Page 117 of Fated

In the real world, Mila and I take evening trips to the beach, splashing in the cold lake water and eating picnic baskets full of tart red grapes, sweet nectarines, and pungent summer cheeses spread on crispy baguettes. Daniel joins us on weekends, diving deep in the water with Mila or joining us on long, rambling bike rides through the countryside. In the last two weeks we fit in a full summer of memories.

Max joins us for a train trip winding along the lake, where we hop off at a lakeside village and climb the slope to a cobblestone-studded town. There’s a tiny vineyard planted by monks hundreds of years ago where we drink sweet young wine and grape juice and gorge ourselves on cheese and olives. In Paris Max holds my hand at an outdoor symphony. In Gruyères we play tourists. At Chamonix we soar to untold heights in cable cars and then stand at the pinnacle of the world, and my chest expands at the wide blue ocean of the glacier fields and valleys below.

In Geneva, at August’s close, Mila will start school. Cool winds will blow down the mountains and spread autumn colors across the valley. Our halcyon days will come to an end. School, work, busyness, all leading to the tumbling of leaves from the trees, the cold edge of winter, and then our Christmas Eve Gala.

But even before autumn and winter have arrived, there’s an ending. And a small voice inside me, the one that tells me the truths—in my dreams, if not in life—whispers that everything is coming to a close.

That whisper has been there since I said the words “I love you.”

It’s as if the moment I uttered them, the watch I grip in my hand during sleep has been ticking down. It’s that mechanical movement where the second hand slows, slows, then finally shudders to a stop.

I feel it.

So I dive into my dreams. I cling to them.

Whether it’s my subconscious or the watch, every night that I return I land back in the moment with Aaron. I wake in the morning and I leave when I fall exhausted into bed, curled into Aaron’s side.

So I’ve had two weeks of summer bliss.

I glance over at Aaron now. His hand is tangled in mine, his thumb stroking over my skin. He smiles at me, the corner of his mouth lifting. The breeze rustles his hair and the shouts and laughter of our neighbors bounces around the back garden at Sue’s.

“Do you think she likes it?” I ask him, nodding toward Junie.

“Yes,” Aaron says, his brown eyes warm. His look makes a flush rise over my cheeks. “I think so.”

He smiles at the pink rushing over my face. Junie and Jordi are exclaiming over the crib we built them. We threw a surprise baby shower. There are dozens of people here, everyone bringing baby clothes, cloth nappies and pins, bottles and bibs. Amy even made the baby a book of poems, handwritten and illustrated, with a poem for every letter of the alphabet. I wish I could take it with me back to Geneva. I’d share it with Mila and then with anyone else who asked.

“This is how you make a crib,” Junie says pointedly, rubbing her hand over the smooth white slats.

“Babe,” Jordi says, sensing the tears lurking at the corners of her eyes.

“And look at the yellow onesie. Look at the sun hat.”

“Babe, it’s all right.”

“Maranda gave me a rocker.” Junie’s voice wobbles and she wipes the back of her hand across her cheeks.

Jordi shifts uncomfortably, twisting his hands. “Aww, babe, don’t cry.”

Junie hiccups, scowls at her husband, then punches him in the arm. “Don’t tell me not to cry! My ankles are swollen. My back hurts. It’s hot and I’m the size of a hippopotamus. I have a rocker now. I have a crib! I can cry if I want.”

Jordi looks around the back garden, frantically searching for help. No one is paying enough attention to give him any.

Pink and blue bunting hangs from the eaves and crisscrosses between the branches of the flowering trees. The late-afternoon sun slants low enough that shadows fall across the garden. There are grills glowing bright with coal, with fish charring and strips of mango blackening. There are long wooden tables full of crab dips, mango salsas, spicy pepper and olive tapenades, grilled sweet potatoes, and rum cakes and coconut pies.

Above it all, the Beach Boys (Jordi’s favorite band) play on the old speakers, sending out sun-bright music.

Maranda, Dee and Essie camp out at a table, eating pie and arguing about how they’ll set up their basket business. Amy dances with Sean under the white pom-pom flowers of a shade tree. Robert, Aldon, and Chris man the grills. Odie plays solitaire while eating a massive piece of coconut pie. There’s more. Kids running after the chickens. The rooster and his hens somehow knew there’d be a party today. Families I recognize from the anniversary party and the search for Amy, new faces too. Sue’s back garden is full, and none of them are going to help Jordi.

Junie wipes at her face, tears tracking down her cheeks.

When Jordi sees no one is paying him and Junie any mind, he sighs and says, “Babe. If you’re gonna cry, do it right here.” Then he holds open his arms.

Junie gives a little hiccup and then buries herself against Jordi. He folds his arms around her and rubs her back.

“It’s a crib!”

“I know, babe.”

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