by Rachael Wade
The room lit with a soft orange glow, and I could see his eyes clearly again. They were their usual dark brown color, no trace of the onyx shade I’d seen mere seconds ago. He’d returned to checking my hand, and I sputtered, “It’s fine, don’t worry. But I could’ve sworn ... never mind.” He was probably right. I decided to stick to the theory that every now and then, I went temporarily insane. An unsettling theory, but a believable one. One I could live with.
“I really am sorry, love.” He smiled glumly. “See what happens when you surprise me like that?”
I smiled back, breathed. “I’ll try to give you more of a warning next time. So, aren’t you supposed to take me out to dinner soon?” Why not? I was borderline starving, and this was the perfect opportunity to shake my hallucination and Andrew from my thoughts.
“Oh, of course,” he said, laughing in visible relief. “Come with me, I have dinner all ready.” He grabbed my good hand and led me out of the room, leaving the light on when he shut the door behind us.
* * *
“I told you we were going out to dinner,” he insisted. Unbeknownst to me, we were all dressed up to have dinner on the banks of the Bayou Teche. Under the moonlight, in the grass, around hundreds of swarming mosquitoes. The setting was so romantic, I couldn’t complain about the bugs, just wobbled in my heels through the grass toward the water while he held my arm to steady me. This was why I hated heels. Because of times exactly like this. I pretended not to notice his smirk as he helped me settle onto the blanket he’d placed on the ground for us.
“I’m glad you’re hungry,” he said, opening the small cooler he’d carried with us. He pulled out two containers of food and some drinks, handing me one item at a time.
“Definitely hungry,” I said. “What are we having? Smells delicious.”
“Chicken parmesan, the way my dad used to make it. Out of this world, I promise.”
I opened my container of food, moved my fork through the red sea of noodles. “It looks great. And this is a great idea for dinner, by the way. It’s beautiful out here at night.” I gazed up at the moon, then at its warm, mystical glow across the bayou’s murky water.
“I’m glad you like it.” He grinned, then took a healthy bite of his chicken.
“So, you like to cook, and your dad used to,” I said. “What about your mom? Did she like to cook? I know you don’t like talking about her very much, but--”
“No. She wasn’t big on cooking, I mean. Dad was the cook in the family.” He set his dish down. Leaning over, he picked up the locket around my neck, popped the little crescent open to show the inside. I looked down to examine it, placing my food down next to me.
“I don’t blame you for wanting to know about my mom,” he said. “I’m sorry I haven’t told you much. It’s hard for me. I know you understand that.”
I nodded quietly, waited.
“The inscription’s in French,” he said, running his thumb over it. “It says ‘If my heart had wings, it would be with you always.’ Ironic that he gave this to her shortly before he died.”
“How did he--?”
“Someone broke into the house one night. Mom wasn’t home, and I was studying abroad. She blamed herself for a long time.” He dropped the necklace and sat back with his knees up, rested his arms on them. “Mom moved in with my grandfather, lived here for a few months, worked on the garden, helped him around the house. But she was never really herself again. I was out of the country again, and I didn’t know how bad things had gotten. I never got to say goodbye to her.”
He ran his fingers through his hair and glanced at my small black clutch next to me. “Would you mind sparing a cigarette?”
I froze, shocked at his request, but quickly obliged, taking one for myself.
“Apparently she just picked up and left one day,” he continued. “Never told my grandpa -- or anyone else. Left everything at the house, didn’t take a picture of me or my father. Nothing.” He exhaled a cloud of smoke, pushing it out of his lungs, and pointed to my necklace. “She left that on her pillow. Her way of letting us know why she left, I suppose. Before Grandpa passed, I moved in to help him out. When he told me he was giving me the house, he kept reassuring me she’d come back. Told me she must’ve needed to get away from the memories here. But, he also said I was the only piece of my father she had left, and she wouldn’t leave me like that.”
“He was in denial,” I said softly.
“Yes.”
“Did she ever--?”
“No. Five years now. He passed not long after I moved in, and he still hadn’t heard from her. We weren’t sure if she was still alive or if she ... took her own life.”
“Why do you think that?”
“I don’t anymore, though I did then. The only trace she left -- besides the necklace -- was an entry in her journal.” He looked out at the water, distress in his voice. I let my cigarette burn.
“In her last entry she only wrote one line. About my father. ‘The pain of my loss I can bear, but your lingering presence I cannot.’ Grandpa and I decided that meant she intended to kill herself. It wasn’t until a few years later that I realized she would never do that. It would have broken my dad’s heart. That’s why I’m sure she just ran away. She didn’t leave to die.”
He put out his cigarette, letting the last of the smoke free from his lungs. I said, “Gavin, I’m so sorry. For both you and your grandfather. I had no idea....”
“Thank you, love.” He gently took my hand, turning to look at me. “For listening.”
I took a last drag before putting mine out and shaking my head at him. “No. Thank you for telling me. I can’t imagine what it feels like for you. It’s unfathomable.” I felt a tear slide onto my cheek while I observed his face.
“Loss is familiar to you, too,” he said, cupping his hand underneath my chin as he wiped the tear away with his thumb. The gentle action made me cry harder. He pushed our now cold food away and scooted next to me, wrapped his arms around me, kissed my forehead and rested his head over mine. “Sssshhh. I love you. If you only knew how much....”
I stifled my sobs to look up at him, in awe of his compassion.
“Please tell me ... what you wanted to tell me earlier,” he whispered.
I shifted my body in his arms so I faced him. The last thing I wanted was to spoil the evening, and I definitely didn’t want him getting in the middle of this. Besides, I had to take care of it on my own. “Oh, about my mom,” I fibbed. “It would take an entire lifetime to even touch the surface.”
“Who’s the dramatic one now?”
“Oh, shut up.” I nudged him. “I can give you the condensed version, though. That is, if you’re sure you’re up for it after talking about....”
“I’m up for it.” He waited, rubbing my arm.
“Let’s see. My mom is an addict, my dad has his problems, too. Mom wasn’t around much while I was growing up because of her problems. Dad was in so much pain, he took off. She got worse ... a lot worse.” I looked up at him. “She tried to kill herself a few times when I was in high school. She always covered it up, so I wouldn’t be taken away from her. And I never told anyone. I’d lie for her, thought it would protect her. And me. So my relationship with her has been strained. Okay, well, more like severed.”
I was mumbling by then, but he heard me. “When’s the last time you spoke to her?”
“About three years. All I can say is that after years of her not being there when I needed her, it’s had ... irrevocable consequences.”
“Nothing is permanent unless you make it that way.”
I threw my head into my hands as I began to feel myself crawl out of my skin again. I started to shake my arms, fending off the gnawing feeling. “You don’t understand, Gavin. Both of my parents handled the end of their marriage in different ways. My dad disappeared and avoided it. Mom turned to more drugs. I wasn’t surprised with how Dad handled it, but ... he left me with her, and I had no one. I was forced to be thirty at thirt
een. It isn’t a relationship that can just get better overnight.”
“That’s not what I’m saying.”
“Then what are you saying?”
“Okay. I’m sorry. You aren’t ready to talk to me about this. Let’s change the subject.”
I slipped out of his arms and stood, grabbed another cigarette from my clutch. I lit it and began pacing. “No. I am ready, I’m just not ... good at it. In case you haven’t noticed.”
“Just take your time.”
I dropped back down on the blanket. “I’m so angry with her. Yet I miss her so much. I moved here to get away from her, to start over, but -- the memories are even stronger now. I’m consumed with them.”
I tossed my cigarette down, smashing it. He reached over and pulled me on to his lap, placing me sideways so he could look at me.
“You’re consumed because you’re angry. Life is too short, too fragile to stay pissed off all the time. You have to forgive.” He ran his fingers through my hair, kissing me on the forehead again.
“I want to forgive her, Gav. I do. But I can’t. Not yet. I’ve been to so many shrinks. I’ve tried to avoid, confront, and compartmentalize the relationship. None of it works. I just can’t.”
“Camille,” he whispered. “How about forgiving yourself? Stop beating yourself up? It’s not your job to save her.” He pulled my face toward him. “Let it go so you can move on.”
My tears halted in their ducts, absorbing the unexpected intercession. He continued to hold me as I turned my head away from him to stare up at the full moon’s wisdom, watching it as it blinded me with its consummate beauty.
I tried, I really did, but the magic dissolved by the end of the evening, and Gavin sensed it too. As he drove me home, he said, "So, you didn't get to finish your dinner, and we missed the movie. I didn't do a very good job at showing you a good time tonight."
"Don't say that. It was very thoughtful of you to plan things out the way you did," I looked over at him from the passenger seat, flashed him a smile, then glanced down at the necklace, running my fingers over the locket in admiration, happy I didn’t let Andrew ruin my entire time with Gavin. "This is the best gift anyone has ever given me. I couldn't have asked for a better time."
"Whatever you say," he replied in disbelief. "Let's see. You sliced your finger open, you cried the whole night, you starved, and to top it off, you missed the new Depp flick I know you were dying to see. I think you could've had a better time." He stretched his arm across the console to rub my neck as we continued to make our way back to my place.
"Gavin, please.” I forced a laugh. “My finger is fine. Crying is nothing new for me. I can eat any time, and well ... you can make the movie up to me this weekend. We lost track of time, that's all."
“I am going to make this night up to you,” he said. “I promise. And next time, not one word about either of our families, I swear.” He chuckled, but it was cut off when he glanced at the dashboard clock. I could feel the car smoothly accelerate.
"What, you in a rush to get rid of me now?" I said.
“Hey now, that’s not fair. You know if I had it my way, I'd keep you with me twenty-four hours a day."
“Well then, keep me. Let's go see a midnight showing of the movie now instead."
“No can do, love. This is one of my rules. You're home by midnight. You need your sleep."
"What kind of rule is that, anyway? I am a grown adult you know, I believe I know how much sleep I do or don't need. Aren't you kind of calling the kettle black? You told me you stay up most of the night."
"I'm very aware you are capable of making your own decisions, thank you very much," he nudged his shoulder to mine jovially. "But I stay up all night because I don't have to work every morning. You do. I am not going to be the reason you’re out all night, exhausted at work in the morning." He turned the steering wheel as we pulled onto the road that led to my house.
"Fine, whatever," I sulked. "But I think you should know I have a rule too, then."
"Oh?"
"Friday and Saturday nights, I get to stay up as late as I want. It's my weekend. No work. So there will be no carting me home before midnight if I don't want to be carted home. Got it?"
"Aahhh, we'll work on that one. Can’t make any promises just yet," he said in a taunting tone.
I elbowed his ribcage, hoping to knock the stubbornness out of him. He just sat there and laughed, amused by my irritation, and I flopped back against the door.
As my pale yellow house came into view, my eyes focused past the white picket fence, fixing on a dark-colored vehicle parked at the front of the drive. When we edged closer, I could make out the vehicle’s dingy blue color. The Ford pickup sat there, parked as if I were its owner, with no one inside.
CHAPTER 8
Case of the Mondays
“Whose truck is that?” Gavin asked as we pulled up next to it. He hovered over the steering wheel, tried to peer into its windows. “Who would be at your place this late?”
My stomach churned while I frantically scanned the front yard for him. “Um ... I think it might be a neighbor.”
“Are you expecting someone?” He looked at me instead of the truck now.
“Definitely not.” But he was right. This night was officially bad. I was about to pay for keeping Andrew a secret. Things were about to get much, much, more complicated. I sighed loudly, reached for the car door handle, resigned myself to facing it head on. “I know who it is. Just let me handle this, okay? I’ll explain afterward.” I left him sitting there and trudged out of the car, made my way up to the porch, grinding my teeth.
“Camille?” Gavin called after me, stepped out of the car. I didn’t turn around to look at him, just stormed up the dimly lit porch steps to find Andrew sitting on the rocking chair, a smug look on his face and a bouquet of my favorite flowers propped on his lap. I clenched my fists, glared at him.
“What are you doing here, Andrew?”
“Aw, now what kind of welcome is that, sweetheart? Don’t break my heart and tell me you haven’t missed me, now.” His lips curled into a malicious smile, and he stood up and held out the flowers.
“Is everything all right, Camille?” Gavin’s voice came first, then his body as he came to stand beside me.
“Ah, who’s this? You have a guest tonight, I see,” Andrew assessed Gavin from head to toe. “He’s more than welcome to join us, if you’d like,” he said to me, keeping his eyes on Gavin.
“That won’t be necessary,” Gavin snapped, nostrils flared.
I sighed. “Andrew, this is Gavin. My boyfriend. Don’t you dare start. I don’t know what you think you’re doing here at eleven-thirty at night, but I think it’s time you go the hell home before I call the cops.” I stepped closer to the front door.
“Wow! Look who’s all brave now! I’m very impressed, darlin’.” He moved closer to me. “Last time I checked, we were still together. I don’t see anything wrong with stopping by my girlfriend’s house to bring her flowers. Care to explain what’s going on here?” He gave the bouquet a dramatic shove toward my chest as I reached for the door.
“I think you should take her up on her offer.” Gavin moved in front of me to block him. Andrew examined his face for a moment, laughed before he took a step back. “You leave now, she won’t call the cops and report you for trespassing.”
“Now wait a minute.” Andrew pushed his hands up to defend himself. “I do believe you’re entitled to an explanation as well, don’t you agree?” He looked past Gavin’s face to glare at me, smug. “Or hasn’t she told you about me yet?”
Gavin shifted his eyes toward me, waited for me to respond. “You don’t have to do this, Camille. We can go inside.”
I stuck my house key into the door. “Andrew, this is none of your business. You know we’re over, and you know I don’t want you here. I will call the police. I mean it.”
“Well, I must say, this is awfully rude of you to treat your guests like this,” he gestured to Gavin
. “But if you insist, I’ll come back at a better time. When we have a little more privacy.”
“No—”
“Absolutely not.” Gavin shifted, but retained his protective stance.
“Look, Mr. Devereaux,” Andrew rolled his eyes, “I appreciate your effort to try and be the hero here, but do yourself a favor and back off. You might be involved in this,” he pointed to the three of us, “but what Camille and I discuss is our business. And I’ll speak to her about our business whenever I like.”
“Camille is my business,” he gave Andrew a hard stare, “and I think it’s clear she doesn’t want you around. Stay away from her, understand?”
I glanced at Gavin as he spoke, wondering if he had any idea how much worse he’d just made this. Of course he didn’t. He didn’t know the half of it. And that was my fault.
“I see how this is going to be.” Andrew chuckled to himself, turned his attention back to me. “Camille, sweetheart, when your watchdog isn’t around and you have some time to yourself, give me a call so we can chat, okay?”
“Leave, Andrew,” I ordered him gritted teeth.
He turned just long enough to place the flowers at the doorstep, then casually stepped around Gavin. “For you, Camille. I’ll be seeing you.”
He began to whistle, but stopped and leaned over to peck me on the cheek. I smacked him across the face the minute his lips touched my skin and he jerked his head back, a phony look of surprise on his face. “Oh, so feisty! That’s what I love about her.” He pointed to me, winked at Gavin. “She always knows how to show a guy a good time.”
Gavin grimaced, and I shut my eyes, disgusted. I opened them when I heard him on the porch steps, and watched while he strolled off, stopping to take a speculative gander at Gavin’s Maserati before he hopped into his truck. “And they say money can’t buy love....” he sang while he pulled the door shut.