Altered State

“Don’t tell anyone,” the words whispered from her lips with a longing desperation. She had repeated the phrase to herself innumerable times over the years, hiding away a hurtful secret. 

She stared at Rory, challenging him to be present in the moment, to acknowledge her sacrifice. 

“I never did forget you, even after all these painful years,” she wrung her hands, her upper teeth digging into her lower lip, a blunting of physical hurt to quell the tears.

Night was advancing, and she strained to see his form in the shifting light. She wanted to hold him, or be held by him, the distance wrought with a finality that was certain. Breathing was the easiest focal point, followed by the horizon, her eyes watching the soft hues of pink as the sun languished in descent. With a slow exhale, she surrendered to the pacification, the morphing of time. 

The handbag strap, pressing on her shoulder, weighed her into a steady stance. The urge to flee had long dissipated; she had learned to live with ghosts. The past held firmly to her actions. She wanted to scold Rory, to hold him accountable for the plentiful words unspoken. Instead, she let the silence sit between them, knowing he would keep their secret exclusive to this moment. The only detectable sound was the low murmur of the wind. 

A cold shiver passed over her, and in that vast vacuum, her thoughts drifted to the first time they met.

***

“You may be the most beautiful girl I have had the fortune of layin’ eyes on,” he said with a grin bordering on a subtle smirk.

Lucy glanced at the ground before meeting his gaze with an aloof directness.

“First I am a woman, not a girl, and since you sound uncertain as to your statement, perhaps you should reserve judgment. Ambiguity is not complementary.”

“Touché,” the smirk unfolded with a hint of embarrassment, “I meant no harm. I probably shouldn’t have said that where you could hear me.”

“Do you speak French,” she inquired, centering him with her eyes.

“No ma’am, I’m country. I can barely speak English,” he won her over, a simplicity in his honesty.

With the disclosure, her mood lightened, “I didn’t mean to take offense. I am not accustomed to such niceties.” 

“You really are beautiful,” he reached toward her face, pushing back an errant strand of hair, “and strong-willed. That’s a rare mix to find.”

Startled, she flinched. Her heart began racing with a realization, one without reference. She searched for the proper response but fell speechless to his advances.

“I’ll see you around, Ms…” he looked at her for a clue.

“Lucy, you can call me, Lucy.”

And he disappeared for the first time.

***

Lucy assumed the pivotal moment in her life would happen on the longest day of the year, akin to something tragic like Daisy Buchanan. It wasn’t the longest but the hottest. It was one of those late summer days, early August, where the heat stifled movement. The air, weighted in moisture, hung like soaked wool, each breath a labored nuance as if it might be the last.

Rory was leaning against the sturdy oak, watching her with cool detachment, seeing her but looking beyond as if some glimpse of the future had arrested his attention. She turned and looked backward, hoping she might catch a peek of some fleeting understanding. Instead, she was met by a transient breeze, an unwelcome wind that held desultory promises.

He smiled at her recognition and offered a slight wave, a hesitancy overcome. They walked toward each other, a playful skipping of Lucy’s heartbeat, a feeling of lust and desire converging in that singular space of time. They stopped short of destiny. The threshold crossed, there would be no going back.

His blonde hair framed his face, short with clean lines. Since their first encounter, she had longed to run her fingers through it and give it an untidiness. His eyes were set deep and his emotions even deeper. Rory skirted around feelings, mesmerized by what they offered, but too apprehensive to let himself experience the unknown reaches. He was shy about his smile and kept it brief. His nose had a peculiar slant to it that added character, and his body belied a masculinity of which she wanted to succumb. 

He pulled her into his chest, their lips touching for the first time, their mouths reaching for all those things they had kept out of grasp. The gentleness gave way to an unleashed passion, a frenzied pulling and tugging of clothes as he led her back to the shade of the oak. Still without words, he backed her against the trunk, his hands finding those places that arched her back into submission. Fingers fumbling to dislodge the buttons of his shirt, she wrapped her arms behind his taut neck, their damp skin clinging, and savored the experience of finally knowing him.

The rest of the summer was punctuated with a series of physical encounters and profound conversations that bordered on intellectualism. They laughed riotously at their differences and reservations, knowing that the fairytale could not and would not persist. They swam naked under the moon, the light glinting with softness off the water, her curves highlighted. She could almost touch the tangible tranquility in the effervescent glow. She sketched his solitary ruggedness with her fingertip, wanting to linger in the familiarity, to be swallowed up by the comfort between them.

Their laughter echoed through the immense quiet, and she could feel his hands take hers, a light touch, the sensory details heightened. She liked how it felt to be within his grip, to surrender self to another. His masculinity gently consumed her ardent desires. As her eyes plucked the starlight from the passing clouds, she thought the core of existence might burst from all the beauty until he said, “I can’t see you again.”

She flushed, the crimson rising in her cheeks, thinking it was a miscued joke. He scrambled from the water, hurriedly dressing as if a storm were fast approaching. It was a storm borne of passion and marred by remorse. She swam to the bank, the water’s heaviness tugging her, an ache to yield to its control.

“What is it, Rory? Did I do something, say the wrong thing? I am sorr-” he cut her off before the apology was fully enunciated.

“Stop, don’t, this is hard enough without you taking responsibility. I didn’t mean for this to happen,” the words bunched on themselves, a collision of incoherent meaning. 

Pulling his necklace over his wet hair, he laid it gently over hers, his fingers clumsy and uneasy. He clasped the cross pendant between his unsure fingers, pushing it into the soft pale of her chest. Her ample bosom heaved, a terror in the sigh. Her gasp sucked in the torrent of emotions, funneling them to a place unseen. A protected knot of nothing.

“I’m engaged to Adeline Merchant. It’s been a foregone conclusion since I was sixteen. I thought I loved her. I must love her, I mean, there’s no other way, right?” and he stared off into the darkness, the corners untouched by moonlight.

Lucy clamored for her damp clothing, an attempt at hiding the exposure. She haphazardly dressed, buttons misaligned, crushed in sadness. Broken along the lines of duty and severed expectations, she fought the urge of weakness. She would not let him see her cry. 

“How could you?” the words trembled and broke, a collapsing of her spirit into a rageful disbelief, a pulsing hurt that divided her from herself.

“I am so sorry. Please don’t forget me. And if you can, forgive me, my sweet, Lucy. Please forgive me,” his eyes held a forlornness that shattered everything they had both known.

He disappeared for a second time, the folds of night obscuring his retreating gait.

***

Her mind drawn back to the present, she watched the pink shades of the sky turn a brilliant maroon before yielding to a deep midnight. Lucy wanted to harangue Rory for the slights, deceit, and the ever-gnawing emptiness. His abrupt departure many summers ago had worn an insecurity in her psyche. It was permanent. The pain served as a glue.

“I know you never loved her. Not in the way of what we had, what we could’ve had,” she looked through him, tucking the graying hair behind her ear.

“I could’ve moved away, but I stayed right here in Fulton, so that I could see you, always hoping that you’d be at the same restaurant or store. There was always a nervous energy with the thought, with this fantastical idea that you might reconsider.”

She loathed him for the extended silence.

“Of course, you married her. I saw the pictures splashed across the paper. Ahhh, yes, the society event of the year. And you had the perfect life with kids, and grandkids, and that prim house on Shackleford Lane with its neatly dotted hedges. At first, I would drive by and let my mind wander, a punishing entertainment, futilely surmising what was happening behind those lighted windows.”

She paused, a tear surfacing in the corner. She closed her eyes, and the wetness slid a hard path down her aged cheek.

“I hated you and wished you ill. I prayed that you would lose something. I wanted you to feel the same suffering hole of an existence. Until I would see you…” the memories quieted her thoughts, “and then all I wanted was it to be that pristine summer evening. I dreamt of a do-over, a rewinding to that moment where you could make another choice. Where you could pick me. I needed you to pick me.”

The breeze rustled her hair and the tears flowed, eclipsed by a sullen regret.

“Yesterday, I got this letter in my mailbox, your penmanship as cagey and disjointed as I remembered. I don’t know who sent it. Yet, you finally said it. And I’m trying to make sense if it’s too late.”

She unfolded the paper, a crispness to the edges. Her fingers traced the few words. 

His voice with its low southern drawl played along the wind. A repetition in her mind, reminiscent of solace, she read the words in unison with his faraway voice.

Dearest Lucy,

Don’t ever think that there was a day that passed where you didn’t occupy my thoughts. It has been an eternal shame. 

I am sorry for hurting you. If I had to do it over again, I would have made a different decision.

Your summer love,

Rory

She refolded the letter, placing it on the loose dirt. In a forgiving overture, she laid the cross necklace delicately on the sacred parchment. Kneeling down, her body heaped against the granite, she kissed the cold surface of his tombstone.

“I forgive you. I always have.”

The November gust grew in intensity, whipping Lucy’s hair in front of her field of vision. She reached for the letter but thought better of it. Another blustery rush of wind caught the paper in its movement, and she watched it being carried upward, dancing along the hallowed ground. It lifted a final time, no longer locked away, and the culmination of knowing and losing Rory was complete.

She lingered against the hard surface of his resting spot, accepting of her fate. She felt the peace wash over her with its infinite resolve. 

For the final time, he disappeared.