Waiting for April

by Jaime Loren

  “Go inside, Duke.”

  He sat and placed his paw on my leg.

  “I’ll be in shortly,” I assured him.

  He gave a low whine and raced up to Henry, who shrank back inside.

  It was past midnight by the time I returned to the cabin. I closed the front door softly and moved across the dark room to stoke the fire, which had now died down to a few glowing embers.

  “Do you even feel the cold?”

  “Jesus!” My heart lodged in my throat as I spun around, squinting in the darkness. As new flames licked the fresh log, April became visible. She leaned forward on the couch, her pale skin slipping into the warm, orange light.

  “No,” she said. “Apparently Jesus only came back from the dead once.” The unmistakable slosh of liquid sounded. “Amateur.” She placed an open bottle of wine on the end table and stood up.

  As she stepped around me I slid my hand down her arm and wrapped my fingers around her delicate wrist. I had to touch her; had to make sure she was real. “Are you going to leave, April?”

  She stopped, but didn’t turn to face me. “No.”

  Relief seeped into every muscle, loosening every fiber.

  “But that doesn’t mean I’ve forgiven you for keeping me in the dark,” she added.

  “I don’t expect forgiveness.”

  Her skin was soft and warm. It felt like so long since I’d touched her. With every moment of contact, my heart swelled.

  “And … you scare me,” she said.

  I reluctantly let my fingers slide from her wrist. “I would never hurt you.”

  She nodded and looked over her shoulder at me. “It’s not that type of fear. It’s hard to describe, but … I don’t know who—or what—you are.”

  My heart deflated.

  “So I’ll give you the chance to show me, but I can’t make any promises.” She turned to face me. “My presence is all I can offer you right now.”

  I nodded. “I’m grateful.”

  Flames danced in her deep brown doe eyes. “So … Henry has no idea we’ve been … intimate in the past?”

  My back straightened. “I’d never dishonor you in such a way.”

  “But he’s your best friend.”

  “And you are my heart—” I stopped, fearing the depths of my love would only push her further away.

  Even in the low light I could see the color rise in her cheeks. I looked down. The heat of her palm slid up my chest and around my neck as she stepped closer, setting me on fire. My breath caught in my throat when she pushed herself onto her toes and pressed her lips to my cheek. I closed my eyes, feeling the pull of her body and her soft mouth against my skin. I wanted to live in the moment of this exchange for the rest of my life, here in the dark warmth of the living room, the only sounds the crackling of firewood and the beat of my pounding heart.

  After a few seconds she pulled back and I heard her swallow hard, as if it had pained her to come so close. “Your discretion means a lot to me.”

  Her hand slipped away. After a moment, I opened my eyes to an empty room.

  Only then did I notice her phone flashing on the couch, ringing silently. Rowan calling. I picked it up and turned for the stairs to catch up to her, but the flashing stopped. A message slid across the screen: 8 Missed Calls: Rowan.

  I guess I wasn’t the only man in her life she was keeping at a distance.

  *****

  The water lapped at the dock as April sat on the end with her knees curled to her chest. A light fog sat over the water, blocking the view of the other side of the lake and creating an eerie atmosphere. I had a feeling I knew exactly what she was thinking, and it was something I’d hoped she’d never have to feel.

  That she was unnatural.

  A freak.

  Neither of us was supposed to exist in this time and place.

  My footsteps echoed the entire walk down the dock. I stood next to her for a moment before sitting down. When I placed my jacket over her shoulders, she tensed, but she didn’t distance herself. It was a start.

  “You still have family out there, you know,” I said.

  She turned to face me, the tip of her nose and her cheeks red.

  I cast my gaze over the water. “You were the eldest, then came Sarah, then Benjamin. There was a two-year gap between each of you. Sarah was like a miniature you. She married and had six children. Four of them survived to adulthood and had children of their own.” I gave her a tight-lipped smile and hesitantly brushed the hair from her forehead. The light touch of my fingers seemed to make more blood pool in her cheeks. “Every girl has had red hair so far.”

  “You watched over them?”

  “They’re your family.”

  “Did they know you stayed like this after I died?”

  I shook my head. “I left home a year after I lost you.”

  “But what about your family?”

  “My parents lived into their sixties and passed away within a month of one another. At the time of their deaths, I hadn’t seen them in over twenty years.”

  Her face dropped.

  “I’d written to them, telling them of my grand adventures in Europe and England. I embellished things so they wouldn’t worry, and I led them to believe I’d moved on and made something of myself. The truth was I hadn’t moved far from our colony in Connecticut.”

  In that time, I’d miraculously found April again, only to lose her in a house fire. But how could I have told them that? How could I have told them that from the moment April had taken her last breath in 1729, I’d had no need to eat, or sleep? That I hadn’t aged a day until she’d told me she loved me, seventeen years after her first death? I didn’t understand it myself, let alone have an explanation for it.

  “And my brother …”

  “Billy Hirschman said that if a girl teases you, it means she’s sweet on you.”

  “What would Billy Hirschman know? I doubt that many girls have been sweet on him,” I replied.

  John trailed a few yards behind me along the dirt road that led to our farm. He hadn’t stopped talking since we’d left the markets. If he had, then maybe he would have been able to breathe, and therefore walk faster.

  “He also said that if you fall off a cliff, you’ll die of fright before you hit the ground.”

  “And how many times has Billy Hirschman fallen off a cliff?” I asked.

  “None.”

  “Exactly.” I wiped the sweat from my brow. All I could think about was going for a swim in our lake when we got home. I’d probably drink half of it, too.

  John ran to catch up to me. “And he said that—ow!”

  I turned to discover the vegetables he’d been carrying were now strewn across the road, and John was lying on the ground, clutching his ankle as he rocked back and forth. When he noticed blood on his knee, he couldn’t decide which one hurt more.

  “Are you okay?”

  “No!” he cried. I sighed and put my baskets of food down, then knelt to remove his boot. “Don’t touch it! It really hurts,” he groaned.

  There was no one in sight, and our farm was another fifteen-minute walk away. He’d most likely sprained his ankle. I picked up the food he’d dropped and placed it in my baskets before crouching down in front of him, my back turned.

  I sighed again. “Climb on.”

  He threw his arms around my neck, and I stood up slowly, balancing myself before picking up the baskets. It was going to be a long walk home.

  “Thanks, Scotty,” John said as we started moving again.

  “You’re welcome.”

  There was a moment’s silence as I walked, and the extra burden didn’t seem so bad when I settled into a decent pace. The peace and quiet was refreshing.

  “Billy Hirschman said—”

  “My brother John was killed in a house fire five years before my parents’ deaths, at the age of forty-one.”

  Her eyes filled with sadness. She lightly placed her hand on my knee, and my heart rate soared. “I’m sor
ry.”

  I was too afraid to respond, for fear of scaring her away.

  A moment later, she pulled her hand back. “Does it take you long to find me each time?”

  I tried to regulate my breathing. “Not really. Not anymore.”

  “Because you’ve got Henry helping you?”

  “No, actually, I can kind of … feel you, I guess. I’m drawn to wherever you are.” I leaned back on my palms. “At first I would just travel from town to town until I found you, but over time I realized I had a feeling of the direction I should travel in.”

  She chewed her lip and took in the majestic scenery around us, the fog slowly dissipating. In the distance, a bald eagle circled over the water, stalking its prey.

  She drew a breath. “Do you watch me for very long before you approach me?”

  “No. I get too worried that you or someone else will notice me. And I can’t really stay in one place for very long due to the fact I don’t age.” The corner of my mouth curled up. “That doesn’t mean I don’t check in every now and then. It brings back so many memories to see you when you’re younger, but I don’t do that very often. I like to remember you the way you are now.”

  That, and the fact she seemed to die a lot quicker if I was too nearby.

  The eagle took a dive and pulled a decent-sized fish from the water. April jumped to her feet, her face filling with wonder as she watched nature take its course. Nature, the way it should be.

  Unless she said those words again, I would remain like this forever. But, at the same time, if she was destined to die repeatedly, I guess it didn’t matter whether she said them or not.

  She slowly lowered herself back down. “What’s the youngest age I’ve ever died?”

  I hesitated.

  “It’s okay,” she said. “I don’t think you can shock me anymore.”

  I exhaled. “Three months.”

  She blinked, and covered her mouth. Her frown was still there when she removed her hand. “Okay. What about the last time? How old was I?”

  I looked away, bouncing my fist on my thigh.

  “Scott?”

  “Fifteen,” I answered, reluctant.

  Her breathing changed, her blood once again draining from her face. “Have I ever made it past seventeen?”

  It was the worst question she could’ve asked. Ever. Out of the two of us, I wasn’t sure who would vomit first. The shake of my head was very slight.

  Her breath caught in her throat, and for a moment I thought she was actually choking. But then she sucked air in and let out a quick sob. “I’ll be eighteen in five months—I only have five months left at the most?” she cried. I reached for her, but she pulled away and shook her head. “No, I—I’ve got college to go to. I’m going to college!”

  Sadness overwhelmed me.

  “I’ve got college and … frat parties and … I’m going to be a lawyer—and my parents!” she cried, standing up. “My parents, they’ll be devastated, Scott! I have too many things to do!”

  I was on my feet with my arms around her in an instant, pulling her against my chest. “I know,” I choked.

  Her legs buckled, and I held her tighter. “I’m seventeen,” she sobbed.

  “I know.”

  “I’m too young!”

  I broke down with her. “I know,” I cried, pressing my lips to the top of her head.

  She slid her arms around my waist and clutched my shirt in her fists, then she bawled, almost screamed. My lips remained pressed to her head as I smoothed her hair and held her firmly against me.

  “The girl on the road in 1949 was me,” she cried.

  She clutched my shirt tighter and swayed, even though I was holding her. A second later she pushed against my chest, freeing herself, and stumbled to the edge of the dock, her knees coming down hard. I pressed my hand against her back and held her hair back as she heaved. Eventually she took a deep breath, then spat into the water. I offered her my handkerchief, and she took it without meeting my eyes. When she finally faced me again, I smoothed her hair from her face, our eyes locking for a moment before she collapsed into me.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered through the handkerchief, tears lining her face once more.

  I held her tight, rocking her back and forth and soothing her. When she’d cried herself out, she found what little voice she had left. “How do you think it’ll happen this time?”

  “I don’t know,” I whispered, completely helpless.

  She lifted her head. “Will you stay by my side until …?”

  I brushed my thumb back and forth across her cheek. “I will fight for every minute of your life.”

  *****

  When I excused myself to go up and feed the horses that night, they were full of energy, kicking out and throwing their heads in the air as they trotted into the barn. I couldn’t blame them. The atmosphere was electrified with anticipation. The day I’d spent with April had exceeded all expectations. After the initial breakdown we’d both had this morning, we’d talked all afternoon. She no longer flinched when I touched her. And instead of paling whenever I spoke about our childhood together, her cheeks now filled with color. I’d even made her laugh a few times.

  Excitement rippled through me, though I repeatedly reminded myself not to get my hopes up. She was still confused, but she was trying to understand, and for that I loved her even more.

  While I filled the horses’ bins with chaff, Duke ran his nose along the ground, darting from one side of the barn to the other. He enjoyed this property as much as I did, but as he closed in on the back right-hand corner, his excited sniffing and licking turned into a low, rumbling growl.

  “Duke?”

  The hackles on his back rose as he spread his legs and crouched, snarling at the stack of fresh, loose straw in the corner.

  I grabbed a pitchfork. “What is it?”

  Instead of advancing in attack, he took a few steps back, flicking his tongue between his fangs before lowering his head in submission. Gripping the pitchfork tight, I speared it into the stack. Duke took a few more steps back, edging behind me.

  “There’s nothing there, buddy,” I said, skewering the straw a few more times. “See?”

  He whined and retreated, his tail between his legs, until he was out the doors and out of sight. I turned back to the pile, curious, and used my boot to scrape some of the straggling bits of straw back into the corner. “Some guard dog you are!” I called over my shoulder, even though Duke was most likely back at the cabin by now.

  When I arrived back at the cabin, I found April sitting at the opposite end of the couch to Henry, sorting through photographs that spanned decades.

  “You were a bit of a heartbreaker, Henry,” she said with a hint of a smile.

  Henry had brought a box from the shed back home—the box April had knocked over. Standing by the fireplace, I studied her carefully as she went through its contents, watching for any sign she was about to be overwhelmed by a past she couldn’t remember. On the pine coffee table beside her sat a stack of letters. Her love letters. A quick glance in my direction as she moved them to make room for the photos—her cheeks tainted with color—told me she’d read them already.

  She traced her fingers over another photograph she’d picked up, then glanced up at me. “You looked good in uniform, too.”

  Breathing suddenly became a little more difficult.

  Henry chuckled. “We used to call him the Aphrodisiac.”

  Heat lashed at my cheeks. “Oh God. Henry, please don’t—”

  “The Aphrodisiac?” April raised her eyebrows and looked up at me again.

  I ran my hand through my hair and looked away, groaning.

  Henry went on. “The war wasn’t all gunfire and grenades. There were nights when we had nothing to do at all, and didn’t expect resistance for another week or so. Bars weren’t hard to come by, and there were a lot of lonely women—”

  “For the record, I didn’t touch any of them,” I assured April, holding up
my hands.

  “He didn’t have to,” Henry said. “They got worked up just looking at him. The guys didn’t have to turn on much charm after that.”

  I turned my back on them and faced the fireplace.

  “He shies easily,” Henry said, chuckling again.

  I scowled even though he couldn’t see me.

  “I find that hard to believe,” April said. “You’ve never seen him perform with his band. At his last gig, he did Michael Jackson’s moonwalk and back-flipped off the end of the stage. The crowd screamed so loud my ears were still ringing the next day.”

  Now fighting a grin, I snuck a peek at her over my shoulder. She was beaming at Henry, her lips shining with gloss. Then her eyes met mine. For a moment I forgot our situation. In that second, she was mine, her gaze full of adoration …

  I stood by the large arched window, the New York sunlight casting her in a perfect light. “You’re supposed to be looking at the canvas.”

  She smiled innocently. “I cannot help it if the tutor makes a better subject than a bowl of fruit.”

  Crossing the hardwood floor, I walked behind her and looked over her shoulder. “Huh.”

  “You don’t like it?”

  Frowning, I rubbed my chin. “Well, yes, but … shouldn’t my arms be … larger? More masculine?”

  She tilted her head to the side, examining her work. “Hmm. I suppose a tiny bit larger.”

  “Tiny?”

  She turned her head, our mouths only inches apart. “Well I am only working with my imagination, here.”

  “And that’s the best your imagination can do?”

  Her eyes fell to my lips. “No. But it’s not your arms I’ve been imagining,” she said, barely above a whisper.

  For a moment, I couldn’t breathe. I eventually swallowed. “As artists, we must envision everything around us. It’s not only the subject you paint, it’s the space around it. Here,” I said, taking her hand in mine and closing my fingers over her brush. “If you’re painting a …”

  As she leaned back into me, I lost all thought.

  “Man,” she breathed.

  “Man. Or a woman … you want to get the curves just right.” I placed my free hand lightly on her waist to steady her. “You don’t even have to look at the subject to do that. You can look beyond it.”