Victor took a long breath as he poured Delphina a cup of coffee from the carafe the waitress had placed on the counter, eyes sweeping to see who was within earshot.
“I know how it sounds.”
“You know how it sounds?” Victor retorted. “Let’s review how it sounds … beginning with what I have accepted with respect to your anxiety since the day I fell in love with you. But now, I must accept you’ve connected with your former husband and that he’s told you he loves you. And he’s sorry for the torrid affair that resulted in his death and the subsequent guilt you’ve felt all your life for leaving him the night he died. And I must accept that you two will connect again one day and now you need to find your son?”
Delphina stared at Victor, uncomfortable at hearing her life, or former life, narrated aloud. It sounded more plausible in the recesses of the mind.
“Jesus Christ, Deli! How am I supposed to feel?” Delphina shifted in her seat as the family in the next booth shuffled to draw attention to the placemats for the children to color, attempting to distract them from the bickering couple.
She had yet to acknowledge the toll taken on Victor throughout the retracing of her soul’s journey. Consumed by her own emotions, she gave little note to his feelings as a participant in the present moment, as if his current station rendered him less than his predecessors. He was her husband, the one she chose the very night they met, a subliminal knowing that they had crossed paths at another time. She reached for his hand, greying hair sprinkled along his arms signifying the fleeting time they shared. She was borrowing his time to compensate for another.
“I’m sorry, Victor. I can’t explain it … the regression was like a cleansing … seeing the story and hearing his words …” she paused, lifting a fist to her mouth to choke back tears while casing the restaurant. “I know that he was the one responsible for his death, not me, and I do believe this is why I have felt anxious my entire life. Now that I know this, his absolution … his acknowledgment … it’s like that part has been lifted. I can’t explain the relief, but it’s one that no psychiatrist has ever been able to give me.”
Looking into her husband’s eyes, she caught a glimpse of his soul, a spirit with a recollection of her musings, a spirit who had traversed many lifetimes and recognized her search. They held hands at the table, weighing the plausibility of the regression in silence, the theoretical spiritual belief they shared now applied to their actual lives.
“But now … now,” she whispered, squeezing his hands. “I need to find my boy.”
Victor nodded, a response to her and to the waitress who held herself at bay, sensing the gravity of the conversation.
“Have you made a decision?” the waitress asked after taking another minute to meander to their table.
“Yes,” he replied as he cupped his wife’s hands. “Yes, I think we are ready.”
DELPHINA JOGGED ALONG THE TRAIL on Heights Boulevard, her mind considering where to start. Her research on Shadyside and its inhabitants had left her empty-handed, producing droves of threads but no particular strand helping her cause.
Arturo and Lucinda Medrano resided in the ten-million-dollar Shadyside home. Arturo was the son of an oilman, and he was the fourth owner of the home built in 1925.
Delphina felt a void reading the details of the Medrano family, nothing resonating in the scores of photos from society events. Her online research on Shadyside, on the Medranos, left her at a loss, desperate to connect dots not meant to connect. The Internet offered false hope, a belief that the truth was but a few clicks away.
Delphina took basically the same steps with the other three former owners: Fleming, Dubois, and Miller. Her only clue to the time was the car from her dream and the style of the partygoers, all of which spoke to her from the earlier days of the property. She surmised the original inhabitants, the Miller family, were the best people to research next.
The Millers built the home in 1925 and resided there until their deaths, his in 1970 and hers following many year later in 1982, when Delphina was nine. Aside from grandchildren and great-grandchildren, their only living child was now eighty-five. She wondered if he would know of any occurrences in the house from so many years ago but struggled to find a way to broach the subject with a stranger without appearing delusional.
Delphina stopped at an intersection to wait for the light to change, hopping in one place to keep her mind processing as she recounted the loose facts: dreams of the Shadyside house and her findings from the regression, which included herself in the house at a party, her husband’s affair, his death, and his urging to find their son. With the changing of the light came the realization that using the term loose facts was an indulgent description. Narrating it aloud made her feel like a halfwit, as it had the previous day in the diner with Victor.
She thought back to the parting words of the regressionist: “Think of the people, places, and things throughout your life that have led to a visceral reaction, positive or negative. You are lucky … you are in the same city and within a close proximity of time.”
Delphina took a seat on the bench in the esplanade, reflecting on the regressionist’s advice. Her first words to Victor, “Where in the hell have you been?” made perfect sense to her now. They referenced her line throughout the years, one of them using the line as a go-to joke when the other person arrived late. He often attributed it to the alcohol from that night, but Delphina always knew that she was not all that woozy when she made the comment. She was tense and anxious, knowing that something was about to happen. It made for a funny detail, though, so she let this inaccuracy remain part of their story. She was meant to be with him in this lifetime even though she had not the faintest idea of who they were to one another before.
She rose and turned around to face the bench, raising her leg to the surface for a few stretches before resuming her run. As she lifted her head, her gaze fell to the home she had attempted to tour many moons ago with her mother, memories of her inexplicable malaise and subsequent breakdown in the garden bubbling to the forefront of her mind now. She remembered the brown-eyed man.
DELPHINA OPENED THE FRONT GATE, noting the line of workers entering the home with tools in tow. She knew the home had been for sale for close to two million dollars, Victor’s words echoing, “And that does not even include renovations!” She still could not believe they ripped out part of the rose garden for a pool.
Her heart filled with anticipation as she stood in front of the home this time around, with no trace of anxiety to be found. Looking over to the garden, she recalled the immense sadness that overwhelmed her when she lay on the bench so long ago. She remembered feeling a physical pain in her heart, as if she had lost someone dear. Her momma dismissed it as heat exhaustion. Delphina had gone to bed that night not understanding why she could not shrug her weepiness and why her mind kept drifting to the older man she had met at Kaplan’s a few weeks prior.
She thought about returning to the garden but then opted to enter the front door, the workers having left it wide open before trekking to the back of the house. As Delphina stepped into the grand hallway, she noticed the light pouring through the stained glass, colored beams revealing the particles suspended throughout the space, fragments from early last century stirring with fresh shavings whirling from the kitchen. Placing a hand on the staircase banister, she crept up to escape the bustle; there was not a soul to witness her arrival.
Delphina made her way down the second-floor hall, summoning each breath to detect the slightest note of familiarity. Plastic overlays draped the wood-paneled walls, their varnish remarkably fresh given the condition of the floors, which she surmised had been covered with rugs, imprints of faded rectangles remaining on the surface. Sliding her hands into an opening in the plastic curtain, she pressed her palms to the wood, attempting to connect with the energy of the house.
From downstairs came shouts, “Aqui! Aqui!” Her concentration fractured, she shook her head in frustration, wondering if her gander int
o the home had been a fool’s errand.
An old bathtub rested lopsided in the hallway, one of its rusted feet bent inward. Scooting past it, Delphina made her way to one of the garden-facing bedrooms, where wallpaper embossed with faded pink and white bows was peeling from the wood. A delicate chandelier coated in dust adorned the ceiling, one relic she was certain would make the cut. Her fingers traced the scratches in the window as she looked out over the garden and neighboring unearthed soil intended to make room for the pool. Sooty fingerprints from over a hundred years marked the glass, creating a dreamlike haze that escorted her back in time.
She wondered if the room had once belonged to a little girl, and knowing her daughter’s tendencies, she walked to the closet. Nestled in the grime of one of the shelves was an iridescent bead. Delphina rolled it between her fingers as she stepped into the closet to study the walls, her eyes scanning crown molding to base boards as she turned to study each wall. She knelt down to trace her fingers over the crayoned sunshine and stick figures before turning to notice another writing, Callista Aislinn Doyle, scribbled in brown crayon at the very bottom of the wall that framed the closet door.
“Callista Aislinn Doyle,” Delphina enunciated aloud, her mind taking her back to the dissonance of males over females. She was certain her husband had been referring to a son, but now she found herself in doubt, recalling her former insistence that her daughter was destined to be a boy. “Aislinn … Ainsley.”
She turned to the wall on the other side of the door, squinting at the faded scribbles—Dad, Mom, Callista, Cadmus—all with corresponding stick figures, a bow denoting the females.
“No deberías estar aquí!”
Delphina jumped, startled by the comment from the worker.
“I’m sorry.”
“Afuera!” he shouted, pointing to the stairs and shaking his head.
Delphina scooted out of the bedroom and sprinted down the stairs, nodding to the man behind her as she walked out the front door. She took a few deliberate steps on the sidewalk before turning back. Noting his retreat, she turned to make her way around the perimeter, casing the area for hints of a possible past. The similarity between Aislinn and Ainsley was too uncanny to be a coincidence. She thought back to the man who had appeared to her during the regression, his handsome face tinged with a soft ruggedness. He was not someone she would have been physically attracted to in this lifetime, but the intimacy exchanged in that moment filled her with supreme love and interconnectedness. She knew his soul, and she knew he was correct about their son.
Sawdust sprinkled the back lawn of the house, a few men steadily cutting wood while the others went in and out of the back door, working on the kitchen renovation. An old stove held court in the driveway, and although it was past its prime, its enormity bore an almost regal quality, a weathered pride at having provided for the family that had once lived here. She remembered reading about The Doyle House in the neighborhood newsletter, the sale marking the end of an era with the transfer of ownership to a new family—only the second family to inhabit the home.
Looking through the lattice of workers, wood, and ladders, Delphina glimpsed the pecan tree and bench at the far end of the yard. As she made her way to the north side of the grounds, her soul’s memory acted in tandem with her steps: first of her walking with him, hand-in-hand, an ivory stole draped over her shoulders; followed by another of her twirling in a wedding dress, sounds of cheers and laughter fueling the spin; and then by herself, alone and barefoot with a rosary dangling from her hands as she prayed in earnest to the morning sky.
Ease descended around her as she took a seat on the bench, the place where she sat with her husband but a few days ago in another plane. Delphina faced The Doyle House, the flush from her realization tempered by a gust of wind that consecrated the moment. She knew this had been her home.
AINSLEY WAS THE FIRST TO see Delphina walking on the sidewalk near the park, her entire arm waving a full 180 degrees from the swing, smile encapsulating her entire face. Ainsley’s love was distinct, her desire to cuddle, kiss, and hold hands unwavering.
She recalled finding Ainsley in her closet at age three, weeping because she didn’t want Delphina to die. “We have too much to do!” The feelings of guilt it once conjured for giving birth in her thirties now fell flat: She and her daughter shared unresolved business. And by the looks of their relationship, they were well on their way to resolution.
“How was your run?” Victor asked as he bent down to give her a kiss.
“Productive. Valuable.” Delphina smiled, looking into his eyes with a newfound appreciation for the family they had created.
Victor turned away to give Ainsley another boost, her squeals of, “I am touching the sky!” permeating the late afternoon.
“You are closer to your son,” he retorted, Delphina noticing the hesitancy in his countenance.
“I am. His name was Cadmus,” she acknowledged, giving pause to mark this realization of her soul’s journey. “But I am also closer to you and Ainsley.”
CADMUS
Winter 2014
“THE DOCTORS BELIEVE HE SUFFERED another stroke recently.”
“When?” Clementine questioned, cross that no one had called her.
“We don’t know. Perhaps a few days ago.”
“Has he spoken at all?”
“No, and he barely opens his eyes. He opens his mouth periodically as a reflex, so please do not be caught off guard when you see that.”
Cadmus’ closed eyelids did not shield her observation of his eyes’ rapid movement, as if he was searching. His lips parted just as the nurse shared that they might; however, Clementine knew it was not a reflex. He was trying to communicate.
“The new owners welcomed me this afternoon,” Clementine began. “They were grateful I brought the key to the attic … one less thing to worry about during the renovations.”
He moistened his lips and, unbeknownst to Clementine, his eyes opened as they rested on the photographs of Ilona and Patrick on his nightstand.
“We trekked all the way up to the attic. I didn’t know you could go higher than the third floor. It didn’t contain much of anything, really, but we discovered this,” she said, placing a doll dressed in Greek apparel, white lace contrasting against the blue.
Clementine placed her hand over his and offered a prayer for God to take him, adding a plea for Ilona to appear as a guide. Placing her mouth next to his ear, she whispered, “Dr. Doyle, you can go now. It’s time to be with Robert, with your mother and father. It’s time to go home.”
DELPHINA
Winter 2014
BUILT IN 1904, THE DOYLE House is known not only for its prominence on Heights Boulevard but also for the exquisite rose garden Houston lumber magnate Patrick Doyle planted for his wife, Hannah. Their descendants have called this George F. Barber mansion home for over a hundred years, with Rice University professor Dr. Cadmus Doyle at the helm of the estate, along with his husband, Robert McClelland, a partner with Lehane and MacDougall. This pristine, old-world Victorian mansion is the gem of The Heights, heralding the family’s antiques, as well as Robert’s art studio on the third floor. A must-see of the 1994 Home Tour!
Delphina drew upon the strengths of silence and stillness, pillars of her daily readings, as she walked in her garden that night, embracing her mala with the mantra: May all beings feel their love and interconnectedness. The home tour description posted online acted as a loose thread, one pull and the fabric shrouding the mystery of her son’s identity was but a remnant.
Cadmus Doyle was the son of Patrick and Ilona Doyle. His name surfaced on multiple Internet sites, including his affiliation with Rice University and his publications, an obituary for Callista Aislinn Doyle Dunn and another for Robert McClelland, as well as an article featuring his attendance at a Heights High School Award’s Night, presenting the annual scholarship in his mother’s name. Delphina recalled penning her name to Cecilia’s recommendation letter, her heart struck in a
we with the possibility that she had been Ilona and that Cadmus more than likely had read her letters, holding the paper upon which she had affixed her signature.
A photo of Cadmus and Robert at the Heights Candlelight Dinner, the year of their participation in the home tour, provided further attestation. She was all but certain he was the man from Kaplan’s—his handsome, wide brown eyes exuding a warm countenance. Delphina did not recall the specifics of their conversation, but she remembered that her initial wondering of flirtation had further dissipated when he mentioned his mother. And to think his husband had been Jane’s mentor.
Her mind dizzied with the flood of information. She took a deep breath: Her focus needed to be on finding Cadmus. His residence was nowhere to be found, and sans death certificate, Delphina assumed he was still alive.
While the discovery of Ilona’s grandchildren, Grace Dunn McGee, Lillian Dunn Butler, and Timothy Dunn, offered a viable avenue for finding Cadmus, the marvel over her previous-life role as their grandmother left Delphina at a standstill. What would she say if she called them? Scores of photographs and society articles canvased their lives as the heirs to Doyle & Dunn, one of the most prominent construction companies in Texas.
Delphina closed her eyes and took several deep breaths. She felt a mild curiosity about Grace, Lillian, and Timothy; however, that connection paled in comparison to what she felt for Cadmus.
She rehearsed her story that she was a Rice University alum wishing to connect with her former professor. After several recitations, she reached into her pocket for her phone and hurriedly dialed the River Oaks home of Grace Dunn Butler before she could waiver. At the sound of the first ring, she knew the caller ID had revealed her number. The plausibility of her story would crumble with a hang-up or two.
“Mrs. Butler is away from home, but I am happy to take a message.”
“Away?”
Drops of Cerulean: A Novel Page 37