by Lindy Zart
"Do you ever think about all the people you see on a daily basis?"
Monica and Janet glance back at us, smiling before facing forward again. Rivers' grip on my hand tightens. "Yeah. Right now, I'm thinking about the people ahead of us and I'm wondering what they're saying about us."
"I'm sure only great things."
He glances at me, the scowl disappearing as he takes in my grin. "Well, about me anyway."
"Look at that lady over there." I nod to a woman standing in a yard across the street. She is watching a little boy play catch with a large, fluffy brown dog. "What do you think her life is like? What do you think she is thinking? What's her story?"
"She's laughing," he murmurs. "She's happy. She's wondering how anything could be more amazing than this moment right now."
"I think...she is a stay-at-home mom. Maybe she is active in the community. She looks like a baker. I can see her making cakes, baking cookies. And she likes to decorate them too. She probably gets up in the morning with a smile on her face, knowing she gets to spend the day with her son."
"She takes her son in the stroller as she walks the dog."
I smile. "She loves the sun and muffins."
"She loves her husband."
I nod, wrapped up in our imaginary story. "He's an accountant. The youngest at the firm. He's smart and he's going places, but he loves his wife and son more than any job. He kisses her goodbye and he kisses her hello, thinking he is the luckiest man in the world."
Rivers stares at me, saying softly, "He flies planes. Because he wants to fly and she loves the stars. He flies planes so he can touch them for her, so he can be her personal Superman." The story has shifted, become a make-believe tale of Rivers and Delilah; a story of what could be, if that future day is ever to come.
I blink my eyes as tears form, whispering, "She paints every room in the house a different color of the rainbow. He doesn't like it, but he knows she loves it, so he really doesn't mind all that much. He brings cheesy movies, that he says are scary, home every Friday night and makes her watch them, and she does, because when he is happy, she is happy."
He smiles slowly, glancing at me as we cross the street. "He stocks up on peanut butter so there's never a chance she'll run out. He makes her try every sport, just once, and if she doesn't like playing them, he doesn't press her, but she has to at least try them."
"She picks out a random person in the crowd and they form a life around that person. She can tell he thinks it's silly, but he humors her anyway."
"He wakes up beside her every morning, and every morning he is hit with the enormity of how blessed he is. He is thankful for every day he has with her, and all the days in the world will never be enough."
Our steps slow as my house comes into view. My mom and Rivers' mom are already on the porch, quietly watching us, something like delight in each of their faces. He turns to me, in the middle of the road, and clutches my hands. The smile on his face is beatific, striking, and makes me want to weep.
"Do you know how you make me feel?"
"Slightly insane?" I tease.
"Yes," he answers seriously. "But in the best way. In fact, I feel like doing something really crazy right now."
A flutter of conflicting emotions sweeps through me. Rivers, being spontaneous—it's a little worrisome. "Please don't."
"I have to," he insists.
"You really don't," I reassure him.
Apparently, he does.
Grinning at me, Rivers spins me around, singing the opening verses of 'It's Time' by Imagine Dragons. We turn in a circle so fast and for so long, I get dizzy, laughter falling from my lips in a waterfall of joy. He releases me and I stumble to a stop as he steps back, directly into the path of traffic, if any were around, and slides back and forth across the pavement as he continues the song. I imagine the elderly folk in surrounding houses are peeking around their window curtains right about now.
He stops only to ask my mom, "Is this your car?" and when she says yes, he uses it as a prop, causing me to giggle when he slides over the hood and lands on his feet before me. Air catches in my lungs at that move. He looks at me, grinning so widely I want to grab his cheeks and kiss his smile. But my mom and Monica are watching. Then I think, So what?
And I do exactly that.
When I pull away and see tears in my mom's eyes and that Monica's eyes are suspiciously red, I mutter to Rivers, "I feel like we just exchanged wedding vows or something."
"If we hold hands for too long, they'll probably think we're expecting."
Nodding my agreement, I approach the house. "Come on, the lasagna isn't going to cook itself."
As the four of us sit around the mismatched furniture of our kitchen, I feel serenity with the ever-present, and the slowly growing touch of an inescapable void just beyond us. There is light here, but surrounding us is darkness. We laugh, but there is sorrow nearby. I feel it. It's getting closer. I am knitting the future together in broken pieces of yarn, tying together loose ends to make a blanket of security for the three people talking with me. I will keep them safe. I will protect them. I will give them each other when I can no longer give them me.
"I know it's probably going to embarrass the two of you, but—" Monica begins.
"But you're going to say it anyway," Rivers guesses.
She hands a breadstick to her son. "You're right. I am. And do you know why? Because it's amazing." She looks from me to Rivers. "Clearly the counseling and physical therapy—"
This time I interrupt. "Have been beyond beneficial. Right, Rivers?"
He frowns at me. "No. Not really. The whole world knows that isn't it, Delilah. It was you."
My face burns as three pairs of eyes focus on me. "It was unconscious, I swear."
"Why don't you want to take credit for a good thing?" my mom quietly asks.
"I don't like attention," I mumble.
Rivers' laughter is incredulous. "You do nothing but draw attention to yourself."
"It isn't like I set out to, or that that is why I act the way I do. I just...I want to live as much as I can. If people are around when I happen to get impulsive, I can't exactly tell them to go away. I can't be like, clear out the grocery store! I feel the impulse to dance."
"I would."
I throw a chunk of a breadstick at him.
"What is it with you and throwing things at me?" He pops the bread into his mouth and chews.
"Well, I, for one, am grateful, whether you meant to help Rivers or not. You have. Tremendously. He's so—I've never seen him more content." Monica pauses, clearing her throat. "Anyway, thank you." She gets up from the table and begins to clear it.
When my mom starts to wash the dishes with Monica beside her, Rivers leans over to whisper, "I miss you, so much it hurts."
"I'm right here."
"It isn't the same," he insists.
"I know."
"Come outside with me? If I can't sleep with you at night, I at least want to have you next to me in some way, for a little while."
Before I can even offer to help with the clean up, my mom is nodding me toward Rivers and the back door. I salute her and we head out. Clouds have taken over the sky—swirling, morphing masses of gray and white.
"I think it's going to storm." The wind picks up even as I am saying this, sweeping the tail of my shirt out and causing my skin to pebble. A dew has formed to the grass, strands of it tickling the soles of my bare feet.
"Then I guess we should hurry." He yanks me to him and seals our lips in a heated kiss. "I have dreamed of your eyes every night. Do you know, every time you look at me, I feel it all the way to the very center of me? And your scent—I lie on the pillow you did just so I can catch a hint of it. Lime and sugar." His mouth scorches my neck, his fingers biting into my waist. He wraps his arms around me and squeezes me to him, burrowing his face into the crook between my neck and shoulder. I feel the tremor in his body and stroke his back. "This is torture."
"I have the next two day
s off. They're yours if you want them."
"I want all of them." He sighs, moving back. "But I'll take what I can get."
"You could always come work at the flower shop with me. I'm sure your flower arrangements would be extraordinary."
"You're really not as funny as you think you are, you know that?"
"I'm funnier," I say, poking his stomach. A tiny light blinks above his shoulder and I grab his arms and whirl him around. "Look! It's a lightning bug." I bounce on the balls of my feet.
He looks over his shoulder at me. "You act like you've never seen one before."
"I love lightning bugs," I breathe. "I used to spend hours every summer catching and releasing them."
"Like a true fisherman of bugs."
I squint my eyes at him. "Come on—let's catch some." Without waiting for his answer, I skip forward, turning in a circle as I catch blips of glowing orbs in that magical time between partial dark and full. I spy one in the grass by my feet and reach a hand down, holding still as the bug lands on my fingers. "Go on, little buggy, go home before the storm comes." It flies away, lighting up as it goes, and I smile as I straighten.
His breath tickles the side of my neck as he says, "You are the sweetest version of quirky I have ever had the pleasure of seeing in motion."
I laugh softly. "Thank you. Glad you got to see me in action."
He wraps his arms around my midsection and rests his chin on my shoulder. "Don't ever change."
"I do what I want," I say, just to say it.
Rivers' hold tightens. "That's the exact thing I don't want to ever change about you."
I feel those words in my heart.
"Are you two ready for the movie?" Monica calls from the doorway. "We made popcorn!" Her enthusiasm over this detail is puzzling. I prefer potato chips.
I move away and look at him. "What movie?"
"No idea."
"It's a romantic comedy," she supplies and we both groan.
Rivers is into his supposedly scary movies, and I, for the most part, like science-fiction movies. Or rather, anything with superheroes in them—or something out of the ordinary, like thrillers that make you think. Traditional story lines are boring; romantic ones are nauseating, and sad movies just plain suck.
"Why can't it be 'X-Men'?" I grumble as we walk toward the house.
"Why can't it be 'The Grudge'?" he counters.
As we reach the door, I look at him and make the sound the ghost in the movie makes—like a bendable straw being straightened out.
His eyes go wide. "What the shit? I didn't know you had it in you."
"Your turn."
He thinks for a minute and then slashes his enclosed hands down at his sides just like Wolverine does and my heart melts. I pat his cheek. "You're a keeper."
IT'S STRANGE HOW SUDDEN IT happens. I am standing beside my mother, laughing as we prepare a salad, and then I am falling to my knees on the kitchen floor, the pain in my head relentless, so massive I think my brain will literally explode. I almost want it to, just to relieve the pressure. I clutch my forehead and squeeze, nausea filling me, and weightlessness descending upon me. I vaguely note my mom calling my name, but I can barely hear her and I can't see around the agony in my head. Lights pulsate behind my eyelids. Hands are on me, a voice is screaming at me, just before it all goes dark.
I wake up in a white room with a beeping monitor and tubes connected to me. Although there is fog around my brain, at least the pain is gone. But the relief is short-lived with me sitting in the middle of the truth, unable to hide anymore. I panic. The stark whiteness of the room is like a stage and I am the spotlight, trembling with all I have tried to deny. I feel naked, exposed. I can't be here. This can't be happening. Not yet. I refuse to let this happen. I need to leave. If I leave, it isn't really happening. This is not my destiny. I don't accept this. No.
A sob escapes me as I grab for the wires and just as I am about to rip them from my skin, a hand stays me. I look up, the shell keeping me together finally shattering as his stricken eyes find mine. My hand goes limp, falling to my lap, as my truth stares back at me from the eyes of the man I healed only to wound again. Tears are streaming down my face and I can't even care about that now.
My heart is breaking. My heart, my heart is Rivers, and it is breaking.
He doesn't say anything. What can he say? He just looks at me like I am already gone, like I already left him, and he is unable to accept it. He looks lost. Knowing I am causing him this pain hurts me more than I can deal with. I didn't want to hurt him. I don't want to hurt him, but I am. I am hurting him because I was careless, carefree, and thinking of now instead of farther ahead. I dared to hope. I dared to be selfish. I dared to want a piece of him when he will eventually have nothing of me.
And now look at us, sitting in a hospital room watching one another like we don't know who we are staring at.
It is amazing how steady my voice is as I tell him, “I'm fine.”
Rivers slowly closes his eyes. When he opens them, there is raging light in the endless black depths, lightning bolts of fury aimed right at me. “You're fine? That's what you have to say to me? You're fine? Well, I'm glad you're fine, because I sure as hell am not fine. So you can be fine while I am not...fine,” he grinds out.
“Where's my mom?” I avoid his eyes and his words with my question and the way I fervently search the room. The apprehension is growing—this swirling mass that is called reality is shoving its way into my caricature of a life. I think, if she is just here, this conversation will not happen. I feel sick, so sick. I feel like all of my emotions are building and building and I am going to be ill from them all. They are going to smother me and I will be helpless to stop them.
None of this will happen if my mom would just show up. We won't have to talk about this. This isn't happening. I don't want this to be happening. I am on repeat and I can't shut it off. It is an unbreakable circle of pain and heartache and I am the band keeping it whole. Why can't I keep pretending this isn't happening? I want to go back, even to yesterday, when Rivers was smiling at me, happy, and didn't know I am broken even more than he is.
Everything will be different now. He'll look at me differently. He'll look at me like people look at him. But I never looked at him like he was anything less than complete, and I cannot stand the thought that I will see pity in his eyes after today. I would rather not see him at all.
“She went to get coffee. She's been pacing the floor since we got here and she needed a different scene. My mom's with her.” In the next breath, all the anger is gone from his tone and is replaced with overwhelming grief. Despair, so deep his voice cracks under the pressure of it, shows through when he asks, “Why didn't you tell me something was wrong?”
I go still, wondering if he knows any of what is truly going on, or simply that something is wrong. What is doctor/patient confidentiality in a matter like this? I was brought in unconscious. They have my medical history and diagnosis on record here, but I am a legal adult. Did I ever specifically say I did not want anyone to know of my situation if something happened to me? I can't remember. Of course they would want to know what the doctors could tell them about my condition, and what it means for me. Would they tell them everything? Taking a deep breath, I fiddle with the tube sucking oxygen into my nostrils each time I inhale. I don't think I can continue the charade, either way.
And don't I owe him the truth? This once arrogant boy, who is maturing into a decent and good man, who gave me purpose when his life was full of despair, and who gave me something to believe in when I was flailing. He gave me a reason to keep going. This being who was never more unflawed than when he thought he was irreparable.
He only had to fracture to allow me in.
“It's odd, but I think maybe I was there for you, but I didn't know it right away. That day was the first day I knew something was wrong. I'd just been released. I was numb, just sitting there, trying to come to terms with it all,” I whisper. I swallow and glance at h
im. “And then you were brought in, and when I saw you, everything sort of clarified for me. I knew what I had to do. It was weird how sudden it was. One minute I was hopeless and the next I found hope again.”
“What are you talking about?” Slow realization crawls over him like the icy waters of a cold, tumultuous sea of finality. His expression clears and just as quickly is filled with shadows once more.
“Wait a minute.” He stares at me, his eyes trailing over my features like he is reminding himself that he knows me, that he has seen my face before, maybe when he wasn't fully aware of it. And he had. “You were there that day—the day of my accident. I remember. You were sitting in a chair in the emergency room when they wheeled me in. You weren't there for me. You couldn't have been. Why were you there?”
I wonder if this is the time for my confession. I've been keeping it inside, refusing to face the truth, denying what is unmistakable even to myself because I don't want it to be real. But it is real and Rivers bringing up the day my world and his world collided and touched in more ways than the obvious, is looking at me with eyes full of unease. He has the right to know, doesn't he?
I turn away from the boy that changed so much because of me; the boy that changed me. I look at a painting of the calm waters of the Mississippi River across the room. The waves appear so still, and the picture is so deceptive. Just like me. Just like every breath I am given. What ones sees of me is not what truly is.
I lean forward to touch his ravaged cheek, the bumps and dips of it a work of art to me. I smile, but I know sadness seeps into it. “I didn't plan on this.”
He grabs my hand and holds it against his face, his brows lowered. “Didn't plan on what?”
I put my finger to his lips. He kisses it and a catch forms in my chest. “Just listen. This isn't easy for me to say. I need to take my time with it.”
