Sunday, January 1 #2
Angelica tread across the carpet, her steps soft yet purposeful.
She opened the door and peeked into the secret chamber.
There were three bundles of $100 bills, secured with rubber bands, and not just one but two black velvet ring boxes.
But the boxes didn’t catch Angelica’s interest. Instead, two gold 5x7 picture frames, leaning on their sides, did.
What a strange place to keep photos. She reached in and pulled out the closest one.
A man and a woman were holding hands. The man gazed passionately into the woman’s eyes.
She did the same, clearly in love. No, she adored him, her face glowing.
The man wore a tuxedo with a yellow floral boutonniere, and the woman wore a gown and carried a bouquet of colorful mixed flowers.
The couple was exchanging vows at the altar of a church.
A younger Nicky was the man, and the woman beside him, most youthful, her hair pinned up, in a white lace dress with a slit up the side and rosettes on the shoulders, a tulle veil, and a long, flowing train down the red carpet—wearing her bridal gown—was none other than she!
Any newfound hope, dream of fulfillment, or joy Angelica experienced this morning was shattered. If life is just a fleeting moment that can be taken away in an instant, this was Angelica’s moment. “No!” Her cry was lost in the hollow walls and panes of glass
She slumped against the wall, feeling both extremes of the temperature gauge—sweltering and chilled.
Her pounding head felt like it might explode.
An invisible beast seemed to be standing on her chest, crushing her lungs and making it almost impossible to breathe in the now airless room.
Her unblinking eyes were locked in a fierce stare on the Kodak moment,
Angelica wasn’t aware of anything and didn’t know how long she’d been holding onto the wall or how long the wall had held onto her. It could have been seconds, minutes, or hours, as the present froze and propelled her back to an unknown time, rewinding the hands of the clock.
The condo door opened, but she didn’t hear it.
She didn’t hear the familiar clickety-click of his shoes.
She didn’t hear him grumble about the water-damaged center hall table or the spill on the floor.
She didn’t hear Nicholas enter the kitchen, banging around with the bakery bag.
She didn’t hear him leave the kitchen with a dish towel to wipe up the puddle.
She didn’t hear him curse as he trudged back, the wet towel dripping along the way.
She didn’t hear him open the refrigerator.
She didn’t hear drawers slam. She didn’t hear a paper bag being crushed and stuffed into the trash can.
Angelica didn’t hear him walk down the long hall to the guest bedroom.
She didn’t hear him call her name. She didn’t hear the anxiety in his voice when he got no reply.
She didn’t hear him race from room to room, trying in vain to find her.
She didn’t hear his tone grow more distressed.
Angelica detected nothing as she stood, glued to the wall, pulled into her past.
Nicholas, then, decided he’d find Angelica lying on his bed—the very place he’d dreamed of her, the exact spot he’d needed her to be.
He slipped into the room, quick and quiet, brimming with his fantasies.
But he didn’t find what he’d imagined. He stepped into another dimension, a time warp, when he saw the open safe and, nearby, Angelica, drained of color, her back pressed to the wall, gripping the photograph in trembling hands.
He stood in the doorway, blurting out nervously, “Sweetheart, let me explain.”
Thrown from one world to another and unable to distinguish reality from madness, Angelica’s face carried as much pain as her anguished, quivering whisper, “We’re … married …?!”
If her cheeks looked pale, Nicholas’s turned ghostly white as sweat broke out above his black eyebrows. “It was the accident … You forgot … forgot everything, darling,” he stammered, tugging at his collar.
This wasn’t a dream; it wasn’t her nightmare. It was a heartless, cruel trick in which she was the victim, preyed upon. She peered at the picture, then glanced up at him.
Her voice soared as she howled, “Forgot?! Forgot I’m married to you? And you somehow ... just somehow forgot to tell me, Nicholas?!”
Nicholas rushed across the room. When he reached for his wife, Angelica slammed the frame against his arm. “Don’t touch me. Don’t ever touch me!”
His arm dropped at the same rapid pace as his words, “Please let me explain … Listen to me.” His hand swept across his smooth-shaven face.
Teardrops breached the dam that held them at bay on the high-pitched waves of her voice. “Listen to you? You’re a damn … damn liar, Nicholas! A serial liar!”
As Nicholas sought to comfort his wife once more, their wedding photo followed the same path as before, crashing into his outstretched forearm.
“Are you deaf? I said don’t touch me!”
“Please, dear … hear me out …”
“Everyone said … said I had a memory problem! It’s you who has the problem. Oh, God! Unless you didn’t want me to remember … because you had someone else. You stinking bastard!”
Nicholas’s back stiffened as he raked his hand through his hair. “Angel, that’s not true. I’ve never wanted anyone else … It’s always been you … Please believe me.”
“Obviously, you didn’t want me … or you would have told me.”
Nicholas grabbed hold of Angelica’s arms, but he didn’t get what he expected. She kicked him in the shin and screeched, “I told you, don’t ever touch me again!”
He jerked his hands away and stepped back as sweat dampened his shirt collar. “I’ve always loved you and wanted you, sweetheart.”
Words! They meant nothing, or Angelica failed to hear them. She was focused elsewhere. The loathing in her large eyes mirrored that of a caged animal breaking free, ready to pounce and devour her captor.
Baring her teeth, she lunged forward and, in full attack mode, repeatedly drove the corner of the frame into Nicholas’s chest like a dagger. With each forceful plunge, Angelica growled, “I hate you! I hate you!”
But with her final stab, she saved her most damning words, those that would maim his spirit and trample his soul, for last: “You keep betraying me. You’re always ruining my life …! You never stop ruining my life! All that’s left for you to do is murder me, as you’ve already murdered my heart.”
Nicholas stood ramrod straight, wincing as he endured her strikes and the fatal curse of condemnation.
When she paused to catch her breath, he pleaded, “I promise I won’t lay a hand on you, Angel. Sit down so I can explain—”
“I don’t want to sit down!” With renewed fury, Angelica slammed the frame against the side of her husband’s face, channeling her power and rage. “I hate you!”
As swift as his wife’s move, Nicholas’s hand shot up, and he grabbed her wrist midair.
Red-faced and unable to overpower him physically, she repeated her battle cry in a heated breath, “I said don’t ever touch me again!”
He dropped his grip and retreated a few steps. “Darling, please sit … Sit in the chair, on the bed, or even on the floor,” he begged. “Let me talk to you. Tell you what happened.”
Angelica rocked back and forth, gasping in agonized wails. Her tear-streaked eyes and drawn face radiated contempt as she mocked, “Next, you’ll tell me we adopted six children from Bangladesh.”
Nicholas pressed a hand to his chest, closed his eyes for a second, and let out a bottomless sigh. A pause hung like a heavy, rain-filled cloud, halting time. Then the cloud burst.
Clearing his throat, his normally commanding voice cracked. “We had a daughter, sweetheart … Her name was Sofia ... She died in the accident ...” he trailed off.
Angelica had heard so much, but now she had heard too much. Staggering, she fell hard against the wall. Her wedding photo slipped from her fingers and landed on the Persian rug with a soft thud. She swayed, her eyes rolled back, and Nicholas caught his wife just before she hit the floor.
* * *
Was she in the hospital? Angelica’s head throbbed just as it had back then. Oh no, she walked in front of a truck again. Will she ever learn to cross the street? Her mother always held her hand whenever they reached the corners of Sycamore and Main.
“You need to look both ways, Allegra Angelica. Traffic is dangerous, honey. You could get hurt.”
She deserved to be hit for being so stupid. Twice, no less!
But she no longer heard her mother; someone else called out to her. Nicky! Gosh, she must be in the hospital because he’s here again. Her loyal Nicky. No! She didn’t like him. That’s why they broke up. So why does he keep showing up where he’s not welcome?
Angelica whimpered as a hand caressed her cheek—the same gentle touch she remembered from the ICU.
As her eyes fluttered open that day, he loomed above her.
The “I’m-Going-Places” guy looked like heck.
Since when had Nicholas Anthony Ponte stopped caring about his image?
That wasn’t Mr. Suave and Debonair’s best look.
Who knew when he’d last shaved or combed his perfect black hair, which appeared to be turning gray—this couldn’t be right.
Nicholas wouldn’t be seen dead like this, even if the building were on fire.
Angelica blinked, and the staticky channel didn’t change.
She might have hated him, but she wouldn’t tell him he was aging badly and going to pot.
Sometimes a girl can be too nice. Those girls get hurt.
Mr. Scruffy-looking brushed her hair off her brow, smiled, and said something to her.
With IVs in her arms and a feeding tube in her nose, she muttered something back. Who knows what she said? Did it matter? Apparently, it did, because Nicholas’s true colors showed when he let go of her hand and stopped smiling. What a lousy guy.