Amber Sky, page 9
This time, he traces the tip of his tongue along my top lip. But before he’s finished, I dart my tongue out, brushing mine against his.
“Mmm,” he moans softly, and I push my tongue a little farther inside his mouth.
This time, he lets out a deeper moan, and his hand slides from my ribs down to my hip. I angle my head and move my lips against his, prompting him to follow my lead.
I can’t remember ever teaching a man to kiss. Not that I expect to remember something like that since I can’t remember my own address. But I was always good at playing teacher when Lina and I played schoolhouse as children. Maybe this isn’t so different.
No, it’s definitely different.
The kiss is awkward and sweet as I move between open and closed mouth, tongue and no tongue, fast and slow, hungry and exploratory. But Walker is a fast learner. And before I know it, his weight is pressing me into the warm earth as my legs wrap around his hips.
We kiss like that for hours. We kiss until our lips are swollen and chafed. We kiss until our hair is matted with dirt and leaves, and I’ve rubbed away the dressing on my foot. We kiss until the sun begins to set, and the sky is as pink as our cheeks.
Hidden Stash
Five months earlier
As I sat curled up on the tufted leather sofa in my father’s study, I stared at his empty chair and tried to remember every single time I’d seen him sitting there. The first memory I could recall was when I was six years old. My mother was distracted, busy cooking a big batch of thumbprint cookies for a bake sale. I seized the opportunity to sneak into my father’s study while he was working, something we were never supposed to do. My father didn’t like being interrupted when he was deep in his creative flow.
I turned the brass doorknob so slowly, I was certain my father would not have heard a sound. But when I pushed the door open a few inches, he was staring right at me. I froze with sheer panic.
My parents never spanked us or locked us in a closet or made us skip meals, like some other parents. So I didn’t really know what kind of punishment to expect for disobeying the most important rule in the house. Somehow, this made me even more terrified than the time I’d been caught watching TV after dinner instead of reading, for which I knew the punishment was no TV for a month.
I wanted to flee. Maybe if I ran away fast enough, my father wouldn’t know if it was Lina or me who’d opened the door. But before I could move a muscle, he spoke.
“Come in, pumpkin,” he called out gently. He didn’t seem angry.
I pushed the door open and plodded toward my father’s sparse writing desk, just a slab of polished mahogany with four spindly legs. My father abhorred drawers. He thought most people used them like waste bins; a place you tossed things you wanted to forget about.
My father pulled me onto his lap, and instead of punishing me, he read the book he was working on. I was the first one to see. And when I told my siblings about it, he didn’t deny he’d shown it to me. But he made them wait until it was published before they could see it.
After that, my father often came to me for my opinion on his children’s books. It was a poorly kept secret in our house that I was my father’s favorite. My siblings didn’t complain because my mother clearly doted more on Lina, the eldest, and Carter, her baby boy. But I was a daddy’s girl through and through.
Now that my father was gone, what was I?
I ran through the litany of memories I had of my father’s study, as if compiling enough of them would make my father reappear in that creaky desk chair.
The doorknob turned, and Marc walked in, looking far too handsome for the occasion in his black Dolce & Gabbana suit. He slipped out of his coat and hung it on the rack near the door, making himself comfortable. At least, that was how I interpreted his actions. I couldn't deny the house was too warm. Now that my father was dead, my mother could crank up the thermostat as high as she wanted.
“I thought I’d find you here,” he said, closing the door softly behind him.
I smiled as he took a seat next to me on the sofa. “Can you smell it?”
“Smell what?”
I closed my eyes and inhaled slowly. “It smells like coffee in here. He’s been dead for six days, and it still smells like coffee.”
Marc wore a reserved smile when I opened my eyes. “He probably has a stash somewhere in here.”
I laughed. “Of course. He started hoarding his beans when Mom started using grocery delivery. She always forgot to get his coffee.” My throat grew tight and painful. “I just can’t bear to be out there with them.”
“I know, honey,” he assured me.
“No, you don’t know,” I replied, turning to look out the windows behind my father’s desk. “He shouldn’t have been able to get in that car unattended. My mother should have been watching him.”
“Cass, this isn’t your mom’s fault.”
“I know that!” I shrieked, my hands trembling as I pulled the skirt of my black dress over my exposed knees. “I know. But that doesn’t mean my heart isn’t breaking. It doesn’t mean I’m not desperate for answers. How could this have happened? How could she let this happen?”
Marc knew better than to try to reach for me. “We’ve been over this. Your mother only left him alone for a few minutes. She had no idea he was going to take the car out for a drive.”
“It just doesn’t make sense,” I said, shaking my head. “And I can’t be out there with them, trading stories with all the uncles and aunts and cousins who never visited him after his diagnosis. I can’t do it.”
“And I wouldn’t dream of forcing you to do that. You have every right to be angry.”
My anger only seemed to grow the more Marc consoled me. “Please don’t patronize me. You see me suffering, and still, you sit on your throne of secrets. Please…just leave me alone. I need to be alone.”
“I would rather not leave you alone when you’re this upset.”
I rounded on him. “What do you think I’m going to do? Get in the car and crash into a fucking tree?”
The muscle in his jaw twitched. “It was an accident. Your father didn’t commit—”
“I don’t want to hear it. Just please leave me alone.”
“No. I’d be a cold-hearted idiot to leave you alone right now.” He reached out slowly, placing his hand on top of mine. “I promised your dad I’d take care of you.”
My eyes welled up with tears as I recalled the poem my father wrote for our wedding. “He thought he didn’t know me.” I swallowed the lump in my throat as I looked into Marc’s eyes. “How can you be so sure you know me?”
His face grew ashen as if I’d said I wanted a divorce.
“How does that feel?” I said, then I got up and left to join the other mourners.
Echoes
It took a lot of begging to get Walker to agree to paint something for me. I offered to help him fix the car. I offered to paint the whole house. He wouldn’t bite. In the end, my offer to sleep in the same bed as him was the clincher, but only if he was allowed to paint my portrait.
I’m not going to tell him that I’m the one getting the sweet deal. I’ll just let him keep on believing I made an enormous compromise.
As I sit on the plaid blanket on the grass in the backyard, Walker and his wooden easel stand about fifteen feet away. He’s facing west, hoping to get a good composition of me relaxing with the sun setting over the tree line behind me. I feel like sitting in this position makes me look fat, but I don’t tell him that. Then, I might have to tell him how I got this loose skin and these stretch marks on my belly.
Now that I think of it, if I spend the night with Walker in his upstairs bedroom tonight, he might find out what I remembered earlier today.
I’ve lost three babies.
I don’t know what it means, but it likely means I’ve probably been in a relationship where we were trying to conceive. I try not to think about the possibility I might still be in a relationship. I wasn’t wearing a wedding ring when I woke up after the crash. It’s more likely I’m divorced or single.
Either way, it doesn’t change the fact that my family is probably worried sick about me. And I can’t shake this feeling I was trying to get lost when I crashed my car. But what was I running from?
All these thoughts race through my addled mind as I try to remain as still as possible for Walker. He’s an abstract painter, so I don’t think I have to stay perfectly still. Besides, concentrating on not moving my body gives me something to focus on other than these new memories.
But the peaceful stillness doesn’t last long.
“Tilt your seat back,” Walker calls out to me.
“What did you say?” I shout back.
He shouts louder this time. “Tilt your head back, please!”
I swallow hard, my mouth pooling with saliva as I’m hit with a sudden wave of nausea.
“Can you hear me?” he calls out, even louder this time.
Ignoring his request, I lie back and close my eyes as I’m bombarded with memories.
A college party. A dark backyard. Feeling lit up from the inside out.
An empty apartment. Looking out the window to the city below.
The bloody toilet in the teacher’s lounge. Pressing the lever to flush it away.
Tilting my car seat back and wondering how someone could feel so full and so empty at once.
“Are you okay?” Walker’s voice sounds a bit frightened.
I open my eyes and find myself clutching my abdomen as I lie in the fetal position. The grass pokes the side of my face as I push myself up until I’m sitting again. My mind keeps flashing back to the inside of a car. The words tilt your seat back echoing endlessly.
What does it mean? Does it have to do with how I ended up driving out here to the middle of nowhere?
“Cass? Are you okay?”
My eyes shoot up to meet Walker’s. “What did you call me?”
He looks confused, possibly even frightened, by the intense look in my eyes. “Cassidy. That’s…your name, isn’t it?”
I shake my head. “No, you called me Cass. Why did you call me that?”
He narrows his eyes at me as if he’s sizing me up. “Are you sure you’re okay? You seem…different.”
I get to my feet and stare into Walker’s blue eyes for what feels like an eternity. I know there’s something to be gleaned there. Finally, he looks down at the grass, and I shake my head in dismay. Something is not right.
I turn around and glance in the direction of the meadow, where I heard the laughter of a small girl. My stomach is in knots as I attempt to piece it all together.
“He called me Cass,” I whisper to myself. “Cass. Cass. Cass. Cass.”
I repeat the name over and over again, trying to figure out why it feels so familiar. Carter calls me Rabbit. Lina calls me Cassidy. My mother calls me sweetheart. But there’s someone else. Someone else who calls me Cass.
I turn around and stare at Walker again. “Did you call me Cass, or did I imagine that?”
He shrugs. “I don’t think so. But I can’t be too sure.”
The way he seems to shrink under my scrutiny makes me feel like a total jerk. But I know what I heard.
Suddenly, I have an unexplainable urge to race toward the easel to see what he painted. As I run across the grass, Walker follows closely behind me. Despite my injured foot, I make it there first. But when I see the canvas, I’m even more confused.
It’s not a painting of me. It’s another painting of The Last Supper.
Ask Me Anything
Four months earlier
Lina opened the front door of our townhouse for me. “Watch your step,” she said as I clumsily traversed the threshold.
The black console table in the foyer was piled high with Amazon packages—I tried to fill the hole in my heart with an online shopping spree a couple of days ago. The coat rack next to the table stood empty. Marc wasn’t back from the office yet. Today was supposed to be his last day as a lawyer. I thought I’d get a jump on the celebration by getting my first and only tattoo.
It took a while to find a tattoo shop that would take my business. You’re not supposed to get inked while you’re pregnant. But I finally found a little place downtown with an artist who’d loved my father’s books as a child. When I described the design I wanted tattooed on my arm, she agreed to help me out.
I didn’t expect the pain and the sight of my blood being continually wiped away to make me so queasy. I managed to hold in my vomit until the tattoo was finished, but I didn’t think I could drive myself home. When I told Lina where to pick me up, she was significantly less angry with me than I expected.
“You have to drink lots of water,” she said, guiding me toward the staircase. “I’ll take you upstairs so you can rest.”
As I climbed each step very carefully, Lina stayed right behind me. “You’re my best friend,” I said, my voice thin and raspy from the vomiting.
“Marc is your best friend,” she replied. “I’m your number two.”
I shook my head. “No, I don’t know him. We’re basically friends with benefits.”
She guided me toward the bedroom, passing the nursery on the way. “You painted the baby’s room?”
“Marc did.”
“Would a friend with benefits paint your baby’s room for you?”
I shrugged as I entered the bedroom and saw the unmade bed where Marc and I had made love this morning. “Maybe he would if he’d knocked me up.”
Lina dropped her purse on top of the gray velvet armchair in the corner. “Get under the covers. I’ll bring you a barf bowl.” She always loved ordering me around. “Are you hungry? I can order something.”
Lina couldn’t cook a pot of chicken soup if her life depended on it. But no one could order takeout or delivery as expertly as she could. Leave Lina in charge of the food for an event, and we’d end up with a sommelier and a caterer carrying a list of everyone’s food allergies and preferences. She had at least a dozen of her favorite Philly restaurants on speed dial. She’d always hated our trips to rural Pennsylvania to visit our grandmother, because there were no McDonald’s chicken nuggets nearby.
Lina, Carter, and I all had our special “needs,” which were taken care of by my father’s wealth. Lina had a live-in housekeeper who cooked all of the family’s meals. Carter had multiple rental properties across the city, which generated enough income for him and his boyfriend to travel ten months out of the year. I had the luxury to work a job where I was underpaid, and my husband could still quit his job, all while having a baby on the way.
I understood how privileged I was. I could afford the best therapist in the city for dealing with pregnancy loss. I could afford to take unpaid family leave from my underpaid teaching job. But I still couldn’t afford to demand my husband tell me all his secrets.
I couldn’t even explain to myself why I knew that kind of demand would be the end of us. I just knew. If I pushed Marc, that would be it.
That was what made me get the tattoo.
I knew it would start a fight. A bad one. And I needed a reason to bare my teeth. To dare him to leave.
“Can you just bring me some water and leave?” I asked Lina. “Marc will be home soon. I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to be here when he sees this,” I said, holding up my bandaged arm.
She tossed her dark hair over her shoulder, then leaned down and kissed my forehead. “Okay. But you’d better call me tonight. I need to know you’re okay.”
I nodded. “Of course.”
She smiled and set off toward the door.
“Lina?”
She stopped in the doorway and turned around, her eyebrows raised in a question. “Yeah?”
“Thank you for being the best sister in the world.”
She shook her head as the corners of her eyes glistened with fresh tears. “I’ve…always felt guilty for having so many kids.”
“Don’t say that.”
“Like I was just flaunting it. Just popping out one after another.”
“Don’t do that,” I pleaded. “Please don’t do that. I don’t want you to feel that way.”
She continued shaking her head as she wiped away tears. “I don’t want you to hurt. And I see how being around the kids hurts you. I don’t ever say anything, but I see it. I see the…the hurt in your eyes. And I can’t help but feel responsible.”
“My pain is not your responsibility, Lina,” I replied, sitting up despite the slight dizziness. “Marc and I have dealt with this the best way we know how. We haven’t done a very good job. Obviously. But my pain is not your fault. My pain is my grief. It’s as simple and complicated as that.”
She watched me for a moment before she came over and hugged me tightly. “You’re the strongest person I know,” she whispered in my ear, then she stood up and brushed my hair out of my face. “I’ll be right back with your water.”
As I watched her leave, I considered following after her, so we could continue our conversation. I missed seeing Lina all the time, like I used to before the first stillbirth. But grief doesn’t just change you, it changes your relationships. And Lina and I were no longer as close as we used to be. Maybe we never would be.
“Cass, wake up.”
My eyelids fluttered open, and I squinted at the bright light. “What time is it?”
Marc smiled as he set a glass of water on the nightstand. “It’s ten a.m. You’ve been sleeping for seventeen hours. I thought you’d probably want to wake up.”
I looked to the left, toward Marc’s nightstand, and saw the digital clock indeed read 10:14 a.m. “Oh, my God. I…must have been really tired.”
Marc sat on the edge of the bed. “I called your OB to make sure there wasn’t something wrong, maybe blood loss or contamination from the tattoo, but he said that your body was probably just recovering from the stress of the situation. He assured me everything should be fine.”
