My Deja Vu Lover

by Phoebe Matthews

  Headlight glare from oncoming traffic blurred the center line of the highway as I drove away from the city. My eyes strained to keep the right-hand edge in sight. I tried to remember what Macbeth had said about not looking into headlights, something about swerving toward them. I gripped the wheel so tightly, my hands ached. What was I doing on a highway at night by myself?

  Looking for the truth. Marrying a man like Graham, discovering his infidelities, that could make anyone take up drinking. That didn’t mean Barbara Berkold was an alcoholic.

  Graham and I had talked about so many things without ever telling each other any real truths about ourselves. All I knew about Graham was what his wife had told me. And what I had heard from others, people who coveted him or envied him or hated him. Why should I believe them and not him?

  Why was the center line so hard to see on the rain dark pavement?

  How fast was I going? Checking the speedometer would mean taking my eyes from the road. How did people do all that other stuff, turn on their car stereos, drink coffee, talk on cell phones? I white-knuckled the wheel, squinted into the darkness. There was a steady line of traffic and I concentrated on keeping the same amount of space between myself and the car in front of me.

  Graham had said, “I’ll never leave you.”

  Laurence had said, “You’ll always belong to me.”

  They played on my memory like lines from a country western song. I thought about flipping on the radio to drown out my brain but I had no idea which buttons on the dashboard to poke.

  And I didn’t dare try to look because if I took my eyes from the road, something terrible would happen. I’d been right, absolutely right, driving was hell and why had I let myself be talked into learning?

  Okay, driving was also a way to escape.

  This part of the road looked familiar, yes, I’d seen this earlier. The headlights illuminated the white and green direction signs and I read them quickly, then drove past while I thought about what I’d read. Yes, I recognized the upcoming turn name, knew it led toward the cottage, turned onto a two-lane road that was less trafficked. This was where it all got tricky, no more bright overhead lights, no overhead green and white street signs.

  There were a few signs but they were small and on posts off to the side. I slowed, had a couple of cars veer around me, tried to ignore them and keep my attention on the road.

  Okay, that long section of fencing looked familiar. Was this the right turn-off? How could I have driven all this way so often and not be sure? Because I hadn’t been driving, Graham had.

  At the last possible moment I decided a break in the tree line was the turn I wanted and took it. Possibly I would spend the night driving down unfamiliar roads until the gas tank hit empty.

  Forests sprang up, impenetrable blackness beyond the headlights’ sweep, baffling sound. All I could hear was the clatter of Tom’s engine. Gravel side roads and driveways fell away from the macadam, gray slashes disappearing between trees. I slowed, afraid I would miss the driveway.

  A car behind me whipped across the centerline and passed me. Terrified, I almost swerved into the ditch. Then the other car disappeared around a bend and I was alone again in darkness. At times I wasn’t sure where the edge of the paving was. It no longer had a center line painted on it.

  CHAPTER 38

  Certain that I was completely lost, I slowed to a crawl, trying to see through the mist, then wondering if I should pull over and wait for dawn. And then I saw a side road marked by a wooden name sign with a list of names painted on it.

  Kind of remembered it. I drove down the road slowly, watching for the driveway. Tom’s windshield wipers dragged the rain across the dirty glass into opaque fans.

  I rolled down the window to watch for the drop-off. The fresh smell of fir revived me. A sharp drop of gravel and rutted mud led down to the familiar parking circle. For a moment the shape parked there made no sense to me.

  My headlights reflected on metal and glass, cast long shadows. I stopped behind the other car and remembered to put the gear in park and set the brake. Sat and took a long breath.

  Puzzled, I climbed out of Tom’s car and walked slowly around the empty car.

  Ah, I felt like a seasick person finally stepping off a rocking boat onto firm land. I was here, I hadn’t caused a wreck or killed myself. Amazing.

  Standing beside the other car, I leaned against the fender and peered over the hillside’s drop. Although the slope below was a blur of overlapping shadows, I knew I was directly above the cottage. A thread of light touched mounded brambles but nothing was clear. I could smell the fir trees and beyond them the sea and overreaching both, the pungent smoke that rose, invisible in the night, from the cottage chimney.

  Circling the other car, I peered through dark windows, saw nothing in its shadowed interior. I tried the doors. Locked. Okay, think, I’m not good at cars but certainly it looked like Graham’s car. If he went to Spokane with a colleague, maybe they took the other guy’s car.

  Did Graham’s wife or his son drive Graham’s car when he wasn’t using it?

  Who had lit the logs in the fireplace? It had to be Graham. No one else used his cottage, he’d told me that. Yeah, but he had a teenage son. Maybe the son took advantage of his dad’s absence, brought friends out for a kegger?

  Or maybe he only came with a girlfriend. In the winter, the cottage would be far warmer than a parked car. When I was a teenager, that’s what I would have decided. If it was the boy, I certainly didn’t want to embarrass him.

  As I felt my way down the path, moving my feet cautiously to avoid holes and root mounds, my heart quickened. I had been wrong to block Graham out this afternoon. This past afternoon. A few hours ago. That’s all the time since I’d last seen him and yet it seemed like days or weeks or forever.

  Had I really told him to take me home? I’d been so stupid. I should have talked to him, asked questions, demanded answers.

  I should have put Laurence out of my head. He was a nightmare that had nothing to do with Graham. Graham was not Laurence. How had I ever deceived myself into believing that? My doubts were what had lied to me, not Graham. I’d heard in his words all of Laurence’s lies, and my imagination had betrayed me. Not Graham. Not Graham.

  My toe caught a rut in the dirt path. I stumbled, fell into a bank of salal, pulled myself out, brushed off wet leaves and rubbed my hands on my jeans to try to dry them. I felt warm, glowing, as though I stood in front of the fire with Graham’s arms around me. I’d been stupid to doubt him.

  Maybe he was here now, in the cottage, thinking about me, too miserable over our separation to stay at his house in town. He was such a romantic, always quoting poetry. Maybe he’d come back out here to draw around him the memories of the two of us together in the cottage. Maybe he’d concocted the trip to Spokane to give himself time alone.

  If Graham and I had both had the same idea, now we would work this out together.

  Vine tendrils stretched across the path to trip the unwary. Night creatures rustled in the leaves. Mist swirled across my face like the trailing skirts of a passing ghost. Was that all we were between lives, drifting clouds of memory, floating by the landscapes of our past and startling intruders?

  Who was in the cottage? It must be Graham.

  Carefully I edged my way down the nonexistent path, brushing past salal, loosing small fountains of raindrops from the wide leaves to spurt and soak my jeans. I grabbed at a low tree branch, almost fell when it bent away from me.

  In front of me, a lighted window, yes. As the hill came down past the cottage, there was a high, narrow window above the entry. Through it I could see a flicker of firelight touching bright surfaces, casting shadows on the walls. I continued down the slick, muddy hillside, touched the rough outer wall of the cottage, felt my way in darkness to the steps. Almost walked up and knocked on the door.

  He’d say, “April darling.” Or he’d say, “We can’t go on.”

  Either way, I’d push past him, mak
e myself be firm with him.

  I’d say, “We have to figure this out.”

  If that led to a breakup, at least I’d know why.

  I heard a sound, a voice, not sure it was Graham.

  Maybe it was the boy and a girlfriend and I really did not want to embarrass him. Also, I didn’t want to explain who I was and what I was doing out here.

  Some odd vibe sent me past the door to the low window that faced the hearth, gave a narrow view of the room. I could see the couch below the window and the fireplace itself and the framed painting above it, the sort of valueless painting people leave in cottages, something dark with shapes of trees and a distant mountain range. The only light in the room was from the fireplace where flames spiked orange above the logs.

  I almost didn’t see the forms moving in front of the fire. They were stretched out on the musty oriental rug. I turned back toward the door, and then I realized what I had seen. I saw the outlines, peered closer, almost didn’t believe.

  The teenager and a girlfriend? I had no idea what he looked like. At fifteen he could be full grown.

  Moving up to the window, I shielded my eyes against glare, pressed my face to the glass. Still didn’t believe, tried to convince myself that it was the boy. But no.

  I knew too well the shape of Graham’s naked back, the ridge of spine, the solid muscles, every curve and line of bare flesh. The fire reflected and turned his light hair to a dark gold.

  I didn’t know the bare arms wrapped around his neck, the bare legs wrapped around his hips. That was all I could see of the woman underneath him. A shadow spilled beneath his shoulder, maybe her hair.

  Maybe I should have screamed and pounded on the door or maybe I should have picked my way quietly up the hillside and back to the car.

  What I should not have done was be surprised. Why was I surprised? Why had I expected him to be better than this? But I was, I was surprised, shocked to silence, for a few moments numb. Then fury boiled up along with tears.

  “They are always like you,” his wife had told me. “Always nice young women.”

  It never for one moment occurred to me to be angry with the woman, whoever she was. She might think she was stealing him from his wife but she certainly never knew she was stealing him from me. Whatever version of his unsatisfactory marriage he’d fed her, I was sure he hadn’t mentioned that he also had a current girlfriend.

  No one to blame but myself.

  He’d warned me, hadn’t he? Told me we had no future. But the way he said it. As though he truly loved me. The way he kept coming back. The way it was always Graham who called me, not the other way around.

  Except for that one day when I went to his house, expecting to do nothing more than stand on the sidewalk and see where he lived, except for that once, I had never sought him out. But damn him, he’d tossed out the bait and then reeled me in like a fish, and I didn’t know who I hated more, him or myself.

  Stumbling, half-blind with tears, I bent and picked up a half-brick that edged the narrow path in front of the cottage. Bricks were pushed into the soil so that they stood up like a low row of triangles. For decoration, I suppose, because they had no use. Good for tripping over, I’d done that a few times, so if I pulled them out, I’d be doing everyone a favor.

  I pulled up another and then another, and brushed away loose mud with the side of my hand. And wondered why. Who cared if they were muddy? It wasn’t muddy I was looking for. It was hard. Sharp. Heavy. That’s what I needed.

  I stuffed one in each jacket pocket. Then I zipped the jacket up a few inches. The hem fitted around my waist and the sides worked like pouches. I reached past the zipper and stuffed half bricks into the pouches. The first two fell out of the outside pockets. The half dozen more stayed put between my jacket and me. I picked up a couple more, held them in my fists.

  I’d never been much of an athlete, never thought of myself as having a strong throwing arm. It must have been pure fury.

  My eyes burned and I blinked rapidly but that didn’t stop the tears. They welled up, spilled over my eyelids. My head pounded.

  The cottage became a blur of dark shape and yellow windows. The forest ran together in shadows. At the end of the path, where it met the trail down to the water, I stopped, stared out, saw reflections on the dark sea, smelled the water, heard a gull scream. Or maybe it was something else, some other bird, out there in the dark. It sounded the way I felt, furious, betrayed, ready to destroy the world.

  Swinging around, I marched across the small clearing of the front yard until shrubs stopped me, then turned back toward the cottage.

  When I reached the far corner, I threw the first brick and hit the siding with an echoing crash. I stood still, listened. No one shouted. No one came running out.

  I moved a little closer, aimed a little better, put the next one through the kitchen window. Let out a sob.

  I heard breaking glass and the echo of falling pans. I’d made coffee in that kitchen, poured wine, occasionally constructed a sandwich. I liked that kitchen, it was small and cute and woodsy. And now it probably had a glass-strewn floor.

  Good, let him cut his damn naked feet.

  And then I walked directly up to the living room, saw raised heads silhouetted against the fire. I stepped back and aimed two more half bricks through the windows that faced the water view. And I screamed his name. If there was anyone in the other cottages, they could have heard me because I swear I shrieked louder than the wind and rain.

  I screamed his name and then a lot of other names and what had he said the first day I met him and called him Laurence? Oh right.

  “I’ve been called a lot of names, but never Laurence.”

  I could believe the ‘called a lot of names,’ which had puzzled me then. Now I knew exactly the names he had been called.

  I hauled back and shot another brick through the window, stopped screaming long enough to hear glass crashing and someone else screaming. And then I took careful aim and took out the small window in the door.

  My hands were covered with wet mud. I brushed them off, tucked them into my pockets. One more half brick. I didn’t want to waste that, did I? Was there a window still intact?

  The scream was high, the woman screaming.

  The shout was loud, deep, Graham’s voice.

  I headed back up the hillside, hurrying, my feet slipping on mud and loose gravel, my vision a shimmering of tears. But tears catch light and enlarge it and there it was, that high side window above the small entry hall. I tossed the last brick through it, stopped to listen to glass burst and fall.

  And then I climbed back up the path, grabbing at rain-soaked shrubs to steady myself, shrieking every insulting name I’d ever heard.

  By the time I reached Tom’s car, I was crying so hard I couldn’t form words, only sobs. If I hadn’t left the keys in the ignition and the door unlocked, I would have had to sit on the ground and howl because I could no longer see through my tears.

  Feeling my way into the driver’s seat, I put my head on the wheel, wept, moaned, shivered with cold and burned with fury.

  My headache pounded.

  “April! April!”

  Over my own racket, I heard him calling me. I scrubbed at my eyes with the backs of my fists, knew enough to keep my muddy fingers away from my face. Lifting my head, I squinted out into the night.

  At first all I could see was the glitter of rain on every surface. And then I saw him.

  He was halfway up the path, a dark silhouette among watery reflections, waving his arms.

  I turned the key in the ignition. Nothing happened except that awful grinding noise. And then I remembered about gas pedal and gear and brake and finally did everything in order by luck, not skill. The engine roared in protest. I pushed the gear into reverse, yes, I could do reverse, but not too well. Branches scraped loudly across the back of the car. I sniffed, sobbed, pushed the gear into drive, swung half way around, saw his car in my backup lights.

  He stood on the far s
ide of his car, bent forward, a hand on the fender. Catching his breath, I guessed. I could hit his car, send it crashing down the hill, crush the man. For about half a minute, I seriously considered doing that.

  For half a minute, I was truly insane.

  And then my brain kicked in. No way was I going to get dragged off to jail for killing him. Maybe I could come back another night, when he wasn’t on the path, and see if I could total his car. I’d think about that.

  Then I headed up the narrow drive toward the road. And realized that here I was again, driving. I’d felt considerably more safe when I was marching around his stupid cottage breaking his fucking windows.

  I had this two miles an hour mentality going and I could barely see the side of the drive, knew it dropped off sharply into the trees at each turn.

  There was no shoulder, just a gravel drive of two deep ruts worn along a center mound of gravel. In places the mound was so high, or the ruts so deep, the drive scraped the underside of the car.

  Edging around the curves, I kept expecting to skid off into the trees. I stopped when I reached the top of the drive. There was a rough bump onto the road’s black surface. If I went the wrong way, I’d never find my way back. I peered into the dark, trying to remember which way to turn.

  And that’s when the door flew open on the passenger side.

  I screamed.

  Graham stumbled into the front seat, shouted, “Stop! Stop right now!”

  Oh sure, that was going to calm me down. I hit the gas and the car bounced up over the bump and swung out onto the road. It swerved to the far gravel shoulder, swerved back. I heard the tires slide, heard the door hinges creak, heard branches slap against the windshield and the far side of the car.

  He slammed the passenger side door closed.

  “Are you insane?” he screamed.

  “Yes!” I screamed back.

  “April, stop this, pull over!”

  All he had on was his jeans, no shirt or shoes, bare skin slick with rain.

  “At least you covered your ass,” I shouted.