Tempus

by Tyra Lynn

  “Makeup bag, on the shelf.” I darted my eyes in the general direction and back.

  He carefully dug through my bag until he found them, on the bottom, no doubt. He brought them to the sink, washed them with soapy hot water, and then poured peroxide over them. “Needle?” He asked.

  “You might not need a needle.” I said, hoping.

  “Perhaps not, but I should have one clean if we do.”

  “Go out this door and take a right, next door down. Top shelf of the roll-top, there’s a clear plastic sewing kit.”

  “Be right back.”

  While he was gone, I examined my hands. They didn’t look as bad as I first thought they would, now that they were clean. I could see several splinters deeply embedded in the skin and groaned. Those would take the needle. Stupid splinters!

  He returned through the door triumphantly holding up a shiny, pointed needle. I hated needles. I watched him hold it under hot water, then pour alcohol over it. “Washcloths are over there in that cabinet, top shelf.” I said.

  He pulled one out of the cabinet. “Where’s the best light?” He asked.

  “Back in my library, I guess. The lamp, maybe, unless you want sunlight.”

  “The lamp might work better.”

  I trudged out the door and down the hall to my library, Gabriel followed. The lamp was sitting on my desk, next to the computer. I started to sit down and he grabbed the chair and held it. “I think I can sit in my own chair.” I said.

  “You’ll have to prove that to me later. You’ve fallen on me twice, now. At least this last time wasn’t as bad as it could have been. It ended up the less dangerous way to fall through a third story window.”

  “Thanks.” I said, grudgingly.

  “My pleasure. There’s nothing I prefer to rescuing damsels in distress.”

  I looked directly into his eyes for the first time since the entire ordeal began. My breath caught in my throat. They were so blue, and they were sparkling with humor. Or maybe it was just lamplight, since he had switched it on.

  “I wasn’t in distress.” I claimed, but even I knew better.

  “No? So you were simply gaining my attention with a well planned non-dangerous charade, then?”

  “Of course.” I was an idiot.

  “Next time, for your own safety and well-being—and mine as well—just call out ‘Gabriel, oh Gabriel’ and I shall come running. Or just make your presence known, that would be enough to gain my attention.”

  “Are you making fun of me?” I asked, narrowing my eyes.

  “Not at all.” He caught my eye and grinned, but it was friendly. “Now hold out your hands.”

  He carefully examined my fingers and palms, gently plucking out the easiest ones first and dropping them on the desk in a pile. He then moved on to the more difficult ones, only using the needle to lift enough the tweezers had something to grab. There was the occasional exchange of ‘Ouch’ and ‘I’m sorry.’ It was the only conversation.

  While he worked, I examined him. He was positioned between the light and me, and as he would concentrate on a splinter, I kept noticing the light shine through his eyes from the other side. It made them appear to glow.

  My hands were tingly and on fire. I wasn’t sure if it was because of the splinters, though, because it seemed more concentrated where his skin touched mine. I imagined I could feel his fingerprints, every tiny ridge.

  With the light glowing behind him, he had an ethereal appearance. Archangel. I laughed, but not out loud. His hair fell over his forehead as he bent in concentration. My eyes traced the outline of his profile, between the eyes, down the ridge of his nose, over his lips, which were slightly open. My eyes lingered there a moment.

  “Jessie?”

  Ohmigod. He caught me staring at his lips. I should have just plunged out the window.

  “Yeah.” The word sounded squeaky.

  “I’ve got them all but a few deeply embedded ones. These will hurt, and I’ll have to dig with the needle.” His eyes looked so big, and apologetic.

  “Go for it, they have to come out, and I don’t think I can do it.” They couldn’t stay in there all day. I couldn’t stand it. Besides, I wouldn’t want to have to explain to Dad.

  “Very well, my apologies beforehand.”

  I closed my eyes then; I thought it would help me not cry out like a baby. The first stab caused me to jump, not because it hurt, but because I didn’t see it coming. I opened my eyes and watched, gritting my teeth.

  It wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be. He managed to find a way to use the needle and open the skin just enough the needle could find the end. There were only five or six of them, but they looked like logs compared to the others.

  One by one, they came sliding out, joining the pile on the desk. The stack might have been impressive if they were from someone else’s hands. I was glaring at them.

  “We could build something out of them.” Gabriel suggested.

  “What?” I sputtered, looking up at him.

  “Like you do with matchsticks. We could build something.” His eyes were twinkling, but I wasn’t entirely sure he was joking.

  “No, that’s all right. I’ll pass.” I looked at him as if he were little nuts.

  “Very well. Shame to waste such a nice pile of wood.” He said, sweeping them off the desk into his hand.

  I laughed then. “You’re insane.”

  His head snapped up and the air crackled. I felt it. Those words again. There was something about those words, and he knew it too.

  CHAPTER XIX

  But what minutes! Count them by sensation, and not by calendars,

  and each moment is a day.

  —Benjamin Disraeli

  He looked intently into my eyes, searching for something. A little hint of sadness crossed his face, and it reminded me of my dad, of the looks I sometimes saw. That reminded me; Gabriel had lost his mother, like me. I felt a sudden surge of empathy.

  “Thank you for helping me.” I said softly.

  “It was nothing. The removal of a few splinters is hardly an act of heroics.” He shrugged. He had turned around and was wiping the splinters off his hand into the trash can.

  “No, well, for that too. But I meant rushing up here to save me. I would have fallen out the window, I couldn’t have held on.”

  “If not for me, you wouldn’t have been in that situation in the first place.” He said.

  Had I said something? I remember thinking it, when I was aggravated, but I didn’t—I hadn’t blamed him. I wouldn’t have, would I?

  “It wasn’t your fault. I was just sitting in my window and slipped.” I wasn’t entirely convincing, but mostly.

  “Of course. Foolish of me to say such a thing.” He had his back to me, breathing deeply. He seemed troubled.

  “I got your flowers.” I said. I felt an urge to make him feel better. There was an aura of sadness around him, and I wanted to make it go away. “That was very thoughtful.”

  “It was my pleasure.” He replied, turning around to face me. “You should use the peroxide on your hands again. Keep them clean. They’ll likely be sore for a few days.”

  I turned my eyes away. Great. If I were riding four-wheelers tomorrow, I would have to grip those handlebar thingies. I opened and closed my hands a few times. They hurt, but it was tolerable.

  “This is a beautiful box.”

  I looked up and he was examining the carved box that Steve had made for my birthday. “It was a gift. Steve made it for me years ago.”

  “Ah, your boyfriend.” He said, running his hand over the intricate carving details. “May I?”

  “He’s not my boyfriend.” I said. “You can look if you want.”

  He picked up the box carefully, turning it in his hands. “May I open it? It’s beautifully done. He has talent.”

  “Sure, just be careful, I have some things inside.” Why not? “That’s how Steve got his job at the shop, sort of. Well, that’s why he stayed. He does all the repa
irs and restorations.”

  He opened the top and ran a finger along the red velvet lining. He examined the contents. “Is that yours?” He asked.

  “It’s my moms.” I answered.

  “It’s the same color as yours, except you have some streaks of light brown and gold.” He commented.

  “I colored mine.” I stood and crossed to where he was standing.

  I looked down into the box, at the lock of brown hair tied with a ribbon. I stroked it lightly, as if it could turn to dust under my finger. My eyes filled with tears and I blinked them away.

  “I lost my mother, too.” He said quietly, and appeared to blink away tears of his own.

  He closed the box and set it carefully back where he had found it. He turned with a distant look in his eyes, and then a wistful smile crossed his face.

  “You would have liked my mother, she was beautiful in every way. God never made a more compassionate and loving soul.”

  “You would have liked my mother, too.” I replied. “ Her name was Eliana—Ana for short. You couldn’t be in the same room with her and not be happy. I miss her.”

  He sighed loudly. “I miss my mother, too.”

  “They paved paradise to put up a parking lot.”

  “Pardon me?” He wrinkled his brow.

  “Joni Mitchell. Big Yellow Taxi. My mom loved that song. ‘Don’t it always seem to go you don’t know what you’ve got ‘til it’s gone. They paved paradise to put up a parking lot.”

  “I don’t think I know that song.” He seemed surprised, as if he should have known it.

  “I have the record.” I opened the side of my Victrola and pulled out one of the holders, finding the record easily. I changed the needle, turned the crank to wind it, put the record on, released the stop, and carefully placed the needle on the groove.

  “Let me turn up the volume.” I joked, opening the two doors and closing the lid.

  The fast guitar rhythm started, and then Joni’s high-pitched voice joined in. Gabriel listened intently, smiling at some of the words. “You’ve never heard this song?” I asked. He shook his head.

  When it ended he said, “I liked it.”

  “Want to hear another one? It’s called ‘Both sides now.’ Ever heard of that one?” He shook his head. “Prepare to be schooled.” I hadn’t listened to my records in a while. I dug out another and put it on.

  The music began, and I mouthed the words along with the song. At some point, I had begun singing aloud, but didn’t realize until the song was near the end. “It’s life’s illusions I recall, I really don’t know life at all.”

  “I feel that way sometimes.” He said from behind me.

  “Which way?” I asked.

  “As though I never knew the things I presumed I knew.” He appeared to be thinking of something specific, but he didn’t offer, so I didn’t ask.

  “Welcome to the club. I think everyone feels that way sometimes.” I put the records away and closed up the Victrola.

  “You feel that way?” He asked.

  “Almost every day.” I looked down at my hands, covered in tiny red holes. I had forgotten about them, for just a little while.

  The silence felt suddenly awkward, as if we both were waiting for the other to say something. He was a few feet away from me, and seemed to be struggling with some thought. Several emotions crossed his face, flickered in his eyes, but it was too quick for me to know what.

  “I should go.” He said abruptly, but looked at the door like he didn’t want to.

  “Would you like a glass of lemonade?”

  “Yes!” His eyes brightened a little.

  I got a feeling of dread thinking about going down stairs. He hadn’t said anything, but you couldn’t miss the stuff everywhere. He must have been so intent on getting up here that it simply didn’t register. It would now.

  “Follow me. Keep your arms and legs inside the ride at all times.” I laughed uncomfortably.

  He looked confused, but politely said “Yes, Ma’am.”

  He followed me down the stairs, and I could feel his eyes on the back of my head. I hoped I didn’t have a flaky scalp—that would be gross. I couldn’t help but laugh a little. I was descending into the depths of hell, worried about a flaky scalp.

  “What was amusing?” He asked from behind.

  “My crazy brain.”

  “Oh.” He had no idea what I meant, and that was funny too. My shoulders shook silently, holding the laugh in.

  He followed me all the way to the kitchen without any other words. Walking through the door, I let out a whoosh of air. “I call that running the gauntlet.” I said as I crossed to the cabinet with the glasses.

  I took out two tall ones and sat them on the table. I opened the fridge, took out the pitcher, and poured the glasses two-thirds full. I sat the pitcher in the center of the table, and started to pull out a chair. Gabriel stepped quickly over, grabbing it first. I gave him a cross look.

  “My apologies, but that is the way my father raised me. I can’t help it.”

  I sat in the offered chair. I took a sip of my lemonade, watching him over the rim of the glass as he sat across from me.

  “Aren’t you going to ask?” I said after we had sat in silence for a while,

  “Ask what?”

  “Why my house looks this way.” I said flatly.

  “I had no intention of asking. I assumed you would tell me, if you wanted me to know.” There was no sign of dishonesty in his eyes.

  “Hmm.” I took another sip of lemonade. “My father obviously has a problem.” I glanced through the door to the next room. “It started after my mom died. Well, that’s not entirely true, but it’s mostly true.”

  I looked in my glass at the yellow liquid, swished it around a moment before continuing. “My dad keeps everything. My mom was always the one to go through and make decisions about what stays and goes, what to buy, what to bring home. He used to be afraid he would overlook something valuable, or historically significant, or accidentally throw away something important. He trusted Mom to know, though.”

  I wasn’t explaining this well. I had never tried to explain it to anyone before. I shrugged my shoulders. “Mom died, now Dad keeps everything. I have no other explanation. He won’t let me get rid of anything. Wonder what that means.”

  “It has nothing to do with trusting you, I’m sure.” He commented.

  “I used to wonder that, but he’ll let me do it at the store. It’s hard even there, but he tries not to let me see.” He was getting better about it, too. I think.

  “If you don’t mind me asking, what happened to your mom?”

  “Car accident. It was really a truck, one of those big u-hauls. I was twelve and it was the last week before Christmas break. There was some huge Estate auction up north and she talked my dad into letting her go instead of him, because of the afore mentioned reasons. Dad stayed here with me.”

  “How did it happen, icy roads?” He asked.

  “That was the cause, but it wasn’t my mom’s fault. I didn’t know what happened until I saw it on the news. Long story.” I wasn’t sure if I wanted to tell it, but he waited to see if I would.

  “Umm. The night it happened, I was here with my dad. My mom called on her cell phone from the road—you know what? I just now realized why my dad never got me a cell phone before, not that I drive—anyway, what was I saying? Oh yeah, my mom called and the roads were getting icy. It was after dark. She told him she was going to stop at the next town and get a room. She was supposed to call when she got there, but she never called.”

  He was watching me thoughtfully, and nodded in understanding.

  “My dad didn’t worry for a little while. He let me stay up late, and we waited for a long time. I do remember him calling several places, though, and asking if my mom was there. He kept getting voicemail when he tried her phone. I know he was starting to get panicky after a few hours.”

  “He went next door and woke up the Watsons, and they came over
here to stay with me. He was afraid she broke down on the side of the road, her phone died, and she was freezing to death. So, they came over here and my dad went looking for her. I fell asleep on the sofa.”

  I sipped my lemonade. I hadn’t thought about that night in a long time. He knew that wasn’t the end of the story, so he waited patiently until I was ready to continue. That almost made it harder.

  “The next morning I smelled pancakes. I jumped up and ran in here to the kitchen. I thought it was my mom, but it was Mrs. Watson—she was the one playing the piano next door—and she was at the stove, cooking and crying. A few minutes later, my Aunt Louise came in the front door, and she was crying. Then my dad came in and I saw his face.” My voice cracked, and Gabriel reached across the table and took my hand.

  For some reason, it was extremely comforting. I closed my eyes, and felt like I was getting strength, straight from the tips of his fingers. It was the strangest sensation—it almost made me forget what I was talking about. Almost.

  I took a deep, ragged breath, and opened my eyes. I didn’t let go of his hand, though. I needed to hold it. “I didn’t even ask what had happened—I already knew. But some little part of me thought, if nobody said it, it couldn’t be true. My dad tried to talk to me, but I ran away to my room. It was on the second floor then, not the third. The third floor was Mom’s ‘sanctuary.’ That’s what she called it.” I smiled sadly. “Now it’s my sanctuary.”

  “Anyway, my dad sent my Aunt to talk to me, but I wouldn’t listen to her either. I buried my head under a pillow and prayed that God would take me, too, but he just left me there in my bed, all alone.” Gabriel squeezed my hand.

  “The day of the funeral, I wanted to see Mom. I had to know if it was really her. I kept expecting her to come home, even though I knew she wouldn’t, she couldn’t. They told me I couldn’t see her—the accident was bad—so I asked Dad for a lock of her hair.”

  “The one in the box?” He asked.

  “Yes. Dad couldn’t do it, though. He had the funeral director do it. I just wanted something that belonged to my mom, that had been a part of her, you know?”

  “I do.” He whispered.