White Horse

There’s a chair by the ocean and it’s filled by an old man. The rising tide has its lips wrapped around his ankles. He minds not. On his lap is a puppet, the Edgar Bergen kind with a smart mouth and wooden composure. He and his companion turn their heads as one as our footsteps make themselves heard. He waves to us before turning back to the sea. The puppet continues to stare. As we draw abreast, I see the puppet is not made of trees but of flesh and bone and papery skin. Then she looks away and the two continue their tandem deathwatch.

Wind whips the seas into a rabid frenzy. Sheets of hot rain blow off the ocean, drenching us so thoroughly I can barely remember what it is to be dry. Shades of Italy.

Sanctuary appears in the form of a church, small and humble and dry. We bar the doors from inside and listen as they rattle on their ancient hinges. Jesus weeps for us from up high on His cross. Would that He had more to offer than painted tears. From window to brilliant window I move, peering through to the outside. Nothing is visible besides fat drops rolling along the glass. The length of the church passes under my feet several times while I contemplate our safety. Eventually, I abandon my task and do my thinking sitting in one of the few seats. Unlike American churches, the Greek Orthodox church is short on pews. Standing room, mostly.

So normal is discomfort by now that I don’t notice I’m wincing until Irini kneels in front of me, her eyes wide and worried.

“Is it the baby?”

“No. I don’t think so. It’s my back.”

“It’s the baby.”

“It’s too soon.”

“Yes, once. But now? Who knows?”

“It’s not the baby.”

It can’t be. Not yet.

But in truth, I’ve lost track of time. Or maybe it lost me.

The storm rants and rages, but we are safe in our wood and stone bubble. Our wet clothes are limp flags hanging over the altar. Like all Orthodox churches, this one has a generous supply of thin candles meant for prayer. They remain unlit. Why leave a porch light on for trouble? Instead, we bury the ends deep in the sea sand holder and offer our prayers in quiet desperation.

The first shift is mine. I use the altar as a seat so I can look Jesus in the eye.

I have a bone to pick with You.

Choose whichever most pleases you. I have many.

Your Father let everyone die.

No. You were all at the mercy of one man’s free will.

What about the rest of us? What about our free will to live?

He chose for you all. For selfish reasons, but it was still a choice. My Father could have no more stayed his hand than He could stop Judas from betraying me.

So You’re saying it had to be this way.

I’m saying it is this way. It’s what you do now that matters.

Do You have plans to come back?

Who’s left to notice?

I don’t really believe in You.

His tears are frozen in paint. I don’t believe in Me, either.

With my scarred guardian angel keeping watch, I am free to meet Nick. I feel like a teenager sneaking out the bedroom window; the waking hours are my prison while my real life comes in dream snippets.

My fingers draw lazy circles upon his smooth chest. He feels real and warm and not at all drawn by wanton parts of my brain.

“I had a dream,” he says, “that you walked across the world to find me.”

“Not true.”

His dark eyes ask the question.

“I flew in a plane, rode a bicycle, and sailed one of the seas in a boat.”

I love you, my fingers trace on his skin.

“I told you to stay.”

“I couldn’t. You’re all I’ve got left. You and our baby. Morris died, did I tell you?”

He strokes my hair. “She told me.”

“You spoke to her?”

“She’s here.”

“Where? She can’t be. I watched her die.”

“Nearby.”

I wake with a sick feeling in my heart, like something I didn’t even know I wanted has been snatched away before I had a chance to love it.

The dream paints my mood with a thick, foul substance that taints the day. To prevent myself from snapping at Irini for no good reason other than that she’s available and my temper desires a release, I hunker down in the corner nearest the doors. The ache in my lower back has eased some, now that I’m not constantly pounding pavement.

The rain, the fucking rain, rains on until I’m sick of the sound. No crash of thunder to break the monotony. No ease from downpour to sprinkle. Just relentless rain.

My turn to watch comes and goes and then I sleep again. Nick and I sit across from each other in his old office, the one where I first spoke to him of the jar.

“Pandora’s box,” he says. “I told you to open it.”

“This isn’t your fault.”

“No. But you being here is.” He writes on his notepad. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“In the dream?”

“Greece. I should have told you. Why haven’t you opened my letter?”

“I don’t know.”

“I’m your therapist, Zoe. Tell me.”

“Because I’m scared.”

“What scares you?”

“What’s inside.”

“What do you think is inside?”

“Something that takes away hope. I can’t let that happen. I need to hope. I need to have hope.”

He stands, pulls his T-shirt over his head, tosses it on the chair. When he reaches out to me, I take his hand and let him pull me close so that my back presses up against his hard planes. His fingers pinch my nipple, hard, so that I wince and moan at the same time. His breath is hot against my ear. It sets my blood to boil.

“I need you to wake up, baby.”

“But I want you.”

“Baby, wake up. Now.”

Invisible fingers drag me from my dream. With a gasp, I go from there to here. Clean, bright light pours through the colored glass, wrapping everything in a rainbow. The rain has stopped.

“Hello, sunshine,” I say.

Irini is at the doors, her ear pressed against the seam. The colors dance upon her shiny scars. Her forehead has that telltale crinkle. I go to her side, shucking off what’s left of sleep.

“What?” I mouth.