As hard as it is to admit I may have been wrong, I should have respected his feelings last night and took his words for what they were—his opinion. His thoughts mean more to me than I might have guessed.
“I appreciate your honesty. Your explanation didn’t come as a surprise. Nothing you said was foreign or something I hadn’t considered because I’m fighting a battle that will make me a stronger person. But trying to balance my desires with safety feels impossible some days. My mother wanted me to be a powerful woman, independent, free of other’s rules. Now, I must decide what that means for me.”
“I respect that, and I would never stand in the way of your decision. I hope you understand this,” he says.
By the time we’re pulling into the lookout point’s parking area, I’m feeling relief from the aggravation that tore me apart all night. “I haven’t been here in so long, since I was a kid maybe,” I tell Everett.
“Well, I’ve never been here at all, so I’m looking forward to the view you’ve been describing. I packed us breakfast.”
I almost forgot about breakfast and hadn’t considered who would bring the food. I should have offered, but the thought never crossed my mind. “You did?”
“Yes, Ma’am, I got up a little early and made some pancakes and eggs that are hopefully still warm. I also have a thermos full of coffee, so we have all the important elements for a perfect breakfast with a beautiful view.”
“You cooked?”
“As far as I know,” he says with a grin. “To be fair, I usually only cook for myself, but I haven’t complained much recently. Plus, I believe a man should know how to cook, shouldn’t he?”
I can’t contain my laughter, even if it pokes at my heart to imagine him eating alone.
“Well, of course. I just don’t know many men who will do much of anything in the kitchen, including cooking an egg. So, I’m pleasantly surprised by your gesture.” We’ve been together for almost five months, and the conversation about cooking hasn’t come up once. I assumed he was much like James, Lewis, and Dad when tending to domestic chores. We’ve always gone to the mess hall or out to a restaurant. I’ve cooked for him occasionally, but I insisted each of those times.
Everett makes his way over to my car door and offers me a hand before reaching into the back seat for a picnic basket and blanket I hadn’t noticed.
“This is very thoughtful and sweet.”
We don’t have to walk far to find the perfect spot to watch the sunrise over the ocean. Everett places the picnic basket down and smooths out the blanket for us to sit on. I reach for the basket, but he pulls it away, insisting on serving the items. “I’m quite capable, Miss Lizzie.”
He places two plates on the blanket, then a tin, and a couple of jars filled with the food he cooked up. “This looks delicious, Everett.” The tins are still warm to the touch, and the coffee is steaming when he pours it into two mugs.
A flare of sunlight peeks over the horizon in a flat glowing orange line. It’s blinding against the fading darkness. “Do you ever experience moments you want to make sure to remember and carry with you forever?” I ask.
Everett takes a small sip of his coffee and grins. “There have been so many of them lately. I can only hope they all stick with me.”
“Aside from these last several months, I’ve only had a handful of memories I’ve wanted to keep. This habit I have may sound silly, but when there is something remarkable happening, I like to imagine painting the scene in my mind; noting every detail, even down to the number of leaves there are on a flower’s stem or how the hues from a melting sun change and morph into different shades just before the sky turns black.”
“That’s a wonderful way to remember a moment,” he says.
I lose myself in thought, trying to recall the last time I painted a memory before meeting Everett. It isn’t hard to remember, though. “Her hand was cold, not quite like ice, but like she needed a pair of gloves. Her fingers were weak, and the beds of her nails were a pale blue mixed with a hint of purple. I’m not sure if her nails always looked that way because she was vigilant about keeping her nails painted with bright red polish. I stroked my thumb along her knuckles, hoping I was relieving at least some of her pain.” She seemed to relax when I tried to soothe her. I didn’t know what else to do. “I pressed her hand against my cheek, feeling the silky soft skin that wiped away so many of my tears in the past. I needed her to wipe my tears away at that moment, but she was too weak. Her hand smelled faintly of soap and the creme I had massaged onto her skin the night before. She struggled to open her eyes wide enough to look at me, but the amber coloring of her irises against the ghostly color of her pale skin was still as vibrant as it was when she was healthy.”
“Those details—I can picture her, Lizzie,” Everett says.
“She wouldn’t have wanted you to see her looking that way,” I choke up a quiet chuckle. “I had never seen Mom without makeup before that time, but she was a natural beauty, even without the pigment of blood pumping through her skin the way it should have been. I needed to know I would not forget the way she looked. I needed to know that whenever I would close my eyes for the rest of my life, I would have the clearest image of her, even if it was the way she appeared in those last days. Her soul was still living inside of her, exhaling the life I wanted to hold on to. I would stare at each freckle on her face, each line left behind from stress, the few eyelashes that didn’t curl like the others, and the deep shade of pink of her earlobes from the heavy earrings she often wore. Her lips were pale compared to what I usually saw, but the shape of her cupid’s bow was the same. She already looked like an angel.”
Everett is staring into my eyes, or maybe through my eyes, as if he’s lost. My words might have reminded him of his mother, I suppose. “Despite makeup or sickness, it sounds like you look exactly like her down to those few eyelashes that curl differently than the others.” He smiles and takes my hand. “You must promise to always keep memories like that. If we’re ever to be apart, I’ll know I can relive the moments with you when we’re back together.”
“What about the times I’m with you—the ones I paint pictures of to keep locked away in my mind forever?”
“I’ll want the reminders of those too. You can keep them in the journal. They’ll be safe there.”
“Absolutely. Perhaps I should start the first page with this moment; it’s a beautiful portrait in my mind.”
“How do you do it? How do you see every fine detail? Teach me, Lizzie.”
I shrug because I’m not sure how it happens; how every detail of everything around me forms into a movie in my mind, but it does and locked there, in a frozen moment.
“I notate aromas, the temperature, sensations of anything touching my skin, the taste on my tongue, the sounds of what is nearby and what is far off in the distance, and the color pallet of the surrounding landscape. I don’t know. It’s the same as when I write. I close my eyes, and I can recall all the little details. There is so much to experience in life, and I’m afraid of missing out on the slightest detail.”
“That’s an incredible talent,” he says, his eyes glossy as if mesmerized by my explanation.
