by LJ Amodeo
“I wish you would have come back. I wanted to run out after you. When you walked into the library, it was like everything stopped. It was impossible to concentrate after that. It took me hours to finish that stupid paper. Now look at us. Who knew?” I said, shying away. Quietly, I led him to the massive windows, taking in the splendid scenery. “You make me afraid, Michael.” I looked away hoping he didn’t see my fear.
“What are you afraid of?” he murmured.
“I fear that one day, when I’ll love you so much that it hurts to breathe, I’ll lose you.” My words suddenly stilled him. His lips formed a tight line. His eyes narrowed painfully––then softly.
“I’m glad our lives crossed paths—because going forward from here, we’ll walk together, for as long as you want me by your side.”
“If it were up to me, we’d never stop walking,” I stared lovingly into his mesmerizing eyes.
“Then we’ll walk forever.” We locked in a passionate kiss.
His face momentarily tweaked as he licked the moisture off his lips. “Ready to eat?”
“I thought you’d never ask. I’m famished!”
“I have a little surprise for you after dinner.” He smiled wickedly.
“Oh! I love surprises,” I giggled.
Michael and I had a romantic dinner by candlelight as we watched the gentle snow fall and the tourist bustle in the village below. Following the delicious dinner, we lay in front of the fireplace with Michael’s mix of Midori Sours.
“I’ll be back in a sec,” he said, disappearing into the kitchen. I wondered what he was fussing with in the other room, when he reappeared with a small birthday cake and a single candle flickering in its center.
“Happy eighteenth birthday, Elizabeth Anne,” he whispered as he sat on the floor holding the cake steady in his palms.
My lips quivered at his romantic affection. It had been a long time since anyone had celebrated my birthday. The only one who seemed to remember my birthday from year to year was Freddie, not even my own mother. “How did you know?” I murmured dreamily. He responded with a kiss.
Sometime later, Michael removed my heels, massaging my aching feet. Four-inch heels were foreign to my throbbing feet, especially being a sneaker kind of girl. “Tell me what you were like as a kid, when you were happiest.” He repositioned himself to rest his head on my lap. I was quiet for a moment, caressing his hair, trying to recall the days I had shared with my father. The wonderful childhood memories I kept locked in my heart. Although, he was a great dad, as an impressionable child, the memories of him were during his final days of at home. The visions of him flipping out at the lake and the destruction he caused to our furniture before leaving was the only way my heart wanted to remember him. It was difficult to let those visions go.
“You don’t have to talk about him, if you don’t want to.” Michael assured me.
I believed though, that talking about my father would help heal my wounded heart and broken soul. I began by telling Michael about the best memories I shared with my father when I was a child. “He had a great smile. It was sincere, kind. When he listened to me play the piano, he’d sit beside me, accompanying me with the chords as he hummed each note. He’d guide me through hours of lessons. Because of him, I play the way I do, that much I’ll give him credit for. Did I mention his name was Philip?”
Michael nodded, staring up at me as I shared my earlier years of childhood.
“Every summer, we’d go to Lake Sinclair in Georgia. We’d stay in this little run-down bungalow, steps away from the lake. We’d go fishing, on scavenger hunts. God, I can’t believe it’s been nine years already,” I sighed, fighting back tears as the memories of my happy childhood flooded my thoughts. “He’d have a list of things we’d have to look for on our nature hikes such as trees, insects or birds, like the boat-tailed grackle or scarlet tanager. It was never Mom’s favorite pastime, but she was a good sport about it and went along equipped with loads of bug spray, spraying us down every chance she could. They were great times. I wish I knew what happened—what made him change”
“Sounds like good memories, Elizabeth,” he sighed.
“They were, until the week of my ninth birthday.”
“What happened that week?”
“We were at the lake as usual, watching the sunset when he got a phone call. He asked me to wait by the lake while he took the call. He walked away so I couldn’t hear his conversation on the cell. He never said a word to the caller . . . just listened and nodded. Then something happened. Whatever the caller said to him, made him snap. I remember his face—” I rubbed the chills that ran up my arms. “His mood and the sky had turned as dark in an instant. The wind picked up and . . . it was as if something in the atmosphere sensed my father’s fury. The beautiful sunset I admired seconds earlier and my father’s mood ruptured at the same time. It scared the shit out of me! That look in his eyes made me run for my mom, but nothing she could do or say could have calmed him down. As scared as I was, I was frightened for him. I didn’t want to lose him.” I muttered, recalling that memory like it was yesterday. A flicker of a young girl with long, black hair flashed in my memory, as she smiled questionably at me. I recalled that dreadful day trying to push the thought away. I decided not to mention the little girl to Michael for some strange reason.
“It was soon after that he walked out on us.” I said, remembering the last picture I had of my father slamming the door shut. “And I’ll never know why.”
“Are you sure he didn’t explain why he left?”
“No. He left and I. . .we never heard from him again, until the letter we received from someone, saying that he died.”
“Did he ever try to contact you or your Mom before then? Maybe a phone call or a letter to explain?”
“No, not even a birthday card. The only other thing on the note was the letters O.H.T. I tried to Google it, but never found what it meant and who it was from. That’s when I started thinking more about him. He’s in my dreams.” I paused and looked down at Michael, combing through his hair with my fingers. “I wish I had known him better. I spent so many nights wondering if he ever thought about me. If he ever cared. Once Mom brought Prince home, I stopped wondering about him as much. My dog filled that void, at least that’s what I convinced myself.”
“Elizabeth.” He rolled onto his side to face me. “Prince is in a better place. I know how much you’re hurting for him, and your father . . .” He searched for the right words to comfort me.
“I’m not hurting for my father anymore. I’m over it,” I muttered faintly.
“No matter what, I believe that your father thought of you all the time. Maybe he left because he had good reason to. Sometimes people make sacrifices for the good of their family. ” He said hesitantly, contemplating his approaching advice.
“How can you be so sure? You didn’t know him. Besides, what constitutes a good enough reason for a man to leave a wife and daughter? What sacrifices had he made for his family? He took the easy way out, Michael. He didn’t have the nerve to face his problems and take care of us the way he was supposed to!” I growled pushing him off my lap. I rose off the couch with my hands on my hips. I was angry.
“Did your fatherever leave your family?” I scowled at him. Michael sat up—his forearms resting on his knees. His head hung low between his shoulders, as he nodded no.
“Did he ever walk out on you because he couldn’t deal with his everyday problems? Huh? Did he?” I argued.
“My father would never abandon us,” he whispered earnestly. I knew what my father had done to me was not Michael’s fault. The wrath of my fury beat wildly in my temples and Michael happened to get caught in the teeth of my own personal storm. Although, my father left many years ago, the anger I felt for him was still a fresh wound on my flesh. I had lied to Michael when I said I was over him. I wasn’t. I didn’t know how to shake him from my mind. Wasn’t sure if I wanted to.
“I am sorry, Elizabeth. Sorry that you had
to go through this. I know how hard it must be for you and your mom, but I’m sure he loved you.” He spoke as if he knew my father.
My eyes narrowed in resentment, stirring my temper, yet again. “How could you know that? You don’t know anything about me and what I’ve gone through growing up without a father!” I snapped at him. “It destroyed me and my life!” I hollered at him.
His eyes blinked as his body straightened with tension. “I. . .I don’t know, I am just saying.” He rushed to stand next to me. He quickly rerouted the conversation as I often did with Samantha. “His loss. He doesn’t realize what he gave up. I am grateful to him, though, that he’s created something as perfect as you.” He hugged me, while my arms hung freely at my sides, still mad.
“Don’t give that man credit for how I turned out. It was all my mother’s doing,” I replied pursing my lips.
“You’re adorable when you’re upset, Elizabeth.” Michael smiled, kissing the tip of my nose.
Minutes later, the burning sensation in my eyes deliberately gave way to the exhaustion I felt, followed by the onset of yet another headache. I strained my stinging eyes to look at the clock. “Oh my goodness, it’s almost four in the morning, Michael,” I said sluggishly pushing him away. The throbbing in my head escalated, swaying the floor beneath me.
“I need to lay down. I’m not feeling well.”
“Come. I’ll help you up to bed.” He held me close as he escorted me to his bedroom. An overwhelming sense of fear swiftly struck a chord in my gut. I stopped midway up the staircase.
“I. . .I can just sleep on the couch,” I stuttered, pointing downward.
“On the couch?” without hesitating, he supported my back and reached his other hand around the bend of my knees, scooping me up the stairs to the third-floor bedroom. I didn’t have the strength to retaliate. My body felt limp by the time Michael entered the bedroom. The pain increased and my mind whirled in a state of confusion, exposing religious artifacts saved from a fate of obscurity; statues, chalices, altars, stained glass, crucifix, sanctuary lights .... pillaged through my mind.
“Here we go,” he said, as he gently placed me on the bed. “I’ll sleep in the guest room.” He fluffed the feathery pillows on the king-size bed and placed the covers over my shivering body. I was disappointed, but reprieved, as I managed to ask through painful glances that settled behind my eyes, “You’re not going to sleep here with me?”
“I promised you that I’d be a gentleman, and I intend to follow through. Besides, you're not feeling well, and I’m sensing you’re a bit ticked off with me. But, if you’re frightened tonight, call for me. I'll be close by.” He glided over to the bed, giving me a goodnight peck on the cheek.
My mind begged him to stay, but my lips remained locked. He closed the door as he left the room. I let out a breath of relief, along with an agonizing cry. I hadn’t realized that I stopped breathing, but the clarity of my recent vision showed me that I wasn’t ready to sacrifice something sacred to me, as my virtue. The ache in my head thumped lightly through the night. It wasn’t enough to keep me awake, like it had in the past, but it beat a steady drone, reminding me that it was present and ready to attack, if necessary. Considering the merciful pulsing in my skull, I slept soundly for most of the night, without nightmares.
The sunlight streamed into the room when I awoke. The bedroom decor was pallid, to match the colorless walls. The vanilla rug crushed softly under my bare feet.
Once dressed, I followed the smell of sweet strawberries, butter and chocolate that filled the air as I sauntered into the kitchen. “Mmm! That smells good. What are you making?” I asked, already savoring the aromas.
“I’m making my famous strawberry crepes with chocolate truffles sprinkled with honey,” Michael said, flipping the crepes in the pan. “How you feeling this morning? I checked on you several times throughout the night. You slept like a baby.” “Much better. Don’t feel a thing today. I’m as good as new. I’m sorry about last night.” I attempted to ease his worry. He curtly smiled and continued cooking.
I sat down at the blush colored wooden table, large enough for company of eight, facing the cream granite island where Michael created his celebrated recipe. My eyes scaled the beauty of his home. I wondered how he was able to afford such an expensive home. My mind was curious, but I decided not to pry.
“Do you like it?” he asked, looking at me as he stirred the mixture.
“Yeah, I love crepes.” I diverted my attention toward him and his tantalizing accent.
“I meant the flat.” He gestured around the room with his spatula.
“Oh! It’s incredible.” I replied, taking in the splendor of his loft.
“My grandmother left it to me. I lived here with her since leaving France, and when she passed on the 24th of February, she left it to me,” he told me as he placed the crepes on a plate. My brows arched wondering if for sure I was as easy to read as Michael had claimed.
“Your grandmother, I’m sure, was a very extraordinary woman.” I smiled empathically remembering what he had told me about her in Buffalo. His dimpled face smiled back. “You remembered,”
“Of course I did.” I grinned.
“I thought after breakfast we’d ski Tremblant Mountain’s north trails, if you’re feeling up to it. You did say you’re a good skier, right?” his brow lifted in his habitual way.
“I know how to ski. I’m not a professional, I’ll admit, but I have skied countless times at Swain. Freddie and I ski there every year.” I informed him proudly.
“Good. Then we’ll ski the Geant today,” he stated with a sexy French accent.
“As in giant? It’s an intermediate trail, right?” My voice cracked nervously, while he grinned ear to ear.
He set the two plates on the table and poured fresh coffee in our mugs. Sitting opposite me, Michael placed a linen napkin on his lap. Being raised in England definitely had its perks. We poor slobs in the northern part of the state were unaccustomed to politeness and etiquette. So I thought I’d begin by mimicking his proper mannerisms. The crepes Michael prepared were delicious. I ate two of them and probably could have gone for a third, but didn’t want to be a glutton. After all, I felt the need to prove to the handsome Brit that we westerners could also be a civil society.
“Why don’t you go get ready and I’ll meet you out front,” he said, while rinsing off the dishes.
Michael waited patiently outside for me while I made my final touches to my make-up. Pedestrian Village had an undeniable charm. Everything was brightly colored, from the red, green and blue slate rooftops, to the yellow, cream and orange painted stucco on the attractive buildings. The charming snow-covered streets displayed a festive and cheery setting for families and their children. Shops and cafes lined the narrow inclined streets, as Tremblant’s visitors skied from door to slope and children ice skated around the buoyant village.Cool, I thought to myself, taking in the delightful sights. Living in this quaint, yet dynamic place became very appealing. The North side of Tremblant Mountain was busy with avid skiers. Michael was sympathetic enough to begin on the bunny hill. He mentioned it would be like getting my feet wet since he assumed I might be a bit rusty. To his surprise, I was not as rusty as he imagined I’d be.
The first slope was shaded with the color green for easy trails. It was called the Sissy Schuss. I didn’t find anything amusing about his obscured humor. Next, we advanced to the Axel, which was for intermediate skiers. This was more my speed. He dared me to try the black diamond Devil’s River, but I did not entertain his suggestion.
“All right, we’ll ski the blue trails if that’s more your comfort level.” He smirked mockingly.
“I could ski the black diamond if I were up for it, but because of my headache . . . ” I fibbed. Honestly, I was not up for the challenge, especially while the ache still lingered in my temple.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah! I’ve heard that one before . . . we’ll just stick to the Sissy Schuss.” He laughed, as I intentionall
y turned my ski outward, obstructing his path. “Oops!” I giggled watching Michael take a fall.
We waited for the ski lift to whip around the bend for the fourth time. As we sat on the lift, it jolted us up the slope once again. We began ascending the climb of the steep mountain, as the air turned cooler against my stinging cheeks. The sound of the freshly fallen snow crunched below us as skiers made their way down the slopes. Nearby, echoes of streaming waters beat against the loose stones. Endless bare elms, maples and basswoods with an occasional thriving white spruce, stood alongside the clear paths, erected like guardsmen inviting skiers to challenge their course. Below, a skier, a lean man, watched as we glided high above his head. Michael leaned forward, straining his eyes to get a better look at the obscure gentleman below.
“Who is that? Is he a friend of yours?” I asked, curiously watching Michael’s face strain.
“No. It’s no one.” He replied and sat back flexing his jaw.
I turned my attention to the curious onlooker who beamed a wide smile at me, and back to Michael’s icy stare. I sat back wondering about the gentleman, but focused on the tree tops
covered in icy glaze, like a phantasmic mirage of pastel diamonds, reflecting off the sun’s blinding shimmer. This vision made the scenic ride all the more brilliant. Michael sat quietly, with his shoulder resting against mine. The fresh scents of pine needles and gardenias satiated the cool air, as his gloved hand sat lightly warming my thigh. I could see in the near distance that we’d have to dismount the lift soon. We lifted the safety bar and adjusted our positions to descend. Without indication, bright flashes of light disrupted my sight. A shadowy blur clouded my vision with depictions of anti-Semitic icons. Icons that contradicted what I believed in. I wrote in my journal about these images:
A faceless man crossed over my broken body holding a box that radiated a dark force. It was some sort of key connecting my soul to a darker element. I begged him not to open it for like Pandora’s Box, I knew that opening this relic would allow the demon within to escape and filling the good that’s left in the world with negativity and evil beyond anyone’s control. The image,I’d go on to write,was the symbolic icon tied to Satan. The reversed symbol of the trinity engulfed in flames. The mark of the Beast.
