Candle in the Attic Window

by Silvia Moreno-Garcia

  At last, Lorena looked in the mirror and saw her new head. Her face looked smaller, her eyes larger. It was certainly different. She didn’t bother to clean up the bathroom, just stripped off her shorts and crawled into bed.

  She lay on her side and smoked a cigarette while looking out the window. Someone was walking down the street. He was tall, with dark hair pulled back in a tail. Familiar. Thigh-length black jacket and dark pants. Boots on his feet. Their heavy tread echoed below. He was thin, almost sickly, and beautiful. So familiar. She’d seen him somewhere before. Where? Lorena ashed her cigarette out the window and inhaled again, watching. Not many people were out at this hour and she always studied those who were, trying to guess where they were off to, where they might be coming from.

  He looked up, then, and Ohmygodhesbeautifulthemostbeautifulthingi’veeverseen, his eyes, large dark eyes she could see even from her window, held hers for a moment before he put his hands in pockets and walked on.

  She shivered with excitement under the covers. What just happened? It wasn’t much, but it was what she’d wanted – something different. Enough, perhaps, for her to finally be able to sleep. She wondered what he looked like up close and why she thought he was beautiful, when all she’d really seen was a coat and dark hair. But his eyes, they seemed to look right at her. And she could have sworn she knew him from somewhere. But where? She wondered if he would be back tomorrow, wondered if she dared walk downstairs if he was, wondered and eventually fell asleep.

  •

  She awoke to rain misting her face. It finally felt like September. She glanced at the clock and saw it was 7:00. She had gotten nearly three hours of sleep, the most she’d had at one time in weeks. But instead of rested, she felt edgy. Eyes haunted her mind as she got up. Dark eyes that searched hers.

  The bathroom was a mess. A fine drizzle of hair covered the toilet seat and long strands clumped together on the floor. Her braid, now coming undone at the top, was on the small ledge between medicine chest and sink. She picked it up, surprised at how much it weighed, and brought it with her to the kitchen as she smoked her morning cigarette.

  “Well, what am I going to do with this – glue it back on? Send it to Mom?” She giggled, as she thought of her mother opening up a package to find a chunk of hair, and tossed the braid in the paper sack she used for garbage. She’d take it to the dumpster before going to work. Which, she realized, she had less than an hour to get to.

  She grabbed a clean Family Mart shirt before hitting the shower. She kept the water lukewarm and enjoyed the goose bumps it produced. Such a relief from the heat of yesterday. Hopefully, summer was over for good. She wet her hair, running her hands through it until they reached empty air, still expecting to find a long mane. She smiled a little to herself at her forgetfulness and closed her eyes as she lathered in shampoo. It felt good to have so little to go through. She found herself thinking of the man she had seen the night before, how he had looked up before walking on. But had he really seen her? What if he had? And where had she seen him before? Her mind wandered as she went through the motions of shaving and washing, and focused on work. Family Mart, the grocery store where she was manager and sole employee of the tiny floral department. She hated the store itself and the job didn’t pay well, but she enjoyed the plants and flowers. Something about their crispness, their perfection, appealed to her.

  And then Lorena remembered where she had seen him before. It was a Friday evening, not the busiest of times for her department. He had shown up wanting a white rose. All she had were the usual red, yellow and pink, and some that were white with pink-tinged edges. He selected one of those and, when she wrapped and handed it to him, his hand had touched hers. Only for a second, but she shivered, remembering. She hadn’t noticed much about him until that point, but whatever it was that came through with his touch really made her look at him. His green eyes caught orangish flecks from the overhead lights. Those eyes were the most remarkable thing about him, dark and enticing. His body was skinny, too thin, dark clothes hanging off of him like an exotic scarecrow, but exquisite just the same.

  The water became cold, startling her out of reverie and into the present. She had accomplished something. She knew where she had seen him before. Small victory, but it made her morning brighter.

  Her mind continued flashing pictures as she dried off. Of the dark coat. The hair. His eyes. Why was she so concerned with someone she had seen for a grand total of six or seven minutes? Because he was her ideal. Sure, she didn’t know a thing about him, but all of her fantasies to this point had involved a tall man with dark hair. His face changed with her fantasies, but his features remained constant. Long, thin arms and legs that were lightly muscled. Long fingers on strong hands. What if she were to walk downstairs tonight and just go up, as in one of her late-night fantasies, and put her arms around him? What would he do? Probably tell me to get the hell out of his face.

  •

  Work passed in a blur. It was order day, so she spent her time clipping stems, pricing, rotating product and making arrangements. She did the work by rote, nodding and smiling at the infrequent customers, clipping and pricing, but the whole time, her mind was on the man with the hypnotic eyes. Who is he and why do I keep thinking about him?

  That night, Lorena tried to sleep but kept waking up to peer out the window, expecting him to be outside. But, of course, he wasn’t, and the only thing she gained was more circles under her eyes. The rest of the week was much the same. She saw him from the window twice more and both times, he appeared to be watching her apartment. Of course this was imagination, wishful thinking ... but it satisfied her. And each night, she looked for him, hoping for more than a glimpse, for the courage to go outside and speak to him. Her nightly walks had stopped; she was afraid she would miss him if she left her watch at the window.

  The sickness began a few days later. Even the thought of food repulsed her. Some of the other employees said something about a flu going around, but everyone else seemed to get sick for a day and bounce right back. Lorena languished. She was not sure whether the fatigue was the result of her late-night wakings or from being ill. She woke at night to smoke and keep vigil, before falling into uneasy dreams.

  •

  The following week, she was sent home from work, with instructions not to come back until she had a doctor’s note clearing her from illness. She dragged herself home and immediately fell asleep. She woke four hours later. Her head pounded with every beat of her heart and her mouth was fuzzy. Lorena closed her eyes and tried not to think. Her eyes throbbed with every breath, white flashes colouring the movement. She opened her eyes and the flashes persisted at the edge of her vision. Her stomach roiled, clenching and releasing, until she couldn’t take it anymore. She made it to the bathroom and dry-heaved for what felt like hours before a thin stream of bile made its way out. Her eyes watered, nostrils burned. She turned on the faucet and stuck her mouth on it, tasting the grimy, unwashed metal.

  She looked up into the mirror. Her eyes were larger than ever, but lined with shadow, faded, watered down. Her skin was paler than normal, highlighting her freckles.

  She needed a cup of tea, some chicken soup. She hadn’t bought food, her mind focused only on the man outside the window. She would go to the corner store, get what she needed, then come back and rest.

  Leftover rain formed puddles on the sidewalk and a scent of decay drifted up from the sewers. She walked slowly, one foot in front of the other, careful not to fall, avoiding puddles the best she could so the water didn’t get into her ripped tennis shoes. Her head spun, still pounding. Her fingers rolled over and over the money in her pocket, feeling the crumpled bills – a ten, a five, a one – rolling over and over three quarters, pressing them in the clefts between fingers. One, two, three.

  Someone was behind her. She heard the footsteps, almost in time with hers, and hoped that whoever it was wouldn’t give her trouble. She didn’t think she had the strength to deal with it tonight. She concentrat
ed on the money. Three bills, three coins, three and three. Three more buildings to pass before she got to the store. Light shone out of its front window, brightening the sidewalk and making her headache worse. She stared at the ground as she walked. Tea bags, soup, aspirin. Three things to get.

  The footsteps grew louder and a shadow drew up beside her. Water splashed onto her feet, making her shiver. “Sorry,” a deep voice said.

  She looked up and forgot to walk. It was him. Dressed in the same jacket, dark pants, beautiful face. He was tall , as she looked up, she noticed that stubbled shadow lined his upper lip and chin. His eyes were pools of darkness fringed by long lashes. Under his coat, white letters stood out on a black t-shirt, but light from the store made her squint so she could not tell what it said. He didn’t seem as thin or sickly as he had from the window. He looked at her, waiting.

  “N-no problem,” Lorena stammered. She smoothed her hair back, feeling how greasy it was, wishing its mass was back so she could hide behind it. Why did I cut it? She wondered what she looked like through his eyes.

  “Watch out for those for those puddles,” he said, and continued walking. “You’ll catch a cold.”

  She stayed where she was, reveling in the sound of his voice as shivers racked her body, afraid she would fall down. If only she had been feeling better; if only she hadn’t cut her hair. If only he wasn’t so perfect. If only. She breathed deeply, trying not to think, hoping the dizziness would pass, watching him walk up the street, wondering where he was going. The outside lights to the corner store blinked off and Lorena remembered why she was here. She quickly went in and completed her shopping.

  Climbing the stairs back to her apartment was agony. She had to stop several times, panting deeply. The bag weighed a ton. She dragged it on the floor behind her, half-tempted to leave it on the steps, but the emptiness in her stomach pushed her on. At one point, she forgot where she was going, wondered what she was doing on the stairway and whose stairs they were. She noticed the stains on the wall, as if for the first time, and gazed at them, trying to make sense of things. Eyes stared out of the wall. His eyes. Searching.

  “I’m here,” she whispered. A face formed around the eyes, blurry. She smiled, happy he had sought her out. His body came into focus and then his clothes. Baggy jeans that looked newer than new, a bright-yellow t-shirt. Curly brown hair.

  “Whachoo lookin’ at, psycho? Think the wall’s gonna help you up these steps?” The laughter continued as the man pushed her out of the way, bounding down the steps.

  Home. If she could just get home and something to drink. Her throat was parched, head throbbing more than ever. She had become used to the rhythm, though, a second heartbeat Soup. Water. Tea, she chanted mentally, as she shuffled up the stairs. Somehow, she made it the rest of the way. The bag ripped, but nothing fell out except the corner of the cracker box. She shut the front door and latched it, made her way to the bed. She was hot and cold, hungry and tired. The cracker, dry as a page from one of her books, held no appeal. She struggled with the cap to the soda bottle for a few seconds before giving up and sipping water from the glass that had been sitting on the table all day. There wasn’t much, but it wet the back of her throat, eased the ache. The walls pulsed with the beat of her head and heart. She wrapped herself in a blanket and shuffled into the kitchen to put a pot of fresh water on the stove.

  By the time the water boiled, Lorena was curled into a corner against the cabinets, shaking. It took an eternity for her to pull herself up and rescue the pot, pour some of the water into a cup with a tea bag, spilling most of it on the counter. Some splashed to the floor and burned her feet. She was so weak at this point she decided to forgo the soup and, instead, took her tea to the bed. She propped her pillow up on the wall and rested her back against it. Sipped tea while watching the night and closed her eyes before finishing the cup.

  Sleep came in fitful sweats of tossing and turning. And dreams. When she woke up, she felt worse than before, her head a metronome of pain, face on fire. She made it to the kitchen for water and aspirin and soup. Her throat was too swollen to swallow the pills, but she sipped at the water and carried the soup back to the bed in a chipped blue bowl edged with stars. She settled into bed, spilling on herself, and leaned back against the wall while she ate. She glanced at the clock. 3:38 a.m.

  Half-closed eyes gazed outside. A car drove down the street, leaving drunken laughter in its wake. A woman walked quickly past Lorena’s building, shoulders hunched, hands in pockets. The wind blew and Lorena caught the odour of oncoming rain. She loved that smell. It reminded her of childhood, brown leaves and brown eyes. Brown, brown eyes that never left her thoughts. She didn’t want – or need – to think about the man who had been haunting her the past few – had it only been days? It felt as if she had first seen him ages ago.

  The soup gone, she set the bowl on the floor next to the bed. She’d move it in the morning. Her throat was still parched and she glanced toward the kitchen. It wasn’t that far away, but it would take too much effort to get there and find a glass, turn on the faucet and then come all the way back. Her throat clicked and she sighed. Got out of bed and made her way to the kitchen.

  •

  Sunlight and cold linoleum woke her up. Her face was pressed against the cabinet under the sink, feet curled up behind her. What had happened? Why was she in the kitchen? She sat up weakly, muscles protesting. The groove etched in her face from the cabinet began to tingle and she rubbed it absently.

  The daily sounds of passing cars and people drifted in through the open window. She stood up and drank half a glass of water, filled it again and took it with her back to bed. She thought about calling work and decided against it. She wasn’t to come back without a doctor’s note, so she supposed she would not be going back at all.

  She sipped at the water, which was gone too soon, and lay back on the bed. Looked out the window. A group of people walked by, laughing and pushing each other jokingly. The group passed, but one person stayed behind. He stared up at Lorena’s window, dark eyes locked with hers. It was him. Still in his leather jacket and jeans. Didn’t he own any other clothes? Maybe he was like the guy she went to high school with, who owned five black t-shirts and three pairs of Levis 550 jeans. He thought it was a big joke that everybody thought he wore the same thing every day. Maybe that’s what he did. She had the urge to run down and ask him. To run her fingers through his hair, pull his face toward her and not let him go. She ran fingers through her own hair, feeling the spikes of early-morning hair, the grease from days of not washing it. Like he’d let her anywhere near him. She looked down, again, and he was gone, again. Dammit.

  Her stomach twinged. She stumbled to the bathroom and saw how wasted she looked. Pale skin and wizened eyes. At least ten years older than she had looked last week. One thing she had to admit, though, was that she’d been sleeping better since she’d been sick. Not, she noted, that it seemed to be doing her much good. Always thin, she now looked anorexic, like she’d been starving herself. Goddamned flu. Maybe I will go to a doctor. I can hike to the bus stop and go to ReadyMed.

  Shower first. All she needed was a few minutes under the spray, but Lorena didn’t think she could handle even that. She grabbed a shriveled washrag from the rack in the shower and ran it under cold water in the sink. Wiped at her armpits and under her breasts, breasts that felt like tight little bags too close to her skin. She grimaced in disgust and stuck her head under the running water, soaking her hair and washing it with liquid soap. She splashed her face and patted it dry. Ran a toothbrush through her mouth. Rolled on deodorant. She sat naked on the toilet seat for a few minutes, trying to catch her breath, to let her muscles stop screaming at her. Breath came too quickly and her head began its slow beat. If she could only get dressed and then to the doctor, she might be all right.

  She grabbed the faded black shirt she had left on the towel rack two days ago and pulled it over her head. Shuffled the few feet back to the bed and lay down. Just fo
r a moment. A short rest on top of the sheets and everything would be fine. She’d go the bus stop, to the doctor.

  •

  Lorena woke to feel the t-shirt soaked with sick-sweat, the cotton clinging claustrophobically. Not today. No way would she make the doctor today. She glanced over at the kitchen counter and saw there was only one more can of soup left, but she still had the box of crackers, three of the plastic packages still unopened. She’d be all right until the flu passed. She just needed to rest.

  She wrapped herself in covers that stank of illness and once again looked out the window. Slept.

  The next time she woke up, she knew it was now or never. She had to get help. The sun had set, so she knew the clinic would not be open, but the hospital didn’t close – did it? She’d find out. She pulled on sweat pants and tennis shoes and made it over to the front door. Opened it.

  “Hi,” he said. He leaned on the doorframe as if it were the most natural thing in the world. As if they knew each other. As if he belonged.

  “Hi,” she said, surprised. “I, uh, I’m on my way out.” Her voice was a croak, not hers. She tried to stop her hand from running over her still-wet hair, attempting to fix it in some sort of attractive style.