by Dara Girard
Table of Contents
Lost and Found
A Thousand Words
Ten Days of Grace
Dorcas
The Phone Call
Berry Picking
Other Titles by Dara
Copyright Information
Lost and Found
Five Story Collection
Dara Girard
Published by ILORI PRESS BOOKS LLC
www.iloripressbooks.com
Smashwords Edition
All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced in any fashion without the express written consent of the copyright holder.
A Thousand Words
Writing had become painful, like a festering disease. Yvette couldn’t understand why God would curse her with such an addiction--an addiction to write. She threw her notebook into the oversized vinyl bag, hanging over her shoulder and tried to smother the temptation as she gazed around the photo gallery with its pristine white walls, gray benches and carpeting. The serene order was a relief.
She had left her house in order to breathe, in order to escape her mind. Her one bedroom apartment, which was once a refuge, was now becoming a prison. Instead of seeing windows, she now saw bars; her door was a metal slab blocking her from the outside; the tassels of her rugs occasionally nipped at her heels as if trying to shackle her. The books on her shelves mocked her failure at acclaiming success as an author. Although she had published two volumes of short stories, reviewers had ignored them, readers had disregarded them and only a few booksellers still offered to display them. Even the hope of electronic distribution had not resurrected interest in her stories. Stories she had labored through now sat unread—it hurt, as if a baby she had given birth to had been left to die on top of a mountain.
But now she was out of the apartment and in the gallery of Pierre Dubois, a photographer who was quickly making his mark on the world. She had taken no notice of him or his work, but her friend had read about his gallery display in the newspaper and begged her to go. Unfortunately, at the last minute, her friend had bowed out of the arrangement, leaving Yvette to go alone. Since she needed the distraction she decided to come. So here she was, feeling like an outsider among the over dressed onlookers and magnificent artistry. But somehow it comforted her; no one paid attention to the dark skinned woman wearing a white blouse and cream colored pants, with a purple, silk scarf artistically draped over her shoulders. She didn’t mind being a ghost. A nonbeing floating unnoticed in a realm of nothingness. No one tried to impress her. A story started to build itself in her mind about a woman who lived her life as a spirit, but she quickly brushed the thoughts aside, as if they were poisonous thoughts out to destroy her. Thinking of them as voices only a schizophrenic would hear and listen to.
She toyed with the scarf around her neck as she stared at a photograph titled: “Morning” with detached interest. Funny, she had titled a story “Morning” once. Not that it mattered. The photograph was of a flower covered in dew with the sun causing the dew to shine like molded crystals. It was painfully exquisite. She could feel her soul dying in its presence. The photographer had an eye, he had a talent that people were praising and she was glad for him, but it also tortured her, because she knew that the others in the gallery did not see what she saw.
She heard the words “compelling”, “striking” and “innovative” bandied about like chocolate sprinkles on a cake, but those were shallow, hollow words that did not quite capture all that he was saying. She suddenly laughed at her foolishness—how could she possibly know what he meant anyway? She was only a writer—a dreamer, like him. Feeling suddenly weary, she sat down on a bench in front of a picture titled: “Anticipation”. Yvette snorted. Another mockery of a story she had once written. It was a picture of a lake with the sun’s rays fingering the waves as it descended behind distant mountains. She allowed herself to get lost in the picture, pushing people’s voices into the background. Perhaps that’s what she should do. She should find herself a lake and submerge herself in it. Cease existing. Cease torturing herself.
Again the desire to write rose up like a bonfire, burning her insides with the need to escape, but Yvette turned her heart cold, closing her eyes. Suddenly, a soothing female voice came over the loud speaker. “Ladies and gentlemen, please adjourn to Room 3B to see the unveiling of Chevalier’s new piece, ‘Acute Disparity’, that will be auctioned.”
The crowd murmured its delight; people emptied the main hall, like a room full of school children being let out for the holidays. Everyone left—except Yvette who sat motionless. The place was now as quiet as a library, only the barely audible buzzing of the lights could be heard overhead. She opened her eyes and stared at the picture, now seeing the reflection of her face in the glass.
“What do you think?” a deep voice asked from behind her.
She was not startled by its unexpected appearance. Few things startled her nowadays.
“It brings me sweet agony,” she replied, not turning to the source of the voice.
The man paused. “Agony?”
She did not reply, not wanting to engage in conversation or explain her enigmatic response.
Undaunted, he sat down next to her, but far enough away to be non-threatening. Yvette observed him through the corner of her eye. He was a handsome man, his eyes were a lively brown and unusually kind—an expression she’d rarely seen in men with his physical attributes. His chin was solid with self-assurance, his nose poised but not haughty. Overall he had the kind of face seen in magazines, TV ads or movies. She looked down at his clothes—trousers made of fine wool and a blue shirt that complemented his brown skin. He looked out of place here, like Michelangelo’s David in a toy store.
“How did you escape?” she asked suddenly.
He frowned, only enhancing his magnificent features. “What do you mean?”
She glanced over her shoulder. “The women. How did you escape them?”
He laughed. “Why do you ask? Because of my looks?”
Yvette sat back and again stared at the picture. It was the laugh that had disappointed her—it was too knowing, too smug and just a little cynical. Perhaps she had misjudged him. Perhaps he was shaped more by his looks than she had assumed. He was no innocent Adonis.
He fell silent too for a moment and stared at the picture. “I hate that photograph,” he said abruptly, violently.
She turned to him, her eyes silently asking him why.
“It’s so deceptive,” he replied. “Its beauty captured merely by the trick of the light, the right angle, the right lens.”
He continued to talk and as he did Yvette was surprised that she hadn’t listened to how beautiful his voice was. How pleasant she found the cadence of his words. She felt for him. How tiresome it must be to be so beautiful, to be perceived rather than understood.
“But—,” she said, once he had finished. She paused, wanting to phrase her words properly. Not wanting to misunderstand the true meaning of his words. “All that you've said, do you think that’s what the artist intended for you to see?”
He fell silent again. So silent that Yvette figured he hadn’t heard her or just chose not to respond. Perhaps she had insulted him, she didn’t care.
She looked at the photograph a bit longer—eyeing the waves and the sunlight dancing on the water. If she focused enough she could feel the breeze, see the water moving.
“You’re wrong,” she said suddenly surprised by the vehemence in her voice.
He looked at her startled. “Wrong?”
“The beauty was already there. It’s not a trick of the light or shadow. It’s not the right lens or the right angle. No one could be so arrogant as to believe such superficial things could create such beauty. The beauty was there to
be captured.”
“Ah, but the camera can make anything beautiful—a muddy beach, a swamp, a toad.”
She flashed him a sly smirk. “And who is to say those things aren’t beautiful?”
He shook his head, and a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
“The camera catches things we chose to ignore,” she continued.
“Yes.”
“It’s a magnificent study,” she said, an intrusive sadness crushing her chest. All of a sudden she felt worn and tired. In this one photo this man had accomplished more than she ever would with her stories—the dead babies she had labored over for years. She felt the photos laughing at her as her books had. They had the same names as her stories, didn’t they? They taunted and teased her. How can you call yourself an artist? What have you done? Who knows you? Suddenly she felt the walls closing in on her. She shouldn’t have come. She shouldn’t have engaged in conversation with this handsome stranger who seemed to be studying her more than the photograph. She stood up wanting to be a ghost again, wanting to disappear into the walls.
“Where are you going?” the man said.
But Yvette raced out the doors, her scarf trailing behind her as if waving goodbye.
***
Oh such brilliance! Yvette thought as she cried, gulping the outside air, the sky heavy with dark clouds. It pained her to be in the presence of it. And she felt that she was the only one who truly knew the photographer's mind. But he received success while she sat on a cold pavement, contemplating what to do next. Should she continue to live and toil over words that would ultimately be unread? Words that would touch no one’s life? Or should she become a ghost. A real one?
A bolt of lightning scared Yvette out of her morbid thoughts and lit up the sky like an explosion of fireworks. The sky opened up and the rain came down like giant bullets, hitting her shoulders and head with hard precision. Yvette jumped to her feet and ran for her car. It seemed she would remain human for another day.
At home she dried herself and thought about the handsome stranger whose eyes were too kind for his face. Eyes that must have seen a lot, but chose to be optimistic anyway. A man with his features should have had eyes full of arrogance, vanity, self-reliance, and not such a haunting intelligence.
Yvette paused, glancing down at the pen in her hand and the thoughts she had scribbled on a napkin. She tore the napkin up, letting it fall like confetti on the table. She would not write. She couldn’t stand the pain. She would think of other things.
Unfortunately, her mind betrayed her and focused on nothing else but the stranger and the photograph. So deceptive, so beautiful, yet eerily familiar. Why?
She yawned, tired but resigned. She could not leave a question unanswered. She would visit the gallery again tomorrow.
***
She hadn’t expected to see the stranger there the next day, so she thought it an interesting coincidence when she bumped into him and spilled the contents of her purse on the floor.
He graciously bent down to help her, picking up her digital recorder and a notebook that had story ideas scribbled in it.
“Ah, that explains it,” he said, handing her the notebook.
“Explains what?”
He nodded towards the notebook she was shoving to the bottom of her bag. “You’re a writer.”
“I used to be,” she mumbled, retrieving the pens and pencils he was handing her.
“No. You’re one of those born writers. Even if you physically stop writing, you’ll be writing in your head.”
“No, writing is an act. You must write to be a writer.”
“True, but writing is also an occupation. How you see the world and live in it.”
She found the thought thoroughly depressing.
“What do you write?” he asked, determined to address her as a writer, although she no longer wanted to see herself as one.
She stood, adjusting the bag on her shoulder. “What does it matter?” She turned and began to look around the gallery, trying to ignore the fact that the man shadowed her. After a few moments she asked, “Why are you following me?”
“Because I’m curious to hear what you think of my photographs.”
She paused, but not from surprise, merely curiosity. “You’re Pierre Dubois,” she said, her tone flat.
“I was wondering if you would guess.”
“It figures.” He had been blessed with a face and a mind that people responded to. If the biography she had read about him--the picture of him conspicuously absent--had been correct he’d once been a model. While she with her ordinary features and passionate prose, went unnoticed and continued to do so. She suddenly felt envious of him. Envious of his joy and peace. “Your work is marvelous as you well know. So why do you ask me?” Just like the books and photographs had, she felt that he was in some way mocking her.
“I had help you know.”
Yvette sat down and stared at a photograph titled: “Waiting for Freedom.” It was a picture of a puppy waiting by a screen door for its master to return. She scowled. She had given that title to a story once. The coincidence only showed that words belonged to no one. No matter how lovingly she worked with them. They’d never be her own. Shakespeare owned his words, Emily Dickinson owned her words, bell hooks possessed her words—but she owned nothing.
She wasn’t interested in who had helped him. She didn’t care about him. She didn’t care about anything. Before perhaps, but not now. Not when the blood running through her veins felt like they were congealing, leaving her body numb.
“Have you ever heard of Sandra Oni?” Pierre said undaunted by her silence.
Yvette’s heart constricted painfully at the sound of the name. “Yes,” she said, her voice rough, like a cat’s tongue. She didn’t wish to talk about her.
“I’m surprised. Few people have heard of her. She was my Muse. Still is in many ways. Her words touched me in such a manner that I knew I had to be what I was just in order to honor her prose.”
“I don’t believe you,” she said, her voice low.
He cleared his throat and began to recite a quote. His melodious voice giving life to thoughts and feelings she had buried. “ ‘And then I saw myself, rushing, hoping, praying that my mind would not lead me astray into believing I was something I was not, something that was created rather than evolved.’”
For once Yvette felt something akin to surprise.
Pierre took her hand in his and stared intently into her face. His kindly brown eyes lighting a candle in her soul. “Why do you think I named my photographs after her stories?”
Yvette did not respond. Could not respond. Her heart was too full. To be recognized, to be acknowledged, felt so sweet. So the small picture--that she'd initially fought against--at the back of her books hadn't gone unnoticed.
“It’s not about who you don’t reach,” he said. “It’s about who you do. The pleasure I give to people now is due to the pleasure you gave to me and hopefully will continue to give in the future.”
“But why—why do you like my work?” Yvette asked, eager to hear praise, eager to receive validation, eager to know that her work mattered.
“Because you spoke to my soul.” He squeezed her hand. “Be patient. One day the beauty of your words will be known.”
“And if it never is?” she asked, stating the true fear that had been haunting her.
He shrugged. “It still lives in the hearts of those who know it.”
Yvette sighed. “So I must be content with being a ghost?”
Pierre glanced down at their interlocked fingers. “No, not a ghost. A kindred spirit waiting for flight.” He kissed her hand, offering her promises she hoped he could keep. Again he looked into her face and this time he was rewarded with a smile so beautiful, so stunning that he caught his breath. He had more words to say, but he said them with his eyes instead and Yvette replied with her own. Then he left her, but Yvette knew that he would come back, when he felt she was ready for his presence. She could now
feel the blood rushing through her veins. She could feel his lips on her hand, could enjoy the stories that occupied her thoughts and taste the joy in experiencing surprise and delight. She would no longer be a ghost. She could not dishonor her spirit that way, nor spirits like her. Yvette looked up at a passing woman and smiled, then took out her notebook and pen and began to write…
The End
***
Ten Days of Grace
And the snow fell on the tiny casket, not as an ending but as a beginning. A beginning that started ten days ago.
It was ten days ago when Tessa Counton wrote her resignation letter. She’d written it five times over the last three weeks only to delete it and go to work. But this time was for real. She was tired of the internal politics, the lack of funds, and the parents who thought she could do more when she’d tried her best. When had nursing become a job instead of a passion? She remembered wanting to be a nurse all her life. At five she was bandaging up the family dog, and asking her sister, after she’d fallen off her bike, to tell her where it hurt. She became a candy stripper in her teens and her conviction only grew. Nursing was her calling. It was when her sister's child was born premature that she knew the neonatal unit was her destination. Those babies called her.
Where had the passion gone? When had it become only about tubes and breathing monitors and grim news? She was burnt out. Her husband said so and she was of no use to anyone. She pushed the button on her computer and printed the letter. She couldn’t wait to hand in her resignation, to make it final.
But when her supervisor saw the envelope, he shook his head. “Put that away. I won’t accept it.”
“You have to. This is my two weeks’ notice.”
“Take a vacation, a holiday. This is what you were born to do. Just think about it.”
She set the letter down. “I have.”
She left his office feeling a sense of relief. Soon she wouldn’t be here. She wouldn’t see these hospital walls again, or have to deal with arrogant doctors and devastated parents. Maybe she’d volunteer or help with some cause, she needed to feel useful again. To know she was making a difference. She knew she’d be easily replaced. In this recession, many people were seeing the benefit of nursing. Then she met Grace.
