by RMGilmour
He paused, making me wonder if I was really that bad at it.
You give it a heart and then shatter it.
I wasn’t sure which was worse. Although upon hearing him say this, I had to question how I sounded in general when speaking to others. I used to be happy. Even after my aunt’s death I still found happiness with my husband. And now with Jordan I began to feel it again, and I was beginning to understand Dr. Riley’s constant insistence with me meeting people, and getting back into life. But it was easy with Jordan. He hadn’t yet seen me and probably never would.
What else do you have? he interrupted my thoughts. Another favorite.
I left the comfort of my kitchen chair and plodded back to my book cases, and smiled.
“I know one we can read,” I said, pulling a slim book from the shelf.
No, you read to me, he corrected.
“Why? Are you having trouble with the words? You can see them just as clearly as I can, and I’m sure your machine can interpret.”
No, he breathed. I’m going to lay here and get lost in your voice.
It wasn’t so much his words as how he said it that rushed a welcome warmth to my cheeks.
“So, you want me to do all the work while you go back to sleep,” I teased.
You don’t like to read?
“I love to read.”
Then where’s the work? he laughed.
“Fine,” I smiled, wishing I could see his face while his laughter worked its smooth way through me. “But if I have a way of shattering words, then why would you want to hear it?”
When he spoke next it was quiet, thoughtful, and his voice wavered a little as though he had difficulty saying the words.
Your voice moves through me, and fills me with life and feeling where there hasn’t been any for a very long time. The same way mine does for you.
I couldn’t argue with that. Instead of nestling into my chair, I pulled from the hall closet a small basket and my blanket, added my book and a bottle of water, and headed for the front door.
Where are we going? I thought we were reading.
“I thought I was reading,” I corrected. “And I’m going to the river.”
Once there, I decided not to go all the way to the river, and instead, remained near the forest edge. Under the shade of a tree, looking out across the field, I spread the blanket upon the ground and retrieved my book from the basket.
What are we reading?
“I am reading,” I corrected again. “One of my favorites, as you suggested. It was written almost two hundred years ago.”
Again, what are we reading?
“Impatient!” I remarked, and briefly explained fiction. “Persuasion, by Jane Austen.”
Has she written anything more recent?
I actually laughed for the first time in forever; however, the sound coming out of my mouth startled me back into silence.
What’s so funny?
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have laughed.” I realized that while his age was normal for him, he clearly didn’t know that it wasn’t for me.
Why did you?
“It was your question. It was unexpected. We don’t live extraordinarily long lives like you do.”
My life hasn’t been extraordinarily long. He stopped, and I waited for him to realize my point, and I wondered why if others like him had been here before, that he didn’t know. Surely, they had some kind of a record.
How long are your lives?
“Some live eighty, maybe ninety years if they’re lucky, a very few a little longer, but not by much.”
And where in this short life span are you?
“I’m twenty-seven.”
Again, no response, and I wished I could have heard his thoughts the way he heard mine.
Now I understand your remarks yesterday. I must seem positively ancient to you. If only you could see that I wasn’t.
I already knew that he wasn’t old, despite his age. He didn’t sound old, not to me, and it didn’t matter anyway. I wouldn’t have cared if he was purple with green spots, it wouldn’t have changed the difference I felt within me. I was coming back to life. I was smiling, and I was happy. He did that, and continued to do that with every moment. I was grateful for every second I had with him.
Read to me, he whispered.
And we remained under the tree for the entire day, me reading and him listening. It was two evening’s later through much discussion, debate and re-reading of passages, when we finally came to the pivotal scene with Anne and her letter from Captain Wentworth, and he stopped me two thirds of the way through it.
Please don’t read anymore.
“But it’s a happy ending,” I complained.
Not if it makes you cry.
I laughed despite the tightening in my chest.
“Sometimes the baring of one’s soul to another is so overpowering that you can’t help but cry,” I insisted. “He is finally declaring his love for her. And it’s a very beautiful letter.”
But if he truly loved her, he wouldn’t have put her through all of that to begin with.
“Sometimes life and love are not that simple.”
Ok, he sighed. Let’s hear the happy ending.
And I read through the remaining pages, sighing as I always did at the end of a great story.
Agreed, he said. It is a great story. But you should get some sleep.
I didn’t want him to leave yet again. It had been a fun few days, and I had become used to the feeling of being with him through most of the day and night. It was a nice change from the emptiness. Though I really needed to get back to work; my savings were only going to last for so long.
“Goodnight then,” I whispered.
I’ll be back in the morning?
I chuckled at his sentence; what began as a statement, turned into a question. He wanted to, but was unsure of me.
“Actually, I need to work. Meet me for sunset?”
I’ll be here.
∞
It became our daily routine, to meet by the river each afternoon - or rather in my head by the river - enjoying the sunset, until one day the clouds had overtaken the sky, and he rather strongly requested that I remain outside. I stared up at the slow moving, dark-grey mass hoping it wouldn’t release its contents upon me, but no such luck, and I blinked up into the rain so that he could watch its movement. But when the first sound of thunder reached me I ran for it, back to my apartment, and we stared out of my living room window, enthralled by the lightening.
Each evening, I would read to him from books or magazines and explore the internet, showing him the world around me. He would describe for me the progress he’d made each day on his creations, the sunsets, the night sky, the dawn, and the many smaller images he’d painted from the pictures I’d shown him.
He explained the process that linked his thoughts with his hands, matching color for color, shape for shape, over every square inch of space across his generated ceiling. Then once completed, his Central Unit would replicate it for anyone desiring the scene.
It would become available to all, including those that live off-world.
“Off-world?”
We had expanded to other planets over the many years. Though we are cut off from all that had left. They can’t return, and we can’t leave.
My own fault for asking. But at least I could understand this - expanding to other planets. It was something that I could visualize.
Each day he would arrive a little earlier and leave later every night, both of us reluctant to part ways, but sleeping was necessary. Until one night, I asked him to stay.
“If you wanted, and if it was possible,” I quickly added, just in case he didn’t want to, he had the option of an excuse.
Why would you think I wouldn’t want to stay?
But I couldn’t answer. My response would require one explanation after another, something I wasn’t yet prepared to go through.
“So
, are you staying?”
Now who’s impatient?
“Well, if you are, I need you to leave for about a half hour or so.”
Why?
“I just do. Please?”
Of course.
I waited and felt him leave. It had begun to get harder to sense when he came and went.
The void inside me that once tried to swallow me whole, was now barely discernible, as though each time he departed he left a little piece of himself behind to fill in the empty spaces, and pieces of me came out of their darkened corners to join him.
I ran to the bathroom, showered and dressed in PJ’s as I did every night, hoping he wouldn’t come back before I was done. I then turned out all of the lights, snuggled under the blankets, and waited. Though it wasn’t long before I felt him return. At least they were still able to tell time on his world.
Ha-ha, he responded to my last thought. The concept is not lost upon us. I do have a question though.
“Sure,” I answered, hoping it wasn’t too complicated, or embarrassing.
Well, it’s actually not my question, it’s Mason’s, if that’s ok. When you told me about your brother, you mentioned he died in combat. Are you at war with other worlds?
“No, sometimes with ourselves.”
Why?
“Greed, power, insanity… who really knows.”
Can you show me?
I began to get out of bed to return to the computer, but he stopped me, reminding me he could see it in my thoughts.
I wasn’t entirely sure why he would want to see images of us at war, but I brought forth every memory, or image I could think of. My brother in his uniform, proud and smiling. His array of weapons, watching him shoot, his friends in uniform - though they were harder to remember. I focused then on other images I’d seen on TV, and there were plenty - trenches being dug, bodies being buried, soldiers shot down, tanks, explosions, civilians hurt or worse, the holocaust that wrenched at my chest, and finally, a nuclear explosion.
He didn’t say anything for a long time. I was sure that someone from his world, no doubt at peace, would have trouble with what I’d shown him.
Does your planet even still breathe? What kind of world do you live in? he whispered.
“The only one we have.”
No wonder our Central Unit suppressed information.
I didn’t know what to say to him, there was no excuse for any of it.
I’m sorry I asked you to bring up those images right before going to sleep.
But I couldn’t explain to him that it wouldn’t make a difference.
Lydia?
“Yes?”
Goodnight.
“Goodnight,” I whispered back.
Lydia?
“Yes?”
You know I’ll be able to see your dreams, don’t you?
Actually, I was counting on it. I’d struggled for weeks to find the courage to say what I needed to, and failed each time. I didn’t know how else to tell him about Loss number five.
4
First Sight
When I opened my eyes, the dawn I used to greet with dismay, spilled cheerfully through my window, and I remembered leaving the curtains open the previous evening; in my hurry to get into bed I hadn’t given a thought to closing them. The morning light no longer hurt my eyes, reminding me that another day had come, instead I welcomed it with a smile, relishing the thought of another day with Jordan.
I wasn’t sure if he was still with me, so I lay still, listening, waiting for him.
Good morning, he murmured.
I smiled. He stayed. I tried to remember my dreams, if the recurring nightmare had also stayed, but for the first night in forever, I was sure my night had been dream-free.
“Anything interesting happen last night?”
I wouldn’t tell you if it had, he teased.
“I was talking about my dreams.”
So was I.
Not the result I was hoping for. I needed him to know everything, but I wasn’t sure if I could talk about it without screaming. Even in Dr. Riley’s office, he was the one that did the talking on that subject.
But I was different now. The hole left by the void was barely discernible. The pain had reached the end of its attempted ownership of me, and was withdrawing back into memories appropriately filed into the perspective of past events, long gone. I just didn’t know if they would stay in that neat little file.
“Three years ago, to the very day that we met…”
You don’t have to do this.
“Well, I think it’s more for my benefit than yours. So, if you don’t mind hearing it,” I told him and waited, but he didn’t object. “Three years ago, to the very day you and I met, my… hhhusband and I were driving home from dinner. It was our anniversary.” The pain squeezed at my chest as the memories formed into words.
“A drunk driver sped through a red light. Brian swerved to miss him, but the other car clipped the back end of ours. We spun around and then rolled over and smashed through a large, plate-glass, store front.”
My chest had constricted so tightly I could barely breathe. I didn’t want to breathe. I wasn’t sure if my next words would come out as insane laughter, or as the unstoppable scream I’d been dreading.
“He… we ended up on our side. While the glass was still falling, I… I wish I hadn’t looked over,” don’t look over, don’t look over, don’t look over, I urged myself in the memory, but the memory stayed the same, and I felt the fear rising within me.
“He… his… blood was running out of…” and my screams tore through my chest, both in the memory, as well as in that moment with Jordan.
I couldn’t say at what point I had rolled over and buried my face in the pillow, but the lack of oxygen had no doubt given me need enough to roll the other way, and I gulped the air back in. The void inside me had not opened me up and swallowed me, as I’d expected it would. I still felt whole. Though he was still with me. I was sure that whole feeling inside me was him, his presence keeping me together, but he was too quiet.
“Are you here?” I whispered anyway. I had to check.
Yes, he began, then cleared his throat. I saw… felt your memory with you. It’s a miracle you survived.
Emotionally, mentally, physically, it was a miracle, or a curse. But there was one more thing he needed to know. Probably easier to show him than tell him. Though I’d often wondered if I looked into a mirror while he was with me, whose eyes would be looking back at me. I climbed out of bed and walked the few steps to the bathroom.
What are you doing?
“I survived. But the memory of what happened is not only in my head.”
What do you mean?
“It’s on my face.”
I turned toward the mirror, took a deep breath and noisily exhaled.
At first, I let my long, brown hair fall around me, then slowly I raised my head. I brushed the hair away from my face and found my own hazel-green eyes - actually more green now that they were surrounded by red - staring back at me. Well, there went that theory.
Wow. You’re beautiful, he whispered.
Are you not looking at me? I thought, knowing he could hear me, but maybe he couldn’t yet see it, and I cringed as I slightly turned my head.
Of course, I’m looking at you. I see your scars.
It was deep, white, a patchwork beginning at the top left of my forehead, that crisscrossed to my cheekbone, close to my eye. It ran down over my jaw to about half way down my neck, and then continued on in one jagged slash after another, down my left arm and across my left thigh. It could have been a whole lot worse. I had trained myself to say that every time I looked at it. It helped to soften the blow of seeing it.
There is more precious beauty in your face and in your heart, even with all your scars, than I have seen in all my years.
I didn’t know what it was he was looking at, even before the accident I wasn’t prett
y, not by anyone’s standards. I wished that I could see his face in return.
I don’t know how to make that happen. Maybe Mason will know.
“I have to be somewhere this morning,” I told him, as I left the bathroom.
Where?
“I have an appointment with Dr. Riley,” I admitted.
Ah, that was smart, waiting until today to show me all that you did.
“That was the plan. He’s been there for me, through it all. For a long time, we met weekly, but it didn’t make much difference, I wasn’t getting any better, and I was uncomfortable being out in public so much. I meet with him still, but just once every couple of months.”
Are you going to tell him about me?
“What, that I’m hearing voices? He already thinks I’m crazy enough.”
He laughed. I closed my eyes and relished the feeling.
How long will you be gone?
“A few hours. Should probably get some food while I’m out.”
Then I’ll be back later. Lydia?
“Yes?”
Go back to the mirror.
I did and looked up one more time. I normally didn’t look in the mirror this much. It felt weird.
I love you, he whispered.
But I could only smile and drop my head. I couldn’t say it back to him. Not looking at myself anyway. That was too weird.
He chuckled as his presence left me.
∞
After arriving home, I paced the small perimeter of my apartment, waiting for him. And stopped at my bathroom mirror.
“Where are you?” I whispered at the mirror. It was just a standard, bathroom-cabinet size mirror, hung upon the wall over a white porcelain sink. Nothing fancy or magical about it, and I don’t know why I chose to stand at the mirror, it wouldn’t make one bit of difference. Though perhaps because it was the last place I’d spoken to him; it now held a special meaning.
“Come on,” I urged my reflection, hoping he could somehow hear me.
But still, no response.
My eyes traveled down my face to rest upon the patchwork of scars. Even after three years it was still quite apparent, and I knew it wouldn’t soften any further. But it remained the initial and unspoken focus point of everyone that looked at me. I hated going out in public. The doctor that stitched me up told me I had beautiful eyes, and that if people would rather look at those marks than my eyes then it was their loss. At the time, I couldn’t tell if he was just being kind, or if he was coming on to me. But it turned out his words were merely part of the big distraction to get me back to feeling human again.