long ago. The rocking chair was currently occupied.
A heavy layer of dust caked the neglected windows and
muted the bright morning sun. There was just enough light for
Steph to see a girl clutching a teddy bear perched on the rocker.
Her eyes never left the ponytail as she slowly circled the chair, recognizing Jonquil in her signature violet dress and patent
leather Mary Jane’s. She was almost in full view of the child’s
face when the sound of a camera shutter clattering caused her to whirl in the direction of the broken mirror in the corner. Her
mother smiled at her as she advanced the film.
Steph rolled her eyes. “For the love of god, Ma. Time to go
digital already!”
Her mom simply continued to smile in her tolerant way and
walked right past Steph. She was so vivid and real, Steph had to suppress the urge to reach out and touch her. When she turned to look after her, she saw her old tea set spread out on the floor.
172
RAGE
Stephanie’s mom started singing a lullaby she’d often sung to
Steph. It was actually “Dreams,” a Fleetwood Mac song, but as
with most experiences in Steph’s childhood, her parents danced
to the beat of a different drum. Steph broke out in gooseflesh as she watched the little blonde girl sway back and forth to the melody of the song as she and Steph’s mom and the teddy bear had a
little tea party in the spot where she and Phillip had first been intimate.
In the part of her mind that knew she was dreaming, Steph
was freaking out at the horror-movie-like quality of it all. An
avid Stephen King reader, she was scared shitless.
Jesus. Mary, and Joseph! If I see a balloon or a clown, I’m
outa here!
And yet Steph found herself joining them, crossing her legs Indian style. She realized she was wearing her red cowboy boots.
They were in pristine condition, like they were when she wan-
dered around Greenwich Village breaking them in back in col-
lege.
Is this heaven?
Jonquil turned to her and handed her a sugar cube, a very
Phillip-esque frown marring her youthful face.
“Dada?” Her big blue-green eyes were full of concern, and
Steph blinked at her in surprise.
Her mother stopped humming and turned to her as she
raised her pinky while miming taking a drink from the tiny cup
with yellow roses. “Yes, Stephanie. Where is Phillip?”
Steph bolted awake. She sat straight up in bed, and she
groaned, shielding her eyes as the morning sun blinded her.
“That’s what I get for not drinking? Screw sobriety!” She mumbled as she shoved her long crimson hair out of her face.
She tried to sit up and realized she had her robe all twisted
around herself and fumbled awkwardly to get out of the bed.
When her bare feet hit the cool floor, she remembered the night
before with perfect clarity. She had fallen asleep cuddled up to 173
TAMMY COONS & MICHELLE PACE
Phillip. He held her, stroked her hair, and even sang softly to her as she fell asleep. She remembered him leaving the bed once, to
bring her a box of tissues. Most likely he was tired to listening to her sniffling or was afraid he’d end up covered in snot. But she was sure he’d been there singing her to sleep when she passed
out from the exhaustive force of her weeping. The restroom door
stood wide open, and his clothes were gone. The robe he’d been
wearing lay on a nearby chair.
“Yes, Stephanie. Where is Phillip?”
Is that your version of Redrum, Ma? Quit being creepy.
Steph found herself replaying the conversation she’d had
with Phillip the night before. Finally they were communicating
like adults and instead of a sense of closure or relief she felt more like she’d lost a limb. Yet no more tears came. She was
pretty sure she’d shed every possible molecule of water her body possessed and felt dehydrated and hung over. A powerful and
unrelenting sense of want bowled her over.
She sighed deeply, feeling the loss of him rattle deep into
her bone marrow, and shook her head. “Phillip.”
Suddenly, someone tapped the familiar rhythm of “shave
and a haircut” on the door. Elated, a joyful smile overtook her
and she practically bounded to the door. Phillip was back! And
maybe—just maybe—he brought her coffee.
She flung open the door and inhaled sharply when she saw
Christopher standing right in front of her. His expensive French cologne wafted into her nostrils and assaulted her morning Zen.
So he’d hopped a plane. To Fernando de Noronha. Judging
by the length of her trip, he must have done this shortly after the
“I love you” call.
Shit.
For having been on planes for the better part of two days, he
looked immaculate, and pulled together as always. He wore a
crisp blue shirt. Christopher was always clean shaven, and even
after traveling, his short blonde hair was perfectly groomed. He 174
RAGE
handed her one of the coffees, undoubtedly prepared exactly the
way she liked it. Sunglasses were perched on his nose, and he
pulled him off, smiling casually as if he’d hopped a cab to come see her rather than traveling halfway around the world. Enrique
stood behind him, his hand resting on a luggage cart. She was
uncomfortable with the way the porter/chauffer’s eyebrow
twitched at her disapprovingly, so Steph immediately snapped
her eyes back to Christopher.
“Chris?” His name came out in a whisper as she accepted
the coffee and stepped back to allow him entrance.
“Morning, beautiful!” He leaned in and planted a kiss her
on her lips, then nearly tripped over her ruined boots and dress which still lay where she ditched them in an ugly pile. Steph
kicked the clothes awkwardly out of the way, and Christopher
and Enrique entered her room. “Miss me?”
Steph realized she was twirling a finger in her hair as her
eyes shot from his luggage to Enrique then back to him. “Yes.”
She nodded shyly, an afterthought, but she was in total
shock. Chris’s blue eyes swept the accommodations. He whistled
at the view.
“This place is posh,” he murmured, and turning back to her,
his intense eyes
