Wings Over Poppies (Over #2) (13 page)

I feel Caroline’s hand running up and down my back, whispering words of encouragement.

“Let it out, sweet girl. It’s all right. You need to feel it and be grateful for that gift. Whatever happens going forward, today is a day to rejoice. Just let it out.”

I don’t know how long she sits with me, but my sobs slowly recede, and my mind begins to process the possibilities of West. Where does he live? Is he married? Does he ever think of me? Why has he never contacted me?

“I can hear those wheels turning in your head, so why don’t you let me tell you what I know instead of drowning in speculation?” She gently touches my chin, tipping my head up to hers. I nod slightly, and she reaches over to grab a sheet of paper off her desk. She holds it face down in her lap, and I clasp my hands together to stop myself from grabbing it from her.

“I don’t have all the specifics, but I’ll tell you what I know. West Adler returned from the Middle East two years ago. That would coincide with him fulfilling his four-year commitment, but I’m unsure of the details surrounding his discharge from the military. I do know that he was a medic while he served. He now attends college and works part-time at a physical therapist’s office.”

She stops suddenly and seems to be checking in with me to see how I’m handling all of this. Honestly, I’m not sure what to tell her. After years of living in the dark, I feel blessed, bombarded, blindsided. It’s too much. It’s not enough. It’s every word I’ve ever wanted to hear.

“Okay,” I whisper, not capable of saying anything else. It’s taking everything in me to process her words and continue to breathe in and out. I can’t be expected to respond intelligently.

The longer her pause, the more worry creeps into my heart.
Just say it!
Her fingers fiddle nervously with the paper she’s holding, and I become afraid of the words on the other side. I inhale deeply, sitting up straight in the chair and clasping my hands in front of me. As I slowly exhale, Caroline turns the sheet of paper over and places it in my hands.

“Alex, my sweet girl, he’s local.”

“
Far Away
” by Nickelback

I ANGRILY SWEEP the brush across the canvas in wide, broad strokes. There’s no finesse in the task. The red paint calls to me, and I instinctually answer. This is not about technique. It’s an emptying of emotion.

Classical piano spills from my workroom stereo. It’s an uncommon choice for me while working. I don’t think I can stomach any verses of love or devotion at this point, and isn’t that what every song boils down to?

I do my best to push the speculation and rejection away and just feel the work. I don’t approach the painting with any particular idea in mind. It creates itself, and I let it guide me. I have become known for my paintings of wings of every variety, so I’m as surprised as anyone else at my finished product.

A fucking poppy.

But this poppy is anything but perfect. The petals are hardening with age and cracking in places. Some are slightly wilted, but the red is as vibrant as the first day it bloomed. The flower may wither, but the color remains stunning as ever. Not everything changes. Some things in life defy time, age, and all reasonable logic.

“Wow, Alex, it’s just stunning.” Celia approaches me from behind. “I feel such emotion from it. It actually hurts to look at it.”

“It hurt to paint it,” I whisper, turning around to place my brush on the counter. “How did you get in?”

“The front of the gallery is locked, but I saw your bicycle tied to the lamp post. I took a chance and tried the back door. You left it unlocked.” She looks back and forth between the painting and me. “That’s a poppy, right?”

“Yes, it’s a poppy. Do you know anything about the significance of poppies?” I ask, thinking back on the research I’ve done throughout the years.

“Other than poppies have been getting people high for centuries? Not much at all.”

I turn back to the canvas and search for areas that may need touching up. I wonder if I should add an imperfection, like I’ve done to all my pieces for years. This one feels different. I don’t want to add anything because the entire canvas is an imperfection.

“Alex?”

Celia jars me from my thoughts, and I give her my attention.

“Hmmm?”

“The poppies? You were saying?”

“Yes, right. Sorry, my mind wandered off for a moment.” I cap my paints and bring my brushes to the washbasin. “There was a poem written by a Canadian surgeon during World War I called “In Flanders Fields.” The poem tells the story of the death and destruction of the war, specifically of an area called Flanders Fields in Belgium. Over half a million soldiers died among the red poppies there. The red poppy has become a symbol of remembrance for those soldiers, and all soldiers who are lost in battle.”

“I didn’t know that. Is that what this painting is about? The loss of a solider?”

I chuckle softly and lower my head. “It’s much more complicated than that.”

“Isn’t it always? Alex, you know I’m here if you ever want to talk, right?”

I remember my conversation with Cain about Celia’s past, and I feel like she may be the perfect person to help me figure out what to do. I’d love to get her insight, but I know I need to tread lightly. I would never want to hurt Celia needlessly or reopen old wounds.

I’ve only known Celia for a few short months, but I’ve never once seen her angry. It’s not uncommon to find a fresh flower behind her ear, and she always has a smile on her face. Of course, I know better than anyone, looks can be deceiving.

“Can I ask you a hypothetical question, Celia?” Keeping the conversation in that way may serve to take the sting out of my questions. She nods and smiles after hopping onto a nearby stool.

“What if you had the opportunity to talk to someone who has been lost to you for years? And by someone, I mean someone who meant everything to you. Someone who never strayed very far from your thoughts over the years.”

“I wouldn’t have to ask myself the question. That’s a no brainer, Alex.” Celia shrugs and purses her lips.

“Even though he could have contacted you and never made any effort to do so? It’s obvious he doesn’t feel the same, wouldn’t you say?”

“That’s one explanation, but there could be a number of reasons.” Her voice drops down to a whisper as she stares at her clasped hands. “You know, I lost someone very close to me years ago, Alex.”

“I’ve heard that, but I don’t know any specifics. I’m sorry, Celia. I didn’t mean to upset you—”

“No, I’m fine. You don’t have to tiptoe around me,” Celia interrupts, her tone laced with quiet determination. “But let me tell you one thing. I would give up anything in this world to have ten minutes with the eighteen-year-old Lucas. There are so many things I would tell him. There are so many things I never had the chance to say.”

“But he couldn’t come to you. He couldn’t come find you. That’s an entirely different circumstance.”

“Just like you, things aren’t quite that simple. But this isn’t about him, is it? It’s about you. Or the hypothetical you.” She laughs as she throws her hands in the air, rolling her eyes.

“At this juncture, the hypothetical me wants to punch him in his hypothetical face.” I toss the paintbrushes into the washbasin with a little extra force.

“And you should have the opportunity to tell him that. Look, this may be the beginning of something new, where you find out things aren’t exactly as you think. Or this may be the end, where you realize he’s the jerk you think he is. If he’s a jerk, don’t rob yourself of the opportunity to tell him to fuck off,” Celia says with an innocent smile plastered to her face.

“Fuck off, huh?”

“Those two words can be very cathartic. You should give it a try sometime.” Celia shoots me a wink and throws her purse over her shoulder as she walks toward the exit.

“Wait, Celia. You never said why you stopped by.”

She gives me a dismissive wave and shakes her head. “Nothing that’s as important as your hypothetical situation. We’ll talk later. And, by the way, just in case you’re wondering, my lips are sealed.”

“Therapist’s code?”

She shakes her head and smiles sweetly. “Nope. Friend code.”

So what’s the appropriate attire for visiting someone you love, who you haven’t seen in over six years? A tank top and yoga pants that says, “I happen to be in the neighborhood and this means nothing to me…”? Full-on pageant make-up and a sequined top that says, “I’ve finally found you, now let’s get married…”? A tight mini skirt and tube top that says, “I’m way hotter than the wife you probably have…”?

After rifling through my closet for an hour, I decide to just do me. That’s what I’ve been doing for the past twenty-four years, and it’s been working just fine. I choose a cream, vintage lace sundress with a denim shirt, and a wide brown belt cinched at the waist. Throw in a pair of brown leather slouch boots, my leather bracelets, and a few small braids throughout my hair, and I think my outfit says, “I’m still Alex, the same girl I’ve always been.”

Holly begged to go with me. It’s strange enough, just dropping in on someone after all these years. It would be totally awkward if I had Holly with me to act like my guard dog. And that’s exactly what she’d do, too. Besides, I don’t see the need for her to make a two-hour drive when there is a chance I may not find him today.

After going back and forth about it, I finally decide to try to find him at work instead of his house. Something about being in a public setting lessens my apprehension, although I’m not sure why.

I turn the crumpled piece of paper over in my hand and try to smooth out the wrinkles. After Caroline handed it to me, my fist curled it into a tight ball. It’s not like I need the piece of paper anyway. Both of the addresses are indelibly marked in my memory. I couldn’t forget where to find him even if I wanted to.

Ten miles.

That’s the distance separating our houses. I always thought if he were that close, I would
feel
him. The physical therapist’s office where he’s employed is even a bit closer. How many times have I passed him on the road? Have we ever been in the same place and happened to never cross paths? I’m sure of it. Providence is just not that big.

I wonder if he’s ever seen me and turned the other way…

Providence Sports & Rehabilitation Clinic is located near Providence General Hospital like so many other doctor’s offices and medical companies. Other than the sign located near the road, the office resembles a small house with a quaint porch and two rocking chairs on either side of the door. I pull my Matrix into one of the empty parking spaces and shut off the engine.

I know I can’t sit here long without melting. The Louisiana heat is relentless. With the air conditioning turned off, I can feel beads of sweat trying to erupt on my forehead and upper lip. My raging nerves aren’t helping the situation either.

“You can do this, Alex. Just get out of the car,” I whisper, hoping no one is watching my one-way conversation.

Out of the blue, I imagine Marlo giving me a once over and saying exactly what’s on her mind. She’d say,
“Pull up your big girl panties and get out of the goddamn car. You’re Alex Fucking Fontaine for Christ’s sake. Act like it!”