Chapter 14 #2
“She’s all right. Having her as an assistant has been wonderful. She ably rose to the occasion, surpassing my expectations, which were already quite high. It was also nice to have someone around who missed you as much as I did.”
“I bet,” comes the quiet but obviously disbelieving response.
Delilah chuckles and brushes Taylor’s hair with her fingers. “Trust me. She cares for you very much.”
Bless Delilah for not entirely giving me up. My mental breakdown when we got here, being coaxed out of my inability to function, the obsessive intel checking for a scrap about Taylor. Indicators that I don’t just care very much, but quite likely I care too much.
Delilah pats Taylor’s arm. “Get your sleep, darling.”
She pads out of the room. I’m not sure how long we lie there, both of us awake, minds racing. Taylor erupts in coughs every so often, drowning out the muted sirens from outside.
“Lucy?”
“Yeah?”
“Could you come here, please?”
Bidden like a snake from a basket in a bazaar, I rise from the couch and move closer to her. “Do you need me to get a nurse?”
“No. Would you talk to me?” Her throat bobs in failed swallows. I nab the cup of water next to me and swirl the straw around to face her. With a sigh she sucks down some of the water, giving me a grateful half-smile.
“What do you want me to talk about?”
“Tell me a story about your mother.”
Memories of my mother shimmer in a blue-green patina, like an ancient artifact half-sunken into the sea.
Sometimes I can grasp them with certainty, and sometimes they are lost forever in the deep.
When I look out the window, precious snowflakes sink to the ground. A memory burbles up from the depths.
“Right around Christmas one year, my mother took me ice-skating. Papa lit up the big tree in Rock Center with thousands of lights. New York City at Christmas, it’s wonderful.
I mean, for me and rich kids it is. Papa orders any storefront with a window to display for the holiday, so the streets are colorful and lit.
Music playing everywhere.” Taylor closes her eyes, hopefully painting a picture in her head.
Painting over the horrors she so recently witnessed.
“Papa made the rink admission exorbitant, thereby ensuring only wealthy families could use it. The week before Christmas, my mother forced him to waive the admission so all kids could skate. It took a lot of convincing, but she had that power over him. She had that power over most people.” Taylor’s lips show the faintest glimmer of a smile.
“I begged and I begged to go ice-skating. I badly wanted to see Santa, though I was on the precipice of not believing anymore. After days of pleading with Papa, he finally let my mother take me. It was lovely weather that night. Big fat snowflakes you could catch on the tip of your tongue. We skated around for nearly an hour until the rink became crowded. Someone got the attention of my mother and I wiggled away from her.”
“To—”
“Shh, I’m getting there.” After giving her a playful scowl, I continue, “So, naturally, the moment she realizes I’m gone, she’s panicked.
She doesn’t want to make a scene because it would be dangerous to my safety, and because Papa would find out and be furious with us. She searches everywhere. I’m gone.”
“Sounds like something you’d do,” she murmurs. “Cause trouble.”
“You know it. Finally, it occurs to her there was a specific reason I wanted to go skating.”
“The Santa Claus.” His name sounds foreign coming from her, like she’s only read it in a book. What would a child rebel soldier need with an imaginary gift giver?
“The Santa Claus, yes. She finds me standing next to Santa’s giant red velvet throne. I’ve usurped the role of Mrs. Claus, helping kids get on Santa’s lap, and asking them what they want for Christmas.”
The glimmer of a smile finally breaks on her face. “Was she relieved?”
“At first. The Santa Claus was a friend of Papa’s, so I was safe. He tried covering for me by telling my mother how helpful I was. I asked if it was okay if Santa delivered my toys to the poor kids in the park instead.”
Taylor’s eyes flutter open. “That sounds like you too. Kind.”
A faint blush creeps on my cheeks. “After thanking him, she whisks me away and gets my shoes without a word to me. I knew I was in trouble. She was beautiful, my mother, but when she was angry her face turned to porcelain. Hard, but still graceful lines and effortlessly regal.
“She had that face on during the car ride home. I’m fidgeting in my seat, waiting for her to chastise me.
Suddenly she turns to me and goes, ‘Do you know what you did wrong?’ I nod that I do.
‘And you understand why it’s unsafe, and why I’m disappointed that you would do that?
’ My mother was rarely ever angry. But her disappointment was enough to shut me right up. ”
“Now that doesn’t sound like you,” Taylor replies, deadpan.
“Hilarious.” I roll my eyes. “She gives the driver a furtive glance, then looks at me and goes, ‘Do you truly want to give your toys to the poor kids?’ I tell her yes, that I don’t need any more toys.
She says, ‘Okay. You’ll get a few so Papa doesn’t notice, but you and me will bring the rest to them. Don’t tell Papa. It’ll be our secret.’”
“Did you?”
“Yeah. We did it every year until she got sick.” My eyes drop. “We handed out blankets, clothes. More practical than the presents I got, but I also gave kids my toys. Every year after she—every year after, I snuck out and did it alone, or I dragged Violet or Ruby with me.”
Her hand grasps mine. I stare down at the unfamiliar gesture. Unfamiliar from her, at least. “She sounds amazing,” Taylor says in a slurred mumble, but her tone is earnest.
“She was.”
“I think she would be proud of the woman you have become, Lucy.”
“Maybe. She wanted me to be…well, I already told you. She wanted me to be more.”
Taylor squints in confusion. “You are more. I wouldn’t—” She coughs and shakes her head. “You are more.”
“But what if I’d been better, you know? Maybe there was a karmic tradeoff I was unaware of.
” My voice cracks. I drop Taylor’s hand and glance away.
“You know, the rational part of me understands the universe is random and chaotic. Everything is molecules buzzing around. Entropy. I get it. But, in the back of my mind, I hope that’s not true.
I want so badly for that not to be true.
I want there to be a reason I didn’t get to have a mom.
I want there to be a reason she didn’t get to live a full life. ”
Taylor swallows. “I want that for you too.”
“But you don’t believe it.”
“No.” She drinks more water. “I’m sorry if talking about your mother upset you.”
“It didn’t. It was nice to think about her. Sometimes, I’m afraid I’ll forget her entirely. It’s hard for me to recall the sound of her voice. But to tell someone else about her brings her to life again. It keeps her memory alive, since only me and Papa hold those memories.”
To think I could forget this woman who gave me life, who made me her life, is the deepest betrayal.
But I do. Every day, she slips from me, falling further into the ether, into the irretrievable well of the past. If I don’t remember her, who will?
She’ll disappear entirely, as if she never existed.
To forget a love is more painful than losing it.
“You look exhausted,” Taylor says, blissfully unaware that she is the cause of my exhaustion. “You need rest. Do you have a place to sleep?”
“The couch.”
Taylor shuffles over with great effort and looks down at the void she’s made on the bed, then back up to me with big, imploring hues.
I slip in the space she’s made and cradle her side.
There are so many wounds and injuries to be cognizant of, I let her take my hand and place it on her ribs, below her heart. Gently, she squeezes my fingers.
Smothering my face in her pillow and hair to hide my tears, I squeeze back. “I missed you.”
“I missed you too.”
I’ll never trust any creature that doesn’t crave warmth.
This is the first time in months I’ve woken up with the heat of another body beside mine and, despite the circumstances, touching another life fills me with joy.
Of course, it isn’t any old life. It’s her life, which makes it enormously better.
I’m completely wrapped around her good arm, my head burrowed into her shoulder.
The stiff scent of char hangs in the air, but also antiseptic and soap.
It occurs to me I’m probably pretty odorous.
I came off a jog and slept in my clothes for two days without taking a shower.
Hopefully Taylor is otherwise too disoriented to smell me.
Once I regain focus and lift my head, I realize Taylor is already wide-awake. Her tormented eyes are large, red veins slashing through the whites around her irises. “Morning, princess.”
“Good morning, hero,” I reply automatically.
Neither of us moves. A waning sunlight slips into the room, with thick clouds creating an impasse.
It’s still snowing, albeit lightly. No ambulance sirens wail in the distance.
No cars slush through freshly fallen snow.
There is only the sound of machines. Of steady breathing.
I venture a question I know I’m going to receive a lie to in response.
“Are you okay?”
“Yes.”
I snort my disbelief. Her blank stare up at the ceiling indicates a film playing behind those eyes, and not a happy one.
I’ve seen it on the soldiers. A familiar smell, a noise, sometimes nothing, and they are transported back to the field, reliving whatever horrible event has nestled into their subconscious.
They live in a state of constant anxiety, as if they could be yanked back in time at any moment.
“Did you sleep well?” I ask another question, and anticipate another lie.
“Well enough. The medication makes me drowsy, though I did wake up through the night.”