Seventh Heaven Page 3

  If she could go back to those few precious days, she would. But she couldn’t. Nor could she bring James back to her with happy memories of those few days--as full as a lifetime together, and gone in a split second.

  The past two weeks--with no word from him--have been an eternity, and made her wonder whether she imagined their closeness. Imagined he knew her thoughts before she could speak them. Maybe what had been heaven to her, had to him been just a weekend of madness before he shipped out. Maybe he wrote to her because he had no one else. Maybe she’d wanted him so badly, she only imagined he loved her too. After all, he’d never said so. Not once. Maybe she’d let herself get carried away on a river of imagined dreams.

  Val tromped downstairs and pulled on her woolen pea coat. “Sure you don’t want to come out? Just for a little while?”

  “No thanks. I want to be here. Just in case.” Just in case--what? In case he decided to drop in? He should have been here already. If he’d wanted to see her, he’d have been here by now.

  “No word yet?”

  Tears stung at Lilah’s eyes. “Not yet. But he’ll let me know when he gets in.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Lilah’s teeth clenched. “Yes, he has to.”

  Val laid a hand on her shoulder. “I meant, are you sure you don’t want to come along?”

  Tension flowed away in embarrassment. “Sorry. No.”

  “Can I bring you back anything? A burger? Some soup? Maybe a margarita?”

  Lilah hadn’t had a margarita in seven months. The tequila warmed her at first, then made her heart chill with fear. And ache with loneliness. “Go on, have fun.”

  The door clanged shut. Lilah ran upstairs and put on the tea kettle. When the whistle sounded, she ran up again to make a cup of tea. The chamomile tasted sweet on her tongue and the steam from the mug warmed her face. She wished she could just go to bed, and sleep. Without dreaming. Waking was too harsh after dreaming.

  Downstairs, the door clanged, and then something rattled across the threshold as if a delivery had arrived. She didn’t remember ordering anything, but maybe Val had and forgot to tell her.

  “Just a sec, I’m on my way.” She’d sign for it and close up for the night.

  At the bottom stair, she rounded the corner into the shop, reached to set her cup on the counter but missed the edge when she saw James. Glass shattered across the wooden floor, the hot liquid splattering.

  In his wheelchair, he shifted one leg to avoid the splash, grasped the large metal wheel and pushed himself back.

  “Oh my God.” Her breath stopped. Her muscles were suspended. Her mind grappled with what she saw. His letters didn’t say anything about being wounded. But, of course--why else would they send him home?

  “Good to see you, too.” Bitterness and anger edged his voice. He set his jaw hard. His face was scruffy and unshaved, his hair cropped close to his head.

  “I’m so sorry.” She grabbed the brush and dustpan from behind the counter. When she crouched to sweep the bits of glass, she gasped.

  His left leg had no shoe beneath it. His jeans indented below the knee, with nothing inside to fill it.

  “I didn’t know…”

  His eyes narrowed. He stiffened, waiting for her to finish.

  She made her voice light and brushed shards into the pan. “I didn’t know you were coming today.”

  “I didn’t get a chance to tell you. They kept me in the hospital longer than I expected, and I…” His voice cracked. He frowned, and pressed his lips together.

  Her knees touched the floor and hot tea soaked through her jeans, but it barely registered in her mind. She looked over this new James--a diminished version of the man she loved, hardened and shielded by a tough outer shell. Still, beneath his scowl, she glimpsed the James she knew--the whole man, warm and alive. He was alive, and after seven long months, he looked like a miracle sitting there.

  She let out a sharp breath. “You’re here.”

  His face softened and his eyes flashed with warmth, but then he furrowed his brow and stared at the floor.

  “Mostly.” His voice sounded brittle. “So much for your lucky charm.” The leather string hangs around his neck, the ankh tucked beneath his corduroy shirt. He still wore it.

  “It brought good luck, if it brought you home.”

  His laugh was bitter. “Luck? I’m missing part of my leg. And most of my mind.”

  She clutched the cold metal arm of his chair. “But you’re home. You’re here. With me.” She wanted to touch his leg, but imagined him flinching.

  His eyes looked like glass. His mouth curved downward like an old man’s. “Home? I don’t have a home any more.”

  In one of his letters, about two months ago, he’d mentioned his younger brother had packed up the few belongings in his apartment so the landlord could rent it again.

  She couldn’t let him slip away from her.

  Her tone was decisive. “You’ll stay with me.”

  His face screwed up with pain. “No.”

  Dread made her hesitate. He wouldn’t be able to navigate the stairs in a wheelchair.

  “Yes. The store room downstairs is filled with junk. I’ll move it out. You’re staying here. With me.” Her surety unlocked her body from suspended animation. She stood, but felt too tall next to him.

  He mumbled to his lap, “Maybe till I can find another place. I can pay you back.”

  “No. You don’t need to pay me.” She pushed her hands into her pockets because she didn’t know how to fill her arms with him.

  Anger rose in his voice. “I’ll pay you back.”

  “Okay. When you’re…” she stopped herself from saying on your feet again. “When you’re better.”

  He swiped a tear from his cheek. “Better?”

  She crouched next to him, and wanted to lay her hand on his arm. Fear held her back. “Yes. You are going to get better.”

  “What, I’m going to grow my leg back?” His eyes widened with anger, but also fear.

  “No. But you’ll learn to manage. You’ll get your life back.” She kept her voice steady and sure, though she wasn’t sure of anything.

  His nostrils flared. “I will never have my life back.”

  She couldn’t know the horrors he’d lived these past few months, but knew she must be strong for him. “Then a new life, just as good.”

  “Man. You’re just full of sunshine and rainbows, huh?”

  Standing, she stepped back to give him some distance. “I’m saying you can feel sorry for yourself and let what happened control you for the rest of your life, or you can control it, and make things work for you.” She was willing to be his crutch--metaphorically and literally--but if he didn’t feel like he was building a new life, he’d have no respect for himself. “It’s all up to you.”

  He seemed very small, sitting in his wheelchair. “If it were up to me, I wouldn’t have watched my best friend get blown up.”

  She felt him reaching through his pain for something to hold on to. When he was ready to reach for her, she’d be waiting.

  “No, you can’t change that. But you can live--like he would want you to live.”

  He pivoted the wheelchair toward her as if taking aim. “Is this your good deed for the week? Does it make you feel better to help a pity case like me?”

  She walked behind the counter, moved the stool aside. “You’re the only one who thinks you’re a pity case.”

  “Then why do you want to help me?” He gripped the wheels, watching her.

  She adjusted the necklace tree an inch to the right, and swept a swatch of paper into her hand. “You know why.”

  He raised both hands, then set them squarely against the arms of the wheelchair. “I have no idea why.”

  “How can you say that?” She couldn’t let him deny what they’d shared. Even if he couldn’t admit it, their love was more real and alive in those few days than most people had all their lives.

  Before he shipped out, the days had
melded together, as her body had melded to his. That first night together had stretched into days, and he didn’t leave her side until he left for Vietnam.

  He glared at her, his mouth a jagged line.

  She exhaled, her eyes fix on the peace symbol wind chimes. “Wow, you don’t make it easy, do you?”

  A teenaged boy opened the door.

  Her hands shoo’d him back out. “I’m sorry, we’re closed now. Can you please go?” The boy looked at her, mouth agape, then glanced at James and nodded.

  “Thank you. Come again.” She walked behind James, turned the sign to Closed and locked the door.

  He spun the chair toward her. “What are you doing?”

  She’d locked him in, she realized. The last thing she wanted was for him to feel trapped. She reached to unlock it again, then stopped. If he wasn’t going to say it, then he was going to listen to her, at least once.

  She whirled to face him. “I love you. There. Are you happy now?”

  James sat straight, eyes wide but as dark and cold as newly mined coal.

  She twisted each piece of pottery on the window shelf to line up evenly. “Oh, I know. It kills you to say it. That’s your biggest problem. You can’t admit that you love me.” She grabbed a tissue from the counter and blew her nose.

  “I…”

  She blew again, so hard her nose honked. She’d be damned if he’d goad her into saying it again. Or into letting him make excuses.

  His voice was low but even. “Lilah.”

  She threw the tissue at the trash can. “What?” She folded her arms.

  “I love you.” He spoke in a low, but rough voice.

  She flicked her hair behind her shoulder and swallows. “So do you want some painkillers or something? I know how hard that was for you.” She grabbed another tissue.

  “I’m telling you--I love you.” He wheeled closer. “I love you.”

  Her fingers grasped the edge of the counter top. “Do you mean that?”

  He blew out a breath. “No, I’m just saying that so you’ll let me stay in your crappy storeroom.” What might have been the beginning of a smile faded.

  She shifted her feet, and hugged her arms across her chest. “You know, my room’s big enough for two.”

  He pushed the chair in her direction. “I’d need to look again, to make sure.”

  “Okay.” She walked to the stairway. “It’s kind of messy right now.”

  He glided behind her. “I’ll take that into consideration.”

  “Good.” She waited while he stood and unstrapped crutches from the back of the chair. He lurched toward her, then held one out to her. “Here, can you carry this one?”

  She touched the wheelchair’s handles. “Should I bring this, too?”

  “No, it’s too heavy. And I need to start using these.”

  The crutch felt awkward in her hand. “You go first.”

  Grasping the rail, he negotiated one step, then another. His nostrils flared with labored breath. He was steadfast in his effort, tackling one stair after another with dogged determination. The climb to the apartment left him bent over, chest heaving, steadying himself with the crutch.

  She wanted to clap and cheer, but knew if she made a fuss over a normal activity, it would diminish it to an embarrassment, not an achievement. She wanted him to feel as normal as possible.

  “I’ll leave this here, for when you catch your breath.” She leaned the other crutch against the wall. “Want a drink or anything?”

  Still bent, he nodded.

  “Water? Milk? Beer?” In two steps, she was in the kitchen.

  He lifted a hand from his leg.

  “All right, then. Beer it is. If we have any.” She opened the fridge. “Ah, yes! I don’t know if you like what Val drinks. I’m not much of a beer drinker, so I couldn’t tell one from the other.”

  The gadget drawer opened with a clank, and she rummaged around for the bottle opener. “I know it’s in here somewhere--yes!” She held it up victoriously.

  James adjusted the crutches under his arms and shuffled toward her. She popped the top off the bottle and held it out.

  “Thanks.” He tipped the bottle up.

  “Anytime. Like I said, it’s not my beer.” She fidgeted with the bottle opener, then laid it down.

  He steadied himself against the counter. “No, I mean…thanks. For everything.”

  She shrugged, and slid an arm carefully around his neck. “I have selfish motives.”

  He set the bottle down. “Yeah. Thanks for that, too.” He pulled her close. She gripped the edge of the counter so neither would lose their balance, but then relaxed into him.

  He was leaner, harder than before. She was acutely aware of the absence of his leg. His hands traveled up and down her back, to the top of her thigh. She leaned into him, then back. “Should we maybe take this in the other room?”

  His eyes crinkled. “All right.”

  “I’ll carry your beer.” She strolled past Val’s room and the bathroom to her bedroom. He stopped mid-living room, his face alight. “I thought you meant…”

  “Oh. Did you want to watch TV instead? I think Get Smart is on.” She circled in front of the sofa and waited. Maybe she was moving too fast, rushing him. Assuming too much.

  He pumped his crutches past her. “No. No, the bedroom is fine. Better, in fact.”

  He navigated through her bedroom door.

  She followed, her nerves tightening. She hadn’t considered the extent of his injuries. Maybe he wasn’t ready for this.

  Maybe she wasn’t ready for this. “Don’t get your hopes up. I’m a little rusty. It’s been seven months, after all.”

  She wanted him to know: no one else had been in her bed since that weekend. None of her letters had said I’ll wait for you. He might have laughed at such a corny sentiment. Not that she hadn’t had offers. She hadn’t been interested. All she could think of was James.

  With one hop, he was beside her bed and sat down. He leaned his crutches between the bed and the nightstand. “I’ll help you remember.”

  “I was hoping.” She shut the door and turned the lock.

  She hadn’t forgotten. Every night, she’d re-lived that weekend, imagined his smooth skin pressing against hers, his long fingers caressing her.

  He sat very still, watching her. His chest rose and fell, rose and fell.

  She attempted a smile, but wasn’t sure it was working.

  His gaze was locked on her. “This is a little weird, huh.”

  She walked to the night table, set the bottle on it. She stood before him and inhales deeply, running her fingers through his short, prickly hair, as prickly as he’d been earlier. It would grow back, even as James grew into his new self. “No, not weird. I’m so glad you’re home.”

  He looked up at her, his eyes bright and warm.

  She leaned toward him. “Can I get you anything?”

  “Just you.” His fingers slid along her jaw.

  She gently pressed his shoulders back onto the bed, careful not to nudge his leg with her knee.

  “Wait.” He grunted and moved a book from beneath his head.

  “Sorry. I told you it’s a mess.” She grabbed the book but he held tight.

  “What are you reading?” He flipped through it. “Langston Hughes? Poetry?”

  “Yeah, poetry. Don’t make fun.” She leaned on her elbow and kissed his ear. She’d forgotten how much she loved his ear, and every other part of him.

  He read: “Open wide your arms to life / Whirl in the wind of pain and strife / Face the wall with the dark closed gate / Beat with bare, brown fists / And wait.” He closed the book. “I like it.”

  She took it from him, and flipped through the pages. “I like this one better: Hold fast to dreams / For if dreams die / Life is a broken-winged bird / That cannot fly.”

  “A broken-winged bird.” He sighed, staring at the ceiling.

  She laid the book at the foot of the bed. “That cannot fly.”

&
nbsp; His gaze pierced her to the core. He whispered, “I want to fly again.”

  In her mind, she saw him on his motorcycle, the wind rippling his T-shirt. She cupped her palm against his stubbled cheek. “You will.” She kissed him. “You will.” She believed this with every fiber of her being.

  He closed his eyes. A tear escaped. “I was afraid you wouldn’t want me…like this.”

  He opened his eyes as she took hold of his head and turned him to face her. “Nothing could ever change the way I feel about you. Nothing.”

  He pushed himself toward her, and held her so tight she thought she would bruise. His leg straddled her. He grunted as he tried to move on top of her. His amputated leg gave out and he fell back with a startled cry. “Dammit.”

  She clutched his shirt. “Are you all right? Are you hurt?”

  He glared at the ceiling, eyes hard against his tears. “I can’t even be a man.”

  She sat up. “James. You are a man.”

  “Stop. What’s the use?” He rested an arm across his eyes.

  “You are.” She slid her hand into his. As she moved his arm away from his face, she straddled him. “We’re just going to have to figure out what works for us.”

  His eyes searched her face. “Lilah?”

  She unbuttoned his shirt and ran her hands across his chest. “We’ll take it slow.”

  His fingers worked the buttons of her shirt from the bottom up, and slid it off her shoulders. “We can take it as slow as you want it.”

  She reached behind her back to undo her bra, and tossed it away.

  Leaning her chest against his, she touched the ankh on his choker. “Still don’t believe in lucky charms?”

  “No.” He caressed her cheek. “I believe your love is the only luck I need.”

  She smiled and kissed him.

  James was home. Finally.

  ###

  About the Author

  Cate Masters has made beautiful central Pennsylvania her home, but will always be a Jersey girl at heart. A lover of all great writing, she aspires to entertain and enthrall with her own stories. Most days, she can be found in her lair, concocting a magical brew of fantasy/paranormal, contemporary and historical stories with her cat, Chairman Maiow, and dog Lily as company. Look for her at http://catemasters.blogspot.com, Facebook, Goodreads, and in strange nooks and far-flung corners of the web.