Aftermath of Dreaming (38 page)

I listen as Andrew talks, weaving tales of his past about people and choices he made while time was rolling on, separating him from some, entwining him with others, and it all makes sense. He isn't the only one for me. And never was. But what I had with him still meant something even though it couldn't be defined the way I wanted it to be, thought it had to be, for my life to have a discernible effect on his. And his on mine.

I sit with him in this farewell that began so long ago in the restaurant the first time I saw him when it shot out my heart and through my eyes and dragged me along until here we are at this point where I can let him go.

“I'll always love you, Andrew.” I put my hands on his chest, his chest that was such a shield, then slide them around to the armor of his back. I want to pull his body through mine and keep some of it in the spaces between my cells, but I know there isn't room. My holding him turns to tears, and I put my head on his shoulder as the drops fall. I hold him tighter and he rubs my back, speaking low, holding me close. Any sadness I ever had before I met him, during him, and after him washes away.

 

“I'll walk you out.”

Andrew turns off all the lights in his office by flicking one switch, but before we leave, he runs his hand down and around my legs as I wrap my arms tight across his back, holding on one final time.

“Okay. Bye.”

My last image of Andrew in my world is in my truck's rearview
mirror as I drive off. He is standing in the parking lot, then he takes a few steps, walking backward toward the big building, and his arm moves up and he waves. It is definitive, concluding, and welded onto me. I know if we meet in another space and time that that same wave will reach out toward him from inside of me and I know that I am not leaving behind anything that I still need to see.

“Wow—that's wonderful.”

“Thanks, honey, we're really happy, too,” Suzanne says on the phone. “So come next May, you'll be an aunt.”

“Are you feeling okay?”

As she talks about the nausea and exhaustion, her words making real this soon-to-be member of our family, my other line clicks.

“Will you hang on?” I depress the button. “Hello?”

“Hi.”

It takes me a second to connect to the voice that was part of my life for so long, and now only intermittently.

“Hey, Reggie, can I call you back? Suzanne's on the other line.”

He sounds slightly nonplussed as he says he'll be around, and I click back to Suzanne.

“Hey, how was that retreat, when was it—”

“Last week,” I say, looking at the tree outside my window. Some
birds have started nesting in it and there are even enough leaves for the wind to rustle. “It was exactly what I needed it to be.”

 

I know it's way too early to buy baby clothes, and Suzanne's not finding out the gender, but the idea of looking at gifts for my niece or nephew who will arrive in just six months is too delicious. Plus, Suzanne said she'd meet me.

“Oh, fun. It'll be like picking out clothes for our dolls, remember? We'd lay out a different outfit for them for each hour of the day,” she'd said on the phone, laughing. “What on earth were we thinking?”

“Of Momma, clearly, and her different ensembles for everything.”

“Oh, right.” And my sister is quiet for a moment, so I brace myself for her next words to have that sharp, instructive tone, but they are soft and engaging. “I'd forgotten all about that. God, Yvette, what else do you remember that I don't?”

 

Walking into the café on Robertson Boulevard, I look around for Suzanne, but she is nowhere to be seen. I am a few minutes past our agreed-upon time, so kind of technically on time, but it looks like she is going to be the one who's late for the first time in our lives. Not that I'm going to get mad at a pregnant woman, and with Suzanne, it's refreshing. The café is packed. Outside, the crystalline November day has that autumn in New York energy where everyone is grateful that summer is over, while forgetting the cold it forebodes, although we never get that part in L.A.

After giving the hostess—a friendly one, shockingly, considering the street we are on—my name to go on the list, I step around a clump of women dressed in thin dresses and walk toward the front to wait for Suzanne, when underneath the Miles Davis that is playing I hear a voice in my ear.

“Hey, how's it going with Greeley's?” I turn to see his face, reflected bright from the chef 's whites he is wearing over jeans.

“Oh, hey, wow, that's sweet of you to remember. Good, actually, they're putting my line in their New York store and probably San Francisco, too.”

“That's great.” His smile is like a cloud that will never rain, just hanging in the sky to be illuminated by the sun.

“Thanks.” People are moving around us, creating a shelter of space that is only filled with us. “That artichoke pesto you made was incredible. It looks like your place is doing great.”

“Glad you liked it. I'm Eric.” His hand takes mine and he looks into my eyes as he holds it. It is like sitting in the
Y
of a great, sturdy tree—I am comfortably encircled and it is easy to stay, like the home I always wanted.

 

As I lie in bed each night, sleep comes easily. And when I wake up in the mornings, everything I see is real, as if I had finally awakened from a dream.

This novel would not have been written without the generous and kind support of Beaty Reynolds and Christopher Rice. Beaty Reynolds's friendship and editorial skills have been a constant guide, always steering me gently on the right course. Christopher Rice's clarity and insight were essential, as was the graciousness with which he gave them. I will always be happily indebted to Nancy Hardin and Elly Sidel for their early and unflagging belief in me as a writer. My agent, Eileen Cope, is not only a knight in shining armor, but a friend. Carrie Feron's quiet wisdom and thoughtfulness as an editor are gifts for which I will always be grateful. The immediate warmth with which Debbie Stier welcomed me to the fold, and her guidance, are deeply appreciated. I am lucky to have fellow Southerner Seale Ballenger's expertise and advice. Selina McLemore is always helpful and patient with my many questions. Christina Beck's experience and strength as both a writer and a friend have given me courage when I had none. Museum trips and conversations with John Swanger fed my
soul. Hilary Beane's elegant, gorgeous jewelry was crucial inspiration; I am so thankful for the selfless and cheerful sharing of her time and expertise. Philip Brock brought his sharp eye and encouragement to the earliest burgeoning form of this novel with the patience of a saint and the humor of a comedy god. Regina Su Mangum, Mari Weiss, and Annie Weisman gave their time and keen observations to an early draft with indispensable results. My sisters Elizabeth Michel, Pamela Chavez, Maggi Michel, and Aimée Michel have all supported me with their love. Betsy Little's courage, grace, and humor is a constant light. Bruce Gregory was instrumental in helping me change my path—I am forever grateful. The audiences and writers of Spoken Interludes have created a community for me by generously sharing their stories, warmth, and lives that will forever enrich mine. And my husband, Daniel Fried, has given me a life of happiness beyond my wildest dreams.

AFTERMATH OF DREAMING
. Copyright © 2006 by DeLauné Michel. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books™.

ePub edition March 2006 ISBN 9780061738784

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

     Michel, DeLaun´.
          Aftermath of dreaming / DeLauné Michel.—1st ed.
             p. cm.
          ISBN 13: 978-0-06-081733-6
          ISBN 10: 0-06-081733-X (alk. paper)

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