One of the three

by Lucy Morton

  “I think we were wrong, girls” Kim murmured, frowning.

  “Were we wrong? Were we wrong? Damn it, give me the fucking map!” Barbara screamed, taking the map away from the poor Kim. She was putting her glasses in place. She began to show a slight tremor on her chin caused by her nerves, her bad mood and a really “annoying person” of hers. “I already told you that we should have told the taxi driver to leave us to the hotel door instead of trying to go walking to see the beautiful landscape”, she was laughing, ironically, imitating Kim’s voice and mine, too.

  While Barbara was taking a look at the map, Kim and I leaned against one of the stones in the path, staring up the landscape. The sky was cloudy and there were only mountains in the distance. There were wide green fields and trees, many trees. A very different landscape from New York, always with its polluted sky and taller skyscrapers; streets full of cars and moody, stressful and hurry people. Kim and I were taking a deep breath at the same time. Then, we looked at each other with a smile. Peace. There was only peace in that place, despite the unexplained tacos breath were coming out from Barbara’s mouth.

  “According to this” Barbara mentioned, still looking at the map. “We have to arrive to the St. Mary Church in the center of the town. Then go straight and turn the first alley on the right. Do you know what we have done? Going in the opposite direction, you idiots!

  No one in their right mind could not put up with a friend like Barbara. Kim and I were friends since we can remember. We chose her into our group of two, because even those girls like Barbara could not stand her. And there we were, so different from her, tolerating her complaints, insults and moans, by simply being idiots. And good ones. Very good ones.

  “Okay”, I said. “We are going to continue enjoying this landscape. Barbara, you should have worn a more comfortable shoe, right? What do you think?”

  “Leave me alone.”

  Half an hour later, our friend’s heel broke. When we passed St. Mary Church built in the 13th-century and it was located just as Barbara had said in the center of the town. Kim and I stopped not only to rest a bit, but to contemplate the ruins of a large trading house. When we crossed a tree-lined plaza, Barbara, who was walking in one leg, screamed again.

  “Come on! It’s for today, girls! I want to throw these fucking shoes and to put the fucking sneakers on!

  A couple of old men turned around to look at Barbara. They were waving their hands around and they were shaking their heads. A group of children were laughing at her. And Kim and I could do nothing but imitate them.

  “And now you are laughing at me?” Now? Cuba”, she repeated. “We should have gone to Cuba.”

  We finally arrived at the guesthouse and when Barbara saw our room full of rosaries and virgin pictures, she sat down crestfallen in the old and noisy old spring bed and she looked at her high-heeled shoe wistfully for having lived better times with her. She threw it against the stone wall. She threw one of the virgin pictures to the floor leaving it shattered and after the early shock, Kim and I laughed again at Barbara. She was finally laughing with us again.

  At night, after having dinner an extremely hot soup in the guesthouse, we went to one of the pubs in town without relying too much on that environment.

  “There are probably old guys” Barbara protested.

  But when we came in, all young people hiding in the streets of the town seemed to be locked in there, dancing country music from a group standing on a tiny platform and drinking large pitchers of beer on top of the sticky bar.

  We were looking around us excited about the environment and we headed to the bar to order a drink. The bartender seemed laughing at the innocent Kim when she asked for a pineapple juice. Barbara ordered a huge pitcher of beer like those people over there, allowing herself to order another just the same for me.

  “I’m exhausted from the trip. I think I’ll go to the guesthouse to sleep soon.”

  Kim really wanted to keep reading Danielle Steel’s novels. She said that she was completely addicted to “The Phantom” and I am convinced that if Barbara had not persuaded her to stay a while longer, she would have gone to the guesthouse to spend some time reading until late.

  “You are such a party pooper” she said, rolling her eyes, and then she was looking around for her next victim.

  And she saw him. She saw him, indeed. Worst of all is I saw him, too. And for the first time in our lives and our short existence as friends, we agreed on something: that boy had that special “I do not know what” which attention is drawn from the first second you look at him. He was tall and thin. He was blond and he had a messy hair. He had green eyes from what I could see in the distance. He had a nice nose, neither big nor small, and kissable lips. He had a pretty smile, too. He was sweet and friendly. He was talking to two guys. They did not seem to live around. He was drinking the beer in small sips, as if he did not like it, and he had to pretend he did, like me. He sometimes looked around, as if searching for something, but it was not difficult for him to focus on the conversation with his friends again. And then, it happened. While Kim was looking at the sole of her shoes because the pub floor was very sticky. On the other hand, Barbara had turned to ask for another beer. The stranger with the most beautiful eyes in the world was staring at me. Had he been in New York or in another environment I knew, I would have looked away ashamed. But, what the hell! I was in Ireland, somewhere far away from my comfort zone. I dared to hold his gaze and then he smiled me back. To my deep disappointment, he continued talking to his friends and in the meantime, I sipped my beer and I was insisting on drawing his attention. I was still looking at him. Staring at him, as I had learned from Barbara. Surely, if I had been as spectacular as Barbara or I had had her boobs, the boy had already approached me or the other way around in a fit of confidence in myself. But nothing happened. He did not look at me again. Nor did he approach the curvy Barbara, who changed her grip upon seeing a more handsome, pretty, taller guy on the opposite side of the pub.

  CHAPTER 5

  —

  And we just kept with that. With memories. Only memories. We live a lifetime from and for memories.

  NOW

  I’ve never been able to sew, but since April was born, I’ve done a master’s degree in everything and here I am, sewing the torn pocket of her jacket while she has locked herself in her room, not before telling me:

  “I am not hungry. Everything sucks.”

  She reminded me of my friend Barbara. She was married to a wealthy hotel entrepreneur and she was living the great life in Los Angeles. As I leave my fingers and the sight away in my pocket, my phone rings. I faint a smile to see that it is Kim, my great and lovely friend Kim. By the way, she was a writer of successful romantic novels.

  “What’s up, Kim?”

  “Great. I wanted to know you guys been doing.”

  We have not seen each other since the funeral’s day. Kim and I have never been apart so many weeks without seeing each other.

  “You know… little by little. April is having the worst part.”

  “I am really sorry to hear that, Jean. Remember that here I am for anything you need.”

  “I know, I know. We have been very busy, you know.”

  “I imagine, but I just want you to know. That I’m here”, she is insisting in a whispered voice. “You know? I remember recently a lot about our trip to Ireland, do you remember?”

  “How can I even forget it…!”

  “You met that great love of you there”, she laughs, emphasizing “that great love of you”.

  “I remember, Kim. Like it has been already two days ever since…”

  CHAPTER 6

  —

  The mistake is looking back at yesterday with eyes of today.

  Wishing things to be the same again when you are no longer the same, as if you could hold your breath or you could give the same kiss a second time.

  Deaf-mute people do not shout. They cannot see the music, with the five letters that you wr
ite late you cannot write now. The love that was, that never comes back.

  BEFORE

  As much as during the following nights we went back to the pub, I did not see the guy again. Barbara had begun one of those torrid and passionate summer loves with “the tallest, the prettiest and the most handsome” guy. She was really excited by putting her hands in a large part of his body tattooed and that he was in his early thirties. Kim finished the “The Ghost” by Danielle Steel, and she felt incomplete by being unable to get addicted to another of the stories of the many books she had brought in her luggage.

  We memorized the surroundings of Inistioge; the grass roads to the river bank and the woods and gardens of the old Woodstock Estate. There were the best views of the valley from the hills, indeed. We went on a trip to Kilkenny, whose winding alleyways made you believe that you had traveled back in time and we became regular customers of the Circle of Friends, a coffee shop in the day and a restaurant every night. It was located in an old house whose walls boasted hundreds off stories to tell and where they prepared the best and most stimulating coffee.

  By having only a week to go back to New York and knowing that I would never see the “green-eyed guy” as I had nicknamed him. Kim got sick and Barbara, as always, was missing in combat. I had no choice but to go out alone for a walk, but not before making sure my friend was okay.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, I have must eaten something bad. Plus I got my period”, Kim complained, writhing in pain on the bed. “Go away. Go and have fun.”

  It was one of the few days when the sun was shining on Inistioge. I sat down by the river to relax and, with the only intention of listening to the murmur of the wind and observing the romantic anti-stress landscape. I would never have imagined that “the green-eyed guy” was out there cycling and when he saw me, he decided to sit next to me and get to know me.

  “I saw you in the pub. That night.”

  Those were his first words to me.

  “My name is Tom.”

  “Jean”, I said, trying to avoid the stutter I had when I was with a guy I liked.

  “I have not seen you in the pub again.”

  “I came back there every night.”

  “Okay…” He frowned and he brushed a lock of his forehead. “Where are you from?”

  “I am from New York.”

  “New York! Wow…”

  “And what about you?” I wanted to know.

  “Here in London. Nearby.”

  He did not have green eyes. Well, yes, a little bit. It was a mixture of green, blue and a little yellow around his pupil. I could not stop looking at those eyes.

  “We have been in Dublin for a few days, which is why we have not seen each other again. This is too quiet for us, you know? But I have not stopped thinking about you. The night I saw you and how stupid I was for not having approached to talk to you.”

  “He says that to every girl, Jean. Do not be an idiot”, a voice inside of me told me.

  “That’s nice!” Another voice, a more romantic and confident one, told me.

  Which one would you believe in?

  “For God’s sake, Jean! That’s bullshit!” another voice interrupted me. It was more like mom’s. “This guy lives in London, you in New York. You only have one week left in this idyllic place. Then you will leave and so will he. End of story.”

  “And what if he did not?” the romantic voice began replying, addicted to Danielle Steel’s novels. What if we fall in love and we both end up in New York, having five children and being happily married?”

  “For the love of God, Jean. Do we still believe in those stupidly happy endings? “The bitchy voice is asking me.

  “You know what? Enjoy the moment and try it. Live today and do not be afraid of tomorrow. Kiss him.”

  “Are you crazy?!” I shouted, blushing.

  “What are you thinking about? Did I say something wrong?” Tom asked.

  “Hey? No, no. Nothing, it is just… No, Jean. Whatever you do, do not start stuttering. Not now. Well, I… hmm… I have to go.”

  I ran and I left Tom there, alone, sitting on the grass looking at me astonished. Alone.

  How many times did I regret that? Not at all, because what came after was so much better.

  CHAPTER 7

  —

  How many lives have I chosen you, that today I am still looking at you as if I had been with you before?

  NOW

  Having talked on the phone a little bit with Kim has been good for me. We remembered our trip to Ireland. Her gastroenteritis, Barbara going wild with the tattooed guy when they marked their name initials on one of the ancient stones of the ruins of a castle and some street criminals almost stopped them and, above all, we talked about him. About Tom. The “green-eyed guy”. That guy who broke my heart.

  “April! ¡April!” I call her.

  She is not answering. I’m starting to get used to it. I leave her jacket with the pocket sewn on the coat rack of the hall and I look over quickly the hall until I am standing in front of her room door. Before, when her father and I moved on to this apartment in Soho, it was the so-called “art room”. It was big enough and it has nice views of the city so that I would be inspired and I may create works of art that finally did not travel the world. However, they went to several successful New York galleries and I was awarded with a good name in the city. People bought my works. And thanks to that, when April was born and we decided that this would be her room, I could rent a studio two blocks from home to go to work. It made me feel a little more normal than if I had to stay at home working like, for example, Kim used to do it. Kim spent all day in her pajamas drinking coffee and eating pizza and pre-frozen food while she was writing love stories that she had not experienced and she did not want to experience whether for comfort, shyness or routine. I told her many times that she was missing a whole world outside while she could not look away from a book or the screen with a blank piece of paper in her computer. And that I was losing so many things because I did not want to accept that he was no longer with us.

  “April, can I come in?”

  As I am not getting any answer, I decide, fearless, to turn the door knob and I enter my daughter’s bedroom. I see her lying on the bed with her helmets on and her gaze fixed on the ceiling where she has placed a large picture of her father and her when she was two years old. What a good times. They were really happy yes. Indeed, really happy.

  She has not noticed that I’ve been looking at her for two minutes. I wonder what music she is listening to. When I get a little closer to the bed, she is looking at me indifferently and I, with a gesture, tell her to take the helmet off her ears.

  “Would you like to hear a story, April?” I ask her, having very cleared in mind what I want to do. Being original, as Ingrid had recommended me.

  “No.”

  “Come on, April… it will be fun.”

  “Leave me alone, Mom.”

  Oh, my God. Here it comes that hated phrase for all the mothers. “Leave me alone, Mom”. I do not find it weird. I only thought that it would take more to come. I was ready to listen it when April was twelve, thirteen, fourteen, or fifteen years old, but not eight years old. I cannot allow that. However, not eight years old. If she is telling me when she is eight years old, what will he tell when she is fourteen years old?

  “Do not even talk to me like that, April.”

  “I just want you leave alone!” Alone!”

  I slapped her so badly that by looking the expression of her face full of rage, she holds herself back by not doing anything. Has Sarah done that to her? Has she hit her?

  “Go away!” she screams. “I wish you were dead and not Dad! Go away!”

  I am the one who is crying now.

  “I wish you were dead and not Dad.”

  These words are striking deep down in my heart. “I will not get over them”, the melodramatic part of me replies. And yet there is one part of me that is more courageous and consisten
t, that understands the rage and frustration of a little eight-year-old who adored her father and that life, death, or whatever, have been taken away without even asking her. Without asking her opinion.

  I am walking slowly to the door. When I turn around just in case April wants to apologize or come running to hug me, I realize that she is again immersed in her world. Headphones on and daddy’s picture on the roof. Tears are still running down her cheeks, but she is not thinking about me and she seems not regretting what she just told me.

  I promise myself that I will put this episode out of my mind. Maybe not today, but tomorrow. Or the day after tomorrow… or maybe in a month. We will forget everything and we will return how we used to be: a little older, a little wiser. With lessons and mistakes learned that it would be better to remember, so we may not make it again.

  CHAPTER 8

  —

  I have learned that loves can come by surprise or they can end in one night. That great friends can become great strangers and, on the contrary, a stranger can become an inseparable friend. That “never again” is never fulfilled, and that “forever” always ends.

  That if you want, you can, follow, achieve and get it.

  That if you do not take a chance, you lose, and nothing ventured, nothing gained.

  That if you want to see a person, just look for him, tomorrow will be late. That feeling pain is inevitable, but suffering is optional. And above all I have learned we can no longer deny what it really is obvious.

  BEFORE

  When I told Kim what I had just done, the first thing she told me was:

  “I do not even know you. You’ve always been so sure of yourself… Even if you begin stuttering and such things. What I have always admired something about you is that you keep things straight, Jean. Look what happened with Dave. He was really cruel and…”