Chapter 23
LEO
Three Days After the Fire
I JOLT AWAKE IN A cold sweat. It is two o’clock in the morning as I sit upright on the Russos’ couch in the dark, orienting myself.
The room is cool, there are no flames. I turn, the soles of my feet finding solid ground, and I lean back against the worn couch, running a hand over my face. I’m safe; I am not burning to death.
April speaks. Lo siento. I reach for her. You always say this creek is filthy. She strips away her clothes. I turn aside to give her privacy, but she is there too, holding my book to her chest.
I stand and click on a lamp.
I am, of course, alone in a non-burning room.
The bookshelf is stocked with plenty to occupy me as my heartbeat slows.
Then there’s my sad, ripped Target bag on the floor in the corner, with Seventh City peeking out of it.
I’m suddenly all too oriented, and annoyed.
I don’t want to think about my failed novel or my failed marriage, these amateur endeavors to which I gave myself completely.
Yet Seventh City all but lifts itself into my hands, and I open it.
To April. The night I reached forty thousand words, I decided it was garbage, pressed Select All, and hovered over the Delete button.
April ran in front of the computer, slid herself between it and me, squeezed my chin between her thumb and forefinger, and said, “Leonardo Torres, don’t you dare. ” So dare I didn’t.
I notice, for the first time, her penciled handwriting at the bottom of the page. Greatest gift I’ve ever been given. She erased Graetest to fix it. She always writes in pencil so letter reversals won’t be permanent.
I flip through the pages and discover that her careful handwriting fills the margins, following Andre’s journey like this fictional character was a friend sending letters home. Like she hadn’t already read this five times before it took physical form.
When Andre splits from his traveling companions: I’m sorry they hurt you.
When Andre traipses through Cambodia and has a panic attack: Wish I were there.
When Andre discovers the seventh city and bathes himself in the riches he despises, longing only for the people he left behind: I see you in every page, Leo. You’re my Andre, my seventh city, and I’m so glad we found each other. She erased ohter and fixed it.
I sit, stunned. Not only by the fresh cut of her sincere love, but by the way she has transcribed me. Andre’s eyes are brown; mine are green. Andre is short; I am tall. I’m not Andre, am I?
I shake my head. Of course April saw what I didn’t. The veil of fiction is paper-thin, fooling only the author himself. My gaze drops to the bottom of the final page, where April has left a missive in permanent ink. Love you, L.
And the truth stains me: love cannot be reversed, cannot be erased, maybe cannot even be a mistake.
It can end—and it does—but it is never undone.
The book falls shut in my lap as I look up at the ceiling, toward where my wife lies sleeping between the two permanent marks of our love.
I’ve been trying to erase what can’t be erased.
I want April to be the woman who betrayed me or the woman on my heart’s pedestal.
I want her to be wrong or right, good or bad, a liar or trustworthy.
But she’s all of that, and I don’t know what to do with it—with a woman who both bandages and burns.
I want her to be gone, and I want her to be mine.
I think of her with Cody and curse her.
I think of calling the attorney and curse myself.
I think of going to April right now, up the stairs.
But then there is a clatter in the kitchen, and I frown.
Tossing my book onto the ripped plastic bag, I tug a shirt on and walk warily around the corner. My father-in-law is standing in the shadows, and a bowl is broken on the counter.
“You all right?” I step forward, but he backs up like a cornered animal.
I reach toward the broken pieces, tentatively. “I’ll just help get this cleaned up?”
A light switch is flipped behind me, shining light onto Billy’s face, which is tinted with fear.
Deb rushes in. “Everyone okay?”
“Deb.” Billy says her name like a pronouncement. “The plates weren’t in the right place.” He looks at me. “But this young man came to help.”
I start to clean the ceramic pieces, my brow furrowing.
Deb looks from me to Billy. “Let’s go back to bed?”
She ushers him toward their room, briefly looking over her shoulder. “Thanks, Leo. Sorry about that.” She offers no further explanation.
I carry pieces of the bowl to the trash, wipe the shards with a rag, and then bend level with the counter to wipe it once more.
I get a sense of not being alone, and I turn to find April approaching, a scrunchie loose in her hair and her old T-shirt replete with the names of dyslexic celebrities.
I could recite those names from memory. I swallow at the sight of her.
You’re my Andre, my seventh city, and I’m so glad we found each other.
“What happened? I heard a crash.”
“Uh, I accidentally—”
“Leo.” Her face tightens. “Was it Dad? Tell me.”
“He’s fine, but he seemed…confused.”
She looks down at her own shoulder, a gesture I know to mean that she’s trying not to cry.
“Is your dad— I mean, do you know if maybe his memory—”
She’s nodding, yes.
Even though I asked the question, I’m shocked by the answer.
I close the gap between us, pulling April into a hug.
Her scrunchie drops to the floor. Questions line up inside me, but the expression on her face answers most of them: Billy’s diagnosis is fresh, and it is bad.
I don’t know what it is or how long April has known; all I know is that he looked at me like he was in a trance.
This young man came to help.
But Billy is young. Not even sixty.
April hasn’t let go of me. I know so little about permanence, but I know there is pain here and now. So I hold her closer.
Soon, the ruthless memory of Cody slithers between us, and I pull away.