I close the door he’d left open and turn back to the large, ornate desk and the chair he’d been sitting in when I came in here. I think about how he looked, and again, there’s that feeling inside my chest. That tightness. A constriction.
I put a hand to my stomach.
Is it true that I could be pregnant? That I could get pregnant now? I look for a calendar on his desk. I don’t even know what day it is. Have I really been here for three months?
Taking a seat in his plush leather chair, I roll myself closer to the desk. I don’t see a calendar, and it feels wrong to open his drawers to search for one. A few weeks ago, I wouldn’t have thought anything of it, but now, it doesn’t feel right.
The bottle of scotch is still somehow on top of the desk after our lovemaking. I cork it, and I notice the book we knocked off the desk. I bend to pick it up and set it on the desk, the pencil marking his place still inside.
I glance at the door and bite my lip as I consider. It’s not an invasion of privacy really. Not if I let it fall open to the page he’d been looking at. The pencil is right there.
I’m not sure what I expect to find, but it’s not this.
On the page is an unfinished sketch, the lead of the pencil worn down. It’s his book. His sketches. I hadn’t realized it when I’d seen it briefly that night so long ago that it feels like another lifetime. On the page are two lovers in profile, and although they’re not close to finished, I know it’s us. I know it from the skull side of the face that I see.
My face is less clear. Mostly lines and shadows and the fingers of my hand are just grazing his cheek. There’s something hopeless about this image, and it matches what I saw on his face when I first walked in here. Something sad and too broken.
And I know this is an invasion. I know I should close the book and leave his private thoughts private. But I can’t.
I turn the page instead and work backward and what I see is pain. His pain. Poured into this book. Sketches of his sister. Sketches of the woman I’d seen the last time. On one page, there’s a photo stuck inside, and it’s Santiago, Mercedes, and another boy. They must be in their teens. Santiago wears the expression I’ve come to know even then on his young face. He’s too young to look like that. But the other boy is smiling wide, and he has one arm around Santiago and the other around a pre-teen Mercedes. She’s smiling too, and you can already see the beauty she will become.
The two of them are wearing swimsuits, but Santiago is fully dressed in a school uniform. His hair falls into his eyes, and it’s strange to see him like this, without the ink that is so much a part of him. That is the only way I really know him.
He’s sketched the photo, but he’s changed just one thing. He’s smudged out half of his face. I touch the shadow there, smear the pencil, and something catches in my throat. What must it be like for him? What must it have been to survive the fire only to find yourself not yourself? To feel you're better served to wear a skull for a face.
I take a deep breath in and force my gaze away from his. The other boy must be Leandro, his brother. I wonder if they were close. Strange that we’ve been married for three months, and there’s still so much I don’t know about my husband.
I take a breath in and close the book. It’s late, and I need to get some sleep, but I want to ask him about the book, so I take it with me up to his bedroom, not mine, and I lie down in his bed and put the book on the pillow beside me. I want him to know I’m not hiding it. And when I close my eyes, I sleep.
* * *
“Ivy,” a voice calls. Someone gives me a shake.
I groan, rolling away.
“Ivy, dear, Mrs. Van Der Smit will be expecting you soon. It’s almost two o’clock.”
I blink, rub my eyes and turn to find Antonia standing over me. “What?” I look over at the other side of the bed. It’s empty. The book right where I left it.
He never came home.
“The driver will take you to Mrs. Van Der Smit’s house in less than half an hour.”
“Oh.” I sit up and run a hand through my hair. “Where’s Santiago?”
“He called earlier to ask me to arrange a driver for you.”
“He didn’t come home?”
“No, I’m afraid not.”
“Do you know where he is?”
“I’m sorry, dear.” She looks at her watch. “Why don’t you go get dressed? I’ll make the bed up.”
“Um, okay. Do you think I could call him?”
“He said he’d be offline for the rest of the day and possibly tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?”
“I’ll ask him to talk to you if he calls in again, all right?”
I nod and push the blanket off to get ready to go. At least he remembered to arrange for me to go to Colette. But where is he?
* * *
At Antonia’s insistence, I eat a quick piece of toast in the kitchen once I’m dressed before a driver I don’t know takes me to Colette’s house. It’s a beautiful, cold but sunny day, and I’m grateful to be out of the house. And visiting a friend feels like a normal thing to do.
When we pull up to the beautiful mansion in the Garden District, the front door opens, and Colette comes outside, wrapping a shawl around her shoulders and
