"The Other Wife"
by: E. Marie E-mail: Emw712@aol.com
Author's Note: June 7, 2003: I am...a girl. For those of you who haven't figured it out by now, estrogen flows through my veins, but, being a girl does not necessarily mean that all I can produce is romantic mush. So far in this fanfic, Kagome has been prompt in producing tears and a broken heart, but the ingenue and her hero seem to have everything under control. Don't get comfortable, people! Don't quit reading, thinking this is just another easy-squeezy love story; gothic character development is just around the corner! Angst, mystery, murder, intrigue...all are waiting just over the horizon. So, for all you realists out there-let these two have their time on the sunny shores of Monte Carlo. Fate is about to get fickle. Keep reading; keep reviewing; keep me motivated!
Ask the Author: After my comment about "happy-crazy" emotions "doing an en pointe ballet across my face when I receive reviews", (Chapter Six, Author's Note), the question has been asked: am I an anime-lovin' ballerina? Author's Answer: Well, you're 75% right...I'm an anime lovin' dancer (tap and jazz are more my speed), but I used to take ballet...so, make of that what you will!
DISCLAIMER: I never claimed to own Inuyasha, but as a sign of the times, I'm going to follow the trend and anticipate that somebody out there is reading through all these fanfics, just waiting for one of us to not be grossly specific in saying, "HEY! I don't own Inuyasha!" *Ahem. HEY! I don't own Inuyasha! Forget this junk! Get to the story!
Chapter Seven: Second Chances, False Reflections
As I relayed these events to Sango many years later, I remember a puzzled expression creeping across her face. Knowing a question was brewing behind those pretty features, I paused in my story, giving her a moment to sort through her thoughts and challenge my memories.
"But, Kagome," she began, taking my hand and looking me directly in the eye. "How could you have been so deeply affected by a man you just met? Excuse my prying, but you claim to have spent an entire night, tossing and turning, crying over the idea of upsetting a man you barely knew. Not to be impertinent, but-"
"But why was I so weak, so fragile, so...simple-minded?" I completed her thought, hoping to spare her, but Sango's characteristic blush still rose to the surface. Edging closer to her on the settee and taking her other hand in mine, I told her what I am about to tell you.
By nature, I am a very strong, independent woman. Even as a child, I was pig-headed and stubborn; my false courage always got me into trouble with my mother. I remember the day she died, how I tried to impress on the world that, even though on the outside, I appeared to be only seven years old, on the inside, I was full-grown, ready to face the world alone. It saddens me now to look back on my childhood, how willing I was, back then, to relinquish my ties to anyone and live alone. In those first seven years, I lost my father, my brother, my mother; all of my family was taken from me by Fate, save for a grandfather I had never seen. At my mother's wake, I hid beneath my bed, ignoring the pleas of neighbors and family friends to come out, to eat; I kicked at there outstretched hands as they reached under the bed, trying to pull me out into their company. That was the only way I knew how to deal with my grief: to keep everybody away, because everything I loved was lost to me.
The next thing I remember, I was in the backseat of a strange car; I must have fallen asleep, and the hands of my mother's friends, once met without resistance, pulled me from my sanctuary and sent me away. Before I could make my anger known to the driver, the car pulled to a stop in front of a small, white house, cradled by a single, ancient oak. The driver had to open the car door for me; my family had never been affluent, and that was the first time I had been granted the privilege of riding in an automobile.
For a seven-year old, I was rather strong and fleet of foot. I bolted from the car, my little legs pumping, carrying me back the way we had come, when I stopped....Nothing was familiar. The landscape was barren, except for that house and the tree, but now, there was something new on the horizon. A man, a very old man, had stepped out of the house and was slowly making his way toward me. A thought swept over me, like a gentle wave, breaking on the shore of my mind:
"This is Grandfather. I am not alone any more...."
I had stopped running, stopped moving altogether, and just stood there, like a prim, little statue, looking on my grandfather for the first time. In a few moments, he was at my side, grinning down at me.
"Come into the house, little one", he said, holding out his hand to me. I stared at his palms, the cascades of wrinkles, the array of paint colors, dappling his hand. Looking into his old, black eyes, I gave him my hand for the first time, telling him firmly,
"My name is Kagome. KA-GO-ME!"
My grandfather taught me more than just how to make charcoal sketches of sunsets and paint odd varieties of fruit in cracked bowls. From him, I learned that the world is not just a place of death and loss, the impact a single person can have on the world, the importance of never letting anyone tell you that you are less than you are. Everyday, he would walk the mile to the small town schoolhouse; even when his portraits of demanding elitists were past-due, even when his arthritis threatened to make him a prisoner within his own home. It was very important to my grandfather to get me to school early, to encourage me to be swift in my studies, and even more so, he prided himself on being the first thing I saw when the bell rang and I stepped out the door. Our time together to and from school was the time when I felt closest to my grandfather, retracing our steps day after day, talking about everything from weather to what was wrong with boys to my dreams. For eleven years, he walked me to that school as a pupil, but even when I became the assistant headmistress after my graduation, he still made his daily walks with me. The day I dismissed class, looked out the window and did not see his smiling face, waiting on me to gather my things, I just knew....
I made the walk to our little white house alone, for the first time. I could not bring myself to go any faster than the pace my grandfather and I had always walked together. In my mind, I could imagine what he would be saying at that moment, if he were still here, how he would knock me lightly under the chin, tell me not to look so glum, to enjoy the sunny days, while I still could.
From the end of the long drive, I could see a slew of cars, surrounding the house. A swarm of neighbors, friends, clients of my grandfather surrounded me, their words swarming around me like tiny wasps, nipping at my flesh.
"He made it home...just collapsed...Lady Yura came for her final sitting...found him there...nothing could be done...like he fell asleep and never looked up...so peaceful...dreadfully sorry...."
My eyes were dry; the sorrow I felt was too deep to be expressed with tears, cries, or the renting of my garments. A throng of well-wishers surrounded a large, weeping mass of pale flesh and gaudy taffeta; the Lady Yura was playing her role as the "traumatized discoverer of the body" to the hilt, weeping hysterically, demanding handkerchiefs and smelling salts. A stretcher, covered in a long, black cloth, bore my grandfather from his little white house for the last time. While the mourners wailed and clutched each other on the lawn, I went in the back door and locked myself in my room. This time, I was too big to fit under my bed.
Who knows what motivates us to do what we do? I cannot fathom why the Lady Yura sought me out the morning of the burial, offering me employment in a boisterous, tactless fashion. Looking back, I cannot fathom why I decided to accept her offer, but perhaps I felt I needed the escape from the heartache. In all reality, my reasons were probably more practical. As an artist, my grandfather never cared from material possessions; his art and me were the only two things he cared for. The house was being sold to cover all our debts, the taxes, the cost of the funeral....
Imagine almost two years, living without the most basic of human luxuries: a kind word, a soft glance, a smile. My grandfather had taught me to be strong in my self-worth, but under the constant criticism of Lady Yura, the inferiority complex forced on me by her position in society. Not a day went by that I was not constantly reminded that I had come from a poor family, that my family was gone, that I was desolate and alone. My life developed a desperate sense of sameness, following milady from luxurious resort to exotic spa, sleeping in rooms akin to closets, absorbing insults knowing I could never make a rebuttal or defend my honor.
Ending my life was never an option. Watching my family fall about me, seeing them all plucked suddenly from this mortal coil, made me want to cling to life for every moment I could, even if that meant living a miserable existence until the lady tired of mocking me and belittling me. Then, on that day in Monte Carlo...when I saw him on the sea cliffs, about to end his life in a single plunge....
Inuyasha was the first person who had truly seen me in almost two years. The other members of the elite tended to dismiss me rudely as an unworthy; even worse, others would stare right through me, as if I were some kind of shade, like an echo of someone of worth. But, when Inuyasha looked into my eyes for the first time, I felt solid for the first time in so long, and when he touched me....
The attraction I felt for Inuyasha was deep and instantaneous. In the dark recesses of my mind, all I wanted was to feel as much of him as I could, become closer to him in ways that made the guests of these plush hotels blush and hide their faces behind fans or gloved hands. More importantly, I felt such a connection to him, like a resonating deja vu; the sense of kismet was so great, that when I thought I had ruined that tie with him through my ignorance, my tears and broken heart seemed quite justified. That night following Lady Yura's illness, the dark evening when my very soul seemed to crumble around me, I wasn't mourning just the loss of a handsome, exotic widower. I was trying to cope with the loss of the first person who was willing to see me, the first person I felt I could truly love.
Inuyasha tightened his grip on my hand, helping me over fallen logs that littered our path. More than willing to accept any help he was willing to offer me, I enjoyed the chance to walk with him in pure silence, listening to nothing but the chorus of birds in the trees and the sound of his breath. At a bend in the path, a small spring and a freshwater stream appeared from the earth, saplings and wild roses lining its banks. Finally satisfied with the location, Inuyasha released my hand and emptied the contents of the basket: blanket, wine cask, glasses, a wheel of brie, fresh strawberries, little tins of deviled eggs and ham.
"Feh, it ain't much," said Inuyasha, straightening the checkered blanket before pouring a glass of wine. "I had the concierge get a little picnic together for me. I ordered this last night, but I had the feeling I'd see you again, so, I had them pack enough for two."
Taking in a deep breath, I surveyed the secluded beauty of our surroundings, before taking the proffered glass of wine. "Inuyasha, this certainly is a wonderful surprise."
"Oh!" he cried, lurching across the blanket to grab the discarded picnic basket and nearly toppling me in the process.
"Sit!" Inuyasha commanded. "And close your eyes! You ain't seen nothing yet, Kagome!"
My skin tingled at the thought of what he wanted to give to me. I could think of one thing in particular I wanted from him at that moment, and it certainly couldn't be kept in a wicker basket. Nevertheless, the very prospect of Inuyasha valuing me enough to trouble himself to this extent made me willing to do whatever he asked.
At his beckoning, I opened my eyes once more...and before me sat an antique art set, equipped with fresh paints, pencils of different hues, sketch paper....I could barely breathe, because the case itself, made of the finest mahogany and covered in intricate carvings of birds of paradise, had probably cost more money than I had ever held in my life....The selection of the supplies had been done meticulously; everything I needed to create a masterpiece had been assembled there by hand...by Inuyasha's hand.
I looked up and saw his expression, his even study of my face.
"Don't get too excited," he began, rising to his feet to look beyond the brook and out into the horizon. "I got you these things and brought you here today, because...I want you to capture the beauty of this place. I have so few happy memories, and time always eats away at the beauty of the past, so, I want you to paint, draw, sketch, whatever you do...create this day with you, for me, on paper, so I can carry it with me always."
Gently stoking one of the fine pointed brushes, I thought for a brief moment that this couldn't possibly be real, that this man, so distrusting, so sad, so deeply angry, could be willing to make himself vulnerable to me here. His request was simple: "create for me, don't let me forget", but the idea of someone so remarkable going to such lengths to remember a day with someone like me....
But even as we sat there in the sun, indulging in fine wine, strawberries, dipping our feet in the cooling stream, how could we have known that the first of many challenges for us both was already on its way to Monte Carlo, ready to end this intense, casual, beautiful vacation from our personal tragedies....
by: E. Marie E-mail: Emw712@aol.com
Author's Note: June 7, 2003: I am...a girl. For those of you who haven't figured it out by now, estrogen flows through my veins, but, being a girl does not necessarily mean that all I can produce is romantic mush. So far in this fanfic, Kagome has been prompt in producing tears and a broken heart, but the ingenue and her hero seem to have everything under control. Don't get comfortable, people! Don't quit reading, thinking this is just another easy-squeezy love story; gothic character development is just around the corner! Angst, mystery, murder, intrigue...all are waiting just over the horizon. So, for all you realists out there-let these two have their time on the sunny shores of Monte Carlo. Fate is about to get fickle. Keep reading; keep reviewing; keep me motivated!
Ask the Author: After my comment about "happy-crazy" emotions "doing an en pointe ballet across my face when I receive reviews", (Chapter Six, Author's Note), the question has been asked: am I an anime-lovin' ballerina? Author's Answer: Well, you're 75% right...I'm an anime lovin' dancer (tap and jazz are more my speed), but I used to take ballet...so, make of that what you will!
DISCLAIMER: I never claimed to own Inuyasha, but as a sign of the times, I'm going to follow the trend and anticipate that somebody out there is reading through all these fanfics, just waiting for one of us to not be grossly specific in saying, "HEY! I don't own Inuyasha!" *Ahem. HEY! I don't own Inuyasha! Forget this junk! Get to the story!
Chapter Seven: Second Chances, False Reflections
As I relayed these events to Sango many years later, I remember a puzzled expression creeping across her face. Knowing a question was brewing behind those pretty features, I paused in my story, giving her a moment to sort through her thoughts and challenge my memories.
"But, Kagome," she began, taking my hand and looking me directly in the eye. "How could you have been so deeply affected by a man you just met? Excuse my prying, but you claim to have spent an entire night, tossing and turning, crying over the idea of upsetting a man you barely knew. Not to be impertinent, but-"
"But why was I so weak, so fragile, so...simple-minded?" I completed her thought, hoping to spare her, but Sango's characteristic blush still rose to the surface. Edging closer to her on the settee and taking her other hand in mine, I told her what I am about to tell you.
By nature, I am a very strong, independent woman. Even as a child, I was pig-headed and stubborn; my false courage always got me into trouble with my mother. I remember the day she died, how I tried to impress on the world that, even though on the outside, I appeared to be only seven years old, on the inside, I was full-grown, ready to face the world alone. It saddens me now to look back on my childhood, how willing I was, back then, to relinquish my ties to anyone and live alone. In those first seven years, I lost my father, my brother, my mother; all of my family was taken from me by Fate, save for a grandfather I had never seen. At my mother's wake, I hid beneath my bed, ignoring the pleas of neighbors and family friends to come out, to eat; I kicked at there outstretched hands as they reached under the bed, trying to pull me out into their company. That was the only way I knew how to deal with my grief: to keep everybody away, because everything I loved was lost to me.
The next thing I remember, I was in the backseat of a strange car; I must have fallen asleep, and the hands of my mother's friends, once met without resistance, pulled me from my sanctuary and sent me away. Before I could make my anger known to the driver, the car pulled to a stop in front of a small, white house, cradled by a single, ancient oak. The driver had to open the car door for me; my family had never been affluent, and that was the first time I had been granted the privilege of riding in an automobile.
For a seven-year old, I was rather strong and fleet of foot. I bolted from the car, my little legs pumping, carrying me back the way we had come, when I stopped....Nothing was familiar. The landscape was barren, except for that house and the tree, but now, there was something new on the horizon. A man, a very old man, had stepped out of the house and was slowly making his way toward me. A thought swept over me, like a gentle wave, breaking on the shore of my mind:
"This is Grandfather. I am not alone any more...."
I had stopped running, stopped moving altogether, and just stood there, like a prim, little statue, looking on my grandfather for the first time. In a few moments, he was at my side, grinning down at me.
"Come into the house, little one", he said, holding out his hand to me. I stared at his palms, the cascades of wrinkles, the array of paint colors, dappling his hand. Looking into his old, black eyes, I gave him my hand for the first time, telling him firmly,
"My name is Kagome. KA-GO-ME!"
My grandfather taught me more than just how to make charcoal sketches of sunsets and paint odd varieties of fruit in cracked bowls. From him, I learned that the world is not just a place of death and loss, the impact a single person can have on the world, the importance of never letting anyone tell you that you are less than you are. Everyday, he would walk the mile to the small town schoolhouse; even when his portraits of demanding elitists were past-due, even when his arthritis threatened to make him a prisoner within his own home. It was very important to my grandfather to get me to school early, to encourage me to be swift in my studies, and even more so, he prided himself on being the first thing I saw when the bell rang and I stepped out the door. Our time together to and from school was the time when I felt closest to my grandfather, retracing our steps day after day, talking about everything from weather to what was wrong with boys to my dreams. For eleven years, he walked me to that school as a pupil, but even when I became the assistant headmistress after my graduation, he still made his daily walks with me. The day I dismissed class, looked out the window and did not see his smiling face, waiting on me to gather my things, I just knew....
I made the walk to our little white house alone, for the first time. I could not bring myself to go any faster than the pace my grandfather and I had always walked together. In my mind, I could imagine what he would be saying at that moment, if he were still here, how he would knock me lightly under the chin, tell me not to look so glum, to enjoy the sunny days, while I still could.
From the end of the long drive, I could see a slew of cars, surrounding the house. A swarm of neighbors, friends, clients of my grandfather surrounded me, their words swarming around me like tiny wasps, nipping at my flesh.
"He made it home...just collapsed...Lady Yura came for her final sitting...found him there...nothing could be done...like he fell asleep and never looked up...so peaceful...dreadfully sorry...."
My eyes were dry; the sorrow I felt was too deep to be expressed with tears, cries, or the renting of my garments. A throng of well-wishers surrounded a large, weeping mass of pale flesh and gaudy taffeta; the Lady Yura was playing her role as the "traumatized discoverer of the body" to the hilt, weeping hysterically, demanding handkerchiefs and smelling salts. A stretcher, covered in a long, black cloth, bore my grandfather from his little white house for the last time. While the mourners wailed and clutched each other on the lawn, I went in the back door and locked myself in my room. This time, I was too big to fit under my bed.
Who knows what motivates us to do what we do? I cannot fathom why the Lady Yura sought me out the morning of the burial, offering me employment in a boisterous, tactless fashion. Looking back, I cannot fathom why I decided to accept her offer, but perhaps I felt I needed the escape from the heartache. In all reality, my reasons were probably more practical. As an artist, my grandfather never cared from material possessions; his art and me were the only two things he cared for. The house was being sold to cover all our debts, the taxes, the cost of the funeral....
Imagine almost two years, living without the most basic of human luxuries: a kind word, a soft glance, a smile. My grandfather had taught me to be strong in my self-worth, but under the constant criticism of Lady Yura, the inferiority complex forced on me by her position in society. Not a day went by that I was not constantly reminded that I had come from a poor family, that my family was gone, that I was desolate and alone. My life developed a desperate sense of sameness, following milady from luxurious resort to exotic spa, sleeping in rooms akin to closets, absorbing insults knowing I could never make a rebuttal or defend my honor.
Ending my life was never an option. Watching my family fall about me, seeing them all plucked suddenly from this mortal coil, made me want to cling to life for every moment I could, even if that meant living a miserable existence until the lady tired of mocking me and belittling me. Then, on that day in Monte Carlo...when I saw him on the sea cliffs, about to end his life in a single plunge....
Inuyasha was the first person who had truly seen me in almost two years. The other members of the elite tended to dismiss me rudely as an unworthy; even worse, others would stare right through me, as if I were some kind of shade, like an echo of someone of worth. But, when Inuyasha looked into my eyes for the first time, I felt solid for the first time in so long, and when he touched me....
The attraction I felt for Inuyasha was deep and instantaneous. In the dark recesses of my mind, all I wanted was to feel as much of him as I could, become closer to him in ways that made the guests of these plush hotels blush and hide their faces behind fans or gloved hands. More importantly, I felt such a connection to him, like a resonating deja vu; the sense of kismet was so great, that when I thought I had ruined that tie with him through my ignorance, my tears and broken heart seemed quite justified. That night following Lady Yura's illness, the dark evening when my very soul seemed to crumble around me, I wasn't mourning just the loss of a handsome, exotic widower. I was trying to cope with the loss of the first person who was willing to see me, the first person I felt I could truly love.
Inuyasha tightened his grip on my hand, helping me over fallen logs that littered our path. More than willing to accept any help he was willing to offer me, I enjoyed the chance to walk with him in pure silence, listening to nothing but the chorus of birds in the trees and the sound of his breath. At a bend in the path, a small spring and a freshwater stream appeared from the earth, saplings and wild roses lining its banks. Finally satisfied with the location, Inuyasha released my hand and emptied the contents of the basket: blanket, wine cask, glasses, a wheel of brie, fresh strawberries, little tins of deviled eggs and ham.
"Feh, it ain't much," said Inuyasha, straightening the checkered blanket before pouring a glass of wine. "I had the concierge get a little picnic together for me. I ordered this last night, but I had the feeling I'd see you again, so, I had them pack enough for two."
Taking in a deep breath, I surveyed the secluded beauty of our surroundings, before taking the proffered glass of wine. "Inuyasha, this certainly is a wonderful surprise."
"Oh!" he cried, lurching across the blanket to grab the discarded picnic basket and nearly toppling me in the process.
"Sit!" Inuyasha commanded. "And close your eyes! You ain't seen nothing yet, Kagome!"
My skin tingled at the thought of what he wanted to give to me. I could think of one thing in particular I wanted from him at that moment, and it certainly couldn't be kept in a wicker basket. Nevertheless, the very prospect of Inuyasha valuing me enough to trouble himself to this extent made me willing to do whatever he asked.
At his beckoning, I opened my eyes once more...and before me sat an antique art set, equipped with fresh paints, pencils of different hues, sketch paper....I could barely breathe, because the case itself, made of the finest mahogany and covered in intricate carvings of birds of paradise, had probably cost more money than I had ever held in my life....The selection of the supplies had been done meticulously; everything I needed to create a masterpiece had been assembled there by hand...by Inuyasha's hand.
I looked up and saw his expression, his even study of my face.
"Don't get too excited," he began, rising to his feet to look beyond the brook and out into the horizon. "I got you these things and brought you here today, because...I want you to capture the beauty of this place. I have so few happy memories, and time always eats away at the beauty of the past, so, I want you to paint, draw, sketch, whatever you do...create this day with you, for me, on paper, so I can carry it with me always."
Gently stoking one of the fine pointed brushes, I thought for a brief moment that this couldn't possibly be real, that this man, so distrusting, so sad, so deeply angry, could be willing to make himself vulnerable to me here. His request was simple: "create for me, don't let me forget", but the idea of someone so remarkable going to such lengths to remember a day with someone like me....
But even as we sat there in the sun, indulging in fine wine, strawberries, dipping our feet in the cooling stream, how could we have known that the first of many challenges for us both was already on its way to Monte Carlo, ready to end this intense, casual, beautiful vacation from our personal tragedies....
