Fragments (3 of 4)
What Remains After Goodbye
Three
Alexander hadn’t noticed her at first.
It was as though the world had shifted slightly, subtly, and when he looked up, there she was, as if the light itself had conjured her. Nestled into the corner armchair near the tall window, framed by morning sun and the soft spill of sheer curtains, she appeared less like someone entering a room and more like a secret the room had kept from him.
She was breathtaking.
Her presence unraveled him quietly. The delicate curve of her cheek, the glint of sun catching in her eyes—hazel, or maybe brown, it didn’t matter—held a softness that made time falter. A gentle line of freckles dusted her face, as if his dreams had painted the perfect woman into being. Her hair fell in waves that touched her shoulders, leaving him unmoored.
She wore a light blue dress, simple and lovely, and it stirred some ache in him he’d forgotten how to name. She sat with grace, ankles tucked, hands resting lightly on a mug that steamed in the morning light. She didn’t command the space. The space willingly served her.
She sipped her coffee and then opened a thin green book, although he could not make out the title, and then raised his eyes to meet hers, surprised to see her looking at him intently. She smiled at him and he smiled back. It was as if it was a moment that was always meant to be.
“You’re staring,” she said, with an unhurried voice.
He swallowed. “Sorry. I didn’t see you come in.”
Her smile deepened. “You never do.”
It was a strange statement. Had they met before? He looked down at his book—The Count of Monte Cristo. He knew he had read it several times, but for some strange reason, he couldn't seem to remember what it was about.
"What are you reading?" she asked, engaging him again.
"Oh, uh, Dumas," he said. "You?"
"Something my husband wrote about five years ago?" she said, and then her mouth opened and she quickly covered it with her hand. "I was not supposed to say that."
Alexander cocked his eyebrow. "What a strange thing to say!"
"Yes, forget I said that."
"Well, that will be impossible," he said, standing. He picked up his coffee cup and crossed to her. "Forgive my impertinence, but there are things you are not allowed to say?"
She looked up at him sheepishly. "Sorry, there are just things that could be… upsetting."
"Well, I don't mind if you want to talk about your husband," he said. "That doesn't bother me. Or was it what he wrote that you're not supposed to talk about? Who made up these rules anyhow?"
"Sorry, just forget I said that," she said.
He stood there, frowning. "If you insist," he said at last. "May I?"
"Please," she said, pushing an adjacent chair out with her foot.
He sat, placing a glass of cognac on the table, and stared at it for a moment, wondering when he'd finished his coffee.
"My name is Alex. I'm very happy to meet you."
"Hi," she said. "I'm glad to meet you, too."
"Well," he said. "You've met me, but I haven't met you as of yet."
"What do you mean?" Clara asked.
"You know my name, but I don't know yours."
"I'm—" she paused. She took a breath and said. "My name is Clara."
He stared at her, opened his mouth, and then closed it again.
She smiled.
"I would have guessed that straight away if you'd asked me to," he said.
"Really?"
"Yes. You look like a Clara. In fact, I can't think of any other name I would have guessed. Clara suits you."
She beamed. "Well, it's good that my parents cooperated when naming me."
"Indeed," he said. "Now, tell me about this brilliant husband of yours."
"What makes you think he's brilliant?"
"He's your husband. Any man who has won your heart is either very brilliant, or at least had a moment of brilliance when he asked for your hand. On the other hand, you know what this means?"
"What?" she asked conspiratorially.
"It means that you must not be too bright," he smiled.
"What makes you say that," she asked, feigning offense.
"Because if you'd been smart, you'd have waited for me."
Her lip quivered when he said that, and he noticed.
"I'm sorry if that offended you," he said quickly. "I meant it more lighthearted than it came out."
"That's very kind of you to say," Clara said, "even if you're being a tad dishonest."
"I'm not sure what you mean," Alex said.
"The truth," she said. "Is that you're sitting there thinking that you wish I had waited for you. That was the honest part of your statement. The apology was kind, but it was not honest."
He stared at her for a moment, uncertain of how to proceed.
"It's okay, Alex," she said. "I am not upset with you."
"Thank you, Clara," he said.
"Just please be as honest with me as you can be,” she said.
"I will endeavor to do so," Alex said. "About your husband then?"
"You're right, of course. It was a brilliant decision to marry me. And he was a lucky man to do so. But I was also a lucky woman. Blessed, really. He was a writer, and a very good one."
"Is that what you are reading now?"
She picked up the green book. It had no title or publisher printed. Just a plain green hardcover book.
"It's something he… hasn't completed."
"You love him?"
"Very much," she said. "He is everything to me, and I would do anything for him."
"What is it about?"
She looked at him for a bit, and then drew a deep breath. "It was a series of love letters to me and our children. An anthology that he began to put together."
"Began?"
"He hasn't finished it."
"He has more to write?"
"It's complicated," Clara said.
"I'm sorry to pry. Would you read me something from it?"
"Well, yes. I could do that. What do you want to hear?"
"Oh, something about children, I guess. I love children."
"I have a song he wrote," she said, tears welling up in her eyes. She wiped them away. "Would you like to hear that?"
"Yes, I would," Alex said.
"He titled it To My Children," she said, and then she read:
Emily: reader of more books than I In a third of my years, it’s true. Beauty, grace, and wisdom, If only I could be like you!
Joshua: heart more tender than mine Knowing kindness more than I knew Strong, handsome, and caring, If only I could be like you!
David: Faster and smarter than me Happy, delightful, never blue Bright eyes, bright smile, and silly, If only I could be like you!
Samuel: the new life, created from me Just a few days have you learned to do Your whole life is before you, If only I could be like you!
Clara closed the book slowly, and placed it on the table, looking up at Alex, who was staring at her. He said nothing for a while, his jaw muscles clenching.
Finally, he said, "You asked me to be honest with you, but I don't think you were honest with me."
"Why? What do you mean?" she asked.
"When you told me about your husband," Alex said. "You spoke of him in the past tense."
"I did?"
"Yes, you said he was a writer. Past tense. Which means either he is no longer a writer, or he is no longer with us."
Clara's eyes went wide, but only for a moment, before she composed herself. "Um—well, he no longer writes."
"Is that what you meant, truly?"
She looked at him, a mix of sorrow and hope etched her her face. "Alex… I… I don't know how to answer that." She dropped her gaze to her lap.
"Clara."
She trembled when he said her name this time. It had taken twenty sessions to get this far—just to have him say her name. Did it mean anything to him other than a name? She decided It must have meant something. He had said that the name suited her and that he couldn't pick out any other name for her. Was that recognition—even buried in the fragments of what was once a brilliant mind?
"Clara," he said again. This time it was more warm, but personal. Not just a name, but her. He was talking to her.
She looked up and she saw something in his face that she had not seen in months. She knew in that moment that there was a brief flash of recognition.
"Alex?" she asked, hoping for anything at all that might be a memory of their lives.
"I remember those names."
"You do?"
"Yes. I remember Emily, Joshua, David, and Sam. They were children. They were babies. They grew up."
"Yes, they did," she said.
His eyes went from hollow and unfocused to piercing and aware. For a moment the brilliance behind his eyes returned.
"My, God," he said. "They are my children. They are our children! I'm your husband—You're my wife. Clara. I remember!"
Large tears rolled down Clara's cheeks. "I love you so much, Alex!"
He grabbed her and kissed her fiercely as if he'd been waiting a lifetime to be with her. It was passionate and then gentle as his lips softened. She savored the taste of his mouth, remembering the very first time he had kissed her when they were juniors in college. She felt him touch her hair her jawline, her neck. His arms were around her and she felt home again for the first time in what seemed like ages.
"I've missed you so much!" he said.
"I've missed you, too," Clara said, clinging to him for all she was worth.
Alex dropped out of his chair to his knees and laid his head on her lap.
She ran his hands through his hair as he rested on her lap. This was the place he found comfort. On her lap. It had been that way for more than two decades. Whenever he was tired or stressed or needed to feel her close, he would lay his head on her lap, and encircle her with his strong arms, cupping her bottom with his palms; and he did so again, bringing back so many memories.
Clara looked down at him, caressing his face and then his ear. She remembered the time that he claimed he must have had Ferengi in his ancestry. She could often bring him to a peaceful rest just by tracing her fingertips over his ears. She remembered the joke she would always make when he would inevitably drool on her lap: You’re making my pants wet, but not in the fun way.
She let the tears drop from her eyes. No one could see her. There was no reason to be restrained, so she let it flow over her. She just needed to feel all of the emotions that could only occur when being with the man he once was.
"I love you, Alex."
"I love you, Clara."
She sat and rubbed his ear, crying profusely as she did.
They stayed like this quietly for several minutes before Alex stirred.
He felt around himself as if trying to discover where he was after a nap in a strange place, placing his hands on her knees, and sitting up.
The brilliance in his eyes was gone.
"I apologize, miss," he said, straightening up. "I'm not sure what came over me." He sat back in his chair. "That was very forward of me. And I don't even know your name."
Clara shuddered, tears returning to her eyes again. "Thank you, Alex," she said.
"For what, miss?"
"For coming back to me one last time. For being here before it was too late. For loving me all of those years. For the children, and for how you loved them all. And for how gentle you always were with me."
"I don't understand," he said. "I'm confused.
"It's okay. It's okay," she said soothingly. "It's just that we're out of time."
"We are?"
"Yes," she said. "It's time for us to say goodbye."
"Okay, miss," he said. "It was lovely to meet you."
"It was the best life I could have imagined, Alex."
She looked at him one last time, her lips quivering, her hands shaking as she reached to touch him. She traced her fingers over his hand, feeling its warmth.
Clara drew a deep breath, closed her eyes, and said, "Goodbye, Alex."
She raised her hands to her face, grabbing near her temples, as if taking off invisible glasses.
Stephen B. Anthony is the author of Transmigrant, an epic science fiction thriller, available on both Amazon and Audible. The first seven chapters are available on this website for free.