Authoring Amelia

by Lia Conklin

  “Didn’t mean to scare you,” Donovan replied, “but didn’t want to interrupt either. You looked so peaceful. Sad, yes, but peaceful too.” The starlight played across his breastplate and danced upon the damp skin beneath. She barely dared to look into his eyes. When she did, she saw starlight reflecting back at her from every corner. She couldn’t look away.

  Chapter 26

  “Amelia,” he said, taking her hand, “you don’t have to keep all that sadness to yourself. I’m an excellent listener, if you think that would help.”

  “I haven’t kept it to myself. Tonight, I shared it with the stars. They, too, are excellent listeners.”

  “Yes,” he smiled, “I know they are, but a little aloof, don’t you think? Come sit down,” he said, leading her to the bed. “Tell me what you saw the other night. Tell me why you are crying now. You know, I’m training to be a medicine man like my uncle.”

  “Then shouldn’t you know already?” Amelia chided him.

  “Well, as you can see, I need more practice. Give me a chance to develop my Indian intuition.”

  Amelia had her own intuition, and though undeveloped as well, she found herself leaning towards him, her gaze drifting to his long lips. Not even the sliver of a moment passed before she felt his lips on hers. They touched hers softly, testing her resolve. She parted hers slightly to feel his more deeply. He responded by drawing her lower lip into his. His hands responded as well, sliding up her neck to cup her chin. She lifted her hands to put them over his, feeling with her fingertips the texture of his fingernails, his knuckles, the back of his hands. By the time her fingers found the crook of his elbows, his arms were cradling her, lowering her backward upon the coarse wool of his bed and prickly softness of his pillow.

  Amelia’s lips and fingers faltered suddenly, her mind recalling someone else once lowering her in a similar fashion to the grass. She had opened up to him, sharing for the first time her painful past. At least what she had remembered. She had responded longingly to his first kiss that promised to restore all she had lost, not realizing where it would lead. By the time she had understood what was happening, she had felt a sharp pain inside her and then the brittle grass imbedding into her skin with each rough thrust. She winced at the memory.

  “Amelia?” Donovan’s face hovered above hers, a mixture of desire and concern. “We can stop, Amelia, I just…”

  Amelia answered him with an urgent kiss. Donovan took the signal and lowered himself more fully on top off her, his pelvis pressing down between her legs. His strong hands untangled her small ones from around his neck and lifted them up over her head, capturing them there in the iron grip of one large hand. His free hand found her shirt buttons and opening them one by one made way for the trail of hot kisses he blazed to reach her upturned nipple. She lay tortured by sensation, writhing beneath him, trying to free her wrists that he pressed more firmly then ever into the mattress.

  Then his mouth was back on hers, biting her lower lip, responding to the urgent pressure he found there. This time his roaming hand found the lip of her shorts and panties, freeing a button and then a zipper. She wriggled her hips to aide their downward progression as his hand guided them past her trembling knees to her ankles, where her toes took over to free them entirely. Donovan’s mouth left hers for a moment, and she followed his eyes as they looked down at the starlit skin of her belly that disappeared into the dark curls between her legs. He exhaled deeply.

  Amelia took advantage of his loosened hold to free her wrists and reach for the ties on the trousers of his leather costume. Donovan, his knees straddling her, was momentarily still, watching her fingers untangle the leather ties, loosen them, and slide his pants from his hips. She half expected to see boxers but was not disappointed to find him fully exposed. She felt unsure what to do with her hands and chose rather to look up at him. He was watching her, and she blushed, knowing she had just exposed her insecurity among other things. He didn’t seem to mind but held her in his steady gaze. Was that a question in his eye? Was he asking her something?

  She didn’t have the chance to find out for suddenly he was upon her, tearing her shirt and bra off over her head, his mouth once again finding her exposed nipple, this time nipping it with his teeth, sending her back arching toward him. She wanted him to inhale her, gulp her entire length into his hot, moist mouth. He seemed to want to do just that as his mouth journeyed across her skin to taste every inch of her neck, shoulders, belly, and to breathe hot kisses into the curls of the lowest reaches of her torso.

  She realized her hands were inactive and busied them with finding his ears beneath the silken lengths of his freed hair. When his mouth journeyed back to hers, her hands lowered and traced the taut muscles of his shoulders, back, and buttocks. She held him there for a moment, pressing him down upon her. She could feel his solid, damp, heat between her thighs. She squeezed her thighs around it. He groaned into her lips and lifted his head slightly.

  “Amelia,” he whispered, “I don’t have anything. Tell me to stop. You need to tell me to stop,” he pleaded, yet at the same time pressing himself more urgently against the soft folds between her legs.

  “No, don’t. Don’t stop, please!” she urged throatily, pushing his buttocks down as hard as she could and spreading her legs beneath him.

  He was inside her in a second, so swiftly that his entrance was announced only by the hot pressure that welled up inside her. She could feel him probing her internal boundaries, pushing against them in a circular, rhythmic movement. Then he was out, and his mouth was teasing her nipples, her neck, her ears. His lips met hers just as he pushed himself into her again, this time a thrust, nearly violent, that made her gasp. He held her bottom lip in his teeth as he pulled back and thrust forward again, sending a sweet ache traveling up her torso. His thrusts became rhythmic, alternating from slow to quick, tender to harsh. Amelia met his rhythms and intensity hungrily.

  He tortured her this way until the tingling between her thighs produced a moan. Donovan responded to his up-until-then silent partner by pulsing rapidly within her, his pelvis pressing into her throbbing skin. Then spasms ripped through her, arching her back and sending shivers through the length of her body. As she lay quivering, she felt his warm, throbbing release within her. She heard a groan form at the base of his throat and followed his face upward, into the quiet stillness.

  Chapter 27

  Donovan rested Amelia’s head on his shoulder and stroked her hair and cheek. Amelia still throbbed with the memory of him inside her, but soon she began to relax into his shoulder, smelling the bitter purity of his sweat. Something like dandelion milk, she thought.

  They lay quietly like that for some time. As Amelia felt their breathing fall into a mutual rhythm, she realized that she had never felt this close to anyone, not even her mother who had never tired of cuddling and caressing her. It occurred to her that before this moment ended, she had to make the most of it. Once past, maybe she’d never have the chance again to absolve herself of her painful, secret past. She inhaled deeply then broke the silence.

  “It was the evening of my choir concert. Even my dad decided to come since I was singing a solo.” She hesitated a moment, remembering more or less the melody. Her mother had been so proud and even her five-year-old brother had said, “Good job, Sis.” Her father came close to complimenting her.

  “Overall, well done,” he said, “but your vibrato was shaky here and there.” Donovan caressed her cheek, encouraging her to go on.

  “Mom and Dad had come in separate cars since Dad was working late that night. He was the editor for some political newspaper in our town and usually worked late. He had to go back to his office after the concert to finish up some last-minute things. I asked if I could go with him, which I did.” She had always loved to watch him work, even when there wasn’t much to watch, him pouring through articles, books, internet sources, typing with the “Columbus-method,” making phone calls. She liked when he made phone calls the best.

&
nbsp; “Robert Kingston here. I’m a freelance writer needing some information about–”such and such. He never said the name of his paper, for being an alternative news source it had a low readership and got its own bad press for being “leftist.” She admired his tenacity as he called the same people time and again seeking information they didn’t want to give.

  “In a half hour, he had finished what he needed to do, and we were on our way home. But within a mile of our home we heard sirens. Dad pulled over, and we watched two fire trucks fly past. Just a few minutes later, an ambulance passed and then several police cars. We were within blocks of our house and were horrified to see that they were headed down our street.” Amelia paused, remembering how she had looked over at her father and saw him leaning forward, craning his neck to see where the caravan of emergency vehicles was headed. It was one of the few times—perhaps the only time—she had ever seen him scared.

  “He sped after them. I think if we had really known what awaited us, we would have taken more time, driven that last block at a snail’s pace, lingered in that moment before our lives changed forever.

  “It was dark, of course, so all we could see were these red lights ricocheting off of everything. He pulled up behind the police cars.” Amelia remembered seeing several policemen unwinding a yellow ribbon across the street. It had almost clotheslined her as she ran.

  “There was smoke everywhere. Somehow with all the flashing lights I hadn’t seen it until then. I could no longer deny that it came from our house, or rather where our house used to be. I ran toward the smoke and the debris that still seemed to be settling. I felt someone grab at my elbow from behind. I tugged free but heard him say, ‘No! Don’t go there!’

  “We had gotten there so soon after the emergency vehicles that they hadn’t had time to secure the scene. I ran forward and tripping over something, I sprawled face down in the dirt. When I lifted my head, I was looking into my mother’s face, melted into some gelatinous goo from a horror movie. I only knew it was her because I recognized the patch of red hair that hung from her skull. That’s when I smelled her. I understand now what those concentration camp victims experienced standing outside the crematoriums, or, for that matter, in them. It is an ungodly smell. I imagine if evil had a smell it would smell like that.

  “I was trying to rise to my feet, just as someone grasped me from behind. ‘Get someone over here to cover them up!’ she yelled. She was turning me away when I saw him. My little brother, sprawled a few feet from my mother. That’s when I began to scream.

  “I always knew they had died in some kind of accident, but I hadn’t remembered that I was there, that I saw them. Not until the other night at the powwow. Something in the music, the heat, and the dance reminded me. I never wanted to remember, and then my blinders came off.

  “I couldn’t get away from that horrific picture. It was like someone had painted it over my eyeballs. Until your uncle helped me. I still see it, but I’ve been given a more recent one in a beautiful dream, and that one I conjure whenever the other starts to appear.” She paused, breathing in deeply.

  “You were right, by the way, you medicine-man-in-training. It was not only a memory but also a vision. They want me to do something for them. ‘Seek the truth,’ they said.” She paused for a moment and shook her head. “Now’s your turn to laugh, like a normal person would do, I mean like a non-Indian, non-medicine-man-in-training would do.”

  For a moment there was only silence. Then shaking his head Donovan answered incredulously. “Laugh?” he exclaimed. “At which part? Your pain? Or do you mean the part about your hope? There is not a laugh anywhere inside my body, only a knot in my chest that wants to burst.”

  He pressed her head so tightly into his chest, she couldn’t have twitched if she had wanted to. He paused a moment before saying, “I can’t believe my luck that you are here with me and not locked away in some loony bin. How did you make it all the way here, Amelia?” he asked, raising her chin to look into her eyes. “How did you get so strong?”

  She didn’t feel strong at that moment, looking into his questioning eyes, seeing his thick lower lashes kissed with tears. She wanted to crumble into him, be absorbed by him—replace her existence with his. How strong was that?

  “See, I don’t have any medicine for you that you don’t already have,” Donovan said, shaking his head and ruffling her hair. “I guess all I can offer you is something every recovering patient needs, a good bowl of Jell-O. Can I be your Jell-O?”

  “Second helpings, please,” Amelia replied climbing upon him. Somewhere inside of him, Donovan did find his laugh. It echoed around them as they embarked anew on another intimate journey.

  Chapter 28

  Donovan lay by her side, and Amelia could hear his breathing become heavier as he succumbed to sleep. Then suddenly he jerked awake.

  “I can’t stay in here with you,” he exclaimed. “My uncle would kill me. Not that he won’t figure it out anyway,” he said as he scrambled out of bed, “but at least for appearances.”

  He dug some boxers out of his dresser drawer.

  “I’ll sleep on the couch,” he said as he leaned down to kiss her, “but I’ll be dreaming of you.”

  He left then, and Amelia felt a knot form in her stomach. She hadn’t expected to feel afraid, but here she was, ready to vomit. Her first time, and only other, she had vomited, after seeing him the next day at school. She had pushed through the kids in the schoolyard and made it to the bathroom just in time to heave her breakfast into the toilet. She wished now that she hadn’t taken the trouble to run all the way to the bathroom but had heaved all over his navy blue and white uniform instead.

  It was lunchtime, and Amelia had just turned down the second guy to ask her to the park for that evening. She told him that she already had a boyfriend, Rigoberto.

  “You mean that Rigoberto?” the boy asked, pointing over to a lanky boy hovering over a girl, a lock of her hair in his fingers.

  Not bothering to respond, Amelia made her way over to Rigoberto.

  “Rigo,” she said, “aren’t we going to eat lunch together today?”

  He didn’t look at her.

  “He’s eating with me today,” the girl said haughtily.

  “Yeah,” Rigoberto agreed, finally looking down his long, straight nose at her. “Don’t get me wrong, it was fun and all, real fun, but I’m really not into putas, sluts. Especially a puta gringa like you.”

  The girl laughed, and Rigoberto went back to fingering her hair. Amelia had stood for a moment before running for the bathroom.

  The knot in her stomach grew tighter as she remembered the days and weeks that followed. Within days, she was known schoolwide as Puta Gringa, white whore. Though she had always been excluded because of her color and her imperfect Spanish, she became a leper to even the teachers in the school. It wasn’t long before her family, too, became tainted.

  She had just reached the summit of her climb home when she heard the argument raging within the tiny house. She had heard her father and stepmother fight before, but she realized quickly that this time it was about her. Before she had the chance to turn and flee, her stepmother opened the door and dragged her in.

  “You brought her into this family, like a disease! Now I must lower my head before my neighbors, and she is not even my daughter. I tell them now she is not my daughter—that she will never be. But she is yours, and I hold you responsible for our disgrace!”

  “Yes, she is my daughter,” her father replied.

  For a moment, Amelia thought he was going to stand up for her.

  “But I will not take responsibility for her. She has been under your care, so don’t blame me that she’s gone wild. Where were you when she was out with that boy? I’ll tell you where I was: I was at work. You want her pristine, you keep her pristine! I don’t want to hear another word about it!”

  Her father didn’t look at her as he shoved his way out the door, but that wasn’t unusual. Amelia couldn’t remember when h
e ever really looked at her. Yet, the fact that he wouldn’t defend his own daughter—or even give her a chance to defend herself—made his indifference even more painful.

  That evening, she lay awake, replaying the past few weeks: Rigoberto’s smile, his flirtations, the roses and poems, her secret confession, his promising kiss that led to that horrifying act in the grass, the repercussions. It was all so unfair.

  Unfair. That little word suddenly brought her clarity. How trivial a word, after all she had been through. To be shamed and wrongfully judged in the scheme of her life was just as trivial as that word. Poor baby wrongly accused, condemned to wear a scarlet “P” for puta. Who really cared? She had survived the loss of a mother and a brother and already bore a “P” for “pain.” So what if it had taken on added significance? She smiled at her own joke. Had she only had that clarity back then.

  But she hadn’t. What she did have was a relentless stepmother, determined to never again be shamed. For the rest of her adolescence following Rigoberto, Amelia was never left without a chaperone. Her stepbrother kept his mother strictly informed of all of Amelia’s encounters and doings (and many fabricated ones). Gradually, conditions at school improved, but even so she never had more than a few girlfriends to speak of, and the boys continued to hound her for walks in the park, counting on Rigoberto’s luck.

  The memory wasn’t a pleasant one; however, it gave Amelia once again the clarity she needed to push through her fear. The knot in her stomach dissipated and was replaced by an expanding chest, filled with the knowledge of her strength and determination. If Donovan scorned her in the morning, she’d vomit all over him and then move on, this time without a chaperone. Once again, she smiled at her wit and gradually drifted off to sleep.

  Chapter 29