A Fine Cast of Characters - J. Dane Tyler [59]
Silence.
“I will be back.”
She sighed, nodded. “Yes. Eventually, you come back.”
“Will you be at the cove tonight?”
Another regal nod. “I’m going to the kelp bed tonight.”
“Why? Why do you go there?”
“To wait for you.”
“Wait on the beach.”
“I can’t.”
“Why?”
“Because I sought you. I wanted to join you, be with you forever. So I go to the kelp bed.”
“I don’t understand.”
She sighed again, like a breaker dying on the beach. “I know.”
“Please wait on the beach for me.”
“You’re afraid still. But I’m going to the kelp bed.”
I didn’t know what she meant by afraid still. “Don’t, please. The water’s too cold to swim.”
“It was colder the first time.”
“The first time?”
“Yes. Colder, darker. I went to wait for you.”
“On the night of the full moon, when I saw you in the cove?”
“No. On the night of the new moon. When I knew you’d left me. I went to be with you and waited at the kelp bed for you. I’m waiting for you.”
I was thoroughly lost in her mysterious words.
She sighed again, the sound of an ocean swell collapsing on the shore. “I never knew what happened. Maybe you were hurt. A head injury. Maybe that’s why you can’t remember.”
I tipped my head. Time I needed to find out who she was, her name, slipped through my fingers. But I couldn’t pull myself from her.
“I don’t ... I’ve never had a head injury. I don’t ... I don’t know what you’re telling me.”
“I know,” she sniffed, and wiped a second tear that followed the track of the first. “I just wish ...”
I waited. “Wish what?”
“I could do something to remind you. I’ve done everything I know how. I’ve let you go everywhere you wanted, do anything you wanted, given you all I have to give. And you don’t remember.”
I shook my head, confused, in agony at her sorrow. “What can I do? What can I say? How can I change your mind, convince you to stay? I want you with me, and want to be with you. I love you.”
She nodded, but the motion carried no conviction.
“I do. I love you. I’ve never loved anything so much as I love you.”
Her eyes locked on mine, head still on the pillow. “Do you? Really? I wonder. I’ve wondered for so long now, and you never remember.”
I hung my head. What could I say? She seemed convinced we’d met before, I should remember something, know her name.
“Tell me,” I said, voice low and gentle, “is it possible you’ve mistaken me for someone else? Perhaps I resemble him, perhaps ... perhaps similar facial features, or ... is it possible?”
She looked at me, the pale radiance back in her eyes, lighting the pillow around her face.
Her resolute voice dropped, its music weighty. “No. I’m not mistaken.” She paused, stared at me. “Do you think I’m mad? That you’ve been tricked by an insane woman?”
“No,” I said without hesitation. I don’t know why, but I was sure of the words. “No, I don’t think you’re crazy. I just...”
“You just don’t remember, and wondered if it was me, my lack, my error. No. It’s you … it’s always you, every year.”
“Every year?”
She nodded. “So many now. I hope, each time, you’ll remember. You never do, and I’ve given up trying to figure out why you’ve forgotten. How could you? With all you promised, all we shared—how could you forget?”
“What? What did we share, what did I promise?”
Her eyes closed, another tear danced over her lashes and down her cheek. She drew a deep breath and let it out slow and long.
“You promised eternity.”
The words hit me like a swinging ship’s boom. “Eternity?”
She nodded. “We shared everything. Each other. You promised eternity.”
“How ... when ...?”
She sighed, eyes still closed. “You can’t remember now. How could the bond be real, the promise true? So much doubt. How can we share eternity when there’s so much doubt? You can’t remember.”
I wanted to! Oh, how I wanted to! I wrestled with my memory, struggled to find it, whatever she wanted, until my head ached.
“The sun is coming,” she said, eyes still closed. I didn’t know how she knew. The wee hour’s faint light hadn’t brightened much. I put my hand on her shoulder and she sighed again, a sorrowful, mourning wind on the open water.
“Before