PART THREE

Michael slid open the door to his loft, a weighty, leaden thing. Like a door to a crypt, she thought, as it strained on its hinges. Inside, the apartment had a vacant, hollow feeling, despite the rhythmic droning from his stereo. A melodious drumming of only a few notes, over and over.

Liz frowned, glancing in the direction of the CD player. Michael followed her gaze. "It’s only Radiohead," he explained defensively.

"I hate Radiohead."

"You don’t listen to their music," he argued. "They rock."

"Only before Kid A."

Michael huffed soundlessly, as he lifted the stereo remote, and clicked the volume control with his thumb.

It was their usual banter, playful and charged with disagreeable tension, yet Liz sensed something else between them. Michael seemed nervous, fidgeting as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

"What?" She asked, suspicion edging her voice. "What’s going on?"

He avoided her gaze, and instead moved away from her, smiling faintly. "Nothing, Liz, I just wanted to see you."

"You told me you needed to talk."

He sighed, slipping the door to the loft back in place. It groaned in aching complaint, as Liz dropped heavily onto his sofa, pulling her jacket tight around her. The loft was always drafty, and tonight was no exception.

"I do," he agreed, turning to face her. He drew in an audible breath, then finally spoke. "About Max."

The hair on the back of her neck bristled at the mere mention of his name. They rarely spoke of him, though he stood ever between them.

"I’d rather talk about Leon’s call a few minutes ago."

"You’re just changing the subject."

"He got ten thousand for the last painting," she countered.

Michael’s eyes widened, obviously despite himself. "Really?"

Liz leaned back into the sofa, folding her arms over her chest in satisfaction. She loved her job, loved making her clients’ dreams come true. Even though Michael was her beloved friend, he was still her client—and the disbelief shining in his eyes made every thankless moment worth it.

"Yeah, really!" She laughed. "And he wants to talk about a show in the fall."

Michael began pacing, wringing his hands together slightly. His eyes had assumed a far off look, as he quickly processed all that she’d shared. His work had been selling steadily in Soho for a year now, but no one had offered him a show yet.

And this meant he’d forget about Max, Liz sighed with delicate relief.

"But I still want to talk about Max," he announced, turning to face her where she sat on the sofa.

"Well, I don’t." She closed herself off instantly, became resistant.

"Isabel called yesterday," he continued. "I hadn’t wanted to say anything yet, but I don’t know…I just think it’s time you dealt with this."

"With this?" She exclaimed. She had the sense that they were closing in on her like a tight knot, choking the breath from her lungs.

"She wants to do some kind of memorial this spring…at the chamber."

Liz began shaking her head vehemently. "No, no…that’s just not right."

"What can’t be right about it? This spring will be ten years, Liz, and everybody wants to do something."

"Everybody?" She asked meaningfully, feeling somehow betrayed by him.

"Yeah, I do, too," he admitted with a shrug of his shoulder.

"That’s not when he died," she whispered hoarsely, her throat burning. "Don’t you even care about that?"

"Liz," Michael dropped to the floor just in front of her, planting his hand on the arm of the sofa. His eyes shimmered in the golden light of the loft, filled with undeniable feeling. "You know I care, but it’s the only sure thing the others can mark."

"But…don’t you believe me?" She asked, feeling tears burn her eyes. Damn him, for bringing her emotions to the surface like this, she thought. For making her heart awaken, when all she wanted was for it to remain cold as a stone.

He touched her face, and slowly stroked a long strand of hair from her cheek, his fingers lingering tenderly there. "Liz, I’ve always believed you. In the connection you shared with him."

"You know what I’m asking, Michael," she nearly cried, ducking sharply away from his hand. He dropped it instantly as she recoiled from his touch, and she noticed that his features hardened a bit.

"When would you want a memorial?" He snapped. "I mean, you tell me when you’d do it, and hell, I’ll set it up."

She dropped her head, feeling her jaw ache. Her throat constricted painfully, and all she wanted was to run. To move freely, not to feel so transfixed by emotion. So captured by Michael’s keen stare.

"In February…that’s when it happened."

"No, Liz, it isn’t. He left in May."

"Stop it!" She cried, wiping at her eyes. She leapt to her feet, struggling past him, but he immediately followed, pouncing to his feet like a graceful tiger.

"You’ve got to deal with this, Liz," he pressed. "I care enough to make you."

"He died in February and I know it!" she shouted, her words echoing hollowly off the rafters of the loft. Michael caught her arm, spinning her back to face him. Suddenly, his expression softened as tears filled her eyes.

"I know, Liz," he shushed her gently. He suddenly seemed so tall, looming over her in the half-darkness of his apartment. "It’s just…well, the others aren’t as convinced."

"I felt it the moment it happened," she explained, words tumbling out in a rush. "I dreamed it eight years ago this month…at precisely the moment it happened."

"Then why can’t you let him go?"

"What?" she cried indignantly. "Excuse me, but what did you just say?" She planted her hands on her hips, staring up at him in forceful determination.

"You heard me."

"But see, I can’t believe I just heard that from you of all people, Michael Guerin."

"I love you, Liz," he blurted, raking his fingers through his long hair. Their eyes met for a soundless moment, only their hearts beating against the insistent rhythm of the music.

Not like I love you…not like I love you…not like I love you.

He’d spoken the unutterable, broken the sacred promise that had bound them, all these many years.

Liz began moving, around the loft, toward the door. Anything other than just standing in the crosshairs of his vulnerable gaze. She clutched at her throat, wishing the painful tightness would lessen.

"Look, I’ve got to go," she finally answered. "Do whatever you guys want on the stupid memorial. He’s dead, end of story."

"Then why can’t ours just begin, Liz?" he asked quietly, so softly she nearly missed it.

"I’ve gotta go," she repeated numbly, images of the mystery painting flashing in her mind.

Open sky, arms extended.

Broken sculpture…slides in college.

Michael in her dorm room, nestling far too close in her bed. Holding her for hours while they both wept. Stroking her hair.

The most loving hands since…

She reached for the handle on the door, throwing all her weight into it, working to force it open. Suddenly Michael caught her hands, trapping them against the steel.

"Wake up, Liz," he hissed powerfully against her ear. "Max is dead."

She paused a moment, closing her eyes, trying to regain her equilibrium, even though her legs trembled beneath her. Finally, she swallowed hard and spoke.

"Yeah, well so am I, Michael."

***
A polar ice cap shifting, groaning against the solid surface underneath. A shattering, a re-arranging. A deal forsaken.

Liz glanced upward, into the New York sky, just the fragments of clear blue that peeked from above the glass and chrome and steel. Occasionally, a cloud would sail quickly into view, then beyond.

An aperture opened and closed, revealing a series of images soaring overhead-- sped up then eerily slowed down, frame by frame, depending on how she studied them.

She sipped her coffee, not Starbucks this time. From that other coffee place that she only ever found in New York. The one whose name she never could remember, not even in her dreams, like now.

A little froth tickled her upper lip, and her tongue darted out, licking it away, as she looked first to the left, then to the right of the busy intersection. Blaring horns wailed, pierced the morning calm.

Steam roiled upward from the subway grating, billowing in delicate puffs of creamy white. Smoke signals from the subterranean city, a secret code that she might decipher.

If only she understood the lexicon of her dreams.

She was in New York, somewhere in the financial district in the early morning. Men in pristine suits bustled to monotonous jobs on Wall Street. Traders and bankers, all droning to employment they might not want, like so many bees in a hive.

The noise was cacophonous, harsh in her ears, as she glanced upward, searching for the sky. And that’s when the edges of blue and cloud glinted from above, tessarae in some critical mosaic. Here was where the truth lay, if only she could reach deeper into the dream.

On her first trip to New York, she’d wanted to see the World Trade Center memorial, had been inexplicably drawn there. She knew from Maria that there wasn’t much to see—not in those days at least—but some part of her needed to touch it herself.

Three thousand or more voices silenced all at once, beautiful and vital, then suddenly no more. Well, not quite at once, she reflected as she stood on the downtown corner in Manhattan, glancing left and right at the morning traffic.

Not a singular moment, but a series of silences. First, 8:53 a.m., and then death parceled out in measurable increments. Like Max’s journey. First the granolith, and later her vision of his death. Now the memorial his loved ones and friends wanted to stage.

And then just silence.

The downtown memorial area was a windswept crater in the midst of the throbbing city center--like a mini-Hiroshima, some cosmic canyon of the human consciousness.

Liz stood on the platform, gazing out at the bits of mangled steel and concrete that remained. Stylized rubble, like some piece of modern sculpture.

Then, in the smallish morning gathering, she saw him. Just standing on the other side of the street, dark hair neatly brushed back, briefcase in hand.

A doppelganger, an eerie likeness of her erstwhile soul mate.

Only this time he looked up at her, from the other side of the flowing river, taxis and buses, pedestrians pulsating between them.

Golden eyes didn’t shift to green, a chin wasn’t different.

Max smiled at her, a tender, haunting half-smile of acknowledgement.

"Max!" She screamed soundlessly, unable to work her mouth. Her jaw throbbed as she moved her lips, tried to utter something. But he turned slowly from her, no further acknowledgment as she scrambled desperately down the viewing platform. She tripped on the steps, sliding.

She hurled herself after him, into the street.

And slammed awake as she landed on the hood of a taxi, sprawling wildly. A hand splayed on the hood, coffee flung against glass.

Shattered pieces. Broken shards. A moment’s image in pieces.

She lay on the hood, breathless and terrified, searching the crowd for Max.

But he was gone, lost in a sea of souls all around her.
***
Liz woke from the dream in a sweat, glancing quickly at the digital alarm clock.

4:34 a.m.

The same time she’d been waking for most every night eight years now, always vaguely terrified. Always from the same dreams.

She rubbed her eyes sleepily and reached for the lamp. She’d tried explaining the repetitive dreaming to her psychiatrist, the one her family had insisted she see during college.

After Max had died.

And he’d explained the waking pattern to her in a perfectly scientific manner, one that she readily acknowledged as the truth. She woke every night at the same time—at the precise time of his death-- as some way of holding onto Max. She’d elected herself keeper of his memory, the one who cared enough to stand vigil over his death hour.

It was like a perverse deathbed watch.

Only she’d never been allowed that, given that closure. So instead she clung to 4:34 A.M, repeated night after night, like some surreal purgatory of her own making.

And that was much less painful than actually clinging to Max.

***
A single e-mail flashed in Liz’s inbox, begging to be read. David Peyton had responded in her absence.

She felt her heart quicken in anticipation, as she slipped out of her heavy winter coat. She flicked the coffee pot on, and settled into her desk chair, ready to be irritated by him.

But she’d never expected the words that she saw, flickering luminously on the screen.

I must apologize, Ms. Parker. I meant no disrespect at all…quite the contrary. I do know how busy you are, and wanted only to make my intentions known. I am not seeking representation, simply to know if you feel my work has potential. Please accept my most humble apology if my actions seemed rude or…crafty.

Yours, David.

P.S. I will send a courier for the painting.

For crying out loud, Liz thought with a roll of her eyes. It wasn’t even six a.m. She was tired and irritable, and somehow such a seemingly genuine response only frustrated her more.

No problem, she tapped out snappishly. Just curious what, "Open Your Eyes," meant. Can you come to the gallery? We’ll discuss your work…I’m here all day.

Liz heard a shuffling overhead and felt a sharp pang of guilt. Michael never stirred this early, which meant one of two things. Either, he’d been up all night, or was already awake uncommonly early.

She knew that either way, she was partly to blame, the way she’d blown off his declaration of love for her. She closed her eyes, shuddering at the memory. And remembered how she’d ached to kiss him just the day before, how beautiful he’d looked standing there beside her, studying the painting.

I love you, Liz. He’d murmured the words with such passion, such intent feeling. She knew the price he’d paid to admit what should never have been spoken.

But he understood their arrangement, and it wasn’t to be defied. No matter what her heart kept whispering in return.

***
I regret that I can’t come. Unfortunately, it isn’t feasible. I am, as they say…physically challenged.

The ellipses betrayed his confession, beckoned her attention to his words, as if he’d wrestled with his self-description, and had arrived at the only possible explanation. But not quite right, she sensed somehow.

Do you take visitors? She quipped, feeling smug. Have you any other work that I might come see?

She was determined to know what secrets David Peyton hid, how this secretive man’s life mirrored her own. For there was a kinship she sensed in his painting, something clandestine and obscured in his work. A terrible secret, a moment forever lost…ever remembered.

There are other pieces, yes, Ms. Parker. But I don’t think you should come. I’ll leave them for your perusal, if that’s alright.

"No, it’s not alright!" She cried loudly, then glanced overhead wondering if Michael had heard her shout, especially since a muffled sound answered right above where she sat.

"Sorry, Michael," she muttered quietly under her breath, hoping she hadn’t woken him from a tentative nap.

I will come there, she persisted. Liz Parker hadn’t made a name in the art world in just four very short years without learning how to be quite determined when it came to scouting talent. Because as curious as she was about the elusive David Peyton, she also knew he had something.

The ability might be slightly undeveloped yet, but his one painting revealed a gift for expressing himself outside convention. She saw thousands of paintings a year from would-be clients, all of them perfectly competent. The problem was what they lacked…the magic. The inspiration. A certain something that would set them apart from the masses of other artists.

David Peyton had that something, so she was willing to pursue him a bit.

What about "Open Your Eyes," she added in a second email. What did that mean, David?

Liz walked to the coffee pot, startled by the quick refrain of "you’ve got mail," as it chimed almost immediately within the silent gallery. She ambled back to her computer, and opened another e-mail from DavidPeyton321@newmex.net.

Open Your Eyes…is the title of the painting.

Those ellipses again, Liz thought smugly, and knew that while it might be the title, he’d also yearned to tell her something entirely different.