by Shari Arnold
“What if I can’t pronounce the words?” I ask once I’m seated.
“Then the waitress and I will have a good laugh, and the next time we come you’ll be the wiser.”
The wiser? Who talks like that? I roll my eyes while he removes his coat.
An attractive older woman stops by our table and does the kiss-each-cheek thing to James. Agata is her name and she says it so quickly it’s like she’s clicking her tongue. She swishes her long brown hair back and forth over her shoulders while she speaks, her movements so graceful she could be dancing. And while her voice is lovely, her Spanish is rapid-fire fast. The only words I can make out are beautiful and friend. When she turns to me I figure I don’t need to understand Spanish to translate the color of jealousy in her brown eyes.
“She is my student,” James explains in English. “Today we learn the flavor of Spanish cuisine.”
“And tomorrow you learn the pleasures of love?” Her accent is thick when she switches to English, but not thick enough. My face erupts in flames.
“Tomorrow,” James purrs, “is a question without an answer.” He glances up at Agata as if he has more to say, but his lips don’t move. Even the air in the room is still.
“Perdón,” Agata stammers. Her face has lost its color; even her full mouth appears bloodless. She drops two menus on the table and hurries away.
There is something dark and powerful about James. It hovers around him like smoke. If I could bring myself to move I would leave this restaurant and go home, but I’ve made the mistake of meeting his eyes, his pale blue eyes, so unusually clear they’re like staring through water. If I look close I can see myself, almost as if he wants me to. And I don’t like what I see. I don’t like the girl who frowns so deeply her shoulders can’t hold the weight of it. I don’t like how vulnerable she looks, and I definitely don’t like how small she appears. Soon my discomfort breeds anger, but the glare I toss at him is squandered away. He’s too busy studying the menu to notice it.
“The chorizo-crusted cod is quite good here,” he says, and I realize he has given me an out. The sooner we order the sooner I can leave this place. I lean down and focus on the menu.
A young waitress approaches our table. She doesn’t make eye contact with James but listens closely when he speaks. When it comes time for me to order I somehow manage to sound less like an American than I anticipated. I even remember to roll my r’s.
“Well done, Livy.” He tilts his head curiously. “Do you actually know what you’ve ordered?”
“Pig, potatoes and spice.” I mirror his challenging stare. “And if I don’t like it, you’ll have to finish it.”
Much to my surprise James laughs. His eyes gleam in the low light of the restaurant and I find I’m jealous of his beauty. Those eyelashes are wasted on him. And his skin, it’s far too clear and smooth to belong to a teacher. It would be better suited to a movie star.
He catches me watching him and I drag my gaze away, wishing the waitress hadn’t left with our menus. I have nothing to hide behind now.
“I used to bring my wife here.” He sits back in his chair. “She loved Spanish food. She said it was just what the heart craved.”
“Your wife?” It seems odd to think of him as married, perhaps because he appears too perfect to travel life like the rest of us. “What does your wife do?”
“Anything she wants now. She passed away over four years ago.”
“I’m so sorry,” I say, because that’s what you’re supposed to say. But I am sorry. Suddenly I’m so sorry I feel sorrow bubble up inside my throat, threatening to spill out. “What happened to her?” I ask, even though I know better. How many times have I flinched when someone asked me how my sister died?
“She died in her sleep.” James smiles this beautiful, peaceful smile that no one should wear when speaking of the dead. “She died the way she wanted, at peace with herself and all she’d accomplished.”
I’m waiting for his calm façade to crack, an eye to twitch or his smile to tremble and slip down in one corner. But it seems James is full of surprises.
“Don’t you miss her?” I lean forward, my attention completely focused on him. Normally this is not a path I would travel, but I have to know. How is he so calm about this? How can he be so unfeeling? Is this what I can expect to be like in four years? Will I talk about Jenna as if it’s a good thing she’s dead?
“She has only passed, Livy. She is not gone. She is all around me.”
“Oh.” I sit back and release the slight shiver that has been building since James first mentioned his wife. “So you’re one of those, then.”
“One of those? I’m sorry. I don’t follow.”
“You’re one of those people who believe that the dead dwell among us.” I shake my head and slouch further down in my seat. “Sheila’s stepmother gives people like you half her husband’s salary, trying to figure out what her future holds.” I hold out my hands even though they’re still shaking. “Are you going to read my fortune now? Study my lifeline?”
When James stays silent I drop my hands. “Or maybe you’re religious? Is this the part where you tell me how I’ll see Jenna one day? How she’s happier where she is. How she’s better off away from this evil place. Away from me.”
“Is that what you believe, Livy? Do you believe this place is evil? That God is taking children one by one, tearing them from their loved ones simply out of spite?”
“So you are religious then.”
“That’s not an answer,” he fires back.
“I don’t know what I believe.” My voice is soft but I know he hears every word. “I used to beg Him to save her. I used to make deals, promises, anything to keep her here.” I shrug as if this subtle movement can lessen the pain that has filled my chest. “I guess He didn’t hear me. Or you.”
James sits back in his seat. His arm is draped over the back of his chair as if this is a casual conversation we’re having, but I know better. I wish I didn’t sound like this. I wish I didn’t sound so bitter. This person I hear, sure she sounds like me, but this isn’t who I am. I’m better than this, right? There has to be some hope left inside of me otherwise I wouldn’t still be fighting for Jilly.
James is studying me as if he can see something buried beneath my skin. “I never asked for more time with her. Nor did I plead for her life.”
“So then you didn’t love her.” The second I’ve said it, I know I’ve made a mistake. James doesn’t move but I feel his tension all around me. It closes in on me and nearly steals my breath.
“You have a lot to learn about love, Livy. Love isn’t selfish. It may be unkind and it will definitely humble you, but never will it demand what it can’t give back.”
“So then it’s my fault? Are you suggesting I didn’t love her enough?” I don’t realize I’m yelling until everyone else in the restaurant falls silent.
“It’s never anyone’s fault.” James sits forward in his seat, his hands pressed into the table. “Even though I do find most people like to blame themselves.”
“I blame her!” I hate that I’ve said it, but it’s how I feel. And once those words are out there, they shatter the pressure I’ve been carrying around with me since the day she died. “I wish I didn’t,” I whisper, my throat so tight I can barely finish my thought. “But I do.”
That’s when our food arrives. The waitress slinks up to our table as if she wishes she didn’t have to. I stare down at each item she places in front of us. We’ve ordered a feast, but I’m not hungry.
“I’ve changed my mind,” James says once the waitress scampers off. Neither of us has made a move to start eating. This conversation is our first course. “There is someone to blame here. Your fault lies in that you didn’t let her go. Until you do, you’ll never be free.”
“Free?” I laugh, but it is without humor. “Is that the goal? I’m supposed to feel free?”
“You’re supposed to be happy.”
“Oh, well that’s easy enough. I
am happy.” I smile at him, my lips stretched across my teeth to prove my case. I don’t need to see myself to know I must look crazy. I definitely feel crazy. My smile slips from the weight of his stare, and the words tumble out. “I just miss her.”
James reaches across the table and places his hand over mine. I want to pull away, but I don’t. His skin feels warm when he gives my hand a squeeze. His touch is gentle.
“We seek out other people to fight off the loneliness but it’s like we’re children playing at pretend. We are alone in everything we do, Livy. Alone but not without company.”
“I don’t want to be alone. I want to be the one who goes off to college knowing that Jenna’s at home searching through my stuff and trying on my clothes.” I hate that I’m telling him this; I hate it so much I’m glaring at him. But I can’t stop talking.
“She used to go to camp. Cancer camp.” I stare down at my fingernails, noticing how they don’t look like my hands anymore. Jenna used to paint them all different shades of pink, but she’s been gone so long now they’re bare.
“It was only for a weekend. They would leave Friday afternoon and come back Sunday morning and it was too much. Too much for me, having her gone, even then. I used to wander around her bedroom, lifting her toys, sitting on her bed like I was the younger sister.”
“Would it make you feel better to know that she’s happy?”
I hear James say these words, but it’s Meyer’s face I see.
“How…?” I begin, but then stop. It doesn’t make sense that they’ve both asked this question.
“Think about it, Livy,” he whispers.
But that’s just what I’m doing.
“Imagine it. Imagine her happy.”
I close my eyes, lulled by the softness of his voice. Would I feel better if I knew she was happy? Would I sleep better knowing she’s still out there somewhere? Her energy or soul — or whatever it is you become once your body has given up on you — floating around in a place that’s peaceful and beautiful like they say heaven is. Would that make me feel better?
“No.”
I pick up my napkin, place it over my lap and force myself to take my first bite of fish. James is still focused on me; I know this without looking up. I take another bite and then two more, chewing but not tasting the food in my mouth. I won’t look at him. If I do he’ll see that I’m lying. He’ll see that I’m just a child acting out, and I can’t have that. I’ve always wanted Jenna to be happy. I did everything I could to make her that way. But I wanted her happy here. I want to see her happy. Without that reality she’s just gone.
Eventually James joins me in the meal. The subject is abandoned for now. Hopefully for good. He steers the conversation to the places he’s visited in Spain and Morocco, and I’m grateful for the distraction. His stories are entertaining and exotic, though I do wonder how much of it is true. He tells me of the pirates he encountered off the coast of Morocco the summer he worked aboard a cargo ship and the food in front of me is forgotten as I take in every last word. I imagine those weeks were terrifying for him until James calls the pirates “mere amateurs.”
“It was always about the money with that crew,” he says. “They never appreciated the joy of the open sea the way I did.”
I have to smile when I think about James hanging out with pirates. I imagine him dressed in a flouncy shirt like the one I wore just yesterday. The image sticks with me and soon I’m laughing out loud.
“What is it?” He’s in the middle of explaining the difference between storms in the Atlantic Ocean compared to the Mediterranean Sea when he realizes I’m no longer paying attention.
“I’m sorry,” I say, holding back my laughter. “I’m just envisioning you with a pirate hat and an eye patch.”
“Don’t believe everything you read, Livy,” he says, giving me a condescending look. “We weren’t nearly that theatrical.”
It’s late afternoon when we leave the restaurant. The air feels colder, and the stormy sky is almost black. Even though our lunch ended on a far more conciliatory note than it began, I still can’t stop thinking about James’ question and why it upset me so much.
We are standing at the corner directly across from my apartment building, waiting for the light to change, and when it does I step off the curb. I don’t see the bus, nor do I hear it. I’m too wrapped up in my own thoughts. The sound of screeching tires wakes me from my stupor. The next thing I see is James. His face is hovering over mine, his hands gripping my shoulders. I don’t know how I made it back on the sidewalk or how I managed to avoid getting hit by the bus, but I’m pretty sure James had something to do with it.
“Not yet, Livy,” James whispers. “Not yet.” He’s holding onto me as if I might try to slip away, but I’m shaking so badly I’m not sure I could walk if I wanted to.
I hear the squeak of a door sliding open and then the bus driver steps down to the street. His hands are trembling when he gestures to the street and then he turns back to me. I can’t make out what he’s saying; all I hear is a loud buzzing in my ears.
When I don’t answer he moves closer, as close as James will allow. Even though James is a makeshift barricade between us with his back to the bus driver, I sense he’s aware of every move the bus driver makes.
“Are you okay?” The bus driver stops. I notice his face is an odd shade of green. “I thought…I thought I hit you.”
“She’s fine,” James says. “Thank you for your concern.”
“Concern?” The bus driver stutters over a few choice words and then tries to move closer again.
James holds up his hand. “We’re fine here. Move along.”
For a minute I think the bus driver is going to protest but then he shakes his head and climbs back onto the bus.
James takes me by the elbow and half-drags me over to an empty bench. “Are you alright?” he asks once I’m sitting down. His arm is wrapped around my shoulders. I’m not sure if it’s meant to comfort me or keep me in place.
“Thank you,” I say. I can feel the shock moving through my body now, first dizziness, and then nausea until I feel a tight pulse behind my eyes. “You saved me. I don’t know how, but you saved me.”
James just nods.
“That’s twice now,” I whisper. “Twice someone has saved my life in the last two days.”
“You should be more careful.” James doesn’t ask me about the other time my life was spared, which is odd because I would.
“Careful. Yes.” I run my hands down my slightly damp jeans, brushing off the dirt on my knees.
We sit in silence a while longer. I’m busy rewinding the minutes leading up to my second near brush with death, and James; well James is sitting tall in his seat, his eyes focused ahead. He is so still it’s as though he’s not even here.
But the moment I speak his full attention snaps back to me.
“I wasn’t there when she died,” I tell him. “I had stepped out for a moment. I was thirsty. The room, it was so hot. I couldn’t breathe. I never thought I wouldn’t get a chance to say goodbye. Out of all the things that aren’t fair when it comes to losing Jenna, that one’s the worst.”
“Everyone must have their goodbye,” James says. “You can still have yours.”
“In person,” I spit out, frustrated. “Don’t you get that?” I glare up at him, wishing I had it in me to lash out at him physically.
“I do,” he tells me, his voice so soft I can barely make it out. His eyes are filled with understanding and something else: compassion. Normally these emotions would be the opposite of what I’d want from someone, but they look right on him. They look sincere.
And just like that I’m deflated. The anger and frustration I carry around with me slip away and I’m left feeling a bit vulnerable with James.
An hour ago I would have done anything to get away from this man but in the matter of a few minutes all of that has changed. I feel safe leaning into him. Comforted.
He could have left me back there, w
atched it happen without intervening. He could have, but he didn’t.
“Thank you,” I say. “Thank you for saving me today.” I look up and meet his gaze.
“You’re very welcome,” he says with a smile.
The moment I smile back I feel it. Something has changed.
I think I might have to trust him.
CHAPTER TEN
There is nothing more boring than a ballroom full of politicians on a Friday night. I’m wearing a light blue dress that hits me right above the knees while my mom’s dress is the same shade as her dark red lipstick. Together we represent a well-adjusted American family. My mom hasn’t stopped smiling since she left the parking garage; the only time it falters is when she looks directly at me. She knows I’m not fooled. She didn’t want to come to this benefit tonight any more than I wanted to, but as they say in theatre, “the show must go on.”
Ever since our little chat the other night she has barely spoken to me. Apparently I’ve disappointed her. You wouldn’t think that attempting to be a donor is such a horrible thing, but I guess in my mother’s world it is.
When I returned home from my field trip with James yesterday she didn’t bother asking me how it went. She hasn’t initiated any conversations with me lately as though she’s afraid I’ll bring up Jilly. She’d be right, of course. I won’t let this drop. It isn’t like I’m asking her permission to take the car across town to see some boy she doesn’t approve of. This is a little girl’s life. If I can help her, I should. Of all people, my mother, who has spent the last few years of her life donating her time to a dozen different causes, should understand that. She knows what it feels like to lose someone. She shouldn’t want anyone else to feel that loss if she could help it.
Halfway through dinner I realize I’m the only one left at our table. My mom is off somewhere with her publicist, practicing her speech, and where she goes her team of supporters follows.
No one notices when I make my way toward the exit, which is lucky since everyone here knows me. Just like they knew Jenna. They’re too polite to mention her tonight, however, even though just last year she created a paparazzi spectacle when she began to spin in circles on the dance floor. She even made it on the front page of the events section of the Seattle Times.
