** Chapter One **

HAVE YOU EVER made a life-long friend in the strangest of locations or circumstances?

    Well, my pal Michael and I sure did. The story of how our friendship was created will be shared in time, but the place we first met was here in Northern California’s wine country.

   This land of rolling green hills richly covered with luscious grapes is where this story begins. It is ironic that of all the places in the world that I have visited, and there have been many, I am back here. I guess all things considered, it is only appropriate.

    To this day, I marvel at the attentive job Michael has done single-handedly raising his two respectful teenage boys since their early childhood while breaking his back pouring concrete in order to provide them a better life than the one he has known. 

    As for my life, it’s enjoyable on the surface when I do not have to be reminded of things I would prefer not thinking about.  The professional pace I have established for myself is grueling and limitless at times. I would not say it is all consuming, but it is close. I have become a master of escapism, using my work as a substitute, as an anesthetic, and as a shield against the trappings of pain and memories I do not want.  So I fill my emptiness with my work. However, my life is not all empty: my career is enjoyable and adds meaning to my life. I am able to surround myself with materialistic niceties I have the luxury from time to time of affording. The occasional travel adventure or frequent job-related trip keeps my mind stimulated. And the caring and consistent friendships I am unquestionably loyal to supply me with a sense of community and belonging, while my large and ever-present family intertwines with every part of my existence. Most of all, there is my ever-present hope that what never was one day will be. A different tomorrow – the tomorrow I dream about every day – may one day happen. It is this hope that sustains me to face my day full on as best I can. It is not easy: I live with a dark secret that torments my mind and has imprisoned my spirit.

    Romantically, I have had a handful of relationships, but truth is I am perpetually in second gear, not willing or capable of thinking about the ‘happily ever after’ scenario. And so typical of my past, these relationships have ended with me saying something of the likes such as “I’m sorry, but I can’t do this any longer.” Some of the women I have spent time with understood, others have not. Despite these failures, most ended where they started: with a healthy appreciation of one another. On a few occasions, a real friendship was even formed. 

    I admitted to myself a long-time ago that my life is filled with complex paradoxes. I have learned to live with it. Sometimes I am comfortable with this, other times I am not.

    With a sense of sadness, I reach down and look at my friend, his face thickly covered with a four-day growth as the sterile beeping hospital monitors annoyingly echo in the background. I kiss him on the forehead. “You know, guys can give each other a kiss you big ass. I love you, pal,” I say as a sense of sadness covers me as I look into his accepting, tearing eyes. “You’re moving over the hurdle now. And I’ll be back in two weeks to take you down to Muir Woods so we can hug a redwood tree and watch the waves roll in,” I say, reminding him of one of our favorite places we have kayaked together.

    Michael’s sunken eyes stay fixed on me as the sound of the oxygen mask covering his nose continues to make a rasping, wheezing noise. Squeezing my hand, he carefully removes the breathing apparatus from his mouth with his free hand. I watch as it falls down toward his stomach, which is wrapped with adhesive bandages that support an assortment of tubes stuck into it. My eyes refocus on his, quickly bringing back memories of the battles I faced when I had my own share of tubes sticking inside my body. Fighting cancer sucks.

    “You are a true friend,” he softly whispers.

    “You too, and you’re going to remain that way for a long time.”

    “It’s a good thing you brought me here,” he tries to smile. I know it is not easy for him. Michael has been diagnosed with a rare form of gastric cancer that causes adenocarcinomas – malignant tumors – to form in the lining of his stomach. “The gray is coming in,” he points, noticing how sprinkles of my age have crept up on me. Truth be told, I have kept myself in good shape because there was another who needed me to stick around.  “Paul, you’re getting old. Just like me. How’d time go by so quickly?” Michael asks as his smile slowly fades. 

    “We both have a long way to go.”

    “You’re coming back, aren’t you?” he coughs in severe pain.

    I nod my head and squeeze his wrist. “Of course I am.” 

    I stand at the bedside holding Michael’s hand as his face swells in agony. I hate seeing him this way.

    “Don’t leave me here to die, Paul,” he cautions. “Remember our pact,” he painfully groans as his strong and purposeful fingers suddenly grasp around my silver replica bracelet of The Spike. Ever since the early Fall of 2001, when I was given this very old relic from a person who traveled a great deal, I have never removed it from my wrist nor disregarded the symbolic meaning it represented to me about what happened on The Cross.

    “I’m not. And we have a lot to look forward to, so don’t talk that way,” I urge him as I tightly grip his wrist until he releases his hold on mine and nods his head: Michael knows I will keep my word. 

    “I’m tired,” he painfully coughs, his strained face turning dark red. “I don’t know how this happened?” he breathes heavily as his remorseful, fatigued eyes drift into no-man’s land. Anyone who fights a life threatening illness asks the same question: how did this happen? One day you are perfectly healthy roller-blading in Central Park, learning how to fly airplanes, and attending salsa parties, and then the next minute you’re being cut apart and pumped with poison in order to save your life. It was through a combination of modern and alternative treatment that I beat odds that were less favorable than me climbing Mt. Everest after two radical leg surgeries.

    I hate the fact that after two weeks of primarily tending to my sick friend and his two sons I really need to get back to my own life and the mountainous responsibilities I have taken on. As much as I was able to keep up with my obligations while attending to Michael, there is no question I need to be in the office at this, the most critical time of the project I have undertaken and am so heavily invested in.

    Knowing that some of Michael’s family members were here to look after the kids and keep an eye on him during his recovery period should have made me feel more at ease about my impending departure. It did not. 

    After speaking to his mother and two teenage sons, and sharing with Michael my well intentioned “We have a lot to do together, pal. I’ll be back in two weeks,” I reluctantly leave the antiquated three-story building. 

    The late June sun is pounding on my head as I slowly walk across the recently paved asphalt parking lot toward my little blue convertible, every so often turning toward Michael’s hospital window. I’m hoping to see him standing there giving a wave to let me know he’s going to continue his fight and not let the beast win. I stand by my car for what seems like an eternity, but neither he nor the wave ever comes. 

    I feel terrible leaving, but I get in the car and begin my journey south toward San Francisco, where I have a meeting planned prior to departing back to Los Angeles. I am sure I will see my friend again just as I had said. Though I am uncomfortable leaving, I can take solace in knowing that he has a good chance of recovering. I was where he needed me to be when he needed me to be there most, just like he was for me a long time ago.

    Passing the sun-drenched rolling green meadows that surround the 101 Freeway, I realize I’m pushing the Mustang hard. My heart is racing as a familiar feeling of emptiness sweeps through me. I hate this feeling. Slowing down to the speed limit, I reach for my phone and hit redial. After a few rings, the answering machine picks up. “Hey son, it’s Tuesday morning. I’ve been trying to reach you all week. I love you and can’t wait to see you in three weeks. Alex, I hope you liked the things I sent you the other day, and you have to let me know if the sneakers fit. Please call me when you get this message. I love you son.” 

    Sadly, I disconnect the call and roll my stiff neck backwards, and then take a deep breath. It’s my eleventh attempt in six days without a response. There is nothing new to my calls not being returned, but the truth is, with each failed attempt to speak to my son I feel my soul drift further into the dark, meaningless abyss. Coupled with being up here in this part of California and having just left Michael in the condition he was in, my failed call only heightens my already elevated emotions. None of them are pleasant.

    I am on autopilot as I pass the ‘tony’ town of Sausalito, with its sailboat-lined waterfront to the left of me as I race toward the Golden Gate Bridge. My cell phone rings. It’s Raul on the other end, so I pick it up. “Hey, buddy,” I cheerfully greet him. With all that I have been through, I have become an authority on how to compartmentalize my feelings and emotions. 

    “Ho, ho, ho and a bottle of Rum” he says, the way he usually does. “How’s Michael doing, and where are you?”

    I smile at the sound of his gregarious voice. Raul is a very good friend, and an ever better man. The fact we work together is an added bonus. “I’m nearing the Golden Gate in route to meet Susan Anderson. I’ll be on a late afternoon flight back home.”

    “And Michael?” 

    “The doctors said his body is beginning to respond to the chemo. Time will tell,” I add, realizing my voice insecurely drifting off. 

    “I’m sorry.” He pauses for a moment before continuing. “You know, we’ve been flooded with inquiries. The revolution is beginning.”

    “We have a long way to go, Raul. As long as we stay committed we’ll be just fine.”

    “You know where I stand,” he said. And I did. In his heart Raul believed what we were attempting to create would be a catalyst to increase literacy everywhere. It was this belief that caused him, like all of us, to scoff at nine-to-five constraints.

    “I do. And you’re one of the reasons why we’re going to succeed,” I tell him, meaning every word of it. I knew from my past that you are only as good as the team you work with, and as far as I stand, Raul is one of the best. Intellectually, perhaps we’re not the brightest group, though we’re surely not idiots. Our strength is found in our deep-rooted foundation to trust our imaginations and to never let anyone ever outwork us. If you add in an optimistic perspective, you have the ability of creating magic – and that’s what we’re trying to do: create magic.

   I eye the approaching fog-covered Golden Gate Bridge. I have never found it odd that no matter what time of the day or year it is, the ghosts of over a thousand souls never leave the bridge. Perhaps my acceptance of this is because a part of me lives in purgatory – just like them. And though I never have seen it, I am sure I have felt, like many others, the phantom presence of the SS Tennessee – the ship that disappeared in the fog in the Golden Gate Strait more than 150 years ago. “Have we gotten any final prices on the stage’s set design?” I ask Raul, as I speed toward the orange-vermilion painted bridge. 

    “Two are in. They’re what we are expecting: a whole lot of money, man. The other two bids should be in later today. As of now, we’re a week ahead of schedule.”

    After a ten-minute conversation with Raul Suarez – our Production Manager – I pull up to the Fairmont Hotel sitting majestically on top of ritzy Nob Hill overlooking all of San Francisco. I’m five minutes early for my meeting with Susan Anderson, an aspiring author I met a week ago while giving an impromptu lecture to a large group of writers attending a publishing industry conference here in San Francisco. Getting out of the convertible, I flip the familiar valet the car keys, glance up at the colorful flags of assorted countries mounted on the building’s marble facade, and then walk past the Corinthian columns and into the hotel.

    In moments, I notice Susan and her long light-brown hair standing in the gilded Laurel Court lobby. Her piercing green eyes appear as brilliant now as they were when they first captivated me from thirty rows back from the podium from which I so recently lectured. They’re as alluring as when I had first gotten lost in them at the cocktail party I held after the seminar in this hotel’s penthouse suite. Seeing me, Susan smiles. Instantly, a warm wave covers me similar to what I felt two nights ago when we drank wine and played darts late into the night at the enchanting Pelican Inn snug deep in the coastal redwood forest of Muir Woods. And just like each previous time we spent together, I felt a purposeful sense of happiness seeing her. 

    After greeting each other warmly, we decide to head down the hill and into Chinatown for lunch, where we intend to talk about the novel she is working on. We eventually locate a little hole-in-the wall restaurant that appears to be frequented by the local Chinese who live here.
Once our delightful lunch ended, we held hands and strolled around Chinatown for an hour before I mention I have to leave and catch my flight back to Los Angeles. As the words come out of my mouth, I know I want more time with her, but my reality is that after two unexpected weeks up here in the Bay area, there is an avalanche of work waiting for me despite Raul’s statement that we’re a week ahead of schedule. In our business, a week ahead can quickly become two weeks behind in a moment’s notice. Moreover, when you are working in film or television production, that can be the difference between completing your project or not. And this particular project we have been working on was more important than anything any member of our production team had ever been involved with. It was big … and it was important.

    Seeing a cable car nearing, we dart across the street and climb aboard as we make our way back to the Fairmont. Our hands don’t leave each other’s as we agree to see one another in a few days. Somehow.

    I wish I could stop time and stay with Susan, if only for a few more hours. Whatever is happening here is awakening emotions I have not allowed myself to feel in a long time. And oddly, I’m not fighting it: at least not yet. 

    Unfortunately, any notion of staying ends when the hotel’s valets pull our cars into the carport. With our final good-byes, I give her what is becoming a customary, but purposeful kiss on the cheek, jump in my car, and head for my flight.

    Entering onto the highway ramp toward the airport, I check to see if I missed any calls. I did, but not the one I hoped to receive. Scrolling down my call list, I hit re-dial and once again get the same message similar to the one a few hours earlier. I leave another pleasant message. And like that, my momentary sense of happiness is quickly suffocated by the pervasive feeling of empty frustration. 

    The real truth of my life is that I miss my son terribly.

    The afternoon flight back to Los Angeles is hardly pleasant. Suffocating feelings of worry are pulling harder at me ever since I took off. I feel my heart pounding faster and my chest tightening as a disturbing gloominess becomes darker and closer with every passing minute. As I look down at the familiar seaside town of Monterey from my window seat, every part of my mind screams that something is terribly, incredibly wrong, and I am racing into the most horrifying and treacherous storm of my life. I sense it is something so brutal and cruel that no person could be prepared for what waits ahead.