All of These Things

by De Mattea, Anna

  His downturned lips pinch together. My lack of balance has me weaving in place, but Alec stands staunchly, his chin lowering to his chest.

  “You disarm me. I don’t know how else to explain it, but I can’t live recklessly. I can’t forgo me for you. I have my mother to think about, and I have a routine and a schedule. Sofie may scoff at that, but I don’t have a choice. Medication was always problematic for my mother, and much of what we’ve accomplished is through routine and therapy. So I can’t risk wanting more.”

  “I’m more?” He cocks his head.

  “Of course, you’re more. And I like getting lost in you, but that has to stop.”

  I inhale deeply through my nose, exhaling from the mouth. I thrust my chest out, building strong posture, and exude calm and focus for my mission.

  “I’d never pull you away from your mother, Caroline. I’d just take care of you while you take care of her.”

  Alec’s words stab me. I desperately crave that to be true, but I can’t deny how helpless I am around him. I never find myself in weak positions with Ryan, and now my boyfriend’s name launches images of his face, bulldozing me. I’ve been absolutely appalling. My heart jumps into my mouth.

  “Alec, I need to leave.”

  “Caroline…”

  “No,” I say.

  I can’t scramble to reverse what I’ve done here tonight, but I can stop it right now. I whip around and commence my agonizing exit. That lump of fear of never seeing Alec again burns. Now that I know so much more of him: how we look together when my hands fist in his hair, how my head and neck instantly make way for his mouth when it leaves mine, how I twist and squeal and pant when I’m in his arms, and how my breasts peak and everything turns tender. Yet again, my thoughts return to Alec, surpassing everything I’ve ever known. Will I ever be rescued from his intoxicating spell?

  I scurry down the staircase, rushing to the door.

  “Caroline, please. You can’t drive, now. The roads are tricky, especially at this time of night.”

  “I’ll be fine,” I say, dismissing myself and grabbing my tote along the way.

  “I can’t let you go like this. I’ll drive you to the cottage.”

  “No.”

  “Caroline, please,” he says and clutches my keys. “I’m sorry but I won’t risk you hurting yourself. Do you understand me? I won’t, and you can think I’m savage, but this is going my way, sweetheart.”

  I stare at him, stone-faced. I can’t possibly be alone with this man in small quarters again. And how will I ever remove the image of us in my car, that heady, sensational scene? I can always sell the Volkswagen, but Alec is tattooed on my brain.

  “Do we have a deal?”

  My spirits nose-dive. I’ll never be rid of him. He’s my adrenaline and my peace. I’m lost in urges. I want to run and cry as much as I want to fasten my body around his and let him make a fuss over me. I half scowl, half capitulate, breezing through a mental check list:

  It has turned rather spooky out here.

  I really am tired and overwhelmed.

  I suck with navigational devices, and these winding roads are straight out of The Walking Dead.

  He has my keys and fighting Alec for them would mean touching him.

  Who the hell am I trying to kid anyway?

  I sigh, my eyes struggling under wilting lids.

  “You’re shattered, love,” he says quietly. “I can’t let you drive this spent and angry. You do understand that? You do understand what you mean to me?”

  His words unravel me.

  “But why?”

  “How do you mean why?”

  “You’ve only just met me.”

  “But I heard so much about you,” he says quickly. “Sofie is your biggest fan, darling, and you’re the most exotic creature I’ve ever seen. Maybe divine intervention has put what we have here on a firm, expeditious tempo because you’re so cautious and restrained, and believe me, I don’t mean that as a slur. I respect that, but not every situation or relationship should be regarded with such vigilance. We are good for each other,” Alec says deeply and earnestly, curling his arms over his head. “I feel it. Don’t you?”

  He ignites me. Alec has dominated my time and overshadowed my holiday. Of course, I feel it. I’ve never felt anything more rapturing, more thrilling, and more magnificent. I’ve never known anything so remarkable—so stirring until it exhilarates me out of this world.

  I keep steady, weighing how I can maintain equilibrium, connecting the dots from back home to fitting Alec into my life. He obviously believes when there is a will there’s also a way, and I want to trust him, but it doesn’t come instinctively. I’m not wired that way, but I’m opening up to it despite my hesitations.

  I look to the keys in his grip.

  “How will you get back home?” I ask meekly.

  He sighs.

  “I’ll ring Jason, or I’ll walk. Or I can drive you, and you can drive me, and we can go on like that all night, in a perpetual cycle of madness.” He grins.

  I laugh, biting my lip as I look down to the gravel path.

  “I suppose you can stay in a spare bedroom,” I say shyly.

  He’s silent for a second.

  “Staying over is up to you. It’s always up to you, but until then, love, and since I do have to lock up the house,” he says, sweeping down and clasping me around my thighs, “I’m not letting you out of my sight.”

  I shriek, chucked over his shoulder.

  “Alec!” I screech.

  “You’re such a delectably, maddening woman, do you know that?” he says gravely. His nose digs into the curve of flesh peeking out of my shorts, and he bites it.

  I wince a tantalizing shudder, slapping Alec, and frame the narrowing part of his back with my hands on either sides. In his grip I melt and vaporize

  Chapter Twenty

  PASSAGES

  Nathaniel: Girlfriend. I mull the word over, striding past Charlotte Landry’s garden—my garden, really, since I own the apartment house and pay my long-time tenant for sprucing up the semi-detached property. It’s absurd to me that a man my age, fifty-seven years old, to be exact, even had a girlfriend. I want a wife. Sandrine is an amazing life-partner, an ideal companion, but I’m a parasite for having latched onto her accessibility and kindness. Maybe one day she’ll forgive me, but I can’t blame her if she doesn’t.

  I cannot help but smile when I look up at the building. It reminds me I had a hand in raising somewhat of a perfectionist, and it’s been my greatest joy. Caroline impeccably covered all corners, putting matters at ease with specific instructions for my associate’s nanny this week. And who knows? This summer fling might be a good experience for her, and under my niece’s dominant eye, I’m sure Caroline is doing fine. I hope so, anyway. I’ve been eagerly clutching my phone to hear more about this fellow, contemplating to call her, but I’ve decided she’s the kind of kid that’ll reach out to her dad if she really needs to. I’m going to try to keep my nose out of this one, although she never did straight out tell me about Ryan when he first entered her life. I stop in my tracks, surveying Charlotte’s garden.

  This is our thing—Amalia and me. After completely moving out when Caroline was six, I’ve walked around to the back of the house to visit or collect our daughter. Doorbells don’t startle Amalia as much when Caroline’s home, so I’ve geared up with the proper precautions before turning up. The lawn has sprouted thick and vigorously, and the distinct, neat lines of Charlotte’s tending cuts through the plush grass of la petit cour. I inspect the area, manipulating my joints and pop knuckles to stall for time. I glance over to Charlotte’s red daylilies and notice the hydrangeas are filling up magnificently. The house is my smallest acquisition but undoubtedly the most valuable for the people living in it. After Caroline graduated from a Business and Accounting progr
am, she joined me at the firm, maintaining forty-hour weeks and dedicating evenings and weekends to Amalia’s treatment.

  I remained on the governing board after my ex-wife’s ninety-day residency, casually contriving ways to support my daughter’s fees for continued private care. Sandrine had an idea, but I managed to reroute many tête-à-têtes with her on that. To a certain extent, it was callous on my part, but my family is not up for discussion—not even with Sandrine. In the end, it’s all for Caroline, and Amalia goes without saying in my daughter’s life.

  I feel fortunate that Sandrine’s ex-husband is a stable, unwavering provider to her boys, and I never had to be implicated in our time together, or caught up in fathering them. There was an underlying friendship or comradery, but I only have room for one child in my heart. I start up the path again, the trail leading to a boxy backyard with mostly paved grounds under a shadowing lilac tree. There’s evidence of Charlotte’s fancy work here, too. I snuff out a laugh, remembering an ancient discourse with Amalia when she accused me of cheating on her with our downstairs neighbor. Amalia even threatened to take our daughter away from me, the only father Caroline knew, and remains disparaging even today of Charlotte Landry. Yet, Caroline buffers their interactions brilliantly. I marvel at how well-adjusted she is to the miserable situation she was born in, and ultimately I adore my little perfectionist.

  I climb two black, spiral stairways to Amalia’s gallery, skimming Caroline’s potted herbs and the African Daisies at the center of a small patio set. I glance inside the apartment from the window of a single patio door and notice an opening. I make five halting thumps followed by three swift raps. After the divorce, Amalia decided on that particular calling card for me, and it did prove to be less surprising or alarming than a doorbell. I lower my head to the gap below the raised window.

  “Amalia?” I call. “Angel Mae? It’s Nathaniel. I’m back here,” I continue, expecting to hear Amalia call from her treasured dressing room.

  I’m surprised, and even smitten, to see her exit instead, and she readies herself to approach me. She’s glorious, standing there at the threshold of her bedroom and the kitchen, but something’s off. She’s always dressed to impress by this time in the morning, and her hair isn’t as neat as she usually wears it. She’s wearing her bright lipstick, but the rest of her face isn’t right. Her eyes are not lined, and her cheeks aren’t rosy. Amalia tilts her head to her shoulder. It’s a squeeze to my heart, and that unrelenting hold she can have on me is already in effect.

  She shimmies past the round, white stained table to reach me. I’ve already caught a whiff of her splendid scent, so I turn my head away, straining to focus on something else. I slip my hands into my trouser pockets and make an embarrassed grin.

  We’re due back at Catherine’s House tomorrow for 10 am circle, and getting a feel of her mood is always a smart idea. The first time I drove Amalia there, I pushed the passenger seat back as far as it went, and all but laid her in. It was as if the world knew and rose to greet us with golden clouds hovering low with protective wings across the sky. They trailed behind my car like angels over the icy highway on a winter’s solstice. I honestly tried waiting as long as I could so Caroline could have her mother for Christmas, but it was urgent for Amalia to go.

  She hated seatbelts even then—something about the constriction and the decreased chance of escaping a wreckage. She snuggled, clasping my arm above the elbow and kissing it frantically over and over, drying out her lips against the sleeve of my pinstriped shirt. She smacked kisses, pecked roughly, squeezed, and dug small bites into my arm. It was a wild, unyielding fear. She was insisting on getting her fill of me, wanting to take her stock and stash me. I still don’t really understand what all that was about, but obviously she needed me closer than was humanly possible.

  Amalia went on that way, marking me, and I let her. She bruised me, scraped me up under her finger nails, and grazed her teeth through the hair on my arm, pulling at them.

  “Come with me,” she pleaded, finally settling her head in my lap. She was so tired but could not manage sleep.

  The elevation changed at that point, the road winding between ski towns and glacial lakes. I worried about her empty, acidic stomach.

  “Stay with me,” she said, and I strategized my protest.

  “We can’t leave Caroline alone. I need to talk to her about this.”

  Amalia grimaced.

  “No,” she said. “Caroline is fine. Lock the door and just tell Charlotte to check up on her. She’s home. I’m not! You need to stay with me.”

  “Amalia, we can never leave our daughter alone. Never,” I contested. “And I won’t leave you until later. We have the entire day, amore mio.” She always did love to hear me mix in my Italian. I miss her asking me to do so.

  “Besides,” I lingered on, “they told me I can stay as long as you wish.” I stroked her ear lobe between my fingers. “My mother’s with Caroline for now, and Mara will bring Sofie by. If you need to call after I’ve gone, they will let you call me,” I encouraged, wringing her hair into a bun. “I’ve made a list of rules that I expect them to follow. I’ve arranged for very specific things for you, so you’re to be pampered as they help you. Think of this place as a retreat, Amalia—like a spa. They’ll help you relax and show you how to help yourself when you’re not thinking slowly, or how to make out what’s real and know if you’re becoming too sad or too nervous.”

  “Next time, you’re coming with me,” she said, biting inside my thigh. I flinched, my hand pulling back at her shoulder so she could release the flesh from her mouth. “Next time, you’re coming with me,” she repeated.

  “Let them help you, Amalia, that way there won’t be a next time. I want us to go on vacation this year, maybe rent a home in Maine just like my sister does with her kids.”

  “This is too far,” she interrupted, passing over what I was trying to say. “You’re leaving me here with the bears and the wolves.”

  I managed a chuckle. “Hardly. Besides, I don’t want you in a hospital. This place is run by good people with better programs, and it’s pretty. I want a nice place for you, and I want it to be nice for Caroline, too, when we drive out to see you.”

  “Oh my God! Oh my God. We have to go back!” Amalia shrieked. “I didn’t hide my lipsticks from that little brat. She’ll steal them! She’ll make a mess.”

  “Caroline has never once gone through your things, and if anything, she’ll make sure they’re perfect for when you come back.”

  “I don’t want her touching my vanity! She’ll mix everything up. Don’t go back, Natey. Stay with me. Stay with me! She doesn’t need you. You said Sarafina and Mara are helping out.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “There. Caroline has your mother, your sister, and your niece. I bet Sara will fill her up with a feast every day. She’s with your family. She doesn’t need you. That brat. She’s taking everything. You know… she’s not even your daughter.”

  Hearing that made my heartbeat thrash in my ear. It was never an easy one to tolerate, and I couldn’t ignore it, especially when Amalia attacked me this way.

  “Don’t say that. You know how much I can’t stand that. You don’t want to hurt me.”

  “Yes, I do. I asked you to leave, but your things are still at home.”

  “You asked me to leave, but sometimes you still want me there. And Caroline needs her father.”

  “You’re not her father!”

  “Don’t! I warned you—don’t say that. You will go to this place and work on getting better. Then we’ll be able to spend time by the sea this summer, and before Caroline starts the first grade, you can tell me if you want me to get all of my things out of the apartment. We’ll talk to Caroline together, and we’ll figure out how we can raise her together.”

  “No. I hate her!”

  My muscles bunched.

  “Don’
t say that. I swear to God, Amalia, don’t say that. She’s just a little girl. For Christ’s sake she barely talks anymore. You’re scaring her. This thing is scaring her. You can’t be mean to our little girl. You can’t,” I cried like a wolf to the moon, gnashing my teeth and gripping the wheel.

  “The day I met you, I decided I loved you,” I started, “that I loved you both. I have never looked at anyone like I looked at you that day. I’ve never seen anyone more beautiful, and Caroline… Caroline is so perfect and beautiful like her mother.”

  I knew the words to calm her down, and Amalia lay her head on my lap.

  “More beautiful than Princess Grace of Monaco?”

  “Of course,” I said, running my tongue across my lip, catching tears. “Do you remember when we decided to name Caroline after her daughter? That was a beautiful idea you had. Caroline’s our princess, now, don’t you think?”

  Amalia commenced to tug and gnaw at my flesh again. She yearned to possess me—for my love to possess her. How does anyone get over that?

  I turned my Toyota onto the gravel road lined by evergreens, and in the clearing was Catherine’s House.

  “It’s pretty isn’t it?” I asked, and more wayward tears slid passed my nose, dying at the corners of my mouth. “It sort of reminds me of Caroline’s doll house.” I rubbed my eyes.

  Amalia scrambled onto my lap, folding herself up into a fetus. I enclosed her in my arms and wept in her hair.

  “I hate you,” she said, hiking up against my chest until she was almost floating. Her arms and hands locked around my neck that was streaked with salty, splotchy skin. I cried in her ear and worked on regaining my courage as best I could.

  “I love you, wife,” I whispered. “I love you, I love you, I love you.”

  I let her sit there, coiled against me, for as long as she needed because I needed not to let her go. Dr. Toussaint appeared in a bulky parka and a bonnet, with an orderly by her side, and she let me sit there, too, weeping on the love of my life who had finally fallen asleep.