hungry,” I said. “What are we having? Smells delicious.”
“Chicken parmesan, the way my dad used to make it. Out of this world, I promise.”
I opened my container of food, moved my fork through the red sea of noodles. “It looks great. And this is a great idea for dinner, by the way. It’s beautiful out here at night.” I gazed up at the moon, then at its warm, mystical glow across the bayou’s murky water.
“I’m glad you like it.” He grinned, then took a healthy bite of his chicken.
“So, you like to cook, and your dad used to,” I said. “What about your mom? Did she like to cook? I know you don’t like talking about her very much, but--”
“No. She wasn’t big on cooking, I mean. Dad was the cook in the family.” He set his dish down. Leaning over, he picked up the locket around my neck, popped the little crescent open to show the inside. I looked down to examine it, placing my food down next to me.
“I don’t blame you for wanting to know about my mom,” he said. “I’m sorry I haven’t told you much. It’s hard for me. I know you understand that.”
I nodded quietly, waited.
“The inscription’s in French,” he said, running his thumb over it. “It says ‘If my heart had wings, it would be with you always.’ Ironic that he gave this to her shortly before he died.”
“How did he--?”
“Someone broke into the house one night. Mom wasn’t home, and I was studying abroad. She blamed herself for a long time.” He dropped the necklace and sat back with his knees up, rested his arms on them. “Mom moved in with my grandfather, lived here for a few months, worked on the garden, helped him around the house. But she was never really herself again. I was out of the country again, and I didn’t know how bad things had gotten. I never got to say goodbye to her.”
He ran his fingers through his hair and glanced at my small black clutch next to me. “Would you mind sparing a cigarette?”
I froze, shocked at his request, but quickly obliged, taking one for myself.
“Apparently she just picked up and left one day,” he continued. “Never told my grandpa -- or anyone else. Left everything at the house, didn’t take a picture of me or my father. Nothing.” He exhaled a cloud of smoke, pushing it out of his lungs, and pointed to my necklace. “She left that on her pillow. Her way of letting us know why she left, I suppose. Before Grandpa passed, I moved in to help him out. When he told me he was giving me the house, he kept reassuring me she’d come back. Told me she must’ve needed to get away from the memories here. But, he also said I was the only piece of my father she had left, and she wouldn’t leave me like that.”
“He was in denial,” I said softly.
“Yes.”
“Did she ever--?”
“No. Five years now. He passed not long after I moved in, and he still hadn’t heard from her. We weren’t sure if she was still alive or if she ... took her own life.”
“Why do you think that?”
“I don’t anymore, though I did then. The only trace she left -- besides the necklace -- was an entry in her journal.” He looked out at the water, distress in his voice. I let my cigarette burn.
“In her last entry she only wrote one line. About my father. ‘The pain of my loss I can bear, but your lingering presence I cannot.’ Grandpa and I decided that meant she intended to kill herself. It wasn’t until a few years later that I realized she would never do that. It would have broken my dad’s heart. That’s why I’m sure she just ran away. She didn’t leave to die.”
He put out his cigarette, letting the last of the smoke free from his lungs. I said, “Gavin, I’m so sorry. For both you and your grandfather. I had no idea....”
“Thank you, love.” He gently took my hand, turning to look at me. “For listening.”
I took a last drag before putting mine out and shaking my head at him. “No. Thank you for telling me. I can’t imagine what it feels like for you. It’s unfathomable.” I felt a tear slide onto my cheek while I observed his face.
“Loss is familiar to you, too,” he said, cupping his hand underneath my chin as he wiped the tear away