by Anne Heltzel
When I am left alone, I think too much. So I sketch, because the effort it takes to concentrate on the page empties my brain. I have calluses on my index finger and that third finger, the middle one next to it. The one on the middle finger is hideously ugly and raised, a scaly bump. Some other marks on my right hand complement the calluses: angry red scars near my palm, stretching up to my wrist. Scars from incidents I don’t remember. Together they form a red-and-pink mottled landscape. These, however, are my only physical flaws. I have examined all the rest of me carefully enough to know that I am beautiful. In my opinion, Sam is as shockingly handsome as I am beautiful. Together, we must be blinding. That is probably another reason we go out mostly at night.
I am out of paper. Sam often brings me parcels of paper and fresh pencils, but he complains when I need more. I wonder if perhaps he has stowed more in his desk in order to make me think we are out and I must conserve. I wonder if it is a trick. I go to his desk. It is a rich, dark wood, possibly mahogany. It has an intricately carved pattern but only one drawer. I give the drawer a tug. It does not budge. I see a small brass lock blocking my way to my paper. I give another tug; the lock holds fast. I see a sharp object, a golden letter opener on the table and wedge it into the small space between the drawer and desk. It is encrusted with jewels. I use it like a lever and the drawer pops open.
There is only one thing inside, and it is not the loose paper I wanted to find. It’s a small notepad instead, the same size and shape as a journal. I wonder if it is a gift Sam wants to surprise me with. I take it out. Now that I’ve found it anyway, I think it may not make a difference if I peek more. I take a closer look. I see right away that it can’t be a new gift, because it’s a little worn. I open it and the pages are drawn all over. I look at it again. There’s something odd about it, as if I’ve seen it before.
Now my heart freezes into stiff stone, because I know.
The sketches covering the pages are mine.
The tentative lines, the detailed scenes, they’re all mine.
I don’t remember it.
It is something from Before.
Sam has been hiding from me this thing from Before.
My whole body turns cold. My fingers shake.
I take deep, long breaths for several minutes until I can breathe normally again. I close my eyes and wait for my body to stop trembling. I feel the compulsion to do something, but when I search my brain, I am at a loss for what action to take. Instead, I sit on the corner of our bed with the small journal clutched in my hand, waiting for him to come home. While I wait, I force myself to leaf through its thin pages, even as my head begins to pound. My panic does not subside, though what I find is innocent enough. Every page is filled; there are beach scenes, a few pages with characters that look like Sam and me. There are pages filled with fire, others brightened by glittering jewels. I see symbols of power — a crown and a scepter — on one page. And on another, a neglected garden, haunting and desolate. I don’t see much joy on these pages, or purity, but there is hope in almost every scene. On one page, there is a river of tears rushing over drowning bodies, but one tiny figure in the corner emerges from the river unscathed.
I close my eyes and bring the little book to my face, breathing in its scent. I want so much for this artifact to bring me answers. It’s unfair that I have nothing to make me whole, no past to form me into someone distinct. Maybe this sketch pad will give me clues. Maybe I will put myself back together little by little, starting now. I study each drawing carefully, scanning its details for some hidden message, something to conjure feelings or a memory. But I am still blank, other than what I imagine from the context: just some pretty work left over from a long, empty afternoon. Just some sketches I did to pass the time, like all the rest I do each day, nothing more. I can’t help it; I begin to cry. I can’t understand why Sam would keep this from me. What could it possibly mean to him? But to me it is a relic, the only remaining clue to who I once was. It was cruel for him to take that from me. It’s been an hour, and he’s still not home. It’s enough time for my anger to boil up violently. I’ve never felt this anger toward Sam. I didn’t know I was capable of feeling it.
I am sitting in the same place when Sam walks in. His look of happiness at seeing me changes into a quick flash of confusion and then something close to shock when he notices the object in my hand. For a moment I feel a heady sense of power. It is nice to catch him off guard, to be the one calling the shots. But then he switches on me.
I see you found it, he says offhandedly, taking off his coat and flopping down in an armchair. Wish you wouldn’t have gone through my things without asking me, though.
He’s whipped out a book and has already begun turning its pages, as if this thing that’s tortured me for an hour is a nonissue. I jump off the bed and walk right over to the chair and get in his face.
I was looking for paper, I seethe. And you had no right to keep this from me.
He raises one eyebrow and his mouth curls into a smile, as if he’s amused.
Abby, he says, you’re being very cute. Why don’t you ask me why I had it there?
Why, then? I ask. I don’t like his condescending tone.
Because you gave it to me to keep safe, he replies. When you were lying there in the grass. Maybe you don’t remember because you were still in shock at the time.
What are you talking about? I say, and Sam sighs impatiently.
That day with the fire. You pulled this from your jeans and told me to keep it safe, that you didn’t want to look at it but didn’t want to lose it, either. So I did. I can’t believe you don’t remember.
I look at him carefully. His face looks open, like he isn’t lying. And why would he lie to me? Sam’s never been anything but good. And I have forgotten so many things. So why does something seem strange? Why are my fingers trembling? Why is my heart quickening in tempo with insistent protests of my brain? What is that buzzing in the back of my mind, as if there’s something I need to realize, something big, something horrible?
Think, Abby. What do I want with it, anyway? It’s just a pretty little thing; you’ve got loads more right here. He gestures to my recent sketches, the ones that litter our room like remnants, bits and pieces of rubbish that were overlooked. I think, and he’s right. There’s nothing in it he could possibly want. I take a few breaths and feel the anxiety slowly begin to diminish. I sink onto his lap.
I’m sorry, I say. I mean it. There is a comforting emptiness in the back of my brain.
That’s OK, mija. You just need to trust me. By the way, who knew you could be so dark? Some of that’s all fire and brimstone. He needles me in the ribs, then carefully lifts it from my hands. It’ll only upset you, babe. Let me throw it out.
No! I shout.
Abby, Sam says. These really mean nothing to you?
No, nothing.
Then let me get rid of it. Look how angry and upset you are.
OK, I say, deciding he is right. Holding on to the object and staring at it and remembering nothing is more depressing than any of my futile efforts to search my mind for memories. Here is an object, actual evidence of my past, and I still can’t remember a thing. It’s hopeless. It’s better to forget. It’s right for Sam to get rid of it. He is good and kind and only wants to protect me. I am horrible for suspecting otherwise.
I’m splashing around in the creek outside when Sam comes out, stretching and yawning. He’s been napping so, so much lately. Sometimes it feels like he’s always either gone or napping, and we haven’t been having as much fun as we used to. Even his medicine doesn’t seem to make him completely well anymore.
Abby, get back in here! It’s not safe!
It is too safe! I yell back. There’s nobody here. Who can hurt me?
You just shouldn’t be out there, he says. You don’t even have any clothes on. It’s kind of true, kind of not. I have some clothes on. I’m in my underwear. It’s chilly out but not cold enough to get me sick.
Sammy, d
on’t be so silly. It’s the people who are bad out there, not the nature. All of this is ours, anyway, I say, spinning around with my arms spread wide. The tickle of the cold water and the minnows swimming around my ankles make me laugh.
For once, Sammy doesn’t have anything to say. He mutters something, but I can’t hear him.
What? I shout.
Just be careful! he yells. This time I hear him, but I pretend not to anyway.
I can’t hear you, I holler back. Come closer!
I wait until Sammy is close to the edge, then I dunk my arms in the water and splash as hard as I can. I come up laughing because his face is dotted with crystal water and his clothes are soaked. I expect him to laugh back, but his face looks irritated; I know because his mouth is shaped into a scowl. I sigh. He’s been so moody lately. Nothing I do seems to make him laugh. I narrow my eyes and stare into his. What happened to my soul? The other half is drifting away.
Please, Sam, I say in my head.
I’m not sure, I feel him answer.
Have fun. Be easy, I think at him. It’s easier to love than hate.
Not so, he thinks back at me. For some people, it’s the other way around.
But not us, Sammy. Not you.
No, not us, he agrees silently.
And now he’s shucking off his shoes and stripping off his jeans, and he’s splashing out in the water toward me and scooping handfuls of it and tossing them on my cold, bare skin. My skin rises in goose bumps, and my heart rises in joy. We still have our special link. We are still woven of the same thread, even though he’s been different.
We play for a while, and it feels so freeing and good to be out here with him, as if our world has opened up with big possibilities. We play until the sky turns dusk and the sun can’t ease our goose bumps any longer. When we go inside, he bundles me in a blanket and we make a fire. Sam’s cheeks are rosy. He looks healthier than when he came home today.
You look good, Sam-Sam, I say. You should play outside more.
I would if I could, he says. But I’m busy.
Yeah, busy at Sid’s, I mutter. The mystery man. Sam jerks back angrily.
That was rude, he says. I’m surprised. I meant nothing by it.
I was just joking around, Sam, I say. But he is silent. Lately, he jumps on me for everything. After a few more minutes, he’s OK again, and he puts his arm back around me. We cuddle for a while. And I begin to be aware of his shirtless body against mine. My nerves begin to rise toward him the way they always do when we’re close. It’s been so long. I snuggle deeper and begin to kiss lightly at his neck. He wiggles away a little.
I don’t understand, I say.
Nothing, Abby. I just don’t feel like it right now.
You never feel like it anymore.
Stop exaggerating, he tells me. And so here we are in a stiff silence again. His arm is around me, but it feels like dead weight. I don’t understand. He must not find me beautiful anymore. I’m not sure how or why that’s possible. I wiggle out from under the blanket and under his arm and go to bed. I can’t be close to him when he finds me so repulsive. It hurts too much.
Just as I am beginning to doze off, I feel him climb into bed with me. He kisses my cheek, my neck. I am afraid to turn in case he will stop. He kisses his way down my back, then back up, then turns my cheek to the side so I have to face him. He kisses me on the mouth, and all my hostility drifts away. I kiss him back and back for a long time, and I want more, but I can feel him slowly pulling away. He kisses me on the cheek a few more times and then settles back on the pillow, wrapping his arms around me tight. He falls asleep almost right away, but I am left the same as I was before. He has given me enough to ease my anger but not exactly what I want. I want him to want what I want. I see something beautiful in myself, but I must be repulsive and undesirable to him. The memory of his kisses fails to soothe me to sleep.
Time passes so quickly.
I sit with Sammy on the roof of a tall building. It is night, and all the stars in the sky make a magic show just for us. I lay my head in his lap.
Tell me again how we met, I beg. We have known each other for a very long time, since long before he saved me from the fire. Sam says we have known and loved each other for longer than infinity, even though I can’t remember it. Because of the way I feel about him, it must be true.
You were sitting on a cloud, he starts.
I thought it was a mountain?
No, Abby. He shakes his head. A cloud. I remember because your toes were flecked with dew and your whole body was damp.
Then what? I ask. He is running his fingers through my hair. He bends to kiss my temple. My heart beats staccato the way it always does when he’s close.
Then the cloud started to break up, he continues. Turn into mist or rain or something. And you began to fall.
So . . .?
Shhh, be patient! He pauses to think. You fell and fell, for maybe a mile, and I saw you in the sky. You were a tiny speck that got bigger and bigger with each moment, and you were moving very fast. But luckily, I was sitting on a terrace, watching. And since I didn’t have anything better to do . . .
I laugh and bite his thigh playfully. Sammy loves to tease.
Anyway, he continues, since I didn’t have anything better to do, I thought, What the heck? I’ll save this girl. So I climbed up the side of the building on the fire escape to the very top, like how we got here now. Except I had to do it fast, like six or eight times as fast as we got up here tonight. Because you were dropping like a rock, faster and faster. And just as I got to the top, you were above me, so I leaped off the building and grabbed you.
But weren’t you worried that you would fall, too? And we’d both wind up a pile on the ground?
Ah, mija, he purrs in my ear. I never worry for my own safety when I have you to think of.
And you were right not to worry, because we were fine, I finish. The End.
That isn’t the end! We were only fine because I managed to catch a tree branch on the way down, then shimmy down the tree trunk with you on my back. Otherwise we would have gone splat on the pavement.
Right. And then I went home.
No, then you knelt down and kissed my feet and pledged your life to me, since I had saved you. You didn’t know me, but you vowed to love me forever.
Did not! I laugh. I wriggle with happiness.
You did, mija. That is how it happened.
I press my face into his stomach and wrap my arms around his back. He is right. The story is different each time. But sometime, somewhere in each version, I need him to save me, and when he does, I vow to love him forever. I hold on to the moment and enjoy him while I can, and for a while we are the way we were all those weeks ago when he scooped me up and brought me home.
Sam and I are having a picnic. I’ve convinced him it’s OK to be outdoors together if we stay close to our home. He’s moody again, irritable. I wonder if he is feeling depressed. I am hurt that he might feel this way when he has me to provide so much happiness. We are reclined next to each other on the grass, interpreting cloud animals. Doing so gives me a vague, pleasant sensation of familiarity. My stomach is round and full from the feast we had: meats for him, cheeses for me, ice cream for us.
Sam, I say to him, I love you more than I could possibly love anyone. The feeling might not even be real, it’s so big. It’s bigger than this world.
Me, too, he says, rolling to face me.
No, I say. You don’t understand. I love you so much it’s painful to breathe.
I know, mija, he says. I do, too.
But I can’t even picture anyone else. You are like a white hole to me, because you can’t be a black hole because of the negative implication, but it all means the same thing. I’m not even sure anyone else is alive in this world besides us.
Sam laughs, but I can tell he is getting impatient with me. He thinks all I do these days is talk about how I feel and explore the notion of us, and he wants to do other things. To take lo
ng naps and read books and talk about them before taking more long naps. It bothers me that it doesn’t match with what I want and need right now, because I feel we should be so attuned to each other that our desires shouldn’t have to be spoken aloud.
Since he’s drifted off, I take a walk by myself. What I’m feeling in this moment seems too important not to say. I wonder how to say it in a way he’ll listen. I splash through the creek and up the dirt path and don’t worry at all that I must be trailing mud prints into our home. I head for my sketch paper and write what is in my heart:
Sam. I have loved you since we met, and I love you still. Even before I ever saw you, I was waiting for you. You fascinate me. You are my love; I cannot feel for another what I feel for you. It stretches beyond anything earthly to something spiritual, and I could never run from it even if I were to try. I don’t believe that what we have is knowable to anyone else. In these books we read, what others call love is ordinary. What we have is not of this world. Even if we spent a lifetime apart, these feelings would never fade. You are my heart, my soul. You are me. Nothing can ever change it. When we are apart, my mind is elsewhere, and my heart is reaching for yours across the space that separates us.
Abby
I fold it in half and place it on his pillow where he will see it right away when he comes in. I am satisfied. I walk outside again with one of Sam’s books and cool my ankles in the creek. I walk down from Sam a ways, so I don’t disturb him while he naps. I don’t bother waking him up anymore; he’s either too groggy or too grouchy when I do. I settle down with this book, The Picture of Dorian Gray. Sam has so many, and he really loves them, possibly more than me. He loves to talk with me about them. He says understanding the classics is the best way to understand the world as it really is. He opens my mind and teaches me how to think. None of these books, though, make me shudder like the Inferno, where people betray those close to them with no remorse. Even so, I keep coming back to it, reading its pages again and again until the ink is permanently smudged by the oils in my fingers and Sam’s, too, I guess. It points me to the things I should be afraid of. It speaks of the world I need to avoid, a world full of hardened souls. I need it because of this. I like to keep the book close to me, and Sam doesn’t seem to mind. When I read it, it seems like everything is crafted from black soot, everyone formed around a rotten core. Dorian Gray is like that, too, but not quite as awful as the other.
