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He watched her intently—cautiously—from the door. It had been left a little ajar and he, without the slightest thought, as if pulled by some force unknown to him (Curiosity, perhaps?) slipped his nimble fingers in between the tiny space between the door and its frame and gently—so as the slightest creak of protest from the door would not betray him, opened the door further.
There she stood, a rare Victorian beauty, her complexion fair, her hair a deep mahogany brown that was tied in a loose, messy bun at the nape of her neck, his wife of seven years.
Her back was turned to him. She was looking intently at something, almost as intently as he was looking at her. She made a low growl that made him press his hand to his lips to suppress laughter. She was obviously displeased. She made that same low growl at him sometimes too. And it always received the same reaction from him—a futile attempt to stifle his laughter, and her—anger that never seemed to last.
She placed her hands on her hips, he could imagine her face, the brows knitted in frustration, the lips turned down into a scowl. The worst she could do really was a pout which, to his amusement, made her look like a little girl throwing a tantrum. She had an ageless sort of face. The sort of face that could belong to someone ten years younger, or older, either way. Her figure was slender, slight, narrow at the waist, elegant. Throughout all the years it had managed to stay much the way it had when he’d met her. It was the kind of figure that never ripened, never thickened, even with age.
She growled again and he, unable to help himself, chuckled aloud. She turned to him, a menacing look in her eyes.
“Making fun of me are you?” She glowered.
“Not in the least,” he smirked.
“Sure you weren’t,” she remarked sharply, mocking anger.
“Did I interrupt something? Inspiration? A masterpiece in the making?”
She looked to the canvas again ruefully. “Hardly.”
“Brooding perhaps?”
“A little, maybe.”
“Perhaps some coffee would help?”
She raised an eyebrow at him.
“Relax, the coffee’s for me, I made you tea.
She smiled, pleased. They lingered that way for a few moments, looking at one another.
He never entered the room.
“I’ll be there in a minute,” she said removing her apron with hands sticky with paint. “I’m a mess.”
“A lovely mess.” he replied as he turned his heels, and went.

* * *

The studio, her studio, by definition, was at the farthest corner of the house. It sat alone, past the bedrooms, past the den, past the office. The studio had been an addition to the house. It had originally been a patio, which was of little use to them, so they closed it in, made it into a room for her. It was a haven, quiet, separated from the rest of the house. Here she could play out her artistic fantasies without disturbance, bring to life the most impossible of dreams. It was a world all her own, created by her, inhabited by her. Its secrets were known to her and her alone.
Her husband had never stepped foot into the room, had never gone further than the door. In fact, he had barely seen the room and only knew a couple of its fixtures; the color of the walls, the makeshift mobiles on the ceiling, a still life portrait of flowers on a table. It was a place where he felt he did not belong, a world that did not include him, the only part of her life that remained a mystery.
Or so he thought.
“Louis.”
“Yes?” he looked up from his book momentarily, sliding his finger in between its pages to keep his place.
She seized the book from him and set it on the coffee table. He looked at her, his face inquiring. “What is it Elle?”
She said nothing. Instead she took her hands and gently, lightly, touched the sides of his face. It was rough and prickly with stubble. She moved her hands over to his temples, then over to his forehead where creases were beginning to remain, even when he relaxed. She moved them next to his eyebrows that were slightly bushy. He closed his eyes as she removed his glasses and traced his eyelids with her fingers. She ran her fingers through his hair, it was still mostly black but it was beginning to streak with gray. She came to a stop after moving her fingers over the bridge of his nose and rested them on his knee.
“Well?”
She traced circles around his knee with her forefinger, not answering.
“Are you going to tell me or am I going to have to beat it out of you?”
She raised an eyebrow at him but said nothing.
“Tell me.”
She shook her head.
“You’ve made your decision then.” He moved so fast that she barely had time to react. Instantly he was above her, her wrists in his hands.
“What are you doing?”
“Beating it out of you,” he said, planting a light kiss on her neck.
“Strange, I would imagined something more violent.”
He chuckled. “What, not violent enough for you?” He stroked the side of her face, kissed the corners of her lips. “Are you going to tell me or not?”
Elle sighed. “I surrender, I surrender.”
They lingered for a moment in silence.
“Well?” Louis asked, a little impatient.
“Have you ever thought...” her voice trailed off.
“Ever thought?” he repeated, encouraging her to continue.
“Have you ever thought that maybe...maybe you’d like more than just a garden?”
He looked at her puzzled and was about to inquire when she went on.
“It’s been seven years Louis, and the only thing we’ve planted is a garden. The only thing we take care of is the garden. The only thing that grows is the garden.”
He blinked, still not understanding.
“Have you ever wanted...a child?”
He stiffened and shifted into a sitting position on the couch.
“Well?”
“I don’t know Elle, the last time...” He looked away, remembering. Her sobs in the bathroom breaking the silence of the still, cold night, the floor wet with blood. He winced at the memory. “What if...” he began, but she held up her hand demanding silence.
“No, don’t do that.”
“But we have to consider the risks...”
“What about considering the chances?”
“Elle,” he started gently. “I’m merely thinking about your health. What if we lose another one? I don’t think you could stand it, and neither could I.”
“But what if I don’t?”
“But what if you do?”
She frowned. “I at least want to try.”
“It may be too much. I don’t want to risk it.”
“You’re not the one risking anything,” she said sharply. The change in her tone alarmed him. “You’re not the one who’s at risk,” she clarified, softer. “Besides, it’s already too late.”
Silence swept in between the two of them, Louis was the one to break it.
“Are you...”
“Yes,” she answered quickly. “Are you upset?”
“No,” he replied, but his eyes still looked troubled. “I’m a little worried...” he peered into his wife’s hopeful face. “But I’m sure everything will be fine.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“You’re not just saying that?”
He paused. “No, I mean it. I really do.”
She smiled at him, kissed him softly, her lips just barely brushing his.
“Are you ready to go to bed?” she asked.
“No,” he replied, reaching for his book on the table. “I think I’ll read for a while.”
“Oh,” she frowned. “Goodnight then.”
“G’night.”
He watched her as she drifted away soundlessly into the dark. He opened the book to his place but his eyes roamed about aimlessly, never on the page. For the first night in many nights he found it difficult to sleep. And when he did finally drift into sleep, he was haunted by nightmares.

* * *

Her large belly rose out of the water, an island in the middle of the ocean. Light danced on her skin, the water glinting and shimmering on her stomach that was as large and round and smooth as a melon.
“The camera loves you,” Louis said smiling, camcorder in hand.
“Get that out of here!” Elle demanded, her voice was fierce but her eyes were playful. “Honestly Louis, I’m trying to bathe.”
“Sorry ma’am, no can do. I’m documenting baby’s first bath.”
“First bath?” she laughed. “But he’s not even born yet.”
“No, but he’s still here. Aren’t you?” he smiled and pressed his lips to her belly. “Hello? Hello in there? Anyone home?”
Elle chuckled. “Does he answer?”
“I’m not sure,” he pressed his ear to her stomach. “I can’t quite hear. It’s sort of muffled.” He smiled.
“You should join us, you know,” She motioned to Louis.
“What, in the bath?”
“I think his father should participate in his first bath too,” she shot him a playful smile. “Come on in, the water’s still warm.” She took his free hand and dipped it into the water. He watched as his hand swirled around bubbles and pieces of his wife’s flesh became more revealed. Her pale white skin turned a light pink by the water’s warmth. He watched as the suds became more and more scarce.
Suddenly, he noticed a small spot in the water that was not the same color as the rest. It was red. As soon as he went to touch it, it spread outward like the web of a spider until all of the bathwater turned the same color. He lifted his hand out of the scarlet bathwater the moment he heard his wife’s bloodcurdling scream. He looked up to see her curled up, her hands over her face, her stomach once again flat. Tiny fingers poked through the surface of the water, small enough that he could’ve completely enclosed them in his hand...
He woke up in a cold sweat and nearly fell out of the bed in his haste to get out of it. His wife barely noticed, she shifted a bit in her sleep and mumbled some, but it was not long until he once again heard her soft, steady snore. The dream was gone but the fragments of it remained; bits of it in his side, his mind, he ached. His stomach churned and he raced to the bathroom. He sat there on the bathroom floor for nearly an hour. Nothing came, but the nausea persisted. He leaned over the toilet time and time again, his stomach aching, but nothing came out.
“Louis?” she stood in the doorway, her expression worried. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” he murmured from the floor.
“You don’t look fine,” she scowled. “Are you sick?”
“No, I’m fine,” he repeated.
“You really don’t look well...”
“I’m fine,” he blurted a little louder than was necessary.
“Fine then,” she replied backing away, a little hurt.
After a few minutes he trudged his way back to the bedroom and into bed.
“Try to get some sleep,” he heard his wife murmur. “Maybe you’ll feel better.”
He nodded but did not dare to close his eyes.

* * *

“Does it look better over here or over there?” she asked him, fake flower arrangement in hand.
“It looked fine where it was the first time, why’d you move it?”
“It was there the last time she came over.”
He sighed. “Elle, is it really that big of a deal if she comes over our house and it’s, well, the same?”
“Yes.”
He rolled his eyes. “People don’t rearrange their furniture everyday. Usually they keep it in a certain place for a while. It’s not really all that uncommon. In fact, many people keep their houses the same way for years and don’t feel the need to buy a new appliance or rearrange furniture every time their sister comes over.”
She growled at him, he smiled at her.
“Relax, Elle. It’s just your sister, not the president.”
“You know how she is,” she grumbled bitterly. “It never fails. The first words that come out of her mouth will be insulting.”
“You sister’s presence is insulting.”
“I can’t argue with that.”
Just then the doorbell rang.
“Quick,” Elle whispered. “On the table or the curio?’
He sighed. “Just put it back where it was.”
She frowned at him but complied. The doorbell rang again.
“Do I look okay?” she asked, combing through her hair with her fingers.
“Yes, you look fine, except...is that spinach in your teeth?”
She gasped and clamped her hand over her mouth. He snickered. The doorbell rang.
“Not funny!” she hit him playfully in the arm. “Really, do I look decent?”
“You look more than decent, you look beautiful, Elle.”
The doorbell continued to ring.
“Are you going to get that?” she looked to Louis.
“She’s your sister,” he replied bitterly.
She rolled her eyes, “Fine.” She walked grudgingly to the door, practicing her fake smile on the way.
“Claire!” she smiled enthusiastically as she opened the door. “It’s so great to see you, come on in.”
“Don’t know how answer your door anymore? I rang four times and no one answered. You really shouldn’t leave people waiting. It’s rude.”
Elle shot Louis a knowing glance.
“I have half the mind to go home,” she continued bitterly. “Or maybe I’ll just stay in a hotel.”
“If only,” Louis muttered quietly and Elle nudged him sharply with her elbow.
Claire. Bright, blonde, beautiful Claire. She was four years older than Elle but the resemblance between the two was striking. People often mistook them for twins. Claire was nearly the same heights as Elle, and had the same pale skin. The only difference between them that anyone could tell at first glance was their hair color. Claire had dyed hers bleach blonde, so light it seemed to be only a few shades off from the color of her skin. Other than that, Claire and Elle looked the same to most people. It was only Louis, close friends, and family members that could determine the subtle differences in their faces. Elle’s face was slightly rounder, warmer, more pleasant. Claire’s was thinner, sharper, more austere. Elle’s nose was a little rounder, while Claire’s looked a bit pinched.
“Are we just going to stand here?” Claire asked impatiently, handing Louis the key to her car. Louis peered out from behind her and noticed a bright, silver Mercedes in the driveway. He let out a low whistle. “Nice car.”
Claire brightened out of her dark mood, if only for a moment. “Isn’t it? It’s next year’s model too. Sanjeev got it for me, as a birthday present.”
“Sanjeev?” Louis arched an eyebrow.
“He’s Indian,” Claire beamed.
“He’s rich,” Elle added.
“My bags are in the trunk,” Claire motioned to Louis.
“Come in,” Elle reached for her sister’s jacket but she pulled away.
“Suede,” she shrugged out of the jacket herself and placed it the hook. “Not for grimy hands.”
Elle looked at her hands ruefully. They were clean, weren’t they? Just in case she rushed to the bathroom to wash them again.
“So, how’ve you been?” Elle asked, returning at the precise moment Louis did.
“Geez, how long are you planning on staying here? Did you pack your entire wardrobe?” he complained, lugging her heavy suitcases into the living room.
“I’ve been well,” she replied, ignoring Louis. “But let’s cut the small talk. You have something to tell me.”
“Wouldn’t you like to eat something first?” Elle motioned to the table. “I’m sure you’re hungry.”
“Don’t bother. I’m sure there’s nothing here I’d want to eat,” she sighed, annoyed. “As I was saying...” she stopped, her attention caught by something.
“What is it?” Elle asked.
“Those flowers,” Claire said, pointing to the table. “Weren’t those on the table before?”
Elle glared at Louis before answering. “Yes, they were.”
“Your house is so very predictable Elle, you should try rearranging sometime.”
Once again Elle glared at Louis and promptly moved the flower arrangement to the curio.
“So what do you have to tell me? I know you have something to tell me and don’t pretend you don’t. I know you better than that.”
“Well,” Elle began. “Louis and I,” she looked to him again, softer this time, “We’re...expecting.”
“Expecting what?” Claire’s face hardened.
“You know...a baby.”
“What?” her voice was so loud it seemed to echo throughout the entire house. Not the reaction Elle was expecting. “You’re what? Elle, are you crazy?”
Elle remained silent. Louis stiffened a little, his eyes tightening.
But Claire continued. “Not this again. You were a mess after the first time. Mom and Frank were so worried. I’m surprised neither one of them had a heart attack. You nearly died the first time you were so depressed and I had to pick up the pieces. Are you sure you can handle this, again?”
“That was years ago,” Elle began, but her voice sounded frail and faraway. “I’m healthier now, I’ve healed. I’m ready...”
“Don’t be stupid, Elle, no one’s ready.”
“But...” she didn’t bother to continue, Claire wasn’t listening.
“Just, be careful,” her voice softened. “Just take care of yourself. And you,” she glared at Louis, “take care of her.”
Louis nodded but said nothing, his jaw was still clenched.
The phone rang, Claire’s phone, and she rushed to get it. “Yes?” she answered sternly. Her face brightened. “Oh, Sanjeev. Yes, I’m here. Really?” she smiled. She looked a lot less menacing and more like Elle. “Sure, I’ll be there.” she hung up the phone and turned to Elle. “I’m leaving.”
Louis smiled, despite himself and Elle glowered at him from a distance. “You’re leaving already?”
“Yes, Sanjeev wants to see me,” she was practically glowing. “You don’t mind do you?”
“No,” Elle quickly answered. Not that it would have made a difference if she did.
“Put my bags in the trunk,” Claire commanded Louis. “And don’t you dare scratch up my car.”
Louis didn’t even pause to think about it, or glare at her for the condescending tone in her voice. He was too elated at the thought of her leaving.
“Bye Elle,” she called from the car, still beaming. “I’ll call you later,” she drove off and disappeared behind the bend.
“Well, that was interesting,” Louis remarked.
Elle nodded silently.
“You know what?”
“What?” Elle wanted to know.
“It still looks better on the table.”
She glared at him, but couldn’t help but smile.

* * *

The nightmares continued. Elle, happy, lovely, beautiful, pregnant, Elle. She was always the same in his nightmares: devastated, ruined, haggard, barren, Elle. One moment she was surging with life, the next she was on the brink of ending her own and he could do nothing for her, nothing but watch. The dreams were too much to bear. He woke up crying a few times, glad his wife was a sound sleeper. Sometimes he didn’t even bother going to bed anymore. He sat up with a book reading the same few lines over and over again, never comprehending. Dark circles had begun to form under his eyes, his forehead more creased than ever with worry, his expression sullen. When his wife pried he insisted nothing was wrong. When that failed to convince her he ignored her questions altogether. He was miserable.
The most horrible dream had come to him one night, when sleep deprived his body made him sleep unwillingly. In the dream he and Elle stood in the middle of a large green meadow with one large tree with long, crooked, wicked looking branches a few feet from where they stood. In the dream Elle was not pregnant. Instead there was a child, a child that Louis could not see clearly because he was high up in the tree. But still he could see the child there, with dark hair, mahogany like Elle’s. Then it occurred to him, this was his child. Elle looked up into the tree, her face full of worry.
“Be careful, Charlie,” she called to the child. “Be careful, don’t slip.”
“I won’t,” the child grumbled indignantly. “I won’t slip.”
“Be careful,” Elle called again.
“Hey Dad,” the child called and Louis looked up. “Watch me. I can climb to the top of this whole tree.” He grinned, Louis thought, although he could not be sure from where he was standing. He wanted to say something, to tell him to get down this instant, but his voice was dry and the sound was caught in his throat.
And then the child fell.
It happened so quickly that Louis didn’t have time to react. He stood there, motionless, his eyes wide, his mouth gaping open.
And then was her scream. A wild, maddening shrill sound that seemed to vibrate through him. He felt it in his ears, his head, from the tips of his fingers, through his hair, his lungs. The sound of it consumed everything, all other sound, all other thought. She collapsed on the ground and he watched her, unable to move. The sound was not at all human. It was the worst thing he’d ever heard. He covered his ears but the sound persisted. It rang through his head and body with such resonance he was almost sure it was his own.
His eyes moved over to the tree, the sky had grown dark and the tree look darker against it, even more menacing. The child lay broken at the bottom, his neck twisted in a most unnatural and gruesome way. His face a mixture of surprise, bewilderment, and agony. Louis wasn’t sure which was worse.
The world starting shaking suddenly. He watched as the wretched tree was uprooted and collapsed with a heavy thud against the earth.
“Louis.”
The sky was livid, the clouds dark and heavy.
“Louis.”
The sky turned black and the rain fell, only it was not rain. He let out a piercing scream as the blood streamed down his face.
“Louis!”
His eyes fluttered open, but he was not yet conscious. He did not realize until later that the screaming was his own.
“Louis!” she shook him again, more violently. “Louis!”
The screaming stopped. Slowly, he began to regain consciousness.
“Elle?”
“Yes?” she took his hand in hers, anxious. “Are you all right?”
“Yeah,” he whispered, his throat raw. “I’m fine.”
“You keep saying that,” her tone sharpened. “Why are you lying to me?”
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, alarmed a little by her tone. “I don’t mean to. It’s nothing really. I just...lately, I’ve been having nightmares and all. Maybe it’s part of a midlife crisis thing or something.” He smiled, but the smile did not touch his eyes.
“Maybe,” she smiled back, still worried.
“Let’s just go back to bed and pretend it never happened.”
“Okay...” she started to say something but one look at his face told her not too. “Yeah, let’s just go back to sleep.”
He lay awake for hours pushing the horrid thoughts out of his mind. His throat was sore and his head was still ringing from the screaming.

* * *

The sunlight streaming in from the window was warm, comforting. It lighted upon her hair, it reddened, looking as if it were on fire. He alternated between casual looks at the Sunday paper and glances at her. She looked so beautiful, peaceful, serene. The sun shining in from the kitchen window made it look as though there was some sort of magical aura around her. She looked so angelic and so fragile.
“Don’t you think you should rest a little?” Louis said putting down the paper. “You’ve been on your feet a while.”
“I hardly think washing dishes is strenuous. You worry too much.” She paused, musing.
“What are you thinking?”
“How about Charles?” she asked suddenly.
“What?”
“Charles. For the baby I mean. We could call him Charlie for short.” She smiled, but the smile faded when his face suddenly grew pale. “Is something wrong?”
“No,” he looked away, but his hands were trembling. “Charlie’s fine.” He winced a little as he said the name. He wondered how he should warn his wife about the dangers of children climbing trees without seeming clinically insane.
“I’m going to the studio,” she said cheerfully.
“Inspired, are we?”
“Something like that. I’ll see you in a bit.” She walked away and down the hall to the studio, waddling a bit with the weight of her belly.
She couldn’t decide what to make. All of the familiar tools were in place; her scattered paintbrushes, her pencils, her clay. She was inspired yes, but her mind was in a frenzy, her eyes darted all around the room, unsure of what her hands should touch first.
She decided to start with the clay. She sat on her little stool in front of the old, clay encrusted table. It moaned a little, unused to the extra weight. She took out a large block of clay and thrust it into the bowl, mixing it to the right consistency. She then took the clay and threw it onto the circular table. She picked it up and threw it again. And again. And again. She stopped, frowned. She was not in the mood to make a vase, or a bowl, a figurine or anything else out of clay.
She washed the clay from her hands and instead took out her sketchbook. A familiar face came to mind. The pencil moved rapidly trying to keep up with the thoughts that poured out of her. What started out as a faceless stranger soon came into being. The brows furrowed in thought, the enchanting smirk, the flash of gray-black hair. After she was finished she frowned a bit. It was nothing like the original, didn’t do the original any justice at all. She folded it up instead and shoved it into one of the messy drawers to never see the light of day again.

* * *

“Pickles and ice cream?” He stared at her questioningly as she alternated between eating the two. “Now there’s something you don’t eat everyday.”
“Pregnancy cravings are murder,” she sighed. “Yesterday I was in the mood for hot tamales and Captain Crunch.”
He laughed. “Another thing you don’t eat everyday. I didn’t even know you liked pickles.”
“Yeah, neither did I.”
“Is that why you sent me to buy you a jar of pickles at three in the morning?” He smirked. “What an...interesting errand that was. Wal-Mart after hours is a scary place. You should see the people.”
“Women in hair rollers, robes and slippers?”
“Oh that doesn’t even begin to describe it.”
She laughed. “Oh you poor thing.” Her laughter was warm, it soothed him. Maybe everything would be all right after all.
Her laughter stopped abruptly and she clutched her stomach.
“Is there something wrong?” he reached for her.
Her face was a picture of agony. “I think...it’s time,” she breathed.

* * *

The hospital was a blur; a blur of colors, of sounds, of people, of talk, of stares, of doctors coming in and out, in and out. The sweat ran down her face in little bullets. She looked pale, paler than usual, her breath coming out in unsteady huffs. How many hours had he been here, standing still by her side, her hand clenched tightly around his? It had been so long that the day soon turned to night, and day again. So long that a nurse brought him a chair for him to sit in. So long the nurses asked him if he wanted to sleep, to eat, to go home and return later. He refused, and sat still, immobile at her side.
The hours dragged on. He sat, watched her in her agony. Please. Not again. Don’t let it happen again.

The child came, but it uttered no whisper of life, of breath. It uttered no cries, did not move, was still and unmovable as stone. Its face was blue, the eyes clenched shut tightly. They had never seen and never would see the light of day.
Charlie.
The fact that he had a name made it worse, made the pain all that more tangible. He had a name, a mother, a father, a family. He had a face, a head of hair, tiny little fingers that Louis could completely enclose in his own. But they were dead fingers that would never grasp anything, they would not grasp Louis’ fingers, nor clutch at his mother’s breast, or climb up the unstable limbs of menacing trees. He would never know the world, the world would never know him.
They quickly carried the child away, a flash and rustle of sterile white. Elle’s face was drained of all color, she clutched at his hand even tighter than before. She did not speak, he did not speak. The tears ran down her face without cease, she shivered, but remained quiet. She was too exhausted to scream, to yell, to wail at the loss of her one and only child.
Charlie.
Louis remained still and statuesque. The pain was unbearable, threatening at any moment to spill over. But the tears would not fall. He was waiting, waiting for when it would all be over, when he would wake up screaming and it would all just be a horrible, horrible dream.
But he did not wake up.
Elle loosed her grip on his hand and pulled away and brushed his cheek with the back of her hand. The move startled him.
“I’m sorry,” she said barely audible. “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s not your fault.”
“I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry.”
“Shhh,” he kissed her forehead, still damp with sweat. “Shhh. Don’t apologize. It’s not your fault. I love you.”
“I love you too.”
And that was the last thing she said before she drifted off into a troubled sleep. She tossed and turned and moaned. He sat beside her.
“Shhh. It’s okay. I’m here,” he held her hand in his.
And then the moaning stopped. He woke up, not knowing that he’d even been asleep. Her hand was cold, indifferent in his. The nurses and doctors filed in, sterile, precise, calculated. There were voices, but they sounded more like noises, and faces, blurred faces. Each person became as indistinguishable as the next. The questions were incoherent ramblings to him.
I love you too.
* * *

He had her cremated, for he could not bear the thought of burying her, of her rotting away. Her perfection, her beauty, in the bellies of insects. He would not allow it. He poured their remains over the bed of flowers in the garden. It was all that he had left that would ever grow.
He wished desperately for sleep, sleep without dreams. But sleep continued to evade him, as the hours ticked by. He sat on the couch with his book in hand. He had no idea how long he’d stayed there still, breathing in the air. He could smell the faint fragrance of jasmine and spice. When he closed his eyes he could almost imagine that she was still there, next to him.
When he least expected it, sleep found him.

There was a tree and nothing else. There was no Elle, no Charlie, not even himself. There was just a single, fruitless tree, barren of all life in the center of a quiet, deserted meadow. The seasons passed and the meadow grew, but the tree remained the same. No blossoms, no buds, no fruits would ever grow on its branches. It would never, ever bring any new thing to life.
He woke up. His colleagues were surprised to see him at work the very next day.
“Louis!” Grace jumped at the sight of him. “What are you doing here?”
“Don’t I work here?”
“Yes but...you really shouldn’t be here after...” she stopped, unsure of what to say and if it might offend him.
“After my wife died,” he finished.
Grace looked at him in astonishment. He hadn’t even flinched when he’d said it. When she regained her composure she replied, “Mr. Davis will want to see you.”
He nodded. “I’ll be right in.”
He walked off, leaving Grace staring after him.
“You wanted to see me, Mr. Davis?” he stood in the doorway of the man’s office.
“Yes, come in, Louis.”
“How may I be of assistance to you, sir?”
“Louis...” he began. “I’m worried about you. You shouldn’t be here. You should be with family. You don’t need to worry about things here, you just need to...rest a while, as long as you need to.” He looked genuinely worried.
“I’m fine.” Louis said. “The best thing is for me to keep moving.”
The old man sighed, knowingly. “It will catch up to you, you know and I don’t want you to be here when it does. I don’t want you to set foot in this building for at least two weeks.”
“But...” Louis protested.
“Two weeks,” he repeated. “Now go. You can only keep running for so long.”
But Louis was not running. He was waiting.
As soon as he arrived home the phone rang. He thought that it might have been Mr. Davis calling to see if he’d really gone home.
“Hello?”
“Where the hell have you been?” an angry voice hissed. It was Claire. “I’ve been trying to call you all day.”
“At work.”
There was a brief pause on the phone.
“What the hell is the matter with you?”
“What do you mean?”
“Do you not care that Elle died at all?” The words stung him and at first he didn’t answer.
“How can you ask me that?” he demanded angrily, his voice louder than he meant it to be.
“You didn’t cry when she died, or at the memorial service, and you’re going off to work as if it never even happened. What’s the matter with you? Are you in denial? Don’t you realize that she’s dead, that she’s never coming back? How can you pretend that nothing happened and just go on?” she was hysterical now, he could hear her sobbing on the other line. “Didn’t you love her?”
He hung up the phone. The doorbell rang minutes later, disturbing the silence. As soon as he opened it he felt the impact of her hand on his face. It was Claire, she was livid.
“I ought to hit you again!” she stormed through the house toward the bedroom.
“What are you doing?” he wanted to know, following after.
“I’m getting her stuff,” she screamed at him, throwing around fixtures of the house, breaking things.
“Stop!” he demanded. “Get out of there!”
“Frank and Mom want some memories of their little girl and since they obviously mean nothing to you I’m going to take them.” She grabbed Elle’s scrapbook, her photo albums, her journal, and stuffed them into her bag.
“Put those back!” he yelled, but she continued undeterred, heading down the hall. She was headed for the studio.
“Come back here!”
She ignored him, tramping down the halls so loud it resonated throughout the house. She opened the studio door. Instantly he was beside her and slammed it shut.
“Don’t you dare,” he whispered, his voice quivering with anger. She had no right. It was Elle’s studio. Elle’s and Elle’s alone. Claire had no right to enter it and take out things that did not belong to her. Elle’s work would remain her own, no one else’s. He would not allow such an intrusion.
“Move.” Claire demanded, her eyes violent.
“This is my house. Nothing in that room belongs to you.”
“It doesn’t belong to you either,” she retorted sharply.
“Get out, Claire.”
She didn’t budge.
“I said, get out Claire.”
“Someone has to clear that room. It does no good to leave everything sitting there. It should be with those who love her and want to remember her.”
“I love her,” his voice was so loud that Claire flinched at the sound. “I’ll clear the room myself.”
She looked at him, doubtful, angry, but agreed to it. She grabbed her bag, smashed a crystal vase on the floor, and left without another word.

* * *

He sat by the door for hours in silence. He’d never been in that room. Entering seemed like an invasion of privacy, even if she hadn’t any need of privacy, anymore. It was silly, he finally told himself, that he should fear going past that door. It was just a door, like any other door, and it was his house. What did he have to fear?
The door let out a loud creak as it opened, as if in retaliation. He stepped into the room. It was just as she’d left it—a mess. Chaos was everywhere, he was not sure where to place his eyes first. To the walls covered in pictures, to the lanterns hanging from the ceiling, to the shelf full of handmade vases, and bowls, statues, and figurines. He was dizzy from looking around at it all. He never understood how she lived that way.
“How do you ever find anything in this mess?” he would ask.
“It’s an organized mess,” she would reply, smiling.
He saw no organization to it all. It was a storm, a storm of art and memories. It was strange though, throughout the storm there were places of relative clam; the neat stack of papers on the desk, the books in alphabetical order on the shelf, the vases in order according to their height. It was the exact opposite of his still, neat, ordered packaged sort of lifestyle. There was no storm, only order, endless, endless order.
He decided to look through the drawers first. They were messy, all sorts of things were thrown into them. Old scraps of paper with numbers and names on them, most of it was useless. But then his hand came across something soft. He plucked it out of the drawer and recognized it instantly. A single glove. He reached inside of it and pulled out a sheet of paper, the number and his name written in his unmistakably elegant hand.
She’d been wearing that same exact glove when they’d met. She was in the train station, drawing in her sketchbook when he’d seen her. He was taken with her immediately. She was so absorbed in the task at hand that she hadn’t even noticed him watching. Suddenly she became aware of herself and the time and scrambled to get her things together. He hadn’t noticed until she was nearly ten feet away that she’d dropped her glove. He grabbed it and followed her.
“Miss!” he called. “Miss!” But she did not hear him. Every time he seemed to get nearer she evaded him again unknowingly. He finally caught up with her as she boarded the train.
“Wait! Wait!” she turned around to see Louis standing there, her glove in his hand.
“Oh,” she went to him to retrieve it. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. I know this may sound crazy... but I was watching you earlier, when you were drawing and...I was wondering...would you... like to go out sometime?”
“Is this your idea of a pickup line?” she laughed. “Not a chance.”
The conductor came by and shooed Louis away when he saw that he had no ticket. “No ticket, no board,” he said motioning to the door. The doors closed and he watched as the train grew further and further away. She had thought that it would be the first and last time she’d ever see him. But when she reached into her glove to put it on she noticed a little scrap of paper shoved inside. Louis M. Scheckter- 254-1730. “Sly bastard,” she laughed to herself. She hadn’t expected that she would call it. Her sister was the one that convinced her of it.
“Oh have a heart Elle, the poor guy is probably sitting at home by the phone right now waiting,” her sister picked up the phone and handed it to her. “And if he’s really as handsome as you say, maybe I’ll give him a call...”
Elle snatched the phone from her and dialed. “Fine, I’ll call him. As far as I know he’s not even home.”
“Hello.” She recognized his voice instantly, and hung up.
“What the hell was that?” Claire laughed. “Aren’t you a little old to be prank calling?”
“Shut up.”
“You’re such a little coward. A good looking guy tries to talk to you and you don’t even bother to stay on the phone long enough to give him a chance. No wonder you’re single.”
The phone rang before Elle could glare at her.
“Hello?”
“Hi,” it was him again. She fought the urge to hang up the phone.
“Hi.”
“You called?”
“Yeah,” she felt her face flush. “Sorry about that. The hanging up and all.”
He laughed. “It’s okay. I’m glad you called. ”
“How did you know I would call?”
“I didn’t. I just thought maybe you would. Wishful thinking, I suppose.” She swore she could hear him smile.
“You seem awful sure of yourself.”
“Do I?” He laughed. “Does that bother you?”
“No, not really,” she admitted.
“What are you doing tomorrow night?”
“Um... I’m not sure.”
“How about dinner then? Around seven?”
“Sure.”
“Really? I thought I didn’t have a chance.”
She felt herself reddening even more. Claire was in the corner, convulsing with laughter.
“So around seven then?”
“Where are we going?”
She could swear she could hear him smiling again. “Meet me at the train station.”
“Um...okay.”
“Goodbye for now.”
“Bye.” She hung up the phone, her sister’s expression was eager.
“Well?”
“I’m meeting him at the train station tomorrow night. We’re having dinner.”
He took her to the nicest restaurant in town, an Italian restaurant named La Bella.
“I have a question,” he asked suddenly, looking up from the menu.
“Yes?”
“What is your name? I’ve been meaning to ask you.”
“Gabrielle Thomas. But everyone calls me Elle.”
“Elle...that’s very pretty.”
“Thank you,” she smiled, blushing.

He smiled at the memory. She had worn a burgundy dress that night that greatly complimented the color of her skin and brought out the red in her hair.
He rummaged through the rest of the drawer and found the box of an old pregnancy test she had taken the first time she’d conceived and next to it a picture of her and him in the park, her stomach slightly rounded. He flipped the picture over to read the back of it: And baby makes three!
He remembered that day in the park. He and Elle used to go to the park often. That day Elle had invited Claire to come along. Initially she objected because she had a date with a certain doctor, but he had to go into emergency surgery, so she ended up grumpily tagging along.
He found a bunch of other things; pictures, old love letters they’d exchanged, discarded sketches. His eyes lighted upon something in particular, a piece of paper folded in half with Elle’s unmistakable, illegible hand on the back. He opened it and found that on the inside was a sketch. He instantly recognized the subject of the portrait—it was himself. She had captured his essence so well, his facial features, his expressions, the creases and lines in his face, the light stubble on his chin. He could not imagine what had made her discard the thing with such haste. He flipped the page over and managed to decode her cryptic handwriting—a feat that had taken years of experience. It read:

How is it that I can explain this,
this feeling that I have,
This feeling that comes over me,
every time you look at me,
every time I feel your breath
upon my face.
This feeling that sends a thrill through me,
when you take your hand in mine..

I love the way my name sounds
playing off your lips.
I love the feel of your warmth
against my skin.
I love the way your eyes still linger on me
even after I look away.

There is no way to describe it,
this feeling.
No matter how hard I try,
my words are useless,
they will never compare to the way I feel.
And yet,
I continue to use them still.
But I know you understand.

Louis, my life, my love, my heart.

Aug 18

He didn’t need the year to know it was written the day before her death. The tears were running down his cheeks before he even knew he was crying.
I love you too.
The words resounded in his head, his heart. He would never forget them, he told himself, nor the sound of her voice. His memories were so fresh so vivid, he could still smell her jasmine fragrance in the room, feel her in this room as though she’d never left it. This would always be her room. He held the paper against him, wishing it were her instead, wishing he could feel the warmth of her skin, her tangle of wild hair. He could not imagine this room being vacant, empty of all her worldly possessions, her memories, her scent. The thought of the studio being just another empty room pained him. To never see her mess again, to box up her life and set it aside to collect dust in the closet.
He stood, took one last glance at the sketch of himself and the words affectionately inscribed on the back of it, folded it back in half, and put it back into the drawer. He looked around the room once more, making sure all was as she had left it, and walked out of the studio, closing the door behind him.

Description
He watched her intently—cautiously—from the door. It had been left a little ajar and he, without the slightest thought, as if pulled by some force unknown to him (Curiosity, perhaps?) slipped his nimble fingers in between the tiny space between the door and its frame and gently—so as the slightest creak of protest from the door would not betray him, opened the door further.
There she stood, a rare Victorian beauty, her complexion fair, her hair a deep mahogany brown that was tied in a loose, messy bun at the nape of her neck, his wife of seven years.
Her back was turned to him. She was looking intently at something, almost as intently as he was looking at her. She made a low growl that made him press his hand to his lips to suppress laughter. She was obviously displeased. She made that same low growl at him sometimes too. And it always received the same reaction from him—a futile attempt to stifle his laughter, and her—anger that never seemed to last.
She placed her hands on her hips, he could imagine her face, the brows knitted in frustration, the lips turned down into a scowl. The worst she could do really was a pout which, to his amusement, made her look like a little girl throwing a tantrum. She had an ageless sort of face. The sort of face that could belong to someone ten years younger, or older, either way. Her figure was slender, slight, narrow at the waist, elegant. Throughout all the years it had managed to stay much the way it had when he’d met her. It was the kind of figure that never ripened, never thickened, even with age.
She growled again and he, unable to help himself, chuckled aloud. She turned to him, a menacing look in her eyes.
“Making fun of me are you?” She glowered.
“Not in the least,” he smirked.
“Sure you weren’t,” she remarked sharply, mocking anger.
“Did I interrupt something? Inspiration? A masterpiece in the making?”
She looked to the canvas again ruefully. “Hardly.”
“Brooding perhaps?”
“A little, maybe.”
“Perhaps some coffee would help?”
She raised an eyebrow at him.
“Relax, the coffee’s for me, I made you tea.
She smiled, pleased. They lingered that way for a few moments, looking at one another.
He never entered the room.
“I’ll be there in a minute,” she said removing her apron with hands sticky with paint. “I’m a mess.”
“A lovely mess.” he replied as he turned his heels, and went.

* * *

The studio, her studio, by definition, was at the farthest corner of the house. It sat alone, past the bedrooms, past the den, past the office. The studio had been an addition to the house. It had originally been a patio, which was of little use to them, so they closed it in, made it into a room for her. It was a haven, quiet, separated from the rest of the house. Here she could play out her artistic fantasies without disturbance, bring to life the most impossible of dreams. It was a world all her own, created by her, inhabited by her. Its secrets were known to her and her alone.
Her husband had never stepped foot into the room, had never gone further than the door. In fact, he had barely seen the room and only knew a couple of its fixtures; the color of the walls, the makeshift mobiles on the ceiling, a still life portrait of flowers on a table. It was a place where he felt he did not belong, a world that did not include him, the only part of her life that remained a mystery.
Or so he thought.
“Louis.”
“Yes?” he looked up from his book momentarily, sliding his finger in between its pages to keep his place.
She seized the book from him and set it on the coffee table. He looked at her, his face inquiring. “What is it Elle?”
She said nothing. Instead she took her hands and gently, lightly, touched the sides of his face. It was rough and prickly with stubble. She moved her hands over to his temples, then over to his forehead where creases were beginning to remain, even when he relaxed. She moved them next to his eyebrows that were slightly bushy. He closed his eyes as she removed his glasses and traced his eyelids with her fingers. She ran her fingers through his hair, it was still mostly black but it was beginning to streak with gray. She came to a stop after moving her fingers over the bridge of his nose and rested them on his knee.
“Well?”
She traced circles around his knee with her forefinger, not answering.
“Are you going to tell me or am I going to have to beat it out of you?”
She raised an eyebrow at him but said nothing.
“Tell me.”
She shook her head.
“You’ve made your decision then.” He moved so fast that she barely had time to react. Instantly he was above her, her wrists in his hands.
“What are you doing?”
“Beating it out of you,” he said, planting a light kiss on her neck.
“Strange, I would imagined something more violent.”
He chuckled. “What, not violent enough for you?” He stroked the side of her face, kissed the corners of her lips. “Are you going to tell me or not?”
Elle sighed. “I surrender, I surrender.”
They lingered for a moment in silence.
“Well?” Louis asked, a little impatient.
“Have you ever thought...” her voice trailed off.
“Ever thought?” he repeated, encouraging her to continue.
“Have you ever thought that maybe...maybe you’d like more than just a garden?”
He looked at her puzzled and was about to inquire when she went on.
“It’s been seven years Louis, and the only thing we’ve planted is a garden. The only thing we take care of is the garden. The only thing that grows is the garden.”
He blinked, still not understanding.
“Have you ever wanted...a child?”
He stiffened and shifted into a sitting position on the couch.
“Well?”
“I don’t know Elle, the last time...” He looked away, remembering. Her sobs in the bathroom breaking the silence of the still, cold night, the floor wet with blood. He winced at the memory. “What if...” he began, but she held up her hand demanding silence.
“No, don’t do that.”
“But we have to consider the risks...”
“What about considering the chances?”
“Elle,” he started gently. “I’m merely thinking about your health. What if we lose another one? I don’t think you could stand it, and neither could I.”
“But what if I don’t?”
“But what if you do?”
She frowned. “I at least want to try.”
“It may be too much. I don’t want to risk it.”
“You’re not the one risking anything,” she said sharply. The change in her tone alarmed him. “You’re not the one who’s at risk,” she clarified, softer. “Besides, it’s already too late.”
Silence swept in between the two of them, Louis was the one to break it.
“Are you...”
“Yes,” she answered quickly. “Are you upset?”
“No,” he replied, but his eyes still looked troubled. “I’m a little worried...” he peered into his wife’s hopeful face. “But I’m sure everything will be fine.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“You’re not just saying that?”
He paused. “No, I mean it. I really do.”
She smiled at him, kissed him softly, her lips just barely brushing his.
“Are you ready to go to bed?” she asked.
“No,” he replied, reaching for his book on the table. “I think I’ll read for a while.”
“Oh,” she frowned. “Goodnight then.”
“G’night.”
He watched her as she drifted away soundlessly into the dark. He opened the book to his place but his eyes roamed about aimlessly, never on the page. For the first night in many nights he found it difficult to sleep. And when he did finally drift into sleep, he was haunted by nightmares.

* * *

Her large belly rose out of the water, an island in the middle of the ocean. Light danced on her skin, the water glinting and shimmering on her stomach that was as large and round and smooth as a melon.
“The camera loves you,” Louis said smiling, camcorder in hand.
“Get that out of here!” Elle demanded, her voice was fierce but her eyes were playful. “Honestly Louis, I’m trying to bathe.”
“Sorry ma’am, no can do. I’m documenting baby’s first bath.”
“First bath?” she laughed. “But he’s not even born yet.”
“No, but he’s still here. Aren’t you?” he smiled and pressed his lips to her belly. “Hello? Hello in there? Anyone home?”
Elle chuckled. “Does he answer?”
“I’m not sure,” he pressed his ear to her stomach. “I can’t quite hear. It’s sort of muffled.” He smiled.
“You should join us, you know,” She motioned to Louis.
“What, in the bath?”
“I think his father should participate in his first bath too,” she shot him a playful smile. “Come on in, the water’s still warm.” She took his free hand and dipped it into the water. He watched as his hand swirled around bubbles and pieces of his wife’s flesh became more revealed. Her pale white skin turned a light pink by the water’s warmth. He watched as the suds became more and more scarce.
Suddenly, he noticed a small spot in the water that was not the same color as the rest. It was red. As soon as he went to touch it, it spread outward like the web of a spider until all of the bathwater turned the same color. He lifted his hand out of the scarlet bathwater the moment he heard his wife’s bloodcurdling scream. He looked up to see her curled up, her hands over her face, her stomach once again flat. Tiny fingers poked through the surface of the water, small enough that he could’ve completely enclosed them in his hand...
He woke up in a cold sweat and nearly fell out of the bed in his haste to get out of it. His wife barely noticed, she shifted a bit in her sleep and mumbled some, but it was not long until he once again heard her soft, steady snore. The dream was gone but the fragments of it remained; bits of it in his side, his mind, he ached. His stomach churned and he raced to the bathroom. He sat there on the bathroom floor for nearly an hour. Nothing came, but the nausea persisted. He leaned over the toilet time and time again, his stomach aching, but nothing came out.
“Louis?” she stood in the doorway, her expression worried. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” he murmured from the floor.
“You don’t look fine,” she scowled. “Are you sick?”
“No, I’m fine,” he repeated.
“You really don’t look well...”
“I’m fine,” he blurted a little louder than was necessary.
“Fine then,” she replied backing away, a little hurt.
After a few minutes he trudged his way back to the bedroom and into bed.
“Try to get some sleep,” he heard his wife murmur. “Maybe you’ll feel better.”
He nodded but did not dare to close his eyes.

* * *

“Does it look better over here or over there?” she asked him, fake flower arrangement in hand.
“It looked fine where it was the first time, why’d you move it?”
“It was there the last time she came over.”
He sighed. “Elle, is it really that big of a deal if she comes over our house and it’s, well, the same?”
“Yes.”
He rolled his eyes. “People don’t rearrange their furniture everyday. Usually they keep it in a certain place for a while. It’s not really all that uncommon. In fact, many people keep their houses the same way for years and don’t feel the need to buy a new appliance or rearrange furniture every time their sister comes over.”
She growled at him, he smiled at her.
“Relax, Elle. It’s just your sister, not the president.”
“You know how she is,” she grumbled bitterly. “It never fails. The first words that come out of her mouth will be insulting.”
“You sister’s presence is insulting.”
“I can’t argue with that.”
Just then the doorbell rang.
“Quick,” Elle whispered. “On the table or the curio?’
He sighed. “Just put it back where it was.”
She frowned at him but complied. The doorbell rang again.
“Do I look okay?” she asked, combing through her hair with her fingers.
“Yes, you look fine, except...is that spinach in your teeth?”
She gasped and clamped her hand over her mouth. He snickered. The doorbell rang.
“Not funny!” she hit him playfully in the arm. “Really, do I look decent?”
“You look more than decent, you look beautiful, Elle.”
The doorbell continued to ring.
“Are you going to get that?” she looked to Louis.
“She’s your sister,” he replied bitterly.
She rolled her eyes, “Fine.” She walked grudgingly to the door, practicing her fake smile on the way.
“Claire!” she smiled enthusiastically as she opened the door. “It’s so great to see you, come on in.”
“Don’t know how answer your door anymore? I rang four times and no one answered. You really shouldn’t leave people waiting. It’s rude.”
Elle shot Louis a knowing glance.
“I have half the mind to go home,” she continued bitterly. “Or maybe I’ll just stay in a hotel.”
“If only,” Louis muttered quietly and Elle nudged him sharply with her elbow.
Claire. Bright, blonde, beautiful Claire. She was four years older than Elle but the resemblance between the two was striking. People often mistook them for twins. Claire was nearly the same heights as Elle, and had the same pale skin. The only difference between them that anyone could tell at first glance was their hair color. Claire had dyed hers bleach blonde, so light it seemed to be only a few shades off from the color of her skin. Other than that, Claire and Elle looked the same to most people. It was only Louis, close friends, and family members that could determine the subtle differences in their faces. Elle’s face was slightly rounder, warmer, more pleasant. Claire’s was thinner, sharper, more austere. Elle’s nose was a little rounder, while Claire’s looked a bit pinched.
“Are we just going to stand here?” Claire asked impatiently, handing Louis the key to her car. Louis peered out from behind her and noticed a bright, silver Mercedes in the driveway. He let out a low whistle. “Nice car.”
Claire brightened out of her dark mood, if only for a moment. “Isn’t it? It’s next year’s model too. Sanjeev got it for me, as a birthday present.”
“Sanjeev?” Louis arched an eyebrow.
“He’s Indian,” Claire beamed.
“He’s rich,” Elle added.
“My bags are in the trunk,” Claire motioned to Louis.
“Come in,” Elle reached for her sister’s jacket but she pulled away.
“Suede,” she shrugged out of the jacket herself and placed it the hook. “Not for grimy hands.”
Elle looked at her hands ruefully. They were clean, weren’t they? Just in case she rushed to the bathroom to wash them again.
“So, how’ve you been?” Elle asked, returning at the precise moment Louis did.
“Geez, how long are you planning on staying here? Did you pack your entire wardrobe?” he complained, lugging her heavy suitcases into the living room.
“I’ve been well,” she replied, ignoring Louis. “But let’s cut the small talk. You have something to tell me.”
“Wouldn’t you like to eat something first?” Elle motioned to the table. “I’m sure you’re hungry.”
“Don’t bother. I’m sure there’s nothing here I’d want to eat,” she sighed, annoyed. “As I was saying...” she stopped, her attention caught by something.
“What is it?” Elle asked.
“Those flowers,” Claire said, pointing to the table. “Weren’t those on the table before?”
Elle glared at Louis before answering. “Yes, they were.”
“Your house is so very predictable Elle, you should try rearranging sometime.”
Once again Elle glared at Louis and promptly moved the flower arrangement to the curio.
“So what do you have to tell me? I know you have something to tell me and don’t pretend you don’t. I know you better than that.”
“Well,” Elle began. “Louis and I,” she looked to him again, softer this time, “We’re...expecting.”
“Expecting what?” Claire’s face hardened.
“You know...a baby.”
“What?” her voice was so loud it seemed to echo throughout the entire house. Not the reaction Elle was expecting. “You’re what? Elle, are you crazy?”
Elle remained silent. Louis stiffened a little, his eyes tightening.
But Claire continued. “Not this again. You were a mess after the first time. Mom and Frank were so worried. I’m surprised neither one of them had a heart attack. You nearly died the first time you were so depressed and I had to pick up the pieces. Are you sure you can handle this, again?”
“That was years ago,” Elle began, but her voice sounded frail and faraway. “I’m healthier now, I’ve healed. I’m ready...”
“Don’t be stupid, Elle, no one’s ready.”
“But...” she didn’t bother to continue, Claire wasn’t listening.
“Just, be careful,” her voice softened. “Just take care of yourself. And you,” she glared at Louis, “take care of her.”
Louis nodded but said nothing, his jaw was still clenched.
The phone rang, Claire’s phone, and she rushed to get it. “Yes?” she answered sternly. Her face brightened. “Oh, Sanjeev. Yes, I’m here. Really?” she smiled. She looked a lot less menacing and more like Elle. “Sure, I’ll be there.” she hung up the phone and turned to Elle. “I’m leaving.”
Louis smiled, despite himself and Elle glowered at him from a distance. “You’re leaving already?”
“Yes, Sanjeev wants to see me,” she was practically glowing. “You don’t mind do you?”
“No,” Elle quickly answered. Not that it would have made a difference if she did.
“Put my bags in the trunk,” Claire commanded Louis. “And don’t you dare scratch up my car.”
Louis didn’t even pause to think about it, or glare at her for the condescending tone in her voice. He was too elated at the thought of her leaving.
“Bye Elle,” she called from the car, still beaming. “I’ll call you later,” she drove off and disappeared behind the bend.
“Well, that was interesting,” Louis remarked.
Elle nodded silently.
“You know what?”
“What?” Elle wanted to know.
“It still looks better on the table.”
She glared at him, but couldn’t help but smile.

* * *

The nightmares continued. Elle, happy, lovely, beautiful, pregnant, Elle. She was always the same in his nightmares: devastated, ruined, haggard, barren, Elle. One moment she was surging with life, the next she was on the brink of ending her own and he could do nothing for her, nothing but watch. The dreams were too much to bear. He woke up crying a few times, glad his wife was a sound sleeper. Sometimes he didn’t even bother going to bed anymore. He sat up with a book reading the same few lines over and over again, never comprehending. Dark circles had begun to form under his eyes, his forehead more creased than ever with worry, his expression sullen. When his wife pried he insisted nothing was wrong. When that failed to convince her he ignored her questions altogether. He was miserable.
The most horrible dream had come to him one night, when sleep deprived his body made him sleep unwillingly. In the dream he and Elle stood in the middle of a large green meadow with one large tree with long, crooked, wicked looking branches a few feet from where they stood. In the dream Elle was not pregnant. Instead there was a child, a child that Louis could not see clearly because he was high up in the tree. But still he could see the child there, with dark hair, mahogany like Elle’s. Then it occurred to him, this was his child. Elle looked up into the tree, her face full of worry.
“Be careful, Charlie,” she called to the child. “Be careful, don’t slip.”
“I won’t,” the child grumbled indignantly. “I won’t slip.”
“Be careful,” Elle called again.
“Hey Dad,” the child called and Louis looked up. “Watch me. I can climb to the top of this whole tree.” He grinned, Louis thought, although he could not be sure from where he was standing. He wanted to say something, to tell him to get down this instant, but his voice was dry and the sound was caught in his throat.
And then the child fell.
It happened so quickly that Louis didn’t have time to react. He stood there, motionless, his eyes wide, his mouth gaping open.
And then was her scream. A wild, maddening shrill sound that seemed to vibrate through him. He felt it in his ears, his head, from the tips of his fingers, through his hair, his lungs. The sound of it consumed everything, all other sound, all other thought. She collapsed on the ground and he watched her, unable to move. The sound was not at all human. It was the worst thing he’d ever heard. He covered his ears but the sound persisted. It rang through his head and body with such resonance he was almost sure it was his own.
His eyes moved over to the tree, the sky had grown dark and the tree look darker against it, even more menacing. The child lay broken at the bottom, his neck twisted in a most unnatural and gruesome way. His face a mixture of surprise, bewilderment, and agony. Louis wasn’t sure which was worse.
The world starting shaking suddenly. He watched as the wretched tree was uprooted and collapsed with a heavy thud against the earth.
“Louis.”
The sky was livid, the clouds dark and heavy.
“Louis.”
The sky turned black and the rain fell, only it was not rain. He let out a piercing scream as the blood streamed down his face.
“Louis!”
His eyes fluttered open, but he was not yet conscious. He did not realize until later that the screaming was his own.
“Louis!” she shook him again, more violently. “Louis!”
The screaming stopped. Slowly, he began to regain consciousness.
“Elle?”
“Yes?” she took his hand in hers, anxious. “Are you all right?”
“Yeah,” he whispered, his throat raw. “I’m fine.”
“You keep saying that,” her tone sharpened. “Why are you lying to me?”
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, alarmed a little by her tone. “I don’t mean to. It’s nothing really. I just...lately, I’ve been having nightmares and all. Maybe it’s part of a midlife crisis thing or something.” He smiled, but the smile did not touch his eyes.
“Maybe,” she smiled back, still worried.
“Let’s just go back to bed and pretend it never happened.”
“Okay...” she started to say something but one look at his face told her not too. “Yeah, let’s just go back to sleep.”
He lay awake for hours pushing the horrid thoughts out of his mind. His throat was sore and his head was still ringing from the screaming.

* * *

The sunlight streaming in from the window was warm, comforting. It lighted upon her hair, it reddened, looking as if it were on fire. He alternated between casual looks at the Sunday paper and glances at her. She looked so beautiful, peaceful, serene. The sun shining in from the kitchen window made it look as though there was some sort of magical aura around her. She looked so angelic and so fragile.
“Don’t you think you should rest a little?” Louis said putting down the paper. “You’ve been on your feet a while.”
“I hardly think washing dishes is strenuous. You worry too much.” She paused, musing.
“What are you thinking?”
“How about Charles?” she asked suddenly.
“What?”
“Charles. For the baby I mean. We could call him Charlie for short.” She smiled, but the smile faded when his face suddenly grew pale. “Is something wrong?”
“No,” he looked away, but his hands were trembling. “Charlie’s fine.” He winced a little as he said the name. He wondered how he should warn his wife about the dangers of children climbing trees without seeming clinically insane.
“I’m going to the studio,” she said cheerfully.
“Inspired, are we?”
“Something like that. I’ll see you in a bit.” She walked away and down the hall to the studio, waddling a bit with the weight of her belly.
She couldn’t decide what to make. All of the familiar tools were in place; her scattered paintbrushes, her pencils, her clay. She was inspired yes, but her mind was in a frenzy, her eyes darted all around the room, unsure of what her hands should touch first.
She decided to start with the clay. She sat on her little stool in front of the old, clay encrusted table. It moaned a little, unused to the extra weight. She took out a large block of clay and thrust it into the bowl, mixing it to the right consistency. She then took the clay and threw it onto the circular table. She picked it up and threw it again. And again. And again. She stopped, frowned. She was not in the mood to make a vase, or a bowl, a figurine or anything else out of clay.
She washed the clay from her hands and instead took out her sketchbook. A familiar face came to mind. The pencil moved rapidly trying to keep up with the thoughts that poured out of her. What started out as a faceless stranger soon came into being. The brows furrowed in thought, the enchanting smirk, the flash of gray-black hair. After she was finished she frowned a bit. It was nothing like the original, didn’t do the original any justice at all. She folded it up instead and shoved it into one of the messy drawers to never see the light of day again.

* * *

“Pickles and ice cream?” He stared at her questioningly as she alternated between eating the two. “Now there’s something you don’t eat everyday.”
“Pregnancy cravings are murder,” she sighed. “Yesterday I was in the mood for hot tamales and Captain Crunch.”
He laughed. “Another thing you don’t eat everyday. I didn’t even know you liked pickles.”
“Yeah, neither did I.”
“Is that why you sent me to buy you a jar of pickles at three in the morning?” He smirked. “What an...interesting errand that was. Wal-Mart after hours is a scary place. You should see the people.”
“Women in hair rollers, robes and slippers?”
“Oh that doesn’t even begin to describe it.”
She laughed. “Oh you poor thing.” Her laughter was warm, it soothed him. Maybe everything would be all right after all.
Her laughter stopped abruptly and she clutched her stomach.
“Is there something wrong?” he reached for her.
Her face was a picture of agony. “I think...it’s time,” she breathed.

* * *

The hospital was a blur; a blur of colors, of sounds, of people, of talk, of stares, of doctors coming in and out, in and out. The sweat ran down her face in little bullets. She looked pale, paler than usual, her breath coming out in unsteady huffs. How many hours had he been here, standing still by her side, her hand clenched tightly around his? It had been so long that the day soon turned to night, and day again. So long that a nurse brought him a chair for him to sit in. So long the nurses asked him if he wanted to sleep, to eat, to go home and return later. He refused, and sat still, immobile at her side.
The hours dragged on. He sat, watched her in her agony. Please. Not again. Don’t let it happen again.

The child came, but it uttered no whisper of life, of breath. It uttered no cries, did not move, was still and unmovable as stone. Its face was blue, the eyes clenched shut tightly. They had never seen and never would see the light of day.
Charlie.
The fact that he had a name made it worse, made the pain all that more tangible. He had a name, a mother, a father, a family. He had a face, a head of hair, tiny little fingers that Louis could completely enclose in his own. But they were dead fingers that would never grasp anything, they would not grasp Louis’ fingers, nor clutch at his mother’s breast, or climb up the unstable limbs of menacing trees. He would never know the world, the world would never know him.
They quickly carried the child away, a flash and rustle of sterile white. Elle’s face was drained of all color, she clutched at his hand even tighter than before. She did not speak, he did not speak. The tears ran down her face without cease, she shivered, but remained quiet. She was too exhausted to scream, to yell, to wail at the loss of her one and only child.
Charlie.
Louis remained still and statuesque. The pain was unbearable, threatening at any moment to spill over. But the tears would not fall. He was waiting, waiting for when it would all be over, when he would wake up screaming and it would all just be a horrible, horrible dream.
But he did not wake up.
Elle loosed her grip on his hand and pulled away and brushed his cheek with the back of her hand. The move startled him.
“I’m sorry,” she said barely audible. “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s not your fault.”
“I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry.”
“Shhh,” he kissed her forehead, still damp with sweat. “Shhh. Don’t apologize. It’s not your fault. I love you.”
“I love you too.”
And that was the last thing she said before she drifted off into a troubled sleep. She tossed and turned and moaned. He sat beside her.
“Shhh. It’s okay. I’m here,” he held her hand in his.
And then the moaning stopped. He woke up, not knowing that he’d even been asleep. Her hand was cold, indifferent in his. The nurses and doctors filed in, sterile, precise, calculated. There were voices, but they sounded more like noises, and faces, blurred faces. Each person became as indistinguishable as the next. The questions were incoherent ramblings to him.
I love you too.
* * *

He had her cremated, for he could not bear the thought of burying her, of her rotting away. Her perfection, her beauty, in the bellies of insects. He would not allow it. He poured their remains over the bed of flowers in the garden. It was all that he had left that would ever grow.
He wished desperately for sleep, sleep without dreams. But sleep continued to evade him, as the hours ticked by. He sat on the couch with his book in hand. He had no idea how long he’d stayed there still, breathing in the air. He could smell the faint fragrance of jasmine and spice. When he closed his eyes he could almost imagine that she was still there, next to him.
When he least expected it, sleep found him.

There was a tree and nothing else. There was no Elle, no Charlie, not even himself. There was just a single, fruitless tree, barren of all life in the center of a quiet, deserted meadow. The seasons passed and the meadow grew, but the tree remained the same. No blossoms, no buds, no fruits would ever grow on its branches. It would never, ever bring any new thing to life.
He woke up. His colleagues were surprised to see him at work the very next day.
“Louis!” Grace jumped at the sight of him. “What are you doing here?”
“Don’t I work here?”
“Yes but...you really shouldn’t be here after...” she stopped, unsure of what to say and if it might offend him.
“After my wife died,” he finished.
Grace looked at him in astonishment. He hadn’t even flinched when he’d said it. When she regained her composure she replied, “Mr. Davis will want to see you.”
He nodded. “I’ll be right in.”
He walked off, leaving Grace staring after him.
“You wanted to see me, Mr. Davis?” he stood in the doorway of the man’s office.
“Yes, come in, Louis.”
“How may I be of assistance to you, sir?”
“Louis...” he began. “I’m worried about you. You shouldn’t be here. You should be with family. You don’t need to worry about things here, you just need to...rest a while, as long as you need to.” He looked genuinely worried.
“I’m fine.” Louis said. “The best thing is for me to keep moving.”
The old man sighed, knowingly. “It will catch up to you, you know and I don’t want you to be here when it does. I don’t want you to set foot in this building for at least two weeks.”
“But...” Louis protested.
“Two weeks,” he repeated. “Now go. You can only keep running for so long.”
But Louis was not running. He was waiting.
As soon as he arrived home the phone rang. He thought that it might have been Mr. Davis calling to see if he’d really gone home.
“Hello?”
“Where the hell have you been?” an angry voice hissed. It was Claire. “I’ve been trying to call you all day.”
“At work.”
There was a brief pause on the phone.
“What the hell is the matter with you?”
“What do you mean?”
“Do you not care that Elle died at all?” The words stung him and at first he didn’t answer.
“How can you ask me that?” he demanded angrily, his voice louder than he meant it to be.
“You didn’t cry when she died, or at the memorial service, and you’re going off to work as if it never even happened. What’s the matter with you? Are you in denial? Don’t you realize that she’s dead, that she’s never coming back? How can you pretend that nothing happened and just go on?” she was hysterical now, he could hear her sobbing on the other line. “Didn’t you love her?”
He hung up the phone. The doorbell rang minutes later, disturbing the silence. As soon as he opened it he felt the impact of her hand on his face. It was Claire, she was livid.
“I ought to hit you again!” she stormed through the house toward the bedroom.
“What are you doing?” he wanted to know, following after.
“I’m getting her stuff,” she screamed at him, throwing around fixtures of the house, breaking things.
“Stop!” he demanded. “Get out of there!”
“Frank and Mom want some memories of their little girl and since they obviously mean nothing to you I’m going to take them.” She grabbed Elle’s scrapbook, her photo albums, her journal, and stuffed them into her bag.
“Put those back!” he yelled, but she continued undeterred, heading down the hall. She was headed for the studio.
“Come back here!”
She ignored him, tramping down the halls so loud it resonated throughout the house. She opened the studio door. Instantly he was beside her and slammed it shut.
“Don’t you dare,” he whispered, his voice quivering with anger. She had no right. It was Elle’s studio. Elle’s and Elle’s alone. Claire had no right to enter it and take out things that did not belong to her. Elle’s work would remain her own, no one else’s. He would not allow such an intrusion.
“Move.” Claire demanded, her eyes violent.
“This is my house. Nothing in that room belongs to you.”
“It doesn’t belong to you either,” she retorted sharply.
“Get out, Claire.”
She didn’t budge.
“I said, get out Claire.”
“Someone has to clear that room. It does no good to leave everything sitting there. It should be with those who love her and want to remember her.”
“I love her,” his voice was so loud that Claire flinched at the sound. “I’ll clear the room myself.”
She looked at him, doubtful, angry, but agreed to it. She grabbed her bag, smashed a crystal vase on the floor, and left without another word.

* * *

He sat by the door for hours in silence. He’d never been in that room. Entering seemed like an invasion of privacy, even if she hadn’t any need of privacy, anymore. It was silly, he finally told himself, that he should fear going past that door. It was just a door, like any other door, and it was his house. What did he have to fear?
The door let out a loud creak as it opened, as if in retaliation. He stepped into the room. It was just as she’d left it—a mess. Chaos was everywhere, he was not sure where to place his eyes first. To the walls covered in pictures, to the lanterns hanging from the ceiling, to the shelf full of handmade vases, and bowls, statues, and figurines. He was dizzy from looking around at it all. He never understood how she lived that way.
“How do you ever find anything in this mess?” he would ask.
“It’s an organized mess,” she would reply, smiling.
He saw no organization to it all. It was a storm, a storm of art and memories. It was strange though, throughout the storm there were places of relative clam; the neat stack of papers on the desk, the books in alphabetical order on the shelf, the vases in order according to their height. It was the exact opposite of his still, neat, ordered packaged sort of lifestyle. There was no storm, only order, endless, endless order.
He decided to look through the drawers first. They were messy, all sorts of things were thrown into them. Old scraps of paper with numbers and names on them, most of it was useless. But then his hand came across something soft. He plucked it out of the drawer and recognized it instantly. A single glove. He reached inside of it and pulled out a sheet of paper, the number and his name written in his unmistakably elegant hand.
She’d been wearing that same exact glove when they’d met. She was in the train station, drawing in her sketchbook when he’d seen her. He was taken with her immediately. She was so absorbed in the task at hand that she hadn’t even noticed him watching. Suddenly she became aware of herself and the time and scrambled to get her things together. He hadn’t noticed until she was nearly ten feet away that she’d dropped her glove. He grabbed it and followed her.
“Miss!” he called. “Miss!” But she did not hear him. Every time he seemed to get nearer she evaded him again unknowingly. He finally caught up with her as she boarded the train.
“Wait! Wait!” she turned around to see Louis standing there, her glove in his hand.
“Oh,” she went to him to retrieve it. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. I know this may sound crazy... but I was watching you earlier, when you were drawing and...I was wondering...would you... like to go out sometime?”
“Is this your idea of a pickup line?” she laughed. “Not a chance.”
The conductor came by and shooed Louis away when he saw that he had no ticket. “No ticket, no board,” he said motioning to the door. The doors closed and he watched as the train grew further and further away. She had thought that it would be the first and last time she’d ever see him. But when she reached into her glove to put it on she noticed a little scrap of paper shoved inside. Louis M. Scheckter- 254-1730. “Sly bastard,” she laughed to herself. She hadn’t expected that she would call it. Her sister was the one that convinced her of it.
“Oh have a heart Elle, the poor guy is probably sitting at home by the phone right now waiting,” her sister picked up the phone and handed it to her. “And if he’s really as handsome as you say, maybe I’ll give him a call...”
Elle snatched the phone from her and dialed. “Fine, I’ll call him. As far as I know he’s not even home.”
“Hello.” She recognized his voice instantly, and hung up.
“What the hell was that?” Claire laughed. “Aren’t you a little old to be prank calling?”
“Shut up.”
“You’re such a little coward. A good looking guy tries to talk to you and you don’t even bother to stay on the phone long enough to give him a chance. No wonder you’re single.”
The phone rang before Elle could glare at her.
“Hello?”
“Hi,” it was him again. She fought the urge to hang up the phone.
“Hi.”
“You called?”
“Yeah,” she felt her face flush. “Sorry about that. The hanging up and all.”
He laughed. “It’s okay. I’m glad you called. ”
“How did you know I would call?”
“I didn’t. I just thought maybe you would. Wishful thinking, I suppose.” She swore she could hear him smile.
“You seem awful sure of yourself.”
“Do I?” He laughed. “Does that bother you?”
“No, not really,” she admitted.
“What are you doing tomorrow night?”
“Um... I’m not sure.”
“How about dinner then? Around seven?”
“Sure.”
“Really? I thought I didn’t have a chance.”
She felt herself reddening even more. Claire was in the corner, convulsing with laughter.
“So around seven then?”
“Where are we going?”
She could swear she could hear him smiling again. “Meet me at the train station.”
“Um...okay.”
“Goodbye for now.”
“Bye.” She hung up the phone, her sister’s expression was eager.
“Well?”
“I’m meeting him at the train station tomorrow night. We’re having dinner.”
He took her to the nicest restaurant in town, an Italian restaurant named La Bella.
“I have a question,” he asked suddenly, looking up from the menu.
“Yes?”
“What is your name? I’ve been meaning to ask you.”
“Gabrielle Thomas. But everyone calls me Elle.”
“Elle...that’s very pretty.”
“Thank you,” she smiled, blushing.

He smiled at the memory. She had worn a burgundy dress that night that greatly complimented the color of her skin and brought out the red in her hair.
He rummaged through the rest of the drawer and found the box of an old pregnancy test she had taken the first time she’d conceived and next to it a picture of her and him in the park, her stomach slightly rounded. He flipped the picture over to read the back of it: And baby makes three!
He remembered that day in the park. He and Elle used to go to the park often. That day Elle had invited Claire to come along. Initially she objected because she had a date with a certain doctor, but he had to go into emergency surgery, so she ended up grumpily tagging along.
He found a bunch of other things; pictures, old love letters they’d exchanged, discarded sketches. His eyes lighted upon something in particular, a piece of paper folded in half with Elle’s unmistakable, illegible hand on the back. He opened it and found that on the inside was a sketch. He instantly recognized the subject of the portrait—it was himself. She had captured his essence so well, his facial features, his expressions, the creases and lines in his face, the light stubble on his chin. He could not imagine what had made her discard the thing with such haste. He flipped the page over and managed to decode her cryptic handwriting—a feat that had taken years of experience. It read:

How is it that I can explain this,
this feeling that I have,
This feeling that comes over me,
every time you look at me,
every time I feel your breath
upon my face.
This feeling that sends a thrill through me,
when you take your hand in mine..

I love the way my name sounds
playing off your lips.
I love the feel of your warmth
against my skin.
I love the way your eyes still linger on me
even after I look away.

There is no way to describe it,
this feeling.
No matter how hard I try,
my words are useless,
they will never compare to the way I feel.
And yet,
I continue to use them still.
But I know you understand.

Louis, my life, my love, my heart.

Aug 18

He didn’t need the year to know it was written the day before her death. The tears were running down his cheeks before he even knew he was crying.
I love you too.
The words resounded in his head, his heart. He would never forget them, he told himself, nor the sound of her voice. His memories were so fresh so vivid, he could still smell her jasmine fragrance in the room, feel her in this room as though she’d never left it. This would always be her room. He held the paper against him, wishing it were her instead, wishing he could feel the warmth of her skin, her tangle of wild hair. He could not imagine this room being vacant, empty of all her worldly possessions, her memories, her scent. The thought of the studio being just another empty room pained him. To never see her mess again, to box up her life and set it aside to collect dust in the closet.
He stood, took one last glance at the sketch of himself and the words affectionately inscribed on the back of it, folded it back in half, and put it back into the drawer. He looked around the room once more, making sure all was as she had left it, and walked out of the studio, closing the door behind him.