Tempus (35 page)

After parking at the front of the house, Gabriel insisted I let him open the door of the car for me.  Watching him cross around the front once again, I couldn’t help but think how beautifully he walked.  There was self-assurance in his movements, a confidence.  The breeze lifted a lock of hair, and for a brief moment, I envied that breeze.

“Get a grip, Jessie.  Seriously.”  I whispered to myself as the door swung open.

He extended a hand, as I knew he would, and I took it without hesitation.  I had mentally braced myself for the jolt that came, so my expression didn’t waver when it happened, although I did suck in a breath.  I stood slowly, gazing up at the massive house.

“My room is on the top floor.”  He said.  “Just like yours.”

“It’s a beautiful house.”

“Thank you.  We can go inside now, or I could show you the gazebo first.  Your choice.”  He had pointed it out as we drove up, and his eyes darted that direction and back, locking on mine.

“The gazebo sounds nice.”  I wasn’t ready to meet his father yet.  That’s the reason I gave myself, anyway.

Gabriel was still gripping my hand.  He linked his fingers through mine and started walking in the direction of the gazebo.  I didn’t know how to react to that, especially since it felt
natural
.  My eyebrows came together as I tried to figure out why.  It may have appeared to him that I frowned, because he immediately released my hand. 

“I’m sorry.  I-I don’t know what I was thinking.”  He looked uncertain for a moment, a distant look in his eyes, but didn’t stop walking.

“It’s okay.”  What else was I supposed to say?  We walked in silence the rest of the way.

The gazebo was covered in beautiful green Ivy vines that grew in and out of the lattice, across the top, and created a hanging curtain over the entry.  Gabriel separated the vines, holding them up and over, allowing me to enter first. 

It was cool and shady inside.  Spots of sunlight danced across the floor and the breeze swayed the vines and leaves, causing them to whisper.  It had a pleasant, woodsy scent, and a secretive feel about it.  I wanted to run my hands along the wood; I could imagine it had quite a history.

“I love the feel of this place.”  I said, closing my eyes.

“It’s one of my favorite places.”  Said Gabriel.

I opened my eyes and he was watching me, looking expectant.  I tried to figure out why he was looking at me so closely.  It made me feel self-conscious, and I brushed at my face, wondering if there was something on it.  He smiled.

“Okay,
what
?”  I asked, my voice a little annoyed.

“Nothing, really.”  He looked away, and then walked by me to sit down.  He patted the cushion beside him.  “I told you I would tell you about my mother.”

  I approached slowly, sitting slightly on the edge and then scooting back.  His eyes looked sad and cautious.  I recognized the grief, but there seemed to be more to it, a depth beyond what even I had experienced, a regret I couldn’t quite grasp.

“Her name was Evangeline.”  He began.  “I was ten when she died.”

I remembered Gabriel taking my hand sitting at my kitchen table, comforting me.  It had given me the strength I needed, and allowed me to grieve as I never had been able to.  Without debating the wisdom of it, I offered my open hand.  He didn’t grab it, instead he slid his fingers slowly between mine, locking our hands together. 

“She and my father were very young when they married, and they wanted to start a family right away.  I was born two months after their first anniversary.”  He smiled a troubled smile.  “The pregnancy was difficult, and she almost—well, she could not have another child after.”

“She was rather frail, and had always been.  Such a tiny little thing, she was.  My father was so protective of her, even around me.”  He laughed.  “Whenever I was sick, he tended me himself, and locked her out of the sickroom.” 
Who said sickroom
, I thought. 

“She loved old things, like you, and she was captivated by history, by the past.  My father had so many fascinating books, books such as you have never seen.  He called them ‘hidden history’ books, filled with knowledge of events that few were—
are—
even aware of.  I remember watching them go through them for hours on end, searching for—bits of information helpful to my father and his work.”

He squeezed my hand gently, inspected our linked fingers, and then continued.  “When I was ten, my father had to take a trip.  He traveled to London for his—w
ork
.  I became very ill with influenza before his return and my mother cared for me.”  That look of suffering returned to his eyes, and I already guessed where this was headed.

“My illness progressed rapidly to bilateral pneumonia, and serotherapy had utterly failed.  The physician told my mother there was not much he could do for me.  She was distraught, and had no way to inform my father.  She never left my bedside.”

He swiped at his eyes with his free hand, and I looked away for a moment.  “My father returned to find me on my deathbed, my mother nearly insane with panic over my condition.  She was exhausted from caring for me both day and night.”

  “My father knew of a hospital where therapy existed for cases such as mine.  At my mother’s insistence, he took me immediately.  She did not tell him she had been feeling ill.”

Again, he inspected our linked hands, turning them over to look at the back of mine.  “As you see,
my
treatment was successful.”

“I’m glad.”  I offered, though I knew it was no consolation.

He smiled dispassionately, and only for my benefit.  “I have many times thought that if I could have died quickly, my mother might be alive still.”

 I was never good at words of comfort or support.  I didn’t deal well with pain and guilt of my own, much less others and I silently prayed for something to say that would be helpful.  “Your mother would not have made it without you.  Your father would have lost you both.”  It was the only thing I could think of.

“You sound like my father.”  His barely-smile was legitimate this time.  “I stayed with my mother until her last breath.  I held her hand until the warmth was gone from it, and I kissed her goodbye.”

He fell silent, lost in thought.  I had questions, but I didn’t want to ask right now.  I wondered if she had gone with him to the hospital.  If they could save him, then why not her?  I wished I could have kissed my mom goodbye, at least he had that, but it wouldn’t have been worth feeling responsible for her death, as he obviously did.

There was nothing I could say, but I wanted to give him comfort, as he had given me.  I had felt better earlier, just being able to let out the pain.  He still held his in, and I could see it.  I could feel it.

“It wasn’t your fault.”  He looked up as if to protest, but I stopped him.  “You asked me earlier if I believed in fate.  I guess I do more than I thought.  My mom used to tell me that when your time was up, it was up, and there wasn’t anything you could do about it.  It didn’t matter where you were, what you were doing, or who you were with.”

I squeezed his hand a little.  “I do think sometimes that you can cause your life to be shorter, though.  Like smokers and drinkers.  But maybe that all fits in.  Maybe that’s why some people smoke or drink and others don’t.  Why some can quit and some can’t.”  I hadn’t thought about it that much before now. 

“My mom believed we all have some purpose, some reason for being here.  Some of us are meant to be important to the
world
, and some are just meant to be important to a few people.”  I wondered what my purpose could be, if I would ever figure it out.

He nodded his head slightly.  “Do you think your mother fulfilled her purpose?”  He asked.

“I don’t know.  Maybe her purpose was just to have me, and maybe your mother's was to have you.  We may someday be the ancestors of someone who cures cancer or something.” 

“
We
may.”  The way he said it sent a shiver down my back.  There was an implication in it that hit me like a shock wave. 

For a moment, I felt like I had been here before.  I wondered if that’s what déjà vu was, being in step with a moment, a place, exactly where you were supposed to be at a given time.  I’d had moments that were similar, where it felt like I was repeating something, words or actions that were familiar, but this was different. 

“Jessie?”  His voice sounded concerned

I looked up quickly and blinked a few times.  “What?  Is something wrong?” 

His eyes searched mine, looking for something.  “What were you thinking about?”

“Déjà vu.”  I wrinkled my nose.  “Everyone thinks it has to do with something you’ve experienced in your past, but what if it was more like being where you’re supposed to be, and something in your mind knows it, like it’s been waiting for it.  Like it’s a signpost telling you you’re going the right way.”  That sounded stupid.

“That’s an interesting theory.”  He wasn’t mocking me.  Surprise.  “That could be possible, and it makes as much sense as any other theory I’ve heard.  What made you think of it?”

I blushed, and that made me mad.  “Because I felt like I was supposed to be here, right
now
.”

His eyes lit up, the melancholy gone completely.  It was startling to watch the instant transformation, and I had no idea what it meant.  He pulled my hand up, turning it, and placing it on his chest.  His heart was pounding under my palm.

“And now?”  He asked.

I was having the oddest sensations.  His heartbeat seemed to double, not in pace, but as in
two heartbeats
, barely separate, but still distinct.  My head felt light, and there was a memory in my mind.  I knew it was there, but I couldn’t bring it forward. 

“
Remember
.”  He whispered.

I almost could.  Something in me was reaching for it, that memory that was there but wasn’t.  I was looking into his eyes, and it felt like I was looking into them over and over and over.  It overlapped.  Happy eyes.  Sad eyes.  Worried eyes.  Smoldering eyes.  Searching eyes.  Always blue.

“
Gabriel
.”  My voice echoed.

“Jessie.  Remember,
please
.”  My hand was still on his heart.  It felt like a hammer, beating at me relentlessly.

It came like a glimpse.

Right now, I’m having amnesia and déjà vu at the same time

—Stephen Wright

Gabriel, holding my hand to his heart.  ‘
It beats for you
.’  He whispered.  Gabriel, removing a black cloth from his pocket, removing a watch, the watch from the mirror.  Gabriel, standing behind me, his hands on my shoulders, our reflection.  Gabriel, stepping through a mirror.  Gabriel, pushing me on a swing.  Gabriel, holding my hand on the sidewalk.  Things that had never happened, but I saw them like a memory.  Then it stopped.

My eyes focused on his.  “I saw something.”  I could barely speak.

“What did you see?”  He asked, his voice sounding desperate.

“You.  Over and over.”  I could still feel his heartbeat.  I heard his voice say ‘
Please don’t forget me this time
,’ though his lips never moved.  “What did you say?”  I asked.

“I asked what you saw.”

“After that.”  I specified.

“I didn’t say anything after that.”  His head tilted a little to the side.  “What did you
hear
?”

“Your voice.  You said ‘
Please don’t forget me this time
.”  My eyes unfocused.

“But did you?” 
But did you?  But did you
?  It echoed.

Flashes.  Flickering images.  Gabriel on the bed.  ‘
Stop talking and kiss me
.’  It was my voice this time.  “What’s happening, Gabriel?”  I was trying to ask, but did the words come out?  Could he hear me?

“I’m not sure.  What do you see, what do you hear, what do you
remember
?”  He was pressing my hand to his chest hard.  “Touch my face.”

I lifted my free hand, placed it on his cheek.  The flickers cleared, came more into focus.  I was explaining what I could see, how I could see things.  I was explaining my glimpses.  I could hear my own voice.  We were here, in the gazebo.

The tree.  The carving.  ‘
I carved it for you yesterday.  It’s a hundred years old, you know.’ 
Gabriel, smiling, kissing me under the tree.  I took my hand off his cheek.

“Stop.”  I whispered.

He released my hand, and I sat back, exhausted.  “Are you okay?”  He asked.

“I don’t know.”  I needed to think, but I couldn’t, not clearly.  “Can you explain any of that?”

“I can’t explain it
all
, but I think we have figured out what is happening.  We just don’t know why.”

“We?”  We who?  What was happening?

“My father and I.  We have been trying to figure this out for longer than you can fathom.”  He ran his fingers through his hair.  “I’ve explained it to you before, but you never remember, not all of it.  You remember pieces.”  He turned his back and walked to the other side of the gazebo, putting both hands behind his head.  The gesture seemed so familiar.