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Chapter 13
Morning came, blindingly bright. She was warm and cozy buried beneath heavy covers, but the room was frigid. The large window opposite was cracked open, and lines of frost snaked up the glass like kelp frozen mid sway in a dazzling blue ocean. She smelled bacon. And coffee. From the fold of the blanket beside her it looked like Lijah had joined her. If so, he hadn’t disturbed her coming or going.
She snuck downstairs and darted to the bathroom. She pulled off her mitts and ran her fingers through her hair. She changed her underwear. She ran her hands over the sink basin, the faucets. She kneaded the hand towel and traced the grout lines between tiles. She emptied everything from her bag and repacked it, noting the feel of each item. She stood, sheaths held in one hand, eating gloves in the other. And there she remained, undecided.
She heard Lijah cross the room and mount the steps, pause, then descend and return to the kitchen. Obviously, he’d figured out she was up and in the bathroom. A little while later she heard the table being set. Music came on, something jazzy and fast paced, but turned low and not too jarring. A glance at the monitor told her, Fats Waller, Honeysuckle Rose. She cracked up. Honeysuckle. That Lijah. She dropped gloves and sheaths into her bag, grasped the brass doorknob barehanded, and marveled at how cold it felt and again at how quickly heat transferred from hand to knob warming it. She headed for the kitchen.
Lijah, bare handed, passed her a large mug of coffee. “Milk, one sugar,…”
Taking it, Elsa danced away bobbling the mug in her hands, lunging for the counter.
“Careful. It’s hot,” he said, containing his laughter. “Try using the handle.”
“The old style mugs. I’d always thought handles an awkward aesthetic, but clearly, once-upon-a-time, they served a necessary function.”
“A reasonable supposition. Although back then, only a newborn’s hands would be as sensitive as yours are today. Gloved your whole life, all that experimental touching you did yesterday. They’re bound to be raw and hypersensitive. Here, reach out your hands. I should have thought of this sooner.”
Lijah pulled out a salve from beneath this sink and squeezed a huge dollop into his own hand. He spread the thick lotion across his palms then took her hands in his and rubbed thoroughly. The backs of her hands. The palms. Up, down and around her thumbs. Each and every finger.
“God that feels good.”
She reached for the tube and added another large dollop, way more than could ever be worked in fully, and nudged him to continue his ministrations. He obliged her. She released an exaggerated sigh and fluttered her eyelashes. Chuckling, he settled back against the counter, demonstrating his willingness to continue for as long as she wanted.
“You have more of this stuff?” she asked.
“At least a gallon.” He waggled his eyebrows.
Elsa broke his hands apart, stepped in close, and rejoined their hands firmly behind her. He leaned forward and nuzzled her neck, laughing, enjoying. Their hands kept busy behind her, twisting, and rubbing, the goo occasionally squelching and smacking. Nuzzles turned to nibbles and licks. She arched her back, giving him access. Ardor built, breath shallowed, hands stroked to frenzy. But then the quiet between songs, and a particularly loud squelch of lotion, doused heat with laughter. Hands stilled and catching their breath, they rested nose to nose, forehead to forehead.
“You made breakfast,” said Elsa.
“I did. Holding a fork may prove difficult.”
“We could glove.”
“I’d rather go hungry. We could eat with our hands.”
“What’s on the menu?”
Lijah eased back and pretended to consider the question seriously. “Bacon and toast, salty and rough on those tender digits, but easy enough. Scrambled eggs, though? Fruit salad? Challenging. Highly improper.”
Elsa didn’t immediately reject the idea. Lijah released her, feigning shock.
“I know, disgusting, isn’t it? Totally ridiculous. But now that you’ve suggested it, I have this crazy urge to know what scrambled eggs feel like between my fingers. Gross, right, but maybe not. Like the lotion. I don’t know what I expected, something monochromatic probably, but it wasn’t that at all. It was wonderful, and dynamic, you know, as it warmed and soaked in. Like the changing sky at sunset. And not just that. Your hair, for example. Wow. The sink in the bathroom. The doorknob. Even that paperclip, totally unexpected. You’d think something dull and neutral, turns out it’s as fractured as a kaleidoscope. Hand me a rag, would you?”
Lijah stared at her strangely. She couldn’t read his expression. Revulsion, maybe? Confusion? She went around him, popped a drawer open with her knee, and helped herself to a dishtowel. On her first visit to the cottage, once he’d passed out drunk, she’d had plenty of time to learn her way around his kitchen. She handed him a clean towel.
“Look, I know it’s weird, we don’t have to eat with our hands. I suggest we avoid knives though, lest we have a reenactment of your injury. Spoons should be safe enough, no matter how slippery.”
Lijah still stared; not at her, but where she’d been.
Right. She’d lost him again. “Look, while you sort your thoughts out, I’ll, um, go run naked through the forest.” She took up her coffee, by the handle this time, and left the kitchen. She toyed with the idea of actually leaving the cottage, or pretending to, but figured the joke would be lost on him, assuming he noticed in the first place. He was gone in his thoughts, who knew when he’d resurface.
“Elsa,” he called out to her. “Sit. I’ll have breakfast along in a minute.”
Wow, that was quick. She sat down, took a sip of juice, which left oily smears on the glass. Trying to wipe the marks away with her napkin, she promptly toppled the glass, spilling juice across the table. She grabbed for Lijah’s napkin, sending his silverware clattering to the floor.
Lijah’s head popped through the open doorway, scanning the room, then Elsa and then the empty glass. “More juice?”
She shook her head. He waited, then nodded, and disappeared back into the kitchen.
He’d noticed the empty glass, but not the spilled juice, she was sure of it.
A minute later he returned with a tray carrying eight single serving bowls, two each of eggs, toast, bacon, and fruit salad. “Forgive the presentation, but if we’re going to experiment, best to keep each item separate.”
Elsa eyed him narrowly, checking to see if he mocked her. Not at all. His look was hopeful, eager. God, this man. He would do this crazy thing for her, with her, make it okay, turn it into an experiment. She laughed out loud, moved plates and utensils aside, and arranged 4 bowls in a square at each of their place settings. She felt like a kid with a brand-new toy, and her best friend, perched across from her, eyes alight, just as excited.
“Which one first?” asked Lijah.
“The eggs. Gotta get it over with.”
“Wait, quick, before you try. Tell me first what you expect.” He pulled out a notebook and pencil.
“Seriously?” She laughed. “Um, well, okay. Warm, soft, squishy. Light, a tiny bit rubbery.”
“Anything else?” He waited. “A color, maybe?” He studiously did not look at her.
“Green,” said Elsa, and her heart sighed. She didn’t want to go into this with him. With anyone.
“Kelly green? Lime green? Evergreen?” He kept his voice neutral, objective, scientific.
“It’s just a quirk, Lijah. It doesn’t mean anything.”
He waited, pencil poised.
“Olive green, sort of, with some purple in it.”
“You mean like splotches, purple polka dots?”
“No. I don’t mean that at all. But look, Lijah, it doesn’t matter. There’s no rhyme or reason to it. Things have colors to me, not the color they are, the color everyone agrees on, but a personal color that only I can see. Ideas too, abstractions, numbers for instance. But there’s no logic or schema, like hard things are grey, soft things yellow. The colors, just, are. Drove my mother berserk when I was a child. I learned to shut up about it, and eventually to filter them out.”
“You’re a synesthete.”
“God, Lijah. Look at you. You’re totally horrified. It’s not terminal. I’m not contagious.”
“You’re a synesthete. You know you’re a synesthete. You’ve known all along that you’re a synesthete. And you’ve kept this vital piece of information, this defining trait from me all this time.”
Ah. Not horrified. Galled and appalled. She hadn’t told him. He hadn’t realized.
“Who says it defines me? And I haven’t kept it from you. Not actively. I’ve just learned there’s no benefit in drawing attention to something only I can see. And really, you’re in zero position to cast stones. I can’t even count the number of things you’ve gone to great lengths to keep secret from me.”
They glared at one another. Lijah relented first.
“I apologize. Again. For the secrets I’ve kept. And anew, for accusing you of the same.”
Elsa picked up a piece of bacon, registered its gritty rough yet slick texture, and pointed it at him. “You think my synesthesia is linked to my power.” She took a bite. “You think, understanding that link will unlock powers I’m unaware of possessing. Like being Crafter.”
He shrugged. “Worth a try.”
Elsa didn’t believe Lijah’s nonchalance for a second. He probably figured that if he showed conviction, she’d muster a counterargument. Which, she admitted, she probably would. He’d said last night she didn’t have to prove herself one way or another. Fine. His theories were none of her business.
Elsa scooped some eggs onto a piece of toast, cringing inside at the impropriety, and smooshed them down to help keep them in place. She took a big bite and grimaced.
“Cold?”
“Stone. And they taste like lotion. There’s nothing for it Lijah. I’m hungry. I’m getting my gloves.”
“Here,” said Lijah, getting up to go to the kitchen. “We’ll use disposable gloves. Don’t want to stain your regular ones.” He pulled a pair on too. “I’ll whip up some fresh eggs – give me four minutes.”
A minute went by.
“I love this side of you,” said Elsa, leaning against the open doorway, watching him in action. “The domestic man about the house ranks quite high on the list of prospective mates.”
He looked over his shoulder at her. Smiled.
He continued to surprise her, his ease with allusions to serious relationship. Despite the newness, despite years of carefully maintained professional distance and despite their families and myriad other complications. Maybe it shouldn’t surprise her; he was a man of conviction. Nevertheless. This conviction was about her, them, about their being a couple.
“The double life thing, however,” said Elsa. “That’s a serious demerit. Although, given what I now know, I wield a terrible power, don’t I? I could threaten and enslave you.”
“You already have.” He kept his eyes on the eggs in the skillet. “The double life thing – it’s manageable. You’ll get used to it.”
Already decided then, was it?
“In the end,” said Elsa, “I think it’ll come down to the scones. Whether they’re worth it.”
“Scones the lynchpin – duly noted.” The turn of phrase sounded like something Elsa would say, and they both knew it. Their connection felt as palpable as a tether and the tug of it had her quaking.
Thankfully, four minutes, the eggs were ready. Hands covered, they broke their fast with utensils, full plates, and another pot of coffee. By mutual, unstated agreement, they forwent experimentation and simply ate their meal. When finished, Elsa insisted on doing the clean-up, barring him from the kitchen and cranking the music. She had to pull on an overlayer of dish gloves, the flimsy disposable gloves she’d worn to eat proved inadequate against hot water. Dishes done she stripped her hands bare again and spent another few minutes with a dishrag, dish-washing liquid and a sudsy tub of lukewarm water which finally, finally managed to cut through the oily residue. No doubt by tomorrow her already pink fingers would be chapped and cracking.
She came back into the great room, airdrying her hands, feeling self-conscious. It was empty. Lijah had straightened the room of yesterday’s mess, including the covers on the daybed which he’d made to military precision. On top he’d lined up in a row the pile of used and discarded objects she failed to read the night before. Lijah entered the cottage through the front door, carrying a pile of kindling and logs, stomping snow from his boots, frigid air drafting behind him.
“The temperature’s dropped at least 30 degrees, the wind chill’s minus 20. As much as I’d like a bracing walk, I suggest we forego for today. We’ll start with yesterday’s experiment.”
While talking, he stripped himself of his outer garments including the three layers he’d had on his hands: workman’s leather mitts overtop, fleecy gloves, and beneath, thick undersheaths, conventional compared to the über-sensitive pair she’d glimpsed on her last visit. His cheeks were burnished red, his hair a boyish mess. His clothes soft, faded, and outdoorsy. She couldn’t figure when, exactly, her perception of Lijah had transformed from ivory tower academic to match the vital, happy and handsome man crouched by the hearth in front of her. She knew only that the transformation was complete. Or rather, not complete – part of his appeal lay in the prospect of hidden facets yet to be revealed – but whole, as in harmonious. Here wasn’t an aberration, the old Lijah dressed up in disguise. Rather the reverse. What she’d known before had been a snapshot, flat and one-sided; here was the man, fully fleshed out and solid.
Finished, he turned from the hearth, and caught her watching him. His eyes danced, happy to be the object of her scrutiny. She nodded at the couch and they settled, each with a leg up so as to face one another.
“We have only today, then it’s back to campus,” he said. “We should get to business.”
“Lijah. At some point, we’re going to have sex, aren’t we?” There had been multiple opportunities. And interest. She knew their desire was mutual.
Lijah’s smile grew from the inside out, raising his cheeks, crinkling his eyes, the joy in him, locked on her and beaming. She felt his look, first, like a wash of light, then a wave of heat, white hot and searing. When he looked at her like that…
“Yes,” he said, reaching over to touch her. “Absolutely.” A single point of contact, finger to hand, and the connection flared supernova. It was too much, near blinding, she had to look away.
“Absolutely,” he said again. “When the intimacy we’ve found isn’t quite so overwhelming. I’m finding… I’m finding that showing hands with you after all this time is a bit like vertigo. As much as I look forward to sexing each other incoherent, I also welcome the time to get our bearings.”
He was right, of course. Showing hands, even in this non-traditional, quasi-experimental way they were doing, it was far more exposing than naked bodies. And it transformed their relationship far more than merely crossing from platonic to sexual. This was why sex and commitment invariably came before showing hands, a sort of primer, which if completed successfully, provided the necessary foundation.
“You’ve done it before like this? Backwards?”
“No. Never.”
“But delaying the sex, it’s intentional?”
As usual, Lijah considered before answering. “Yes and no. Did I plot this course, step by step, plan it a priori? No. But the answer is yes insofar as I’ve been single minded in my focus. Sex, having an affair, it’s never been an endpoint of interest. I want to show hands with you, share in the discovery of your power. And. Don’t misunderstand. I absolutely want everything else that comes with it.”
While he spoke, she’d kept her gaze down, centered on where they touched. “Do you see it?” she asked.
She waited. He didn’t answer. A quick glance confirmed, he’d followed her gaze, and likewise had zeroed in on their fingers.
“Lijah? You see it? The colors? How you’re bleeding?”
Lijah didn’t move, but Elsa sensed, every fiber of his being had gone rigid. “No. I don’t. I can’t. Tell me. Tell me everything.” His tone implored her.
“It’s gone.” An instant before she pulled away, she felt his agony. “I’m sorry.” So sorry. He was devastated. She felt it. She felt it as Feeler.
Lijah withdrew in his seat and collapsed. He pushed the coffee table clear with his foot and sprawled his legs out in front of him. His head dropped to the sofa back, frustration audible in his exhalation. He scrubbed his face, and ran his fingers into his hair, pressed them white knuckled into his skull.
“I’m sorry,” said Elsa again. “I didn’t realize, I should have realized, that the colors I saw bleeding into my hand. I saw them as a synesthete. That only I would be able to see them.”
Lijah’s arms dropped to his sides. “Makes sense. A heretofore unknown phenomenon. I should have realized the moment I learned of your special relationship with color.” He took her hand without looking at her, gave it a squeeze. “There’s no fault here, leastways not yours. What’s that quote – ‘Each moment, the world washes it’s hands of you, starts all over again.’ My disappointment lay at the feet of cosmic indifference.” He shook his head, closed his eyes. “Give me a minute while I wallow in self-pity.”
Resting her head on the sofa back, she waited. All of a minute.
“If it’s any consolation, I’m not a very good synesthete.”
No reaction.
She ran her hand lightly over the seat cushion, which was greyish blue in color, and picked at the upholstery. If she allowed herself, she’d see rows and rows of muted colors.
“Hey,” she said after another minute. “The Lijah I know wouldn’t give up so easily.”
“Synesthesia can’t be taught.”
“No, I expect not. But what makes you think it can’t be read?”
Lijah rolled his eyes. Evidently, he deemed that a poor substitute.
“I’ve seen that quote,” said Elsa. “Stephen Graham Jones. Pinned up on the board over at American Studies. It goes on. ‘…the world washes its hands of you, starts all over again. Easy as that. Wonderful as that.’ We’re just guessing, Lij. We don’t know. Let’s see what happens?”
“After all these years, how could I not know about your synesthesia.” His tone was mildly accusatory.
“How could I not know that you like to bake?”
“That hardly compares…”
“No. You’re wrong. To me, my colors, are as inconsequential. You need to understand Lijah. Synesthetes – at least the kind that associate colors with letters, numbers, ideas, abstractions – they’re usually consistent, right. Fives are green, A’s are red, and so-on. As such the sensory experience conveys meaning; it can be used as a mnemonic or an aid to mental calculation. But mine are different. They’re inconsistent and highly specific. A five on a blackboard might be green, on paper red, and on a different piece of paper yellow.”
“You’re saying they’re random, meaningless.”
“No. Not meaningless. The color persists – the green five is always green – but it doesn’t carry over to other fives or even other fives on blackboards.”
“The color you perceive is representative,” said Lijah. “Defining, but can’t be generalized.”
“Yes, exactly. Ineffable but unique. And therefore inconsequential. They just are.”
Lijah grunted.
Elsa laughed. “I know that grunt. You think I’m wrong, but you don’t know why.”
“Yet,” said Lijah.
So typical, she couldn’t help laughing at him. Using her hands like a scale, “Is that hubris or obstinance? I can’t decide.”
“Wisdom. And quit your chortling.” He mimicked her gesture. “Synesthesia on one hand. Powers on the other. You possess an ability that you’ve decided to ignore. You have powers that you either fail to recognize or actively deny. It’s reasonable to conclude the two are linked although I concede that, as of this moment, the nature of the link eludes me. Your synesthesia could be a mediator or byproduct of your powers, neither or both. It’s an empiric question.”
He thought for a moment. “You can un-ignore your colors, correct? You can perceive them at will?”
Elsa was pleased. He’d moved on from wallowing to considering possibilities and formulating a plan. She knew he would. He always did. As much as he loved control, he adapted. What struck her now was how profound the adjustment and how quickly he achieved it. He’d been cut to the quick to learn that powers only bled in color to a synesthete, that he couldn’t share the experience. She’d read him as Feeler, all the emotions: pride, greed, envy, anger. She’d read the whole ugly cocktail of pain, fear, and resentment. She wasn’t reading him now, but she could see, he’d let it all go, in what, 10 minutes.
“Easy as that? Wonderful as that?” said Elsa.
He took her meaning. “I have enough years to have learned that there is tremendous freedom in surrender to the universe.” He shook his head, sighed heavily. “Learning, I should say, most days, if I’m lucky.”
“Yes,” she said. “To answer your question. I can see my colors if I pay attention.”
“Right,” he said, visibly refocusing his attention. “Good. Um. Okay. I have to ask. Is there any other inconsequential, potentially critically important aspect of yourself that I should know about you before we start?”
He was serious, staring at her intently. “Uh. I have to go to the bathroom?”
Lijah stood up abruptly and walked over to look out the window.
She stared at his back, wishing she’d been more sensitive. Of course, he wasn’t as serene about her synesthesia as he pretended. It was unexpected, out of his control, and, at least viscerally, outside his understanding. Powers. Showing hands. It was everything to him. He was trying so hard to figure her out, show her the possibilities, share in her self-discovery.
“Lij. That was flip. I’m sorry.”
He continued to stare out the window.
“You’re upset. It’s a lot to take in. Believe me, I get it.”
He waved a backward arm at her, as dismissive of whatever consolation she had to offer as he was impatient with the nuisance of her bodily requirements.
God, pouting, really? Her sympathy rapidly disintegrated into defensiveness.
“I’ve had a lot of coffee. Inconsequential in the grand scheme of things, I know, but still, kind of important.”
He growled at her.
“Did you just growl at me?”
“Elsa,” said Lijah over-quietly, “Would you just go. To the fucking. Bathroom.”
Elsa went, wanting to scream ‘Fine’ and slam the door. Only a desire to prove herself the mature one between them kept her from doing so. Because seriously, growling? Could he be more childish. She should’ve growled back. Served him right. He started it.