His Wounded Light

by Christine Brae

  “What’s wrong, Isa?”

  “Nothing. Had a bad dream.”

  “Another bad dream? How come you won’t tell me about them?”

  “Because they’re stupid ones that don’t mean anything. I can’t even begin to explain it to you.”

  She leans back on the pillow with outstretched arms and beckons me on top of her, her facial expression sly and sexy.

  “I should probably take a shower first.”

  “No, no shower.” She spreads her legs seductively. “Just love me, A.”

  And I do. Slowly, gently. A far cry from what we had the night before. I kiss her tamely and with reverence. My fingers touch every inch of her skin and she clings to me like I’m about to disappear any second. I know it’s because of those dreams. This has happened quite often before. It’s not that she wants me more because of them, but that I make her feel safe and secure; the physical connection reminds her that she’s protected and loved. I can see the fear in her eyes when she wakes up from a nightmare and she grapples around the bed, wanting to feel me next to her.

  When she takes me in her mouth, I hold her down until I can no longer contain myself. I enter her quietly, looking into her eyes and watching her smile adoringly at me. This. This is what I live for. I live for her smile. The intensity of this instance arouses us both. Every staggered breath, every plunge, every sound she makes brings me closer and closer to Heaven. With her nails buried in my skin, there is no distinction between pleasure and pain. I watch her face as she tightens and surges and her walls close in on me. Her eyes are shut, but I know she sees me clearly. She never fails to make me feel loved. Especially after that day she came home to me two years ago.

  “Alex,” she deliberately says my name. “A-lex. I love you.”

  “Happy Anniversary. I love you,” I croon as the stars besiege my eyes and I get deliriously lost inside her.

  “Give it all to me, A. Happy Anniversary,” she responds, arching herself forward to take it all in.

  By the time I open my eyes, it’s three in the afternoon and the sun is no longer high up in the sky. I lay still for a minute, afraid to cause a stir, truly cherishing these quiet moments spent holding her in my arms. Life back home has been pretty hectic lately with my business in full swing and Maddy’s crazy hours. I’ve somehow managed to entwine my legs with hers and my left arm is draped across her torso. I’ve always had this habit of moving to the middle of the bed, almost pushing her off the other edge. It’s a weird quirk of mine, but Isa says that she wouldn’t have it any other way. I watch her sleep, afraid that even the slightest breath might rouse her from her rest. Fifteen minutes later, she slowly opens her eyes.

  “Hi.”

  “Hey, what time is it?”

  She turns her head to look at the clock. “It’s past three in the afternoon.”

  “Oh, shit! I’m so sorry, Isa, I slept our anniversary away!”

  “This is exactly the way I wanted to spend our day.” She smiles at me as I cradle her face in my hands. “It’s perfect.”

  “What would you like to do for the rest of the evening?” We’re huddled together, still under the covers, and I can’t help but stroke my hands over her cheeks.

  “What did you have in mind?”

  “I was thinking that we could take the metro to Saint Catherine’s shrine and then back here for dinner at Le Berkley? Don’t forget we have to pick up some macaroons from Ladurée for my mother.”

  “Sounds like a plan. Can we walk around and visit our padlock again? I want to make sure we can find it every time we come back to Paris.”

  Her naiveté endears me.

  “In the dark?”

  “Okay, how ‘bout tomorrow when we’re doing our last minute shopping?”

  “Deal.”

  The commute via Metro to Rue de Bac to attend mass at the Miraculous Medal church is pleasant and interesting. We busy ourselves with a map and some directions while sitting on the train to our destination, as we’re both happy to explore the area without the burden of parking a car. We walk around the streets checking out shops and have a snack at the Hotel Lutetia. Isabel tells me how it fills her with humility to be in the presence of holiness and goodness as she walks over to kneel by the perfectly-preserved body of Saint Catherine Labouré. There is a placid lull in the church as worshippers sit silently and pray before the mass begins. I make a mental note to buy a book about Saint Catherine to take home to the children.

  The mass is held in French, but we have no problem following the liturgy. We hold hands through the words and songs and once in a while, Isabel’s eyes tear up from the solemnity of it all. What a fitting show of gratitude to God for the life we are living together.

  After the mass, we return to the city for a reservation at Le Berkley. I am extremely proud to have been able to secure a reservation in a secluded area on the second floor of the restaurant. The place is dark and cozy and our server is a beautiful woman from the Ukraine who fusses all over me. My wife jibes me continuously about it, but I’m taking it all in stride. I insist on sitting on the same side of the booth as her. She is left-handed and I am right, and twelve years later, our movements are still restricted by our elbows poking at each other as we pick up our forks to eat.

  “Alex, you ordered everything there is to eat on the menu! We have crevettes, jambon, langoustine, saumon, and carpaccio de boeuf. You don’t think that’s too much?”

  “It’s okay, baby, I want to sample everything they have. Do you like this one?” I help myself to a serving of haricots.

  She laughs heartily. “Are you trying to impress the server?”

  “I’m trying to impress my wife so I can get some tonight. Mmm. This is good!” I wave my fork in the air before slicing a piece of ham and holding out a tasty morsel for her to sample.

  “As if you need to do that! You get it anytime you want it.” Her mood quickly changes and she turns wistful. “A, what’s your schedule like when we get back home? Are you going to be traveling in the next two weeks?”

  “I don’t think so. I think I’m going to stay put for a while, at least until—” I pause, wondering whether I should have prefaced that statement with a better introduction.

  “Until what?”

  “I’ve asked Penny to clear my schedule for the rest of the month and send it to you as soon as we get back from vacation. I think we have two events to attend before I have to leave.”

  “Until what? Leave for where?” she quizzes me.

  “Baby, remember that project that I’m working on with my dad? In Hong Kong? I have to be there for about two months. I plan to fly back on weekends.”

  She tries to remain impassive but her tone doesn’t hide the concern in her voice. “Okay. Hold on. I’ll work with Penny on the events—I’m not worried, I can wear one or two of the gowns I just picked up this week and Penny will let me know whether it’s local or international. Let’s talk about that more when we get home.” She sighs and reaches for my hand as she continues, “Flying home every weekend is not only too risky to me, but more importantly, I might not make it being that far away from you for that long.” She puts on a pout and leans over to kiss me.

  My wife has become quite an expert at representing the right image on these occasions. International means she wears clothes made by a local designer. Local means she can wear whatever she fancies from the fashion houses in Europe.

  “Too risky? As in accident risky? Contracting a contagious disease risky? What?” I ask lightly.

  “Too hard to explain. Please just let me plan this out.”

  “I love this new you. The ‘I can’t live without Alex’ you.” I nibble on her ear as I lower her down on the seat against the wall of the booth. She moans and opens up her legs as I snake my hand up her dress. “Oh God. Here we go again. Isa, seriously? Why do you even bother to wear one?” My fingers skim across her barely-there thong underwear that give me complete access to her smooth, silky skin. And everything else inside it.
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  “I thought I’d make it easy for you all night,” she says, her voice low and sensual.

  I’m told public loving isn’t such a big deal here.”

  “I’m starting now. Then I’m finishing up inside of you sometime in the next hour or so.”

  I must admit. We’re standing in line outside Le Régine looking like two giddy teenagers who can’t keep their hands off each other. I stand right behind her, enclosing her in my arms and occasionally burying my nose in her hair. People are nodding at us, including us in their conversation like we fit right in with the who’s who of Paris. Isabel says that tonight we look like a couple straight out of an AllSaints catalog—stylish, funky-yet-affordable vintage wear originating from the UK. We both love that store and decided to wear what we had purchased from there a few days ago. Slowly, we inch ourselves up to the doorman, who checks the list on his clipboard and motions for us to enter through a side door.

  “Your name was on the list?” Isabel asks as we descend down a flight of stairs to the basement.

  “Apparently Leigh has connections all the way in Europe. Like he’s some international model or something,” I jeer.

  The place is packed with beautiful people. Men and women, couples and singles are all rocking to hip hop music on the dance floor.

  “I love the look of this club!” Isabel yells to me over the loud music. “The red velvet booths and solid steel tables are so understated. And look at the glitter on the walls! I love how the dance floor looks like flashing stained glass.”

  We take a seat in one of the booths and I leave for the closest bar to get us some drinks. I return a few minutes later with two drinks for each of us. By the time the drinks are gone, Isabel is feeling good and happy. She gets up and offers me her hand.

  “Dance with me, A.”

  I guide her to the dance floor, my arm around her waist. I notice the looks she’s getting from the men in the club. It doesn’t help that she’s giggly and lightheaded and exuding pure sexiness. Or that she’s wearing a sequined dress that’s low cut at the back and extremely short.

  “Yoo hoo, Alex! Your hour is almost up. You have to keep your promise!” She moves close to my body and throws her arms around my neck. “I can’t wait to feel you inside me,” she drawls in my ear and traces her fingers from my jaw down to my neck.

  Her touch feels like electricity and I want more. I love that she’s challenging me. This woman loves to keep me on my toes. I glance around the club, trying to figure out where I can take her up on her dare. For the next few minutes, she’s dancing with me, rubbing against me, moving around me. I can’t take it any longer. I press her tightly against me and say, “Let’s go.”

  The tone of my voice unexpectedly sobers her up. I think she’s worried that I’m upset with the way she’s carrying herself in public, when really it’s anything but that. I hurriedly lead her off the floor, down a dark hallway, and into a tiny stall in the men’s bathroom.

  “Here. Now,” I bark out my directive as I lift her dress, raising her up and leaning her against the stall wall.

  “Oh, yes, sir!” She giggles as she unbuckles my belt and pulls me out while I’m kissing her. “Okay, baby, I’m so ready,” she mumbles through my lips, wrapping her legs around me.

  I plunge into her again and again and she stifles her sounds against my shoulder. I don’t have any problems making this fast and quick. I’ve been thinking about this even before we placed our orders at dinner. She feels tight and warm and wonderful. She holds my face gently and bites my lips as I come violently inside her. Not a word is uttered, not a sound is made. And yet, I clearly hear what she’s screaming out loud from her heart.

  “Tell me,” I whisper once I’ve caught my breath.

  “I’m yours,” she sputters fervently against my mouth. “Yours.”

  I’ve never had any doubt; she has always belonged to me.

  On our last day in Paris, Isabel insists on one final visit to the bridge to find our padlock. She’s afraid that we’ll forget where it is. Of course I indulge her, knowing that this is a symbolic act of love on her part. We walk up and down the bridge, calmly at first for the few passes, then more and more frantically as she loses her patience. I’m calm and collected, holding her hand and asking her to slow down. As our search continues, I can practically see the panic rise in her throat.

  “We can’t find it, A. What if someone removed it last night?”

  “Isa, no. I’m sure it’s here. Let’s just try to remember where we were standing when we chose the spot.”

  I embrace her affectionately, but she’s impatient and visibly agitated. The weather is colder and windier than we expected, so our actions are a little brisker as we continue to walk in a straight line, up and down, trying to find that one red lock with our names carved on the front.

  Twenty minutes later and still no luck. Isabel is trying to keep it together, afraid to ruin our last day in Paris. Tears begin to fill her eyes, but she refuses to show me her face. She holds on weakly to the rusty railing and stares out into the sky. A few seconds pass and then her eyes light up and she beams sweetly at me.

  “Oh, wait! I remember! When I stood up after we latched the lock, I could see that boat in the water from a different angle. Here, Alex, look! I was standing here and I could see the—”

  “Bingo!” I say as I point to the red piece of metal still prominently settled on top of hundreds, no, thousands of other locks.

  “Oh, baby! You found it! Oh, thank goodness!” She jumps into my arms and wraps herself around me. She fishes into her purse and pulls a white ribbon with a medal of Saint Catherine attached to it and ties it around the metal clasp.

  “Where’d you get that?”

  “At the souvenir shop outside the church while you were in the washroom. Promise me that we’ll visit our lock every few years? This has become my favorite place in the whole world.”

  “I promise, baby. And the next time we come, we’ll take Eddie and Maddy with us too.”

  Her lips curve into a smile, simultaneously releasing her tears. “I love you so much, Alex. I want to travel the world with you. I want to leave a little piece of ourselves wherever we go, so that years from now, visiting each and every one of them will mean that our life has come full circle.”

  ***

  “Love possesses seven hundred wings and each one extends from the highest heaven to the lowest earth.”

  —Rumi

  The private school gymnasium is full of people, parents and students alike. The atmosphere is relatively calm, save for the screeching of rubber against the floor and the lulling rhythm of a bouncing ball. Instructions are being called out as the visiting team tries to block the home team from making the basket. I’m the team’s assistant coach and Eddie is the team’s center. It’s been three days since we came home from Paris; we didn’t want to be away for any more of Eddie’s games. About two years ago, we moved back to Southeast Asia to be with our families after ten years of living in Chicago. After the death of her mother, Isabel and I decided to settle back home to run our family businesses. So far, it has been the best decision we have ever made. Our life is established and stable and filled with mundane yet fulfilling experiences such as this.

  They’re playing a good game—third quarter and we’re up by six points. Isabel is sitting low in the stands, her feet propped up on the bench in front of her. She stands out among the faceless crowd of people. She’s aware of the attention paid to me by some of the crazy mothers and goes out of her way to show me that she fully understands that it’s part of the job. One of the mothers grabs my arm while she’s speaking to me and I willfully shake it off as I finish the conversation and move on. I actually feel sorry for their pitiful husbands. I’m going to remind the coach to reiterate the “No talking to coaches during the game” rule at the next parent meeting.

  I’m running back and forth on the sidelines, calling out plays and I stop short, filled with pride as Eddie makes a three-point shot. Is
abel stands up and cheers for him. She smiles at us when I pat him on the shoulder and a time out is called for a rotation. I know that she’s thinking—how did he get so tall so fast? She looks at us admiringly and I know she’s savoring these moments just like I am. As she breaks her attention from her boys, I see Betty waltz into the gym, surveying the crowd and looking for my wife. Those two have been known to traipse in fashionably late ever since they were in high school.

  Eddie’s final shot widens the gap and the opposing team falls apart after that. The final buzzer goes off and the boys walk the line to congratulate the other players. I shake the other coaches’ hands and look up to see Isabel and Betty cutting through the stands on their way towards us.

  “Hi, baby.” I tilt my head and give Isa a kiss and then do the same for Betty. We stand by the referee’s table while Eddie talks to his teammates and gathers up his things. A few seconds later, Betty’s daughter, Lindsay, comes up to greet us.

  “Hi, pretty girl. Are you spending the day with your mom?” Isa asks as Lindsay greets us each with a kiss.

  “I’ve got cheerleading practice next door but Mom wanted me to come and say hi to you.”

  Betty nods at her. “Linds, I’ll swing by after this. Wait for me in the classroom.”

  Lindsay is tall, lithe and beautiful, just like her parents. Both she and Eddie were honeymoon babies and it has been nothing short of a pleasure to watch them grow up together.

  “How are you? How was Paris?” Betty asks.

  I remain standing there, listening to their conversation, drifting in and out as the other parents come up to ask me questions about next week’s practice schedule.

  “It was great! I’ve been spending the last couple of days catching up on stuff at home.”

  “Who’s with Maddy baby?” Betty’s focus turns to Isa’s new purse as she grabs it and lifts it up to check it out.