“Great, ah . . . if Marie asks, that’s where I went.”
Dominic nodded. “Sure thing.”
I stood back, smiling, daftly contented by Dominic and my father’s trifling conversation. There was still a small amount of awkwardness and discomfort—mainly from my father—but I thought the two of them were growing more and more at ease with one another with each visit. This was the third time this week Dominic had joined us for dinner, bringing along a movie for all of us to watch afterwards. Thus far I had seen Apollo 13 and Forest Gump, both of which I had thought were fantastic.
“So what’s this one about?” I asked after my father left us alone.
“Ah . . . this one,” Dominic beamed, taking my waist in his hands, “is one of my all time favorite movies. The book, of course, is much better—which I’m going to let you borrow after you’ve seen the movie. But I still think you’re really going to like it.”
“I’m sure I will,” I answered, and laid my head on his chest. “What’s it called? The Prince’s Bride?”
“The Princess Bride,” he corrected, his voice a deep purr where my ear pressed against his throat. “It’s about a girl named Butter—” As he broke off, I attempted to keep an open mind about the story’s protagonist named Butter; then I heard something vibrating—his phone. Dominic reached over easily and swiped it from the counter. Over my shoulder he stared at the screen, but didn’t answer it.
I resisted the urge to peek behind my back and see who was calling. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah . . .” He trailed off, eyes loud and mouth disturbingly quiet. He gave his head an abrupt shake, as if to clear it and said, “It’s my uncle. He rarely, if ever, calls me. Normally if they need something, it’s my aunt who calls. I’ll wait to see if he leaves a voicemail,” he said decidedly.
No more than fifteen seconds after mentioning this, the phone buzzed again, signaling that there was in fact a voicemail. And this I heard without trying to; a brief message of less than ten words, requesting that Dominic come home as soon as he could.
“They probably can’t find the spare keys,” he said through a laugh, slipping the phone into his back pocket. “Since I’ve been borrowing my uncle’s car, I keep forgetting to leave the keys in the bowl by the door.”
I smiled and nodded. But as I looked into his eyes, beneath his own smile was something else: not fear exactly, but a tension that pulled his lips just a little too tight, made all the more worrisome by his efforts to conceal it.
“I’m going to run home really quick and take care of this. I’ll be back before the brownies are ready to eat and your dad’s out of the shower.”
“Or I could come with you?” I suggested, thin hope rising vulnerably in my chest, a traitor to the answer I knew was coming.
While I had yet to meet either his aunt or his uncle—Dominic assuring me this had everything to do with his uncle’s hectic work schedule and their collective vacationing—he had let me know just today that an introduction dinner was in works for later this month. Better yet, his entire family would be flying out to California two weeks from Tuesday, and I would have the opportunity to meet both his parents and all three siblings as well. Overwhelming and nerve-racking as this would no doubt be, I could hardly wait to put faces to all these incredible people I already felt I knew.
“But then there won’t be anyone to watch the brownies,” he answered reasonably, dropping a kiss to my forehead. “I won’t be gone long. I promise.”
With a nod of acquiescence, I let him go, feeling that with each step he took the gnawing sense of disquiet grew exponentially.
At the archway, he turned, looking at me in that way that never ceased to send a fluttering like moth wings traipsing across my heart.
“Oh, and do me a favor, will you?” He made a show of appearing very grave and serious. “Please don’t fall in love with Westley while I’m gone.”
And with a brief flashing of teeth, he turned the corner and vanished, leaving me mystified once more.
~
I reminded myself for the eleventh time since getting in the car that I had no other choice. And it wasn’t as if he had explicitly asked me not to come to his house . . . however heavily implied it might have been. But other than nothing, what were my options? The brownies were done and cooled, my father had long-since emerged from his shower, and when there wasn’t so much as a text or a phone call in nearly an hour since Dominic’s departure, it was either call him for the fourth time, or drive over.
Truly, it was a miracle I had found 113 Blue Waters at all. I almost hadn’t. It was weeks ago now, and no less dark than it was currently when I had dropped Dominic off after rear-ending him. After more than a few hapless attempts, however, driving up and down his street with both windows rolled down, I vaguely recognized a car in a driveway. Without Dominic’s mustang—still being repaired after the incident in The Sandcastle’s parking lot—to guide me, I started to think I would never remember which one it was. Eventually, though, it was his uncle’s white Range Rover, I was almost certain of it, that had me pulling up close to the curb, shaking worse than Hattie. She was making terrible howling noises, so I turned her off quickly and looked out the window to both hear and see water arcing across the lawn in both directions, making the grass appear to sparkle.
With one last redundant reminder, I got out of the car, struck with the certainty that this was something that the old me would never do. I might have called and texted, fretted and paced, but I wouldn’t have been so bold as to come over uninvited. I thought it strange that this should please me; still, I felt the slightest of smiles on my lips as I climbed the short set of stairs.
Yes, it’s him, I heard myself say.
And here I was: standing on the darkened doorstep, hoping I did in fact have the right address. I reached out toward the doorbell, nearly jumping out of my skin when my phone buzzed. There was a statue in the corner of the porch that—in this light, or lack thereof—looked to be staring right at me. I swallowed thickly and waited until my heart restarted, then shaking so badly my teeth ached, I reached for my phone to see that the text message was of course from Dominic. With the help of the lighted screen, I read the message.
I’m so sorry. I won’t be able to make it back over tonight. I’ll fill you in on everything first thing tomorrow. I love you.
I stared at the screen until it faded, not quite sure how I felt. Relieved. Curious. A bit stuck, perhaps, lightly confused that he would text rather than call and explain what was so urgent or important that it would keep him all night. Above all, I was glad to be assured he was okay; however, I now had a decision to make: I could either get back in the car, and after returning his text, wait for him to call or come over tomorrow as he said he would, or . . . or I could knock. I knew unequivocally what he would have me do. And while I couldn’t imagine Dominic being upset or angry to see me, I was under no false perceptions that anything but turning around and going home was the right thing to do.
And it’s possible, that if I hadn’t heard voices through the door, faint and distant laughing, I might have made it more than one step in that direction.
I would have liked to blame a hand not of my own volition, but it was my hand, and I was aware of what I was doing. I wanted to see him. I wanted to meet his aunt and uncle. More than anything, I wanted to know the faces existing just beyond the other side of this door. Once more I prepared to ring the doorbell, and then, for no reason I could explain or articulate, decided to use the brass knocker instead, rapping three times. I clearly heard someone say, “No, stay. I’ll get that,” and a few heart-pounding seconds later a light flicked on overhead, washing the porch in bright yellow light. I held my breath as the lock turned from the other side, my eyes glued to the unopened space that marked the door’s seal.
And then it opened.
I had expected a stranger: a handsome, serious, and professional looking man in his forties, who resembled Dominic, even if only remotely in the way of eyes
and chin. Or, if not his uncle, then a semblance of the sketch in my head of Dominic’s aunt, friendly and amenable. But neither of these people answered the door.
Dominic’s mother did.
My breath caught at the likeness, and I could not help but stare soundlessly at her. Had Dominic never shown me a picture, I would have known her still. Like her son, her beauty paralyzed. She had Dominic’s raven black hair; a sheet of onyx falling at one length to her chin, that hugged the soft, shapely jaw; the same expressive mouth and dark brows that sprawled across skin like gold; eyes that blazed blue and spoke loudly when not a word exited her mouth. Nearly an entire foot shorter than her son, her presence was no less affecting.
“Delilah,” I whispered without thinking, and hearing my strangled voice realized that a thick throat and prickling tears were to blame. I had anticipated having more time to prepare myself for this introduction, time to think about what I might say, what I might wear to meet the mother of the boy I loved. But there was no doubting that this moment was any less momentous and incredible due to its early arrival.
For the first time, I noticed that she too was staring at me with equal interest and attention, and had yet to speak to me. Her hand drew upward, covering a mouth slacken with something like shocked familiarity. Perhaps Dominic had shown her a picture of me, too, I thought errantly.
Her eyes continued to rove across my face, moving in an erratic flight pattern: up, down, right, left, zig, zag. Then she spoke, the words discernible despite the hand that obscured her lips.
“It’s not possible.”
I felt something like a quickening. The way she stared at me . . . it was oddly familiar. I had seen this face, this look, once before—but when? I couldn’t remember. There was too much happening at once, too many things contending for my consideration.
My heart nearly poured out the bottoms of my feet when Delilah tipped her head to the right, gripped a chunk of her lustrous black hair, and gave a tug at the crown. I wanted to cry and laugh and hug her. She seemed to realize then, that beyond my speaking her first name and a muffled utterance, neither of us had done much besides stare at the other.
Letting her hand fall, she shook her head. “I’m sorry,” she said, and smiled—imperceptibly at first, then blooming full in her face like a burst of sun. “How very rude of me. You must be Foster.”
My heart gave a leap and a squeeze. She knew me. “Yes, me—that’s me. I’m Foster.”
She nodded, black lashes fluttering as she regained equanimity. “Dominic has spoken quite a bit about you.” She had the slightest trace of an accent.
“Yes,” I replied, then laughed. “I mean, he’s spoken of you, too—all of you. I feel as if I know you already.”
The smile remained fixed on her face, and only because it was identical to Dominic’s, did I notice the effort it took in keeping it there. “Yes, that makes—that makes two of us,” she ended awkwardly and glanced over her shoulder, as if she expected someone to appear.
Someone did, speaking before he came into view. “Who was it, D?” he called out, stopping dead in his tracks when he saw me. “Oh, my . . .”
“Jonathan,” Delilah said quickly and evenly, her face turned away from me. “This is Foster.”
Nothing happened for a moment.
“Jonathan . . .” Delilah repeated very softly.
At this, Jonathan dropped his head in a polite hello, then cleared his throat and said stiffly, “Excuse me. I need to . . . excuse me,” then disappeared the way he came, slipping through an alcove on the left side of foyer.
I watched him go, an impending sense of dread crawling up the backs of my calves. Something was going on; something far more portentous than mere recognition. With a sudden bleak clarity, I realized that I should never have come. And however courteous Dominic’s parents were attempting to be, it was clear that I was not welcome at this moment—I had interrupted something.
Delilah had yet to turn back around; I saw her slight shoulders lift as she sighed deeply.
“I’m very sorry,” I whispered to her back, and again my words were choked, only this time it was not tears of joy that distorted my voice. “If you could please just let Dominic know I stopped by.” I turned then to leave, but my movements were sharp and my ankle caught and twisted, sending me barreling to the right. I threw out a hand just in time, catching myself on the wall and skinning my palm. But I felt the burn only infinitesimally, my attention diverted by the view this change in location now afforded me.
I peered past Delilah and into a living room, where the man who had hastily departed seconds ago stood behind a light blue couch, denying me a view of the people he spoke to. There were others, I was sure, but they were too far into the living room for me to see. The voices I had heard, standing outside the closed front door, went painfully silent. Before then, I hadn’t paid much attention to the susurrant din, the entirety of my attention focused on the surprise and elation of meeting Dominic’s mother. But in the absence of those voices, the background dropping into a mute, it was like the entire world had suddenly fallen asleep.
I heard Dominic’s voice, low and tense. “She’s here?” Instantly I felt conflicted; thrust upon by the awareness that something wrong was definitely happening, and I didn’t know whether to run toward him or continue leaving.
Jonathan stepped aside then, and I saw him: my Dominic. He was sitting on the couch, his body angled toward the opening of the room, facing me. There was a girl beside him, though all I could make of her was the back of a head, the hair too curly and light to be one of his sisters.
In that moment Dominic’s eyes reached across the room, his face a sickening ashen gray. I had no doubts about the expression his mother had given me just moments ago. I remembered now. With perfect perspicuity, I remembered where I had first witnessed that look of complete disbelief; the way it morphed into emotion after emotion, none of them a pleasure to withstand. It was a day I would never forget, but often tried to as some memories were not made the better for remembering them.
My understanding only went so far, however. Seeing my boyfriend regard me with the same look of the long-time-gone shock, horror, and anguish, did very little in the way of bringing sense to the situation. Among other things, I was confused as ever.
That is, until the girl sitting beside Dominic slowly turned, ostensibly to see what everyone was staring at. Others moved in the background too, a sound like broken wind leaving multiple mouths. I saw nothing but her—the hand resting lightly but proprietarily on Dominic’s lower thigh. And as she inclined her chin over her left shoulder, it was about halfway there when a recollection like a sour glass of milk hit my stomach.
We weren’t finished. There was more.
And whether subconsciously I hadn’t wanted to know, or blinded by my fervency to ameliorate Dominic’s rampant fear and worry, I repressed the thoughts, the time for complacency had come to a precipitous end.
For the second time in one evening, I came face to face with someone I had never before met, but knew exceedingly well. A girl who went by the name Summer.
As if operated by puppeteer or marionette, our heads tilted in precisely the same manner, eyes widening to take in the ferly before us both. Dominic’s mother was warranted in saying those words to me; to remonstrate on the grounds of sheer improbability. It didn’t seem possible, even to me—even with the truth staring me dementedly in the face. My face? Her face? I no longer knew whom it belonged to . . . nearly identical.
Time passed in that gross way it does when you’re forced to confront the horrifying and awful, slowing down and spreading over your body like a diseased second skin.
I stared at her.
She stared at me.
Everyone stared at us.
It was a bit like seeing myself in a mirror from far from away, tentatively watching for a moment, only to see what was thought to be a reflection . . . was in fact someone else entirely. Even from this distance, I could see there were differences
, minor as they were. The eyes a darker green, the complexion less milky, more peachy, and her hair—outdoors and with the help of the sun, mine might look that color, I thought, but in here the difference was in the many shades between copper and auburn. The similarities we shared were by far the most surreal; the shape and outline of her face, for one.
I think Summer called Dominic’s name. Asked him a question. I made no sounds that I knew of. I was conscious of bile rising in the back of my throat, and worked to push it back down. It came anyway, and on the front porch under a pool of bright light, I wretched before Dominic, his entire family, and the girl he had loved and lost, and who had evidently risen from the dead.
There was a movement then, and time restarted with abandon. Dominic’s mother reached for me, to steady me where I stood, but I pulled back, stumbled, and caught myself on the doorway. I didn’t think I could stand being touched right now. I met her too familiar eyes apologetically; even in my current state, distraught and not quite sound, I grieved for the relationship I would never have with the woman I had hoped would love me.
Dominic, no longer on the couch, was walking toward me like a harbinger of hurt; his face looked liked crushed glass. I shook my head, my entire body rebelling against the expression that said he might try and touch me. Convulsions racked my body, making him blur.
I started to sway on my feet, and nearly slipped on my own putrescence.
“I have to go now,” I said in a clear, steady voice; as if suddenly recalled to the water I had left boiling on the stove. I turned and stepped blindly down the first step.
“No. Please, Foster. Please wait.”
Dominic’s voice plunged between my shoulder blades, hot as a kindled sword. The way he called to me, it was innocuous and calm—like quick sand—and I knew I would sink into it, never to be seen again if I didn’t leave immediately.
I quite literally threw myself down the rest of the stairs, and paid the price for it mightily, flesh and bone smacking to the unyielding cement in hisses and thuds. I remained on my hands and knees only long enough to wipe the blood on my jeans, and deduce that nothing had been broken.
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