Standing by the river, I sang broken bits of stone and cables that untwisted as soon as they were made. My Voice was only strong when it was entwined with hers.
I poured over satellite imagery and found traces of her in a sweatshop, a brothel, another prison. Pretty things that could not hide the ugliness of their intent.
Did she want to build such things? Had she been building them all along, even when the news showed the statues and museums? Did they force her?
I hated her.
I hated that I still loved her.
Strangers with long hair and laughing eyes filled my bed. I drank wine and vodka. Smoked cigarettes. Ate chips with vinegar. Turned on the music and sang with my regular voice until it was hoarse. Screamed until I couldn’t speak. Exposed myself to anyone with a cough or a labored breath. Spent weeks with inflamed tonsils and a fever.
I visited all the places she’d loved to go, hoping for a glimpse of her face, yet dreading the same. No matter how hard I tried, I could not forget the scent of her hair, the way her body felt next to mine, the way her lips always tasted of honey.
§
Our third bridge was narrow with no railings, just a shining sheet of marble that spanned the river. We sang our initials into the stone, stood at its apex, and made a wish on a shooting star.
§
I saw her in the city square the day of the spring festival, half-hidden by the crowd. She was standing with her arms crossed, staring at the buildings built by others a long time ago. I saw a hard glint in her eyes and a strange twist on her mouth. A ghost of someone I once knew.
With a heart full of broken hope, I called out her name. Her head turned in my direction, our gazes caught and held for one quick moment, then she vanished into the crowd.
I ran to the space where she’d been and thought I saw her again, but when I called her name the second time, she didn’t turn around.
Maybe she hadn’t seen me.
I almost believed it.
§
When I saw a palace built in a country known for its subjugation of women, I unplugged my television. A light rain was falling as I walked to the river with my hands clenched into fists. How could she? Why would she?
I recalled the distant, dismissive look in her eyes. That wasn’t my Lucia. She wasn’t hard. She didn’t hurt.
But maybe I’d only seen what I wanted to. Maybe I always had.
Our bridges stood like silent soldiers. I took a deep breath and sang discordance. Destruction. The night air filled with the high-pitched screech of metal on metal, the twang of sprung cables, and heavy thuds. Steel curled away in ribbons from the framework. The cables tied and twisted into complicated knots. The sheet of marble crumbled into pebbles to line the river bottom.
I left the first bridge alone. It didn’t need my Voice. Time would take its own toll. My tears tasted of honey, of loss, yet buried deep within, a hint of steel and stone. Of strength. And when my sorrow dried to salt upon my cheeks, I walked away and left behind all the pieces I’d unmade.
§
I slept with a records man in the government office in exchange for information. The stubble on his cheeks left red marks on my breasts, and afterward, I stood in the shower until the water turned to ice, trying to erase the feel of his weight from my body.
I plugged my television back in and watched countless hours of plastic-faced newscasters. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the look on Lucia’s face. Felt the empty space in the bed. Felt my hands become fists and my chest tighten.
I packed my suitcase.
§
No grand ceremonies had been held to celebrate the camps Lucia built high in the mountains in a country with a sordid history. I read documents that stated the camps were to help with prison overcrowding, but I didn’t believe them. New monsters often wore old monsters’ faces.
They were no guards, no prisoners. Yet. I touched my hands to the outside wall and felt Lucia’s song buried deep within. Why employ Lucia, why call for her talent, her beauty? Did they need it built quickly, or did they want the discretion? I took a deep breath and sang my destruction. I kept my Voice low, but my notes were steady and sure. They rose and fell and crept inside, hiding within hers.
If the government found out what I could do, I would be quietly removed or perhaps put into service destroying on command, like a trained puppy.
Would I become a story? Once upon a time, there was a woman who sang of hurt and broken things. Who tried to fix her heart by shattering the one who tore it to pieces. It didn’t seem like the sort of story that came with a happy ending.
I walked away before the stone collapsed, but I heard its echo. I swallowed my guilt. I’d have more than enough before it was over.
§
The news said nothing. What she built, I destroyed. Out of love? Out of anger? For justice? Did it matter? I watched a thousand stones crumble, a hundred walls collapse. I waited for someone to discover what I’d done. I waited for someone to discover what I was.
It was too easy. No one ever noticed the lone figure slipping in and out of the shadows. Surely if what I’d done was wrong, someone would have.
At night, alone in strange beds in one hotel after another, I closed my eyes. Saw the look in her face. Would she smile now? Would she hate me?
Would the hurt fade away?
§
And then I was done.
V. SUSPENSION
On a warm day in April, I stepped outside to check the mail, and Lucia was sitting on the porch with a wine bottle in hand, no scarf around her neck. My lips parted, but only silence emerged.
“They terminated my contract,” she said, her voice husky. “Vocal instability.”
I kept my face still. “I’m sorry.”
Her face no longer wore a stranger’s expression, but there were shadows beneath her eyes and hollows under her cheekbones.
She lifted the bottle of wine. “Do you have any plans for dinner?”
Her voice wavered. I wanted to tell her no. I wanted to tell her too much time had passed and I had too many secrets, but instead, I wrapped my arms around her. I’d destroyed enough.
We talked about life. We didn’t talk about bridges or Voice or building. We drank the wine and laughed and pretended the laughter wasn’t strained. I searched her eyes for a sign that I’d saved her. Instead, I saw my own guilt looking back.
Later, when the sun set, I asked if she wanted to stay. She put her arms around me, but like old spoons in a drawer, our shine was tarnished, our hollows empty.
She didn’t look back when she left. I wanted to call out, to tell her the truth, to beg her forgiveness, but my mouth would not make the words. I watched her disappear into the darkness until tears turned the world to a blur.
We should have ended on a different note, a fading trill in a minor chord, perhaps. Something more than silence. But for all we built and destroyed, neither one of us had the voice for goodbye.
Shall I Whisper to You
of Moonlight, of Sorrow,
of Pieces of Us?
Inside each grief is a lonely ghost of silence, and inside each silence are the words we didn’t say.
§
I find the first photograph face down on the mat outside the front door. In a rush to get to the office, I tuck it in the pocket of my trousers, thinking it a note from a neighbor. An invitation to dinner maybe.
I pull my car onto the highway, into a mess of brake lights and angry horns, and shake my head. Morning traffic is always the same. Not sure how anyone could expect otherwise.
When I reach for my cigarettes, I pull out the photo instead—you, with a lock of your hair curling over one cheek, the trace of a smile on your lips, and your eyes twin pools of dark, a touch of whimsy hidden in their depths. Beautiful. Perfect. A spray of roses peeks over your shoulder, the blooms a pale shade of ivory. Far in the distance, a faint strain of music, your favorite song, echoes away.
The surface of the photo is slick beneath my
fingertips, and when I lift it to my nose I catch a hint of perfume. Sweet and delicate, but with an undertone of some exotic spice. I will never forget that smell.
I close my eyes tight against the tears. Yes, tears, even after all this time. I knew you’d find me. I’ve always known.
§
Please let me go. Please.
Never.
§
In the middle of the night I wake to the smell of flowers. I move from room to room with a dry mouth and a heart racing madness, turn on all the lights, and check the windows and doors. Locked or unlocked, it doesn’t matter. If you want to come back, they won’t stop you. Nothing will. The photographs are proof of that. Still, the locks are a routine that makes me feel as if I’m doing something other than waiting.
I peer through the glass to the backyard where moonlight is skittering across the grass. The tree branches sway gently back and forth like a couple lost in the rhythm of a dance. I whisper your name, my voice breaking, and only house noise answers. I rake my fingers through my hair. I don’t know if I can go through this again, but I also know I have no choice.
I never did.
§
The next photo appears face up on the coffee table in the living room. Same smile, but with your hair pulled back in a ponytail. A thin chain of silver circles your neck; the fingertips of your right hand are barely touching the small medallion hanging below the hollow at the base of your throat. A trace of dark shadows the skin beneath your eyes.
Baby, those shadows say.
Yes, I still remember the sound of your voice.
I fumble a cigarette free from the pack; it takes three tries before I can hold my lighter still enough to guide the flame where it needs to go.
When my job transferred me from one coast to another, I thought the distance would be too great for you. Even when I still lived in the old house, it had been over a year since you left the last photo. I’d thought you were gone.
I know it won’t be any different this time, no matter how much I want otherwise. This hope is a strange thing, a wish wrapped in barbed wire. Or maybe delusion.
§
The smell of flowers again in the middle of the night. I stay in bed, the sheet fisted in my hands. Heart full of chaos; head full of images.
§
My coworker catches me at the end of the day when I’m slipping into my coat. “Hey, a bunch of us are going to happy hour. Want to come?”
“No, maybe next time.”
He raises his eyebrows and shakes his head. “That’s what you said the last time.”
“Sorry, I already have plans.”
“You said that, too.”
I shrug one shoulder, step away before he can say anything else.
§
I sit with the television on mute, listening to the silence. A book sits unread on the sofa beside me; a glass of iced tea long gone warm rests on the table. Condensation beads around the base of the glass like tears.
The minutes tick by. The hours pass. I listen to nothing. I wait.
§
Another photograph. On the bottom step of the staircase this time. You, captured on a blue and white striped blanket, shielding your eyes from the sun. Even in the frozen bright, the shadows under your eyes are visible, and your skin is too pale. Next to you on the blanket is a crumpled napkin, a plastic cup on its side, a bit of cellophane wrap holding a rainbow’s arc on its surface, a few grains of sand. I hear the rush of a wave as it touches the shore, then another as it recedes. The salt tang of the ocean hovers in the air, but only for an instant.
§
I smell flowers in the night. Maybe it’s my imagination, but the scent is growing stronger. A promise or recrimination?
§
The landing at the top of the stairs. The next photo. Your face half in shadow, half in light. The almost-smile is still there in spite of the pallor of your skin, the hollows beneath your cheekbones, the scarf wrapped round your head. I hear the last breath of a laugh. Smell honeysuckle drifting on a cool breeze.
Always the same photographs in the same order. I don’t know how, but the how doesn’t matter. And I already know the why.
(Please let me go.
Never.)
It will be the last photo, just like the last time. I know it will, but I check the locks anyway. Everything is as it should be. It’s too cold to leave the windows open or I would.
§
A throat clears. I look up to see my boss standing in my office, a small frown on his face. “Are you okay?”
“Yes,” I say. “Why?”
“You look a little tired, that’s all.”
“Just a bout of insomnia,” I say. The lie slips easily from my tongue.
“You have my sympathies. My wife’s had that for years. Try a glass of wine before bed. That helps her.”
“Will do.”
He lingers for a few moments longer, and for one quick instant, I think of telling him everything. I tried that once with your sister; she told me I should talk to a doctor, and then she stopped answering my calls.
§
I unlock the windows, as always, but my hand remains on the lever. I am so tired of waiting. I’m wearing shadows under my eyes now, and I have a knot in my chest that won’t go away. Maybe I could learn to forget about you. To move on. Throw away the photographs, let time fade the memories. Lock the doors and the windows instead of unlocking them. Go out with my coworkers. And maybe you’ll stop.
I flip the lock, sigh, and turn it back. No, I want you to come back. It’s what I’ve always wanted. Maybe that small sliver of doubt is the reason you haven’t yet.
§
I find a photo in the hallway just outside the bedroom door and sit with my back against the wall. I’ve never seen this photo before; you’ve never made it this close.
The smile is no longer a smile, but a grimace. The shadows beneath your eyes are now bruises of dark. I taste the bright sting of antiseptic. Hear the ticking of a clock winding down and down and down.
“Please, baby, please,” I whisper, my voice hollow.
I take that tiny trace of doubt and shove it away. Hold the photo to my chest. This time will be different. I know it will.
§
I toss and turn for hours, listening to the quiet. The distance between the hallway and the bed seems so small, yet miles, worlds, apart as well.
Please, baby. Please.
The last words you said to me.
§
The next door neighbor is outside watering her plants when I get home. She waves. Smiles. I return the gesture, but not the expression. When she starts to head in my direction, I hightail it into the house. Rude, I know, but she caught me when I first moved here and kept me outside for an hour, her voice flitting from topic to topic like a bee on a mission for nectar. She doesn’t pick up on any of the signs that I want to be left alone, or maybe she does and just chooses to ignore them. The way she ignores the ring on my finger.
§
Another photo, left on the foot of our bed. It shows only clasped hands. Matching silver bands. Fingers entwined. One hand is hale and hearty; the other frail, the veins standing out like mounds in a field of fresh graves. I feel the paper skin beneath my palm. I hear a whisper of words, promising lies, promising everything. I taste a kiss laced with despair and loss.
I can’t stop the tears. I can’t stop my hands from shaking. But I run to the florist and buy three dozen red roses, long-stemmed with thorns, the way you like them. On the way back, I brave the mall and buy a fresh bottle of your favorite perfume.
§
One day becomes two. One week turns three. No trace of flowers in the air. No new photos. I’m still alone with empty arms and a knot in my chest. I smoke cigarette after cigarette. Pace footprint divots in the carpet. Choke back tears as the hope leaks out, a little more with each passing day.
My boss was wrong about the wine. It doesn’t help at all. Nothing does.
§
When I close my eyes, I recall every plane and curve of your face, before illness turned you pale and hollow, but I wonder, if not for the photographs, would I? Would time have turned my heart to scar instead of open wound?
I shove the box back under the bed, my mouth downturned. I should’ve known better. You’ve tried nine times in five years, and all the want in the world can’t bring you back.
§
The next time my coworkers ask me to go to happy hour, I say yes. I say yes the second and third time, too. By the fifth time, I don’t have to force a laugh at a joke or fake a smile when someone catches my eye. I feel a loosening in my chest, an ease in my breath.
I take the box of photographs and put them on the top shelf of my closet. I make sure all the doors and windows are locked before I go to bed. And, finally, I take off the silver ring. My eyes burn with tears, but I blink them away before they fall.
§
“Please let me go,” you whispered through cracked lips. “Please.”
“Never,” I said, arranging the scratchy hospital blanket around your shoulders.
Your bare scalp was hidden under a yellow scarf, but nothing could hide the matchstick legs, the grey tinge of your skin, or the pain in your eyes that morphine couldn’t touch. No amount of perfume could mask the shroud of illness and breaking hearts.
I held your hand and told you for the thousandth time about that night, our first date, after I dropped you off. How I turned and saw you standing with your hair full of moonlight and your lips full of smile. How I knew I would spend the rest of my forever with you.
Sing Me Your Scars (Apex Voices Book 3) Page 13
