A Journey that Changes Everything
For it is the very mark of Eros that when he is in us we had rather share unhappiness with the Beloved than be happy on any other terms. Even if the two lovers are mature and experienced people who know that broken hearts heal in the end and can clearly foresee that, if they once steeled themselves to go through the present agony of parting, they would almost certainly be happier ten years hence than marriage is at all likely to make them-even then, they would not part. To Eros all these calculations are irrelevant. Even when it becomes clear beyond all evasion that marriage with the Beloved cannot possibly lead to happiness-when it cannot even profess to offer any other life than that of tending an incurable invalid, of hopeless poverty, of exile, or of disgrace-Eros never hesitates to say, "Better this than parting. Better to be miserable with her than happy without her. Let our hearts break provided they break together." If the voice within us does not say this, then it is not the voice of Eros. This is the grandeur and terror of love.-Lewis
Chapter 1
Foreboding
"Flight 209 to Paraguay is now boarding," the flight attendant stated congenially over the loud speaker.
I got up from the leather airport chair I'd been sitting in. The day had been interminably long and it didn't help that I'd had so many things on my mind. Mainly Sarah Mackenzie had been on it. Since she left me that night standing, staring at the door, with only my thoughts and my paralytic tongue to keep me company, worry had clamped its icy fingers around my body and soul, wrenching them apart. It left me only my thoughts of her, slipping through the cracks of its dark clutches. I couldn't sleep, eat or even think straight.
Once again the flight attendant called the flight, which knocked me out of my shadowy daydreams. I grabbed my ticket and handed it to the attractive attendant. After she checked it, she brushed my hand flirtatiously as she proffered my ticket. In my natural state I would've done something. At least given her a smile, but I was in another world. A world overflowing with thoughts of Mac.
I took my seat and looked out the window. As I gazed out, I quickly became absorbed into the reverie that had haunted me for the past few days. I hadn't meant for this to happen, but it did.
It hadn't taken me long after I'd gotten to know Mac to realize that she was different from the rest of the women I had known. She came along and made my carefully calculated plans fly swiftly out the window. I kept pushing down those feelings I'd felt welling up inside of me, terrified that they might escape. She was not just a woman - a pair of soft arms to help me momentarily forget my loneliness and the ghosts of my past. She was in some mysterious way, the woman.
I grew more uncertain, and became more frightened when, after fooling myself into believing we could be just friends, I found my love and my admiration grew unbounded for her. The more time we spent together, fighting side by side, fighting each other, sharing our deepest hurts and pains from the past, the more inextricably close we grew.
I can only remember crying in front of one other woman in my life - my mother. I've allowed myself to cry in front of Mac three times. Mac knows me like no other human being has ever known me. And I know her just as intimately, and that had scared the hell out of me. I tried to run for my life. I ran back to the sea, and to the air. I ran to other women. I tried many times to settle for imitation. Renee, Annie, Jordan, never letting them have all of me, and I thought that could be enough. But, Mac had blown them all away, until there was nothing left for me to cling to but her, every time. In the end, it was always her I swam back to.
She had been the lighthouse in the storm-tossed sea of my life. No matter how many times the wind had blown me about, and her too, we always came back together. There was no escaping it. I never believed I could reach the point to which she had brought me. And so, I had decided to accept the inevitable and stop running from the truth. I was going to tell her what I felt. I just had to get to her somehow. I should've told her before she left. My thoughts scrambled back to the last time I talked to Mac in my apartment.
Flashback
As I sat there strumming my guitar, I heard a knock at the door. I walked over and opened it, revealing Mac.
"Hey!"
"Hi!" she replied.
Seeing my guitar she asked, "Are you entertaining?" She peeked into my apartment, as if expecting a woman.
"Uh, no, uh, just entertaining myself," I assured her, as we smiled at each other and she walked over to the kitchen counter.
"I just came by to see how you are, after all you've been through." She gazed up searchingly into my eyes.
"Well, so far no one's accused me of murder," I joked, grinning at her.
"Well, it's early yet," she teased, as she slipped her jacket off, revealing a black dress.
"That's true," I replied. And then I spotted it. For a moment, I felt as if a sledgehammer has been rammed into my stomach. How could she have become pregnant without my knowledge? Have I been that out of it lately? She should've told me. Who's the father? Thoughts whirled around dizzyingly in my mind. As usual, when confronted with even a glimmer of my feelings toward her, my eloquence stepped to the fore.
"Whoa!"
"What?" she uttered with feigned innocence. She smiled and eyed me knowingly.
"Is there something you want to tell me?" I questioned, still aghast that I had not noticed this before. I was getting old, positively geriatric, to miss something like this.
"Mmm... Plenty," she said, still grinning irrepressibly. That mischievous dimple I love appeared on her cheek.
"How did you hide this?"
"Bigger clothes."
At this point, I struggled steadfastly to regain my composure. But, all I could do was think, 'How could she do something like this? I thought we had something.' Then I came to the realization that we were nothing more than friends at the moment. There were no promises, only unspoken, numinous feelings. So, I stepped up to her and touched her swollen stomach. Then I realized it wasn't what I thought. She had something under there, a pillow or something.
"There's a story here, somewhere," I asserted, not really knowing what else to say. All I knew was, that I was a happy, and very relieved, man.
"Listen, I'm going away," she said, a sudden seriousness clouding her features.
"Where?" This, of course, made me immediately feel suspicious, and something else - aggressively protective.
"Can't say," she replied mysteriously.
I didn't like this one bit.
"For how long?" I started to feel the panic well up inside, again. I didn't know what to do. I hated being out of control. I hated not knowing. What if she needed me?
"Don't know," she stated, still being enigmatic, but this time a glimmer of recognition struck.
"This has Webb written all over it," I declared, before even realizing I was uttering my suspicions aloud. Webb was somehow always behind something like this.
"He needed a pregnant wife. I'm his cover story."
She looked at me strangely - perhaps lovingly. Or, perhaps my addled brain was playing tricks on me. I wasn't exactly in top form at that point in time.
"Is it dangerous?" I queried, uncertainly. I didn't know why it worried me so much, but for some intangible reason, I sensed something wasn't right.
"Very. We travel to Paraguay tonight, but I needed to know that you were okay. You've been through a lot lately," she informed me. Her brow was lined with worry, her large dark eyes, caring. She saw my face pale, full of panic and shock.
"I'm coming back, you know," she told me, as she rose from the chair.
"You don't know that," I contended desperately. She slipped back into her beige coat, as I laid my guitar down. "I don't want you to go, Mac."
I gazed at her intensely. My hands were starting to sweat and I had an aching feeling in the pit my stomach. Mac seemed a little annoyed, and slightly amused. She shook her head.
"Why is it that you are only like this when I have one foot out the door?" Her arms were folded in front of her, her eyebrows raised, questioningly. I simply stared at her. "Your interest always fades when I might be in a position to actually return it."
I stood there like an idiot. Why was it that I couldn't tell her how I really felt? That I was worried that I might not see her again, and that I needed her right now?
Mac crossed the room to the door, and as she opened it to leave me, I choked out, "Mac!"
Pathetic. That was all I could get out. I had so much I wanted to tell her, but all I could say was her name. She paused, looked at me a bit sadly, turned her head and withdrew, closing the door silently behind her.
The plane started to roll down the runway and took off, dragging me back to reality. That last talk with her had carved indelibly and unceasingly through my mind. I laid awake every night, hearing echoes about my interest fading when she was in a position to return it. Peace eluded me, not that we were ever familiar for long, anyway.
I tried to reposition myself in my seat. These little seats were not very accommodating for a man of my height. My legs were almost numb. After I regained some semblance of comfort, my mind dipped back into the black hole of memory. I'd tried to find out where she was. However, I kept hitting dead ends. Finally, I couldn't stand it anymore. I had to go ask the Admiral if he could give me any clue to her whereabouts. Of course, it was a bad idea because he refused to tell me anything. All he did was assure me that if there was anything wrong, he'd let me know.
That night, I had a nightmare about her wearing the same black dress she had on the last time I saw her. She was walking hand in hand with Webb to a taxi where a man waited with the door open. As they got in, another man walked up behind them. The man holding the door backed up, while the man from behind pulled out a gun. Mac looked at gunman and shouted to Webb. Both were shot several times. I remember shooting straight up in bed, and gasping for breath. That dream strengthened the tortuous fears that had plagued me recently, that something was going to go wrong. I needed to see her so bad that I ached.
I had to find a way to get a hold of her. So, I had called the one person who I thought could know were they were. I still remember the talk I had with Webb's mother...
Those thoughts were just some of the things that stalked me on the flight. By the time I looked out of the window again, all I saw was bleak darkness, as if staring at a reflection of my inner turmoil. That was how I felt inside. It felt as if there was a part of me that was missing. There was this vortex, this black abyss, sucking out all of the light inside my soul. I felt empty, and alone at the same time. I needed her so badly. I didn't care about anything else. The darkness in my soul was voraciously consuming my every waking moment and when I was asleep I'd try to rise into that darkness to find her, but I couldn't.
Before I knew it I was fast asleep dreaming of her.
End Of Chapter 1
For it is the very mark of Eros that when he is in us we had rather share unhappiness with the Beloved than be happy on any other terms. Even if the two lovers are mature and experienced people who know that broken hearts heal in the end and can clearly foresee that, if they once steeled themselves to go through the present agony of parting, they would almost certainly be happier ten years hence than marriage is at all likely to make them-even then, they would not part. To Eros all these calculations are irrelevant. Even when it becomes clear beyond all evasion that marriage with the Beloved cannot possibly lead to happiness-when it cannot even profess to offer any other life than that of tending an incurable invalid, of hopeless poverty, of exile, or of disgrace-Eros never hesitates to say, "Better this than parting. Better to be miserable with her than happy without her. Let our hearts break provided they break together." If the voice within us does not say this, then it is not the voice of Eros. This is the grandeur and terror of love.-Lewis
Chapter 1
Foreboding
"Flight 209 to Paraguay is now boarding," the flight attendant stated congenially over the loud speaker.
I got up from the leather airport chair I'd been sitting in. The day had been interminably long and it didn't help that I'd had so many things on my mind. Mainly Sarah Mackenzie had been on it. Since she left me that night standing, staring at the door, with only my thoughts and my paralytic tongue to keep me company, worry had clamped its icy fingers around my body and soul, wrenching them apart. It left me only my thoughts of her, slipping through the cracks of its dark clutches. I couldn't sleep, eat or even think straight.
Once again the flight attendant called the flight, which knocked me out of my shadowy daydreams. I grabbed my ticket and handed it to the attractive attendant. After she checked it, she brushed my hand flirtatiously as she proffered my ticket. In my natural state I would've done something. At least given her a smile, but I was in another world. A world overflowing with thoughts of Mac.
I took my seat and looked out the window. As I gazed out, I quickly became absorbed into the reverie that had haunted me for the past few days. I hadn't meant for this to happen, but it did.
It hadn't taken me long after I'd gotten to know Mac to realize that she was different from the rest of the women I had known. She came along and made my carefully calculated plans fly swiftly out the window. I kept pushing down those feelings I'd felt welling up inside of me, terrified that they might escape. She was not just a woman - a pair of soft arms to help me momentarily forget my loneliness and the ghosts of my past. She was in some mysterious way, the woman.
I grew more uncertain, and became more frightened when, after fooling myself into believing we could be just friends, I found my love and my admiration grew unbounded for her. The more time we spent together, fighting side by side, fighting each other, sharing our deepest hurts and pains from the past, the more inextricably close we grew.
I can only remember crying in front of one other woman in my life - my mother. I've allowed myself to cry in front of Mac three times. Mac knows me like no other human being has ever known me. And I know her just as intimately, and that had scared the hell out of me. I tried to run for my life. I ran back to the sea, and to the air. I ran to other women. I tried many times to settle for imitation. Renee, Annie, Jordan, never letting them have all of me, and I thought that could be enough. But, Mac had blown them all away, until there was nothing left for me to cling to but her, every time. In the end, it was always her I swam back to.
She had been the lighthouse in the storm-tossed sea of my life. No matter how many times the wind had blown me about, and her too, we always came back together. There was no escaping it. I never believed I could reach the point to which she had brought me. And so, I had decided to accept the inevitable and stop running from the truth. I was going to tell her what I felt. I just had to get to her somehow. I should've told her before she left. My thoughts scrambled back to the last time I talked to Mac in my apartment.
Flashback
As I sat there strumming my guitar, I heard a knock at the door. I walked over and opened it, revealing Mac.
"Hey!"
"Hi!" she replied.
Seeing my guitar she asked, "Are you entertaining?" She peeked into my apartment, as if expecting a woman.
"Uh, no, uh, just entertaining myself," I assured her, as we smiled at each other and she walked over to the kitchen counter.
"I just came by to see how you are, after all you've been through." She gazed up searchingly into my eyes.
"Well, so far no one's accused me of murder," I joked, grinning at her.
"Well, it's early yet," she teased, as she slipped her jacket off, revealing a black dress.
"That's true," I replied. And then I spotted it. For a moment, I felt as if a sledgehammer has been rammed into my stomach. How could she have become pregnant without my knowledge? Have I been that out of it lately? She should've told me. Who's the father? Thoughts whirled around dizzyingly in my mind. As usual, when confronted with even a glimmer of my feelings toward her, my eloquence stepped to the fore.
"Whoa!"
"What?" she uttered with feigned innocence. She smiled and eyed me knowingly.
"Is there something you want to tell me?" I questioned, still aghast that I had not noticed this before. I was getting old, positively geriatric, to miss something like this.
"Mmm... Plenty," she said, still grinning irrepressibly. That mischievous dimple I love appeared on her cheek.
"How did you hide this?"
"Bigger clothes."
At this point, I struggled steadfastly to regain my composure. But, all I could do was think, 'How could she do something like this? I thought we had something.' Then I came to the realization that we were nothing more than friends at the moment. There were no promises, only unspoken, numinous feelings. So, I stepped up to her and touched her swollen stomach. Then I realized it wasn't what I thought. She had something under there, a pillow or something.
"There's a story here, somewhere," I asserted, not really knowing what else to say. All I knew was, that I was a happy, and very relieved, man.
"Listen, I'm going away," she said, a sudden seriousness clouding her features.
"Where?" This, of course, made me immediately feel suspicious, and something else - aggressively protective.
"Can't say," she replied mysteriously.
I didn't like this one bit.
"For how long?" I started to feel the panic well up inside, again. I didn't know what to do. I hated being out of control. I hated not knowing. What if she needed me?
"Don't know," she stated, still being enigmatic, but this time a glimmer of recognition struck.
"This has Webb written all over it," I declared, before even realizing I was uttering my suspicions aloud. Webb was somehow always behind something like this.
"He needed a pregnant wife. I'm his cover story."
She looked at me strangely - perhaps lovingly. Or, perhaps my addled brain was playing tricks on me. I wasn't exactly in top form at that point in time.
"Is it dangerous?" I queried, uncertainly. I didn't know why it worried me so much, but for some intangible reason, I sensed something wasn't right.
"Very. We travel to Paraguay tonight, but I needed to know that you were okay. You've been through a lot lately," she informed me. Her brow was lined with worry, her large dark eyes, caring. She saw my face pale, full of panic and shock.
"I'm coming back, you know," she told me, as she rose from the chair.
"You don't know that," I contended desperately. She slipped back into her beige coat, as I laid my guitar down. "I don't want you to go, Mac."
I gazed at her intensely. My hands were starting to sweat and I had an aching feeling in the pit my stomach. Mac seemed a little annoyed, and slightly amused. She shook her head.
"Why is it that you are only like this when I have one foot out the door?" Her arms were folded in front of her, her eyebrows raised, questioningly. I simply stared at her. "Your interest always fades when I might be in a position to actually return it."
I stood there like an idiot. Why was it that I couldn't tell her how I really felt? That I was worried that I might not see her again, and that I needed her right now?
Mac crossed the room to the door, and as she opened it to leave me, I choked out, "Mac!"
Pathetic. That was all I could get out. I had so much I wanted to tell her, but all I could say was her name. She paused, looked at me a bit sadly, turned her head and withdrew, closing the door silently behind her.
The plane started to roll down the runway and took off, dragging me back to reality. That last talk with her had carved indelibly and unceasingly through my mind. I laid awake every night, hearing echoes about my interest fading when she was in a position to return it. Peace eluded me, not that we were ever familiar for long, anyway.
I tried to reposition myself in my seat. These little seats were not very accommodating for a man of my height. My legs were almost numb. After I regained some semblance of comfort, my mind dipped back into the black hole of memory. I'd tried to find out where she was. However, I kept hitting dead ends. Finally, I couldn't stand it anymore. I had to go ask the Admiral if he could give me any clue to her whereabouts. Of course, it was a bad idea because he refused to tell me anything. All he did was assure me that if there was anything wrong, he'd let me know.
That night, I had a nightmare about her wearing the same black dress she had on the last time I saw her. She was walking hand in hand with Webb to a taxi where a man waited with the door open. As they got in, another man walked up behind them. The man holding the door backed up, while the man from behind pulled out a gun. Mac looked at gunman and shouted to Webb. Both were shot several times. I remember shooting straight up in bed, and gasping for breath. That dream strengthened the tortuous fears that had plagued me recently, that something was going to go wrong. I needed to see her so bad that I ached.
I had to find a way to get a hold of her. So, I had called the one person who I thought could know were they were. I still remember the talk I had with Webb's mother...
Those thoughts were just some of the things that stalked me on the flight. By the time I looked out of the window again, all I saw was bleak darkness, as if staring at a reflection of my inner turmoil. That was how I felt inside. It felt as if there was a part of me that was missing. There was this vortex, this black abyss, sucking out all of the light inside my soul. I felt empty, and alone at the same time. I needed her so badly. I didn't care about anything else. The darkness in my soul was voraciously consuming my every waking moment and when I was asleep I'd try to rise into that darkness to find her, but I couldn't.
Before I knew it I was fast asleep dreaming of her.
End Of Chapter 1