Project Regeneration | 3

3  | First Encounter

Loving and losing is hard. People always walk around telling you, “It’s better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all.” And I get that. You’re trying to spread the positive  thoughts about it, and that at least you experienced that passion before it broke apart, and that trading that feeling to feeling nothing is not worth it. But is that really true? If I gave up what I had for the splendor of obliviousness, to give up the ache of that loss, would it honestly be any better than not having known what it felt like to love in the first place?

I was afraid of the answer. I didn’t know what to say to it. Would I give up the love that I had felt so fiercely  to end the pain and suffering that I was stuck with after it was long gone? Would it just be… easier if I didn’t remember the love that tore me apart?

“Mommy, can you hand me the blue crayon…?”

I looked up from the other side of the table, toward the honest blue eyes of Gable. In his fist he held a green crayon that looked strangled and near the point of breaking, one that he easily dropped onto the kitchen table when I plucked the blue crayon out of the well-organized Crayola box and passed it to him. “Thank you,” he said quietly, and with his brown hair falling from his forehead into his eyes, he turned back down to the colorful sheet of paper spread on the table in front of him.

Gable had asked me to color with him today. Insisted, really. I could’ve said no--I tried to--but I had no choice; he was persistent that I draw with him, going as far as to drag me down onto the chair, open the coloring book for me, and stuff a crayon into my grasp.

I pulled a pink crayon out of the box and turned to the black-lined printed drawing of a rabbit carrying a basket full of chicks and started coloring in the chicks; so what if they weren’t yellow. I kept it neat and tidy, staying inside the lines, but my stroke was loose and aloof. I watched one cartoon bird turn into a fluffy pink nightmare under my control.

“My teacher talked to us today about what happens when plants die,” said Gable. His little voice came from across our round table that used to be the center of a lot of things in my memory. “She said they go away into the earth when they die at wintertime and then a new plant will grow there again soon, when spring comes.” He colored in the sky of his picture with the crayon I’d given him without looking up. “Maybe that’s what happened to Dad.”

I paused.

“Dad went into the earth when he died,” Gable continued, “because we put him there. Maybe he’ll grow up again in springtime and come back.”

I didn’t say anything, just turning back down to my three miscolored chickens, and went back to encouraging the unlikely. I didn’t know what to say. How do you answer that? How do you respond to that without crushing his heart?

Gable watched me for a while, then put his crayon down, grabbing the strangled green one from earlier. “You’re gonna have to be happy again sometime, Mommy,” he said quietly. “When you’re sad, it’s just like it’s rainy outside. Maybe you have to be happy again so that the sun will shine and new Dad can grow.”

_________________________

I stood outside Gable’s classroom and waited for the brown door to spring open, and all the little fourth graders would come tumbling out of the room with their homework papers flying around in their hands, looking for their backpacks and jackets hung up on the walls. There were about seven other parents standing in the hallway with me, spread out like we all had some kind of virus and didn’t want to get sick from one another. The thing about standing in wait for your children for the five to eight minutes it took for the door to open is that none of us wanted to look at one another. We all pretend that the others don’t exist, phones out, ignoring the world around us but for the slightest visual or audible indication that our kids were coming and we could just get the hell out of there.

I had my phone clutched in my hand, but unlike everyone else, I wasn’t anxiously flipping through my Facebook. I stared at my feet, at the black winter boots that I was wearing, but didn’t really see them; my only focus was for the audio cues that would lead me to Gable. I didn’t want to be noticed, but I knew that everybody here knew me by face and name. They’d all heard from the rumors and talk that spread like wildfire six months ago, post funeral, knew me as the grieving widow left with a son. I’d never paid enough attention to any of the other parents here to know what they looked like; I couldn’t tell you who was a regular or who was a one-timer.

My fingers traced across the black, rubbery case on my phone that had the appellation “#bae” written across the back of it. My best friend, Candice, was very particular about the fact that I was “the bae” (I had no idea what it meant), and had hunted down a phone case for me on my last birthday that had my formally dubbed title scriptured on the back in Times New Roman. I chewed on my lip as I looked down at it now. Before, just looking at it made me smile when I thought of her, but now, it just felt… Empty.

“Excuse me, when do the kids come out?”

I almost didn’t look up at the words--who would’ve expected someone was talking to me?--but almost had this sort of itchy feeling that I had to acknowledge whoever had the modulated, sotto voice.  My eyes dragged up from my feet to the figure that had taken up residence two feet in front of me. It was a man, two heads taller than me, and I hated to admit that one of the first things I noticed--aside from the scar going down the right side of his lip to his chin--was that he was good-looking.

His hair was the color of honey, and it was long to his chest and straight to a point where most girls would’ve killed for hair even remotely similar. His skin was definitely beach-tanned, and he had bushy brown eyebrows that had a raggedy look to them that gave him a sort of edge along with that mysterious scar on his thin lips. Sultry violet eyes were heavy-lidded and looking down his flat nose at me, waiting for my response.

I was trying to figure out what kid he could possibly be waiting for, since I knew the children in Gable’s class better than their uptight parents, and happened to be struggling to keep my jaw from dropping open a little. He looked more to me like he belonged prowling for women at a bar than slinking around the hallway of an elementary school.

“Um,” I said hoarsely, looking down at my phone, and checked the time. “In like, five minutes.”

“Thank you,” said the man politely, and a very courtly smile came to his lips. “This is my first time coming here to pick up my son, so I’m clueless.”

“Oh.” My voice rose a little in surprise, and I cleared my throat, half-aware of some of the other parents scattered around us looking at me like I’d grown an extra head. I was talking in their presence for the first time, which must’ve seemed like some kind of strange anomaly all on its own. “Who’s your son?”

“Damien,” he said, gesturing to the classroom next to Gable’s, a classroom with kids I knew nothing about. The man turned back to me and adjusted his scarf. He was wearing a pea coat with some serious buttons over dark jeans and black boots, which I happened to glance at curiously. He was well-dressed for just coming to pick up his kid.

I nodded, but he smiled again, and didn’t make any move to walk away and leave me alone. “I must say,” he said, dulcet tone smoothing out the air around me. I questioned how it was possible to even have a voice like that and live in a place like THIS, where normal was akin to the typical boringness of a smaller town. “I feel as though I recognize you from somewhere.”

I didn’t want to bring up anything about the papers that had featured the intrusive articles about my loss. “I wouldn’t know from where,” I said, my own voice lacking any kind of emotion. I wanted to stop talking to him. I wanted to pull up my phone and pretend I had people to talk to, posts to overlook, statuses to share that could hopefully avert his uncomfortable interest.  But there was something almost stopping me.

“I’m certain I’d remember such a pretty face as yours,” said the man, and I snorted humorlessly. He shook his head and gave me an honest, doe eyed stare that looked like it belonged more to a labrador than to a man. “You have the porcelain complexion that one doesn’t just forget.”

“Sure.” Despite how charming he was trying to be, he flirtations were making me feel dead inside. Like somebody had taken out whatever emotion I had left in my guts and thrown it away, stomped on it, and tossed out my reasons for trying to peaceably exist. The attempts were making me sick to my stomach. I didn’t want anything to do with it. “Look, sir, I don’t really…”

“Oh, that’s right, I remember now!” The man snapped his fingers, and gave me a pitiful look. He’d remembered. “I’m truly sorry for your loss, although I am positive you’re sick of hearing that by now. It’s always such a drag to have people broach the subject.” He smiled sadly. “It’s only fair that I introduce myself after such an expression, where are my manners. You can call me Sage.” Before I had the chance react, still taken aback by the slap in the face, he reached over and swiftly took my hand in a gloved palm that radiated a chill more suited to the winter breeze than skin. I watched in surprise as Sage bent over and pressed his icy lips to the back of my hand, mouth lingering over the knuckle just above my wedding ring.

“I’m… I’m Sita,” I said after a hesitation, feeling even more sick. I’d been taken off guard by the quick progression of his words, and no less stung by even the mention of them, taking my hand back from his grasp hurriedly. I didn’t appreciate any of the gestures, nor did I welcome his near-mocking tone of the pain I was still in. I could hear my own ice slipping into my tone.  “Although it sounds like you already knew that.”

“Yes, I’m afraid so. Not to continue here, my dear, but your energy is just so dank with sorrow.” I stared at him. “It’s truly an awful thing, losing the one you love,” Sage said sagaciously, and brandished from his pocket a small, gleaming diamond charm in the shape of a heart, dangling from a chain. “I lost my wife many years ago. It was savagery. I was so upset for such a long time...but now I have this, to ease my pain. It helps quite a lot to numb such sharp feelings, you know? I bought it from an old woman who had a lot of magical items that were said to help the soul. Now that I think about it, it’s just so absolutely stunning that one small moment in time can give you a lifetime of suffering that you struggle to escape…”

“That’s--that’s enough of that.” I swallowed hard. I was starting to get a lump in my throat that rose up, bringing in its tow anxiety that would send me to a panic attack I wouldn’t be able to control. Suddenly, the company of this well-composed man was even less welcome than the no-welcome it had started off with. I couldn’t tell if he was flirting with me or mocking me; whatever he was doing, I could feel a sickness in my stomach that hardened when I looked at that diamond he was still holding up. The skylights in the ceiling were providing enough sunlight to gleam off of the brisk edges, flashing in my eyes as it spun.

I turned away from him sharply, my fingertips crawling across my stomach. I could feel the tiny little growth inside of me shifting. Not quite kicking, but...moving.

It would’ve been a beautiful moment if the eyes of a hawk weren’t honed in on my every movement. I leaned against the wall and did my best to give him the note that I didn’t welcome any more conversation.

Yet he didn’t take it. Sage’s face turned even more apologetic. “Yes, I’m sorry...the wounds are still fresh. How insensitive of me.” He put his hands into his pockets, and that actually seemed to calm me a little more, knowing that he wasn’t able to lash out his hands and touch me again.

I was purposely not looking at him to try and cut off whatever ties that he thought he was setting up here, pulling out my phone and pretending like I had a text to respond to. An uneasy chill crept up my spine. My baby had moved… I closed my eyes a little and stifled the whimper that tried to rise from my throat. She moved… Y...Yuki, she moved…

“Are you alright, Sita?” He was still here. Couldn’t he take a hint…?  Out of the corner of his eye, he reached out a hand from his pocket; I was trapped between him and the wall, with no real direction to run the way I wanted to. I couldn’t act upon the feeling that he was the predator, and I was the prey.

“Hey!” The new voice, a female one that snapped from the left where I faced, stopped Sage from moving. “Leave her alone. You’ve obviously warmed out your welcome.” I looked up to see a woman my age standing there, her narrow gray eyes honed in on Sage fearlessly, despite the fact that she was a much smaller and curvier woman to his tall physique. What stood out to me besides her boldness and clear heart-shaped face was her dual-shaded hair. The upper layer of her hair, pulled in a deep part on the side of her head, was pitch black, the color of a raven’s feathers. The lower half, however, was neon green. It was long enough to reach her ribcage and ironed into perfect waves; along with her subtle, cat-like eye makeup, she had a short nose and symmetrical, downturned lips. She was sticking out her jaw, as if to say in determination, Try me, buddy.

Sage ran his eyes over the woman and, almost with a flitting irritation in his eyes, bred a polite smile and took a step back. His hand fell to his pocket again. “I’m quite sorry to have intruded, Sita,” he said, turning back to me. “Forgive me. I hope we could still be...acquaintances.”

“How about you stop creepin’ and take your ass elsewhere to wait for your kid, Lameo?” The woman narrowed her eyes and reached out a hand from her phone, making a shooing motion. “You’re overdoing your stay. Leave her alone.”

Sage seemed to refrain from the anger I saw dance in just a small instant behind his eyes. He bowed slightly and retreated down the hall, disappearing around the corner toward the bathrooms. I hated to hope that he wasn’t leaving, and leaving his son here alone. Was his son expecting him? It would be awful if he stood here waiting and waiting, but Sage never came back for him…

“You okay?” The woman asked me, and I looked at her. Her eyebrows were pulled up.

“I’m...fine,” I said,  though I hardly felt it. My hand slowly slipped from my stomach and back into my pocket.

The woman nodded, thankfully not pressing. “I’ve never seen him here before,” she admitted, turning to look at the corner Sage had retreated behind suspiciously.

“You haven’t?”

“No. Never.” She turned back to me, nose wrinkled, and I felt a little worry in my stomach. “Fuckin’ weirdo. He was definitely pressing for attention.”

“No kidding…” The door to Gable’s classroom opened, and the first one to shoot out was a little boy with curly golden hair, holding onto a piece of paper he was flapping in the air. He beamed toward the woman that I’d been talking to.

“Mama!” He gasped excitedly and threw himself around her knees, pressing his cheeks to her jeans. He had big gray eyes that matched his mother’s. I knew I’d seen him before, but for the first time, I really registered his facial features.

“Hey,” the woman said, and the little boy ran to snatch his backpack and jacket from the hooks on the wall. “How was school, Bokuyo?”

“Fiiiiinne,” giggled the boy, putting his backpack at his feet so he could put on his fluffy green jacket. “Fiiiiiiiinee.” I turned to the door, waiting for Gable to come out with his folder, absentmindedly listening.

“Pfft. Where’d you learn THAT one?”

“Riiiieee! She was talkin’ to me about sur--sar...sarcasm at recess today!”

“Oh, just what you need.”

Gable stepped out of the classroom, holding his blue folder in his hands, and when we locked eyes, I gave him a smile. It may not have reached my eyes, but it was a smile nonetheless. “Hi, Gabe,” I said to him as he reached me, and I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry at his small lips, pursed thoughtfully, t-the way...the way that Yuki used to.  I reached down and took his folder carefully from his hands so he could get his backpack.

“Hi, Mommy,” he said quietly. He’d taken to being quiet when I picked him up, because...well...I hardly ever spoke much when I did. He had stopped chitchattering the way he used to. Realizing that I was taking from him his happy qualities sent a pang of sorrow through my chest. “Hi also,” he added, turning to my stomach and patting it. “I didn’t forget you.”

I smiled, touching his hair. Despite the strange encounter I’d had before he came out, I could feel like something had gotten clearer. There wasn’t a cloudy veil between me and the real world in front of me, that stopped my eyes from seeing; I could see a little clearer now, and...I didn’t know why. “How was school?”

“It was good.” Gabe pulled on his jacket one arm at a time. “We got to play outside again today. It was very fun.”

“It sounds like fun,” I said. “Did you wear your hat? Mittens?”

“Yes, Mommy. I always do.” He pulled his backpack on and adjusted it. “I don’t forget stuff.”

I couldn’t tell if that was a jive toward me or if it was just Gable being truthful. I chewed on my lip and raised my eyes to the swarming crowd of kids around us, subconsciously searching for a pair of lost or sad eyes that were seeking their missing father. To my surprise, there wasn’t a child that looked like it didn’t know where it was going. Did Damien know his father came for him…?

“Mommy, I’m ready.” I looked down at Gable. He was holding onto his backpack straps, waiting for me to take his hand and move him along.

I took his hand tightly in mine. “Okay, we’ll…” I paused for a moment, and made a snap decision. “We have to do something first. Come here.” I held tightly onto his hands and waded through the short crowd of children mingling around my waist, weeding through them toward the teacher who stood next to her classroom door. The one of the classroom next to Gabe’s. Maybe if I told her about Sage, just to let her know if Damien came up looking for his father, there had been a direction he’d gone.

The teacher looked up at me and smiled politely, arms folded in front of her. “Hi,” I said, wetting my lips. “There was a man here who was waiting for his son, Damien, and it looks sort of like the man left, actually, and I just wanted to tell you that so if Damien came up, that’s what happened…”

The teacher’s face turned down quizzically, and she looked around the sea of children packed into the hallway with a frown. “That would be fine, miss, but--there isn’t a Damien in my class.”