Chapter 5: Remember When It Rained
Days pass by, slower than before. I spend each waking hour with my eyes cast heavily upon that square of glass. All that I witness is the eternal dance of night and day. The shades of dusk, the glimmers of daylight move like clockwork across those four corners. I sit within them like a prisoner in a cell, helplessly restless in my solitude. The mirror's stillness seems unearned. It is mocking me. Basking in the weariness of my troubled reflection. I should have seen her by now. If only to learn that she arrived in New York with neither trouble nor delay. It is early evening on the forth day. My hands are numb, weakened by holding the same position- mirror-to-palm, as though in constant prayer. I retire the mirror, propping it against the candlestick on my desk and reach for Mother's gift along with a quill. Just as I am about to sketch the darling profile of my wife, her reflection covers my own. She is standing on a scale in an unfamiliar bathroom. Her body is trembling. Her sweet face bears the pained expression of regret.
"I threw up. Only this time, it was because I made myself," she says to an unnamed form in the corner of the room. Her fingers quiver as she presses them against her lips. "I know I promised not to do this anymore, but this is how I stay in control, don't you understand? This gives me control when everything else is falling apart all around me!" The shape beside her shifts, materializing into the last person I wanted to see alone with her. "Oh, Boris. Why am I like this?"
"You've lost yourself, that is all. But you can always find yourself again," he offers his hand but Marigold denies it.
She pauses before stepping from the scale and, to my despair, right into his arms. I watch them closely, pettily anticipating some sign of chemistry between the pair. "Giselle was out of line calling you a coward earlier. I've never known anyone as brave as you. At the same time, I've never known anyone in the world so similar to me! It gives me hope." Her words slice into my heart. The tenderness in her eyes, the soothing quality of her voice and the uncanny similarity to what Mother had said to me just days before are nearly enough to do me in, but I cannot look away. Simply from fear of not seeing her again until the mirror permits.
"If I were so brave, I would have told you by now."
"Told me?"
He grabs hold of her hands and after several long seconds of gazing at their nearly intertwined fingers, Boris speaks without moving his eyes. "I saw you. In a dream. And I cannot remove that terrible vision from my mind."
"What vision?"
He opens his mouth to speak, but hesitation holds his thoughts ransom. "I am going to write down a number and I need you to call it immediately, Marigold."
"If it's that stupid hotline-"
"-It's nothing Ike that." Boris tries to walk away, but her grip anchors him there, in place.
"Tell me something first. This vision. Was William in it?"
Tears burn my unblinking eyes. My thundering heart feels hot and cold and numb all at once. I don't know if it is comforting or painful to hear my name in this exchange.
"He was. He was standing in the corner of the room, watching me. Waiting for me to leave so he could- I can't say it."
"Tell me," Marigold insists. "I need to know. It sounds like it might help me find him. Boris please, be brave. Just start with the little details and build up from there. Like the when and the where. Tell me and I'll call whatever number you want me to."
He drifts away and sits on the edge of the bathtub, covering his face momentarily before proceeding. "It is in August. This coming August. A pretty enough evening, warm and golden the way it always is that time of year in Waterford. I'm- I'm jet-lagged," he chuckles uncomfortably ,"and tired. And sad. Above all, Marigold, sad. I am the saddest that I have been in many, many years. I..." his voice changes sharply and with it, his face. I sense anger in him, frustration. "I go over in my mind all of the things that I could say to you!"
"Why? What have I done, my friend?"
He gestures for her to sit beside him and she willingly does just that. Tears begin to flow freely from his eyes and I cannot help but sneer. Giselle was on to something. He always was a weak link. That is why I outranked him. With timidness, he speaks, "I touch your cheek. Just like this. And smile. For that one moment, I find the smallest trace of joy in knowing that this darling blush, right there," he smooths his thumb across the edge of her face. "It is still present, unfading. It did not die with the rest of you. This is the part of mourning that I will never understand. It does more harm than good. The regret that I felt standing over you was just as loud, just as blindingly painful as when I looked upon my son for the last time. I am so angry! So unbelievably furious at the demons that have haunted you, wounding your spirit and forcing you to starve yourself until at last they broke you beyond repair. Somehow, I do not act upon my hatred for them. No, I simply whisper, low enough for only you to hear, 'I never should have left you here alone. Not when you needed me so. It would have been so easy for me to pick up the phone and call you from New York. Just to say hello. Just to see how you were. Instead, I chose silence. Now I will hear only silence from you for the rest of my life. I was afraid. Without even knowing what I was afraid of. Now I know. At least you had him. If I had known that he was who you were waiting for, I would have found him for you. I would have had him save you, just in time. My friend. My dear, dear friend. I am so sorry for all the ways that I have failed you.'"
"What are you saying?" She asks. Her tone is hushed and pained, "What do you mean? August? August is when I am due! I've had visions, too, you know? Of her! Of our little girl."
"She survives, Marigold. Because of you. And those who love you must bear the cost, the guilt."
"Is it from complications?" She waits for his nod. "I can't terminate. You need to understand that! Not after seeing her! I've heard her voice and touched her hair and counted every freckle on her nose. You can't possibly want that for me!"
"I know and I don't. But if it means that there is a chance for you. Do you even realize how fortunate you are to live in an age of such advanced-"
"-feel my heartbeat, go on," she encourages him, guiding his touch to the space just above her left breast. "Mabel didn't do that. I don't believe that William did, either. It's been a long time coming." She looks at him, raw and broken. Yet somehow, peaceful. "It's strange. Now that the shock is wearing off, I almost feel as though I always knew."
"You can't talk like that," his voice drops to nearly a whisper, but I can tell by the trembling of his body that he would scream if he felt that it would make a difference. "Please. Let me help you. I will do anything, anything at all! I will blame myself for the rest of my life if I lose you. Especially knowing that I could have made a difference and failed!"
"I didn't know you lost a child. My God, Boris, if I had known, I..."
"It was so long ago. In another time, another world. But he is still with me. In every pleasant dream I have."
"You were there, weren't you? With William. Two hundred and thirty-some years ago. I know you were. You both have the same weariness in your eyes, the weight of centuries and centuries past. I want for you what you want for me. If only I could steal away every ounce of pain you've ever felt. I would. You are so dear to me." She draws him in, holding him with all of her might. "Would you believe me if I told you that I've seen it, too? The stage, the tapestry, the players? If this vision of yours comes true, you must promise me this one thing. That you will smile. Not for the blush on my cheek, but in knowing that I am merely living in the heavens above the stage. I wonder..." she smiles. "I wonder if on that tapestry of a billion different scenarios, there is a tiny square for you and I. Where you do save me. That night when I first confided in you. What if you told me to leave Henry right then and I never relapsed at all? What would have happened? Knowing you and knowing me, I dare to say that that I would give you all the joy that you were denied in every other imaginable lifetime."
He reaches out, framing her face with both hands. Past the veil of tears, I see what appears to be love burning in his eyes. "In a better world, perhaps. In a better world, dear Marigold. I would chase away every doubt that ever darkened your doorway. I would exhume every trace of pain and despair that you have ever known. I would," he looks away. A silent acknowledgement, perhaps, that they have both gotten ahead of themselves. "I would be brave. Because I would have you to be brave for. But no such world exists, at least not within our grasp. For now," he stands and leaves, returning but a moment later with a pad of paper and pencil. "His name is Tarleton."
"What? Henry's friend?"
"Yes. And my- well, my kin. But that is of little importance. What I mean to say is you can trust him. He can help you find William."
Marigold accepts the paper and reaches for her phone, dialing the number as quickly as she can. What sounds like fitful laughter pours out from the speaker. The call has been dropped. She dials again and this time is met with a normal, uninterrupted string of words and a beep. She hangs up and places the phone in her lap, mesmerized, utterly dumbfounded- but by what?
"What did he say?"
"He's in Liverpool until the 20th. There's more, though. The first time around, when he actually picked up."
"The laughing?"
"He said something before he started laughing. He said, 'No two performances are the same.' I know what I have to do now." She begins to feverishly scroll through her phone. Stops and begins to type. Stops again. "How fast can I get to JFK at this hour?"
"Marigold-"
"-How fast?"
"Thirty minutes if you take the subway, forty if I drive you there." He watches her turn to leave and reaches for her arm. "Wait! Please just let me take you. It will only be another ten minutes and we haven't seen one another in so long!"
Marigold nods, gathering what few dresses and toiletries that she had packed for her visit to New York. I watch them scramble to the elevator, into the parking garage and further still onto the dark roadway. Boris drives with both hands clutching the wheel, leaving behind streaks of palm sweat with each rocky turn. A splattering of rain dots the windshield. The clattering droplets intensify with each passing moment. I can almost hear their heartbeats synchronize with the torrential rhythm surrounding them.
He fiddles nervously with the vent and then with the stereo, shuffling through the stations. "I hope you don't mind a little music, I need something to distract me from the nerves."
"Some music would be nice. Are you a nervous driver, too?"
"Just tonight," he switches the radio off, drumming his fingers against the dashboard. "I have some CDs in my visor, would you mind handing me the second one from the front. It's silver with black and grey lettering."
She does as he asks, grinning to herself when she sees his album of choice. "I should have known. It suits you."
"Me? No. The situation on the other hand..." he inserts the disc and skips to the tenth track. A somber melody fills the air, one that I have never heard before, but that the two of them seem to know.
Marigold is always the first to sing along to a tune that she recognizes, even vaguely, without fear of singing an incorrect lyric or note. This time, however, she bends forward and shuts her eyes, listening closely. I knew that Boris could sing, but never before did I witness the extent of his talent. The words are just as poignant and raw as his trembling voice. He follows along for the first two stanzas then stops when he hears Marigold unfasten her seatbelt. She leans across the bench and rests her head on his shoulder.
"That's dangerous, you know. Should we crash, that little contraption holds you in place!"
"So can you."
Without any further objections, he places his arm behind her. A tear moves across his cheek and falls onto her forehead. She feels it and shuts her eyes again. I'll never truly be able to tell if she cried or not. Once the song ends, the remainder of the drive is spent in silence. I know that they can still hear it, even after the music has stopped.
The rain is coming down in sheets as they arrive at JFK. Boris is the first to speak, breaking the grave-like quiet which lasted for well over thirty minutes. "What if I don't see you again before...?"
"Then at least you will know that you did all you could. I knew that you would help me find my husband, I knew it in my heart that I could count on you." She embraces him. A moment passes and they do not part. In fact, they continue to gravitate towards one another. They are close, close enough to kiss. His gaze drops to her mouth, his hand brushes softly across the circumference of her face. I wait helplessly for any indication of denial from her and feel, if only for an instant, a sense of betrayal as she closes her eyes. She whispers his name, followed by a weighted plea: "Don't. Not now. Not in this lifetime."
He changes course, sinking his lips into her left cheek and pressing his forehead against hers, the way that I alone have done a thousand times before. The fluorescent vest of a traffic officer comes into view, followed by a knock. The man at the window mouths the words, "Let's go" and stands by, preparing to write a ticket. "Marigold, wait! I- I need you to promise me that this will not be the last time that I hold you! Swear it!"
"In a better world, remember?" A second knock, louder than the first causes them to jump. Marigold throws open the door and grabs the citation.
"You have thirty seconds and counting before I write another one."
"Cool! Give us ten seconds and we'll be out of your hair!" She shuts the door, gathering her items and shoving the ticket into her tote. "If you get another one, wire it to me, okay? It's my way of saying thank you. For everything."
"You don't have to do that, Marigold."
"I do. Because you're my best friend. You've always been my best friend and I love you." With those words, the tears that she has been suppressing spill from her eyes. "I have to go now," her voice drops to a near whisper as she takes one final look at him. In that one look, I witness the strangest, the saddest culmination of fear and acceptance. "We have to be brave. Let me go and I will be brave for you, in return. Goodbye."
"Goodbye," he puts the car in drive and together, we roll further and further away from the yellow dot that Marigold has become. She is washed away by the bleak grayness all around us, her existence is wiped clean by the flash of the international terminal's sliding entryway. Boris steers off of the crowded roadway and down a quiet thoroughfare that rests alongside the runway. There are several spaces there reserved for commercial vehicles, but no officers. He shuts off the ignition, clasps both hands over his mouth and cries quietly. As the vision of him fades, I see him driving homeward, glancing occasionally at the air control tower in his rear view mirror until it sinks below the horizon.
I drop onto my bed, heavy as a stone. Every inch of my body is burning and chilled. My bedclothes and dressing gown are soaked with the kind of cold sweat that usually accompanies a nightmare. As I lay here, trembling in the candlelight, logic tries its best to convince me that what I witnessed on this night was nothing more than a horrible dream. I curse Bordon. Not so much for his feeble advancements on my wife, if you could even call them that, but for the omen that now taints my heart. His description of what is yet to come- the chapel, the cemetery, the golden August day when all that I love in this world is to be laid to rest- those images shall haunt me forevermore. I blink, trying to blink them out of my eyes in the form of tears so that they might fall onto the sheets beneath me and evaporate into thin air. Some fall. Many fall, but she remains in my mind's eye, silent and still. I see the blush that he has spoken of, clinging softly to her cheek like the pink on a frozen petal. I deserve this pain. For every instance in the colonies when I sneered at the mournful widower, for every precious life and tale of love that was carelessly undone by my hand. I deserve to lose her, but she does not deserve to die.
A hushed prayer is all that my breaking heart has to offer. Between each searing breath, I whisper them into the burgundy ceiling of my room. "I have more reason now to believe that you are listening than ever before. Certainly, more reason than I had when first I decided to forsake you. But it is not by reason that I turn to you now after so many years of silence. It is for my wife and my daughter. Be with them. Be with them now in my absence. I thought that I knew what was best for them. No. I thought that I alone was what was best for them. That love was the root from which all possibility sprung. I now see the error in my ways. I love them. But I love them in a selfish way and for selfish reasons. I thought that simply loving them would be enough to redeem my wretched soul. You alone hold all the answers, you are the only one in all of existence to know if my suspicions are correct. True, other demons have preyed on Marigold. But... it is me, isn't it, God? I am the one that she cannot overcome. Her blood is on my hands and why? As punishment? If that is the case, I beg you to strike me down in her stead! What merciful God would have a cruel beast like me continue on living and a light such as hers be wicked out? I beg you! If her death is my doing, then undo it all! Have her forget me! Wipe the slate clean! Keep Mabel in your arms, safe in heaven, where she will never learn of the monstrosity that her father is! Do what you must so that I and all others who love her do not have to stand in that chapel. Do what you must so that I never set foot in Charleston Harbor and never take a single life. Just my own, in prayer, tonight!" I stop to catch my breath, my fists are clenched so tightly over my palms that blood is beginning to pool in my nail beds. "Do what you must," I murmur over and over until my words dissolve into breath and I fall deeply into a fitful dream.
Time passes, dragging on yet again. The second hand that once tiptoed gracefully from one digit to the next now drudges and scrapes its way around the circle. I have only been sleeping for forty-some minutes and yet, I feel as though I could pack years into the time that I lay here. The blanket is damp in places, dry and stained in others. The blood from where my nails pierced my hands has changed into a browning crust. The agony is still within me. If not, it burns lower now, smoldering in the pit of my stomach. My temples throb, a pounding and endless ache. I massage them, straining my eyes as I survey the room. I am not alone. My father, dressed and ready for a night on the town watches in the shadows, expressionless.
"How long have you been there?" I ask, barely suppressing my irritation with his intrusion. "You know, the civilized thing to do would be to knock!"
"I did. In fact, I banged on the door. It's no surprise that you didn't hear me, carrying on the way you did! Your mother fell asleep crying, I'll have you know." I shoot upright and make for the door, but Father stops me. "Let her rest, William."
"You heard everything, both of you?"
"Most of it. The bulk of which neither of us understood. It makes no sense to me, not at all. You spent every waking hour with me in Grenada and when we returned home, the only woman waiting for you in the harbor was Miss Lolly Rose who you ignored as you always have. You either live a secret life or fell ill on the voyage. You haven't rekindled your interest in theatre recently, have you?" He scowls at me, brooding for answer that he knows will never come. "I will not play guessing games with you, boy. But I will buy you a drink. Heaven knows, you need one!"
The choice is mine. I can either spend the remainder of the evening in the company of that blasted mirror or to pass those same hours with my father under the numbing influence of alcohol. Is it really so dreadful that I choose the latter?