When You Are Gone

Chapter 2

Saturday evening, the air was warm and humid, raw and threatening rain. I was uneasy. I couldn't keep my eyes on the road. My mother had let me borrow the corolla. I was driving at forty kilometers per hour way below the freeway speed limit. I was nerve racked, anxiously tapping on the stirring wheel – an old apprehensive habit of mine.

I pulled up at the end of Heathbrow as Francie had instructed on the telephone. A thirty minute drive had felt like infinity. I drove along a marble paved driveway and there it was – a majestic, bungalow type building. It was a clean white, its size menacing above the other houses around it and it was brightly lantern lit all the way to the front porch. I parked at the end of the driveway, behind a shiny black Chevrolet. I was welcomed by a fancy wooden post with Stanford's engraved in it. Small, neatly trimmed hedges, short, tame green grass and angelic stone sculptures were a neighborhood regulatory.

The nerves settled. I was tranquil, like I was about to do something I've done my entire life like sitting for an exam or paint a still portrait. My thick, dark hair was neatly gelled to the side then backwards like they did in the 70's movies. I looked fresh out of a Melrose Place episode. My stony hazel eyes, like my mother's stood out. My face was pronounced, every feature clearly brought out like a pencil sketch or an immaculate sculpture. The image of the man I saw in the reflection of the car window was one of the man I yearn to be today; unafraid and composed.

I strutted confidently to the front door, poised and collected in my misty Harris Tweed jacket, a black denim trousers which complemented the length of my legs and ankle high vintage brown leather shoes. I didn't wear a tie over my plaid shirt, I made sure. I pounded on the enormous mahogany door with the heavy metal door knocker, complementary home-grown lilac dendrobium orchids in my hand because that's what gentlemen do – according to my mother. I was unaware as to whether I'd made the right outfit choice or not. Was she going to like it? Was I under-dressed for a formal occasion? The nerves. They resurfaced pounding hard from the inside of my chest as if something wanted to break out.

"Hey, sorry for the delay," she opened the door enough to get her through and quickly shut it behind her. There were belligerent chatters behind the door. I remember seeing the tears in her sparkling brown eyes and her formidable effort of trying to hide it with a transparent smile, the sight of her standing under the orange, illuminated porch in blue denim dungaree shorts and a red, gothic V-neck t-shirt inside looking much more beautiful than she thought she was.

"You alright?" I asked unsure of my choice of words.

"Yeah." She quickly answered, "I'm fine." She tied her hair up into a ponytail casually.

I handed her the orchids.

"Wow. My mother is freakishly allergic to anything this beautiful," You welcome? "I will keep them right here." She inhaled them before she bent down and placed them under a small hedge, in a dark crevice where I was sure they'd never see the light again. "There." She strained a smile.

"You don't like them?" I asked her.

She glanced at me quickly, "huh?"

"The flowers, don't you like them."

"I love them." She said unconvincingly without even thinking, "More than you know. Orchids?"

"Dendrobium." I said matter-of-factly. "So what is it?" I asked, "You don't like what I'm wearing?"

She chucked, "Don't be silly, Roman." She wiped her eyes, "You coming?" She was already walking in front of me headed for the car. I followed behind her.

We sat in the car, she was edgy, avoided eye contact and twirled the silver bracelet around her wrist. For a minute I thought she was going break into a gag, not until I saw the sincerity in her eyes.