Kiss

by Francine Pascal

  Now she'd need a whole bunch of stamps.

  the color of love

  He was leaning forward, leaning over her. So close now. So real. "Can I?" he whispered.

  Something Sublime

  "HEY, BAUMAN, WHAT'S UP?" SAM said to the security guard. "How're the Rangers?"

  Bauman grimaced. "Down by two in the third. How's your holiday, Moon?"

  Sam actually thought about his answer. "Good," he said. "Surprisingly good." Except for the fact that all twenty digits had lost feeling about a mile ago. He rubbed his hands together. "Quiet here tonight, huh?"

  "Yes, it is," Bauman answered vaguely, his attention back on the game.

  "Later. Happy Thanksgiving," Sam called over his shoulder as he entered the stairwell. Not that he expected his bland sign-off to compete with the Rangers. He was pathologically polite. He couldn't help himself.

  He took the stairs slowly. Was he the only student in the entire building? It felt almost eerie.

  None of his suite mates were around, that much he knew. He swung open the door of the common room. The place was exactly the pigsty he'd left it. He didn't even bother to turn on a light. He'd so completely frozen himself, walking almost seventy blocks, he was eager to strip down and climb under his down comforter.

  He took out his key and had started to fit it in the lock when the doorknob fell off in his hand. "Shit. Gotta get that fixed," he cursed under his breath, as he did two out of three times he entered his room.

  A warm, reddish light from the street was filtering through the small window, lighting the bed. . . .

  Oh. Jesus. Sam stepped backward. He was suddenly transported to a Three Little Bears moment. There was someone sleeping in his bed.

  He stepped forward and froze. His heart stopped beating. He stopped breathing. Brain function shut down.

  Could that someone be . . .?

  He turned his eyes to the door and then back to the bed again, sure that the mirage would be gone. It wasn't. There was still a sublimely beautiful blond girl in his bed who looked very much like Gaia.

  He'd heard that people hallucinated in the happiest way just before they died of exposure. He hadn't chilled himself that badly, had he?

  Now. Time to breathe, lungs. Time to beat, heart. His vital organs appeared to need a little coaching. There. Better. Okay, deep breaths. Yes.

  He would just calm down, slow down, and think a minute.

  He crept a little closer, terrified that this magnificent vision would disappear if he disturbed the air the slightest bit.

  Still there. Please stay, he begged it. If this was a figment of his imagination, then he prayed his imagination would keep it up.

  He would just look at her. That would be okay, wouldn't it? Even if it was an imagined version of her, he still wanted to look. The few interactions he and Gaia'd had were so charged or awkward or plain antagonistic that he never got to study her, to see how her face looked in repose.

  Her head was turned to the side, and her silken yellow hair -- hair he'd fantasized about more times than was good for him -- was splayed out on the pillow, leaving a shadow of dampness on the white cotton. Her bewitching eyes were closed in sleep. Her face was serene and lovely beyond description -- light freckles over her cheeks. He drew closer. Palest, finest down along her jawline. Her eyelids flickered. He drew back.

  She was still again. He came closer. His eyes moved down her neck.

  Oh Christ! She was wearing his T-shirt. He felt the blood churning in his ears, gathering in other parts of his body. His T-shirt, which had spent its long, dutiful life covering large, rough stretches of masculine skin, now had the exquisite experience of gracing skin so delicate and fine, it was almost transparent. He envied it.

  He saw that the too large shirt had gotten pulled around under her, revealing the sloping side and top of her breast.

  He had to look away. Partly because it was too much to take and partly because he felt wrong seeing her like this, without her knowing he was seeing her. Without her wanting him to.

  He made himself take a few steps backward and put his hands over his face to regain his composure.

  He knew now, more than ever before, that he loved her. He loved her deeply and urgently, with a fierceness that made him know he'd never grasped, even grazed, the concept of love before. But he couldn't go on like this, without knowing how she really felt.

  And what if she wasn't real at all but a figment of his fevered, lustful mind?

  Well, then she'd be more likely to tell him what he dreamed of hearing.

  A Real Kiss

  GAIA WAS DREAMING A BLISSFUL dream. Surrounded as she was by the smell and feel of Sam, by his place and his things, it was natural that she should dream of him vividly.

  In the dream he was there beside her, sitting on the edge of the bed. He was so close, she could feel his warmth and smell his smell more intensely. An alive smell now. He took her hand so gently and held it. Just held it. Making her safe.

  Consciousness was tickling her eyelids, summoning her. Please, sleep, stay with me. Don't make me go back yet.

  But it was happening. She couldn't help it. She was waking up in spite of every effort to fight it. She flicked open her eyes.

  No.

  She closed them again.

  How could it be?

  She opened them again. Was the dream still with her? . . . Or was it . . .

  "Sam?" she whispered, her heart filled with awe.

  He was still holding her hand. In the dream and . . . here. He was still holding it, one of his hands cupping her fingers, the other holding her wrist. His beautiful hands with the wide nails and fraying cuticles. The ones he'd used to stomp all over her chess pieces that day in the park when this had started.

  "Gaia," he said. She'd never heard her name sound just that way before.

  He was leaning forward, leaning over her. So close now. So real. "Can I?" he whispered.

  "Please," she said.

  He took his hand from her wrist and touched his first two fingers to her elbow, then drew them in an air-light caress up to her shoulder. "Mmmm," she sighed.

  As his head hovered over her she looked up at his neck and chin, touching her finger to the place where his whiskers started, moving them up over his jaw, feeling the slight hollow of his cheek, the strong bones that came together at the corner of his eye. He gazed down at her, his eyes voracious and questioning. She turned her head to face him straight on.

  "Oh," he said, drawing in his breath. He touched his fingers to the ugly bruise along the side of her cheek and forehead. His face showed real worry. "Are you okay?"

  She felt like crying just then. She'd forgotten about everything that had happened. Now she remembered, and she felt ashamed of it and of all the ugliness and violence she represented in Sam's good, peaceful life. "I'm sorry," she said randomly, her eyes filling with tears.

  "No, Gaia," he whispered."Don't. Just . . . be with me."

  The feelings inside her were too round and full. She couldn't hold them. Her chest was bursting, and her head was spinning.

  He pulled her up so she was sitting beside him and gently held her face in her hands. He put his lips, gentle as sunlight, to the wound on her forehead, then dotted her cheekbone with kisses.

  Please, please, please, she begged silently. Wishing.

  Oh God. And then he found it, and her wish happened. His lips found her mouth, and the gentleness gave way to intensity. A kiss. A real kiss more perfect than any imagined. She was kissing him back, hungrily, pressing herself against him.

  A thought came to her as his lips melted into hers. This, she thought, is the mouth that I was meant to kiss. This is the mouth I will always kiss, and no other. And blending into that thought was another thought. More a feeling than a thought, because there were no words to it at all. But the feeling was that her lips and her hands had found a home. The one safe, healing place on earth. And that maybe, maybe ... who could ever say? But maybe she really would have kids so
meday. (Not just one.) Because there was somebody in the world for her. She knew that now, from this kiss, and nobody could take that away.

  His hands held the back of her head now; they were buried in her hair. His lips explored hers. She tasted him and felt him and smelled him all at once. Her senses mixed and blurred. Her blood roared in her ears.

  He stood up and pulled her with him. He pressed the entire length of his body against her. She tilted back her head, not wanting to break the kiss. She let her hands explore his graceful, muscular back, his wide, sturdy shoulders. She touched his neck and felt the way his hair curled sweetly around his ears. Digging her fingers into his hair, she pushed him deeper, harder into the kiss.

  He moaned. His arms were around her now, gathering her up, holding her as tight and close against him as she could be and still remain a separate person. His lips left hers, landing under her jaw, down her neck, her collarbone.

  "Aaaaaah." A breathy sound escaped her lips. The dizziness was overpowering; it was shutting her in. These feelings were too fragile and beautiful to be held, the love too big to fit into her scarred, shrunken heart.

  "I love you." Did she think it, or did she say it? Or did he say it? Or did she imagine he said it? Were the words in the air or just in her mind?

  Before she could be sure, the darkness engulfed her, and she released herself to the sureness of Sam's arms.

  Siren Song

  "I LOVE YOU," SAM WHISPERED against her neck. "I love you."

  He'd always wondered what it would take to say those words, how much he'd have to push and prompt and coach himself to utter them. He didn't realize it wouldn't require any intention at all -- that the words could come without thought or plan, as naturally and passionately and irreversibly as a kiss, without waiting for his consent.

  Suddenly he felt her weight sink into his arms.

  "Gaia." He pulled her up to him, finding her face with his lips, kissing her eyelids. They were closed. "Gaia?"

  Her eyes didn't open. She breathed a sigh. Her head fell forward, resting against his chest. "Gaia?"

  He cradled her head in the crook of his elbow and tipped her back gently. "Gaia? Are you all right? Gaia?"

  She had fainted. She was motionless in his arms. All the feelings whirring in his chest changed directions, from pure exultation to surprise and fear.

  He picked her up in his arms, cradling her against him. "Gaia. Gaia!" He jostled her, hoping to rouse her. Her head fell back, exposing her delicate throat.

  "Gaia, please? What happened? Are you okay?" Panic was building. His eyes found the terrible bruise on the side of her head. Could it be . . . ? What if . . . ?

  "Gaia, come on. Stay with me here, would you? Please, Gaia." The fear was talking. He was listening only distractedly.

  He managed to support her weight with one arm and with the other plucked the phone from his nightstand. He dialed 911.

  "Thirty-two Fifth!" he blared into the phone as soon as he heard a voice pick up. "Fourth floor. Send an ambulance."

  "Sir, can you tell me what has happened?" the voice urged calmly.

  "M-My . . . girlfriend."(Girlfriend?) "She's fainted. I can't rouse her. She hurt her head. Maybe --"

  "All right, sir, we'll send the ambulance immediately."

  Sam's heart was slamming in his rib cage. Thoughts were careening around his brain like a million errant Ping-Pong balls. "Oh, Gaia, please be okay," he begged her still body.

  He laid her down as gingerly as he could on his bed. It was cold out. He needed to cover her. Did she have clothes or . . . ? No time.

  He grabbed his thick, terry cloth robe from his closet and wrapped her in it. It was a strange set of circumstances that would force him to willingly cover her magnificent body, not to let his eyes linger over her exquisite stomach and hips and legs.

  He found a wool blanket on the shelf and bundled her in that, too. Then he scooped her lifeless body up and strode out into the hallway. He punched the button for the elevator, his ears pricked for the sound of a siren. It was the one time he invited that sound, desperately wanted to hear it.

  The elevator came. Sam stabbed at the lobby button.

  There it was! The siren! Thank the Lord for a quick response. He raced past a stunned-looking Bauman and met the ambulance just as it was pulling up outside.

  Fear blended with appreciation as Sam watched the emergency medical team burst into action, their limbs and instruments a blur of confidence and precision. He loved them in that moment as much as he loved his parents and friends.

  Before a minute had passed, Gaia was bound in a stretcher, hooked up to various medical gadgets, tucked into the back of the vehicle with Sam beside her. The engine roared, the siren kicked in again, and they were off to St. Vincent's, just a few blocks away.

  Sam held her hand tight, never wanting to let it go.

  "I love you," he whispered to her again, pleading with his crazed heart to stay in his chest for a while longer.

  He considered it for a moment, his newly awakened heart. He remembered the puzzling conflict between heart and mind. Well, it was settled now.

  In case there was any mystery, he now knew who was in charge.

  Heaven

  GAIA WAS FLOATING. SAM WAS there, holding her hand. There were unfamiliar people, sounds, words, things she couldn't make sense of, but there was always Sam. He held her. He gave her his warmth.

  "I love you." The words came to her in Sam's voice. She wanted very much to open her eyes and see if it really was Sam, and if so, to see if he was talking to her when he said them, as she fervently hoped he was. And if he was saying those words to her, and maybe even if he wasn't, she wanted to say the same words to him.

  But she couldn't. She couldn't open her eyes or make words.

  Was she alive anymore? Was Sam real? Was he really there with her?

  Maybe it was him. More likely it was heaven.

  But if this was heaven, if this was what death felt like, then it was okay with her.

  HEATHER

  I've been trying to figure out why I don t have any tears for Sam tonight.

  I do hate him at the moment; that's true.

  But I thought I loved him.

  All this time I figured I haven't been able to cry over him because I'm too numb. I'm too bottled up and confused to feel things very well.

  I never imagined the possibility that I didn't love him.

  Because I do love him. I mean, I'm pretty sure I do.

  I mean, I do. Don't I?

  You know what's really retarded? An hour after Sam left, I called Ed Fargo.

  Then I remembered he was in Pennsylvania. He was there for Thanksgiving with his weird, obese grandmother who called me Feather.

  hunger

  Then the memories fell into fragments and shards that didn't make any sense at all.

  More Disappointment

  ELLA ROLLED HER EYES AT THE emergency-room doctor in St. Vincent's Hospital. This was a night of highs and lows, currently stuck on low.

  The doctor was talking about Gaia, bleating words like concussion and subdural something and hematoma something else. But he wasn't saying anything about "slashed to ribbons," which was what Ella really wanted to hear.

  She was jubilant when she d first gotten the call from the hospital, sure that her plans had gone off without a hitch. Then she entered a period of confusion after she arrived at the hospital, during which it appeared that Gaia hadn't been slashed at Penn Station. Gaia, she was told, had spent several semidelirious hours before a doting Sam Moon brought her to the hospital, unconscious, from his NYU dormitory. The girl who'd been slashed (Ella had followed the story excitedly on the eleven o'clock news) was not Gaia, and yet Gaia had found her way to the hospital with some grave problem nonetheless.

  Ella perked up when she heard the doctor use the word coma, hoping that her goal might be achieved even without the extra bonus of disfigurement. But wretched, impossible Gaia had miraculously managed to sidestep the co
ma, in spite of a serious head injury.

  "Mrs. Niven, I'm sorry to bother you with all of this information. I'm sure you'd like to see her," Dr. Somethingorother was saying. He was Indian or maybe Pakistani and spoke precise, melodious English.

  Ella sighed. She couldn't very well say no, could she? "Of course," she said.

  "You'll be pleased to know she's already been moved out of ICU. Her condition is stable."

  Whoopee.

  Ella followed the white coat up an elevator and down a hallway, through a set of swinging doors, past a waiting room and a nurses' station.

  Dr. Whatever turned around to talk some more. "She's not yet fully conscious. Still a bit bleary. Try not to be alarmed. We do expect her to make a quick recovery, but it's never as quick as all of us would like."

  If Gaia woke up before she was thirty, it would be too quick. Ella nodded blandly. She hated doctors. Particularly the one she'd blown up earlier in the evening.

  The doctor stopped in front of room 448. The door was partially open. He gestured for her to enter first. She started into the room and quickly stepped backward. She backed out into the hallway.

  "Excuse me, Doctor," she said. "But there's somebody else in the room."

  The doctor's eyes lit up. "Yes, that's her friend who brought her here. His name is Sam, I think? He hasn't left her side in hours. He is quite devoted to her, no? He is the one who gave us the information to find you."

  "Fine," she said. "Very nice. But would you mind asking him to leave? I really need some time alone with my . . . foster daughter." Sob, sob. "Besides," she added in a confidential tone, "if I can speak frankly, I don't like that young man. I wouldn't be surprised if he were part of the reason that Gaia is here in the first place. . . ." She let her voice float off enigmatically.