Nine Years
She had been the same, strong, independent character that he first met although she simply sat there on the blanket, placing her right palm down on it for leverage. Yet she was also the delicate, vulnerable porcelain doll he longed to touch, but he feared he would break. He could see that age had no effect on her, although he felt much, much older than her due to his many struggles, lack of luxuries, and scarcity of bare necessities. The hair that used to pool around her no longer encircled her body; instead, her hair fell on her shoulders. She was still beautiful. Nothing had changed her externally. But he did not think of this. Considering all his pain, he wondered, had her heart been broken?
If she had been married for nine years…he presumed that she had moved on quickly after learning of his disappearance and it chipped away at his heart some more to dwell on it, for he had thought of her every day, pined for her every hour. Had she so easily forgotten about him as evidenced by her quick marriage to another? Many gluttonous, hasty ideas flooded his brain as he fought the urge to sweep her up into his arms. Instead, he demanded the answer to the question that had broken his heart.
"Why did you marry him?"
She turned around to acknowledge a vague voice before she realized that she was face to face with a ghost of her past. Only he was real. He was alive. It comforted her, yet at the same time, it upset her. He looked years older, weary, unhappy, broken. His hair was obviously shorter, his body toned due to years of hard work, his face kind, yet rough. He was no longer the rich, gentle-looking ex-pilot that had swept her off her feet several years ago, but he swept her off her feet once again. In spite of his scraped appearance, all of what boiled inside continued to boil – there hasn't been a day since he saved her soul that she did not dream of him. She was so sure – she had accepted that he had been stolen from her, never to return again. But now he had come back, conceivably demanding a place in her life, obviously demanding an answer for her marriage.
Her mouth, dry, her heart beating faster and faster, the waves crashing behind them, did not help her.
"Why did you marry him?" he demanded of her again. She could feel his anger against her betrayal.
"I-I didn't think you'd come back!" she spat back, defending herself. She fought the urge to draw him to her, to thank the heavens for his return. She was torn between feeling anger for doubting his return and confusion, for believing this is so real. She wanted to throw her arms around him, hold him, prove to herself he is real, that this is now and not then and certainly not a cruel dream that had taunted her more times than she could suffer through.
"We loved each other. You were going to marry me. Wasn't that enough for you to believe that I'd come back to you?"
"When you were presumed lost and later declared dead was I supposed to assume you would rise from the dead? You never even said goodbye! I was all alone! What was I supposed to do? Be a fool and not take advantage of the many offers I've had?"
Her voice was dripping with dulled anger and resentment. It was as if she was angry that he had come back. He blinked at her once, unable to escape the coming threat of tears that gathered in his eyes. The memory of their last moment lingered vividly in his mind. It gave him comfort yet it tortured him with its existence the fact that it could never happen again was what killed him.
He remembered the way her skin felt against the calloused pads of his fingers, how it tickled him to feel her breath and hair against his skin, how she giggled carelessly at his touch, how the caress of her lips against his made him drunk with desire – all of this against a burnt orange sky, an opulent sunset. How could he ever forget? All these years, she was all he dreamed of, their last moment together kept him going on – and now it he had survived it all, he had to face her rejection? He would especially remember the cruel way he had left her there without a goodbye, so sure he'd be back, but unable to say goodbye. But how could he have known that he'd be separated from her for so long?
"But I'm here now. If you'll have me…"
She had remembered the large, princess-cut ring he had left her before he disappeared. The gem was adorned with baguette diamonds on the side and set in the finest metal, platinum, but no piece of jewelry could compare to the size of his love for her. He had asked her earlier if she would marry him, but did not present a ring, but in spite of that, she unfalteringly said yes. She kept the ring to this day, aching to wear it publicly, but was destined to stare at it through blurred eyes and closed doors.
"That offer was open to me years ago before you disappeared. Things are different now. You may be foolish, but you're not brainless. I was born a Catholic, and I've married a Catholic man. I've devoted my life to this religion ever since you've been gone to keep me going on, to drive me away from suicide, and it's a sin to leave my husband in hopes of rekindling an old flame we shared when we were so young. He loves me. He loves my son. He is the only father my son knows. Am I supposed to tear that away from them so I can satisfy my selfishness?"
Another revelation shocked him. She'd had a son with this man? How could things be possibly any worse? He always dreamed of hearing his baby kick in her stomach, he always envisioned that the two of them would watch their baby's first steps or hear their baby's first words. Unfortunately for him, this was only a fantasy, a dream that could not come true. What he didn't realize was that she didn't reveal to him her feelings were for her husband. If only he didn't feel a burst of emotions inside, he would be able to function correctly and suspect that there were things that she chose not to tell him.
She knew this was cruel. To bend, twist, hide, dement the truth – but life had to go on. She was different now. Ever since he had gone, she had changed. Part of her died when he had disappeared. But she was going to take responsibility for the choices she made.
Even though she credited him for saving her, it was she who gave him something to live for after the war. The aftermath of the war had left him with a broken childhood. Full of shadows, full of darkness, full of sleepless nights consumed by fear and horror, he didn't know if he could get out. But amongst the shadows, he found her. She helped him carry a burden he thought he would carry alone all his life. For a while, he saw meaning. He knew what it was like to truly, selfishly want something, yet did not feel guilty about it. But now, his family must have received all of his estates and the fortune must be gone by now and he would have to start from scratch, but that was no concern of his. Any life, just as long as it was with her would be comfortable.
Instead, he tried to steer her away from destroying the comfortable life she had made for herself.
"What does he look like?" he asked her in a pained tone.
She inhaled deeply. "As I first held him in my arms, I fell in love with him instantly."
He would never know what it was like to fall in love with his newborn child with her. He would never know what it would feel like to be a husband, a father, to revel in a luxury that is really a simple life, to be wholly complete. Never would he love again. His eyes fell accusingly over her, hurt for realizing that her son wasn't really his, but slowly realizing the pain she felt all these years. He could see in her eyes the torment in her soul. He could remember what her eyes looked like, the image was freshly imprinted in his mind, when her eyes were brimming with happiness and bliss. He could no longer find that, and he realized he had to settle for the past and be thankful that he had experienced it.
"I won't ruin the life you've created for yourself."
Even this encounter could jeopardize the respectable reputation she has established for herself. Local gossipmongers could be scattered about on the beach, hungry for the identity of this man she was so animatedly conversing with.
"Why did you come back, Quatre? I can't say I've been happy without you – but I've accepted that you've gone – never to return. When I thought you died – I gave everything away just to be held. But no one could ever take the place of you."
"—that is until he came along," she hastily added, obviously sounding unsure. Obviously, this was a lightly disguised lie to ask him not to ask her to abandon her faithful husband. She didn't love her husband. Quatre had robbed her of the ability to romantically love someone else. No one could ever replace her Sandrock pilot. But it was too late now. She had led a comfortable life that she settled with for many years. She led a life most women would covet. But she paid with such a dear price for a life of material luxury.
"I see – so the two of them have taken my place in your heart? Is there no room for me that you could somehow squeeze in?"
His sad blue eyes fell upon her. She felt enveloped by a rush of even more grief. She shut the tears away with her eyelashes. It was expected of her, it was what was right – not necessarily for her – to lie to him. Quatre would always have a large chunk of her heart. After all – she would not have it had it not been for him. Painfully, slowly, she shook her head.
He felt strings tug and twist his heart. He closed his eyes and nodded. He would never look at anyone the way he has looked at her. He could only watch from a distance, protect her from a distance, make sure no harm would come her way. And every night, he would close his eyes and dream of what could have been, of what should have been had he not so foolishly sacrificed his life for a fragile peace that not only left him alone but disillusioned as well. He couldn't forgive himself for accepting the assignment, for always being the optimist, for never thinking of the worst. For that, he would pay dearly. Ironically, he gave up the great love of his life to protect a fragile peace that would someday be broken.
She watched him turn around with tears that could no longer be shed, for she has none to shed. Suffering for all those years, desperately trying to bury a secret, clinging to what was and never will be again has dispirited her. She would do anything to hold him again.
A nine-year-old boy, who was too little for his age, and covered in speckles of sand, trudged towards his mother. He carried a bucket in one hand and a shovel on the other. He saw the retreating back of a man who he had never seen before but looked oddly familiar. He also did not fail to notice the spellbound gaze his mother cast on him. He dropped his belongings on the sand and ran to his mother, curious of what had passed between them.
"Mama, who is that?" the little boy asked, tugging down his mother's hand.
She stooped down and balanced herself on the balls of her feet to be in eye level with her son. His little blue eyes were brimming with such wonder, such vigor, such kindness that she was so familiar with. The little boy had looked at her with the same piercing blue eyes that first pierced her so long ago in her youth, when she first met the fifteen-year old Quatre Raberba Winner during the war. She ran her hand though his dirty blonde hair and hugged him tightly, not minding the sand that enveloped his body.
"He's the man I named you after."
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