I sang along. "Oh, my love, my darling, I've hungered for your touch...." Then it hit me. She must’ve heard me sing it while in a coma. I leaned into the steering wheel and kept singing, my heart feeling like a puck flying across the ice, hoping this time … that the net wouldn’t catch me.
Halfway through, my phone beeped.
A text from Chris. Where are you?
Got a detour and just got on the Ben Franklin Bridge. Traffic is nuts though. Haven't moved for 10mins.
It was an unusually warm Fall night, but cool enough to warrant a window being down. I cracked mine and waited for Chris to respond. A few minutes of no beeps or texts, then: She's on the other side of the bridge.
I tossed my phone on the passenger's seat, flung the door open, and ran full speed. The lights from the bridge glowed on the river below. Everything blurred by, like it only served as a backdrop to the beautiful picture waiting for me on the other side. Why didn't she wait at Bow Bridge? I wondered, still sprinting at full speed. I passed dozens of cars. Each of them playing music from their own cracked windows. Then I saw her. Probably about a hockey rink away, running to me in a full length gown the color of my Bruins jersey. My smile became a laugh as my sprint slowed down. Out of breath, I still ran as fast as I could. As I got closer I noticed the number 23 repeated on part of her dress and laughed again, an excited type of laugh that starts in your fingers and vibrates all the way up to your lips.
There she was. Stopped about ten feet away from me, catching her breath with her hands still swinging by her sides. I slowed to a walk and heard At Last, by Etta James playing from someone's car window. I couldn't have picked a better song for the end of the CD she made. My heart quite possibly may had been left in my car, because as fast as I'm sure it had to be thumping, I couldn't feel a thing. All I felt was the beauty of her face in front of me, grinning at me like she loved me, like she wanted me after everything we'd been through.
Like we'd get through it all, at last.
I stood in front of her and grabbed her hands. Etta James sang in the background. People beeped from their cars, yelling things I couldn't hear. The only thing I let my ears attach to was the sound of her breath, right there against my lips. I touched her cheek with one hand and wiped a tear away, then put my other hand on her hip and pulled her toward me. She fell into me, her cheek pressed against my neck, her hair falling around my shoulder. I wanted to kiss her, but I let her stay like that for a few seconds. It felt so good to hold her, to feel her chest against mine. To gather the back of her dress in my hands. Then Etta sang, "And here we are in heaven." I pried the beautiful woman from my shoulder and looked into her eyes, far into them, as far as I possibly could. I didn't need to say, "I love you." She knew. And as Etta sang, "For you are mine ... At last," I kissed the life right out of me and into her. I kissed her with every feeling I’d ever felt in my life and I didn't want to stop. I started with her lips, moved along her jaw, kissed her ear, her neck, her collarbone, then made my way back up to her lips. She sighed, her eyes closed in content passion, and I stopped, looked around, and realized everyone was clapping. Some people were standing beside their cars, hollering and waving. Nora opened her eyes and looked around too. We laughed, then she took my hand and jumped into my arms, her gown dangling all around us. She titled her head back, giggling like a little girl. Happy. I wanted to see her happy for the rest of her life. I kissed her neck as she leaned back, then she moved her face back up toward me, looked into my eyes, and whispered, "Sawyer."
I smiled. Nothing sounded so perfect.
Nothing ever would.
Epilogue - Nora
A few weeks after our magical moment on the Ben Franklin Bridge, I visited Sawyer in Virginia to try to find an apartment near his house. He tried to convince me to marry him and move in with him right away, but I wanted to have a real wedding and enjoy the anticipation of waiting to be his wife. I wanted it to be different than the experience I had with every other guy I’d ever been with.
We spent the morning in his house, listening to records and drinking hot chocolate while cuddling on the couch, while Sawyer ranted about how amazing rich black coffee is compared to milk-diluted sugar coffee. I brought Niles with me and Gretzky bonded with him immediately. It felt so ... right.
After talking for hours and snuggling under the blankets, the fire began to crackle less and less. Sawyer played with my hair, running his fingers up and down my arm in silence, then finally said, "Want to ice skate on the pond?"
I kissed his hand. “Love to."
He gave me a pair of ice skates, just my size and brand new. I laughed and took off my shoes, then laced the skates as he slapped his on lightening fast.
"I'm not the best at this," I said. "Kinda clumsy and never really mixed well with ice."
"You'll be fine," he said. "I won't mind if we end up on the ground.”
I grinned at him, shaking my head. We got our coats, scarves, and hats on, then I followed him out into the snow. We trudged through a few inches that had accumulated since I arrived, making footprints so close to each other's that you could barely see that it was two people walking beside each other. It looked like one.
I liked that.
We finally got to the pond. He helped me onto the ice, then held my hand as we started off slow. I laughed, telling him to go ahead and show me his stuff, but he insisted that we skate together. I loved that about him.
We danced in the snowflakes and it reminded me of the snow globe dream I had in the hospital, but it felt so much more beautiful and comforting. The difference between the ocean at night and the ocean during the day. We held each other, danced, skated, fell a lot of times, kissed a lot of times, and finally went back inside and warmed by the fire. He threw another log in and set another record in the player. We fell asleep in each other's arms and woke up around 11p.m. He kissed my forehead and said, "Come on," as he got up from the couch. "I want to show you something."
"Now?" I said, yawning. "Can't we sleep here in this cozy loveliness?"
"We can," he said, "but I don't want to."
"What is it?"
He picked up my coat. "I'll show you when we get there."
"Get there?" I yawned again. "You mean, get in the car in the freezing cold winter night?"
"Yes. That's exactly what I mean." He laughed. "Don't worry, princess, I have four wheel drive."
I shook my head. "Oh, stop. I'm not a princess."
"Yeah. And I'm no prince."
We pulled up in front of an old abandoned house. I looked around, a little afraid of doing something illegal. He tapped my shoulder and I jumped. "Don't worry," he said. "This is where I grew up. The county owns the house now because it's historic, but they haven't done anything with it. I've tried to buy it back, but I can't. It's just sitting here."
I exhaled in relief as he turned off the car and walked over to open my door for me. He always opened my door. I wondered if he always would even if we had three kids to get out of the back seat. He took my hand and led me around the house, our footprints melting into each other's again. Then he stopped and stood in front of a tree.
"Hm," he said. "Wasn't what I imagined."
"What?" I said, staring at the bare branches covered in snow. "It's a tree."
"It's ... dead." He touched the bark as though it could speak to him, then pulled me toward it. "We've spent so many nights talking when the rest of the world sleeps. I feel like the most meaningful times we've had have been around midnight." He touched the tree again. "This is something I wanted to share with you." He turned to me and held my hands. “At midnight.”
I watched the moonlight glisten in his eyes as I waited for him to continue, but he just stared at me. The magnetic feeling came over me again, pushing me toward him, making my lips touch his. We kissed for a minute, or two, or three. Time didn't exist with him. Only when it needed to.
He looked toward the top of the tree. "Weird that it's dead," he said, then turned back to me. "This tree is
where I learned the most valuable lesson I've ever learned in my life." He pulled me into him as we stared at the tree together. "This is where my mother taught me that there is only one goal that I need to worry about in life. She said, 'If you're going to fall in love, fall in love. If you're going to play hockey, play hockey. If you're going to be a doctor, be a doctor. If you're going to climb a tree, climb a tree. But whatever it is ... that doesn't matter ... all that matters is no matter what ... you never give up when you fall or make mistakes. Never give up for any reason, because the second you give up you'll prove that you never really wanted it in the first place. And the biggest mistake you can make in your life is to live without desire.'" He pulled me into his chest. "When I finally got to the top of this tree I thought it was the biggest accomplishment of my little kid life. Maybe it was," he said. "But now the biggest thing, the most important thing I've ever done ... it's you, Nora. Loving you." He kissed me, soft and quick, then continued, "I'll never give up. I hope I never reach the top, because I don't want this to end, but I'll never give up, okay? You … are my desire."
I reached into my purse and pulled out my keychain. “I want to show you something.” Leaning my back into his chest, he wrapped his arms around the front of me and took the keys from my hand. “See this.” I pointed to the paper that said: Our soulmate is the one who makes life come to life. “When I was a little girl I met this boy in preschool and we had this picture taken. When he told me he was moving away during a school field trip I took a picture of us and ripped it in half, then gave him the half of me. We played on the playground for a little and I kept that picture of him for years. I kept it until recently.” I titled my head back and looked up at Sawyer. “I always dreamed that I’d find the man who had that picture and we’d live happily ever after.”
“Well,” he said, “I have something to show you.”
I spun around and searched his eyes. Could it be? Could it really be him?
He reached into his wallet and showed me two pictures beside his credit cards. One of us on the bridge and the other … the other half of the picture. The picture. The one I gave to the little boy on the playground. The one I’d been waiting for my entire life. My eyes darted back and forth, waiting for Sawyer to explain, to tell me that he was waiting for me all of those years too. “You?” I said. “It was you?”
He smiled, pulled out the picture of me as a little girl, and closed the wallet. “When you were in the hospital recovering from the kidney transplant, your dad walked me outside and we talked for a little bit. Later, I realized somehow he must’ve snuck this picture into my shirt pocket.” He handed me the picture. “Flip it over and read it.”
I turned it over, slowly, and read the back.
June 6th, last day of preschool. She gave this picture to a boy today, but he dropped it by the sandbox. I couldn’t let it get lost. It always was my favorite picture of her. My little girl.
I looked up at Sawyer, confused.
“Your dad found the picture. He kept it in his wallet all of those years.” He held the back of my head, letting his fingers get caught in my hair. “I called him and asked if he meant to give it to me and he said, ‘Yes, son. It’s my favorite picture and I think you are the one who should have it now.’”
“It’s like …” I stopped, kissed him, then stood on my tippy toes and hugged him as tight as possible. “It’s like he was the man who stole my heart when I was little girl, and now he’s giving me to you.”
Sawyer lifted me up. I pushed off of his shoulders and stared down at his gorgeous face. He slowly let me fall toward him, into him. It was in that moment, enjoying the depth of his eyes and the way he looked at me, when I realized that climbing to the top of the tree didn’t matter. And neither did staying at the bottom. What matter most was finding someone to sit at the bottom beside you or climb to the top without rushing ahead of you. Someone, anyone—a friend, a parent, a lover—to experience the lowest and highest times of life alongside. To realize that being together, living life with others, is hard work but it’s what makes life worth living. It’s what makes life come to life.
Acting, dreams, passions, goals … they were nothing compared to this.
They were nothing compared to simple, real … love.
THE END
is only the beginning
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I refuse to accept the view that mankind is so tragically bound to the starless midnight of racism and war that the bright daybreak of peace and brotherhood can never become a reality... I believe that unarmed truth and unconditional love will have the final word.
Martin Luther King Jr.
A decade after eighth grader Asylia Kenneth's father, Mwenye, arrived in America from a brutal journey that began in his homeland, he is found guilty of a horrendous school shooting that killed dozens of autistic students and injured many more. When he pleads guilty to the crime, the media gobbles it up and the world watches his case unfold in disgust. While the general public and family members of lost children root for the death penalty, Mwenye s lips remain silent and the only person aware of his secrets is the one person who refuses to tell.
Asylia and her mother, Tylissa, flee to another state to try to avoid the controversy involved with the case, but Asylia's days at school are filled with taunting and bullies who still believe black and white people are not equal. As Asylia unravels her father's secrets, she is determined to stand up to the racist kids at her school and show them that it's not the color of the skin that makes a person, it's the color of their life.
Inspired by past hero's and her current her—her father—she embarks on a journey that will change her life and those around her forever.
A Starless Midnight
Book 7 - Chapter 1 - Asylia
When I cry it's not like these big huge sobs that can be heard across the room. They are mostly little cries inside my head, except for today. Today I took a bathroom pass from Mr. McShae and walked as fast as possible I the nearest empty stairwell. My school was huge and I knew all of the places to hide.
I ran down the stairs and sat on the floor at the bottom. Knees to my chest, I buried my face in my jeans and cried. I don't think I made a sound, but when I finished my hair was wet. That's okay though, my hair always kinda looked wet.
No one knew the stairwell. At least I never saw anyone use it. So I felt like it was my home in a way. My place to run to when they said too much. Or did too much.
Ten minutes went by. I stood, brushed my pants off, and fixed my hair. When I got back to class a few kids snickered.
"That's enough," Mr. McShae said. "Work quietly or go to the office. Your choice." He looked around the room, glancing through me as though I didn't exist. No one knew how to look at me, but that didn't stop Jason and Sean from glaring at me with red eyes, like some kind of poisonous snakes hissing across the room. Mom told me not to hate anyone, no matter how much they hated me. I stared back at them, then looked down at my worksheet.
The clock ticked. And ticked. And ticked. They made sounds over there non-stop, then passed a note to me. The girl next to me, I think her name was Caroline, handed me the folded paper. I shoved it off my desk.
Mr. McShae looked up, then at the note. Jason and Sean pretended to work on their classwork while Mr. McShae walked to the note, picked it up, and waved it in the air. "Anyone care to tell me who wrote this?"
No one looked at him. No one except me.
He unfolded the note, crumpled his eyebrows together, then looked at me, but only for a half of a second. After that he looked above my head, staring at something that seemed like nothing, and walked back to his desk, tore the note up, and put his nose in a book.
Jason and Sean hissed. I looked their way. Sean held up a paper with big dark letters.
What do niggers and apples have in common? They both look good hanging from a tree.
They high-five'd each other under their desks. I looked around the room at the others who didn't seem to notice. Jamall, the one other black kid in class, never talked to anyone and I hoped he'd talk to me, but we were three weeks into freshmen year and he didn't seem interested in talking to anyone except teachers when they asked him for an answer.
I tried to finish my worksheet, but ended up drawing pictures of rain clouds and tornadoes. Something comforting about twirling my pen into all of those circles until they formed that funnel shape.
The bell rang. I grabbed my stuff and got out of class before anyone else, hoping to make it to my Algebra class before anyone jabbed my head with sharp objects.
"Asylia."
I turned back toward the classroom. Mr. McShae waved me back. I clutched my notebook to my chest and looked down as Sean and Jason passed me.
"Yes, sir?" I said, still looking at the scuff marks on the white and grey speckled tiles.
"Why did your..." He pushed his glasses back toward his eyes. "Just try to pay more attention in class."
Marilyn Grey - [Unspoken 06] Page 21
