I woke up one Sunday morning months after that fateful night in LA. It was spring and the new warmth in the city came flooding through my windows, providing me with a modicum of energy, just enough to get out of bed before noon. I finally addressed the mountain of mail building on my countertop. Sipping coffee while I perused one of the many New Yorker magazines in the pile, I got lost in a modern fiction excerpt, particularly a few paragraphs from the novel by author Lauren Fuser-Biel.
Isabelle watched the majestic creature pensively as he paced behind the ironclad fortress. His captivating beauty drew her closer, her eyes locked on his. She began mimicking his movements with acute precision, back and forth, forging a new path in the unmarred earth on her side of the bars. They studied each other with determined stares; her mouth fell agape. Faint whispers escaped in haunting tribute as she fixated on the beast. “Wolf, you are beautiful, admired because you are flawless, adored because you are predictable, envied because you are cherished… empty because you are caged.” The beast stilled. Isabelle, like a dammed river, slowed with a lingering motion as she appraised her counterpart. The trepidation in his sharply angled eyes, blue as the glacial depths, bore deep into her mind. She discovered a weakness in the magnificent and mercurial vision in front her, simultaneously revealing her own.
Protecting the flesh that was her only possession, she recoiled into herself to examine the surroundings. Where would she go for escape within the confines of her cage? As if the answers were predetermined, she stood and began pacing once again, for the worn path had become a familiar and safe refuge, the bars her warm blanket, the ferocious animal her protector.
Tormenting whispers echoed with the beast’s penetrating gaze. “Back and forth, beautiful creature. Back and forth, Wife.”
I pondered the meaning and wondered if the author was speaking of herself in it. Was it a warning about marriage or life in general, or was it simply a statement about the traps we make for ourselves, the walls we build, the prisons we are comfortable within? Was I guilty of choosing safety over happiness and freedom, like the character in the book? I wondered if anything mattered at that point. It was all in the past; I was left with nothing but regret now and no power to change things.
Flipping through the stack, I came across a birthday card. The front was Van Gogh’s Irises; when I opened the inside I sucked in a breath at the sight of Will’s handwriting.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY
HOPE YOU’RE WELL
LOVE, WILL
Well? Was he kidding? He basically fell off the face of the earth with no explanation except that I ruined him. I had resorted to scanning the faces of homeless men, thinking I would find him drenched in drunken sorrows at the street corner. I thought I was solely responsible for destroying a great musical talent, not to mention the love of my life, and here was his writing, perfectly legible, hoping that I’m well, signing off with love. It was just enough to break my heart all over again. I scoured the envelope for a return address, but there was nothing. Clenching my jaw, my fists balling in anger, I decided I needed to do something I hadn’t done since Jackson died. I threw on a pair of sweats and tennis shoes and started running. I ran until I couldn’t run anymore and then I collapsed on the bench overlooking the playground at Tompkins Square Park.
A familiar face caught my attention but I struggled to place it. I stared at her long dark hair, dark eyes, and alabaster skin, similar to mine. It wasn’t until I saw her reach down to hand a young boy a water bottle that I realized it was the woman I had helped at the airport over a year ago, just after my father’s death. It was the day I met Will and the memory was still vivid. I walked into the playground area and took a seat next to her on the bench. She glanced over and smiled, but there was no sign of recognition on her face. I was feeling bold and intrigued that I ran into this woman again. I turned toward her and stuck my hand out,
“Hi, I’m Mia. I don’t know if you remember me, but I helped you in the security line at Detroit Metro last year?”
She smiled, then pointed at me and nodded. “Yes, I do remember.” I could see in her face that she did recognize me and there was something else, she recognized herself the same way I had. “I’m Lauren.”
“I remember—hi. Wow, your boys have grown so much in just a year.” She nodded and smiled. “How old are they?”
“They’re four and five—fifteen months apart and very busy I might add,” she said, laughing. “Which one is yours?”
“I don’t have kids, I just love this park. I used to come here with my father. So, you must be very busy with two little active boys?”
“Yes, fortunately I work from home so I get to spend lots of time with them.”
“What do you do?” I asked.
“I’m a writer.”
“Really? That’s so cool. What do you write?” I realized I was being really nosey, but she didn’t seem to mind. I looked down at my appearance and wondered briefly if she thought I was a homeless person or an asylum escapee. I must have been quite a departure from the put-together Mia of last year.
“I write fiction. I wrote a book called Bountiful Lies that was just recently published.”
“You’re kidding me?” I looked at her like she had three heads.
“Oh no, you didn’t like it?” I could tell she was bracing herself for criticism.
I sat there, stunned at the coincidence. “I literally just read an excerpt in the New Yorker this morning.”