Amaranth (9 page)

“I’m fine now,” I said. “But why won’t you look at me?”

He didn’t answer.

“Gavin? What’s
wrong
with
you?” I moved away from the wall to approach him, pulling his face to mine,
still baffled.

“Don’t, Camille.” He pulled away from me.

“Look at me,” I pleaded. “Why are you so upset? I said I’m
fine.” I stepped next to him to search his face, placing myself directly in
front of him so he couldn’t turn farther away from me. I reached for him again,
but stopped, my eyes glued on his. His normally soft chocolate eyes were now
deepest black, those vibrant, soul-baring windows suddenly ghostly, glassy. I
snapped my hand back from his face and rocked back on my heels, terrified.

He turned his head away to glare down at the floor for a
second before he turned back to look at me.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m just upset. I didn’t mean to be
so forceful with you when I know you’ve been ...”

As he spoke, his eyes resumed their rich brown hue, and I
blinked, stunned at the change.

“Never mind,” he mumbled, “let me look at your hand.” He
placed one cautious foot forward, as though careful not to frighten me.

“Your eyes. They were ...” I fixated on his face while he
touched my hand, checking the bandage. “Your eyes. They looked black a second
ago. They changed color.”

“What?” He chuckled, an unfamiliar and erratic sound.

“Your eyes. They changed color right in front of me ... just
now. And you wouldn’t look at me.”

His eyes narrowed, assessing my face in suspicion. “It must
be the light in here. It’s so dark.” He sprang away from me toward a floor lamp
placed in a far corner of the room. He flicked it on, then jetted across the
room to return to my side.

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 thirteen. 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.