Lisa Unger - Die For You

He was afraid for a minute that he was dreaming, that he was going to wake up crushed by disappointment. He’d dreamed scenes like this before, could barely get out of bed afterward from the weight of his sadness when he realized she was still gone.

“Clara.”

“And before you ask how I know it’s yours and ruin everything-Sean had a vasectomy after their second child. He intended to try to reverse it if we decided later on that we wanted children together.”

She looked up at him then, her hazel eyes-green in the center, fading out to brown at the edges-locked on him. He felt paralyzed.

“I’m pregnant, Grady. I want to come home, but there have to be changes. A lot of changes-or I’ll be on my own, raising this child without you. I’m not afraid to do that.”

“No. No,” he said, moving over to her quickly. “I know I have a lot to learn, that I have to grow up to be the man you deserve. I’m capable of that. You’ll see.” He hoped it was true; he would have promised her anything.

He dropped to his knees before her, put his hands on her hips. He took in the scent of her, the citrus of her shampoo mingling with her skin. She already felt softer to him, wider at the hips in a nice way. She leaned down to kiss him and he pressed his lips to hers. He felt her open to him like a flower. She was so soft, so sweet.

“I’ll do anything, Clara,” he said, pulling away. He pushed the hair back from her face with both hands. “I’d die for you.”

He realized then that he was crying. He hadn’t cried once in his adult life, not even when she’d left him.

“I need you to live for me, Grady” She put her hands to her belly. “For us.”

“Yes,” he said, putting his head in her lap. She rested her hands on his head. “Yes,” he said again, but his voice was just a raspy whisper. He wasn’t sure she’d heard.

I look back on it all now and see that my motivations were murky. Then it all seemed very clear. I remembered Ivan’s sullen anger: He betrayed me . And I thought that was it for me, too. He’d stolen my money he’d stolen from Linda and Erik, jeopardized Emily and Trevor’s education, their future. He’d taken my love and used it for his own purposes. He’d made a fool of me; I, the seer, the one who misses nothing, never once suspected he wasn’t who he claimed to be. There was a powerful drive. Sometimes I thought I was looking for justice. Sometimes I acknowledged it might be revenge I wanted. Other times I thought I just wanted to get our money back, at least something to bring to Linda and Erik, some offering. She’d warned me after all, hadn’t she? Just wait and get to know him better before you jump in. Izzy, he’s so cold .

But maybe it wasn’t any of these things. I risked my life, my best friend’s life, our futures, to get on a plane to follow a ghost of a man, when I wasn’t even certain I was heading in the right direction. But now I think I wasn’t chasing Marcus at all. I was chasing my father.

There was a light in my father’s eye for me that wasn’t there for anyone else. And even as a little girl I knew it. He loved Linda; they shared their unique bond. But when he looked at me, there was something-maybe it was just a chemistry-that I knew was unique to us. Linda and I never discussed it. We never talked about our father at all after his death. Her wounds stayed raw for years; some of them still bled occasionally. Linda chased him in life; she was always at his heels, pulling at his coat. Look at me, Daddy . She saw his death as the ultimate abandonment, which, of course, it was. And all her adoration-which in the end meant nothing to him-turned to rage. She turned away from him forever. After his death, it was my turn to chase. Daddy, why?

It’s the word that drives me, the question, the answer just on the next page if only I can get there. I write, letting a river of possibility flow through me, letting all the energy of all the stories in the world pass from the air onto the page. Some writers fear the enormity of the blankness before them, that empty white field. I live for it.

“Is it just about the knowing?” Jack asked me again. “Is that what this is about? Is it worth it?”

Could anything be more worth it? In every character is a universe, every shade of black and white, every potential darkness, even the potential to turn from darkness and walk into the light. I have to go there, into the shadow of unknowing. I’d rather die in the dark alley than bask a lifetime ignorant in the light.

“Well, that’s just ridiculous,” Jack said. “In fact, that’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. Most people run from the dark, Isabel. With good reason.”

“I’m not most people.”

“I know.” He sounded sad, nearly pitying, when he said it.

“WHAT ARE YOU thinking about?”

We were at the end of a long day that had yielded nothing, both of us tired, drained. We sat at a thick wooden table in a dark pub, much like the one where Marcus proposed. It was dark, lit by candlelight-sconces on the wall, glass votives on the table. Huge orange flames leapt in the stone fireplace.

“You know.”

“I know.”

WE’D RENTED A car at Ruzyne Airport, a big, black late-model Mercedes, and drove a highway studded with brightly colored billboards and road signs neither of us could read, while I tried to navigate us into the city with a map I didn’t understand. With the blind luck of fools, we managed not to get ourselves killed and arrived on the cobblestone streets of Prague. After another harrowing twenty minutes during which we nearly collided with a tram, narrowly avoided running over an old woman with a cane, and drove the wrong way up a one-way street, Jack suggested I consult our Prague guidebook to figure out what the street signs meant.

“Tourists should not drive in Prague,” the guide read. “The city’s complex web of one-way streets and the large number of pedestrian-only areas around the historic core of the city make driving confusing and dangerous for foreigners.”

We eventually found our way to our hotel, a narrow slice of a building at the end of a long, winding street across from a park. I have never been so glad to see a valet drive off with a vehicle in my life.

The rest of the day was spent trying to find someone to help us get around, someone to help us talk to locals, since Czech, a West Slavic language, has never resonated with me. I’ve found its pronunciation nearly impossible and continually made an ass out of myself during my two previous visits. Finally, through some arrangement Jack made, the concierge’s cousin agreed to meet us in the morning and, for one hundred U.S. dollars, spend the day with us trying to follow up the few leads I had.

“He can’t come tonight?”

“No. It’s not possible. I’m sorry.”

“Is there anyone else?” I sounded petulant, and too American. The concierge gave me an apathetic shrug.

“That’s fine,” said Jack. “The morning is fine.”

Jack smiled at the concierge and pressed some money into his hand, which seemed to simultaneously please and annoy the man.

“The morning is not fine ,” I whispered to Jack as he pushed me up the flight of stairs to our room.

“It’ll have to be.”

The room was nice, a suite, everything polished and new. Hardwood floors, brocade drapes, elaborate faux antique furniture, a large comfortable bed. The bathroom featured gleaming marble surfaces and big plush towels. I had suggested the Four Seasons. Jack said that fugitives were not accepted at five-star hotels. I am sure that’s not true.

I sank into the bed and felt despair lash me to the mattress. A powerful fatigue weighted down my limbs, my head. The full scope of my folly was suddenly clear. The wound on my head throbbed.