Portrait of a Girl Running

by J. B. Chicoine

  “Elaborate on that for me, please.”

  “I would, but I don’t want to embarrass him, so I won’t say it to him right now. I’ll just tell him later.”

  Jennings looked at him kindly. “Mr. Myles, Leila seems very hesitant to embarrass you. Why do you suppose that is?”

  He looked directly at the therapist. “Leila and I speak very freely in private. Just because she chooses not to speak freely now, does not mean that our communication is inhibited.”

  “So, you’re saying that in private, she’s not afraid of embarrassing you.”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “How do you feel about that, Leila?”

  She thought for a moment. “I’m not afraid of embarrassing him, but ….”

  Jennings prodded, “Go ahead, finish your thought.”

  Leila glanced at Myles. “There are some subjects that aren’t any of my business.”

  “For instance?” Jennings asked.

  “About his relationships with women and about his daughter.”

  The therapist looked at Myles. “I wasn’t aware that you have a daughter.”

  Clenching his jaw, he met her stare and turned his attention to Leila.

  She quickly bailed him out. “He doesn’t have a daughter anymore.”

  Jennings brow rose. Myles neither confirmed nor denied Leila’s statement.

  After a moment, he said, “Doctor Jennings, you don’t have children, do you?”

  “No, Mr. Myles. I don’t.” She smiled. “And if your daughter is an issue you don’t care to explore, I don’t intend to press you on it. Unless of course, Leila wishes to.”

  “No, I don’t,” Leila spoke up. “But I do wish Mr. Myles would let me get to know him better.”

  Myles ankle now rested on his knee. “Leila, how much better do you know me now than when we first met?”

  “Much better. But you know me a whole lot better than I know you.”

  Myles’ hand dropped between them as he turned toward her. “And that, Leila, is the nature of relationships. Rarely, if ever, are they equal.”

  Leila stared at him, weighing his statement against all the relationships of her life. “I guess that’s true …,” she finally said. “Though the balance often shifts. Sometimes gradually. Sometimes abruptly.”

  “Yes. And the ones that shift frequently are usually the most interesting and stimulating. But the balance in one person’s favor or against it is rarely constant. No one should ever hold all or most of the power all the time. If they do, the relationship stagnates and isn’t much of a relationship at all.”

  “And what about our relationship, Clarence?”

  “You have more power and control in this relationship than you realize.”

  Leila beheld Myles with such affection—it must have been beaming from her eyes. The sight of his flushed face made her own eyes burn. Without measuring her reaction, she slipped her hand beneath his. He more than allowed it; he squeezed her fingers.

  Finally, Myles spoke up. “Valerie—do you mind if I call you Valerie?”

  “No, not at all.”

  “Valerie, do you enjoy music?”

  Jennings smiled. “Yes, very much. What makes you ask?”

  “Leila, in addition to being a fast runner and accomplished artist, is also quite the pianist.”

  Leila shot back, “You’ve never even heard me play.”

  “Yes, but I’ve heard the rumors.” He glanced at Jennings. “The staff room is quite the rumor pit. Teachers can be nearly as preoccupied with their students’ lives as their own.”

  “So I gather,” Jennings grinned. “Leila, what is your preference? Classical, jazz, rock or what?”

  “I guess blues, some jazz.”

  “Blues—that’s revealing.”

  “Do you like jazz or blues, Valerie?” Leila’s fingers wiggled under Myles’ large hand.

  “I like some of most genres. Tell me, between running, art, and music, to which do you have a stronger connection, Leila?”

  “Running and piano are just things I do, but art is something I pursue.”

  “And Mr. Myles, what do you pursue?”

  “Peace and repose.”

  ~

  Myles smoothed his linen napkin across his lap as the waiter approached. Therapy had not squashed his appetite.

  “My friend will have a sparkling water with a wedge of lime, and I’ll have a glass of the Gevrey-Chambertin.” Returning his attention to Leila, he smiled at her excitement as she scanned the menu.

  “I wasn’t expecting something this nice,” Leila said in a hushed tone. “Or this expensive.”

  His smile twitched. “Then I’ve succeeded.”

  “At what?”

  “At surprising you yet another time.”

  “You’re so weird. You’re so—I think the word is tenacious—about appearing a certain way, but on the other hand, you really get off on dispelling it.”

  “Yes. And I believe the term for that is walking contradiction.”

  The waiter returned with their drinks. Lifting his glass, Myles examined the rich burgundy color. A sliver of refracted light burst through.

  “It truly is a shame that you’re not old enough to drink. You are missing out on one of the most pleasurable experiences of life.”

  “Yes, well, it is on the To Don’t list.”

  He breathed in the bouquet with pleasure and then sipped. Swirling the velvety liquid over his taste buds, he savored the full-bodied, spicy flavor and smiled with approval.

  Leila’s eyes sparkled like the wine.

  He held it up. “Would you like to smell it?”

  “Sure.”

  He passed the glass. She took a whiff.

  “Well,” he asked, “what do you smell?”

  She sniffed again. “It’s not sweet. It smells a little bit smoky and like some sort of fruit—and I don’t mean grapes.”

  “Would you like to taste it?”

  “Really?”

  “A small sip. And hold it in your mouth—move your tongue around in it.”

  Leila followed his instructions and then swallowed.

  “What did you taste?”

  “I’m not sure, but what I taste now is sort of like black cherries.”

  “Very good. You have an unspoiled palate.”

  The waiter returned. “Are you ready to order or shall I come back?”

  Myles looked at Leila.

  She shrugged. “I like anything.”

  “We’ll each have the smoked salmon, with the bib lettuce, Gorgonzola, and roasted pecans—and please bring the entrée and salad out all at once.”

  The waiter again departed.

  Gradually, a little smirk curled Leila’s lips.

  “What?” Myles said.

  “I can’t believe you were interviewing Valerie Jennings for a date during my therapy session.”

  “I was doing no such thing,” he lied. “Is that what you thought?”

  She quoted his own words, “You’re not so opaque as you think you are, my dear.”

  “Do you catalogue everything I say?”

  “Only the good stuff.” She smiled smugly. Then her countenance turned serious.

  “You realize that was your last session before I turn eighteen, when I’m no longer under obligation to some court order or—” she quit before referencing him, and raised her deviant brow. “Anyway, that’s the last time you have to see her. Under the restraints of doctor-patient ethics, that is.”

  Myles scowled as the waiter brought their dinner.

  Leila stared at her meal and then closed her eyes and inhaled. He forfeited his annoyance at the sight of her, lost in the moment. He sipped his wine once more before tasting his salmon.

  “Oh, Clarence,” she said after the first swallow. “This is where you should bring her.”

  He shot her a squinty look. In fact, he had contemplated the notion. “Miss Sanders, you are on the verge of spoiling a perfectly enchanted evening.”<
br />
  She backed off with a grin and took a bite of Gorgonzola. “Mmm.”

  Her gaze came back to his, this time with gravity. A hundred words passed from her eyes to his and back until she broke the silence. “I love you, Mr. Myles.”

  How could her words catch him so off guard? His eyes stung and his heart hammered, heating his entire body. He knew how to repeat the words but they wouldn’t come out.

  Leila bit her lip. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”

  “I’m not embarrassed. I’m just out of practice.”

  “You don’t have to say it out loud. I already know you love me back.”

  Chapter 29

  Leila jarred awake from deep sleep as if the alarm had sounded. She grabbed the clock, but only gentle ticking announced the time. It wasn’t yet five am, and it took a moment to shuffle through the days of the week before she settled on Wednesday. Wednesday, May 3. A slow smile came over her as she pushed covers back and sat up. Minutes later, her teapot whistled. Ultramarine melded with the soft glow of the gamboge horizon. Within minutes, the sun pushed above treetops revealing a cloudless sky under which she would mark her eighteenth birthday.

  A year ago, her birthday had come and gone without notice. Little more than four months had passed since her dad had died. Life had devolved into a series of daily motions with no one to share the passing time. This year, she had a small but significant few who would remember, the first being Artie. Then again, he might not remember.

  When she passed by his kitchen window on her way to his front stoop, his absence at the table didn’t alarm her until she stepped into his apartment, into utter silence and darkness.

  A tingle crept up her spine as she called out, “Artie.”

  No answer. Floorboards creaked as she made her way to his bedroom door. It groaned as she pushed it open. From between the window and its shade, a shard of light cut in, dancing upon the blanket halfway up Artie’s body. His hands folded across his chest like a mummy—wearing tropical-print, silk pajamas—as still as death.

  The tingle up Leila’s body shot to her extremities. She did not need to feel his cold flesh or lay her hand on his chest or check for a pulse. She simply knew he was dead. Even as she approached, she hadn’t any notion of trying to rouse him. Her vision misted as she stood at the foot of his bed. Tears escaped without hindrance and dripped from her chin to the floor.

  She pulled a chair to his bedside and sat facing him. The drawn shade billowed. His room smelled a little musty, and a lot like Old Spice and Vicks. Just like Artie. He appeared neither distraught nor peaceful. He simply looked dead—but not dead, the way her father had looked.

  If her father had appeared peaceful, she wouldn’t have recognized him. Even with palliative measures, his pain had been so entrenched in his face and in her own mind that it consumed any other memory of his last days. Hospice had left their apartment that afternoon, and, as usual, she had sat with him for hours. That late December day, Leila had watched him drift in and out of sleep, each breath slowing, pausing for long moments. Her future with her father was slipping away—every hope and every secret. She had thought about the man she would never really get to know, but more than that, she lamented all the answers he would take to his grave. It struck her with such urgency that she was not only losing her father, but the connection to her mother. She prayed he would open his eyes one last time. She needed to know. She needed him to trust her with the truth.

  Her father’s eyes fluttered and opened. Although they glazed over, he seemed more alert than he had for hours. Leila held his hand, and he smiled through his distress. She couldn’t bring herself to ask.

  “You’re going to be fine—just like we planned,” he whispered.

  Leila drew a hard breath. “It’s not that, Daddy ….”

  He squeezed her hand with little strength. “Then tell me.”

  “I need to know about my mother. Please—tell me why she left.”

  Her father’s eyes rolled behind his lids. “Leila ….”

  “Please, Daddy. I need to know ….”

  He stared off for a few moments. He barely had the strength to turn his head. “Your mother had … problems….”

  “What problems?”

  “She left to straighten out her life.”

  “Why couldn’t she stay and do that?”

  “She needed professional help …. She went into a rehab clinic.”

  Leila tried to comprehend it.

  “Leila, your mother loved you—she loved you so much. But she couldn’t take care of you … she had to leave.”

  “Why didn’t she come back?” she pleaded.

  He seemed so far away when he replied, “I don’t know….”

  “You have to know! How could she just leave her baby?”

  “I don’t know ….” Tears seeped from her father’s eyes. “I don’t know why she never came back to us ….” He took a haggard breath. “I don’t know ….”

  Leila sobbed at her father’s bedside. He drifted back off to sleep. When she tried to wake him, to tell him she was sorry—that she didn’t need to know why her mother had left her precious little girl, that she was grateful he had kept her and raised her the best he could, that she loved him for the father he tried to be, that nothing else mattered—but he never woke.

  Now, as she sat beside Artie, an extraordinary heaviness forced her eyelids closed and she drifted into dreams where surreal images of Artie morphed into Joe into her father. She woke to the sound of a slamming door.

  Buddy stood at the end of Artie’s bed and groaned. His posture went slack. Neither spoke as he moved to Leila’s side. He squeezed her shoulder, releasing another wave of her tears. After a silent minute, he left the room. Leila heard him call for an ambulance. Every time she closed her eyes, the past and present intertwined, transporting her back to her father’s bedroom. The sound of medics entering the apartment. Low voices and rolling casters. The stretcher bumping living room furniture on its way. Her stomach roiled.

  “Excuse me, miss,” a voice said. Buddy helped her up from the chair. As she moved away from the bed, her father’s tortured face stared back. Her chest constricted.

  “Buddy, I need to call Joe.”

  “Now don’t you worry, I already called Joe. His manager says he’ll get the message ASAP.”

  Even as her heart was breaking, it welled with hope of seeing Joe. Her feet began to move. “Buddy, I need to run.”

  “You go and have your run. I’ll close up.”

  She scribbled a note, tucked it in her apartment door in case Myles or Kyle came looking for her, and then headed south. She needed to feel the water.

  ~

  Artie died—I’m running. Myles tucked the note in his breast pocket.

  There would be a good reason why Leila had not shown up at school, breaking her near-perfect attendance record, but he had not anticipated this. What’s more, the implicit desperation of the note charged him with concern. He could not head home without knowing she was alright.

  After checking with Kyle and turning up nothing, Myles had only one other option. Ian Brigham. Resorting to his assistance galled Myles, but for Leila’s sake he stifled his pride and headed toward the canals of South Millville. When he pulled into the short driveway, he spotted a realtor’s placard in the front yard, with an attached Sale Pending sign. An interesting development. Myles approached the door, face drawn with anxiety, and rapped. In a few seconds, Brigham appeared in the open doorway.

  “I’m looking for Leila. Is she here?”

  “No. She’s not. Why would she be here?”

  “Artie, the old man who lives downstairs from her, died. She didn’t show up at school and she’s not at home. She left this.” Myles passed him the note.

  Ian rubbed his beardless chin. “Is her car in the driveway?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then she’s running. I’m sure she’s fine.”

  “Just because she’s running does not mea
n she’s fine,” Myles barked.

  “And this is not a cold, sleeting January afternoon.”

  Myles had to concede that Ian’s insights on Leila might rival his own. “Where might she go?”

  “I don’t know. Leila’s as likely to come here as anywhere.”

  Myles heaved a sigh. The phone rang in the background.

  “Why don’t you step in?” Brigham opened the door wide and then went to the phone on the kitchen wall, just down the hall beyond them. Myles stepped into the foyer. Boxes—some packed and some not yet full and sealed—lined the hallway. With the phone to his ear, Ian looked back at him. Myles moved toward the kitchen.

  “No, Kyle, she’s not here … I’ll let you know if I hear anything… Bye.”

  Myles’ hope devolved into greater worry as Ian hung up.

  “Listen, Myles, you can drive the streets of Millville, go home and wait for a call, camp out at her place, or stay here and have a beer with me.” Ian went to his refrigerator and pulled a Heineken. “Maybe she’ll show up or call.”

  If Myles went home and waited, what if she never called? What if he waited at her place and she never came—with no phone, even Brigham could not contact him. Perhaps he was overreacting and just needed to calm down. Perhaps he just needed a few minutes to catch his breath.

  Ian popped the cap from the green bottle and offered it.

  “Haven’t you anything more stout?” Myles said.

  “Nope.”

  Myles scowled and grabbed it. Ian pulled another and each took a long gulp.

  “Just sit down long enough to drink it.” Ian gestured to the small table at the back of the kitchen overlooking the canal. Myles sat as Ian leaned against the counter. The clock on the wall ticked. Five minutes until four, around the time that Myles would normally arrive home. They were nearly done with their beer when the phone rang again. Ian snatched it.

  “Hello … Leila ….” He glanced at Myles. “I know he did … Mr. Myles told me … he’s sitting right here. Let me put him on.” Ian handed off the phone to Myles.

  ~

  The slam of a car door roused Leila from light sleep. She glanced at her clock. One-fifty am. By the time she bounded downstairs, Joe was bent over the trunk of a Lincoln Town car and hoisting his luggage. She gasped with excitement as he turned toward her. Lanky arms dropped suitcases at his side.