by Auden Dar
I stared at Marcel’s second wife, unable to read her face. “Ask me anything.”
With her attention focused on her husband as he slept, she revealed. “No one has ever talked about Elisa. Marcel has never mentioned her and Julian ... Julian doesn’t talk to me. The only one who feels comfortable mentioning her name is Alistair. What was she like?”
I could have lied, but why bother? I never want to taint the memory of the woman who treated me like a daughter.
“Elisa was the closest thing I had to a mother. She was stunning, funny, gentle, generous−sometimes to a fault, ridiculously smart, and most of all, a wonderful mother to Julian, Caroline, and me. When I look at Julian, I see so much of Elisa in him. The resemblance is uncanny. They shared the same sense of humor. And they had a lot in common. They both loved reading and creating. She was so full of life− always traveling and volunteering. Always making sure that her kids were happy.” I hesitated but then continued, “Julian is so much like her. He can be so quiet, sometimes introverted, and he’s got a bit of an old soul in him, but he’s also got such a young heart.” I could have continued rambling about the woman I missed so much. Instead, as I studied Astrid, I realized that although she was curious about Elisa, learning about her husband’s first wife was painful.
I reached for her. “She was Marcel’s first wife, and she’s gone. You’re his wife now. He loves you. That’s all that matters.” I paused before repeating, “That’s all that matters.”
She sighed as she continued to stare at her husband. “I’ve never discussed this with anyone before. But there were times when I felt that Marcel would rather die and be with her than be alive and be with me. I don’t know what I’ll do if he doesn’t fight.” Astrid began to cry again on my shoulder, and all I could do was stay silent.
I look at my watch and realize I’ve been standing outside Marcel’s bedroom suite for more than ten minutes. I don’t know if it’s nostalgia but the need to walk through the Caine home hits me. I can still hear the warm laughter that filled these rooms. I can still smell the haunting fragrance of Elisa’s Jean Patou. The delicious aroma of Miss Pendleton’s shepherd’s pie. The sound of Julian and Caroline arguing over something ridiculous. My body begins to tremble when a flood of memories hit me.
Six
Seventeen years ago …
On the eve of my thirteenth birthday, I stayed with the Caines while my father was away on business in California. He had been traveling in search of real estate opportunities. His trip started with a visit to San Francisco, eventually making his way down to Southern California.
Serendipity’s after school twice a week was a Caine ritual. Even exhaustion couldn’t deter Elisa from treating us to our favorite frozen hot chocolates. It was a warm April afternoon. Caroline and Elisa walked ahead while Julian and I were a few feet away from them. Only a few doors away from one of our favorite haunts, Elisa received a call. She stopped immediately and turned around. Her deep blue-gray eyes watered, and I knew something was wrong, but she tried to be calm. “Children, we need to get home quickly.” She didn’t say anything else. Rather than walk, Elisa hailed a cab that took the four of us back to Park Avenue.
Throughout the cab ride, Elisa was quiet, suppressing her tears. She took my hand and squeezed it. After getting out of the cab, we rushed to the apartment, unable to understand the urgency. Once the elevator doors opened, Marcel, clearly distraught, was at the foyer gallery waiting for us. “Caroline, Julian, your mum and I need to speak with Lina privately.”
Marcel’s usual attire was wrinkled. His shoulders slumped. The worry lines on his forehead creased. Without a doubt, he, too, had been in tears. His kids were beside me, and Julian’s small hand entwined with mine. These two kids were the closest things I had to siblings. I knew that if something was wrong, I didn’t want to keep it from them. “Please let them stay.”
By then, Elisa was already standing next to Marcel, rubbing his arm and trying her best to comfort him. Staring at the marble floor, her eyes refused to meet mine, yet it was difficult to hide her tears. She wiped her cheek and closed her mouth tightly as if to prevent herself from weeping. Suddenly, a part of me just died right there.
No one needed to tell me.
I felt it.
My father.
My father wasn’t returning.
My father was gone.
My father had died.
Every word that came out of Marcel’s mouth escaped me. I couldn’t hear a thing. I couldn’t move. All I saw were tears. Marcel, Elisa, Caroline, and Julian were all in tears. I stood motionless, unable to form any tears myself, unable to form any words, unable to breathe.
Without a mother, without a father, and without any siblings, I was completely alone. A few hours before I would turn thirteen, the world that I knew had disappeared. Both my parents were only children, and my father’s adoptive parents were deceased. My maternal grandparents were living in Sao Paulo at the time, and I barely knew them. I had seen them only a handful of times.
Time stood still until I fell to the ground and laid on the cool marble floor, in the fetal position. Rocking my body back and forth, for the first time in my life, I screamed.
Rushing to my side, Elisa kneeled and wrapped her arms around me. “I love you, Lina. We all love you, dear. We can never take your father’s place, but know that you have us. You will never be alone,” she whispered as she cried.
I stayed in the same position on the floor for what seemed like hours. Marcel motioned for his wife to get up. “Dear, maybe we should leave her alone for now.”
“No, Marcel. She can’t be alone.” Elisa held me, gently rubbing my back, as she proceeded to whisper in my ear, “We love you,” a few more times.
Julian walked over and placed his small hands on his mother’s shoulder. “I’ll stay with her, Mum.”
With hesitation, Marcel, Elisa, and Caroline left us. Julian, a tiny ten-year-old at the time, laid next to me, wrapping his small frame around mine. We were on the floor for several hours before falling asleep. My best friend slept on the floor next to my bed for several nights after my dad passed away.
My grandparents flew in from Sao Paulo in the early morning. Father was always prepared and had written a will as soon as I was born. Once the Caines had moved to New York, he revised his will to give the Caines partial guardianship. I believe he arranged it in a way so that my maternal grandparents would not feel slighted. My father wanted me to grow up in the city he loved with the people he trusted, and he had found a brother in Marcel.
The building on LaGuardia Place was now mine. But my grandparents were adamant about buying a home for the three of us that was only a few blocks away from the Caines.
Before the will had been read, Elisa and Marcel had already revealed their partial guardianship. Although I had just lost my father, I was nevertheless grateful I could live with them. The guest bedroom I had stayed in during my visits became my room, and they had every intention of treating me as if I were one of their own. As years went by, people had assumed that I was actually a Caine, because I went to all of their family outings. Elisa and Marcel attended all my school performances. Elisa attended all the parent-teacher conferences with my grandparents. Fortunately, my grandparents came to love the Caines as well.
And although I think sadly of my father’s death, I am also reminded of my teenage years that were filled with happiness in this home.
I make my way down the long corridor to the other bedrooms. The room on the right, closest to the master bedroom, is Caroline’s room. Surprisingly, her room had been turned into a guest bedroom, and none of her belongings are here. The doors to the two bedrooms at the other end of the hall were both closed. I open the bedroom I had used as a child and notice it had barely been touched through the years. It is clean and spotless. I sit down on the queen-size canopy bed where I dreamed as a child and take it all in.
My bedroom. The closet still contains some of my clothing, now covered in garme
nt bags. I had a work desk specially designed for me by Elisa’s close friend, Helena Emerson. Knick-knacks that were dear to me still lay there. On the shelf is a framed picture of me with my dad in Central Park. A framed poster of Cinema Paradiso still hangs above my bed. The rest of the light cream walls are covered with framed posters of bands I picked out from one of the music shops on 8th Street. I eye the desk, and a piece of paper catches my attention. Because I had not been in the room since Elisa’s memorial, the paper that was once white is now yellow. In Julian’s barely legible handwriting, it reads:
Lina,
I’m so sorry. You’ll always be my best friend. Don’t forget me.
Love,
Julian
Although there are only three sentences, I read it over again before folding it and placing it in my bag. He must have written it before he left. How had I missed this note? The memory of a young, thirteen-year-old Julian crying in my arms the day of his mother’s memorial elicits a twinge in my chest, and several tears escape my eyes.
After gathering my thoughts, I make my way next door to his room. The room is slightly different. On the walls are framed posters of The Police along with the famous black and white photo of Muhammad Ali standing over Sonny Liston after knocking him out. On his nightstand is a framed photo of Elisa, Julian, Caroline, and me during our last trip together in San Francisco. We were so young, so carefree, and so full of hope. We had the future and all that it brings. The picture was taken a few months before our lives changed drastically.
I study the awkward young teenager in the photo and think of the man he has become. I recall everything about him that intoxicates me−his lustful, sonorous voice, his strong arms that held me when I needed comfort, his scent that surrounds me at all hours of the day, and those eyes of his that turn green when he’s excited. He feels so close that I could taste him. Our time together hits me, and I need to shake the thoughts away. There’s no use in reliving that one night with Julian, even though it had only been less than two weeks since I felt alive in his arms.
Lying in his bed, I hold his pillow and try everything in my power to be close to him. I embrace this longing with only the memories of our time together, forgetting the reason why I am here. Finally rising from the bed, I survey his walk-in closet and notice nothing hanging. Stacks of large boxes line up against the wall at the far end of the closet. Nothing else. I’m not surprised this apartment hasn’t been a home to Julian since his mother’s passing.
When I return to Lenox Hill, Astrid is standing a few feet away from Marcel’s hospital room. She’s conversing with someone, and it isn’t until I hear a deep, rough voice that recognition hits me. Alistair Caine. “Shhh, lovely. He’ll be okay. The old man will be fine. If anything should happen, I promise to take care of you,” he whispers. She continues to weep on his shoulder. Lifting her head, Marcel’s wife gazes up at his nephew. I’m surprised when Alistair sweetly kisses her forehead and then proceeds to her lips. It’s not a quick peck. It’s a romantic kiss. In such an intimate moment, I feel like an intruder. Although I have every right to be here.
Unaware of my presence, I swiftly open the door to Marcel’s hospital room, trying to forget what I just witnessed a few moments ago.
My heart stops for the second time today. How long have I been gone? Marcel is no longer lying in bed. Julian is seated, hunched over, staring at the floor. His messy dark hair covers his face. When I close the door gently, he raises his head. His gray-blue eyes are bloodshot. His complexion is pale, devoid of any color. Yet even in distress, the man before me is still staggeringly handsome. The memory of the last time I saw his face in such agony suddenly hits me. It was the day we said goodbye to Elisa. The worst scenario comes to mind.
“Lina,” he gently whispers.
Rushing over to him, I kneel to touch his face. “Where? Where is your father?” I ask with hesitation for fear of what the answer may be.
“He’s in surgery.” When he extends his hand, I immediately take it. I don’t think about the anger I’ve held for the past nine days. I don’t ask Julian of his whereabouts or why he suddenly left me after making love to me.
All that matters is the man fighting for his life.
The feel of my former lover’s large hand enveloping mine feels like home. A bittersweet reminder of how much I’ve missed him. We sit side by side in silence until he takes his hand away. With his lips so close to my ear, he says, “Darling, please lie with me.” And although I’m surprised he wants to lie down, I suddenly remember he has been traveling all day to be by his father’s side. Helping me up, we walk toward the guest bed. I sit on the bed while Julian takes my shoes off. Now on my side, I watch him place his dark navy blazer on the chair before slipping off his black shoes He moves to the other side of the bed and lies next to me. With my back facing him, he remains on his back with his right arm acting as a pillow.
I can feel his eyes staring directly at the ceiling when he says, “Lina, I’ve never deserved you in my life, but know how truly grateful I am to have you here. Thank you for being here … for always being with me.” Turning his body to face my back, he tenderly kisses my right shoulder. I’ve missed you, Julian. With his left arm draped around me, we’re silent as we wait for news.
We’re in the same position until Dr. Stevens enters the room. Astrid hasn’t reappeared, and neither has Alistair. Without hesitation, Julian inquires, “How is my father?”
Surveying the room, Dr. Stevens greets Julian before turning to me. “Lina?”
I nod, acknowledging the same cardiologist who treated my grandfather a few years ago. The same cardiologist who held my grandmother after revealing her husband had succumbed to his second heart attack.
“Where is Mrs. Caine?”
“She’s elsewhere. Please, I need to know my father’s condition,” Julian says impatiently.
“Marcel is stable. The next few hours are critical. We’ll know more then. I suggest that the two of you go home, and once he wakes up, I’ll make sure that you are notified. Julian, Lina, please get some rest. I promise to contact you myself.” He places a hand on Julian’s shoulder.
Continuing to hold my hand, Julian gently squeezes it as he asks Dr. Stevens, “Do you have all my contact numbers?”
“Before you leave, stop by the nurses’ station. Your father is not only a patient to me. He’s also one of my oldest and dearest friends.” Rather than shake his hand, Dr. Stevens pulls him close, hugging him. All the while, my hand clings to his.
Before departing Marcel’s hospital room, I place the framed photos on the side table next to his bed.
Once we depart Lenox Hill, Julian’s arms are wrapped around me, and I have no idea where I am headed. Will I remain with him, or will I take a cab home? Time has evaded us, and only the quietude that surrounds the city street indicates it is past midnight. The smell of fresh rain is in the air. Only a handful of yellow cabs pass by. Stopping at the corner of 77th Street and Park Avenue, Julian turns his body to face me. When his large hand reaches to cup my face, I peer up at him and I’m simply stupefied.
One minute in his presence and I’m a goner. As soon as I saw him seated in his father’s hospital room, I lost it. I had been a work in progress, and just the sight of him took it all away. What is wrong with me? Even though we’re faced with the possibility of losing Marcel, I want the man before me. I want to be wrapped in his arms. I want his company. And I’m desperate to know that the connection between us wasn’t a figment of my imagination.
“I need you. I need to feel every inch of you.” His admission surprises me. Moving closer, he lessens the space between us. And when our foreheads touch, he sighs. “Lina.” My name uttered like a prayer. “I’ve missed you. I have no right to ask this of you, but I hope you’ll stay with me. Please stay with me. I need you more than I have ever needed anyone.”
A tear falls down my cheek. His sad, haunting eyes stare back at me and I don’t stand a chance.
A sane woman would t
ell him to fuck off, but the need to feel alive−to know we’re both alive−eclipses my pride.
All I want is to be with him. I want to take care of him− emotionally, physically, anyway he wants me to be there for him, so I whisper, “Yes.”
Destination unknown. Who cares where we’re headed. The need to feel him inside me, the longing that I’ve had for the past few weeks, even the anger I’ve felt, they all escalate. More importantly, I want us to forget the possibility of losing someone we both love. We don’t catch a cab, nor do we head a few blocks south to his family home. Instead, we cross Park Avenue toward West and walk for a few minutes until we arrive at the Mark Hotel.
Seven
We enter the hotel suite and before the door closes, my back is suddenly against the wall. Julian doesn’t hesitate to take me right here. The desperation, the need between us is nothing short of out of control. Slightly spinning me around, he presses his arousal against my back as my breasts hit the wall. Grinding against me, he begs like a starved man, “God, Lina, I fucking missed you. Please make me forget everything.” Forcefully pushing the hem of my black jersey dress up, he begins to caress my naked legs. Once his firm hand reaches the curvature of my ass, his fingers linger, tugging on my black silk thong. In an instant, he rips it from my body. Turning my head slightly, I discover anger, longing, desire in Julian’s face … everything I am feeling as well.
His voice is deep, low and strangely possessive. “Did you see Andrew?” His large hand palms my sex.
“No. No, Julian,” I whimper.
Parting my legs with his, Julian slides two thick digits into my wet folds.
“Oh,” I gasp at the feeling of his fingers.
“Christ, Lina, you’re soaking wet,” he murmurs as he fists my hair with his hand. “I’ve tasted you in my mouth since we made love. You’re all I can taste. This pussy belongs to me. Me.” My right cheek hits the wall as Julian kneads one of my tender breasts.
