by Rosa Sophia
When I Remember You
By Rosa Sophia
When I Remember You
Copyright © 2015 by Rosa Sophia. All rights reserved.
First Print Edition: November 2015
Limitless Publishing, LLC
Kailua, HI 96734
www.limitlesspublishing.com
Formatting: Limitless Publishing
ISBN-13: 978-1-68058-320-5
ISBN-10: 1-68058-320-4
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.
Dedication
For my friends in Orwigsburg, Pennsylvania.
“It was worth it, every moment,
but it wasn’t where I belonged.”
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 1
Present Day, Jupiter, Florida
My skin against the gritty sand, the warm ocean water touching my toes, I’m lying here, looking up, until I’m certain I am falling into the stars. Falling up, drifting away from the earth. My body believes it, and I tense, digging my fingers into the sand as if to remind myself, I’m alive, I’m alive.
And I’m not alone, but I never was.
I roll onto my side. It’s hard to see Wes in the dim light, but the stars are exceptionally bright. I can make out the curls on the top of his head, the outline of his eyes and nose as he turns to face me.
“What was it like in Australia?” I ask him. His most recent explorations took him to the one place I’ve always wanted to visit. I once turned down his invitation to go with him to Sweden, but he never asked me about Australia. Maybe because we both knew it wouldn’t make sense. I haven’t seen him in six months. In that time, he was wandering exotic locations I can only dream about.
“It was incredible,” he says. “Beautiful beaches. You wouldn’t believe it. It was a wonderful, inspiring place to write.” He tells me about all the traveling he’s done, and the stories fascinate me. I could listen to him for hours.
“Meet any women?” I don’t ask out of jealousy. I am merely curious.
He pauses. I can tell he’s wondering whether or not he should answer truthfully. But he doesn’t lie to me, because he knows I can handle it. “Yeah,” he says. “I went out with some women.”
“What were they like?”
“A few party chicks. One girl was an artist I met on the beach. But it was all for fun. Nothing serious.”
A beat of silence hangs between us, as if we’re both wondering what happened between us, and why. I know I’m wondering what it meant to him. “Remember a year ago, when we…” I lose the words, and my face heats. I’m glad he can hardly see me. The tide comes up and splashes my calves.
“You mean, when we had sex on the beach?” There’s a gentle hum in his tone, his words carrying a hint of seduction.
“Yeah.”
Neither of us speaks for a while. We just listen to the water sloshing against the sand. I think about staying here, letting the ocean carry me away. Eventually, the water would reach up, embrace me, and tug me into its depths.
I have known Wes for just over two years, and our passionate friendship is something I cannot quite define. I dreamt of him, saw the past life we shared, and he dreamt of me. I thought the dreams meant we were supposed to be together, but maybe the universe is not so heavy-handed about these things.
I wanted rules. Definitions. I wanted stability. But at the same time, I feared all those things, and so did Wes. Neither of us was ready to be involved so deeply with another person. Here we are, two people who intuitively know each other on a level many others only fantasize about. Yet, we cannot seem to reach beyond friendship and become something more. Even though he knows my body as well as I know his, and our desire for each other seems to have no limits.
“Wes, do you remember what you said to me last year, how you asked me to be with you?”
“Yeah.” We both sit up and scurry back as the tide comes in. A ghost crab flits past my outstretched fingers.
“Why did you ask me to be with you, why did you tell me you wanted me, when you weren’t ready for a relationship? When you wanted to travel instead, not be stuck in one place? Not that I blame you.” My words aren’t bitter, and I’m not angry. I just want to know.
“After the last few weeks, I’m not sure. I’m sorry, Nina. Things are just different now. Things have changed.” His tone is sharp. After everything he’s been through, I don’t blame him. But I feel the need to convince him it doesn’t have to be over, that we can still try. That need doesn’t seem to be cemented in reality. I knew it was over when he left. Now, death seems to have secured the certainty we cannot attempt to be together. Not now. Probably not ever.
“It doesn’t have to be different.” My hand brushes against his in the dark. “What happened was horrible, Wes. But tragedy doesn’t have to change things between us. We can still try. It doesn’t have to be like this.”
“Maybe it doesn’t have to be. But it is.”
He rises from the ground, and we walk, brushing the sand off our clothes. I can’t see a thing. I stumble, bumping into him. Even with all the success he’s had, I know he feels like he’s lost everything. And I can’t blame him, because I know what that feels like.
The darkness stretches out before me. I remember the way he made love to me here. That memory seems so far away, almost like it didn’t really happen. When I remember him, sometimes I want to run. Hurry away from those memories that make me weak in the knees, make me want something I can’t seem to hold onto. Everything’s changed. He’s not the same, and neither am I. He’s probably right. It doesn’t have to be this way, but it is.
The ocean strengthens, the wind picks up. It occurs to me I left my sandals behind, and soon I’m questing in the sand, reaching for them, but I can’t find them. I feel like I’m always reaching out in the night. A continual search for what’s right. A search that almost always leaves me empty-handed.
Chapter 2
Nineteen Years Ago
I am a runner. I love cutting through the wind, slicing through the air. I feel like I can be anything. Running around in the yard is my favorite thing to do, but sometimes Mommy takes me to the park, or the ocean, and I run until my legs ache. Today, Daddy and I are playing outside. He likes to run too.
Daddy is so tall, wearing shorts, a t-shirt, and the bright blue sneakers he calls his racing shoes. Short cropped blond hair. Mommy says I get my dark hair from her side of the family.
We’re standing in our yard in Loxahatchee, and Daddy’s leaning forward, his hands on his knees. “Ready?” he says. “Race me?”
His hazel eyes focus on me, and my heart rate increases as I get ready.
Get set.
Go.
Our feet stomp on the soft earth as we run beside each other, and my determined stare is fixed on the other side of the lawn where a hedge separates our place from the neighbor’s. The heat rushes past my face and I feel the firs
t few drops of a light afternoon rain.
Within seconds, he’s already beaten me.
I am angry. Is there something wrong with me? He laughs, and it makes me madder. Why can’t I run fast enough? Why can’t I keep up?
I stomp across the yard to stare into the murky depths of the canal that flows past our property, and I see a baby alligator sunning itself on the bank. When it spots me, it slides across the muck and into the water, disappearing.
Disappearing, like I want to do. I cross my arms over my chest when Daddy places his hand on my shoulder.
“You okay, little girl?”
When I do nothing but sulk, he crouches beside me.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he says. “Are you upset because you didn’t win?”
“Yeah.”
“You can run fast,” he tells me. “You have to work hard at it, but you can run really fast one day. I know you can.”
“Really?”
“Of course. We’ll work on it. If you want to run fast, I’ll teach you how. It’ll be fun.”
I would never win. He would never teach me.
We would never get the chance.
***
I thought funerals were supposed to happen in graveyards, but Daddy’s funeral is held in a squat little building, in a white room filled with people. I’m wearing a dress I hate, but Mom always said Daddy liked seeing me in it—baby blue with yellow flowers in the pattern. She broke the rules. I’m supposed to be wearing black, aren’t I? I heard some of the grown-ups say black is for funerals, but I don’t really get it.
I want to know who the man at the front of the room is. He is talking about Daddy as if he knows him, but I’ve never seen him before. His face is red and puffy, and he doesn’t have any hair. I don’t like him. Mom says he’s a pastor.
I can’t stop moving in my seat. I shift around, and Mom keeps squeezing my hand, trying to still me.
Soon we’re at the front, and the strange man—the pastor—isn’t around, and people are coming up, hugging Mom while she cries.
I start to sweat and my stomach turns. I shuffle my feet.
Daddy, why did you leave?
He always said I was his little runner, even though when I watched him on the sidelines I wasn’t running. I stood still. Or I jumped up and down and cheered for him. Daddy did all the running. He ran in long races, miles and miles, and Mom and I always went along to cheer him on. Sometimes Mom ran too, but not as much.
I have to get away from all these people. They scare me.
“Nina!” Mom yells out, her voice heavy with a choked sob, as I run through the crowd of people and toward the exit.
White walls fly through my vision, hands brush against me, people call out. I don’t listen. Pale faces are streaked with tears as people reach out, trying to stop me.
Daddy’s not in here, I know it. He can’t be. This isn’t fair. He must be waiting for me, somewhere outside. This is all a lie, because Daddy wouldn’t leave me like this.
Outside, I feel better. It was too cold in there, and all the pictures of Daddy and all the crying people confuse me. I run. I pretend he’s running beside me, and I don’t listen when I hear people calling my name.
I am a runner, just like Daddy. And I won’t ever stop.
Chapter 3
Two Weeks Ago
Mom is doing so much better. As I sit across from her in the booth at the restaurant, Jenny nudges me and says, “Your mom looks awesome.” The compliment is honest, and she follows it with a wink, pretending to be coy as if she didn’t intend to be heard.
My mother chuckles. The one thing I’ve noticed about her over the last few weeks is that she no longer smells like liquor, and her breath is always minty. We spent years and years in a dark place because Mom drank too much. She became a different person, someone I didn’t recognize. But only recently, something changed, and she seemed to realize she was hurting herself. We don’t really discuss it much. Fear of her anger keeps me from bringing it up.
The waitress brings our appetizers and drinks. In between bites of onion rings, Mom asks, “Have you gotten any letters from publishers yet, Nina?”
I’ve been sending them out for a while now, getting either rejection letters or nothing at all, but Mom can’t seem to contain her excitement, as if she knows that eventually I’ll get an acceptance. Her renewed faith in me is something I treasure, because so many years went by in which I took care of her, and received nothing but malice in return. I huff, wringing my hands in my lap. “Come on. We both know I’m a nobody,” I grumble. “Who’s going to publish my book?”
Jenny, who’s sitting beside me, elbows me in the ribs. “Stop it. You’re a good writer. Just as deserving as—”
“Fine.” I elbow her back, not wanting her to mention Wes, whose writing career I’ve admired for a long time. I haven’t told Mom about him, because she always gets nervous when it comes to the men in my life, whether they’re friends or something more. I’ve had so few relationships, and they all ended badly. Whatever happened between Wes and me isn’t happening anymore, and even though Jenny and I talk about him often, wondering how he’s doing, I don’t want to bring him up in conversation with my mom.
“Just admit you’re good and someone will want you eventually,” Jenny says, grabbing an onion ring. Suddenly, I’m not so sure if she’s talking about writing or relationships.
“She’s right,” Mom says before sipping her water. “So, are you nervous about the big race?” she asks, changing the subject. Two days from now, I’ll be running my first half-marathon.
“Yeah. I am. I never meant to run such a long race. It just worked out that way, the race being on Dad’s birthday.” I shrug. “I had to do it…to honor him.”
Jenny, who has been my best friend since high school, gently squeezes my hand. When I look up, I notice Mom trying to blink away the tears. Before she can say much else, the waitress brings our food. It’s nice to see Mom eating normally again.
She couldn’t handle losing Daddy, and she started drinking shortly after his funeral. I remember that day so clearly, running from the funeral home and down the street. Mom finally caught up to me, and I told her I was running to find Daddy. But now, all these years later, Mom seems to be recovering from it. Dad lives on in each of us, and when I run that half-marathon, even if I am slow as hell and the last one to cross the finish line, I vow to do it for him. More than anything, I want to remember him. Running is the best way to do it, because it was the one thing he loved more than anything.
***
The next morning, Jenny and I meet up at six-thirty to train. I’m already stretching and prepared to run ten miles. I’ve been running through Juno Beach to prepare—the same place the race will be held, the same half-marathon where my parents met.
Mom was volunteering that day at one of the water stations, beneath the shade of a cluster of palm trees and sea grapes. She always told the story with such mirth. Dad grabbed a paper cup too hard, and splashed the water all over her. He searched for her after the race to apologize.
“Do you feel prepared?” Jenny asks as we start.
“Yeah.” We run at a slow pace. “I think I’ll be fine.”
“You might even win.”
I listen to my feet slap the pavement. “Nah. I’m not in it for that. I’ll probably never run another half-marathon again.”
“Too much of a wimp?” Jenny jokes.
“Very funny. No. I just prefer a nice 5-K.”
“What would your father say?”
“He’d probably just be proud.” And it is true, he would be. Dad was one of those stalwart parents pushing a baby in a special running stroller across the finish line. He said I beat him in a 10-K when I was two, and he gave the medal to me because the stroller crossed the finish line before he did. I still have the medal, and I wish I could remember that day, but I was too young.
“How about your book?” Jenny asks, drawing me out of my thoughts.
“I sent out
some more query letters last week.” Somehow I managed to finish a novel in just a couple short months, but the more I try to sell it, the more I seem to fail. I am beginning to lose count of how many rejection letters I’ve gotten. I wish I could adopt my mother’s constant positive attitude about it, but I’m losing confidence and focus. How many letters will I have to send out before I finally get there? And what if it never happens and I’ve wasted my time?
“You’ll get there,” Jenny assures me, keeping her responses short as she does her best to regulate her breathing. I’m not so sure she’s right, but I agree anyway. Jenny and I are close enough that she knows when I’m unsettled without me having to say a word, and I’m sure she can tell I’m close to giving up.
She asks when Roberta’s coming to town, my friend from North Carolina. I only lived in Kill Devil Hills for a year, but Roberta and I developed a close friendship. She isn’t a runner, but she wants to see the race. She said she wants to watch me win, and I only laughed in reply. I don’t run to win. I run to keep the past behind me where it belongs.
“She’ll be here this afternoon,” I say between breaths.
Chapter 4
Knowing I got my love of running from Dad is a comfort to me. I was so young when he died, sometimes I strain to recall the sound of his voice, and the excited look in his eye when we would race across the back yard in Loxahatchee. After Dad died, we lost that house because Mom couldn’t afford to pay the mortgage on her own, and we moved to North Palm Beach. The apartment became a trap when Mom’s drinking worsened while I was in high school.
I think about how far things have come. I share a place with Jenny now, and Mom lives alone. I head over to visit her, glad we don’t live together anymore. I feel the sweat bead between my shoulder blades, and I swipe my ponytail away from my neck as I walk into the air conditioned living room.
