by Sarah Jio
From his wine rack, he selects an expensive bottle. He knows she likes French wine, Bordeaux. His binoculars are high-powered enough that he could read the label on the bottle on her counter yesterday. He tucks it under his arm, reaches for the vase of orange roses he bought for her yesterday, then places his hand on the door. Just twelve paces to the elevator, then sixteen to the sidewalk, and then another seven off the elevator to Celeste’s apartment, or at least that’s how he imagined when he’d counted it all out in his head. He can hear only the beat of his heart. He’s so lost in his thoughts when he steps into the hallway, he doesn’t immediately notice the little white envelope lying by his door.
He bends down to pick it up. His name is written on the front of the envelope, and he tears the flap open hastily.
Dear Flynn,
I am so sorry that I left without saying good-bye, or even hello. But the circumstances in my life gave me no other option. Some things aren’t meant to be. And some love is ill-timed. And yet, I think I could have loved you. I think I did love you, even if it was only through two layers of glass.
I will always be yours, through the window,
Celeste
P.S. Look after Cezanne for me, please?
The wine and vase of flowers drop from Flynn’s grasp and fall to the floor, shattering in a mess of crimson-stained petals and jagged glass shards. Flynn doesn’t notice or hear, though. He begins running, down the hall, to the elevator, out the lobby to the street, and into Celeste’s building. He doesn’t even hear the doorman’s greeting. His lips simply move, and there is only the sound of his own beating heart. It pounds in his ears like a bass drum. Boom. Boom. Boom.
The elevator deposits him on the eleventh floor, and he runs down the hallway to Celeste’s door, which is slightly ajar.
The space is completely empty. Flynn’s shoes clack on the hardwood floors and release a lonely echo in the air. The furniture is gone. The walls are bare. And he can feel it, that palpably empty feeling. Celeste is gone.
He falls to his knees then. Couldn’t she have waited? Just a few hours longer? He was coming, for her. He buries his face in his hands, just as he feels a soft nudge against the side of his knee.
A fluffy white cat purrs beside him.
“Cezanne,” he says, lifting the cat into his arms.
Flynn wipes away a tear, then nods. “Let’s go home.”
In his apartment, he sets the cat down, and she saunters to the couch, where she nestles beside a pillow in a way that seems as if she might have done it a thousand times before, and will a thousand times after.
The low clouds still hover outside, but they’re dissipating now, and Flynn walks to the window. With each moment, the view into Celeste’s empty apartment becomes clearer. And yet, Flynn wonders. Was she an illusion? Was she a figment of his imagination all along?
He closes his eyes and sees her again. Her beautiful nude body walking through her living room. That sad face looking over her shoulder at him from her kitchen.
Cezanne has leapt from the couch and now rubs her head against his leg. Flynn opens his eyes and places his hand on the glass once more.
Celeste was the very best illusion.
I wonder how Flynn’s doing today. He seemed on edge yesterday. I consider calling him but decide to finish the entries in the book. There isn’t much time left now. I move to the next line and write “Storge.” As I do I think about the way Colette smiled to herself when she described this type of love. Love born from friendship. And I smile too, when I write the names Mel and Vivian on the next line and sit back to write their story.
342 Pine Street #4
The smoke alarm wakes Mel from his Christmas Day nap. He leaps to his feet and runs to the kitchen, where smoke billows out of the oven in a torrent. What was supposed to be a roast for his Christmas dinner is unrecognizable in its charred state. He turns on the kitchen fan and throws open the windows, immediately regretting his plan to cook when he might have been satisfied with sandwich fixings. Yes, Adele would have made dinner. It would have been perfect. Adele made everything perfect.
He extinguishes the smoldering roast in the sink with cold water, then retreats to the couch and stares down at his feet, and he thinks, as he does each Christmas: How will I get through this day?
A half hour passes, and he opens a beer and turns on the television. There’s a can of chili somewhere in the cupboard. He’ll find it later, after this episode of Seinfeld.
And when a knock sounds at the door, he hardly hears it at first. But then he turns the volume down, silencing Newman. Probably the landlord, here to complain about the smoke. He braces himself as he opens the door. And there, standing in the hallway, is Vivian.
“Oh,” he says, stunned. “This is a surprise.”
“Thank you for the flowers,” she says. Her eyes look soft in a way he hasn’t seen before.
“How did you know they were from—”
Vivian says, pushing past him, “I figured you’d be no use in the kitchen today,” she says, waving her hand in front of her nose. “What did you burn? A duck?”
“I take it you could smell my disaster throughout the market?”
“Yes,” she says, setting a paper bag down on Mel’s dining room table, stacked high with books, newspapers, and boxes of this and that. “So I thought I’d share my Christmas dinner. It’s nothing much, just some pâté and crudités. But it has to be better than what your contingent plan entails.”
Mel smiles. “Canned chili,” he says, eyeing the plastic containers of food Vivian is setting on the table. “So, yes.”
He runs his hand through his sparse hair nervously. He wishes he’d put on a fresh shirt this morning and cleaned his living room. The dishes in the kitchen sink date back to three days before. “I’m afraid my apartment’s in a bit of disarray.”
“You do not live with a woman, nor have a housekeeper,” Vivian says with a knowing smile. “It’s a forgivable sin.”
He watches as she confidently navigates his apartment, first dropping her coat on the overstuffed chair by the fireplace. “Now,” she says, rolling up her sleeves. “We’ll just need two plates and a couple of wineglasses.”
He sheepishly fiddles with his watch. “The plates are all in the sink, and I’m afraid I don’t have any wineglasses. Or wine. Just beer, in the fridge.”
“Fine, then,” Vivian says without a moment’s hesitation. “You sit. I’ll just wash us a few plates.” A few moments later, she sets out a veritable feast on the coffee table: a plate of cheese, pâté, crackers, and sliced vegetables. Two cold cans of beer round out the spread. She cracks open one of them and smiles.
“You should be drinking champagne out of a crystal flute,” Mel says.
“I’ve done that all my life,” she says, staring into his eyes. “Believe it or not, it gets a little dull.”
He thinks of Adele. And he wonders if she can see him now. He wonders if she’d approve, but somewhere deep down, he already knows the answer. His heart feels full, and tears sting his eyes. “Why did you come, Vivian?”
She takes another sip of her beer, then sets it down daintily on the coffee table and folds her hands in her lap. “Because, for every reason I can think of not to like you, there are ten reasons why I do,” she says, slowly extending her hand to meet his. He takes it.
“I like you too,” he says.
“Besides, no one should be alone on Christmas. It’s criminal.”
“Indeed,” Mel agrees, returning her smile.
“The flowers are the most extraordinary range of greens,” she says. “I’ve never seen such an array.”
“That’s the work of Jane, the Flower Lady. I’ll have to introduce you, but not today.”
“What artistic vision she has. I look forward to meeting her.”
“I . . . I wanted to give them to you myself, but I
saw you seated beside a man. I didn’t want to interfere.”
“My driver, you mean?” She smiles, and he smiles back. “You know something?” she says, turning to the fireplace, where a log crackles and hisses behind the grate. “I didn’t think I could feel this way again. After my husband died, I went through so much grief, some that I’m still sorting through. And I suppose that process may continue for the rest of my life. You see, when you know love once, you can feel as though you’ll never know it again. But then came you.”
“And then came you,” Mel says, eyes locked on hers. “It feels right, doesn’t it?”
“It does,” Vivian says.
“Merry Christmas,” he says, holding his beer up to hers.
“Merry Christmas,” she says. “To new beginnings.”
“To the most beautiful new beginnings.”
Just a few more now, and my journey will be complete. On the next line, I write “Eros.” I think about this form of passionate love. And I write Josh’s and Katie’s names in the book. I can almost feel their names pulse on the page. And yet, their story is raw and unfinished. I begin writing.
1112 Broadway E. #202
The real estate agent will be over tomorrow, and Katie knows she should tidy up. She feels a lump in her throat then, thinking about the first time she and Josh made love in this bedroom, on the bare hardwood floors.
Josh paid well above market price for the home, and she’s nervous she may not even break even on the sale. But instead of blitzing the windows with Windex and restacking the books on the coffee table in a neat row, Katie pulls up her laptop and rereads the e-mail she received from Josh, sent from God knows where.
Katie,
It’s better this way. Trust me. I had to leave. I’m sorry that we won’t have the future we planned. Someday I hope you’ll understand. But for now, the house must be sold. I want the very best for you. I can’t see you now, but have all the documents faxed to my office and my assistant will make sure I sign what I need to.
Please take care of yourself,
Josh
When she reads his words, Katie bursts into tears all over again. How can he be so very cold? How can he treat her like a business transaction? They were in such deep love. They planned a life together. And for Josh to just get up one morning and leave, without so much as an explanation or even a good-bye?
Of course, he met a woman. Katie is sure of it. He was so good with her, sexually. He knew how her body worked, and he played it with precision, like an instrument he’d mastered with virtuoso skill. She imagines him touching someone else now and her stomach turns. Of course he’s touching someone else. Josh needs that. Just as she does.
When the phone rings, she almost doesn’t answer it, except it’s her hairstylist friend Mary, who’s about to have her baby. Maybe she needs help. Katie reaches for the phone. “Hi, Mary,” she says, collecting herself.
“You OK?” Mary asks.
“You’re the one I should be concerned about,” Katie says. “Are you in labor?”
“Yes,” Mary says. “At least, I will be soon. I’m at the hospital. They’re inducing.”
“Oh, wow. You must be so excited.”
“I am,” Mary says. “But that’s not why I’m calling. Honey, I . . . I have some news for you.”
Katie’s heart beats faster. It’s about Josh; she can feel it. In a moment, Mary will tell her that she saw him at a restaurant with another woman. Or maybe the other woman came into the salon, and Mary foiled her hair and listened as she talked about Josh, unaware of the connection between Mary and Katie.
She braces herself. “What is it?” she says cautiously.
Mary takes a deep breath. “I saw him, Katie. I saw Josh.”
“You did?” Katie exclaims. “Where?”
“Here, at the hospital.”
“What do you mean, at the hospital?”
“After I filled out paperwork at reception, they had an orderly pick me up in a wheelchair,” Mary continues. “We got on an elevator, headed for the fifth floor, but we stopped on the third to let some other people on, and I saw Josh in the distance. I just caught a glimpse of his face down the hallway. He was sitting in a chair beside the nurses’ station.”
“Are you sure it was him?” Katie gasps. “Maybe it was just someone who looked like him.”
“No,” Mary says. “It was him. He recognized me too. Our eyes met, just before the elevator doors closed. I would’ve stopped to talk to him for you, but I had to get hooked up to this damn Pitocin drip.”
“I—I—” Katie stammers. “I don’t know what to say. Why would he be at the hospital?”
“Maybe he’s visiting someone here.”
“Maybe,” Katie says. “But I’m coming down there. Right now. What floor did you say?”
“Third floor.”
As she races out the door to her car, Katie doesn’t think of anything. Not readying the house for the real estate agent tomorrow. Not locking her front door. Not even her cell phone, which she leaves on the coffee table. All she can think of is Josh, and now that she knows where he is, in this moment, despite the painful circumstances, all she knows is that she must go to him. She must see him.
She parks her car in a physician parking spot on the first floor of the parking garage, knowing that the price of a steep parking ticket will pale in comparison to missing Josh today. What if he already left? What if he’s here to see someone? Another woman? Katie runs to the elevator and jams her finger on the Up button. Third floor. Third floor. Third floor. Her heart beats wildly as the elevator jerks upward.
“Can I help you?” a mousy-looking nurse at the desk asks.
“Yes,” Katie says, out of breath. “There was someone here about a half hour ago. A man. His name is Josh Parker. You see, my friend called me from the hospital and she thought she saw him here, right down—”
“And are you a visitor?”
“I’m his wife. He was here?”
The nurse’s eyes dart around her desk nervously. “Ma’am, I’ve been told that—”
“My God,” Katie cries. “Josh is a patient?” She scours the whiteboard behind the nurse’s desk with frantic eyes until they lock onto “Parker/Room #319.” She takes a step back. “What floor is this?”
“Third,” the nurse says.
“No, no, I mean, what floor is this? Oncology? What?”
“This is the rehabilitation wing.”
“Rehabilitation?”
“Yes, it’s where patients who have undergone traumatic brain injury or paralysis are taken for recovery.”
“Paralysis?” Katie looks right, then left, then runs down the hallway until she sees a sign that reads “319.” She doesn’t knock, nor does she turn around when she hears the nurse calling out behind her. “Miss, you can’t go in there. It’s against our policy.”
Katie opens the door and pulls back the curtain. And there is Josh. Her Josh. There is stubble on his chin, and his face is much thinner now. But his green eyes, those eyes she loves, are just as she remembers. And when they meet hers, it touches her in a place deep inside. Her legs feel weak as she rushes to the bed where Josh is lying. She doesn’t deny her urge to run to him, to wrap her arms around his shoulders and kiss him with the love she still feels, that she will always feel.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” she says. She is both exhilarated and angry. “Why did you go dark? Why?”
“Sir, is everything all right?” Katie turns to the door. It’s the mousy-looking nurse from the desk. “If you’d like, we can—”
“It’s fine,” Josh says.
The nurse stares at Katie for a long moment, then nods and closes the door.
When they are alone again, Josh looks out the window. Katie watches as the light hits his eyes, which are moist with fresh tears.
“Josh, please,�
�� she cries. “Talk to me. What happened? Please . . .”
He’s silent for a long moment; then he turns to face her. “I was going out to get you coffee, but also to meet with a landscape architect. I wanted to surprise you with those raised vegetable beds you’re always talking about.”
She nods. “The blonde,” she says to herself.
“I was leaving the café, walking past a construction site, where they’re retrofitting an old building.” He swallows hard. “I didn’t see the scaffolding fall until it was too late.” Tears spill from his lids. “Katie, it was too late. It pinned my legs. I was out for twenty-four hours, and when I woke up, they told me.” He looks out the window again.
“Oh, Josh,” Katie says through tears. “They told you what?”
He swallows hard. “I’m paralyzed, Katie. From the waist down. I can’t walk. I can’t . . .”
She buries her face in his chest. She feels his arms touch her back lightly, and her neck erupts in goose bumps. “Why didn’t you call me?” she cries. “Why didn’t you tell me? I thought you’d left me for another woman. I thought you hated me.”
He frowns. “I wanted you to hate me. I wanted you to hate me enough to move on, to find someone who could love you the way I can’t.”
She shakes her head and wipes the tears from her cheeks. “Did the accident paralyze your heart? Did it take away your mind?”
Josh looks away, but Katie presses on. “Did it? Did it?”
“No,” he says, “but, Katie, I can’t . . . God, I’ll never be able to make love to you again. I’ll never be able to—”
“And you thought that I would walk away from you because of that?” She shakes her head.
“That’s just it,” he says. “I knew you wouldn’t. But how could I enslave you to a life of platonic love? A life where I could not make you scream with pleasure the way you deserve? I just couldn’t do it. I couldn’t bear it.”
Katie walks to the window and stands in silence as the tears stream down her cheeks. “No,” she finally says, turning around. “No, you’re wrong, Josh Parker. You’re so damn wrong.”