by Amber Benson
“It’s time to go.”
Then a hand was grasping her under the armpit and helping her to stand. Her legs were rubbery, but they managed to hold her up. The hand slid around her rib cage, letting her lean her weight against its owner.
“Do you want another tissue?”
She shook her head. At some point, someone had given her a Kleenex, and she clutched at this flimsy piece of tissue as though her life depended on it, gripping it in her fist until it had become a sodden, sweaty mess.
“That one’s done—”
But like a small child, Lyse snatched her fist away, keeping the tissue safely out of reach.
“It’s okay. You just hold on to it, if you want.”
They began to walk, and it felt strange to move without thought, without looking where you were going. To give over so completely to another human being that they could walk you off a cliff, and you’d be helpless to do anything about it.
“The car’s right outside. Do you think you can make it?”
She felt herself nodding, the weight of her head dragging her chin down almost to her chest, and then back up.
“Good.”
Despite all the windows, it had been dark inside the hospital. But now, as they passed through the sliding glass doors, sunlight cold-cocked her in the face, so bright she had to close her eyes against it or go blind. For the first time, she felt the wetness on her cheeks, the cold air chilling the tears and stealing the heat from her skin. With her balled fist, she reached up and wiped at her nose, disgorging bits of tissue that stuck to her skin like snowflakes.
“It’s right here.”
She was led to the car. The passenger door was opened for her, and she was placed inside. There were dirty spots on the windshield. Oddly shaped white mineral deposits left behind where rainwater had evaporated.
She wanted the windows washed clean, wanted all the dirty spots gone—I don’t know what I want, she cried. But she did, she did know what she wanted. She wanted things the way they were before. She wanted to curl up in a ball and disappear.
She heard the key slide into the ignition, felt the thrum of the engine coming to life, the idle shaking in her seat. She let her head fall to the side, and the plastic casing that covered the strap of the seat belt pressed into her temple. Then, as the car backed up and began to pull away from the hospital, the numbness cracked in two, and Lyse began to sob.
Arrabelle reached over and rested her hand on Lyse’s shoulder.
“This too shall pass. I promise, Mama.”
Yes, that is a truth, Lyse thought, but it did nothing to ease her broken heart.
* * *
The memorial was a simple affair, but there were so many people, well-wishers from far-flung places like Tibet, New Zealand, and Ukraine—places she didn’t know Eleanora had ever visited.
Who was Eleanora Eames really?
The question haunted Lyse.
“Why don’t you go inside, speak to some of these people?” Dev said, as Lyse sat in an old Adirondack chair on the deck, staring out at the koi pond. “They’ve all come from so far away.”
Like Lyse, she was dressed in black, her strawberry-blond hair pulled into a tight bun at the nape of her neck. She was paler and more subdued, a testament to how rough Eleanora’s death had been on all of them.
“I don’t think so,” Lyse said, giving Dev a wry smile. “I don’t think I have what it takes to make small talk with a bunch of people I don’t know. I really just want to be alone. Thanks.”
She was alone by choice. Carole had offered to come out for the memorial, but Lyse had politely declined. She knew that as a single mom and co–business owner, Carole was always strapped for cash. She had no intention of letting her friend waste what little she had on a ticket to California. Besides, she didn’t need anyone to sit there and hold her hand.
“Well, is it all right if the girls come out?” Dev asked. “They wanted to say hi to the fish.”
“Sure,” Lyse said. “Of course.”
Dev came over and patted her on the back.
“I know you don’t want to hear this,” Dev said, “but I think it was for the best. She’d already suffered so much.”
No, I don’t want to hear that, Lyse thought, but she held her tongue.
“Okay,” Dev continued, “if you’re sure you don’t mind?”
“I really don’t.”
Dev motioned toward the sliding glass doors, and two dark-haired urchins scampered out onto the deck.
“This is Marji,” Dev said, as the older girl came over and stood in front of her mother. “She’s eleven, and she’s my shy one. The other weasel, the one invading your personal space right now . . . that’s Ginny.”
Ginny was, indeed, standing almost on top of Lyse, staring down at her with a look of intense curiosity.
“I’m seven,” she said proudly, pointing to her own chest. “And you’re pretty like Daddy said.”
Lyse shot Dev a surprised look.
“Yes, of course, she’s pretty,” Dev said to Ginny, ruffling her daughter’s hair. “Now, girls, please be respectful of Lyse. She’s had a hard few days, and you not asking her too many questions would be appreciated.”
She gave Marji’s shoulders a squeeze, then left the three of them alone on the deck.
“Great-Auntie E died,” Ginny said to Lyse.
Lyse nodded.
“Yeah, I know she did.”
“Will she ever go to heaven?” Ginny asked.
“I don’t know,” Lyse replied. “Maybe.”
Marji moved closer to Lyse and Ginny, sitting down on the edge of the deck, not far from Lyse’s feet.
“Great-Auntie E’s not dead,” Marji said quietly, joining their conversation. “Well, part of her is . . . but not her spirit.”
It was strange to be having such an esoteric conversation with a couple of elementary school kids, but Lyse found she was enjoying the girls’ company.
“What makes you say that?” Lyse asked, curious.
“I talked to her about it and that’s what she said.”
The hair on the back of Lyse’s neck prickled to life, and she sat up in her chair.
“What did you say?”
Marji looked up at her with liquid brown eyes—and Lyse realized the kid had no idea how incredibly spooky she was being right then.
“Marji talked to Great-Auntie E,” Ginny said. “I heard her.”
“She talks to me at night,” Marji said. “She likes to whisper.”
Ginny nodded in agreement.
Lyse wasn’t sure what she was supposed to say to this. Obviously, the girls were sad and had imagined Eleanora visiting them in order to feel better about her death. She didn’t want to be nasty, but she also didn’t think it was a good idea to let them think things that weren’t actually true.
“I believe that you believe Great-Auntie E comes to talk to you,” Lyse began, trying to be judicious.
“She said you’d say that,” Marji said, kicking her feet back and forth over the edge of the deck.
“Great-Auntie E said I’d say that?”
Marji stopped kicking and fixed Lyse with a long stare.
“She said you were in denial. That if you didn’t believe me, then you should go look at the Bible.”
“The Bible?” Lyse asked, trying not to sound too incredulous.
“Ginny will show you,” Marji said, and went back to swinging her feet.
Ginny reached over and took Lyse’s hand, smiling up at her—a big gap where her right eyetooth should’ve been.
“Wanna see?” she asked Lyse.
“Sure,” Lyse said, uncertainly. Then: “Why not?”
She climbed to her feet and followed Ginny back into the house. She found she was curious to see what kind of mischief the girls had worked
out between them.
They stepped into the loud, bustling living room, and Lyse closed the sliding glass door behind them. There were people everywhere, and a few of them stopped what they were doing to follow Lyse’s movements.
“It’s over here,” Ginny said, still holding her hand as she led Lyse across the room. “In here.”
The little girl knelt in front of a tall brown bookcase and pointed to a book wedged in between a copy of the Larousse Encyclopedia of Mythology and some World Books. Lyse sat down on the floor next to her, staring at the mysterious leather-bound thing . . . until something else caught her eye.
It was an old Kodachrome snapshot set inside a simple silver frame. She realized it’d probably been there, sitting on the shelf with a bunch of other photos, the whole time she’d lived with Eleanora. She didn’t know why she’d never noticed it before, but now she was transfixed by its contents.
It was a candid of Eleanora taken when she was in her late twenties, surrounded by four other women, all but one much older than her. Her great-aunt was easily recognizable among the others, all dewy youth and excited smile, but that wasn’t what caught Lyse’s attention. The woman in the far left of the photo drew her eye. She was so tall she had to hunch down in order to fit into the shot with the others.
It’s the giant woman from my dream, Lyse thought. She’s real. I didn’t just imagine her.
“That lady is tall,” Ginny said, following Lyse’s gaze.
“Yes, she is,” Lyse agreed, her eyes finally leaving the photo and returning to the leather book Ginny had originally brought her to see.
“Marji says you need to read it,” Ginny urged. “You should open it.”
Lyse did as the little girl said, sliding the book out of the bookshelf. She turned it over, running her fingers along the gold leaf title stamped into the dark leather.
“You weren’t kidding,” Lyse said. “It really is a Bible.”
Ginny cocked her head, making a funny face at Lyse.
“Of course it is, silly,” she said, and grinned.
Lyse looked at the book in her lap and, not sure what to expect, opened it, flipping to a random page in the middle.
“It just looks like a regular old Bible to me,” Lyse said, closing it up.
Ginny gave Lyse an exasperated look that said, You’re kind of slow, aren’t you?
“Marji said to look inside the cover.”
“Well, you should’ve just said that.”
Lyse opened the book again, this time flipping to the inside front cover.
“Oh,” she said, shocked that there was actually something to see: a series of handwritten names and dates.
The first two entries were in a looping cursive she didn’t recognize:
May Louella Eames—b. June 30th, 1922
Eleanora Davenport Eames—b. January 9th, 1944
The next three entries were in Eleanora’s strong, block printing:
My Twins:
Sonya May Eames—b. October 12th, 1967
&
David Davenport Eames—b. October 12th, 1967
Lyse Eames MacAllister—b. August 8th, 1988
Lyse stared at the page in disbelief.
“Everything all right?”
It was Arrabelle, her black skirts swirling like raven’s wings as she came up behind them.
“Fine,” Lyse said, snapping the Bible shut.
Arrabelle had no compunction about wading in where she wasn’t wanted. She hunkered down on the floor beside Lyse.
“Ginny, go outside with your sister.”
Lyse was amused by the little girl’s reaction. Ginny gave an exaggerated nod of her head and took off like a shot. Obviously, Lyse wasn’t the only one Arrabelle intimidated.
“What’ve you found?” Arrabelle asked, now that they were alone.
“Nothing,” Lyse said, holding the book protectively in her lap.
Arrabelle and Dev had both been great, arranging everything—and she meant everything—for the memorial, and Lyse would always be grateful to them. But right now she just didn’t want to share this new information with anyone.
She wanted to hold it close. To treat it like something shiny and new that needed her protection.
“Okay, I won’t press you,” Arrabelle said. “But if you want to talk, my door is always open.”
After what seemed like an eternity, Arrabelle crawled to her feet and gave Lyse’s shoulder a quick squeeze before she disappeared into the crowd. When she was gone, Lyse stuffed the Bible back into the bookcase.
She needed to get the hell out of there.
* * *
Lyse had arrived in Los Angeles during the coldest days of October—but after Eleanora’s death, the cold spell broke and a fierce Indian summer sent daytime temperatures soaring into the eighties. She hardly noticed the heat as she ran, feet pounding across the wooden bridge and down the stairs that led to the road.
She didn’t know where she was going or what she was doing, but three little words echoed in her brain: Sonya May Eames.
Sonya May Eames was Lyse’s mother—My Twins, Eleanora had written—which meant Eleanora was not Lyse’s distant relative; she was Lyse’s grandmother.
“Hey, where are you headed in such a hurry? I only just got here.”
The voice was teasing.
“Huh?” she replied, her mind blank as she looked up and saw Weir standing in the street beside his car, staring at her. He looked incredible in his black suit and skinny tie, dark blond hair pleasantly mussed. There were dark circles under his eyes, but Lyse knew hers were worse.
“Are you okay?” he asked, crossing to her. His long fingers brushed her bangs out of her eyes. “You look awful. What’s wrong?”
“I don’t. I—” she said, not making sense even to herself. “A walk. I—I had to get out of there.”
There was no judgment in his eyes. He seemed to understand her need to flee.
“How about some company?” he asked, taking her hand and slipping it inside his own.
She didn’t know if she wanted company. There was so much information to think over, so many thoughts she wanted to take out and look at without anyone keeping tabs, or looking over her shoulder, or inserting themselves into the process. She almost said as much to Weir, but then something about his tranquil gaze disarmed her.
She wasn’t sure what had changed, or why she felt so different—and then it hit her: All of her frantic, out-of-control feelings were gone. She didn’t know what part of him was responsible, but something in the very essence of who he was had calmed her down. Maybe it was his unobtrusive presence, the way he didn’t need anything from her, just wanted to hold her and love her.
She’d never had that in a lover before, and suddenly she understood that being with him was, for her, no different from being alone. He didn’t take anything away, only added to the equation.
She hadn’t noticed it before, but when she thought back over their interactions, she could see that he brought a sense of peace wherever he went.
“I’ve tried to give you a little space,” he said, squeezing her fingers. “I know it’s been rough and I didn’t want you to think I needed anything from you. I’m just . . . here. If you want me.”
She returned his squeeze.
“I appreciate it. I’d like you to stay. Maybe take a walk with me?”
He nodded, and they began to stroll. They didn’t need words, each unconsciously choosing to head away from Echo Park Avenue, toward the set of stairs that rose up out of the hills where Curran came to a dead end.
“I wanted to see you,” he said. “Of course, I wanted to see you, but I knew—I could feel—that you needed some time alone to process things before I started bugging you.”
He followed her down the slanted steps, leaving Curran Street and Eleanora’s
memorial far behind them.
“Yeah?” she said.
“Yeah,” he said, softly, bringing them to a stop just below the top of the stairs, so they could see Elysian Park laid out before them like an oil painting.
“I appreciate that,” Lyse said. “My brain’s been a little foggy the last few days.”
“Sit down,” he said, taking her by the shoulders and gently easing her onto one of the steps.
He sat beside her.
“Now look at the view.”
She did as he said. It was so beautiful here on the stairs. Like that old Carole King song her mom had liked to sing when Lyse was a kid . . . “Up on the Roof”—only sitting here was like sitting up on the roof of the world with only the deep blue sky to keep you from floating into outer space.
“I used to hide out here when I was a teenager,” Lyse said, lacing her fingers in between his. “When I was mad at Eleanora, I’d sit out on the stairs and watch the sunset. It reminded me, no matter how angry, or lonely, or frustrated I felt, there was so much more out there to see. That sooner or later things would get better.”
Weir nodded.
“But right now, I don’t know. I’m not a kid anymore. I’m not supposed to believe things will get better—I’m supposed to make them better.”
Weir wrapped his arm around Lyse’s shoulders and pulled her close. She wanted to tell him about Eleanora, but she didn’t even know how to begin. Instead, she let her brain go, focusing on his nearness, the way he smelled and tasted . . . the beat of his heart against her cheek.
“You smell so good,” she said, lifting her chin, so she could nuzzle her face against his neck.
He stroked her hair and kissed the top of her head.
“So do you.”
He held her chin in his hand, lifting her face, so he could look into her eyes before he leaned in and took her mouth. He tasted so sweet. She turned, wrapping her arms around his waist and squeezing him tight as they kissed. The connection between them was delicious.
She wanted more, wanted to crawl inside him and wear him like a second skin. Her kisses became more urgent as she felt herself give over to the burning attraction, tiny guttural moans escaping her lips. He grabbed her by the back of the head, gently tugging at her hair to expose her throat, trailing kisses down her skin and nibbling at her neck, leaving delicate love bites in his wake.