Natalie Dale -- Love Divided
My breath puffs in white clouds as I turn the key and the engine grumbles to life. It's 2 am, and I’m wearing only thin cotton pajamas beneath my winter coat. I hadn't heard Celeste's voice in five years, not since her taut congratulations when I told her I was getting married. But tonight, when her picture flashed across the screen of my cell phone, I answered without a second thought.
Shivering, I back out of our garage, turn down one street, then another, until I’ve merged onto the empty highway. The radio is silent; the only sounds are the whoosh of hot air blowing through the vents and the quiet rush of asphalt. My pulse races in my ears.
I worry that my husband won't understand this midnight journey. That he'll take it as a sign that I'm not totally committed to him, to our daughter and the beautiful life we've created together. Ever since we moved to Schaumburg, since my career dragged him away from the city he’s always called home, he’s been searching for proof that I am just as selfish and self-absorbed as he thinks I am.
I check Google Maps; it’s a 45-minute drive from our townhouse in Schaumburg to the address she gave me in downtown Chicago. I have plenty of time. I just need to be home before either of them wake up.
I arrive at the address, park beneath a streetlamp, and flick my lights as instructed. It's an apartment complex: rough, brick and squat. A scraggly tree in the courtyard hunches under the weight of the snow, blue salt scattered along the shoveled sidewalk.
A figure emerges from a door at the far side of the courtyard, a crimson splash against the colorless backdrop. The door opens, bringing with it a rush of frigid air.
"Lexi?" Her voice is so familiar it hurts.
"Get in," I beckon frantically, "it's freezing."
Celeste folds herself into the passenger seat, her long legs pressing against the dash.
"Sorry.” I lean forward to release the lever and glide the seat backward, "I keep it forward for the car seat."
"Car seat?"
"Nettie, my daughter. She's three."
Celeste straightens, gazes out the front windshield. She’s thinner than I remember, her ink black hair cut short, but she has the same aquiline nose and luminous, coppery skin.
"Congratulations," she says, "you always wanted kids."
I wonder at her use of the plural, resist the urge to touch my stomach. We haven't told anyone about our little peanut yet. I clear my throat.
"What's going on? You said you needed help. That you weren’t safe."
She slowly removes her mittens and places them on the dash. “I’m OK now.”
"Jesus Christ,” I snap, unable to contain my annoyance. “It's three in the morning and cold as balls. I drove all the way out here. Don’t I deserve to know why?"
She doesn’t answer, just tucks a strand of hair behind one ear. She has several more piercings now, marching up the ridge of her ear like a ski lift. I lean forward, rest a hand on her thigh. I mean the gesture to be reassuring, but the shock of electricity that runs between us nearly takes my breath away.
She must feel it too, because she stiffens, then turns to face me for the first time. Her right eye is red and bloodshot, the flesh around it beginning to swell. I stifle a gasp.
"What happened?"
Celeste gazes down at her lap, spins an amethyst ring around and around her ring finger.
"Jenna," she says finally.
"Your girlfriend did this to you?"
Celeste’s jaw tightens. "Fiancée.”
I snatch my hand from her leg. "Has this happened before?"
"Yeah." Her voice is soft and distant. "I always pretended it was an accident, but it's not. It never was."
I blink, letting it sink in. We met Jenna in college, though as far as I know, Celeste didn't start dating her until after graduation. Short and compact, Jenna played softball, wore too much eyeliner, and always tied her long, white-blond hair up in a tight ponytail. Her sense of humor was dry as toast, and she'd been known to throw a bat or two after losing a game, but she'd always seemed nice. I can’t imagine her doing anything like this.
"I'm sorry."
The words sound stupid as they leave my lips, but I don't know what else to say. Celeste shrugs.
"She thought I was cheating on her."
My shoulders tighten, and I turn away, feigning a sudden interest in the steering wheel. That’s what broke us up, after all.
"She still shouldn't hurt you."
Celeste's eyes flash. "Obviously."
She turns away, stares out the window. For a long time, all I hear is the low rumble of the idling car, the occasional roar as the L-train hurtles past on its elevated tracks. It starts to snow; not big fluffy flakes, but the tiny, crystalline ice chips that only form when it’s absurdly cold. They glitter as they drift through the lamplight, coating the graying mounds of old snow with a blanket of diamonds. Celeste takes a deep breath.
"I wasn't cheating. Not anymore." Her voice hitches, her voice dropping to a whisper. "I thought this was it. That I’d finally found 'the one.'"
She shakes her head, then turns to face me. Her shoulders are straight, her chin lifted. Despite the swelling of her eye, the tear streaks down her cheeks, I am reminded of how beautiful she is. How strong.
"You deserve better."
Celeste snorts. "I don’t deserve shit.”
I take her hands in mine. They're cold, her knuckles marred by silvery scars. I wonder how she got them but know better than to ask.
"You do,’” I say. “You deserve to find someone who will make you happy. Someone who makes you feel safe.”
Celeste looks up, eyes round and bright as the moon. "Sometimes I worry that I already did.”
I suddenly realize that our faces are inches apart. That I can smell her lavender shampoo, trace the veins of gold threaded through the warm brown of her irises. She reaches up, brushes my too-long bangs out of my eyes. Her gaze is locked to mine, searching for something. My heart beats so loud inside my chest that I worry she can hear.
Then she leans forward, and her lips brush mine. A question. She starts to move away, but I reach up and pull her towards me. When our lips meet there is no hesitation. Her mouth is firm against mine, her breath hot on my cheek. My hand slides from the back of her head down her neck and into her shirt. She's not wearing a bra. Her breast fits perfectly into my hand, and my breathing quickens. It's been so long since I touched a breast other than my own.
She's pulling off her jacket, climbing awkwardly over the console to straddle me. Heat floods through me as I see her figure silhouetted against the bright white of the snow. But then the light falls along the right side of her face highlighting the swelling around her eye.
"Wait."
Celeste hesitates, leans back her ankles.
"What?" she asks, her voice breathy and full of heat.
"We can't."
Even silhouetted by the lamplight, I can see her frown. I reach up, run a finger along her swollen brow. She winces at my touch and I pull my hand away. We may not have spoken in five years, haven't fucked in ten, but I know her. Know her better than anyone in the world.
"I can't be your distraction," I say, "I can't take Jenna's place."
Her back goes rigid.
"That is not what this is about," she snaps, but she rolls off me, slumping into the passenger seat and folding her arms like a sulky teenager.
I stare out the windshield, watching the glittering snowflakes dance on the wind.
"Is this why you called?" I ask, trying to keep the hurt from my voice.
"Of course not."
"Then why?"
She remains silent, arms folded, glaring out the windshield.
"Celeste."
Her name sounds like a prayer on my lips. Her head jerks towards me, and I realize this is the first time I've said her name aloud.
"Please. How can I help you?"
Celeste shifts in her seat but still says nothing. I wait, knowing the silence will draw her out.
"I didn't know who else to call."
Her voice is small, nearly inaudible against the thrum of the engine, the whoosh of hot air from the vents.
"All of our friends, they're Jenna's friends first. No one would believe me."
She exhales loudly, bites at her lip.
"I burned so many bridges," she shakes her head. "I'm not in touch with anyone else from school, I'd be fired if anyone at work found out I'm gay, and my parents won't speak to me unless I go back to being Chaaya."
She spits the word like a curse. Raised in a devout Hindu household, Celeste legally changed her name at 18, after her parents threw her out for kissing a girl.
"You are literally the only one left," she continues, blinking furiously, "assuming I didn't fuck this up too.”
"You didn't –"
"You're married."
Another silence fills the car, longer and heavier, broken only by the rumble of another L-train hurtling past. Finally, I find my words.
"I'm here, Celeste. How can I help?"
Celeste turns back to me, her jaw tight.
"I need somewhere to stay."
There it is. Deep down, I'd known it would come to this. I think of my husband, still fast asleep in our king-size bed. Of Nettie, too young to understand that I'd ever loved anyone other than her father. If I leave now, I could get home before they wake. They'd never know.
"It doesn't have to be with you," she says, her words tumbling over themselves in her haste. "I know you have your life, and I don't want to mess it up. But maybe if you know someone, or if you could drop me off at a shelter in the suburbs..."
She trails off. In the lamplight, she looks softer. Almost frail. But her chin is set, her eyes fierce even as they brim with tears. I want to hold her, take her into my arms, to tell her that everything will be OK.
Then I remember my husband, imagine the hurt in his eyes if I bring her home without warning. If I inform him that she'll be staying with us for a while, and in the next breath tell him that we kissed. I love him too much to do that to him. But I love Celeste too. I think a part of me always will.
Is it so wrong to love two people at the same time?
I touch my stomach, and smile, thinking of my little peanut. Already my love for them is unique, distinct from my feelings towards Nettie and my husband. When the time was right, we were going to wrap Nettie in our arms and tell her that she was going to be a big sister, but that we did not, could not, love her any less for loving another.
Only love can be divided yet grow with every division.
I turn to Celeste, take her hands in mine. I know my husband will be hurt and angry, that this will drive a wedge between us, widening the cracks of our marriage. But I can't abandon her. I don’t think I could live with myself if I dropped her off at a shelter, not knowing if she was safe, or if Jenna would come looking for her. Perhaps I am selfish after all.
"Come home with me," I say. "You can stay as long as you need." DSS
Natalie Dale of Hillsboro, Oregon, is a former neurologist whose fiction has been published in magazines and books. Her work " Setting and Character" is published in her series "Writers Guide to Medicine." She also plays violin in a community orchestra, runs a writing critique group and organized a school reading program.
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