I see her through the windows of her home, waking, passing. Quite assured she cannot see me, I make no effort to move, not fearing the aspect of plausible recognition. I have often perched on this very location in the days prior to our unfortunate departure from the late Paul Krendler's lake house, and never encountered a troublesome confrontation.
I wonder, knowing now what I do, how I might have reacted to her then, pressed against the refrigerator and refusing my offer, despite the confusion she revealed in her eyes. Though I do not conduct my behavior on absolutes, nor do I appreciate dwindling on past errors, this is an area of considerable curiosity.
My guilt refuses to grant me relief, though I have managed to place it in a darker chamber of my memory palace. I do not wish to consult it tonight.
Watching her now, allowed only brief glances as she passes an un-curtained window, I notice a severe change in her behavior. Though she remains solemn, there is a different air about her. Liberated. Released.
Hrm…perhaps hopeful?
I wish to see her eyes. Clarice hides her trouble well from the world, but never from me. I do not note this with arrogance, or even a particular pleasure. I do enjoy seeing into her, over her, however I know it has caused her life more turmoil than satisfaction. My own insight betrays me at such moments. Though I have never credited myself a partially hopeful being, I am willing to acknowledge that some of what I have interpreted might have originated from my own desires.
That is not a pleasing realization. This is perhaps the first time I yearn to be incorrect. I want her to need me, though the thought is ridiculous. Like myself, Clarice needs no one.
I wonder if she knows that. She is as strong as any individual I have ever known, and is without that remarkable dependency on others to function as a productive member of society. I admire that about her, I always have. Though now, I sense she doubts that wonderful quality. She feels she needs something, or someone. The foolish side of myself, what I whimsically label the bit of me getting too old for my own good, forbiddingly hopes such a figment of her creation has standards that meet my better qualities.
Foolish, yes, though not a dangerous aspiration. Such a craving would be threatening if I did not recognize its likelihood as minimal as I do. Even my aging self contains an element of rationalism.
Inwardly, I curse myself for my continuous presence here. For my refusal to leave her life. The best thing for us would be for me to turn away from this, to vainly attempt at wheedling her out of my head and allow her to continue with her life as healthily as possible, given what she has already endured. I am here out of selfishness…what I want as opposed to what I know is necessary. Such rudeness would have ended the life of any other bystander who stood aside to watch her construct her doom. Have I become as insufferable as those whelping pups that drool over her every move? Certainly not. I know I am acting much too harshly on myself, and note this is why I have avoided guilt in the past.
Is it that, or simply because none of my prior actions are worthy of my guilt? I suspect that is more probable.
How dryly amusing, as well as ironic. After a lifetime without regret, I suddenly attack myself, most severely.
For one sliver of a second, I allow an inkling of pity – not regret – but pity for my victims. I consider myself a strong-willed man, and have evidence enough to support it. To engage in battle with my own image is most brutal, and I find I am losing, whichever side of my subconscious I support.
I smile. After all these years, I have pointed that 'high powered perception' at myself and seen something I do not like. All for her. She is, after all, the great initiator.
My smile dissipates to a frown, regarding the darkness of her duplex now. It is a considerable hour of night, much time having passed since I watched her sleep. The peace she radiated remains with me, but also does the image of her broken form weeping against her Mustang. Though patient, I note it has been several hours since a full view was provided, and even then, my keen eyes were not quite keen enough to note what emotions I might find in hers. Her body language suggests submissiveness, but looks can be deceiving. I want to see her eyes, want to grasp what I might find, whether or not it is to my liking. I am in hopes the peace I saw upstairs remains with her.
I recognize the need to confirm whatever she is feeling before I take my leave for the evening. Therefore, in slowness, I stir from my post, moving for the first time in hours.
I pause when I stand before a window, allowed the image of her at last. The full image. She, too, is stationary, and appears to have been for an hour or so. I smile at the portrait she offers.
The peace remains with her, and for that I am most relieved. I am assured she cannot see me, therefore make no move to hurry away. I enjoy watching her, and find myself more than curious to discover what inspired this radical change of mood.
I implore her eyes hungrily. What I see astounds me.
She knows.
Ah! My clever girl, all the way to the end! She knows I am near, knows I have visited her, and on some level, expects me to again. I determine this by noting the expression on her face, one familiar to me, one used only with me, or on those occasions I have witnessed when my name is summoned by a colleague.
She thinks of me…with peace.
Penance.
I blink my realization. It becomes all too clear, and quite frankly takes my breath away. My guilt escalates to unimaginable heights, but not because of my faulted actions. No. Now I know the cause, the root of her pain. Alongside my intense reprieve, I also feel the burden at the tardiness of this comprehension. How could I have not seen it?
I note I will question my imminent understanding from this moment on.
She is not in pain because of what I have done; she is in pain because of what I have NOT done. Because I am not there, not with her, because I neglected to come back for her, neglected to see what concurred within her, neglected to witness and distinguish her sense of newfound knowledge. She has changed, molded into something I can never feasibly possess, never could want to possess. She is what I hope her to be, but not for me. Never for me. No, this is for her.
My little Starling…grown up at last.
She thought I'd forgotten her. Oh Clarice, how can you even believe that possible?
Though her realization into the world is not for me, I do note it was caused, at least in part, under my instruction. Her peace. Her liberation. Her happiness. Caused by me, caused and destroyed all in one blow.
I feel pride flutter, pride and knowledge. I force myself not to move, not to sweep in and take her now, to reassure her all will be well. I do this, perhaps foolishly, because I have seen something else now, something worth my attention.
Aside from her peace, I also see culpability. I feel the smile fall from my face.
She holds herself responsible for what occurred, for everything that has occurred. For this space between us, for the wrong in her life. How tragically ironic, and all the while I thought it was my fault. My darling, neither of us are to blame. I see that now. I should have seen it before, but I couldn't.
And not deserve me? This troubles me the most. I see it in her eyes, and it sends a sharp pain to my chest. She has likewise fought a terrific battle with herself, and lost. What little life is there was stirred from her peace. I thank that irrational part of myself for complying to watch over her tonight. She needs her sacrament, and deserves more than that. She deserves more than me, but I am all I can offer. It will never be enough.
Before I can see more, I force myself away. I cannot afford to stand by and ogle, not now. We've wasted too much time already.
Slowly, not wanting my anxiousness to hurry my pace and disturb my indisputable reputation for patience, something that has become more and more of a hazard, I move to the front porch. I conceal my scarred hand behind my back, the blemish all but healed. Still, she needs not to see it. I want no reminders of that evening now.
With slowness that tests my own patience, I raise my other hand to the door and offer three subtle knocks.
* * *