The songbirds outside my window are reviving me from the few hours of sleep I stole after spending most of the night tossing and turning as I stirred over the commotion at the dinner table. I’m not sure if what I’m feeling is anger, resentment, or suppression. I suppose it could be all three. I must wonder if any of us have choices in life, or are we just led to believe we do?
The arguments between Dad and me aren’t new, but Everett’s opinion took me by surprise. It was challenging to say goodnight to him because I was at a loss for words, which doesn’t happen often.
Part of me wonders if Everett was taking Dad’s side to appear as a figure of authority, or maybe he felt the need to prove his worth as the man in my life, protecting me at all costs. But after Dad left the room, Everett and I spoke in private. That moment, realizing his opinion hadn’t changed, made it hard to assume anything more than the fact of him agreeing with Dad.
Of course, I could very well be wrong, but it’s a tough concept to digest when I feel I should be independent and enjoy the liberty of choosing the path I want to follow. Freedom.
Maybe someone should search the word’s definition in a dictionary because the meaning seems to have become lost or forgotten.
I’m going to have bags under my eyes today. I should ring Everett and tell him I’m feeling ill. The thought of breaking our plans yanks at my heart. Even though I’m distraught about the conversation we had last night, I still want to see him and spend the morning together. This must be how a woman falls under the hypnotic control of a man. She falls in love and becomes too weak to do anything more than smile and agree to his every whim.
The decision is mine to make.
I blink at the time on my clock, telling myself I have less than a half-hour to get myself ready before Everett pulls up out front to wait for me. A cold splash of water against my face might help get me moving.
One by one, I unwind the curlers from my hair, realizing I twisted them tighter than usual last night—a side-effect of going to bed frustrated and angry. With one glance in the mirror, I realize I look like the childhood version of Shirley Temple with her tight barrel curls and dimpled cheeks. I run my brush through each tendril, yanking at each spiral. With a mess of locks to deal with, I haven’t had a chance to paint a coat of mascara over my lashes when I see the glow of headlights outside my window.
As usual, Everett is right on time, never a minute early or late. I take my lipstick and smooth it over my lips, check my teeth for remnants of pigment, slip on a sweater, and grab my purse and shoes to sneak out of the house before Dad notices my footsteps.
I tiptoe through the cool dew-covered grass, inhaling the lush aroma of damp plumerias, as I make my way closer to Everett’s car. I spot him standing by the passenger door with eager eyes and a radiant smile. He always finds a way to make my heart melt, even in my fit of exasperation. “Aloha. Good morning,” I whisper.
“Aloha, doll-face,” he greets me. “Gosh, who needs the sun when I have a pretty little thing like you to light up the day? The Burgundy of your sweater makes your eyes light up.” There he goes again, saying things I can’t move passed. He presses his lips to my cheek before inviting me into his car. “I missed you.”
I want to tell him I slept poorly because last night upset me so much, but I bite my tongue for the moment. He closes the door and rushes around to his side, smoothly closing himself inside. “I missed you too.” My response feels delayed, but I always miss him when we’re not together despite my frustration.
While placing his hands on the steering wheel, Everett pulls in a sharp breath through his nose, hinting at a sign of anguish. “I know you’re upset about what I said last night. Am I right?”
To think that there is a type of man who can read a woman’s mind ... well, he must be wise beyond his years. I sigh and drop my gaze to my interwoven gloved fingers. “Well, yes, I’m still quite bothered over the conversation that took place.” There’s no reason to lie about the way I feel. I always thought Mom should have been more honest with Dad about how she felt about specific topics.
Everett twists his head toward me and takes one of my hands into his. “Lizzie, I shouldn’t have interfered. I love you, that’s all.”
“Well, I appreciate your words. Thank you for understanding,” I reply, trying to sound proper and cordial in favor of my argument.
“But to be fair, it is slightly your fault.”
“Well, I’ll be. How in the world do you suppose that?” I argue.
“It’s entirely your fault that you made me fall in love with you. You took away my control to be a man of restraint. Some might even say you stole my freedom of choosing whether I fall in love with a beautiful, smart, sassy, outspoken woman like yourself, but what’s the point in arguing. I allowed it to happen, right?”
His words permeate my tired mind. I believe he’s trying to explain that he allowed my influence to take over. I wouldn’t have thought I could have such an effect on someone.
“I see.” I try to stifle the smile growing across my lips.
“If I didn’t want to fall in love with you, I could have walked away.”
“You mean to say you could have avoided heartbreak,” I remind him.
“Spending these months with you is well worth any form of heartbreak I might experience beyond today.” Everett veers away from the curb, cruising in near silence toward the end of the street.
I twist my body to stare at the profile of his face; a silhouette within the darkness. “How do you always know just the right words to make me forget what I was angry about?”
He peers over at me for a brief second. “The last thing I want to do is upset you, but I promised you I would be honest no matter what. Honesty is our foundation, isn’t it?”
The truth should be something I appreciate, respect, and consider—but not allow it to dictate my decision. “You’re a smart man, Everett.”
“I wouldn’t go that far, but my respect for you goes beyond what I can express. I just want you to know what I’m thinking. You’re a resilient woman, and I know you can handle more than most might give you credit for, which means I don’t doubt you will make the best decision for yourself. In fact, I find this trait to be one of your finest qualities.”
As hard as it is to admit I may have been wrong, I should have respected his feelings last night and took his words for what they were—his opinion. His thoughts mean more to me than I might have guessed.
“I appreciate your honesty. Your explanation didn’t come as a surprise. Nothing you said was foreign or something I hadn’t considered because I’m fighting a battle that will make me a stronger person. But trying to balance my desires with safety feels impossible some days. My mother wanted me to be a powerful woman, independent, free of other’s rules. Now, I must decide what that means for me.”
“I respect that, and I would never stand in the way of your decision. I hope you understand this,” he says.
By the time we’re pulling into the lookout point’s parking area, I’m feeling relief from the aggravation that tore me apart all night. “I haven’t been here in so long, since I was a kid maybe,” I tell Everett.
“Well, I’ve never been here at all, so I’m looking forward to the view you’ve been describing. I packed us breakfast.”
I almost forgot about breakfast and hadn’t considered who would bring the food. I should have offered, but the thought never crossed my mind. “You did?”
“Yes, Ma’am, I got up a little early and made some pancakes and eggs that are hopefully still warm. I also have a thermos full of coffee, so we have all the important elements for a perfect breakfast with a beautiful view.”
“You cooked?”
“As far as I know,” he says with a grin. “To be fair, I usually only cook for myself, but I haven’t complained much recently. Plus, I believe a man should know how to cook, shouldn’t he?”
I can’t contain my laughter, even if it pokes at my heart to imagine him eating alone.
“Well, of course. I just don’t know many men who will do much of anything in the kitchen, including cooking an egg. So, I’m pleasantly surprised by your gesture.” We’ve been together for almost five months, and the conversation about cooking hasn’t come up once. I assumed he was much like James, Lewis, and Dad when tending to domestic chores. We’ve always gone to the mess hall or out to a restaurant. I’ve cooked for him occasionally, but I insisted each of those times.
Everett makes his way over to my car door and offers me a hand before reaching into the back seat for a picnic basket and blanket I hadn’t noticed.
“This is very thoughtful and sweet.”
We don’t have to walk far to find the perfect spot to watch the sunrise over the ocean. Everett places the picnic basket down and smooths out the blanket for us to sit on. I reach for the basket, but he pulls it away, insisting on serving the items. “I’m quite capable, Miss Lizzie.”
He places two plates on the blanket, then a tin, and a couple of jars filled with the food he cooked up. “This looks delicious, Everett.” The tins are still warm to the touch, and the coffee is steaming when he pours it into two mugs.
A flare of sunlight peeks over the horizon in a flat glowing orange line. It’s blinding against the fading darkness. “Do you ever experience moments you want to make sure to remember and carry with you forever?” I ask.
Everett takes a small sip of his coffee and grins. “There have been so many of them lately. I can only hope they all stick with me.”
“Aside from these last several months, I’ve only had a handful of memories I’ve wanted to keep. This habit I have may sound silly, but when there is something remarkable happening, I like to imagine painting the scene in my mind; noting every detail, even down to the number of leaves there are on a flower’s stem or how the hues from a melting sun change and morph into different shades just before the sky turns black.”
“That’s a wonderful way to remember a moment,” he says.
I lose myself in thought, trying to recall the last time I painted a memory before meeting Everett. It isn’t hard to remember, though. “Her hand was cold, not quite like ice, but like she needed a pair of gloves. Her fingers were weak, and the beds of her nails were a pale blue mixed with a hint of purple. I’m not sure if her nails always looked that way because she was vigilant about keeping her nails painted with bright red polish. I stroked my thumb along her knuckles, hoping I was relieving at least some of her pain.” She seemed to relax when I tried to soothe her. I didn’t know what else to do. “I pressed her hand against my cheek, feeling the silky soft skin that wiped away so many of my tears in the past. I needed her to wipe my tears away at that moment, but she was too weak. Her hand smelled faintly of soap and the creme I had massaged onto her skin the night before. She struggled to open her eyes wide enough to look at me, but the amber coloring of her irises against the ghostly color of her pale skin was still as vibrant as it was when she was healthy.”
“Those details—I can picture her, Lizzie,” Everett says.
“She wouldn’t have wanted you to see her looking that way,” I choke up a quiet chuckle. “I had never seen Mom without makeup before that time, but she was a natural beauty, even without the pigment of blood pumping through her skin the way it should have been. I needed to know I would not forget the way she looked. I needed to know that whenever I would close my eyes for the rest of my life, I would have the clearest image of her, even if it was the way she appeared in those last days. Her soul was still living inside of her, exhaling the life I wanted to hold on to. I would stare at each freckle on her face, each line left behind from stress, the few eyelashes that didn’t curl like the others, and the deep shade of pink of her earlobes from the heavy earrings she often wore. Her lips were pale compared to what I usually saw, but the shape of her cupid’s bow was the same. She already looked like an angel.”
Everett is staring into my eyes, or maybe through my eyes, as if he’s lost. My words might have reminded him of his mother, I suppose. “Despite makeup or sickness, it sounds like you look exactly like her down to those few eyelashes that curl differently than the others.” He smiles and takes my hand. “You must promise to always keep memories like that. If we’re ever to be apart, I’ll know I can relive the moments with you when we’re back together.”
“What about the times I’m with you—the ones I paint pictures of to keep locked away in my mind forever?”
“I’ll want the reminders of those too. You can keep them in the journal. They’ll be safe there.”
“Absolutely. Perhaps I should start the first page with this moment; it’s a beautiful portrait in my mind.”
“How do you do it? How do you see every fine detail? Teach me, Lizzie.”
I shrug because I’m not sure how it happens; how every detail of everything around me forms into a movie in my mind, but it does and locked there, in a frozen moment.
“I notate aromas, the temperature, sensations of anything touching my skin, the taste on my tongue, the sounds of what is nearby and what is far off in the distance, and the color pallet of the surrounding landscape. I don’t know. It’s the same as when I write. I close my eyes, and I can recall all the little details. There is so much to experience in life, and I’m afraid of missing out on the slightest detail.”
“That’s an incredible talent,” he says, his eyes glossy as if mesmerized by my explanation.
“Try it. I’m sure you’re quite capable of the same.”
“Oh, I don’t know.”
“Close your eyes,” I say, running my hand down the side of his cheek. “What do you smell?”
He takes a moment to collect his thoughts before speaking. “I smell vanilla, coffee beans, a variety of botanicals, and the sea mist. I didn’t know the sea mist had a smell, but it’s salty, I suppose.”
“And what do you taste?” I ask through a whisper.
He’s quicker to answer this time. “I taste the flavors of coffee and syrup from the pancakes.” With slow blinks, Everett’s eyes soften, admiring me as if he’s trying to memorize my features but leans in and claims my lips. His tongue meets mine, and my heart races with desire as he cups his hands around my cheeks. “You,” he mutters against my mouth. “I taste you.”
It’s hard to consider any other sensation when feeling like this, and I’ll happily forget about the sounds and colors of the world if I can remember this—the touch of his lips, his tongue, the sweet taste of sugar. The moment lasts for what seems like minutes, but he pulls away quicker than I wanted and darts his gaze out toward the ocean. “Is everything okay?” I ask.
“Shh,” he hushes me, holding his finger up to his mouth. “Do you hear that?”
I close my eyes to focus on whatever sound he’s hearing, but I can’t discern much other than a low rumble of wind in the distance. “It’s just the breeze because we’re up high.”
“No,” he says, staring with intensity toward the horizon. “No, no, that sound is not from the wind.”
“What do you mean?” I ask, trying to laugh away the nerves from his apparent apprehension.
Everett stands up from the blanket and holds his hand over his eyes to shield the abundance of light leaking over the horizon, but we can’t see much since a cluster of clouds are hovering over the water. He lowers his hand in a slow movement. “Lizzie, get into the car.”
“Why? What’s going on?”
“Get in the car right now. Go.”
I lean down to stack the plates back into the picnic basket. “I’ll just clean this up,” I say.
“No, leave it there. Let’s go.”
“Everett, we can’t just leave this—”
He takes my wrist within his hand and pulls me away from where we were sitting. “I’m sorry. Just, please listen.”
“I don’t understand.”
He opens my car door and helps me inside faster than I would typically move. Everett is in his seat within seconds, burning rubber as we back out of the parking spot. My mind is racing with questions he won’t answer, and I’m still unsure of what he heard.
“I don’t understand either, but I need to find out,” he says.