In Another Life

In another life, Raphael wouldn’t be doing this right now. He would be comfortably reclined on the sofa, sipping warm cider, the heat of the fire seeping through his boots. He would be reading his favorite author’s new release and munching on pumpkin pie bars, crumbles of streusel stuck to his chin. He would be strumming along to songs on the gramophone, his calloused hands dancing across the strings of his guitar, beloved melodies reverberating throughout the cabin and filling the emptiness that was only existent inside of his chest.

But no. He wasn’t doing any of that – he couldn’t. Because the pumpkin pie bars had to be made, the apple cider had to be cooked, and now it was up to him to do it.

Raphael moved about the kitchen in a tired frenzy, his well-worn boots leaving trails of withered leaves on the floor. If someone walked in, they would surely think a madman resided there. It seemed like he’d emptied out the contents of the entire kitchen and dumped it onto the poor table – everything from cans of pumpkin puree to clumsily stacked jars of cinnamon and allspice to spatulas and ceramic pots. It was all starting to blend together to him; he had no clue what to use. It was an odd sort of self-affliction he was bestowing upon himself. He knew there was a box of recipe cards, knew exactly where it was. He had absolutely no desire to get it. He would figure out how to make the blasted pie on his own accord if it meant he was to have a sleepless night. Well. He didn’t sleep much anyways.

There was a small pot on the stove with apples boiling to the brim. He poured in a few tablespoons of cinnamon and sugar before enclosing the cider-to-be with a lid. He realized it might not be enough for the whole family – nay, it most definitely wasn’t – but then he remembered he wasn’t having any. And certainly there’d be better drinks.

Cider had been his favorite autumnal drink, once upon a November.

Anyhow, it was complete now. Pretty much. He turned his attention to the mess on the table before him and began to part his way through the waters of bowls and flours. First the pie crust, then the filling, then the streusel topping. He banged his shin on the leg of a chair and hopped for a moment. Naturally. He mumbled a curse through gritted teeth and grabbed the bowl he’d been reaching for.

The table doubled as a dining spot and a countertop; he’d actually made it himself. All those years of a work-centered upbringing under his father’s carpentry business had eventually paid off when it came to this house. Actually he’d built everything around him, including the cabin itself, with his bare hands. He wished he could do all things like he could woodwork. He could build in his sleep, for crying out loud; he knew the craft so well. But cooking?

The crisp sound of liquid splatters caught Raphael’s ear, and he picked up his head from the pumpkin filling he was mixing to see the contents of his cider spilling onto the stove. Crap. Yes, indeed the lad could build in his sleep, but, bless his soul, he couldn’t cook with his eyes wide open.

He’d forgotten to lower the temperature; he was supposed to bring the boil down to a simmer. Crap, crap, crap. But there it had been, boiling up and up until it spilled over the edges. He lunged instinctively for the stove, forgetting everything else in a sudden panic. The bowl he held clattered to the ground, clumps of orange batter spraying like blood to every possible surface it could cling to. He turned off the stove, but that didn’t stop the intense beating of his heart. Or the bubbling. Shit. Come on. He ignored the new orange paint job and wrapped his hands with a rag to put the pot into the sink, ignoring the sharp heat that persevered through. He removed the lid, and when the liquid was done spitting at him he peered into the pot… and saw that it had turned from warm orange to scorched ebony.

Raphael gripped either edge of the sink and shut his eyes. Of course he’d burned the cider. Of course, of course, of course.

Now what the hell am I supposed to do?

Thanksgiving was in three days. He’d made the foolish mistake of thinking he could handle the task of hosting and cooking up a simple dessert and a drink. But no. He ruined the cider, and probably the pie, too. He’d wasted all that money buying what he needed, wasted all that time thinking he could do this without –

“Papa?”

Little Lucy Palmer was staring up at him with her eyes wide. She had appeared out of nowhere; he hadn’t heard her usual infantile waddles against the wood. She could have been watching him for a minute or thirty for all he knew. His heart sank further. She could have been crying in her room and he wouldn’t have noticed; she could have hurt herself, and he would be too damn deep in his own head that he wouldn’t have been there –

Raphael picked his head up just barely enough. He hated for her to see him like this. Sometimes he hated for her to see him at all. “Go back to your room, love,” he said quietly. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

His little daughter, a ripe three years and about as big as his thigh, padded up to him, her short curls bouncing against her rosy cheeks. She tiptoed nonchalantly around the splatters. “Whatcha doin’?” she asked, continuing to gaze up at him. She had his eyes, a deep, rich brown, but that was about it. Everything else was her mother’s. He couldn’t help smiling at her and her innocence. “Nothing much.”

“Ya make big mess, Papa.” Even her little voice was starting to sound like her mother’s, the vowels drawled out in that honey-like Southern way. He forced a chuckle. I make a mess out of everything, my love. If only you knew. “I was just about to clean it all up.”

“Are ya makin’ Mama’s pu-kin?” She couldn’t quite say all her syllables, but he prided himself in the fact that she knew very many words even if she couldn’t say them all right.

Raphael straightened. It was clear she had no intention of leaving him. “Well, I’m trying to,” he answered. Lucy bent down and dipped her finger into the remnants of the batter in the bowl. To his expectation and disappointment, she wrinkled up her button nose. “That don’ taste like it,” she declared, shaking her head. His shoulders sagged but he kept his half-formed smile on his face for her sake.

“I’m not as good as she was,” he murmured, somewhat to himself, “at… this stuff.”

Lucy undid her crinkled-up face and tugged on his pants. “Can I help ya, Papa?”

He took her groping hand in his, her tiny fingers scratching at his palm. “I can clean it all myself, love, that’s alright.” She shook her head again, much more vibrantly this time. “Naw, Papa, I wanna help cook!”

“Uh…” He didn’t know what to tell her. Before she came along he’d been all ready to up and quit. As he crouched down to her level and looked into her defiant eyes, he decided on the naked truth, for two reasons: because he never could find it in himself to lie to her, and because he didn’t know what else he would even say.

“I don’t really know how to make any of it, and I don’t know if there’s anything left to salvage from –” He gestured to the scene around him. “ – all this.”

Lucy trotted around to the other side of the table and peered over the top. She pushed the bowl of pie dough over to where she could reach and picked it up. “Lucy –” Raphael caught her as she toppled over with the bowl, too heavy for her to carry on her own. She clutched the bowl to her stomach and snuggled back into her father’s arms. His heart was beating out of his chest. “Good catch, Papa!” she exclaimed, giggling like a madwoman.

Good… catch…

He shook his head and plopped his daughter back onto the safe ground. “Don’t do that, Lucy,” he snapped. “You could have – broken the bowl.”

“I jus’ wan’ to see it,” she said, frowning. God, she even frowned just like her. “There’s nothing to see. I can’t use any of this,” he said back. And now I’m arguing with my toddler.

“Hmph,” she retorted, and then suddenly she shot up and ran out of the room.

“Lucy!”

Raphael shouted after her, willing for her to stop running, for he, even at his young twenty-four years, couldn’t keep up with her nimble scampers. Another thing to thank the damned war for. “Lucy, come on,” he panted as she zipped up the stairs. He didn’t even know where she could be going; everything in their house was on the first floor, nothing upstairs except for –

No.

Lucy had disappeared from his line of sight. “Lucy, you know you’re not allowed in…”

His voice trailed off as he entered the very area in question.

“...here…”

The attic was dark and blanketed in dust, as most attics are. The only source of light was a rickety lamp at the entryway. It didn’t work very well at all, flickering like a fading heart; but in all the darkness it was somehow enough.

“Lucy?” Raphael’s voice was suddenly very small. Very tentatively, he began to make his way across the floor. He wished the planks would creak beneath his feet, or the shutters outside would clang against the walls – anything to give reason to the thumping of his heart.

He hated himself for building an attic. He didn’t even know why he had in the first place – they didn’t need it at all. He supposed he had thought it would be good for storage, or…

Raphael gulped down the nausea in his throat. Please, Lucy, just come out…

…Or perhaps another bedroom, for a second child. And a third. Maybe even a fourth.

Now it was used for storage, all right. Things he never wanted to hide away.

Most everything up here belonged to her. Or… it had.

There was one trunk of her clothes; he had all the pieces memorized, the things she had said to him in those dresses, the fact that her wedding dress was on the very bottom. Another full of random trinkets: necklaces he’d given her, flower crowns she’d weaved, old books and handheld mirrors and tins of lip stain. There were some things up here that belonged to him, though: stacks of Steinbeck and Dickens, old pairs of boots, pieces of furniture he had no use for… His old friend Guitar, sitting lonely against the furthest wall.

And next to that was the final trunk. It was the most sacred thing of all up there, for it held the very thoughts of his deceased wife.

His beloved Louisa.

All their letters to each other. The diaries she kept. Notes they’d slipped. Drawings she’d sketched, some of him. And… photos. Lots and lots of photos.

One lying on top of the amassed items that caught his eye. He inched closer towards it, forgetting Lucy as he knelt to the ground.

He remembered it immediately. They had been walking around a park one spring morning when a street photographer had gone up to them, saying they were a beautiful couple and could he take a few photographs? Louisa had poked fun at Raphael’s profuse blushing and answered with an enthusiastic yes. The photographer got them to do a number of different poses, and he remembered the feeling of each one of them – her head on his chest, his hands on her stomach, his arm across her shoulders… In this particular photo, they were angled slightly, almost hugging. Raphael was looking straight at the camera, visibly biting back laughter because Louisa claimed he wasn’t smiling big enough, so she brought it upon herself to tell jokes until he cracked a grin. He couldn’t remember what she had said that finally got him. He brought the photo closer to his eyes. Her hand was on his chest, and she was looking up at him, beaming like the sun. Her hazel eyes were full of so much love.

Love for… him.

The photo smeared in his vision. He wasn’t in the attic anymore; he was at the park, he was there –

CLICK goes the camera and Louisa laughs, so he lets out his laughter, too. “Kiss his cheek, now,” the photographer says, so she leans up and holds her lips on his face, and he can feel it, her love –

SPLAT go his tears on the photo, SPLAT SPLAT SPLAT, he’s not there, he’s –

– here, twirling his beloved around on the dance floor, her veil soaring as she spins, her smile like sparkles of the morning sun. “Pick me up, Rapha,” she commands him, so he does. He lifts her off the floor and gives her a twirl in the air, and as she throws her arms back with a chime of laughter the camera goes CLICK and his tears go –

– SPLAT SPLAT SPLAT on the wedding photo, SPLAT on every photo he sifts through because he can feel all of her and he shouldn’t be there, he shouldn’t be here he should be –

By the fire that roars stronger than a summer rain.

Strumming his good friend Guitar.

Reading The Grapes of Wrath.

And Louisa…

…brings him a cup of cider and plants a soft kiss on his jaw, laughing at her husband’s boyish blush as she brushes the crumbs away from his lips. Crumbs from the pumpkin pie bars she’d spent hours pouring her heart into, the result tasting like her sweet cinnamon love. He feels her tuck her chin against the curve of his neck, and the soft hoarseness of her falling curls as she wraps her arms around his chest. They have a curious habit of reading quietly in sync together, like their minds are wholly connected, too. After a while, she lowers herself down against his chair and lays her head on his knee almost like a child, and listens ardently as he gets lost in song. The chords leak the secrets of their hearts to each other, and they are silent in song, together in paradise right where they are.

But he’s not there, he’s –

Here.

He’s here.

She’s not.

“Papa?”

His eyes were clamped shut, as if that would stop the downpour of emotion. His cheeks were sopping wet from his tears, tears that wouldn’t stop coming.

Louisa had insisted on enlisting as a nurse alongside him, so she could be there in case anything happened to him. He was the soldier; he was the one who was supposed to be dead.

But he couldn’t even catch her as she collapsed to the ground.

In another life…

In another life, I wouldn’t have lost her.

All of a sudden he felt something different under his eye. Then his other eye.

His little daughter was trying to wipe away her father’s sadness. He was too desperate for comfort to turn his face away; her pudgy fingers felt so good and warm on his skin. Lucy kept patting his cheeks until her hands were wet, too, and then she wiped her palms dry on her skirt. “There,” she chirped, flexing her dimples in her smile of triumph, “all gone!”

All gone. All…

Raphael choked on a sound that was half a laugh, half a sob, as he swept his beloved up in his arms and hugged her fiercely. She buried her little head in his shoulder and pretended not to notice the shake of his chest from his silent tears.

He… he still had his little girl. Their little girl. His heart grew swollen.

“Oh, my Lucy,” he whispered against those familiar curls, “what would I do without you?”

Lucy wriggled out of his grasp and darted away before he could blink. He sat up and stared at the pile of photos around him. He picked up one of the three of them: he was holding Lucy and Louisa was hugging him, and they were all laughing this time, holding back nothing. The date scribbled on the corner was November 4, 1939. Their last November.

Lucy trotted back up to him, something enclosed in her hand. She held it up to him. “We still ‘ave this, Papa,” she said. He took it from her and inhaled sharply. It was the recipe card for Louisa’s pumpkin pie bars.

Filling:

1 cup brown sugar

1 can pumpkin puree

2 eggs

cinnamon/nutmeg to taste

Crust:

2 cups flour

1 stick butter

3 tbsp water

½ tsp salt

Streusel:

½ cup flour

⅓ cup brown sugar

½ stick butter

-Dump and mix!

-Bake ‘til golden

-Rapha extra sugar on top

He breathed out, but his hands still shook. Ha. I do like sugar on top.

The paper was brown and creased, the loopy ink smudged and faded. But all intact. And perhaps he was only hoping, but he could swear it felt warm, too.

Raphael looked back at his daughter. His little one. She stood before him, still with hope.

She’s still here.

He glanced behind him at the trunk. At Louisa beaming at him in the photo.

So is she. How she loved him so.

So am I.

I’m here.

He took Lucy’s hand and rose to his feet. She teetered back and forth merrily. “We gon’ cook, Papa?”

He returned her smile.

“Yes, my love,” he answered. “We’re going to cook.”