The Apple of My Eye Read online

  By then I had heard all about Paul Cass. He had a reputation. Whomever he wanted, he got. Despite not wanting to be another prize ribbon for his trophy case, I found myself entranced. The apples were the only thing that didn’t figure in. No matter who I talked to or what conversations I overheard, and there were plenty about “Apollo, the god of truth and light,” apples were never part of the equation. Tales were abundant about his numerous girlfriends and his unending charm, but no one ever mentioned apples.

  THE CLOCK TOWER

  The day of my CS 101 final dawned crisp yet clear. Walking to class bundled in my coat and boots, a thrill of excitement mixed with relief washed over me. I would see Paul one more time, one last time. How does one comprehend such conflicting emotions? I had always looked forward to seeing him in class, but then I would kick myself for feeling that way as soon as he smiled at another girl. You know better than this! would be my silent self-recrimination. I felt weak, that as long as I could see him I would never completely get over him, and get over what anyway? I had never been one of his girls. He hardly spoke to me, other than some simple words as he handed me an apple, such as, “Enjoy the fruits of your labors,” or “An apple a day, you know…”

  I had created in my mind a relationship that just wasn’t there. It would be a relief never to see him again, to dump the boyfriend I never had. This I wanted to be the “final” moment of infatuation, no more torturing myself with his looks that bewitched me, no more thinking about him as I lay in bed trying to sleep but unable to let rest my thoughts of him. This would really be final.

  And it was, in a way. It was the final end of my misconceptions.

  When I finished my test, I stood and walked to the front of the class to lay my paper on top of the stack of completed exams. As I did so, I was surprised to find Paul by my side. “Brea, please meet me in ten minutes under the clock tower. I’ll make it worth your time.”

  Bewildered, I lifted my gaze to his. Was I not free yet? Was this just another manipulation? I wasn’t sure what to think.

  Sensing my hesitation, he simply pled, “Please?” It was at once plaintive and sincere, and the raw and honest nature of it caught me off guard. Nodding consent, I turned and left the room.

  True to his word, ten minutes later he joined me under the clock tower. He was uncharacteristically and visibly nervous.

  “Brea, I just needed to talk to you. I would like to get to know you better. I’m so sorry I haven’t talked to you before this.” His words started gushing forth as if a dam had broken and they could no longer be held back. “I’ve wanted to see you outside of class, but I didn’t think it was appropriate while I was your TA. Professor Haynesworth agreed with me, that it wouldn’t be right, but he also assured me that you were worth waiting for.” Looking down, he stammered, “I probably shouldn’t have given you the apples. It’s just that after that first day, I didn’t want to stop.” Raising his eyes to mine, he simply added, “You’re the apple of my eye.”

  When I recall this moment for others, it always comes out sounding cheesy, but it never felt that way to me, not then and certainly not now. It felt like the most romantic thing ever said to me or anyone else on the planet. I would have done anything for him in that moment.

  All barriers collapsed and I burst forth with the smile I had been suppressing all semester. “Apollo, I don’t know what to say.” Then I burst out in embarrassed laughter for using a name he had never mentioned in class.

  He smiled but got a funny look in his eye. Then a twinkle appeared as he asked, “Now why would you call me that?”

  “I ...” was all I could stammer out, before just shrugging my shoulders and painting a mock surprised look on my face.

  To his credit, he let it go. “So, Brea, I wonder if we might go about this a little more properly, now that class is over. Would you like to have dinner with me? Say tomorrow? Unless you’re already heading home for the holidays?”

  “Sure,” was my only response. I was heading home, but a friend was driving me. I figured I could convince her to postpone for a day.

  “Around five? Is that too early? And where do I pick you up?”

  Arrangements were set, and I literally floated back to my dorm room. I almost forgot to go to my last final later that day I was in such a daze.

  . . .

  Paul came for me at ten to five, but I was ready. He greeted me with an apple. He didn’t need to repeat the earlier sentiment; the expression in his eyes said it all as he gently placed the apple into my open palm. His hand lingered this time, as it never had during the semester. He looked at me with what felt like too honest a look; he seemed to read into my soul. His power over me was almost frightening. He immediately sensed that his intensity had disturbed me. Breaking his trance with a smile and a wink put me at ease, repairing the moment.

  I don’t remember what we ate for dinner, you think I would for a first date, but I do remember the conversation as if it were yesterday. We talked the whole way to the restaurant as if we had known each other all our lives. Paul was every bit as charming as I had feared.

  All too soon dinner was over and I was reluctant to end the evening. Paul apparently felt the same way, for when we left the restaurant, he asked if I would like to stroll around campus. It was a mild winter evening, but I was grateful when he offered to put his arm around me, fearing at the time it might also be a mistake. Was I ready for this? Was he? I knew so little about him.

  All concerns dissipated, however, as I became intoxicated by the sound of his voice and the protective feel of his arm around my shoulder. I leaned my head against him as we wandered the sidewalks of campus gazing at the stars and talking about our plans and our futures. I felt like I belonged right there in his embrace.

  We didn’t return until two in the morning. We stopped outside my apartment and I leaned back against the brick of the building, looking up into his eyes. He placed his hand on the wall behind me, returning the intensity of my look. Bending down he gently kissed my lips. He took my breath away as I returned his kiss while his free hand came down to find mine and our fingers laced together.

  He surprised me by pulling his lips away from mine, but he still held on to my hand. He looked down at our joined fingers, hesitating as if he didn’t trust himself. Then gradually he lifted his eyes to mine, slowly backing away until, still connected, our arms stretched between us. His look was serious, and I didn’t know what it meant. He dropped my hand, stared through me for a moment longer, and was gone without a word.

  . . .

  I barely slept that night, but my friend and I were trying to get an early start, so I arose early anyway. As we were loading the last of our things into the car, I was surprised to hear Paul’s voice behind me. I hadn’t seen him approach.

  “Good morning, Brea. I just wanted to wish you a safe journey.”

  I was so happy to hear his voice that I surprised myself by twirling around and giving him a big bear hug. He wrapped his arms around me and picked me up off the ground. My heart beat faster, and I realized I didn’t want to go home. I wanted to stay here forever in his arms.

  Paul finally set me down. “Brea, hey call me and let me know you got there safely, okay?”

  “Sure, although it might be late.”

  “That’s okay.” Then reaching into his pocket, he pulled out two apples. With a grin and a wink, he said, “You know, just in case you’re hungry during your long drive home.” And then he was gone.

  I made it safely home for the holidays, and almost before I greeted my parents, I was on the phone with Paul, telling him of my safe arrival. My parents looked at me with raised eyebrows and slight smiles as Paul and I talked for over an hour.

  . . .

  Over the nex
t few days, I could think of nothing but Paul. We talked to each other every day, sometimes multiple times a day. My mother smiled knowingly while rolling her eyes each time my phone rang. I found myself trading my infatuation for something else; I just wasn’t sure what it was yet.

  I felt guilty for having left him behind at school when he confided to me that his parents had both been killed a few years earlier in a car accident. I hadn’t realized he had no other place to call home. He assured me he was fine. “I am at home, and now I’m thinking more and more about finding a little bigger apartment to call home. You know, just in case.” I’m sure he could hear my smile.

  It turned out that once we were “together” we didn’t want to be apart. With my parent’s consent (and curiosity), Paul flew out to see me for New Year’s. He spent the day stealing glances at me while conversing with my father about football. He complimented my mother’s cooking and lingered over old family photos lining the walls. Before he left the next day, my parents were as smitten as I.

  AN ECHO IN MY EAR

  I headed to the hospital in disarray. Before leaving home, I had awakened my neighbor, Martha, a sweet great grandmother who loved Noah. Martha would have happily watched him at our place, I realized, right after scooping Noah up out of his crib. Instead, I roused her, dumping Noah in her lap with a hastily packed diaper bag and a key to our door so she could get whatever she needed. I had no idea how long I would be gone.

  Driving through town in the dark night felt wrong. Since having Noah, I was rarely out this late. Nothing looked the same. Usually I loved this town. It was the right mix of small and large, big enough to have all the amenities someone might want, but small enough to feel cozy. The university was close, but not so close that the parties spilled out onto our streets. Paul had taken a job here after his graduation so that I could finish school.

  Tonight nothing appeared welcoming or inviting. In the midnight hours all the colors on buildings and signs looked washed out, fading to merely gray or pale white. I felt certain that if I looked in a mirror even my blue eyes would look gray. I wondered for a moment if I were dreaming, but the thought of dreaming brought back to mind the strange sensations of earlier, and I took a deep breath just to make sure I could.

  Paul, Paul, please be okay. Please be okay! I pled silently in my mind, too scared and too much in shock to let the tears loose that threatened to drown me. I drove past quiet homes lurking in the darkness. I wondered how anyone could be sleeping at a moment like this, but I knew their lives were not hanging on what was happening at the hospital a few miles away. They could not feel my anguish nor see the concern in my eyes. They would wake up in the morning as if nothing had happened and make their breakfasts and go to work or school or take care of their children as if the day were like any other. But it wouldn’t be, and I knew it, regardless of what greeted me ahead.

  The hospital, ablaze with light, was in sharp contrast to the rest of the bleary town. A large neon EMERGENCY sign assaulted the dark night while echoing my fears. I almost pulled up directly to the emergency entrance, only stopping myself at the last minute as I realized I was expected to take the time to park my car and walk to the entrance, as if I had all the time in the world.

  Hospitals are not warm and welcoming places. Noises abound - the rattle and swish of curtains being pulled around patients for a mock sense of privacy, the constant pad of feet in hallways, beeps of machines and the pumping of blood pressure cuffs. And then the voices, saying things you don’t want to hear, things you should never hear, some meant for your hearing while others overheard in moments solemn, thoughtful, noisy, but not noisy enough.

  I started with the emergency room desk. “I’m looking for my husband, Paul Cass. Do you know where he is?” The receptionist looked harried and tired. The waiting room was full, indicating it had not been a slow night. She half-heartedly looked through her computer and flipped some notes on her desk. Without saying anything, she got up and went back into the recesses of the emergency room.

  Hollering loud enough for all in the waiting room to hear she called, “Hey, Jules, was that DOA named Paul something or other?”

  “Paul Cass,” came the echoing reply.

  OF LIONS AND ELEPHANTS

  Memories after that moment are mixtures of haze with snippets of clarity. I remember there was a police officer who came and found me in the waiting room. Gently he led me to a quiet place. I’m fairly certain he gave me the official word that Paul had died in the ambulance on his way to the hospital, but since I already knew, what did the words matter. I do recall he used the word “hero,” although it made no sense at the time. I believe he asked me some questions, but I don’t even know if I answered them or not. At some point, a friend of mine was called to come drive me home. Amy delivered me back to my place either in my car or hers, I couldn’t tell you which. I only know that later my car was parked neatly in my garage as if I hadn’t taken a slight detour to the hospital, altering forever the path my life would take.

  With my mind in a fog it surprises me that I remember the remainder of that night, my first night truly alone, with absolute clarity. How can you describe feeling so totally alone, with no hope for change? Paul had been working nights lately, so I had slept alone in our bed, been alone until he would come in around three AM. He would climb quietly into bed so as not to disturb me, but the smell that was only him would intrude upon my dreams, and I would open my eyes and smile, knowing he was there. Some nights the exhaustion of being a mom overwhelmed me, and I would smile at him and then drift peacefully back to sleep. Other nights we would talk about his day and mine, and I would snuggle into his protective embrace, willing sleep away for just a few more private moments.

  But that first night, he never came home. I knew in my head that he wouldn’t come, that he never could again, but my heart kept calling to him. Surely he would hear me and come. It would be like The Princess Bride, my favorite old movie, when Wesley says to Buttercup, “Death cannot stop true love.” Paul would find a way and come to me!

  My body was bone tired from a night like no other, but I couldn’t sleep. How can I go on? How can I move even one step forward? I wondered. I could not understand what had just happened. How does someone go from being here to being gone? It just doesn’t seem possible. There has to be a warning somehow, a way to prepare. With a grip of fear I thought of my experience at the beginning of this night (could it still be the same night?) and of how I felt before the phone call. Was that my warning?

  I wrestled all night long like a lion taking down an elephant alone. No matter which side I attacked, I couldn’t gain a purchase. Looking from every angle I could imagine, all I could see appeared gray and rough. I couldn’t sink my teeth into the tough hide of the reality of my life. I have never known such despair. My mind was blind to everything but my indescribable grief. It was bigger than my soul, and I felt it would crush me before morning.

  Surely if I just let the grief in, it would run throughout my body, and the elephant would win. I would fade away and die, be gone, feel nothing, but all I felt was a crushing weight that would not kill me. I did not wish to die, but living felt cruel and impossible.

  The tears did not come until I thought of Noah. For his sake, I could not die. I had to live, and living meant dealing with pain like I had never known before. And so the tears came, slowly trickling at first, and then in rushing torrents soaking my face and my pillow and our bed, a bed meant for two, now home to only one. I sobbed in great body shaking sobs that echoed throughout the hollow house. I cried for Noah, who would not long remember the father who bounced him on his knee, who tickled him, who kissed him and threw him in the air to the sound of baby giggles. I cried for Noah, and I cried for me. I cried my eyes from pink to red to swollen. I cried and while I did, the lion in me decided I could not slay the elephant. The ele
phant would live, but so must I. Just how was I to survive?

  A SECOND CHANCE

  Starting my second semester of college was very different from starting my first. I wasn’t worried about classes or roommates. I had only one thought and that was Paul. As soon as I returned from the holidays, Paul picked me up and we went to his apartment to watch old movies and eat popcorn.

  He cringed when I chose The Princess Bride, but I told him how much I loved watching it with my parents. I was pleasantly surprised when he sat through the whole thing, and I subsequently vowed to watch a guy movie with him the next time.

  That evening was followed by many others. We watched more action flicks than I knew existed, and we played card games and board games, sometimes with friends but mostly with just the two of us. Often we sat together in silence, each of us intently working on our respective homework assignments, content to be side by side.

  One weekend, after a particularly grueling week, Paul invited me out to a nice restaurant for dinner. When he picked me up, he seemed to be in a more serious mood than usual.

  After we were seated in the restaurant, Paul regarded me thoughtfully, then asked, “Why did you give me a chance?” We had talked so much lately, but he had never been so direct, and we had never talked about why and how we had actually gotten together.