Ellipsis…
By Kristy McGinnis
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © Kristy McGinnis, 2020
First Edition 2021
Cover art by Cherie Fox
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form on by an electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.
ASIN: B08TR715N3 (Amazon)
ISBN 978-1-7365367-0-4 (paperback)
Glassy Lake Publishing
You’re the compass that ensures I am never lost. Dedicated to my east, south, and west... Patrick, Baylee, and Anabel. And to my eternal True North, Brian.
Part 1
1
Once, on a family trip to Tucson, I witnessed a blooming cereus cactus. The fragile snow-white flower bloomed just one night a year, stretching greedily for sun’s rays it would never feel. I can’t help but wonder now, did it know about its short-lived fate, or did it preen with clueless vanity under the haughty glow of moonlight?
*****
The first time we met, I was nude and shivering on a gold tapestry covered settee. I spent most of the hour with my eyes squeezed shut against the blinding white lights overhead. No one ever protested; they weren’t interested in my eyes. The shadowy figures across the room existed in a hazy world I purposely distorted through the lash covered slits of my eyes. Wherever he sat in the room, I didn’t recognize him as anything other than yet another silhouette I purposely obscured into otherness. I preferred to think of the strangers that worked my image with paintbrushes as anonymous entities, something not quite human, shadowy forms not quite aware of my own humanity. It was less embarrassing that way.
As I lay there, I pretended I was rich; I was Onassis rich, soaking sun from a yacht deck somewhere in the Mediterranean. If they’d turned the heat up just a little, the fantasy might have been more believable. A cramp had screamed in earnest from some meaty place in the center of my back and I felt a small tickle that threatened to bloom into a full itch on the back of my scalp. I fought the distractions and remained immobile. Financially, I needed the gig to work out. Relief came only when the professor announced the session was complete for the day.
The eight students who had spent the previous hour studying me intimately were suddenly disinterested, as if they were oblivious to my existence. In an instant, I’d gone from observed to observer. I sat upright, draped myself in a large robe and watched them pack up their supplies. Small bits of casual conversation drifted to me as they made their way to the door. This was how these sessions always seemed to end. I was significant for 90 minutes, and then I was nothing again.
I was gathering my belongings, still shrouded in a large man’s robe, when he ran back into the room. We’d almost collided as I walked past the doorway toward the changing curtain, and he stopped abruptly. The thing I remember most about that moment was the way our eyes locked, and his expression changed to one of surprise. It was as if he’d never seen me before, never stared at my completely exposed body replicating it in some form on a canvas now stored in the back of the room. Then the moment passed, and I saw the recognition flicker.
“Oops, hello,” I said with as much faux cheer as I could muster.
He nodded seriously, and our eyes met again. I felt it, a tiny warning bell. I knew I could get lost in their dark depths. He broke the gaze first and stepped aside, motioning further into the classroom and explained, “I forgot my jacket.”
He had an accent, one I couldn’t really place. It was vaguely Russian perhaps, but with a deeper, warmer subtext that hinted at Hebrew and French influences. He was becoming more interesting by the moment. I chuckled nervously. “You don’t want to do that; it’s a cold one.”
That earned me a quizzical look. I’d later realize just how many common American colloquialisms Narek didn’t understand. His English was quite good, but commonly used expressions and turns of phrase sometimes escaped him. It was one trait that somehow stayed endearing, even when everything else became contemptible. This was before that though; this was when everything about him, from his black curly hair and his deep brown eyes to his paint-splattered t-shirt, drew me in. I wanted to touch the tiny delicate feathers of paint on his arm. Woah girl, I told myself, slow down.
“Sorry, what is your name again?” he asked.
“Nell. How about you?”
“Narek,” he replied simply. The brief silence that followed felt a bit awkward and stilted, it was a moment where the most natural thing in the world would have been to nod and step aside, but I couldn’t just let the moment pass, I needed to know more about him.
He glanced toward a jacket hanging on the back of a chair as if he were about to grab it and go, but I didn’t want him to walk away yet. I wanted to know more about him, and I was still brave and unbroken then. On impulse, I asked if he wanted to grab a cup of coffee at The Bean Shack. That he might actually say no hadn’t really crossed my mind.
He’d tilted his head and looked at me curiously as if I were a cake on display. He was judging me, trying to decide if I might be worth the calories.
Finally, he said, “I will like that.”
I smiled broadly and told him I would get dressed and be right back. At that, he averted his eyes as if he were suddenly aware of my state of undress beneath the robe and the fact he’d already seen it all. Somehow, that made him all the more endearing.
I went behind the curtain in the back of the room and slipped into my comfortable yoga pants and t-shirt, then leaned over the sink to peer into the mirror. I’d blown out my long, golden-brown hair that morning, and it still shined with the healthy post-heat glow. As was the custom at the art school, I wore no make-up for the session, so I took a moment to run mascara through my lashes, and the slightest hint of bronzer over my cheeks. Assessing myself frankly, I wasn’t displeased. If I’d only been blessed with another four to five inches in height, I might have had a shot at modeling with an actual agency instead of at an art school. Narek was the personification of tall, dark, and handsome, but I would be a worthy companion, I mused.
Over coffee, we hit the basics. To my surprise, he was 22, only three years older than me. He seemed so much older than most of the college boys I usually met. His serious nature presented as maturity, and I bit back my normal playful banter in response. When I asked where he was from and he answered Armenia, I leaned in across the table to learn more.
“Okay, I will admit I know pretty much nothing about Armenia. It’s in the Middle East, right?”
Finally, he rewarded me with a grin. “You start with a hard question. Armenia is perhaps Caucasus. Maybe European. Maybe Asian. Some Armenians would say we are Middle Eastern, but most would say we are not. We are white, even if some of us are perhaps more brown. We are Christian, we were the very first nation to establish Christianity as our national religion, in fact. This is what they will say.”
He shrugged, as if what others said was not really important to him. I was intrigued.
“So, everyone has an opinion? It sounds a little like asking anyone you meet in Virginia if they are Southern. The guy from Arlington probably has a very different answer than someone from Lynchburg.”
He waved a hand slowly and said, “Maybe a little, but it is more complicated, I think.”
I was fascinated by his accent and by his mouth as he formed each word. I prodded him with more questions to keep him talking. He’d landed in Richmond, almost by default. He’d app
lied to art schools in several major cities, with the ultimate dream of studying in New York. None of the New York schools had come through with funding, so when the Richmond School of Art and Design offered him an impressive grant, he’d reluctantly accepted it. But Richmond seemed to suit him just fine. The city had enough of a unique vibe to keep him interested, he was enjoying the caliber of the school itself, and as he told me with another grin, Virginia women had quickly become his favorite.
I felt a quick thrill of pleasure at those words and winked at him before replying, “Too bad I’m a Michigan girl.”
Now he looked eager to hear my own story, so I smiled and explained, “I’m the all-American girl. Raised in northern Michigan, Dad’s in manufacturing, Mom’s a housewife, sister’s a brat. My family is Lutheran; they all drive American made cars. I hate the cold and wanted to be somewhere more exciting, so here I am. I’m studying English now over at VCU but will ultimately go to law school. That's the short and short of it.”
The truth was I sometimes felt almost embarrassed about my childhood and family. It was idyllic in a lot of ways. We lived in a world where conflict was recognized as character building, but my conflict had been limited to a somewhat rocky relationship with my younger sister and a few pouty breakups in high school. I’d been a voracious reader my whole life and the heroines in my books had such interesting lives compared to my own. Not very secretly, I’d yearned for more drama, more adventure. Finally, after 18 years in the same house, I’d set out to find it some 900 miles away from home. Now, I thought as I eyed the handsome man across from me, it seemed like things might finally become very interesting.
As we shared the stories of our own journeys to Richmond, he revealed that his had been launched with considerably less support than my own. As the youngest child of four and the only son, Narek had been doted on by both his parents and his grandmother, who lived in their household. Neither of his parents were thrilled he was pursuing an actual career in art, but they’d found some measure of acceptance because he was, after all, the baby of the family. That support had eroded considerably when he announced he wanted to study in America. They were devastated that he would go so far away, and only his promise of return after graduation gave them any solace.
It had only been a few hours since we’d first spoken, yet his mention of returning to the place he called home made me feel unreasonably unhappy.
I tried to keep my voice light and cool. “So that’s it? Finish your last year and a half here, then pack up and head back?”
His jaw clenched and he shifted uncomfortably. “No. I just haven't found the way to tell them yet that I plan to stay in America.” At my raised eyebrow, he continued, “There is much more than I can explain right now, but this is not an easy thing for them. I will wait until it is a right time.”
As I finished the last sip of my second large coffee, I felt a pang of regret and wished it had taken more time. As if reading my mind, Narek asked, “Would you like to have dinner?”
Our formality had dissipated over the caffeine and sugar, and dinner was a more relaxed affair. As our conversation bounced around a myriad of casual topics, we discovered the commonalities. By the time the check came, we’d discovered mutual enjoyment of strong coffee at odd hours, pistachio ice cream, David Bowie, and riding trains. With each new revelation, I felt my excitement grow. I exclaimed, “Oh my God, me too!” more than once.
Almost more important than our mutual enjoyment of certain life pleasures was our shared dislike of winter. My top priorities in life were to breeze through college and then law school, and to avoid winter at all costs, and not necessarily in that order. He laughed as I described the arctic hell that was Northern Michigan in January and agreed vehemently that if there was a hell, it was likely filled with snow, not fire. This led to a more serious conversation, where he confessed that while his family was very religious, he identified as Agnostic. This was something else we had in common, yet another confirmation that our mutual attraction made sense.
As he walked me back to my campus, I glanced up to see the silhouette of his handsome face in the subtle lighting along the sidewalk. I was suddenly very thankful I had a single dorm room. When we reached my building, we paused and he leaned in for the kiss I’d fully expected.
Afterward, as I stood only a few inches from him, I asked softly, “Do you want to come up?”
He grinned and said, “I love American girls.” and then followed me up the stairs.
2
My body adapted to his at an almost frantic pace. Each date ended in a sweaty tangle, either in his tiny apartment or my even tinier dorm room. Whatever I thought I knew about intimacy had been based on the awkward fumblings of teenage boys fueled by the beer we’d sneak from our parents’ refrigerators. If I’d naively believed I understood what my body was capable of, Narek shattered that understanding. With the patient, skilled caress of his hands and mouth, he coaxed out that dormant part of me always lying in wait. When I’d awaken in the morning, he would often still be there, tangled in my cream-colored linen sheets. I’d stare at his sleeping form; our previous roles would be reversed. I studied him and painted him in my own mind’s canvas.
We weren’t just discovering each other in the dark, we spent hours talking in the light of day. Narek had revealed who he really was, and that person was more complicated than I’d originally thought. He was indeed Armenian, but he’d actually been born in Azerbaijan. His father, a chemical engineer, had emigrated there in the 70s as part of the Soviet attempt to better exploit the oil fields in the Caspian Sea. It was in the ethnic Armenian community of Baku he met Narek’s mother. They’d married fairly quickly and the babies began to come. Narek, the final child, was born in 1982.
Narek remembered his early childhood as normal and happy enough. For almost eight years, Azerbaijan was his physical home, although he was raised to always remember he was Armenian. He would understand later that events were happening around them all of the time, but his father’s position of relative privilege and his mother’s large protective family had insulated him from the growing tensions. When things did finally explode in January of 1990, his own innocence would be shattered.
“The pogrom was really only a week long, but I was eight years old, so it felt like a lifetime,” he explained.
“Pogrom?” I asked. The word sounded both vaguely familiar and very foreign all at once.
“Yes. It is a, I don’t know the word to use. It is like a riot but worse. They drag people, Armenian people, into the streets and beat them. Some are killed. They break into homes and take the things Armenians have worked hard for and created. Even my father, who is respected by the Azerbaijani, is scared.”
As he told me the story, his calm voice and still face suggested he was reciting someone else's tale. A stranger who listened to him, would have thought he was utterly unaffected by the horror he described. By that point, though, I was no longer a stranger. No matter how matter of fact his voice might sound, I could see his clenched hands. His nails were trimmed and tidy, had they not been, I knew they would have drawn blood from his palms.
“On the fourth day of the pogrom, they took our neighbors. He was a well-respected computer scientist. She used to give me freshly baked lavash. It would be still hot from her oven, and covered with honey. But after that day we never saw them again. Then on the fifth day, my oldest sister Mariam disobeyed my father and snuck out to visit her friend. She was caught by three men.”
My eyes wide, I put my hand over my mouth. I was afraid to ask but had to.
“Was she, is she alive?”
He nodded, “Yes. My parents said she was robbed and then saved by a passing Azerbaijani who knew my father. Of course, she wasn’t just robbed, but it is what we said to protect her honor.”
I didn’t bother to wipe the tears; everything he described was so horrible, so beyond the scope of my naive American experience.
“Where is she today?”
“Armenia. We al
l fled there immediately afterward, my parents, my mother’s mother, her sister’s family, we all went to my father’s family in Yerevan and then life was normal and happy enough again. Mariam is married now and has two children; she is a physician’s assistant. We do not speak of our time in Azerbaijan, none of us do. Not with each other anyway. I’m surprised to speak of it with you if I am truthful.”
I struggled with how to respond and finally settled on, “I’m so sorry that happened to all of you. How do you get over something like that?”
He shrugged and said simply, “My life has been a good one so far. It was just a week.”
Part of me understood that the kind of childhood trauma he described wasn’t something you just got over. It had branded some hidden place in him, a place he kept carefully compartmentalized and rarely opened. It was tragic and dark enough, though; I didn’t want it to become a part of us. Selfishly, I was relieved when he changed the subject to something lighter. If I perhaps craved a little drama, I certainly didn’t want the kind that might threaten happiness.
What I didn’t really understand at the time was how many locked away spaces Narek housed. When faced with grief, or trauma, or dread, or shame, or fear, Narek had the uncanny ability to pack it all up and stuff it into one of those spaces. I was a talker, a yeller; I needed to face those emotions and then force myself to work through them. But he would turn and walk away from them.
When the initial exploration of private closets was satisfied, we moved onto a safer, more comfortable pattern. In the months that followed, we greedily shared whatever free time we could, although free time was a luxury we had little of. It was the second semester of my sophomore year at VCU; I needed to keep a high GPA in my pre-law tract if I wanted a shot at a decent law school. On top of my own study hours, Narek’s class schedule and studio time were ambitious. Work kept us busy too. We both had evening jobs, he waited tables at an Armenian restaurant, and I served drinks at a dive bar on the outskirts of the city. Somehow despite our schedules, though, we found the time to fall in love.
Ellipsis Page 1
