The Apple of My Eye

by Mary Ellen Bramwell

  I wasn’t sure how to respond. “What do you mean? I was taken with you from the moment I met you, but I didn’t think I meant anything to you.” Pausing, I looked at him. Did I dare ask what I really wanted to know? With a sense of calm, I realized I had no qualms asking him anything I wanted. “Paul, why did you ask me out? Why did you pick me? It’s clear you can have anyone you want.”

  He blushed slightly but didn’t back away from my questions. “Brea, you intrigued me. That first day I met you I thought you were beautiful. Then you smiled, and you could have melted glaciers. Those things definitely caught my eye, but that’s not what kept my attention.” Then he sheepishly added, “I guess you pegged me right, I do pretty much get whoever I want. That’s the whole point. I couldn’t get you. I worked my charms on you, but you didn’t seem to care. The only thing you reacted to was the apples.

  “I’d never met anyone like you, someone I couldn’t get to like me right away. I guess I just had to know why. The thought that someone else might capture your heart when I couldn’t was something that just didn’t sit well with me.” He shrugged his shoulders while smiling sheepishly.

  “You know, I even talked to Professor Haynesworth about it. You know what he said?”

  “I haven’t a clue. What?” I was curious now.

  “He told me if I really wanted to impress you, I should stop trying to impress you. How’s that for crummy advice?” He laughed. “He also said that instead of hoping you were watching me, I should watch you.” He paused and shrugged his shoulders. “I guess I didn’t really have a choice. I took his advice. Let me tell you, that was an eye-opening experience. I’ve never seen anyone like you.”

  That should have made me nervous, but it didn’t. His honesty was comforting. “I must have done something right, but I’m not sure what,” I replied.

  “Stop doing that. You’re dismissing yourself, and you know better than that. I’m pretty sure down deep you know you are one amazing person. Don’t hide that. You are strong, don’t ever forget that.”

  No one had spoken quite so bluntly to me before. All I could do was smile; I wasn’t about to deny anything now.

  “Brea,” he continued, “you have a fierce strength. I mean, if you could hold off on your feelings for me, that’s a heart of steel.” His eyes were smiling and I could tell he was teasing me, easing up on the gentle but firm reprimand of a moment before.

  “You have no idea!” I laughed out loud. “I think my major for last semester was ‘Just try not to fall for Paul Cass!’”

  We both laughed and then naturally reached across the table to clasp each other’s hands, as if to make real what we both had feared was just a dream.

  “You really do intrigue me, Brea. You have the looks, but I’ve never seen you use them to get ahead. You could have flashed a smile and skated through without much work at all, or simply have gotten others to do most of the work for you, but you didn’t. Instead, you worked harder than anyone. That reminds me of lessons my mom tried to teach me,” he said with a chuckle, yet a wistful look, too.

  “Yeah? There must me a story behind that.”

  “What?” His thoughts were still elsewhere. “It’s just, my mom and …” he trailed off.

  “I’m sorry. It must be hard having your parents gone. I didn’t mean to bring it up. I didn’t think, I ...”

  He cut in with, “No, it’s okay, Brea. I just don’t like talking about my parents.” Then his demeanor quickly shifted, and he was once again in control of the situation. “But you don’t get to change the topic that easily. We were talking about you, and how you totally bewitched me.” He flashed me his infamous smile.

  I laughed at his apparent dramatics. “Oh, really?”

  His smile dimmed and his eyes took me in completely. “Brea, I really did watch you,” he said in all seriousness. “I have learned to read your face. I can tell when you understand something right away, and I can tell when you don’t. But when you don’t, you get determined rather than frustrated. You work that much harder to learn and understand, and then you turn to all those around you to make sure they understand as well. I know Haynesworth doesn’t grade on a curve, but if he did, I’m sure you still would have helped everyone else get a leg up. You are very impressive, Brea.”

  He got quiet and looked down at his hands. When he finally raised his eyes to mine, they were moist. “Brea, I spent all last semester falling in love with you. I hope you will come to feel the same way about me.”

  Just when I thought he couldn’t surprise me further, he just had. I was taken with Paul to be sure, but I wasn’t ready to call it love. I didn’t really know Paul, and yet he knew me better than I knew myself.

  After his declaration of love, he backed off, letting me digest those feelings. The conversation didn’t lag, though, and while we talked, I thought. Any remaining concerns I had about Paul were gone. I started to fall hard and fast.

  Neither of us was surprised, although we should have been, that our talk soon turned to “our” futures and what “we” would do. It just seemed the most natural thing in the world.

  APPLE PIE

  That second semester passed in the flurry of attending class, homework, and studying. Any free time was spent with Paul. Often when we studied together, I found it hard to concentrate. Even when Paul was deep in a book I would find myself watching him, noticing the way he ran his hands through his hair or the quick flick of a motion he would use to turn a page.

  In so many ways I didn’t know him. I didn’t know what his childhood was like, where he went to school, or what he did in high school. I figured memories involving his parents were still painful reminders of his loss. When he was ready, he would tell me those things.

  In the meantime, I was learning his mannerisms and the cadence of his voice, what foods he liked and the music he listened to, as well as what he would sing along to. Each thing I learned made me feel more a part of his life, as if we were connected or were meant to be.

  I remember finals vividly. I was exhausted when they were over. Paul was in his last semester of school and his finals were a mixture of exams and senior projects, some of which had taken weeks to prepare. We agreed when everything was completed and turned in we would meet at a small, grassy hill at the edge of campus.

  I arrived first and promptly fell asleep on the warm grass. The next thing I remember was the soft touch of Paul’s hand as he brushed my hair back from my face and gently kissed my cheek. “Brea?” he whispered.

  “Yes, Apollo,” I mumbled back sleepily before I even realized what I was saying.

  He gently lifted up my head and placed his jacket under it for a pillow. Then he ran his fingers through my hair until I woke up completely. I felt at ease and safe. “I love you, Paul.”

  He smiled. “I’ve been hoping to hear those words. Come here,” he said, while carefully helping me to a sitting position. He reached into his backpack, then turned to face me. Opening his hand, he revealed a small apple. As he brought it to me, I could see it was not a real apple, but a small, red, apple-shaped jewel case. He placed it gently in my palm.

  Inside I discovered a beautiful diamond ring with one large stone in the middle encircled by smaller diamonds and rubies. I gasped and looked up into his eyes.

  “Brea, would you be my wife?”

  I squealed with delight and started giggling so heartily that I almost forgot to say, “Yes.” When I did, Paul let out his breath, as if he had been afraid I was going to say, “No,” instead. I threw myself into his arms, knocking him to the ground. We stayed there, lying on the ground in each other’s arms, softly talking about our lives together until it was dark.

  . . .

  Paul and I were married at the end
of the summer. Paul was determined to give me more time since I was so young, but in the end, we saw no reason to wait. Paul, being an only child, was eager to belong to a family again. Mine welcomed him with open arms. Our wedding was small but beautiful, with most of our guests being from my family. Professor Haynesworth, feeling like the cupid in our story, insisted on standing in as a surrogate father for Paul.

  It was a little unusual, but we served apple pie. It was a day I will never forget.

  MY GROWING LIST OF WORDS

  I made it through the next day, the first full day without Paul, mostly because there was so much to do. My parents were flying in, and someone went to pick them up at the airport. My minister came by to talk about funeral arrangements, and the morgue (what an awful sounding word) wanted to know where to send the body. Even the thought of that question gave me chills. Amy and Martha were with me all day. One would play with Noah while the other dealt with the phone calls and the questions.

  More than one reporter called, and even a brazen few rang the bell. “She has no comment at this time. She is busy dealing with her grief. We would thank you for respecting her privacy at this difficult time,” was the line I heard repeatedly.

  I moved to hide out in my den, the office that Paul insisted should be mine. Our big house was meant for the large family Paul and I planned on having, which now only served to mock me. My own private den served to shut out the expanse of a house I no longer wanted.

  My thoughts kept going back to the choking sensation from the night before. If it was a warning of some kind, could I have done something to prevent all this? Could I have called Paul and warned him somehow? Logic told me there wouldn’t have been time, but logic couldn’t explain any of what was happening, could it?

  I needed to be more aware of such things, any possible warnings. That was the problem, I concluded; I hadn’t been aware enough. My nightmare was just beginning, I knew, but if I was acutely aware, maybe I could change some outcomes, I rationalized. Maybe I could bring a small piece of Paul back into my life. I almost deluded myself into thinking I could undo what had already been done.

  As I pondered these things in my den, I focused what energy I had on the sounds and sensations around me. As I did so, a heightened sense of awareness engulfed me. Everything was deathly quiet. Straining for any evidence of life, I could faintly hear from the direction of the kitchen a small sound, probably Martha drying a dish and returning it to the cupboard. It must have been a small plate, maybe two, by the sound of the clink and the noise of a cupboard door. Martha was a frequent guest in my home. After sharing a bite to eat, if there were too few dishes to fill the dishwasher, she would insist on washing them by hand, not wanting to leave any cleaning left undone. Now she was replacing a glass in the cupboard, and a second. She and Amy must have had a bite to eat. Although I wasn’t conscious of Noah or Amy being nearby they must have been, and as I wondered where they were, I fell into a dark and thankfully dreamless sleep.

  I awoke to the sound of voices, welcome sounding voices, Mom and Dad. The familiarity of the sound for a brief moment transported me to a different time and place, bringing to mind little snippets of memories.

  . . .

  I remember the night before my wedding. I was excited and nervous, and I started to cry. Only I wasn’t sure if they were tears of joy or tears from stress and anxiety, and not knowing which made me cry harder. Mom came into my room. She opened her mouth to speak, and then shut it without actually forming a word. Instead, she sat down on my bed next to where I lay. Gently she started to play with my hair, using her hand to brush it behind my ear. When she finally spoke, the words were melodies to my heart. “Brea, I have treasured you from the moment you were born. It wouldn’t be fair to other parents to say that I loved you more than they loved their children, but I think you would be hard pressed to find a child more loved than you. After so many miscarriages, Dad and I were both very grateful to finally have a child of our own. Someday, you will understand the fierceness of a mother’s love. But Brea, despite all that, after tomorrow you are no longer mine, at least not mine alone. You and Paul will belong to each other, and I will have to be content playing second fiddle. Actually, I wouldn’t want it any other way.”

  Her efforts at comfort only made me cry more, but at least now I knew they were tears of joy. I wiped my eyes with a tissue, just as Dad poked his head into my doorway.

  “Hey, what’s this? Why wasn’t I invited to the cry fest? You think because I’m a man that I can’t cry with the best of them? It’s just not true. In fact, the other day when I got the bill for that dress of yours, the one you’ll be wearing for a few hours only, I’ll tell you, I almost cried. And then there was the caterer. When we were sampling the food, she thought I was crying because of the onion, but no, that wasn’t it. I was thinking it would be easier to rent out a Wendy’s and treat everyone to everything on the menu - and cheaper too!”

  I was laughing now, even while the tears still wet my cheeks. My dad’s eyes were smiling and the comfort of his voice enveloped me. I sat up in bed and reached to embrace my mother beside me. Dad soon knelt at the bedside by the two of us, looking over us with a protective smile.

  . . .

  The sound of their voices always filled me with wonder. Now as I heard them, I wanted to rush into their arms, but I stopped to listen to them, to get accustomed to the reason they were here.

  “Does she know yet how he died?” Mom asked.

  “I’m pretty sure they told her, but I don’t think she actually heard anything that was said to her last night,” Amy’s voice responded. “Paul is being hailed as a hero, but he just swapped his life for that of an old man already dying of cancer. I don’t mean to sound cold and uncaring, but Paul had his whole life ahead of him. It just doesn’t seem fair. I can’t explain that to her. I wouldn’t even know where to begin, and it’s not like the old man’s terminal condition isn’t going to be common knowledge sooner or later. I don’t know how she’ll deal with that.”

  Then my father’s deep voice could be heard saying, “What’s done is done. The bottom line is Paul did the right thing regardless of the outcome. He saved a man’s life for heaven’s sake. Dying a hero is better than dying a coward in my book.”

  “You’re right. I’m probably selling Brea short. She’ll come out of this. She’s just so young to be a widow.”

  From my hidden perch I thought, Widow – another nasty word to add to my list along with “morgue,” and “casket,” and “corpse.” I didn’t realize until she said it that I was a widow. Martha was the only other widow I knew, and her husband died of old age. Nothing about this was right. Nothing made sense. And what in the world did Paul do?

  DADDY’S LITTLE GIRL

  Leaving my shelter, I made my way to the warmth of my kitchen. Mom and Dad rushed to me, embracing me in turn. Mom held me tight for several moments, and I could feel her tears on the nape of my neck. I was torn between gratitude and anger. I was so glad she was here, but I didn’t want her tears. I wasn’t crying right now, and her tears made me feel like I needed to comfort her. I knew anger was the wrong emotion to have, but if I let go of the anger – anger at my mother’s tears, anger at being the object of their pity, anger at Paul for dying and leaving me, anger at him for not finding his way back to me – if I let go of all this, I would collapse, having no strength to even stand, and I must admit defeat.

  Taking control of a situation where control was only an illusion, I accused, “So, how exactly did Paul die? And don’t leave out any details, like the terminal old man.”

  Amy gasped at my tone and the sudden realization that I had overheard her earlier comments. Tears welled in her eyes, but she could not bring herself to speak.

  My father, wiser than I, gently put his arm around my shoulder
and guided me out of the kitchen into the great room. Paul and I had decorated this room together. The walls were cream colored, a nice backdrop to the artwork that graced the walls. I couldn’t look at the paintings and prints that reminded me so much of Paul. We had either picked them out together or they were gifts from Paul to me, on birthdays and anniversaries or just because he loved me. I wouldn’t look at those pictures, but I couldn’t escape the sun shining through the large windows we both adored. They invited light into a room that was normally cheerful, made even more so by the dancing rays I usually welcomed.

  My father guided me to the leather couch in the middle of the room, Paul’s favorite spot in the house. I could tell my father wanted to talk to me, but my thoughts made it hard to concentrate on him and what he might say. Always patient, he waited until my eyes registered awareness before beginning, hoping that I would hear and listen.

  “Brea?”

  Reluctant to answer, I wiggled my toes in the plush taupe carpet at my feet before acknowledging him with a small nod.

  “Brea, Paul was at an all-night grocery. Two men entered the store, we presume to rob the place. Paul, the storeowner, and an old man were the only ones in the store at the time. It appears the old man was there to buy some food for his cat. According to reports, the old man turned to the intruders and challenged them by asking what they thought they were doing. At least one of the thieves had a gun and he turned it on the old man. Paul reacted by jumping in front of him, taking the bullet in the chest. I’m sorry. It nicked his heart. He really had no chance.”

  Somehow, my dad’s straightforward answer softened my anger. He hadn’t actually mentioned the old man’s cancer, but we both were aware that I already knew, so it wasn’t important anymore. I looked up at his rugged yet gentle face, the face that had seen me through scraped knees, bruised egos, and broken hearts. I buried my head in his shoulder and sobbed.