The Taste of Lavender (5 page)
2010
––––––––
F
or the past few weeks, I’d seen Maribel
only a handful of times. Since our argument almost a month ago things had been
tense. Our conversations were superficial and limited to safe subjects like the
weather, work and the latest headlines.
But that was going to change, because I
had finally made up my mind.
I was going to tell Maribel that I loved
her and
only
her, that I wanted to be with her until we grew old and
cranky. I’d put a rainbow sticker on the back window of my car. We’d raise us a
herd of cats or test-tube babies. Or spend the years traveling the world in
each other’s arms. Nothing else mattered but being by her side.
From the first moment we met, I’d been
enamored with her, but in my naivety I had assumed that the feelings I had for
Maribel were just your standard, run of the mill friendship type. Then I’d
noticed the way seeing her brightened my day, warmed my heart and quickened my
pulse. Still, I’d denied that there was an attraction.
I wasn’t ready to acknowledge what those
feelings meant. To be honest, I still scared pants-less, but there was no
turning back now. And in reality, from the first day we’d met it was already
too late.
I’d fallen too far and told myself too
many lies that were eventually proven false.
It had been a while since I’d had a
close female friend. Women shared a special bond with other women, which was
beautiful and magical, and there was nothing abnormal about our relationship.
Maribel was foreign and worldly, so it
was just her exotic nature wearing off on me.
I was bored and she brought a bit of
excitement into my life. I wanted to live vicariously through her, to be near
her so as to be illuminated by the light shining down on her.
All those excuses were hard to use once
our relationship crossed through that gray area.
She touched me and I let her. She kissed
me and I liked it. I started dreaming about her, fantasizing while alone in the
bath. But I wasn’t a lesbian—they wore tank tops and sported mullets and went
to parades. And I liked penises well enough, or at least I had until Maribel
came to town. After that I’d begun to find ways to avoid the one-eyed monster
if I could help it.
Then she’d put me on the spot, called me
out on my flim-flammy ways and I’d run home like a scared little girl to argue
with myself. It had taken longer than I wanted it to, but I’d finally arrived
at a conclusion of sorts.
I was a woman in love with a
woman
.
I suppose that made me a lesbian, but I
didn’t care and I didn’t care who knew either. Only one person mattered and
that was Maribel.
I’d put on my nicest sun dress for the
occasion. It was white and gauzy and I’d bought it specifically because it
reminded me of the dress Maribel had been wearing the first time we’d met. That
seemed like ages ago, and when I thought back to how different I was back then
it made me chuckle.
All humor left when I heard my husband
clomping around down stairs. I frowned at myself in the mirror, my surliness
matching his as of late. All he did these days was huff and puff, broken up by
the occasional “Lemme guess, you have a headache?”
I felt bad for him, but not bad enough
to bend to his wishes. My heart lay elsewhere and I couldn’t help that any more
than the sun could chose not to rise.
Compared to accepting my feelings for
Maribel, leaving my husband was going to be easy. Figuring out how to tell him,
not so much. He was a guy, a guy’s guy even. I had no idea how to tell him that
I wanted to end our marriage, but the kicker was going to be that I was leaving
him for another woman. I’m sure that possibility had never even crossed his
mind. Hell, a year ago even
I
would have denied the possibility.
I couldn’t worry about that at the
moment. The last time I’d spoken with Maribel had been strained, to say the
least, and I was anxious to make things right between us. I fidgeted with my
hair and makeup until I heard the truck pull out of our driveway, then I
scurried downstairs with a big stupid grin on my face.
For the first time, I felt in-sync with
myself, like I was finally wearing the right skin or all my puzzle pieces
finally fit together without having to force them. It’s funny how I’d been
going on about my life for years thinking that things were okay. But now,
loving Maribel, I can see that I didn’t know what I was missing. The difference
between being content and being blissfully happy is unquantifiable, and only
those who experience the latter can understand just how mediocre the former can
be.
I practically skipped out the door and
over to Maribel’s. Visions of our future drifting by me like floral notes on
the spring air. Maybe we’d go live in Paris or summer on the Italian coast.
We’d lay under a blanket of stars on some exotic beach and make love. Or
traverse the markets of Indonesia together like intrepid adventuristas.
The front door was locked, so I couldn’t
just let myself in like usual. That was a bit of a downer. I’d hope to sneak up
on her, wrap my hands over her eyes and say “Guess who?” and once she guessed,
I’d say “Nope. It’s the woman who loves you.” Couldn’t do that now, but I
wouldn’t let that get me down. I was
this
close to bliss and it would
take a tornado to mess that up.
I knocked a cheerful tap-tap-da-tap-tap
and waited for my love to open the door.
The door swung open and my vision of
Maribel was replaced by the reality of a haggard looking Lucas.
“Yes?” he said, barely making eye
contact.
“Uh, hi,” I stammered. “Is Maribel
here?”
“She didn’t tell you? She’s gone.” He
looked like hell—pale and thin with dark bags under his eyes.
“No, she didn’t tell me she was going
anywhere.” I shook my head, confused. “Where did she go? Will she be back
soon?”
“I don’t know. And no, I do not think
she is coming back.” He looked at me, his face pained, before dropping his gaze
to the floor.
Oh, god. He knows.
I backed from the door, stumbling down
the steps before sprinting to my own house.
“I’m sorry.” I mumbled, though I’m sure
Lucas didn’t hear me. I heard him slam the door as he choked back sobs.
All sense of decorum was lost as Lucas’
words echoed through my head.
Gone
. She was gone and she wasn’t
coming back.
I somehow ended up sitting inside the
dry tub in the master bath, tissues surrounding me like little snow drifts.
That’s where my husband found me several hours later, still sobbing and blowing
snot into another tissue before dropping it into the tub with the rest.
“What?” he rushed to the tub and knelt
beside it. “What’s wrong?”
The concern on his face was genuine,
which made me feel even worse. I launched into another crying jag while he
rubbed my back and tried to soothe me. Finally, when my sobs began to die down
again he tried again.
“Talk to me,” he said.
“Gone
. She’s gone and she’s not coming
back.” I sobbed.
My husband looked at me, like he was
trying to figure out what I was talking about or why in heaven’s name I was so
upset. A shadow of something dark crossed his face so quickly I thought maybe
I’d imagined it.
“Come on, let’s get you into bed.” He
pulled me out of the tub, stripped off my dress and led me into our bedroom.
Once he tucked me under the covers, he flicked off the light and left me to
sleep it off on my own. I briefly wondered why he didn’t ask for more details
before slipping off into the deep sleep that accompanies sudden heartbreak.
Maribel was gone.
August
2010
––––––––
I
rolled over close to noon and squinted
against the sunlight. Guilt plagued me; I’d missed another morning of work. I
knew that I couldn’t get away with it for very much longer and still have a
career, but there was a small part of me that didn’t care one little bit. I was
a broken soul. Either I’d heal slowly, laying in my bed or loafing around my
house, or I wouldn’t.
I felt lost; adrift. Maribel had been
gone for seven weeks and it was as if my best friend had died. I couldn't eat.
I couldn't sleep. Every waking thought that I had was about her. What was she
doing right at this moment, or that one? Was she happy? Did she recall our last
conversation as often as I did? If I could go back in time, would I change the
way things played out? Of course I would.
But that wasn’t an option anymore. I
kicked myself for waffling over my feelings for her. I’d wasted precious time.
Time when she was still a part of my life. My inability to make a decision had
led to that decision being taken away from me. I’d not jumped soon enough.
I heard the door slam downstairs and my
body stiffened. I panicked, know that my husband was on the way to see for
himself that I was still in bed. Should I get up, run to the bathroom and start
scrubbing the toilet to show him that I was, in fact, a productive member of
our household? Or should I just feign sleep and hope that he went back to work?
Given my track record with making
decisions, I did what I always do. That is, I did nothing. Instead I laid there
staring at the ceiling as he grunted up the stairs and stopped with a loud sigh
right inside the bedroom door.
“Really? You’re still in bed. Again?” He
sounded so very disgusted with me.
I cringed, knowing he had every right,
while at the same time knowing that no matter how much he hated me at the
moment, I hated myself even more. I rolled over onto my side, putting him at my
back. I couldn’t look him in the eye. I was afraid of what I might see
reflected there. It was the same reason I’d quit putting on my makeup or
styling my hair. A mirror was no fan of mine either. All I saw when I looked at
my reflection was a sad sack of a person, choked by grief and drowning in her
own failures.
He cleared his throat and tried again,
desperation tinting his words. “We can’t go on like this anymore. I can’t take
it.”
He began to pace across the bedroom
floor while pushing his fingers through his hair, casting a looming shadow on
the wall in front of me. It looked like a large bird, his arms forming wings
and the brim of his ball cap, a beak. I giggled at the absurdity of everything,
instantly knowing everything about my response was wrong.
I’m sure there’s a psychological term
for that, one I’d probably once known, back when I could think I sucked in a
chest-full of air and gnawed on my lip, waiting for the explosion to come.
Three... two... one...
“You think this is funny! You’ve turned
into a fucking zombie and it’s funny?” He swept the mass of picture frames from
atop the dresser. Wood clanked against the wall and glass tinkered over the
hardwood floor. “Goddammit, Cin! What the hell has happened to you?
My marriage, much like the pictures
littering the floor, was irrevocably broken.
I wanted to care. Really, I did. I just
didn’t have it in me. In fact, I felt completely empty—devoid of any emotion,
feelings or give-a-damn molecules. I was a husk.
“I just...” I heard him slump against the
wall, defeated. “I just don’t know what you need.”
Yes, he did. We both knew what—no, who—I
needed. But he would never say it.
Something isn’t real, isn’t tangible,
until spoken aloud.
I mewed like an orphaned cat, my pain
seeping out from under the clutching grasp that I had on it. I wanted to care
about his feelings. I knew I should get up and console him and let him know
that it was nothing he’d done. My fracturing was not one of his making. But I
couldn’t claw my way out of the darkness that encompassed me. And honestly, I
didn’t want to.
At some point I must have drifted off,
because the next thing I knew the darkness was real and filtering in through my
windows. I stretched and rolled over, momentarily forgetting myself. I looked
about the room, noticing the broken glass winking in the moonlight. I
remembered and the pain crested with renewed vengeance.
I didn’t care where my husband had gone.
The only person I sought was Maribel and she was god-knows where.
So I did the only thing I could. I
closed my eyes and willed the memories of her to take over.
I pictured myself in the bath at her
house, her almond face looming over me, smiling. Her hands lathered my arm,
brushing my breast while the smile on her face told me that she’d done it on
purpose. She was teasing me.
The scent of lavender in the air. Steam
rising from my exposed skin. Her hands, soft as ribbons, worked over my body.
I sighed, feeling the familiar heat
building between my legs. My dream-Maribel trailed her fingers over my collar
bone, between my breasts, around the curve of my hip before looping across my
bikini line. She pushed her face close to mine, our mouths inches apart. I
strained to reach her, but she just smiled and pulled back ever so slightly, a
twinkle in her eye.
Before I could question what she was up
to, Maribel dipped one manicured finger into the bubbles and into my folds. She
parted my cleft and found me slick with desire. She feathered her touch around
and around, never quite getting to the one spot I needed her to. Toying,
teasing. I arched my hips toward her, hoping to end my glorious torture.
“Please!” I cried as my hands clutched
the sides of the tub.
Her raven hair cascaded over my face as
she leaned in to kiss me. Mouths parted slightly, we shared the same breath as
her hands pressed down harder on my sex. I sucked her lip into my mouth and
wrapped my hands around her. She slid one finger inside me and I lost it.
I awoke to realize three awful things:
it had all been a dream, I was clutching the bed sheets and panting as my groin
tightened with aftershocks, and lastly, my husband was standing at the foot of
our marital bed with such a disgusted look on his face that I knew
he knew
.
