Clarity has always had its way of eluding me. Eyes open? Eyes closed? It holds little difference to me. It’s all a gray blur. I’ve rubbed my eyes raw so much when I was a child that in the majority of my childhood pictures, there’s a cotton cloth wrapped around my head in a silly-looking manner.
My mother, Laura, has blamed herself countless times for the deficiency she may have inadvertently caused. Yet what were we both left to do but accept it as a given? That I could never see things as they are?
The delicacy in my hands is practiced and well-calculated before any movement, learned through hard lessons and messy accidents. My ears are pricked by sensitive noise all throughout my waking hours. I rely on them most. They tell me enough to go by my day with minimal slip-ups. Though it would be a lie if I didn’t wish I could muffle all the sounds by a volume much lesser.
The round objects in my hands are tomatoes, easily identified by its slippery finish and cushiony mold. I cut them up into cubes with a not-so-sharp knife my mom handed me on purpose. I don’t even remember the last time I cut myself in the kitchen though. Perhaps all under her pretense.
She was over at the oven, boiling pasta and simmering a hum in her throat. A rustle of linen cloth indicates an apron’s worn use of whatever smeared substance. The clunking of pots, the ticking of an oven knob, and the sizzle of garlic on butter hurried me to dice the last spheres of tomatoes.
“Be a dear and pass the milk?” A prompt interrupts my mother’s hum.
My bare feet tread over the oak floors, my soles familiar to the cold wood as I reach for the tin cup of steamed milk. A shriek leaves my mouth before I could process that it’s very much–
“Not cooled off yet! Julia…” Laura warns in a scolding voice. I would’ve appreciated a sooner notice before my fingers tickled in a sweltering sensation. I flick my wrist side to side, already scurrying away to the door as she tells me off all the way outside, the frustration in her voice chasing me off.
Tiny rocks stick to the arch of my heel while I linger near the porch, a sharp contrast to the smooth floors inside. I don’t regret being barefoot. In fact, I rub the tip of my dominant foot unto the stone further more. Altering the focus of my sensations would perhaps dull the burn in my palm. “Stupid, stupid…”
I don’t worry about the hair sticking to my face as the wind targets what must be solely me in a whole hundred meter radius. Or a twenty minute bike ride to our closest neighbor.
My mother’s only so agitated today because they’re coming to visit. The Crosby’s are kind neighbors, they are, but somehow a tension has arrived between our families ever since a realization has taken root in their minds that in fact… their only children are of the same age, and of very convenience as a pair.
The island of Litchcord is small enough and its people are in touch of a familiarity beyond what can be described. They are, indeed, the only few faces we see daily, and it comes naturally that our lives must also be entwined with one another. For example, I work at the only grocery shop in this town; my boss is my mother’s cousin, whose husband is also George the milkman who picks up on all the gossip in between his trips to each front yard. I happen to hear the majority of its contents since my boss likes to ramble about it while we’re opening up shop. This month’s juicy bit is apparently this very gathering my mother is arranging.
And I’m… well, shrouded in flat indifference. It might be a good thing I’m partially blind in both eyes that I might not know of Evan Crosby’s appearance. His voice is already unpleasant for me to hear, with its raspy resonance and dry tone. What’s drier than that could be the few conversations we had in passing. At least, he seems to hold little regard for whatever expectation the whole town has achieved out of us by far.
No sooner, they arrive at our dining table and along with them, a different change of energy in the air.
I chat politely and engage in shared laughter when a joke about the island’s declining population is made. The Crosby’s found it the sweetest thing when their son refilled my cup of water for me like it mattered so much. But he didn’t even place it on the coaster where I instinctively reach for in all my meals. I almost tipped it over as a result. I just glance in his general direction with a tight-lipped smile when he catches it before a spill is made. Again, a chorus of coos drift our way.
All semantics.
“You know… it’s not as bad as I thought.” Evan tells me while we walk on a spontaneous trip to town imposed by our parents.
“The lunch?” I ask.
“Us.” He shrugs. “We’d be okay together.”
I instinctively squeeze his arm, which I’m holding on to for support on the bumpy trail. From how his shirt collar shuffles, he must’ve looked down at what I just did. I dig my nails into his skin, while saying “We’re alone. You don’t have to play it up.”
He doesn’t say anything more after.
After we reach the town square, I let go of his arm little by little. Still, I keep close to him lest I bump into others. I have a vague image of the weekend market’s layout and its recurring stalls so I should be fine anyway.
He waves a hand in my face without a word, trying a silly test on me. I swat aimlessly at it.
“Yes, I can feel that! God, Evan…” I huff in annoyance.
“What? Just curious if you could see a shadow or something,” He replies with a scoff.
I follow him to a corner booth. A young voice reaches me from below my waist. The vendor greets us both in an overexcited tone, or the vendor’s kid rather. Evan talks to him while I feel around the velvet cloth splayed over his table. My hands hover over many objects next. Small pots, wooden baskets, glass figures… an antique shop, I deduce.
A genuine joy spreads through the curve of my parted lips. Out of nowhere, Evan forces a frigid object into my hand and an inquiry about a possible markdown dies in my tongue. I wrap my palm around his offering while my nail taps on glass and scrapes on chain.
“A pocket watch,” He says, his gruff voice lifting at the edges in proud character. “I heard you people might appreciate stuff like this. It makes sound nonstop and… I don’t know. You might find it satisfying.”
I lift the object to my ears, listening to the tick of time. I nod, understanding how this might appeal to me as a form of satisfaction. I shake it up and down, wondering if it somehow stutters in rhythm. Evan chuckles at my display.
“I’ll get it for you, no worries,” He remarks, fumbling with his pockets. I turn to his side, wanting to stop the whole motion of such a gesture. Who knows what favor he might expect in return?
My hand stops mid-air and my head follows a floating yellow light. It glows like a pulse in my peripheral.
Is that…?
Just like so, my chest aches and there’s this unstoppable feeling of never letting that light fade outside my reach.
Evan’s voice trails after me but my feet follow the light’s path and everything else is ignored in favor of that honey gleam: the only color in my blank page.
I’ve seen this singular color for too many times, and it is indeed the only lingering color in my vision besides a dull void, but the skip in my heart never fails to pinch me every time I see it. As if it was my first time seeing it all over again. I know I can never be sick of it.
I almost find myself tripping on purpose just so that warmth could grasp me like a favorite cardigan on a cold night. That very light steadies me by the arm, then proceeds to brush a whisper against my ear, “Hold on now. Are you really abandoning your date?”
I smile far too wide for such a cruel joke. I tilt my face in a perfect angle to face him right where my nose should be under his. “Please don’t start. I was hoping you’d save me, but you sure took your time getting here, Isaac.”
He pulls me upright against his chest, but it’s only for a brief moment before he steps away again in a motion of respect for the guy watching us across the aisle of market stalls. I flutter my eyelashes at him, desperate for a way out of whatever I’ve gotten myself into with some neighbor I’ve never even cared for in the slightest.
There’s a moment of silence that settles between us. But I can feel his mind running. Isaac’s always had a way of taking all of my problems and turning them into chocolate fudge– a sticky mass that melts into nothing at the end of the day. This philosophy of his has been developed through the years together that draw us back to our toddly feet and innocent play dates. And for the nth time, a solution comes to him like a rush of inspiration.
I follow his lead as he approaches Evan with sure composure. He touches my elbow, bringing me gently closer. My conscience floats the entire time he led a whole conversation with what I imagine to be a perplexed Evan. I hardly spoke. There wasn’t any need to. A mention of a non-existing headache and a pat on the shoulder was all it took for an escape, really.
I skip on the way to the lighthouse where Isaac resides and works in. He lets me skip ahead of him as he watches the sudden lightness in my limbs. And perhaps the giddy smile on my face. It’s a familiar sight. There wasn’t anyone else besides him that cared so much about the sincerity behind my expressions.
The tall, stone steps leading to the entrance of the imposing structure were wrapped in mold from the humidity in the air. It’s always so breezy in this elevated area of the island. A special coziness can only be found inside the narrow walls adorned by picture frames and illustrations of sea creatures. Isaac brings a cup of tea for me in the tiny kitchen he has while we unwind by the open windows. The counters here are just perfect for sitting down on, even when meant to be occupied by unmoving objects. Some pieces of the wood around here are worn down because of the routine we follow time and time again.
I run my hand over a dented slight in the wood’s surface from where I’ve always rested a palm on. From that alone, Isaac notices the blister in my hand from the burn of this morning’s cooking. It’s only a faint sting now.
He opens a drawer from my right side and the clattering of random objects produces him an ointment. He’s got a surplus of medicinal supplies that exist primarily for my use. He moves to stand before me as he uncaps it, reaching a slow hand to mine for a turn and inspection. The swollen area in my flushed skin is remedied in a matter of a few minutes.
“The time I spent with Evan was more of a pain than that,” I say, my words coming out as somewhat of a jest. I don’t want him to think anything happened between us like everyone else expects.
“No, no…” A mix of a scoff and chuckle leaves his throat.
“My mom made spaghetti. I can warm you a plate later if you want.”
“I think I’ll do all the warming from here on out.”
He sets my hand back down on my lap, but his touch lingers. I take a deep breath, breathing in the scent so close to me. He smells of lantern oil and the yellowed pages of my favorite book. The tips of my fingers graze the sides of his, and I feel a sense of safety and comfort accustomed by the thrum of our heartbeats together.
“I’ve cleaned out the fog signals and water tanks this morning so I’m free for the rest of my day,” He states, pushing my hair behind my ear. “Shall I read to you again?”
I shake my head, having already made up my mind.
“I just want to talk.”
A kiss is pressed down unto each of my eyelids, barely felt. I melt back, shaking my head again.
We spend the rest of our afternoon together in unhurriedness.
A few days pass us by. My mother receives a package wrapped in wax paper on our front porch. Unwrapping it with care, she sees a note and a strange item.
“For Julia, I searched the general store for materials and crafted this for you. A talking thermometer. How about it? Don’t let me see any more burns on you.” – Isaac.
Laura pauses after having read the handwritten note. She supposes there’s no more need to arrange dates for her daughter.
Written by: Sarina Bautista
Edited by: Hoe Yan
