Authors: K. Larsen
Annabelle
“Oh, it’s dangerous, It’s so out of line, To try and turn back time.”
~ Hurt, Christina Aguilera
At six, Annabelle noticed the time. She had completely zoned out to the story today. She jumped up from the chair and scurried to the bathroom to relieve herself before heading home.
Emerging from the bathroom she apologized to Jezebel. “Sorry to run, Jez, but . . .”
“You’re going to be late.” Jezebel nodded in understanding and Annabelle scooped up her bag and made a beeline for the front doors. She had ten minutes to get to the bus stop and catch her bus home.
“Hey! Wait!” Annabelle stopped her feet and skidded to a halt. She turned and found herself chest to chest with a breathless Mark. “Uh, Jezebel said you forgot this.” He held out her wallet.
Baffled, she unzipped the outermost pocket of her backpack to check. Her wallet
was
missing. But she hadn’t touched her bag the entire visit. Brows furrowed, she looked up to Mark.
“Weird. Thanks,” she mumbled, taking the wallet from him.
“So, Jez says you visit her every week. That’s real sweet. Is she family?”
“No,” she answered. Confusion swept over his face and she knew what he’d ask next. Embarrassed about the circumstances for her being at Glenview, Annabelle preferred to avoid that particular conversation with Mark.
“So, why do you come here then?” he asked, just as she figured he would. She waved her hand to stop him. “Can we just talk about something else?” He mulled that over, his eyes never leaving hers.
It was obvious he did not want to drop it, but he gave her an acknowledging shrug anyway. “What would you like to talk about instead?” There was a playful edge to his voice. Annabelle suddenly felt apprehensive. “I don’t know . . . actually . . .”
He cut in, “Alright, I’ll pick.” He seemed like the kind of guy who didn’t have a care in the world.
“Um,” she cut him off, “I really have to go. I can’t miss the bus. Sorry.” She gave a small wave as she turned to go.
His hand caught her arm, slid gently up to her neck and stroked her bottom lip with his thumb. Her breathing halted. Her muscles froze. His expression was tight, like he was fighting for restraint. “Are you sure you have to go? I’m off in ten.” The gravelly sound of his voice almost convinced her to stay.
Almost.
She pressed her lips tightly together and took a step back from him. “I’m sure. Uh, see you around.” She turned on her heel, bolted out the doors and ran the entire way to the bus stop. Another two seconds and she would have missed the bus. As it was, she could barely catch her breath from the impromptu sprint—or maybe it was because of Mark. She couldn’t be sure.
On the bus ride she took time to gather her thoughts. She had definitely
not
left that pocket on her bag unzipped and she had
not
taken her wallet out for anything while visiting. Jezebel set her up. It had to be when she used the bathroom before she left
. That sneaky brat.
Annabelle smiled to herself and watched the town blur by the window.
~
***
~
Mark.
Mark.
Mark.
Mark.
His name seemed to play on an endless loop in her head. It was foolish and embarrassing but she couldn’t put him out of her mind. The feeling of his thumb grazing her cheek. The way his eyes sparkled. The way the fine hairs on the back of her neck stood at attention from his touch.
Mark. When she dreamed.
Mark. When her teacher’s voice droned on and on.
Mark. When she was restless at home.
Mark. When she talked with Madison.
He filled up space inside her soul alongside the ever-present grief and sorrow, somehow making it, briefly and ever so subtly, more tolerable.
Brant,
I met a guy. His name is Mark. I know absolutely nothing about him. I think you’d tell me how ridiculous it is that I’m obsessed with him. I think you’d tell me that if he wants a shot at your baby sister he has to get by you, but I think you’d approve. I have no facts to base this off of, but I want you to approve.
I guess maybe you wouldn’t, simply because there’s nothing to approve of. Not yet anyways. Maybe I’ll see him again Tuesday.
Your psycho sister,
Belle
She tucked the journal into her desk drawer and lay on her bed, staring at the patterns the moonlight cast on her ceiling thinking about . . . of course, Mark.
~
***
~
Annabelle startled awake. She threw the covers off and sat up in bed, panting.
Just another stupid dream.
She chastised herself quietly as she slipped from bed and walked to the kitchen. She flipped on the overhead light and squinted against its glare. Her eyes adjusted swiftly as she scanned the bleak kitchen for some kind of purpose. She let out a yawn before the fridge caught her interest. That was, until she opened it and realized there was barely anything in it. Without much thought, her hand closed around a can of whipped cream. She checked the expiration date, saw that it was still good and nudged the fridge door closed with her foot.
She hopped up on the counter and stared at the can. Why had she grabbed it?
Brant.
She didn’t think sugar would exactly help her sleep but at the moment she didn’t really care. Annabelle removed the cover and angled the can over her open mouth before she depressed the lever. Creamy, delicious, sugary-sweet goodness piled on her tongue. She wiped at a bit that had spluttered on her cheek with a paper towel, then crumpled it into a ball and tossed it in the trashcan and whispered, “Score!” when it swooshed in.
A low chuckle startled her. She let out a yelp as her father entered the kitchen. “What are you doing up?”
She relaxed and shrugged. “Can’t sleep.”
A glimmer of a smile played on her father’s lips. Grimly, she realized how very little anyone in the house ever smiled. She lifted the can and squirted another clump of whipped cream into her mouth.
“You should try it,” she mumbled, mouth full.
“Brant used to do that.”
Annabelle tensed and looked away. When he said his son’s name, his voice was pained.
“Yeah,” she said after a pause. Her father cleared his throat. She pictured a big, raw knot of emotion blocking his throat. He reached into the fridge and pulled out a bottle of water. “Finish up your whipped binge and get back to bed.”
“Okay,” she answered.
He turned in the doorway. “Night, Belle.”
“Night.” He had almost reached the stairs when she called after him. Glancing at her from over his shoulder, he said, “Yes?”
“Why are you up?” His eyes held her for an instant and then his shoulders drooped. “I couldn’t sleep either.” With that, he retreated, leaving her alone in the kitchen again.
~
***
~
When Tuesday arrived Annabelle was a tightly-wound bundle of nerves. The anticipation of seeing Mark had her stomach bubbling with excitement and fear. Fear that she’d become a bumbling idiot again in his presence.
She showered, dressed and headed to school thinking how there was no dignity in grief. She was bored and disgusted with her family’s sorrow. It had to end. She was here. Brant was not. That should have provided some comfort
eight
years later for her parents yet her presence seemed to only serve as a morbid reminder of all they had lost. She slapped a smile on her face as she pushed through the double doors of the high school. She only had a month until graduation.
Her day whizzed by. Nothing exciting marked its presence. She stared blankly from the window of the bus the entire trip to Glenview, her mind strangely quiet.
Jezebel grinned as Annabelle entered her suite. “Tell me how your week was.”
“Eh. Fine I guess.” Annabelle couldn’t stop her eyes from skirting back and forth from the door and Jezebel. She hadn’t seen Mark when she came in today and she was disappointed.
“Fine?” Jezebel pushed.
“Status quo? Ugh. Okay it blew. I had a hard time sleeping but I did have a weird two a.m. run-in with my dad.”
“Oh?”
“I don’t know. He was up, getting water and I was shooting whipped cream down my throat.”
Jezebel gasped. “My God girl, take your sexcapades outside the house! In the kitchen?”
Annabelle stared, confounded, as her friend’s brows knit together.
“Huh?” Then realization hit. “Gross Jez!” she squealed. “I was eating whipped cream, as in, the dessert topping?”
Jezebel’s face smoothed out from its disgusted expression and she smiled. Annabelle scoffed. “You have a dirty, dirty mind.”
“I suppose I do, don’t I?” Jezebel laughed. “So what did you talk about?”
“Nothing. That was the point. There we were, alone, in the dead of the night, with nothing at all to talk about.”
Jezebel nodded her head solemnly. “Pity he doesn’t see what’s right in front of him. You’d think he’d want to hold onto you for dear life.”
Jezebel’s words hit hard. Didn’t everyone need someone to hold their hands, give them a reason to get up in the morning? Didn’t everyone deserve that in life? Why had her parents abandoned the very idea of her?
“Jez, I’d like to hear more about Celeste.” Annabelle had been enjoying her lack of thoughts this afternoon and didn’t feel up to digging into her pathetic home life at the moment.
Jezebel seemed to take her cue. “If that’s what you’d like.”
Annabelle nodded.
“Celeste, Paris, nineteen ninety.”
Celeste
Paris 1990
On her way to the Embassy, Celeste couldn’t help but notice each and every baby that passed by. And so many did. They passed by, unaware of the aching need rooted deep in her belly. Gabriel desperately wanted children. A fact that was cemented further after Mara had given birth six months ago.
They had fought about it after visiting Mara and Charles in the hospital. It had been a fight that no one could win. Her hormones were revved up and she finally felt that ticking time bomb people referred to as baby fever. She had it bad. At twenty-six her body knew it was ripe and ready to make babies but her brain hadn’t sent the message to her hormones that she wasn’t physically capable. It was torture.
She passed the envelope to Dan as was customary and tried to make a hasty exit. She wasn’t up for chit-chat today. She wanted to be back at the estate with Dr. B and Matteo. She wanted the comfort of distraction.
“Whoa, what’s up?” Dan asked catching her arm and stopping her escape.
“I . . .” she didn’t know what to say. She wasn’t about to delve into her marriage issues with Dan.
“You seem off today,” he said.
“I guess I am.”
“You didn’t look inside the envelope did you? I’d hate to have to kill you.”
Celeste bit her lip and shook her head. “I’d hate for our visits to end that way.”
“Cheer up. Nothing in life is permanent,” he offered. She reached out and placed her hand on his forearm. “Some things are.”
~
***
~
She drove on autopilot, radio off, mind numb, all the way back to the estate. Once there, she dug into her duties, relishing the relief it provided from her endless thoughts.
It was late by the time Celeste arrived home that day. Gabriel wasn’t home. He’d been spending more and more time at work. The light on the answering machine blinked a steady meter. She pushed play and Mara’s frantic voice filled the silence surrounding her. She smiled at the sound of her friend’s voice. She leaned a hip on the counter as she listened.
“Cece! I think I’m losing my mind. DO NOT LAUGH. I’m serious. I tried to watch a show with Charles last night on the couch but I fell asleep at ten. At midnight Matthew woke up hysterical. I’ve been up with him ever since. I tried medicine, bourbon on his gums, letting him cry it out, putting him in the guest room bed with me, walking around the house, giving him a hot bath, then finally driving around the block for an hour. Just now, I put him down in his bed and he’s wide awake and fussing. No temperature. Ugh. I think it’s his teeth. Worst night of my life. Well, besides the night during our sophomore year when I went home with that guy who farted non-stop. Do you remember that? I think I’m delusional. Don’t think that dropping him off at a fire station or church didn’t cross my mind at four a.m. He’s in bed now, babbling to invisible friends. I want to sleep for a week straight. Sorry for the early call. I need to see you soon. Oh hey . . .”
The message cut off. The next one began.
“What the hell? I didn’t talk for that long. Or did I? So, last night, I didn’t wake Charles up because he has a very long day today and won’t be home until after nine tonight, and you know what he says when he woke up and found me crying in bed with Matthew? ‘You shouldn’t have driven around with him. We don’t want him to get used to it.’ I looked straight in his eyes and said, ‘WALK AWAY NOW OR I WILL LITERALLY CUT YOU.’ That’s the mindset I was in. What the hell, Cece? Who says that? How does one even ‘cut’ someone? I’m losing my mind. I just know it.”
Celeste didn’t call Mara back. Fighting emotional overload, she deleted both messages and pushed her way out the French doors to the back patio—she needed air. She didn’t mean to be a bad friend. She loved Mara. But Mara’s life currently represented all hers didn’t have in it. She walked past the spot where Gabriel made love to her for the first time at their new house. She continued down the path through her garden as she had hundreds of times before. The world was immersed in moonlight, the trees stretched up and whispering in the wind. She sat. Or dropped to the ground like an anchor.
She thought about Gabriel, about his hands in her hair, his lips on her own. She felt his hand on her cheek, remembering how he cherished her and gave her his heart, and how they had built their own world, built their own contentment.
She never believed his love would die, but each day that passed drove the baby wedge further, deeper. It felt like they were repelling magnets. Time passed through her fingers slick and easy as water. As every second and minute passed, she felt like she disappeared piece by piece because she couldn’t give him what he wanted most.
That morning when he left for work there had been a stiffness in the way he kissed her and in the way he held her. It was as if he was doing something automated, devoid of any sentiment or affection. And now, her heart felt frozen, her hands numb.
She missed him. She tried to recall one of her favorite nights in the kitchen with Gabriel, a few weeks ago, a few decades ago. When was the last time she’d thought of him with lust. When the thought of seeing him for dinner made her smile all day? When the scent of his cologne was the first thing she wanted to smell in the morning and the last thing she wanted to smell at night? When they used to sleep intertwined like vines, legs and arms coiling, her head planted securely on his chest. Things had slowly changed. His work hours increased, her free ones were spent alone. She made a note to get back to how they were, to put in the effort—for him, for them.
~
***
~
In the sun-drenched yard, Celeste covered her eyes with dark glasses and got to work. She pulled weed after weed. The yanking, purging, of the little devils was cathartic.
It hit hard and fast—abdominal pain, vomiting, a rush of heat and vertigo that brought Celeste to her knees. The excessive vomiting was causing her body to lose water too quickly, and her esophagus became so irritated it began to bleed. The vomit tinged red. Panic overtook her. She could barely catch a breath between retching. She felt like she was drowning.
Celeste crawled in the direction of the stables as she heaved and retched. It hadn’t happened in so long. She had been episode-free for years now. Her vision grew hazy and she opened her mouth to call for help but only vomit came out. She felt weak and lethargic. Max nuzzled her side as she continued to vomit.
Please,
she thought,
please Max, get help.
“Cece,” Matteo’s voice was close. She opened her eyes slowly, taking in her surroundings. “You had an episode. How’re you feeling?” Celeste wanted to answer but couldn’t. Her throat felt like the cracked, heat-scorched earth of the desert. Matteo squeezed her hand gently. She squeezed his hand. “You gave me a scare fiore mio. I found you about fifty yards from the barn, unconscious.”
Celeste frowned. She could only imagine what a sight she was laying on the ground in her own vomit. Her eyes scanned the room.
Where was Gabriel,
she wondered. As if able to read her mind Matteo cleared his throat, drawing her attention back to him. “Gabriel is just outside, talking with the doctors.” She nodded her head in understanding. She was happy she hadn’t woken up alone. She was happy she’d woken up at all.
Later that afternoon her doctor made his rounds. He stepped into her room and stood at the end of her bed. “Research designates that half of people with cyclic vomiting syndrome also have depression or anxiety. Mrs. Fontaine, your medical history shows no signs of depression or anxiety issues. If vomiting episodes are triggered by stress or excitement, we need to find ways to reduce stress and keep you calm. Continued episodes could cause severe dehydration that can be life threatening. We’re confident the tests will give us a better picture of what’s really going on.” Celeste nodded and thanked the doctor before he continued on with his rounds.
Gabriel looked tired, with his long hair unruly, like when he first woke in the morning. Celeste wished he wouldn’t worry so much. This was nothing new. It had followed her around her entire life.
Celeste’s parents stopped and visited for a few hours. Her mother’s worried face upset Celeste. She didn’t want everyone fretting over her. Her father and Gabriel had gone through her medical chart at the end of her bed together, their minds trying to piece together why, after all this time, she’d had such a severe attack.
After a bland cafeteria dinner Gabriel sat near Celeste’s bed as they watched TV. Celeste looked at her husband and smiled. “Hop in,” she said and patted the spot on the mattress beside her. He laughed but she wasn’t joking. “Please,” she urged softly. Gabriel carefully crawled into her hospital bed and slid under the wires and tubes. He stretched out next to her. She wrapped an IV-ed arm over him and lay against his chest and closed her eyes. He cupped her chin and lifted her eyes toward his. Grasping her firmly, his large hands ignited her skin as his masculine command flowed through his touch. He kissed her then. Her sigh caught between his lips. She relished the tender moment. She fell asleep nested in his embrace.
Over the course of three days in the hospital, Celeste endured an endoscopy, a CT scan to check for blockages in her digestive system, motility tests to monitor the movement of food through her digestive system, and finally, an MRI to check for a brain tumor or other central nervous system disorders. She was exhausted and stressed with all the chaos of the last few days. Gabriel had personally run lab tests to check for thyroid problems or other metabolic conditions.
She understood. All results pointed to something else—that CVS was likely not causing her current issues. The results all concluded that one reality. She had found Gabriel’s overwhelming concern for her sweet. He had insisted with her doctor that he take the blood samples and personally run her blood panels himself, at his lab.
When she was finally discharged they were no closer to answers, but Celeste assured Gabriel that she was used to this, that for years at a time she was fine and whatever caused her episodes would be figured out eventually. After all, she had been dealing with this her entire life. Reluctantly, Gabriel agreed with her, vowing to find out on his own, if he had to, what was causing her strange illness.