When You Believe

by Jessica Barksdale Inclan

  “Congratulations, Daddy. I’m so happy.” She clung on, crying without meaning to. She was happy about the baby and relieved for Viv, but there was so much else—flying through time and space, Hawaii, Sariel, his terrible face as he left—going through her mind. And then she knew she was feeling sorry for herself and hating herself for doing so right now when she should be thinking of Viv and the baby.

  “Oh, Auntie Randa. Don’t be sad.” Seamus hugged her back, seeming to know what she was feeling. Great, she thought, my mind is an open hook these days. Pretty soon, no one will have to talk to me at all. “Your sis will be fine.”

  Miranda nodded and pulled away, letting June and Bell have their turns, hugging him, patting his arms, oohing and ahhing at his details. Finally, Seamus, with promises to let them know the minute Viv was awake, headed to the recovery room to be with his wife and child.

  “Well,” June said. She opened her purse, took out a gold compact and clicked it open. Methodically, she reapplied her lipstick and combed her hair, pinching her cheeks a couple of times and then looking at her teeth before closing the compact and stuffing it back in her purse. “There.”

  Miranda rolled her eyes. To June, the emergency had been avoided and everything needed to go right back to normal.

  “Now,” June said, putting her purse strap over her shoulder, “I’m glad that’s over with. I hope she doesn’t have any more children. I don’t know if I could go through that kind of stress again. No more grandchildren.”

  Bell gave a look at June. “Heavens. You have another daughter with many years of childbearing ahead of her,” she said, frowning and patting Miranda’s hand. “Many years.”

  “Oh, Bell. Miranda knows what I mean. And Miranda’s too busy with her writing to make any time for kids. She won a Holitzer Prize, did we tell you that?”

  Aunt Bell clapped her hands together. “That’s—”

  “Well, too much excitement. Enough about that.” June started walking toward the door, ending the conversation. “Let’s go get some breakfast, and by then, Viv should be awake and we can see the baby. Come on.”

  Aunt Bell shrugged and put a hand on Miranda’s arm, as if to say, Never you mind her. She’s a pain in the neck. But Bell’s warmth was unable to take away the old sting, the pain of June’s uncaring that Miranda had grown up with, the sense that somehow, June really didn’t like her at all.

  Enough about that.

  Miranda and Bell both followed June out of the door and down the hall, past the window of reddened newborns, all swaddled tight in hospital blankets. Too busy for kids, Miranda thought. Great. And then when someone finally came into her life who—though not normal—was wonderful, he wanted to leave it. And, of course, he was probably unreal, even though June had met him. Seen him. Talked about his name.

  Miranda knew she’d have to go back to her post-Jack behavior. No more men. Not real ones who drank and stole her poems; not fake ones who flew her to Hawaii and back in their arms.

  June pressed the elevator button and began talking about Viv’s amazing capacity for mothering, her endless patience, her ample compassion. Miranda closed her eyes, waiting, listening to the giant gears of the elevator rumble. From the minute she’d met Sariel, he wanted her to forget him. All along from the very beginning, he’d threatened her with amnesia, wanting to substitute a huge blank hole for the lush, warm space in which she held her new, strong feelings for him. If he could be this cold, this unfeeling when she really needed him, then maybe it was better he left before her heart would truly break.

  I need to forget him, she thought. Let him go back to his world. Go on with my own.

  Miranda got home around seven, taking BART home, and then Muni, finally walking up the steps to her apartment, her legs heavy, her head pounding, terrible hospital food and Bell’s sweet cookies whirling in her stomach.

  “There you are! The new auntie!”

  Miranda looked up the stairwell and saw Dan looking over the rail, clutching a bouquet of irises, his face full of his wide smile.

  “Dan,” she said, trying to keep the sigh out of her voice. “Hi.”

  Breathing in, she clomped her way to her door. Dan held out the flowers, and she knew that if she were anyone else on the planet, he’d be the perfect suitor. Without having a date planned with her, he’d shown up to give his support for her role as a new aunt. He’d put on a tie (though maybe it was a little too loud with its wild red paisleys), a pair of dress pants, and a jacket. His shoes were shined, his shirt pressed, his face shaved. He brought flowers. He smelled good. And Dan could read and talk poetry, and he was always, always, glad to see her.

  “That’s so nice. Thank you.” She took the flowers and pretended to smell them, too tired to breathe deeply. “How did you know?”

  Dan took her purse and dug for her keys, opening the door and letting her in. “I couldn’t get ahold of you, so I guessed what was going on. When I called Viv’s, her friend Robin answered. Told me the whole story. We talked for a while. Anyway, a baby boy, huh? Did they name him yet?”

  Miranda shook her head, and they walked into the dark apartment. She flicked on some lights, realizing that she hadn’t cleaned up after her night with Sariel. She hoped Dan wouldn’t go into the bedroom, notice the messy bed, the burned-down candles, the condom wrappers. “No name yet. Still Baby Boy O’Keefe. Have a seat. I’ll put these in some water.”

  Dan sat down, and as she walked toward the kitchen, she skirted past her bedroom, pulling the door shut, turning back to Dan, saying, “God-awful mess.”

  “You writers,” he said. “Too busy to clean.”

  “Right,” she said. “We’re horrible.”

  In the kitchen, she grabbed a coffee mug, filled it with water, crammed the flowers in it, and leaned the bouquet against a cabinet. If she could have wished on herself a worse evening, she didn’t know whom she’d invite over. Maybe her mother. But no, Dan would have been her pick to end the day that though full of joy and Baby Boy O’Keefe, was full of sadness. For most of the day, she half expected Sariel to peek around a corner, see her, and say, “I’m so sorry about this morning. Please forgive me.” Three times during her visit with Viv, she thought she saw him. No, that wasn’t it. Miranda thought she felt him, standing right behind her. She thought she could smell him. But when she whirled around, nothing. Just her desperate imagination.

  So now here she was with Dan, his eagerness, and his flowers. She wished he would look at the dark circles hanging under her eyes like funeral boats, take a hint, and make a gracious exit.

  But she could tell Dan wasn’t in the mood to leave. His hair was combed too perfectly, his pants ironed on an exact crease, his skin tender and smelling of cologne. He wanted this to be a date.

  Miranda patted her face with her wet hands. She wasn’t going to be a victim here, she thought, giving herself a little slap. Just because her imaginary boyfriend turned out to be a shit didn’t mean she had to take it out on Dan. She had to be nice. He was her editor, and she liked him, most of the time, at least. He was, as Viv said, a very nice man. And anyway, he was real. He didn’t show up at night, unannounced. Dan used the telephone. He brought flowers. And unlike Sariel, he was sitting in her living room, waiting, wanting to be with her. If Miranda had brought him with her this morning, Dan would have stayed at the hospital, checking with the doctors every fifteen minutes on Viv’s and the baby’s condition. He would have cared.

  “Do you want some wine?” she called out, opening a cupboard and taking down two glasses.

  “Sounds wonderful,” Dan said.

  Almost wincing at the happiness in his reply, she yanked open the fridge, took out a bottle of Kendall Jackson chardonnay, and grabbed the corkscrew.

  Picking up the glasses, she closed her eyes, sending Sariel a message. I don’t need you if you don’t need me. So good-bye, okay? Don’t come back. She opened her eyes, trying to ignore the sad, heavy feeling in her throat, chest, stomach.

  “Coming,” Mirand
a said, and she walked into the living room, into the real world.

  “I had to come back,” he said. “And I had to leave earlier. Bad things have happened.”

  Miranda turned onto her side, trying to get away from her imagination, which was playing tricks on her again, even in her dreams. Sariel wasn’t here, didn’t want her, didn’t need her. And the bad thing that had happened was that Sariel didn’t want her.

  “I do want you. I do need you. I can’t have you,” he said in her ear, his lips warm, his hands on her body, as warm as they had been that first night when he healed her ankle. “I have to let you go. You can’t remember me.”

  Miranda tried to open her eyes, feeling his tight, strong body on top of her, his hand on her hair. Let me see, she thought. Let me open my eyes.

  “It’s better this way. And then I’ll be a ghost of a memory.”

  Don’t do it, she thought. Please. Don’t go without letting me say good-bye.

  Then she was twirling up into consciousness, staring into the darkness, feeling him, and then seeing him as her eyes adjusted to the light. He was looking down at her, his hair hanging on either side of his face, his eyes warm now, not cold, not distant, not the evil Sariel from at the hospital

  “Why are you here?” she asked, pulling away from his touch. “You couldn’t get away fast enough this morning.”

  He didn’t say anything, bringing his hand back to her hair, smoothing it with his palm. She felt something, or was it saw something? An object, something important, something that was now missing. She was just about to ask him what the object was when he asked, “How’s your sister? Your nephew?”

  She remembered his stern, cold face as he walked away from her at the hospital, his back tight as he passed Aunt Bell. “My nephew? How do you know?” she said.

  “I—I looked in on you later on.” He bent down and kissed her throat. “I couldn’t stay away.”

  “I know,” she said. “I thought so. I felt you there. But why? Why not just be there? Why pretend like you want to know about my life?” And then before he could answer, she went on. “Like you really care.”

  “But I do. Too much. Listen, please, just go back to sleep. Let me put you back to sleep.” His voice was soft, comforting—manipulative, overbearing, bossy.

  Miranda pushed herself out of his arms, turned to the bedside table, and yanked on the light and blinked, her eyes pained by the sudden brightness. She wanted to be furious at him, give him up and move on. The whole business was ridiculous—madness, insanity, pathetic fantasy. She looked up, ready to tell him to get lost, but she couldn’t. He was so soft on her eyes, his long hair loose tonight, black swirls on the pillow and blankets. His skin reminded her of almonds and honey, something she wanted to taste. Something she had tasted. And his eyes. It wasn’t just the flecks of deep yellow and gold in them, but the way he looked at her, like he was doing right now, taking all of her in and holding her steady in his gaze. No one had ever looked at her like that before. Not Jack. Certainly not Dan.

  Sariel seemed to understand her under her skin, hearing who she was from her deepest parts, knowing exactly who she was. Of course, he could read her mind, which was a lot more than anyone else could do. So he had an unfair advantage, but even if he didn’t, he knew her.

  Miranda reached out and put her hand on his shoulder, not knowing what to say or how to act, when she noticed that he was wearing a robe, not the one she’d seen him in the night at the bar, a sturdier-looking one, one for cold, one for travel.

  “You’re going somewhere,” she said. “Where?”

  “I have business in the East,” he said simply. “But I came to say good-bye.”

  Again, his emphasis on a word, this time good-bye, made her feel heavy, filled with sadness.

  “I wanted to talk with you at the hospital, but it wasn’t right. And Miranda,” he said, taking her hand and kissing her palm, “I can’t—I have to. Look, I don’t want to do this, but I told you the first night we met—”

  Miranda stopped breathing, her throat thick with feeling. “No. No, you can’t. I won’t let you. Not my memories. No, Sariel. You said you couldn’t do it! You can’t take us away from me! It’s all I’ll have. I want to remember Hawaii. I want to remember getting coffee with you this morning. I want to remember last night how you… how you…”

  Looking up at her, his eyes were full of what? Tears? He shook his head, looking down, running a hand along the thin fabric of her nightgown, his fingers running small circles around her nipple. Stop, she thought. Don’t.

  Sariel absently moved his hand to her other breast, and she tried to focus as he spoke. “I was fooling myself. It’s dangerous for you to know anything. About me. I’ve put you at a tremendous risk. Brennus was right about that. And I promise, it won’t hurt. You won’t remember a thing. Just let me—”

  Then, like today at the hospital, he seemed to go rigid. His skin paled, his hands clenched. His eyes moved back and forth, and he nodded, saying, “Yes. Of course. Right away.” And then, as if a fist had released him from a terrible grip, he relaxed, brought his arm to her shoulder, pushing her down on the bed.

  “I’ve got to go. Good-bye, Miranda. I—I’ll…” and then his hand was sweeping under her hair, his palm on her neck. She looked up into his sunflower eyes, his pupils large and slick with feeling.

  “No,” she said. “Please don’t go,” but then she felt herself float off and away even as the words left her mouth. All she could feel were his fingertips on her forehead and then his voice, whispering, “Good-bye,” the word hard and cold and heavy.

  She thought to reach out to him, pull him close, but everything went dark, her consciousness vanishing like smoke.

  Maybe it was minutes. Maybe hours. Miranda struggled with something in her mind, feeling as though she were holding onto ropes with all her strength. Somehow, she knew that if she let go of one rope, all would be lost, so she gripped tightly, the thick fibers ripping and burning into her hands.

  Hold on, she urged herself, not wanting the ship to sink, or the kite to fly away, or the bucket to fall to the bottom of the well. You can do it. It doesn’t have to be like this. Hold on. Hold on!

  So she gritted her teeth, feeling the sweat on her face, under her arms. Her biceps and sides ached, and she pulled air into her lungs. For a while, she imagined herself climbing the face of a huge mountain, her crampons slowly slipping, her grip loosening, her cinches uncinching. But slowly, so slowly, Miranda realized she didn’t have to clench so hard, and she relaxed, the ropes loose in her hand, her body stilled, the sweat dried on her forehead, her breathing quieting. Finally, she fell asleep, whatever she feared losing still with her, right there in her palms.

  When Miranda woke up hours later—the sky a dull slate—the first thing she remembered was Sariel’s good-bye, and then she felt his fingertips on her forehead, pressing into her thoughts. What had he been doing? Why had he put her to sleep? What had he tried to take?

  “No!” she moaned, leaning back on the pillow, her mind a backward flurry of memory. What did he steal? What had he ripped from her? The way he held her ankle? Hilo? Their nights in this very bed, his skin against hers? The feel of his silky hair in her hands, his smooth, orange scented neck, his voice in the nighttime bedroom? Their walk down the dawn-dark street? No. Her memories were still there, pulsing like a migraine at the back of her head.

  The hours and days with Sariel were all there, each and every memory they’d made together. Ankle, kisses, matter, laughter, the hospital, tonight as he was pushed back on the bed. Everything just as it should be.

  Miranda sat up, her palm against her chest, and flicked on the light, searching the bed and floor for clues of where he’d gone. The only evidence that he’d been here was a slight ripple of blanket on the other side of the bed, a dip in the pillow, and one long ebony hair. She picked it up carefully with her fingers, bringing it to her lips.

  Pathetic, she thought, opening her eyes. But she held onto the
hair and laid it carefully in her bedside table drawer before she turned out the light.

  For an hour, Miranda tried to sleep, but finally, she threw back the blankets and got out of bed. She paced the room, wishing she had a cigarette, a pack of them. She had never smoked, but she craved the idea of having something dangerous and numbing to do while she tried to think. If it weren’t three in the morning and Viv hadn’t just had a baby by emergency C-section, Miranda knew she’d call her sister and tell her everything about Sariel. But she wouldn’t be able to talk with Viv about this for weeks, not until Viv’s milk came in and the baby was sleeping a bit through the night. And she knew that her sister shouldn’t have to pick Miranda up, dust her off, and counsel her through yet another wacky relationship only hours after childbirth.

  Relationship, she thought. Right. More like sex. But it was magic. The whole thing, the sex included.

  She stood still in the room and thought about Sariel, the way he took her face in his hands, kissing her, bringing his lips down her throat, his skin smooth against hers. Closing her eyes, Miranda imagined bringing her hands down his chest, her fingers running over his stomach muscles, anticipating his quick, harsh inhale as her hands went farther, taking him in her hands, feeling how much he wanted her, so hard. And then he knew how much she wanted him back. God, she’d never felt so ready for a man, and when he put himself inside her—no matter whether he did it roughly or gently, teasing her—she was wet. It was almost embarrassing.

  Miranda opened her eyes, shaking her head. The whole thing was embarrassing and wonderful and exhausting and crazy. Worse was that she’d felt that her reaction to his body was really a metaphor for her deeper feelings for him, a connection her body and mind responded to. She could, however, explain away her body. It had been a very long time since she’d slept with a man, and Sariel was sexy and beautiful and knew his way around the female form. Every single cell in her body jumped when his hand touched her. Every nerve jerked to full alert when his mouth kissed her shoulder, neck, breast, stomach. Anywhere.