Lilies Know A Ghostly Birth *NC17* 2/3
AUTHOR: Rachel Anton
EMAIL: Ranton1013@aol.com
xxxxxx
She should have stopped writing as soon as she saw him headed for the table. She knew it would turn out like this. His curiosity always gets the better of both of them.
She should have stopped, but she hadn't been able to. The words were flowing again, finally. Before tonight, it had been almost six months since she'd even opened the journal. The relative peace in her life since her surgery has been good for her soul, but somewhat detrimental to her writing. She's been too busy, and perhaps a little too content, to sit down and ponder the mistakes of her past.
But it's raining tonight.
She watches him covertly, feigning rapturous interest in the view of wet city streets, but focusing on his reflection in the window beside them. He's got his chin in his palm, elbow resting on the table, and his head is bowed over her book. His eyes are narrow, squinting the way they do when something's got his full attention.
She shouldn't be this nervous. He's not a publisher and this isn't her manuscript. But it is her life story, and he is both the most important person in that story, and the smartest person she has ever known.
"You stopped before the best part," he says when he's done, pushing the book back in her direction. He's smirking and his eyes are playful and amused.
"I was getting to it before you started yammering at me."
"You were? Gonna write about it?"
"Well, yes. It is part of the story."
She feels his calf against hers, rubbing a little. She'd already been thinking about that particular part of the story when he came in and her thoughts have been growing progressively more explicit and distracting. It's been two weeks since she's seen him, two weeks since he's touched her. Long distance phone sex is fine, but it's hardly a substitute for the real thing. Still, she'd been hoping to finish the entry before her hormones obliterated her memory.
"You know, if you're gonna send this to Harlequin publishing I expect a cut of the profits."
She feels a tremor of giddy excitement at the thought. Does he really think she could be published? But Harlequin? Surely she could do better than that.
"I told you, I throw away most of what I write."
"Well, that's a shame. It's quite good. If you're intending to write a novel, that is. If not....well, let's just say you've got a pretty strange memory and an even stranger way of writing in your journal."
She reviews his words in her mind, rolling them around, trying to decide if he's delivered a compliment or an insult. Sometimes it's hard to tell with Alex.
He likes her writing, but...what? Does he think she's making it all up? Twisting their history?
Unable to reach a conclusion, she focuses on the insulting portion of his comments first.
"What do you mean I've got a strange memory?"
God, that smirk. Sometimes she wants to rip it right off his pretty little face.
"Oh, Marita Marita, what am I gonna do with you?"
She stares at him, waiting for an answer.
"What I mean is, don't you think this is a tad melodramatic? I mean, it didn't happen exactly like this."
Of course it didn't happen *exactly* like that. She'd have to possess a photographic memory to recall every word they'd exchanged, every detail of every encounter. But surely she's captured the gist of it. She certainly captured her own feelings, and that's really the purpose of the entire exercise. She wants to know what he thinks of her feelings, not her attention to detail. What did it make him feel to read this?
"I think it did, Alex. Maybe you're the one with the strange memory."
"I don't remember you crying so much. And I don't think I was as nice as you've written me."
So that's it, then. He can't face up to the man he used to be. Perhaps he can't face her, remembering what he sacrificed. She wishes she'd shown him another passage, one where he treated her like shit.
"Anyway," he continues, "This reads more like a novel than a journal. I like it. Makes a lot more sense than my journal."
He keeps a journal? She wonders where it is and why she's never seen him write in it. She'd give her own left arm to be able to read it.
"You don't think I write well enough to be published, do you?" she asks with some shyness. It's an embarrassing question. Really, she only asked to stop herself from asking him what she really wants to know, what he'll probably never tell her. "Never mind. Don't answer that."
"No, no. I do. I always have. I kept all those letters you wrote to me when we were kids."
"You did?"
She can't believe he'd do something so...sappy. But then again, he's always surprising her. Even now, after so many years. She wonders where he keeps them.
"My favorite's from that time your father grounded you, after he caught us feeling each other up in the living room. Remember?"
She nods, although she doesn't remember the specifics. There were many such incidents.
"You were so sad," he tells her, reaching for her hand across the table. He runs his thumb over her knuckles, looking deeply into her eyes. She doesn't know where the sudden sentimentality is coming from, but she hopes it's the result of her words. Maybe they did have some effect. "It was like the end of the world, you said," he continues. "I think some of the ink is run from the poor tears you shed over the paper."
Nope, no effect. He's just being a smart-ass, making fun of her.
"Alex, you are a sap."
"And I can still make you blush. With your clothes on, even."
"I'd like to look at those letters sometime."
"But they're mine."
"So? I can't look at them? I wrote them, didn't I?"
"I'll show them to you if you finish the story," he tells her, picking up her pen and placing it gently back in her hand. So, he wants to read more. She supposes that's worth something.
He takes her cup and rises from the table. "More?"
"Yes, please."
She watches him as he walks towards the counter, admiring his saunter, wondering how she can still want him so much after so many years and so many terrible things between them. She wonders why she cares what he thinks of her stupid journal and her confused feelings.
She turns to a blank page, and finds herself staring at it for a long time. How can she write the rest of this, knowing he's going to read it? Aside from being nerve-wracking and potentially upsetting, it seems to defeat the purpose in a sense. She's supposed to be writing for herself, isn't she? Now she's going to agonize over every word, wondering if she's gotten it exactly right, if it's going to make him feel...anything.
It's all in the past, she tells herself, writing a few tentative words. It's over. Whatever he may think of it now, if he thinks of it at all, makes no difference. There's no point in wondering, no point in caring. No point at all.
xxxxxx
He brought me bagels in the morning. And coffee. And lilies. Lilies. He'd never given me flowers before. In fact, he'd told me many times that flowers were a waste of money, and an insulting gift. Flowers die, he'd say. What's the point? But something that morning motivated him to stop and buy me lilies. There were six of them; blood red with golden centers.
I didn't ask questions, though I wondered if he'd chosen lilies because of their association with funerals or their similarity to female genitalia. I just accepted them with a nervous smile and put them in a vase.
He took me shopping in the afternoon, and we spent obscene amounts of ill-begotten money. He chose a low-cut, blood red gown for me (to match the lilies perhaps), and I bought him three beautiful Armani suits to wear at his new job. It still infuriates me that he never got to show them off. Apparently they were too beautiful.
We had dinner at his favorite Italian restaurant, the one he could never afford, and I wore my new dress for him. He admired me from across the table, and I felt sexy. I hadn't felt sexy in years.
He was wearing a purple silk shirt and black dinner jacket. I'd never seen him so well dressed.
"I am going to move out of that house, Alex," I told him again over our fried calamari appetizer. "Maybe...maybe we could get a place together, in DC. You know, when you start at Quantico."
I hoped it sounded like a casual suggestion, that he wouldn't be able to tell how badly I wanted it.
"You want me to live with you?"
He sounded shocked. I tried to ignore it.
"I just think...I mean, you'll be moving to DC and I've got business there. It seems...practical."
"Practical?"
It wasn't practical. Not in the slightest. In fact, it turned out to be one of the most dreadful and impractical ideas I'd ever had, but it sounded like paradise at the time.
"I just...think it would be nice," I muttered, staring at my plate, wondering if I'd be able to live with the sting of his rejection. How had he lived with mine? So many times?
"You think it would be nice?"
"Yes, but..."
"All right."
"All right?"
"Yes, we can get a place together. If you think you can handle it."
I don't know what I thought except that I didn't want to be alone anymore.
When we got back to his apartment he took me up the fire escape and onto the roof of his building. We brought blankets and our third bottle of wine for the evening. It was peaceful up there. The sounds of the neighborhood- cars and sirens and yelling- all seemed distant and muted. The clouds had finally cleared, and we had a perfect view of the stars. Perfect as you can get in the neon haze of New York City.
We huddled together for warmth. He was wearing the cologne I'd picked out on our shopping extravaganza, and it was difficult to be so close and not bury my face in his neck.
"I don't know if I'm going to be a very good FBI agent," he said, passing me the bottle. We hadn't brought glasses so I took a swig. Some wine dribbled down my chin and I wiped it away with my fingers.
"You'll be fine. You're good at everything you do, Alex."
"That's because I don't do anything I'm not good at."
I was a little too tipsy to understand that sentence, but I knew that he was feeling insecure, and it confused me. He was supposed to be the confident one.
"You'd be a good profiler," I told him. I still believe he would have been if he'd ever had a chance.
"I guess we'll see," he said, taking the bottle back and tilting it to his lips.
"I like it up here, Alex. It reminds me of when we were children, when we'd sneak onto the roof of my house in the middle of the night."
"Yeah, only this time your father isn't gonna find us and ground you for letting me in the house."
"I never understood why he was so angry. Why all of them got so angry when we were together. Even when we were too young to do...anything."
"Do you understand now?" he asked. I shook my head. The reasons Father had given me seemed vague and hollow in retrospect, although I'd taken them very seriously at the time. Too seriously.
"They're afraid of us, Rita. They always have been."
"Afraid? Why would they be afraid?"
"Because they're getting old and slow, and we're young and strong and smart. Because we've always been curious and we've always asked questions. Not like the other kids. They knew we'd find out what was going on and that we'd cause problems for them. Especially together. That's really why your father never wanted you to have anything to do with me."
It made sense, but even then I don't think I believed it. Not completely. It would take several more lessons learned the hard way before I'd really understand.
"He knows about Oron," I said.
"I figured. Did he say anything to you about it?"
The memory of the conversation made me queasy. First he'd scolded me, like I was still a child. Then he'd commended me on my craftiness. "At least you got his estate," he said. "Good girl."
"Nothing important."
"Are you gonna tell him we're moving in together?"
I hadn't considered that. I wondered if he'd ever find out if I didn't let him know, if there was a way to make sure he wouldn't. I was still afraid of him, after everything.
"Come on, Alex. I don't want to talk about Father anymore. Let's go back in. There's something I want to show you."
I'd taken a little side trip that afternoon, to my favorite lingerie shop, and picked up a lacy, red thing to wear when the time felt right. The time seemed to be at hand. I slipped into the bathroom and changed into my new nightie.
I was still nervous, but the wine had dulled my anxiety a bit, and making plans for the future had assured me. This wasn't going to be a good-bye fuck or a payment to him for services rendered. It was going to be starting over, starting fresh.
I stared into the mirror, wondering what he would see when he looked at me. Would he see a small, wounded, terrified girl- a pathetic shell of the woman I should have become, but never did? Or would I be the temptress, his weakness, the woman he couldn't resist, the woman he couldn't stand, the one who'd destroyed him?
Who did you see, Alex? Who do you see now?
You're sleeping, Alex. Sleeping on the couch in the middle of a Starbucks, in front of a dozen people. I've noticed that you've been sleeping more lately, sleeping easier. The nightmares have been less frequent. But how can you fall asleep here? How can you be comfortable enough to do that? Is it because I'm here, Alex? Because you know I wouldn't let anything happen to you? I hope that it is.
I don't know if I can write this, Alex. You want to read it, for whatever reason, but I don't think that I can do it justice. I don't think I can put to words what you did to me, what you did for me that night. I'm not sure there are words. And if there are, I'm certain you'll find them foolish and hackneyed.
Do you want to know why my journal reads like a novel? Because it's easier for me that way, Alex. It makes everything that's happened seem somehow removed, distant, unreal. Maybe therapy is a crock, because fifty-two sessions and ten thousand dollars later, I'm still afraid to face my past. Our past. Our future.
I can't write this like it happened to someone else, though. This is mine.
Do you remember it, Alex? Do you remember what you thought when I walked out in that ridiculous lingerie, skinny and shaking? I didn't want you to look at me.
When I came towards you, you were sitting on the couch, rubbing the petals of a flower between your fingers. I asked you why lilies, but I don't think you answered me. You never told me why. Do you remember why?
God, Alex, you're right. My memory is strange. I try to fill in the gaps when I'm writing, but there's so much I've lost. Sometimes I don't know where the truth ends and my imagination begins. I want to recapture every moment of that night, to hold it and cherish it and relive it again and again, but all I've got are snapshots- small remnants of conversations and touches and looks.
I remember that you asked me if I was sure, more than once. If I was sure I wanted to wear skimpy lingerie in front of you, if I was sure I wanted you to kiss me, if I was sure I wanted to be touched. I wasn't sure, Alex, but my body was. I was on fire, flushed and fevered, from the moment you laid your hungry eyes on me in that thing.
I remember that when you did touch me, it hurt. It hurt, Alex. It had been so long...I hadn't even touched myself since Oron's first foul violation of my body. I told you that, and I think you looked very sad. I didn't understand why at the time, but I think I do now.
I told you I wanted to feel good again, not like a whore. You told me I wasn't, that I never had been, but that's not true and we both knew it. Still, your words, your kindness, reminded me that even if I had been a whore it didn't have to be like that. You reminded me that sex can be beautiful and good and meaningful, that it didn't have to be used as currency. It didn't have to be a chore. My body was a gift, to be given to the person I loved. Not a tool, not a burden. I'd been brainwashed, and I was only just beginning to realize the truth.
You felt young, full of life and vigor and everything else my life had been missing for so very long. You reminded me that I was young too, that I'd been letting myself grow old before my time.
Your kisses were like a drug, like life's breath.
When I was naked, you said, "You look good, Rita," and I believed you. You wanted me. You loved me. It didn't matter that you'd only said it once, under duress. I could feel it in the way you ran your fingers delicately over my chest, could hear it in your uneven, ragged breathing, could see it in the crease in your forehead as you struggled to maintain control.
You asked me if I remembered now, how good it was between us. You asked me like I'd ever forgotten, like I could forget. I hadn't forgotten, Alex. I promise you. I always remember, and it's haunted me whenever we've been apart. No matter what I've said or done to you, I've always remembered how good we are, how good we can be.
When you were finally inside me again...oh, Alex, how can I even explain it? I don't think that I can. I know that you're hoping to read an explicit account, something hot and exciting, but I honestly can't remember the positions or the motions or anything really aside from the way you made me feel. You made me feel cherished and loved, safe and beautiful. And you made me hot, Alex. You know you always have. You brought me back to life.
You filled me with hope. You made me forget, just for a few hours, that our lives were out of our control and that our future was forever hovering, like a malicious phantom in the background.
I hate them, Alex. I hate them for taking the promise of that moment and crushing it like a sick little bug. I hate them for everything they did to you, for everything I did to you. I know that I'm to blame for many things. Please don't think that I don't. But sometimes, sometimes I wonder...
What if we'd been born into another life? If our souls had met, but our bodies had been different? I truly believe that we would still share the purity, the sense of perfect union that we had on that night. And maybe there wouldn't have been so much pain, so much division.
So much has happened since that night, so many terrible terrible things. I never thought we'd get that back, Alex. I never thought we'd be innocent again, that we'd be able to start fresh.
Maybe we never will, but looking at you now, sleeping on a couch in the middle of Starbucks, trusting me, I hope that we can.
After we made love, you held me in your bed and you told me that you were glad you'd experienced freedom at least once. You'd been free for almost four years, until I came staggering back into your life, dragging you back into mine. I think you knew what was coming, Alex.
Now we're here, and you say that we're free, but I sense a weariness in you. Are you tired? Sometimes I'm very tired. Sometimes I wish we could go back to that night and run, run far away and change our names and just...be.
I'm not looking forward to showing you this, Alex. There are things here that I want you to know, but I'm tempted to toss the whole book into the fireplace and be done with it. I know this isn't what you want to read.
Or maybe it is. Sometimes I still wonder what's inside you, Alex. I think that I know, but maybe you can't ever truly know. You still surprise me sometimes.
I suppose I should wake you up and take you home. You need a bed. But you also need to know this: I am yours, Alex. I always have been, and I always will be.
xxxxxx
end chapter two