Wings Over Poppies (Over #2)

by J. A. Derouen

  “That’s what I’m afraid of,” she whispers softly, almost too low for me to hear.

  Funny thing is, I’m afraid of the exact same thing.

  I knock loudly on the door that’s slightly ajar and call out into the loft apartment, “Cain? You in there?”

  I step hesitantly into the doorway. I met Cain through Adam and Sara, and we hit it off right from the start. We have a standing tee time together once a week, and it’s always … interesting. I’ve missed playing golf, and he mentioned his love of the game one night when we were all hanging out. I usually beat him by at least ten strokes, but he keeps coming back for more. He thinks I’m showing off, but the truth is I’m actually taking it easy on him. At six and a half feet tall, he’s got the power to drive the ball, but he lacks finesse. He reminds me of Happy Gilmore, minus the hockey stick.

  “Cain?” I repeat, hearing my voice echoed back to me. Mr. Biscuit, his overly eager Jack Russell, takes off in my direction, and I bend down to scratch behind his ears.

  Cain’s loft is on top of an antique store in downtown Providence. If I didn’t adore my cottage style home, I would be totally jealous of the exposed beams, brick walls, and high ceilings in his place.

  “Keep your shirt on, little girl. I’m coming,” Cain says as he walks out of the bathroom shirtless and bare-footed.

  I stand up immediately and hide my eyes with my hand. “Put some clothes on, man!”

  His low chuckle fills the room, and I hear his footsteps approaching me.

  “You can turn around, Alex, I’ve got a shirt on now.” I turn to see him shaking his head in laughter, blond curls dancing wildly around his emerald eyes. “Jeez, you’d think you caught me rockin’ out with my cock out.”

  My head jerks back in shock. “Rockin’ with your … what the hell does that mean?”

  “You know, rockin’ out with my cock out. Balls blowing in the breeze.”

  “Is that so? Do you rock out with your cock out often?” It’s probably not a great idea to goad Cain, but sometimes I just can’t help myself. He’s a joker, a great big teddy bear of a guy, and he’s always good for a laugh.

  “Every chance I get. You should try it. You don’t have a cock, but we could figure something out. Maybe you could jam out with your clam out. Yeah, that would work.”

  “Oh my God, did you just compare my vagina to seafood, Cain Bennett?” I playfully slap his now shirt-covered chest.

  “Okay, maybe that won’t work. Sorry,” he says as he grabs his golf clubs from the corner of the kitchen.

  Cain stops short as he puts his keys in his pocket, his eyebrows rising in question. “How do you feel about Mexican food?”

  “So help me, if you say taco,” I warn with my hands on my hips.

  He raises his hands in defense and follows me out of his loft.

  “I didn’t say a word, I swear. It was an innocent question.”

  “Nothing with you is ever innocent. You forget, I know you!”

  “Si, senorita!”

  “Coffee breath! No second date if you show up with coffee breath. Really, how fucking hard is it to pop a mint in your mouth?” Cain bends down to analyze the angle of the ball in relation to the hole.

  “Not hard at all if you ask me,” I agree. “Oh, what about greasy foreheads? If you can’t pass a rag on your Crisco head before our date, I’m done.”

  “Agreed … hairspray flakes in bangs.”

  “Clothes that smell like mildew.”

  “Light lipstick with really dark lip liner. Who decided that shit looked good?”

  “Chewing with an open mouth.”

  Cain nods before sinking his putt and turns to me with his hands on his hips.

  “Eye boogers.”

  “Real boogers.”

  “If a chick shows up for our date with a fucking cliffy, I’m phoning a friend. An emergency that needs immediate attention will surface, I guarantee you. Girls shouldn’t have boogers, or at least I shouldn’t know about ‘em. Same goes for farting, burping, taking a shit, or any other equally disgusting bodily function.” Cain chooses this very moment to belt out a deafening belch. “Sorry, I know it’s a double standard, but I don’t make the rules.”

  “Well, Cain, it seems we are a pair of picky chickens when it comes to dating.”

  “It is decidedly so.”

  “I wish I wasn’t this way, but I can’t help it. It’s visceral—once my picky radar is pricked, there’s no turning back. The attraction is gone.”

  “Look, our senses are just more finely tuned than the regular person. When it’s right, we’ll know it,” he says with so much certainty, I almost believe him.

  “Have you ever been in love, Cain?”

  We both sit in the golf cart, and he turns to face me, putting his arm behind my seat. “Never at the same time. I’ve had several women tell me they love me, but I’ve never returned the sentiment. I’ve loved one woman in my life, and she doesn’t return my affection. At least not in the same way. It seems I can’t ever get the timing right.”

  I silently wonder if Cain is referring to Celia, one of the therapists at New Horizons. She rents her house from Cain, and I know they are best friends. But I catch the looks he gives her, and I wonder if there’s more to it than friendship—for him.

  “Have you and Celia ever dated?”

  The words fly out of my mouth before I can stop them, and I instantly wish I could take them back. I hope he doesn’t tell me to mind my own damn business.

  He lets out a sarcastic laugh. “Yeah, that’s never gonna happen. Celia is … unavailable.”

  “Oh? I didn’t realize she was dating anyone.”

  “She’s not. It’s complicated.” He rubs the back of his neck and lowers his head. “Celia lost someone, and she just can’t seem to move on from it.”

  “Oh.”

  I shift uncomfortably, unsure of what else I can say. I guess Celia and I have more in common than I initially thought. I hope that uncovering the truth will clear the fog in my head, but there’s no way to know for certain. I think back to Caroline’s request that I talk with someone about what’s going on with me, and I wonder if Celia may have some insight for me. It sounds like she could use a friend, too. Who knows, maybe we can help each other.

  “If you had a cliffy, I’d do you a solid and tell you,” Cain says, breaking me free of my thoughts. I throw my head back in laughter.

  “Same here, Cain. Same here.”

  “Stars” by Grace Potter and the Nocturnals

  “AUBREY, YOUR PICTURE is beautiful! It’s so colorful. You did a wonderful job.” I weave in and out of the worktables, perusing the children’s art projects.

  Aubrey beams with pride at my words. She and her mother are staying at the clinic’s housing for domestic abuse victims, and our Saturday morning art classes are an opportunity for her to be creative and have fun with other children. The stories may differ depending on the child, but they all need an outlet to express themselves. Art is the perfect way to say things that would otherwise be left unsaid.

  The front of the gallery serves as a showplace for my artwork and other local artists, but I have a large workroom in the back. It’s unfinished and works great as a place for me to create. On Saturday mornings I set up tables, chairs, and several workstations to house my art class for the clinic.

  Celia serves as my assistant each Saturday, because while I’m great at fostering creativity and teaching art, I don’t know a thing about counseling children who have experienced trauma. Celia specializes in counseling chronic mentally ill adults, but she also has a special knack with the kids. They love her, and she has a gentle way of getting them to open up and talk about what’s on their minds.

  “This paint better wash off, Alex, because I’ll have to kill you if my manicure’s ruined,” Marlo says as I pass her furiously scrubbing at the washbasin.

  “Pipe down, my little Picasso. It’ll wash off, I promise.” I giggle to myself, as she looks over her shoulder,
her brown curls tumbling down her back. Nothing about Marlo is muted. Everything screams reckless abandon—wild hair, piercing green eyes, curves for days, and a take-no-prisoners attitude.

  Marlo usually shows up to help on Saturdays, too, unless she’s working at the hospital. Marlo and Sara have been friends since college, and they both “adopted” me into their circle after Sara bought one of my paintings. I never entertained selling that particular piece, having created it at a pivotal point in my life. It felt as if I gave her a piece of myself that day, but it felt right. We’ve been friends ever since. I’ll never forget the day Sara introduced me to Marlo.

  “Nice to meet ya.” Marlo shakes my hand and examines the leather bracelets on my wrist. Her eyes squint at the sight of my paint-speckled fingernails, and she looks me up and down in appraisal.

  “You too,” I say hesitantly. I don’t particularly appreciate her judgment, and I feel myself bristling under her gaze.

  “I like this whole au natural, bohemian thing you’ve got going on. You’ve got your own style.” She points at me and drags her finger up and down my outfit. She directs her attention at Sara. “This one over here? I’ve got to dress her like my own Barbie doll, or she looks like a fashion experiment gone awry.”

  “Um, thanks,” I say, but she quickly interrupts me by raising her hand.

  “There are a couple things I need to know if we’re gonna be friends, and this is non-negotiable. Do you shave your pits and trim your lady garden? Honestly, this granola thing is tres trendy. But a girl’s gotta draw the line somewhere, and my friendship line sits firmly at hairy overgrowth.”

  Once I recovered from the shock, I gave Marlo the affirmative, and she welcomed me with open arms. I’ve been laughing every day since. She’s high on life and doesn’t give a shit what anyone else thinks about her. It’s hard not to follow that same thought process when you’re in her presence.

  “This is the last of the paintbrushes, so I’ll take the kids to the front of the gallery to wait for their rides.” Marlo dries her hands and takes a quick moment to assess the damage. Once she’s satisfied that her nails came out unscathed, she turns to address the kids. “Please bring your projects to the back table to dry, and then follow me to the front so we can wait for everyone’s ride!”

  Her words cause a frenzy of activity. Little hands and feet scurry about the workroom with the exception of Celia and Timothy, one of the more challenging children.

  Timothy struggles with the fact that his father has been deployed to the Middle East for the better part of two years. His mother tries her best to assume the role of both parents, but Timothy has anger issues at home and school. E-mails, phone calls, and Skype sessions with his father haven’t been enough for an eleven-year-old boy who’s struggling.

  “No!” Timothy screams, wiping the table clean of his project and all the paints and brushes. Celia doesn’t even flinch, keeping a calm and reassuring smile on her face. Her expression says, “I care about you despite the way you’re acting. You won’t chase me away.”

  The ping of my phone pulls my attention away from them, and I grab it off the counter.

  Caroline: I have something for you. Can you stop by New Horizons after art class?

  Startled, I raise my hand to my heart. I don’t think I’m ready. Only a few weeks have passed since I solicited her help, and it took all the nerve I could muster to go to her. Do I have enough left in me to deal with whatever she tells me?

  Do I really have a choice? No. I have to meet this head on. I may grieve, I may rejoice, I may ache with hurt, but I won’t remain in the dark any longer.

  Me: I’ll be there in an hour.

  A fire lights within me, and suddenly I can’t lock up the gallery and get out of here fast enough. I look over to Celia and Timothy and see them both kneeling, collecting the scattered art supplies in companionable silence. I’m not sure how she calmed him, but his temper seems to be in check now. He may need extra attention, but I see the great kid hidden behind the anger.

  “Knock, knock.” I slip into Caroline’s office, fighting my conflicting emotions of running away and shaking her until she tells me what she knows.

  “That was quick. I wasn’t expecting you for a while yet.” Caroline closes the file in front of her to give me her full attention.

  “We got out of there fast today. Marlo was able to help this morning, and the extra hands made for quick clean up.”

  She remains quiet, watching me closely, as if I may spontaneously combust at any moment. Who knows, I may do just that. Her gentle eyes ease my soul more than any words can, but I can’t forget why I’m here. It’s only been minutes, but it feel like hours have passed since either of us has spoken.

  “He’s alive, Alex.”

  A sob escapes me before she finishes the sentence, and the relief floods my body in a swift wave.

  “Thank God. Oh, thank God,” I whisper as the tears take over.

  I grip my chest and bend at the waist to ease the tremendous ache. It’s like my longing, my loving him, has magnified a hundred times over with just that one declaration from Caroline. Maybe it’s my mind’s way of protecting itself. Maybe I couldn’t process the entirety of my feelings in case he was lost to me. Now that I know he’s still with me in this world, my need is amplified and overwhelming.

  I feel Caroline’s hand running up and down my back, whispering words of encouragement.

  “Let it out, sweet girl. It’s all right. You need to feel it and be grateful for that gift. Whatever happens going forward, today is a day to rejoice. Just let it out.”

  I don’t know how long she sits with me, but my sobs slowly recede, and my mind begins to process the possibilities of West. Where does he live? Is he married? Does he ever think of me? Why has he never contacted me?

  “I can hear those wheels turning in your head, so why don’t you let me tell you what I know instead of drowning in speculation?” She gently touches my chin, tipping my head up to hers. I nod slightly, and she reaches over to grab a sheet of paper off her desk. She holds it face down in her lap, and I clasp my hands together to stop myself from grabbing it from her.

  “I don’t have all the specifics, but I’ll tell you what I know. West Adler returned from the Middle East two years ago. That would coincide with him fulfilling his four-year commitment, but I’m unsure of the details surrounding his discharge from the military. I do know that he was a medic while he served. He now attends college and works part-time at a physical therapist’s office.”

  She stops suddenly and seems to be checking in with me to see how I’m handling all of this. Honestly, I’m not sure what to tell her. After years of living in the dark, I feel blessed, bombarded, blindsided. It’s too much. It’s not enough. It’s every word I’ve ever wanted to hear.

  “Okay,” I whisper, not capable of saying anything else. It’s taking everything in me to process her words and continue to breathe in and out. I can’t be expected to respond intelligently.

  The longer her pause, the more worry creeps into my heart. Just say it! Her fingers fiddle nervously with the paper she’s holding, and I become afraid of the words on the other side. I inhale deeply, sitting up straight in the chair and clasping my hands in front of me. As I slowly exhale, Caroline turns the sheet of paper over and places it in my hands.

  “Alex, my sweet girl, he’s local.”

  “Far Away” by Nickelback

  I ANGRILY SWEEP the brush across the canvas in wide, broad strokes. There’s no finesse in the task. The red paint calls to me, and I instinctually answer. This is not about technique. It’s an emptying of emotion.

  Classical piano spills from my workroom stereo. It’s an uncommon choice for me while working. I don’t think I can stomach any verses of love or devotion at this point, and isn’t that what every song boils down to?

  I do my best to push the speculation and rejection away and just feel the work. I don’t approach the painting with any particular idea in mind. It creates itse
lf, and I let it guide me. I have become known for my paintings of wings of every variety, so I’m as surprised as anyone else at my finished product.

  A fucking poppy.

  But this poppy is anything but perfect. The petals are hardening with age and cracking in places. Some are slightly wilted, but the red is as vibrant as the first day it bloomed. The flower may wither, but the color remains stunning as ever. Not everything changes. Some things in life defy time, age, and all reasonable logic.

  “Wow, Alex, it’s just stunning.” Celia approaches me from behind. “I feel such emotion from it. It actually hurts to look at it.”

  “It hurt to paint it,” I whisper, turning around to place my brush on the counter. “How did you get in?”

  “The front of the gallery is locked, but I saw your bicycle tied to the lamp post. I took a chance and tried the back door. You left it unlocked.” She looks back and forth between the painting and me. “That’s a poppy, right?”

  “Yes, it’s a poppy. Do you know anything about the significance of poppies?” I ask, thinking back on the research I’ve done throughout the years.

  “Other than poppies have been getting people high for centuries? Not much at all.”

  I turn back to the canvas and search for areas that may need touching up. I wonder if I should add an imperfection, like I’ve done to all my pieces for years. This one feels different. I don’t want to add anything because the entire canvas is an imperfection.

  “Alex?”

  Celia jars me from my thoughts, and I give her my attention.

  “Hmmm?”

  “The poppies? You were saying?”

  “Yes, right. Sorry, my mind wandered off for a moment.” I cap my paints and bring my brushes to the washbasin. “There was a poem written by a Canadian surgeon during World War I called “In Flanders Fields.” The poem tells the story of the death and destruction of the war, specifically of an area called Flanders Fields in Belgium. Over half a million soldiers died among the red poppies there. The red poppy has become a symbol of remembrance for those soldiers, and all soldiers who are lost in battle.”