Raquel's Abel Page 5

  He shook his head, making some of his blond strands come loose, one lock falling over his forehead. “It was a long time ago, but then I came here.” He smiled at me.

  “You’ve been in this house since World War I?” He would have witnessed my father’s birth, my parent’s wedding, and even Regina’s and my birth.

  He put his helmet back on and stood up. “I must leave you.”

  “We were just getting to know each other.”

  He looked at me as if he hadn’t heard me. “Again, I apologize for my actions.” He reached down, took my hand, and brought it to his lips.

  I felt the moisture of his mouth and knew he was no simple ghost or figment of my imagination. I wanted to kiss him and be held in his strong arms. I wanted to ask him a thousand questions. “Don’t go.”

  He took a step toward the pool.

  “Tell me about…”

  He evaporated into the early evening.

  Chapter Five

  I clicked the phone off and slammed it down on the bed.

  According to my agent, surgery wasn’t an option this week. She needed me in her New York office first thing Tuesday morning. I’d argued, but she’d insisted.

  After promising the people at the doctor’s office I wasn’t chickening out, I finally got them to let me reschedule the surgery. There must be a lot of obese people, because this doctor’s dance card was very full stapling people’s stomachs.

  At least it would soon be over, I thought as I plodded up the stairs. After the operation, I wouldn’t have to worry about being a borderline diabetic, nor would I have to go on heart medication. And, best of all, I’d be more comfortable. My legs wouldn’t chafe together and I’d be able to squeeze between tables at restaurants.

  I grabbed my suitcase out of my closet, threw it on the bed, and began to throw in all of the things I’d need in New York. My jaw tensed as I thought about how I should be recuperating from surgery right now.

  “You look as mad as a she-bear that’s lost one of her cubs.”

  I recognized the voice and didn’t flinch, just kept on packing my bag.

  “Where are you going?” His voice was deep and mocking. I didn’t like admitting it to myself, but even now he turned me on.

  I hollered at the ceiling, “I’m going to New York. I’d be going in a better mood if you’d let me go through the surgery like I’d planned.” I slammed the suitcase closed and pulled it off the bed. I turned and my face was one inch from his.

  “You shouldn’t be so angry at me.” He wore his uniform again and he smelled of gasoline and gunpowder.

  “If I’d had that surgery, I might have lost some weight by now.” I backed up and felt my thighs hit the edge of the bed.

  His lips tensed and I saw a little dimple form in his chin. “It’s just that the thought of you being in a hospital…”

  I looked into his dark eyes, which contrasted with his blond hair. It was parted in the middle and combed back so that each piece was in its right place.

  “I don’t like seeing you so frustrated.” His dimple got deeper.

  I pointed my eyes at him hoping he’d feel guilty. “I’m only going to New York for a few days, and I’ll be back and I’ll have that surgery.”

  He stepped toward me, pinning me between him and the bed. “For me, you are a vision of loveliness. I can’t see how being more slender will make you more beautiful, but if you insist.”

  “I insist,” I said with a wry smile. I liked him being close to me. Masculinity emanated from his every pore.

  “Before you go...” He came even closer. His breath was warm and musky. “Can I kiss you?”

  “Abel,” I breathed. “You’re a ghost. You’re not real…”

  His lips touched mine. They were sweet, firm. I wrapped my arms around him feeling the crispness of his wool uniform. His fingers walked across my ampleness attempting to encircle me.

  Abel was warm and his mouth supple and tender. My eyes closed and I began to lose myself in his embrace, then there was nothing, just cold where he’d been.

  My arms were empty.

  “Where did you go?” I looked around the room. It was empty, too. My mouth longed for his. “How could you just disappear at a time like this?”

  I decided to forget him and enjoy my trip to New York. As usual, the Big Apple was wonderful. My agent booked me in a posh hotel right across from Central Park. I took a carriage ride through it, vowing that when I came back a normal weight, I’d walk through the entire thing without resting once.

  The following day I met with publishers and editors. My idea for writing on Teddy Roosevelt had been well received, so I caught the train back to Richmond in great spirits. The train ride was monotonous, but I was able to make a lot of notes about how I’d approach writing about the first President Roosevelt. As I pondered the time period I’d be writing about, I thought how ironic it was that the subject of my current novel lived during the same period of time that Abel did.

  I was already missing him. He could be exasperating, but he was so handsome. The way he looked at me made me feel more beautiful than the most exotic runway model. I couldn’t wait to get back home. But there was that nagging fear in the back of my mind.

  What if Abel was just a Freudian way of getting out of having major surgery? Could my subconscious be inventing a handsome man that preferred me rotund, just to convince me not to go through with it?

  What an imagination I’d developed! Could my mind invent such an incredibly attractive apparition? The only way I’d know if Abel were real or not is to have the surgery and see if he reappeared.

  The sun was just beginning to peak its head over the Virginia pines, giving the Richmond platform and everything around it an orangey-pink glow. As I made my way off the train, I had to turn sideways since the aisle was so narrow. I handed the porter my luggage and carefully maneuvered myself down the steps. Even the doorway was too small for me. I angled myself and stepped down. My shoe hit the sidewalk, my foot went one way, and my leg the other.

  Within an instant, I was laying on the concrete platform in mind-boggling pain. My skirt had ended up around my waist and my arms were bloody from scraping the concrete. When I tried to move, my foot wouldn’t budge. I must have destroyed the ligaments, because it lay there like a limp piece of meat at the butcher.

  It took three porters and another man, a passenger I think, to help me hop to a seat to wait for the ambulance.

  A lady who had ridden behind me sat down next to me. “Don’t worry, they’ll get you all patched up in the hospital,” she said in a reassuring voice.

  I tried to smile, but I was still in a lot of pain.

  “You know...” Her mouth turned into a motherly smile.

  “I know what you’re going to say. It’s my—”

  “I had the gastric bypass two years ago.” She rolled her sleeve up.

  I let my guard down and tried to smile at her in spite of the pain.

  “My life has changed so much,” she went on, “And then I had my excess skin removed.” She showed me the scar on the back part of her upper arm. “Hurt like the dickens, but worth every bit of pain and expense.”

  I enjoyed the smile that crept across her face. Momentarily, I forgot about the pain in my ankle.

  I was trying to think of questions to ask her when I heard the squeak of the paramedics pushing a stretcher toward me. I waved goodbye to her as they wheeled me away. Luckily, without making a single comment about my weight, they helped me into the ambulance and drove me to the hospital.

  I sat in the emergency room waiting for the doctor. All I could think about was whether I’d be in good enough shape to have the gastric bypass next week. No matter what kind of cast I ended up in, I was having my stomach stapled. And if I had problems with my nerves, then I’d get enough Valium to put an elephant in la-la land.

  Finally, a doctor that looked young enough to be carded for a beer walked in. “Stress fracture, huh?”

  “No, I fell,”
I said in as deadpan of a voice as possible. As every heavy person knows, a stress fracture happens when your weight literally causes your bones to crack.

  “You know why you fell, don’t you?” He gave me a one-sided smile that made him look like a leprechaun.

  “Aren’t you even going to send me for a scan? Or can you do it yourself, Superman, with your x-ray vision?”

  Without responding, he looked up at the clock. It was five o’clock in the morning and I’m sure he’d rather be napping than taking care of a fat person.

  “The nurse will take you up.” He disappeared into the maze of counters and computer screens that made up the emergency room.

  A few hours later, they’d put me in a cast with strict orders to stay off my foot for a few weeks. Owen, who had picked up on the first ring, was already on his way. One thing about being fat, you always knew who your real friends were. What would life be like after the gastric bypass?

  Owen scurried around the emergency personnel and approached me with his hands up around his face. “Girl, you look like they ran you through a gauntlet.” He wrapped his arms around me. “What did they do to you?”

  “I’m all right.”

  “Nonsense, you’re just putting up a brave front.” He grabbed my purse and my suitcase. “Let’s get you out of here.”

  “The nurse is going to help roll me out to the curb.”

  He looked at me as if he were searching my face for some sort of clue. “You look like your face is about to break.”

  “I’m all right.” I didn’t want Owen getting upset.

  “I don’t even like these people touching you.” He flicked his fingers at them as if he were trying to spray water on them.

  I held my hand up. “Please don’t, Owen, it’s all I can do to keep myself together.”

  “Somebody said something to you,” he accused.

  I was trying to keep my feelings from showing, but I guess I was doing a bad job.

  “I knew it.” He looked around. “These people here need to go through a bad winter in an Appalachian hollow without enough firewood.”

  I felt a giggle start in my belly. “Owen, you can always make me feel better.”

  A nurse appeared and grabbed the back of the chair. “We’ll meet you outside, sir,” she said to Owen.

  Owen held his index finger up. “You take good care of her, or you’ll have to answer to me.” Owen disappeared out the front door.

  The nurse stared at him, but didn’t respond.

  A few minutes later I was sitting in Owen’s pickup and we were heading toward my house. “So, what did they do to you? You look like you were tortured.”

  “The doctor could have been nicer.”

  He squeezed the steering wheel as if it were someone’s neck. “Sounds like they treat you as bad as they treated a little red-headed queer in the mountains.”

  Owen had never told me a lot about his life, just made comments from time to time, but I guess he suffered a lot in the little southwestern Virginia town he grew up in.

  “This will all be over as soon as I can get this surgery done.”

  “Well, you shouldn’t let them cut you open just to please people dumber than a tick sucking on a gas can.”

  Again, a tickling feeling started down in my tummy. “You can cheer me up no matter how I feel, Owen.”

  “I mean it. I admit that I want you to have the surgery because I can just see us slipping and dipping and doing a sexy Tango. That will show those judges how it’s really supposed to be done, but if you’re having this surgery to make other people happy…”

  “No, that’s not why. I’m really scared of developing diabetes and I’m already on the verge of having heart trouble. Every time I go to the doctor, the news gets worse and worse.”

  Owen pulled into the long driveway leading to my front door. The morning light trickled through the trees and lit up Owen’s dirty dashboard.

  “You go through with that operation, but only if it’s for you and not for all the people in the world that can’t tolerate someone if they’re different.” His lower lip puffed out.

  “Don’t worry. I’m having this for the right reasons, but it’s starting to feel like I’ll never have this surgery. With this.” I patted my cast. “I’ll probably have to postpone it again.”

  “You’ll get it, girl. If a little gay boy can survive in a hollow, then you can get this surgery and go on to become an award-winning ballroom dancer and lots of other things.”

  I leaned over and gave him a kiss. “Can you be a doll and go in and have Maria Elena bring out Grandmother’s old wheelchair?”

  He smiled, hesitated, then got out of the truck.

  I knew he was about to ask if the wheelchair would be big enough for me. Owen, however, wasn’t the type to be so crass, even if he had grown up without running water. Imagine. Owen had tons of class even if he was born with nothing. And that doctor at the hospital probably had his diapers changed in a solid gold bassinette.

  Maria Elena came running so fast I thought that ancient wheelchair would fall apart as she dragged it down the steps, clunking it onto the driveway. “Señorita Raquel, what happening to you?”

  “A fall.” I sidled over and squeezed into the wheelchair trying to ignore the pinching pain as I sat sideways. When would this hell be over with? Owen wheeled me down to the handicapped entrance and then into the living room.

  “I making breakfast.” Maria Elena disappeared into the kitchen.

  “Thank you.” I never imagined Maria Elena having to take care of me.

  Owen helped me hop over to an ample-sized chair, then sat down on mother’s settee and began to move his head around, taking in each corner of the room. “So, where is he?”

  I felt myself smile. I wanted to see him too. I shrugged and looked around since I never knew when he was going to appear.

  “Not here, huh?” Owen let his shoulders droop in disappointment.

  I shook my head, then I saw a shadow in the doorway.

  “What has happened to you?” Abel was wearing a pair of my father’s silk pajamas. He ran to me and knelt down beside the chair. “Are you all right?” His cheeks caved in and his chocolate eyes searched me for other signs of injury.

  “I’m fine,” I replied.

  Owen had been sitting back on the settee. He pushed himself forward and clasped his hands together. “Is he here?”

  I nodded.

  “That scroundrel. Did he do this to you?” He eyed Owen as if he’d like to flick him away like an annoying mosquito.

  “Of course not, Abel, I fell.”

  “Then it was his fault. He should have taken better care of you.” He turned and faced Owen, folded his arms, and tapped his bare foot.

  “I was alone when I slipped,” I said, but Abel didn’t appear to be listening to me.

  Owen jumped up. “Where is he, Raquel?” On my mother’s oriental carpet, he pivoted on his dancer’s feet. “I want to meet him.”

  I pointed to where Abel was standing, which was right beside me.

  Owen walked toward Abel sticking his hand out. “Mr. Ghost, I’m so pleased to meet you.”

  Abel glared at him.

  “His name is Abel Rollins, Owen.”

  “Mr. Abel Rollins, nice to meet you.” Owen looked like a wind up doll as he turned around trying to shake hands with something he couldn’t see.

  Abel’s lips narrowed in anger. “If he hadn’t been so busy mucking about like a soused butterfly, you probably wouldn’t have hurt himself.”

  “No, it wasn’t like that all,” I pleaded.

  “What he needs is to face the enemy. To be on the wrong end of a gun.”

  “He’s just trying to be nice. I’ve told him about you, and he just wants to meet you.”

  “I tell you, he needs the barrel of a gun pointed at him, and he needs to know what it’s like to have mortar shells going off all around him.”

  Owen was still holding his hand out. “Raquel, is he here? I do
n’t feel anything.”

  Abel took Owen’s hand in his.

  Owen gasped. “I feel it,” he squealed.

  Abel’s left hand grabbed Owen’s elbow and pushed him to the ground.

  “Abel,” I cried. “Why did you do something like that?”

  Owen immediately jumped to his feet. “Okay, buddy, I’ll give you some o’ this.” He jumped around like a boxer ready to strike. “Tell me where that son of a bitch is.”

  “Abel, how could you do that? He’s my friend.”

  Owen punched at the air, artfully hopping around.

  I struggled to my one foot and held on to the back of the chair.

  Abel stepped toward me. “No, don’t stand up, you’ll…”

  One of Owen’s swings slammed Abel on the side of his head.

  Abel fell to his knees.

  Owen began to howl, “I got him. I got that ghostly motherfucker.”

  I bent down to see if Abel was all right. His skin had turned red where Owen had smacked him, but it looked like only his pride was wounded.

  “Let me hit him again. Just tell me where he is, Raquel.” Owen was holding his fist out. “I’ll teach him to mess with ol’ Owen.”

  Abel pushed himself to his feet and squared his shoulders.

  “No, Abel, no more of this.” I turned to Owen. “Stop that this instant.”

  Abel straightened out the sleeves of my father’s robe. “He isn’t so bad after all. I thought the little effeminate thing was made out of glass.” Abel looked at me. “Tell him I’d like to shake hands with him.”

  Owen looked at me. “Did he say something?” He looked around the room. “I thought I heard a hissing sound.”

  “Yes,” I responded. “He said he wants to shake hands with you.”

  Owen stopped his silly hopping around and stood still. “Really?” He wiggled his shoulders. “I guess he respects me now.”

  Abel was smiling at Owen.

  “Hold your hand out, and he’ll shake your hand.”

  Owen spread his legs wide as if bracing himself for another onslaught, then he held his hand out.

  Abel took his palm and gave it a swift strong shake.