Something Beautiful

She shook with the memory of how she’d longed to smell her daughter’s dewy skin, kiss those stained, sticky fingers, but hadn’t, because she didn’t want to interrupt that carefree dance, that innocent romp, that momentary return to normality.

If only she had.

Instead, Jillian had simply watched, a dazed smile on her own face, as her daughter—unbronzed by the summer sun, fair hair dark from too many days spent inside, knees unskinned from lack of romping outdoors, cheeks free of the normal freckles—had danced in the wilderness that their courtyard had become.

Jillian’s heart had wrenched then, and was still torn by the realization that the clear honey-brown eyes had, for a miraculous moment, been unconstrained by the clouded remnants of the explosion that had torn a hole in the very fabric of her childhood universe.

“I was happy that day,” Allie said. She seemed to be implying that she wasn’t happy any longer.

Jillian murmured an affirmative, but couldn’t hold back the frown that her daughter’s words engendered. She wanted to fall down upon her knees and beg for the universe to realign itself.

And, for some unknown reason, this thought reminded her of Steven, of the way he stood with his hands splayed, his face to the sun. And the way he’d locked gazes with her that afternoon. She shivered.

Allie said, “I was singing a song. Do you remember what I was singing?”

“No,” Jillian said honestly.

She hadn’t really heard it, and she’d been too busy reveling in the contrast between the dancing child and the little girl who at night issued long, keening wails, the heart-wrenching screams of an innocent who had witnessed too much, had smelled, felt and tasted the raw, undistilled evidence of her father’s last gasp of life, his body cradled in too-small, too-frail arms.

And on that day when Allie had discovered Lyle, Jillian had simply been entranced at the sight of her daughter’s dance, calendula stems trailing chlorophyll down soft, rounded arms, joyful that for a blessed moment Allie was simply a child again, forgetful of past or future, just eight years old on a sunny day, singing to flowers, skipping with butterflies and bees.

She hadn’t heard the song, but for a truly magical moment Jillian had felt as if she could possibly depress the door’s handle, slip down the steps into the brown, untended grass, and join her daughter in that strange and innocent herald to autumn. Her tears had dried, and her heart had pounded in sudden promise. She had felt her fingers tingle in anticipation as they encircled the brass lever.

“That’s when Lyle called to me,” Allie said. “That was the first time I heard him.”

Jillian stared at Steven’s miraculously different courtyard, locked in memory, locked in that day only a month old, a day when hope had blossomed and then abruptly altered.

She held her daughter against her now, warm, parental, but on that day, during that moment, her daughter had turned her head slightly, not toward Jillian, but to the overgrown lilac hedge to the left side of the courtyard, the dividing line between their inner courtyard and the other side yard, leading to the guesthouse, the only part of the enclosed patio not contained by the thick adobe walls.

“I remember,” Jillian said. “You turned to the lilac hedge, like someone had called to you.”

If only she’d called to Allie instead.

“He did,” Allie stated firmly. “Lyle called me. By my name. He already knew it, I guess. I couldn’t see him at first, but then I did.”

Jillian withheld a shudder.

“I wonder why Lyle says Steven is like him,” Allie said, her speech slow with puzzlement. “I saw Steven right away.”

Jillian didn’t answer. She couldn’t think of a thing to say to this. Gloria, the ubiquitous grief therapist, had suggested accepting Lyle as fact and avoiding pointing out his obvious unreality. She’d said that Allie needed this invisible friend because he represented something no one could take away from her. But now Allie seemed to be implying that Steven might be a figment of her imagination, as well.

“Well, that’s because Steven is a real live man,” Jillian said.

Was she saying this a little more strongly than might be necessary? As if to negate Allie’s earlier assertion that he wasn’t?

Allie shrugged a little, then continued with her story. “I looked and looked in the lilacs…then suddenly I saw him.” Her voice rose with satisfaction. “He’s so amazing, Mommy.”

Jillian realized Allie was describing Lyle, not Steven. According to Allie, Lyle was something so beautiful, so incredible, that he was hard to understand at first. She knew how Allie felt.

“Light stands out in spikes all around his body, like fur. Light fur. Rainbow fur,” she said, and she always giggled a little. “And his eyes are so green. His eyes are ’xactly like Steven’s…only bigger, you know?” She held up her fingers and made a two-handed circle. “This big.”

Jillian, unable to hold in the shiver this produced in her, as if she almost recognized Allie’s description, as if she had seen something like Lyle once upon a nightmare, wanted the conversation over. She was tired of hearing about Lyle and his seemingly unending virtues.

Jillian finished the description abruptly. “And when he moves, the rainbow light moves all around.”

She knew her voice sounded flat, even cold, and was sorry about deflating Allie’s enthusiastic memory of her first meeting with Lyle, but felt unable to continue the game tonight. It was all too similar to how she herself felt about Steven—all light that moved around. But she was an adult who knew that all things hold contrasts, opposites, and that nothing was ever always “good.”

“Remember, Mommy?”

Jillian nodded, having heard the tale before, having witnessed all of it but the “seeing” of Lyle. Allie’s beautiful creature still remained invisible to her adult eyes.

Maybe, as a favor to Allie, she’d try again to paint him from Allie’s instructions. But she somehow knew that her rendition wouldn’t capture him, that she would depict him too “silly.” In her rendition, Lyle would appear a toy. And he’s not, Mom. He’s something beautiful.

“He told me he really liked my dancing,” Allie said now, continuing with her account of the moment of discovery.

Jillian frowned as she remembered how Allie’s hands slowly had lowered to her sides. Then Allie had stood with one leg still slightly raised, as though ready to resume her skipping. But to Jillian she’d appeared a music-box ballerina, wound down and waiting for someone to turn the key. Or maybe she had been so poised because some part of her remained attuned to her mother’s warnings about strangers or, suddenly mindful of her own dark memories, had been prepared for flight from the sharp report of a gun, the shattering of glass, her daddy’s bleeding body pitching sideways onto hers, the car crashing into an adobe wall. Maybe all she’d appeared was ready to run, to race up the few steps and into her mother’s arms for what little safety Jillian could offer her.

And I didn’t move, Jillian thought, her frown deepening.

Now, as she had almost every day for the past month, she wondered what would have happened if she had gone ahead and stepped outside, as instinct had told her to do. Would Lyle have simply disappeared at that moment? Would he never have become that unseen presence in their home?

“Where’s Lyle now?” she asked. She didn’t want to know, not really. But she had to ask.

“Oh, he’s over by the table.”

The table behind them. Lyle was standing at a place that would account for that itchy, watched feeling prickling her shoulder blades.

“Does he sleep?” Jillian asked.

Allie cocked her head in that endearing considering pose she’d used since she was an infant. “I dunno. When I’m asleep, I can’t see what he’s doing.”

That was eminently logical, Jillian thought with a smile.

“Oh,” Allie said. “He says he watches you sleep sometimes.”

Jillian’s smiled faded abruptly. She felt the heart-stopping sensation that Allie was telling nothing but the absolute truth.

“Why would he do that?” Jillian asked. Her mouth was dry, and her lungs felt constricted.

“He likes looking at you.”

If Elise was here, she’d be giving Jillian one of those I-don’t-like-this looks.

Jillian heard a faint rustle behind them and swirled to see what caused it.

The dining room table sat empty, its wood grain gleaming in the soft glow of the outside lights. The chairs were all pushed into the table, and nothing moved. For an unbelievably strong moment, she wished she’d housed Steven inside their home and not out in the guesthouse. Then, if she heard a noise, she might attribute it to him, not this invisible Lyle. And, if she heard something, she might call for him to investigate it.

“Mommy?”

Jillian reluctantly turned around, gazed into the reflection to meet Allie’s innocent eyes. “Yes, sweetie?”

“Do you still think about Daddy a lot?”

“Yes. Of course I do.”

“Lyle says you won’t for much longer.”

Jillian felt a swift rise of anger. “Well, you can tell Lyle he’s wrong about that. I’ll never forget your daddy. And neither will you.”

“Lyle says a bunch of his friends are coming soon.”

Oh, God, Jillian thought, a whole houseful of invisible creatures. Just what she needed.

“He says when they come, you won’t remember Daddy anymore. That no one will remember any bad stuff anymore.”

“I wouldn’t exactly put your father in the ‘bad stuff’ category,” Jillian said, and ruffled Allie’s hair to take the sting from her words.

To her relief, Allie smiled. “Me either.” Then she added wistfully, “But it would be nice to forget bad things, wouldn’t it?”

Jillian felt her heart wrench painfully. “Yes, it would, sweetie. That would be very nice.”

“Lyle can do that for you, Mommy. He can just touch you and make the bad things go away.”

Jillian couldn’t possibly have said anything to that. The idea of Lyle touching her made her skin crawl, made her breath snare in her throat. If she felt even the gentlest of breezes stir her blouse, she would probably scream.

“You want him to touch you, Mommy?”

“No!” Jillian said sharply, then held Allie tighter to let her daughter know it wasn’t her she was snapping at. She drew a deep, shuddering breath and tried finding some semblance of rationality. She said, finally, “Allie, the bad things don’t just go away by themselves. Or by something like Lyle touching you—”

“They do, Mommy! I know, because—”

“No, Allie. The bad things that happen to us…happen. And we have to learn how to live with them, understand how we’ve been changed by them. We have to learn how to go on. Like going on without Daddy. We’re learning that. If we ignore that pain, pretend it never happened, we can’t go on. Do you understand?”

“Lyle made it where I don’t have nightmares anymore,” Allie said, almost belligerently, as if daring her mother to come up with some other reason the bad dreams were subsiding.

Where was Gloria now? What on earth was Jillian supposed to say to this revelation? She decided to take the coward’s way out and say nothing at all. Allie’s nightmares were becoming less frequent these days, and had seemingly since Lyle’s arrival.

But a year had passed since Dave’s murder. She herself was sleeping better lately. Not since Lyle, she thought with an odd feeling of shock, but since Steven had come.

For the first time, she thought she understood Allie’s fascination with Lyle. Whenever her daughter talked about him, her features seemed suffused with delight, flushed with pleasure. The invisible, imaginary creature seemed to grant her daughter some respite from grief, some lessening of the hold that fear had over her.

She understood it now, because that was exactly the same reaction she had to Steven’s presence. Hadn’t she felt that way when she opened the door and saw Steven standing there? Had she felt that first relaxation of grief at that precise moment?

Somehow, the day that Steven had arrived seemed every bit as important as the day when Allie had awkwardly danced for Lyle. And that night, for the first night since Dave had been shot, she’d slept soundly, peacefully.

Jillian stroked Allie’s hair, comforting herself as much as comforting her daughter.

“Mommy…”

“Yes, sweetie?”

“What’s the equinox?”

Jillian didn’t blink at the swift change of subject. Abrupt departures into other topics were the prerogative of children everywhere.

“There’re two equinoxes, the spring and autumnal. Those are the first days of those seasons. The summer and winter first days are called solstices.”

“Why is this one so important?”

“I didn’t know it was, sweetie.”

“Lyle says it is. He says that’s the day all his friends are coming over.”

She’d been mistaken; Allie hadn’t changed the subject, she’d only swung back around to an earlier one. “Well, I hope he isn’t planning on putting them all up here. We simply haven’t got the room. Maybe they can go to one of the bed-and-breakfast places near the Plaza. But they’d better book their rooms now, because Indian Market is that weekend, you know.”

As she’d hoped, Allie giggled, covering her mouth with her hand, as she’d done ever since losing that all-important front tooth. Jillian smiled with her, grateful that whatever strange hold Lyle had on Allie, he hadn’t totally squelched her sense of humor.

But she’d smiled too soon, for Allie turned abruptly, her eyes unerringly going to that spot some four feet above the ground. Her shoulders tensed, her body stiffened, as if she were trying to hear something far away. Then she looked back up at Jillian.

“He says it’s not funny, that we shouldn’t laugh.”

Irrationally, Jillian felt a strong urge to whip around and chew Lyle out. She said stiffly, “You tell Lyle that I’ll laugh whenever I please, and so will you. And if he tells you not to, he’ll have to reckon with me. You understand, Allie? You have every right to laugh.”

Allie continued looking up at her, as if surprised by her vehemence, stunned by her reaction to Lyle’s words. As well she should be, Jillian thought. The source of the words wasn’t any creature, invisible or otherwise, it was her little girl. All the more reason for letting her know she could laugh.

A year of darkness was long enough. Allie had to find the brightness again. And Jillian had to help her. Lyle was a dark side of Allie…and she had to serve as his counterpoint. It was a hard role to play.

But hadn’t she already felt a difference inside herself? Walking around the grounds with Steven, she’d noticed the condition of the yards for the first time in a year, seen the passage of time in the accumulation of debris. And had felt the rays of the Indian-summer sun warming her shoulders. It was as if his arrival somehow punctuated a change in her, a change in the season, a change in life.

Now she had to convey that difference to Allie, that sense that all things—bad and good—would eventually pass away.

“Allie, has Lyle ever told you exactly why he came here? Came to you?”

Allie tilted her head, making Jillian ache. “Yes,” Allie said finally. “To change things.”

Jillian felt herself relax. Gloria had been right; Allie needed Lyle. As she had apparently needed Steven. She remembered trying to ask him, that first afternoon, what he wanted, what he needed, but instead she’d only asked if she could help him.

And he’d answered promptly with a simple “Yes,” as if that answered everything. Then he said he’d seen her place, and thought he might be what she needed. And she remembered thinking that he’d spoken nothing but the raw truth, that on some deep level she did need him.

Was that how Allie felt about Lyle?

Allie was quiet again, assuming her “listening” pose. She nodded once, but didn’t translate for Jillian.

Jillian waited, trying to convey love through her touch alone.

Finally, Allie said somewhat defiantly, “If Lyle touched you, you’d know what I mean.”

Jillian steeled herself. “Okay, sweetie. Tell Lyle to touch me.”

“He can hear you,” Allie said. Then, sending a chill of pure horror down Jillian’s spine, she added, “He’s coming now.”

Jillian felt her entire body go cold, suddenly, abruptly, and felt she might faint. Anticipation made her dizzy. This was patently ridiculous, but she found herself holding her breath.

Then, lightly, grazingly, against her loose trousers, just above her knees, she felt a brush of air, a soft, delicate touch.

Lyle!

Instinctively, as though responding to an atavistic knowledge of the rainbow creature, she jerked aside, her mouth wide with an unvoiced scream. Her eyes strafed the reflection in the glass for some glimpse of what—who— had touched her.

And saw Allie’s hand outstretched behind her. About knee-level. She gulped in air, sagged against the doorway a little, and pulled Allie sharply closer.

“Don’t ever do that again!” she gasped out. “Not unless you want to have to run get Steven to pry me from the ceiling!”

“Do you feel changed, Mommy?”

“Do I ever!” Jillian said with heartfelt honesty.

“Lyle says Steven can’t change you like he can.”

Jillian felt inadequate to answer this, too. She didn’t like the implication, and she didn’t like knowing that Lyle was wrong. Steven had already changed her, though she couldn’t have spelled out exactly how, or why. Just his very presence had shifted her life on a fundamental level.

She remembered how that first day Steven had hesitated before taking her proffered hand, almost as though he were as conscious as she of the significance of their first touch. And she’d lowered her hand, rubbing it against her thigh, feeling relief, because she’d had the singular, staggering thought that their palms were meant to be touching, that she would be safe as long as she remained linked to him.

“Lyle can do anything,” Allie said with a matter-of-fact attitude. She even nodded, as if settling some unvoiced question.

Jillian couldn’t help but smile. “Anything but become visible to everybody but you,” she quipped.

“Oh, Mommy!” Allie said, and then giggled.

Allie’s hands dropped to pat her jumper in a parody of an adult performing a knee-slap, only to become serious again almost immediately.

“Lyle says someday soon you’ll be able to see him, too.”

Jillian felt her smile stiffen. This was a new twist, a turn she didn’t particularly care for.

Allie, still smiling up at her, said, “But he can touch you again, if he wants. ’Cause you said he could.”

For a glittering moment, Jillian actually thought her daughter was telling her that Lyle was about to touch her. Again. She felt a shudder of horror course through her.

“Well, he can’t now,” she said through dry lips.”

“Oh, yes, he can. He’s like a vampire. All you have to do is invite him once.”

Jillian heard an odd conversation played in her mind. A friend meeting her on the street, asking how Allie was doing these days. “Oh, she’s just fine,” she’d say. “She has an invisible friend who is just like a vampire. We love that creature of ours.”

“Tell him I uninvite him.”

Allie looked up at Jillian, her expression somber. “You can’t do that, Mommy. It’s against the rules.”

Jillian forced a smile to her lips. “What rules are those?”

Allie shrugged. “The rules.”

Jillian’s back tickled, her skin seemed to contract in on itself. Allie made Lyle seem so real, so present. Jillian couldn’t hold in the shiver this time. The idea of Lyle’s reality thoroughly revolted her.

She wished she knew, with complete certainty, what was real and what wasn’t.

At that precise moment, like an echo of her thoughts, she heard the sound of the gate’s latch and focused her eyes to see beyond her own reflection.

Jillian couldn’t withhold a gasp as Steven stepped through the narrow aperture.

At first glimpse, she was certain he was naked. His bare golden shoulders reflected the dull light from the bug lamps.

Then she saw that he held one hand tightly against his chest and his profile was rigid and stiff. Something was dreadfully wrong.

She realized then, with some relief, that he wasn’t naked, only minus a shirt. His golden, muscled shoulders were hunched in obvious pain.

With only the slightest of hesitations, she released the catch on the lock and depressed the French door’s handle and pushed the paned glass outward, exactly the way she hadn’t done the day Allie found Lyle.

“Are you all right?” she called.

Steven looked up, and even through the gloom of the thick, moonless night she could make out his green eyes.

He’s in terrible pain, she thought. She knew.

Automatically she reached for and clicked on the back floodlights, the extra lights Steven had installed a few days before. The harsh glare from the floods struck his eyes, and he froze, like an animal snared by a poacher’s illegal hunting lights, and yet he didn’t look afraid, only vastly wary. His eyes glittered, and her breath caught in some unreasoning atavistic fear.

His eyes are this big. She heard her daughter’s voice, saw the little hands forming a two-fisted circle.

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