Glass

by Williams, Suzanne D.

  Her hand rose to his face, and she caressed his smooth cheek with her thumb.

  A bath and a shave had done him good, washing away the tension of the last day and clearing his mind. But he’d been unable to remove the anticipation of this moment out of his mind.

  “I can see that,” she said. “You asked me how you were like your father.”

  Her bringing up his dad unasked was a surprise. She seemed calm.

  “He was transparent, wore his feelings on his sleeve. You do the same. I heard your affection for the girl in your voice over the phone, and now, I know it’s true.” She dropped her hand to her side. “Do I get to meet her?”

  She stepped away and seated herself in an armchair facing the couch. This made him feel huge beside her and unequal.

  “I hope so.”

  Her eyes widened a tad. “But? There is a problem?” she asked.

  Andre took a seat on the couch and leaned back against the cream-colored fabric. His mother shifted her gaze his direction. “Logistics,” he replied. “She’s not here right now, might not be for a couple weeks.”

  “I did hear you went somewhere.”

  At his questioning gaze, she waved a hand.

  “I called the shop, since you didn’t call yesterday, and Sullivan said it was something big, that you left the city to get there.”

  Her expression at the end of that statement asked where, but he didn’t respond, instead, nodding. “The weather trapped me,” he said. Another truthful statement. The weather and an old woman.

  “It also apparently gave you too much time to think.”

  She was warming up. He could imagine how it’d been since he called this morning. She probably spent considerable time rehashing his questions and accordingly, her answers. Then she probably tried not to think about it and failed, eventually coming to the realization he would ask whatever it was, and she would be forced to answer.

  “Time to think and an environment to think about it in.” He met her gaze. He’d done his own share of considering the issue and decided the best way to approach this was a bit at a time. “This place had a connection to dad.”

  Though her body didn’t move, the tenseness of her frame told him she was upset.

  “I had no idea until I got there,” he added. Whether this assuaged any of her feelings, he couldn’t tell.

  “I see,” she replied at last.

  “It was before you met him.”

  This tidbit spread her eyes yet further. She curled her fingers into the palm of her hand and glanced away. He sat there, silent, and allowed her time to take that in.

  “I was able to fit some pieces into the puzzle of his life, things I hadn’t understood before,” he spoke at last. “It answered for a lot of his behavior. Mom, I don’t hate him. I never have. But … he had a son he never saw.”

  “He saw you.”

  Andre quieted. He had no face-to-face meetings with his dad to remember, no fatherly moment when they’d played ball or watched movies. Nothing. He was, of course, too young for those things when his father died. Yet at the same time, a photograph, a story she’d told him would’ve made up for it somewhat. She’d given him nothing but his name and the knowledge they looked alike.

  “He held you in his arms after you were born, and he cried.” Her fingers stretched out from the crush she’d made of them, each one elongating on the padded arm of the chair. “He said you were beautiful, and he was the luckiest man alive to be your father.”

  “If he felt that way, then why did he leave?”

  She opened and closed her mouth, the rush of her breathing filling the room. She laid a palm over her eyes. “I had hoped never to tell you this, but I can see that was unfair of me.”

  “Never to tell me what?”

  Her voice thickened. “He didn’t leave. I told him to go.”

  Startled, Andre flinched and his thoughts jumbled together, all the history he’d learned entangling with his own past. “Why?”

  “I regretted it later, but couldn’t undo the damage. He started drinking. I … I went to speak with him and found him in a bar, intoxicated. The bartender was about to call him a cab, so I told her not to bother. I helped him out and brought him home with me, not an easy task in the state he was in. Put him in my bed for the night. He …” She inhaled. “He called out in his sleep.” Her lips tightened.

  “Called out what?” He hated to ask, didn’t actually want to know the answer, but burying the pain had never helped his mother. No, burying it had brought them to this moment in time.

  “He loved someone before me.” The words wrenched from her lips and hung between them, agonizing. “Loved her a great deal and apologized for her to me, but I couldn’t forgive him. Night after night, it was her name he spoke and not mine. The night you were conceived he did the same. He called for her while …” Her words trailed away.

  She recovered quickly. “Yet I know he loved me, simply not as much. I’d decided to separate once you were born. I couldn’t do it anymore, be second to whoever she was. I didn’t tell him until after he held you. I wanted to give him that.”

  Andre strangled on her words, each one so much glue sealing his throat shut. Though he’d known or guessed all of that, it wasn’t any more palatable. Ultimately, he’d paid the price for her choice. But how could he blame her? Could he have lived as she did with another name being spoken into the atmosphere?

  His future wavered. The greater question was how she would react to who Cerise was.

  He rubbed his throat with the fingers of one hand and pulled himself together. This had to be done, all of it. “I have one question to ask,” he said. “But first, I have to give you a secret of my own.”

  The flush in her cheeks cooled and her eyes took on a deeper hue.

  “The job I was called to do was at the Delacroix mansion.”

  No change came to her complexion, no tremble of her hands, no acknowledgement at all. Did she not recognize the name?

  “Mrs. Delacroix wants a fixture hung, and I’ve agreed to do it. But she knew dad, so her motive for having me there is suspect.”

  His mom fidgeted then, turning herself diagonal and straight again, crossing and uncrossing her legs. Andre steadied himself and spoke the truth. “Her granddaughter is Cerise Delacroix.”

  “The girl?” his mother asked. “So this was yesterday? How can you know if you feel anything for her?” Redness had returned to her cheeks.

  Andre delayed his response, toyed with it even, wishing in some measure he could turn back time. At the same time knowing he couldn’t. He wouldn’t. He could never go back to a time before Cerise.

  There wasn’t any way forward but through the midst of the flames. He formed his answer and allowed it to flare from his lips.

  “Because she is the daughter of the woman dad loved.”

  CHAPTER 8

  It helped to sit there in her mother’s old room, the floral drapes pulled back as if she stood there still gazing out over the lawn toward the water, toward the man who’d been forced to leave her behind. It helped more to touch her things, a handful of items that remained: a porcelain figurine of a lady in an elaborate hat, a skirt, its hem loosened with wear, a pair of dust-shrouded shoes. But finding the necklace helped the most.

  Always she’d walked in, content to sit and not touch anything, satisfied with creating moments in her mind that may or may not have happened. But that didn’t suffice anymore. Now, it was as if by their inertness, because of the very fact none of these items were moved that she had to do so. Somehow in the action, the past became less and the future far brighter.

  She opened drawers, flipped through books, and felt across the shelves, finding nothing of importance except for a jewelry box tucked deep in the top of the armoire. It was expensive from the looks of it, made of some foreign wood and inlaid with mother-of-pearl, the catch beaded with colored stones.

  Seating herself on one corner of the bed, Cerise stared at it for a while and ran her fingert
ips over the edge. Then flicking the clasp with her fingernail, she cracked the lid. The necklace gleamed up at her, a spectacular sight, a single amber stone suspended from a long gold chain. Weighing it in her hand, she placed it at two carats, at least.

  She rose and walked to a mirror suspended above a small vanity. Fastening the chain around her neck, she laid one hand over the stone. So many times her mother had asked for it. But the words disjointed, she’d had no idea what she was talking about and had assumed it was random babble from a confused mind. Yet more and more, what her mother had said wasn’t random at all, confused maybe through time and circumstances, but based on events and people that had changed her life.

  Cerise sat again on the bed, lost in her thoughts. What if she could piece together these things her mother had spoken of and in doing so, bring her the peace she’d sought for so many years? She could take her the necklace, hang it around her neck.

  But the bigger picture unfolded before her. What if all of this, even her grandmother’s hateful actions, were really in God’s ultimate design? The thought silenced her.

  She’d learned so much pouring over the book of John. She’d intended to read a few chapters, but before she knew it, dawn crested the horizon and there she still was. Compassion. That was the greatest thing she’d grasped, Jesus’ love for the downtrodden, and His willingness to do something about it. But then it would take unspeakable love to die like that.

  It had seemed so real. She could hear His words, feel the abhorrence of the crowd, and the slap of the whip on His back. Cerise winced in the memory. But how beautiful was His resurrection. He’d come back from the grave to comfort those He loved.

  Cerise tightened her hold on the necklace. In Jesus’ actions was the key to the healing her mother needed. Not in his death, but in his return.

  She fixed her gaze on the door. She had a few things to arrange for her grandmother’s care, and then she would leave. For good.

  ***

  She was stalwart. Andre would give her that. Given what he’d just told her, she didn’t collapse or faint. Distress was written on her face though, as well as in the set of her shoulders and rigidity of her spine.

  “I never want to bring you pain,” he said.

  She exhaled, a drawn-out sound. “I know that.”

  “I love her,” he said. “Given our pasts, this is meant to be. She’s the one I’m supposed to meet.”

  “I can see that.” His mother spoke the words evenly, sounding resigned.

  “You’re frightened?” he asked.

  She gave a tentative smile. “You didn’t let me tell you the end of the story … about your father.”

  “It’s the end I wanted to ask about,” he said. “I have to know how he died. There are things that were said …”

  She held up one hand. “Then let me tell it.”

  Andre waited, nervously running the fingers of his hand over the cushioned arm.

  “I asked him to leave after you were born, and he did, but he contacted me faithfully, sent money on a regular basis. He was very generous. I’ve told you that already.”

  He acknowledged the remark.

  “But I soon regretted the distance. I loved him and had so many good memories of us together in happier times. A year passed, and that’s when I went to find him. I had no idea who he’d turned into until standing there over him. Apparently, what money he was sending was savings. He hadn’t worked in months.”

  She closed her eyes as if containing some image in her head. “I brought him here, helped him become sober. He still called her name. But I was used to it and it no longer mattered.”

  “Why?” Andre asked. “Why didn’t it matter?” He clarified his question.

  “Forgiveness,” she replied. “I decided to forgive because the love I had for him was far greater than whatever he held inside. We were happy, starting over even, when he died.”

  A tingle whisked up Andre’s frame and with it more questions. His father had lived with them? Spent time with his son? Why would she withhold that knowledge from him?

  His mother continued before he could speak.

  “I got rid of the photos because he asked me to. He said after he was gone he wanted me to remember how he was at the end, not all the stuff that led up to it.”

  Understandable perhaps. His father’s past had tormented him so until he wanted it buried for good.

  “After he was gone?” Andre asked.

  Why would his dad give such an instruction? That’d be like he knew he would die. But how was that possible?

  His mom inclined her head. “I saved one image.” Rising, she disappeared from the living room and reappeared moments later. She handed him a simple wooden picture frame.

  Andre’s eyes spun wide. He looked from the image to her and back, unable to believe. “This is my father?” he asked.

  She laid a hand on his head. “Yes, two days before he died.”

  ***

  Two weeks and four days since Andre had left the island, and except for this last task, she was ready. Cerise touched the necklace beneath her blouse and whispered a prayer outside her grandmother’s bedroom door.

  She’d purposefully chosen early morning to speak to her. She was better then, her mind clearer, and that was important because at least her grandmother would have the memory of their goodbye. She did love her, despite all she’d done.

  Cerise hesitated still longer, her thoughts whirling around each other.

  Her grandmother’s evenings had worsened. She rambled on about things that made little sense, was apt to argue and throw whatever she could grasp. They’d had to remove all the glass objects from the space, as well as anything she might hurt herself with or one of them, and Yolanda had proved to be a saint. She never complained, but loved her grandmother as a mother would a child. Maybe that was best, that her grandmother would live in peace here with people who cared for her.

  Nevertheless, one part of Cerise regretted having to leave. She had, after all, grown up in this house. Yet stretched before her was the possibility of happiness, and she simply had to go in order to receive it.

  Her new faith had given her that. The prayer she’d prayed with her head bent over the old Bible had changed everything. She wasn’t alone now, never would have to be again. She’d found freedom from the same things Andre had so casually set aside. Curses, legends, spirits, the story of old Lucille, none of it held any threat anymore. He’d tried to tell her how it would be.

  Cerise grasped the knob and pushed the door inward. Her grandmother, clothed in a simple cotton gown looked up at her. Her hair had been brushed out.

  “Hello, dear,” she said. She was lucid this morning.

  Cerise kissed her dry cheek and took a seat. “Hello, Grandmother. I’ve come to say goodbye.”

  “Goodbye, is it?”

  Cerise nodded. “Yes, I have to go see mother, and I plan to stay on the mainland after. It’s gotten lonely here, and I need to try something new.”

  Her grandmother breathed in a shallow breath. “Always wished I could try something new. This place …” She waved a hand at the papered walls. “It gets to you, but your grandfather never would have it.”

  Cerise mulled that over in her mind. How different would things have been if she’d tried? What kind of person would her grandmother have become given freedom to live her life to the full?

  “Ah, but my life is what it’s been. I’ve outlived them all.”

  “You’re stubborn,” Cerise said.

  Her grandmother cackled. “Yes.”

  Cerise set her next remark on her tongue before speaking it. Her grandmother hadn’t mentioned Andre yet, which was a good thing. That should make this easier.

  “Would you like me to check on the making of the glass?” she asked.

  “Glass?”

  “The fixture for the room.”

  Her grandmother wrinkled her brow then smoothed it with the heel of her hand. “Oh, yes. Yes, check on it. Such a nice young ma
n to come all this way like he did. I regret the bad weather. Should have told him to wait.”

  Cerise’s heart filled. She didn’t seem to remember. God was answering her prayer. She took a minute to gather herself. “I’m sure he’s forgiven it by now,” she said at last.

  Her grandmother laid a hand over hers atop the table and patted it. Her gaze changed. “That necklace,” she said. “Where did you find it?”

  Instinctively, Cerise clenched the stone in her hand. “I-it was mother’s. You remember,” she prompted.

  “Your mother’s? Oh, no, dear. That goes back further than her to the first Mrs. Delacroix, wife of Delbert Delacroix the First. Her name was Adelaide. Beautiful creature, slender as a wisp. He was smitten by her. He bought her that in Paris on their honeymoon, placed it in a jewelry box. But it’s been missing for years. Your grandfather used to search for it.”

  “He never found it?” Cerise asked.

  Her grandmother shook her head. “No. You know, they say it brings blessings.”

  “Blessings?”

  “Yes, fruitfulness, fertility, longevity. They say the stone formed from the tears of a saint. I can’t recall which one. That the wearer of it is truly favored. Now, that I think about it,” her grandmother said. “Your mother did wear that once, but only once. After that, it went missing. You’ve found it then. Here, give it to me.” She extended an aged hand.

  Cerise stood to her feet and moved toward the door. “No, this can’t be the same one. I … I must go.”

  Her grandmother’s eyes hardened. “Why you hateful little …” Frothing at the mouth, she leaped from the chair and screeched across the room, her fingernails clawing at Cerise’s neck. Cerise pushed her away and fought the remaining distance to the door. She slammed her back against it.

  “Miss Cerise?” Yolanda called. “You okay?”

  “She’s slipped again,” Cerise yelled. “If I can just move …” She twisted her grandmother’s hands together as gently as she could and stepped right. “Open the door, Yolanda.”