. 

He opens the hardwood door and his eyes immediately land on the big window pane; a wall of glass from top to bottom, overlooking the city, with the ongoing traffic very evident from his view. Miles smiles to himself, knowing that a city boy through and through, he loves seeing the hustle and bustle of the city, enjoying the sheer urban-ness of it all. 

He steps out of the room, walking past his mother, who looks on in silent joy, knowing he had somewhat found a little nook of solace and joy in their new home, in their new life. 

“I’ll call you when dinner’s ready,” Heather says, in a much more joyful tone she’d barely noticed herself. Miles replies with a barely audible “Sure” as he disappears into his new sanctuary. 

Baby steps, she tells herself.

Miles drags his mattress into his new abode - he had never been a fan of bed frames – and a box of whatever meager belongings he had soon follows. Excited, he placed his mattress by the window so he could look at the city lights as he slept. He makes a mental note of asking his mother for some curtains though, as this wouldn’t be as pleasing in the morning, when harsh rays of the morning sun come creeping in. 

Heather, left alone and out of her son’s life again - for now, at least – decides to get started on fixing up the kitchen, knowing she would need to make dinner for herself and Miles soon. Lord knows the last time she had made a home-cooked meal for her son. 

While she busies herself with stacking up canned food in the kitchen cupboard, she hears a soft knock on the door. 

As far as she knew, they weren’t expecting any guests that day. 

She puts the cans down on the counter and makes her way to the front door.

“Hi, Heather.” says a girl’s soft, husky voice behind the door. “It’s me.”

Heather opens the door to Louise, Miles’ best friend and unofficial member of the Haynes family, from way, way back in the time when both enjoyed nothing but Nickelodeon and chocolate milk. Heather was grateful to Louise in so many ways; she was the only constant in Miles’ life, even more so than she and her husband were. 

“Come in, sweetie,” Heather says softly, comforted by the fact that Louise would be sure to help Miles adjust into their new life, and, she hopes, in forgiving her too. 

“Can I get you anything?” Heather offers, as Louise walks around the new apartment, admiring the lovely, polished hardwood floors, big windows and fresh white paint – a far cry from the cramped space the Haynes family had spent some tumultuous years in. 

“Did he like it?” Louise asks Heather, who replies with nothing but a sad smile. 

Louise returns the sad smile. 

If there is anyone in the world who knows Miles’ pain and disappointment in his family, in his parents whom he grew up admiring so much, it is her. She and her mother had opened their home to him on more than a few occasions, giving the lonely, confused boy a warm meal and a safe space, or, for lack of a better term, a safe home. 

And in all those years, that was what she was, and what she always wanted to be; his safe space; his home. 

“He needs to grow up,” Louise says, bluntly, climbing up to one of the stools by the counter. 

Heather chuckles in self-deprecation. 

Louise is right, sure, but she finds herself grappling with the fact knew very well she had a hand in it, too; she knows Miles has every reason to push them away, especially when it was them who pushed him into the sidelines, in the first place. 

“Would you like anything?” Heather asks, walking over to the grocery bag on the counter, fishing out a bottle of iced coffee that isn’t really ‘iced’ anymore. “Water? Iced coffee…”

“The room temperature iced coffee would be nice,” Louise says, with a smile. Heather laughs at the retort. 

“How about you stay for dinner?” Heather offers. 

Louise’s presence had been a staple in their family for Miles’ comfort. She can at least offer Miles the little comfort of having his best friend there, while also thanking Louise with the small gesture.

“How about I help you cook?” says Louise, taking a sip of her coffee. 

“I’ll take you up on that,” Heather replies, grabbing another grocery bag filled with frozen food that would be tonight’s dinner. 

“I’ll knock some sense into him, Heather,” Louise says, comforting Heather, as she steps down the bar stool and heads over to where Heather was. She takes vegetables out of the bag and places them in a strainer, running them under tap water.

 “We all have issues and we deal with them. He’s no exception.”

After helping cook while trading a crude joke (or two) about Miles, Louise remembers that she hasn’t seen him since she arrived. 

“He must be out,” says Louise, not looking up from the utensils she’s washing.

“He’s holed up in his room,” Heather says, turning off the stove and resting the pot roast she and Louise had made on a trivet, motioning Louise to the direction of Miles’ new room. After rising off the cutting board that she had been washing, Louise dries off her hands with a paper towel and makes her way to the door of Miles’ new room. 

She opens the door, inviting herself instantly. She finds him in his bed, right next to the window, a lit cigarette in hand, gazing out into the distance. 

She greets him in a snarky tone, a prominent feature in their peculiar but loving friendship, but loses her words as she finds herself distracted by him; he sits on the mattress in nothing but a pair of black sweatpants, his sleeve of tattoos on his right arm on full display, puffing out smoke into the window pane, occasionally running his fingers through his wild, messy dark locks.

He looks like a disheveled god of pain and heartbreak cast out of whichever Elysium he had come from. Doe eyes in the deepest shade of brown under an almost-perpetual frown, a sharp jawline, a prominent nose, and full lips she would like on hers, on her neck, between her legs…

“Hey,” the messy demi-god of her misery speaks. His voice is a bit raspy, even more so than the usual, probably after hours of silence and puffs of smoke. 

“This isn’t a bad place,” Louise says, closing the door behind her. She walks up to Miles’ little haven by the window and plops down next to him. 

“View’s nicer over here,” Louise continues, rolling herself on her stomach, admiring the view of the busy city below. Miles absent-mindedly puts his hand on the small of her back, not the first time, but nonetheless wakes Louis’ senses as she feels a familiar yet unwelcome tension between her legs. 

She hated this; she hated how her whole being seems to be on the highest alert whenever he touches her; she hated how she was always thirsty, always wanting, always left unsatiated, and that there was nothing she or her hand could do to help herself. It needed to be him. Her best friend, for f**k’s sake. 

“You do realize you need to talk to them.” Louise begins, keeping her eyes on the traffic of people and cars below. “You can’t keep running from all this crap forever. You work through things until they’re done. It’s better that way.”

“Is that what you came here for, to lecture me?” Miles says, with a sarcastic laugh. 

“That’s what I’m here for, isn’t it?” Louise responds, pulling out a cigarette for herself from Miles’ pack. 

“To get your head out of your ass whenever it gets stuck in there.”

-

Miles has been tossing and turning for a few hours now. He has smoked, adjusted the AC into a good balance of being chilly enough to need a blanket, but still warm enough to keep his legs out of the duvet, scrolled endlessly in his social media, strummed his guitar for a bit; nothing seemed to work in calming his thoughts. 

He stands up and walks over to the other corner of the room where his guitar hangs on its stand. If there was one thing he loves most in the world, it’s music. It’s his little piece of solace in the messy world he lives in; it tunes out his parents’ signature screaming matches, it keeps him from asking his best friend (of all people) for a quick f**k, it patches up the sinking hole in his chest every time. 

And music loves him, too. He plays the guitar really well, whether it was luck or skill or some good genetic victory, he wasn’t sure. But he could shred the thing like nobody’s business; make it cry like no one else does. 

He sits down on his bed. Letting his fingers dance along the guitar strings, he plucks a few good chords into a steady rhythm, while letting his thoughts wander.  

Why do things change? 

Do they really need to?

Can’t anything stay the same? 

Must I be reminded all the time that at some point, what I knows, what I am, everything I have, will all eventually disappear and evolve into something else, something I’ll grow familiar with, something I’ll love, until it’s taken away again? 

The words dance around his head, just in time with the rhythm. 

His fingers leave the guitar strings and quickly snatches up a stray piece of paper next to his bed, his other hand fishing for a pen in the box of things next to his bed. 

It’s going to be a long night, he thought. Might as well make it count.