All of These Things

by De Mattea, Anna

  “Oh, shut up, Care! I’m not even thinking about that, now. Come over to the swing. Sit down, and I’ll bring you some water.”

  “No. I’m fine.”

  “Fuck, are you ever stubborn. I’m getting water,” she says, barging past me and into the house.

  “Caroline, is it possible you hit your head? You weren’t going down without a fight. I saw you, love. Maybe you were hurt in the process.”

  I know what he’s trying to do. Even if I am incapable of thinking, I can detect his purpose. Alec’s trying to convince me that I’m not weak and pathetic, and somehow this makes me feel even more vulnerable.

  He closes in, an arm around my waist, but I don’t need his support.

  “I said I’m fine, Alec. Really, I am.”

  Of course, my body decides to give up on me, and I’m about to plunge and crash to my knees if not for his swift, powerful arms.

  “Alright, sweetheart. Change of plans.”

  He swings me up from behind the knees, and I’m in his arms against his chest. My face is in the crook of his neck, and I’m not so jumbled that I can’t relish his scent once more.

  “You need to go to the hospital, Caroline.”

  “What happened?” I hear Sofie before I see her.

  “She almost fainted. Shall you drive or I? She needs a doctor.”

  “I’ll grab my purse and keys. Shit. Caroline will need her purse, too. I’ll meet you at the car.”

  Nathaniel’s Correspondence with Dr. Toussaint

  Tell me, Dr. Toussaint, if you think it was clear to me straight off the bat why Caroline’s biological father ran off? The coward recognized the danger-signs of being with someone like Amalia and couldn’t even do right by his unborn child. Well, better for me. Let’s just say there always was something atypical sneaking up to the surface, but at the same time, I was too captivated by Amalia to weigh the meaning of it all. I remember my business partner, Anthony Parrotta, asking me when it was that I became a sucker for a damsel in distress. He got on my last nerve many a time, and we even broke into a raw fight over Amalia. We pretend like it’s water under the bridge because, in the end, he was just concerned for me—as was my sister, Mara, and everyone else in my life who thought I was making a grave mistake. I was apprehensive about how it would all turn out but never ever had it crossed my mind to let her go. What sense would that make, anyway, if I was only going to miss and ache for that woman?

  I’m not an idiot. I knew there would be unique complications spoiling our union. But the fact is, I’d have both grieved and yearned for her if I’d let Amalia go, so in that way she remained in my life. What would it all be for? What would be the point of letting her go and going back to the life I had before I met her, if memories of her would squeeze that life right out of me? Walking away was never an option. It was too late for that. The toll she had on me was instant, and Amalia had a staunch place in my life from the day I met her. Did I ever tell you about that day?

  Chapter Eight

  I hope I’m not having a seizure. I’ve heard that you start to smell things that are nowhere close to you, and this random and motley scent of vanilla and chocolate is out of somewhere inexplicable. If I don’t have to draw out memories, then I don’t. I certainly don’t appreciate when they emerge like this of their own volition. There’s absolutely nothing in this calming green and intensely white hospital room that should trigger any recall. But it has, and it’s a hostile intrusion.

  It was one of the longest stretch of days in my life, and I suppose it makes sense why it has gone on to become one of my earliest memories. As soon as my mother plucked the cover off a lipstick, I sprang back to life, swooning after the sweet trace oozing from the black tube in her hand. The scent was reminiscent to the confetti topped marble cake from Sofie’s tenth birthday party, which made no sense at all. Mom had just finished making a fuss about my watermelon lip gloss and chucked it along with the tang of my favourite strawberry balm. I was starting kindergarten in a few weeks, so according to her, it was high time I recognize reputable brands, and a paramount lesson on her lipstick rules was in effect.

  She was handing down my first real lipstick, celebrating my impending entrance into school. It was a flawless, shimmering pink stick that looked like it had been dipped and coated in sugar and ice. She even dressed me for the big occasion. Mom plopped a large, floppy hat on my blond head after slipping a maxi dress over my pale body. In that particular period of time, she depended on me, and I existed for her. She was eager to present me with the metallic tube, but I was heartbroken to see her do away with my plastic ones. Mom cringed at their playful print and the sliding levers on their sides. She was impatient for me to learn about the more mature qualities of respectable lipsticks, so when that sweet scent had jumped at me, I hadn’t expected it. All that my first, real lipstick had done was remind me of marble cake.

  I imagined the tube sailing on rich, slick, vanilla-chocolate swirls, and even though a string of mirages was the only thing trying to fill my tummy in the last twenty-four hours, my belly protested. My insides burned. My mother’s lecture droned as I yawned.

  The day felt like it would never end. It started with light coming in from the kitchen window, and it had moved around the corner of the maroon brick apartment house, gleaming over my slender shoulder. I swallowed slowly, almost in stages, but the saliva was accumulating rapidly in my mouth. I was thirsty, but never dared to interrupt Mom’s tutorial.

  She went on about classic colours, which, in her eyes, were families of reds and plums, and I let her go on that way. I worked aggressively to control my swaying legs and rocking torso. During that entire week, my mother was chillingly restless. She was gripped and impatient by her new purpose—the last one had entailed waking me up the in the middle of the night to redecorate our apartment. My mother had decided our round, oak kitchen table should be away from her cooking space so guests wouldn’t have to look at the clutter when they gathered for her home-cooked meals.

  The first discrepancy was that Mom never entertained, nor did she cook! But I had waddled out of the queen bed we shared and pushed the table through our hall and into the living room. Then, we slid the sofas into the kitchen so the guests had a place to mingle while she was busy “cooking”. Apparently, she had read somewhere that the host shouldn’t miss out on conversations while tending supper. I knew it was outrageous, but the sooner we were done, the sooner I could lay back down to sleep.

  I don’t remember Mom looking like she lost a minute of sleep. She was over the moon about bequeathing me that lipstick and was especially euphoric when it became erect in my flimsy hand. It was so heartening to witness new life coursing through her nerves, and out of her every pore, that I opted not to ruin the moment by asking her for a meal, or even just breaking away for a fruit or slice of bread. During that time Mom, could stay up entire nights and didn’t eat for days. She was also inclined to keep me up with her, and our neighbours, especially Charlotte Landry from downstairs, became increasingly suspicious.

  My mother was scatty to discuss the lunch box I would need, or the painting smock, and I didn’t push those matters, either. I had no doubt my father would remember and fret over my school supplies even though he had had to find somewhere else to sleep. Mom wasn’t having any of him in those days, so I settled on the floor, readying myself to watch her group and regroup piles of lipsticks and stock and re-stock her lipstick spinner until Dad finally rang.

  Madame Landry became ever more suspicious after hearing noises in the middle of the night. Her inklings and reservations about my mother went full speed ahead after she came up offering blueberry muffins. Something I did, or something I said, led her to call my father’s office, and the fears and suspicions he himself had tried to push down burst at the seams. He made a revolutionizing decision about where my mother had to go, and that’s around the time I became selectively mute.

&nbs
p; Memory lane is suddenly cut short for me. Alec and Nurse Adrienne have returned, and I smear away the tears burning my cheeks. Alec’s mouth purses, and he loses some of his self-assured composure. I’m uneasy around his discomfiture, declining his eyes that beg me to use him for assistance.

  “Here you are, Miss. It’s hospital policy for patients to leave in a wheelchair after ER treatment.”

  “No, please. I honestly don’t need that,” I say, sitting upright and swinging my legs off the examination table. I dig my feet into my sandals resting on a stepping stool. “I’m not even dizzy anymore. I told the doctor that I just had a rough night. It’s a headache. I’m much, much better now.”

  “I’m really glad to hear it, but like I said—hospital policy.”

  “She’s quite stubborn, this one,” Alec cuts in. “We’ll compromise, Nurse. Thank you for your assistance.” Alec winks, and I’m positive the nurse has just come undone. Hell, I almost did in this jumbled state.

  Suddenly, I’m swung back off my feet before they touch the blue spotted vinyl flooring, and Alec’s carrying me again. Sofie left ahead of us so I wouldn’t have too far to go, and I know exactly the smirk I’ll find on her face when I look into the driver’s seat. These two have become thorns in my side.

  “Why do you get the front seat?” I ask in a nasty, petty tone as he tries to settle me into the rear of the car.

  “I don’t. I’ve just decided to sit back here with you.” He smiles his wolfish, Casanova grin. It’s the same one I wanted to smack last night. “If you haven’t noticed yet, Caroline, I take pleasure in your annoyance and provocations. I quite like you this way.”

  Sofie smiles wide and watches from the rear-view mirror.

  “I’m still mad at you,” I snap at her reflection.

  “I know. But we’re not fighting today. You need to heal that concussion before you can take me on again.”

  “How convenient for you.”

  “Very,” she says, beaming a snide grin.

  “Do you have my cell with you? I should call home.”

  “No, you shouldn’t.”

  “What! Why?”

  “Because you’ll tell Uncle Nate, and he’ll show up here with Ryan dragging us out of town. What they don’t know won’t hurt them, Care.”

  “Honestly, Sofie. Why on Earth would I tell them about the break in? How would that even help? I want to call and check in on my mother. God. I’m not an idiot.”

  “Well, I was worried you’d make this into an excuse to go home.”

  “You’re impossible, you know that?” I say, rubbing my brow as though it will relieve my headache. “No matter what I do, you’re impossible to please. Does Jason know this about you?”

  “You can tell him yourself, later.”

  “He’s coming back?”

  “Yup. Alec and Jay are picking up supper tonight. It’ll be just the four of us. You need a quiet evening, anyway.”

  “Indeed,” Alec confirms.

  “Well am I allowed to call my boyfriend, or are you banning me from him, too, Mussolini?”

  In my peripheral vision, I catch an unshakeable sense that something’s suddenly wrong with Alec, almost like I can see the prickle of his scalp. He’s having a difficult time erasing an uneasy look off his face, but he pulls together, trying a different tact.

  “Sofie, I sincerely doubt the two of you having a row will help her injury.”

  “This is all on her,” I whine. “I’m not the one picking a fight. She started, and I’m nauseous back here. Great plan.” I sneer at Alec, wishing his gaze would detach itself from mine. His smile lengthens—it’s becoming quite the bane to my holiday.

  “That’s the concussion, love. You must rest that pretty little head of yours today. Like Sofie said, we’ll bring supper along later, but make sure you rest. Perhaps Sofie can poke and prod you awake every hour.”

  I can only grumble to that. “Oh, she’ll enjoy that.”

  “Every chance I get,” Sofie jeers.

  “Don’t you have something better to do than play house or doctor?” I say, turning my attention to the left. There’s no grey in his eyes, today. They’re unquestionably blue and sparkling but darker pools than mine. He’s dressed casual again: jeans and a khaki t-shirt.

  “Out with it, love. You worry we’ll dance again? Well don’t, Caroline. We won’t... not tonight.”

  PASSAGES

  Ryan: My sister says every girl leaves a clue, and that I’m not looking well enough. But honest to God, Caroline hasn’t left any clues. I’m racking my brain because there’s nothing that jumps to mind. I don’t know anything about what cut or style she likes. I guess I could ask Sofie, but Sofie’s… well I don’t want to talk to her unless I have to. Besides, she’s practically an old maid. She’s nowhere close to settling down, so what would she know about the perfect ring for Caroline.

  Alec: I need a pint every time I hear that bloke’s name.

  Chapter Nine

  I flare up from a drowsy state of rest. The jab at my shoulder is too rough to be a segment from an unfinished dream. My eyes set on the glass of coconut water that’s on a lace-covered tea table by the bed. I twist over and find Sofie lying next to me, ready to poke me again with kitchen tongs.

  “Great! You’re not dead,” she says, slithering down next to me. “I thought you may have died in your sleep.”

  I grumble, inveighing against her presence. “What is wrong with you?”

  “What? I’m just checking in,” Sofie clarifies, devoid of the tinge of hesitation a normal person feels after digging into one’s flesh.

  “Well, why not come at me with a butcher knife?”

  “If I had to I would, but I didn’t think it was really necessary. How’s your head?”

  “Agonizing. And it has everything to do with you and not the concussion.”

  I pick up the glass of water and slide up against the headboard. The bedroom is a cloudy white space with even whiter garnishing, and it occurs to me, that for this week, I finally have a room of my own. Its crisp palette is a calming distraction from the raging flashes of memories since the break-in. There’s a chalky-white six-drawer dresser and even whiter doors with glass knobs. The trimmings and mouldings are white, like the capiz shell chandelier over the white quilted bed. The only items interrupting the pattern are two peachy-pink throw pillows and a turquoise blanket on a white rocking chair.

  During the attack, my mind froze and raced in equal measure. That process alone wiped me out more than the blows from the actual assault. It’s as close as I’ve ever been to understanding a cycle of mania and the depletion that follows. As I reflect on that, my love and dedication for Mom immediately heightens, swelling in my chest—choking me with sympathy and a pang of conscience.

  The physical toll that comes from a spurt of hyper-restlessness, followed by an even longer bout of wretched melancholy or self-discrimination, is real and shattering. For someone like my mother, it’s an unsolicited dance partner in the darkest of ballrooms—a perpetual step sequence without song. Except, when my mind froze and raced in that way, it was for mere seconds or minutes compared to days and weeks.

  For some, it really is like pedalling backwards despite the fact that they’re trying to redeploy their minds, finding other things—beautiful, colourful, happy things to focus on and distract them. I’m thankful to discover that I can effortlessly find diversion from the sound of the rolling, crashing waves, and I know I don’t want to miss another minute of the beach and my holiday, or even my life. Mom re-routes her thoughts to the safety of her dressing room, but like a nesting doll, her intentions are a struggle inside another struggle. I suppose it does always come back to her. My mother is inescapable—bigger and more consequential than any joy or calamity in my life. Rueful, I think about what that means for Ryan.

  “Is Jason down there
?” I ask, my face furrowing after noting sounds coming from the kitchen.

  “And Alec,” Sofie leers. “I told him to come up here and wake you up himself, but apparently it’s not very gentleman-like to turn up in a woman’s quarters,” she says, reproducing an awful British accent.

  I ignore her effort to cultivate a dialogue on the matter that is Alecsander Vaughn, but to my chagrin, I’m also taking in the fact that I’m in the same dress from earlier and want to modify what I look like before heading downstairs.

  Shit. This is not good. My behaviour is hardly ideal, now is it? I’m really beginning to loathe all of England.

  “I’ll be down in a sec. I just want to call Mom,” I say. “And Ryan. I want to call Ryan,” I add, trying to distract myself from our tempting visitor.

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake, Caroline. Didn’t you already do all of that before taking a nap? What the hell could have changed? Just freshen up and come down for supper. The guys brought a delicious spread.”

  “What time is it, anyway?” I ask, disoriented as my feet make contact with the floor.

  “Eight-ish,” Sofie answers. “Also known as…” she moves smoothly off the bed, eerily feline, “the new, ungodly hour for Caroline and her British gentleman to continue their eye-fucking extravaganza.”

  I wince.

  “Get out!” I command. “I need to get dressed.”

  Sofie paces backwards, watching me keenly as she makes her way to the door and smiles wide like an idiot. She brings the tong up, clipping at the air, and gleefully exits the room.

  I revive some colour into my face and pep up my hair. I almost pull apart my shirt-dress once I’m back in my room and ram my legs into white jean shorts. After yanking a tank top over my head, I jam my arms through a peach and grey kimono, slide my feet into running socks, and force them into sneakers. Sofie meanders back.

  “Hey,” she says.

  “What do you want, now?” My voice is shaky.