Remember This

A slight breeze swirls through the door as yet another customer comes in to the pub. It lifts the hair off her forehead, sticky with sweat , and cools a bead of it that slowly trickles down her neck. Alice shivers, even though this breeze is a welcome break from the unending heat that has pounded on the sidewalk outside all day. She licks her lips with anxiety, and watches as the customer leaned his arms against the counter to speak with the barmaid. He’s a charmer, she thinks as she watches the girl giggle and say a little more clearly, “I mean, something to eat? Drink?”. The man looks familiar. Maybe someone from the Prophet. From some sort of newspaper, at least. . . .

The baby whimpers. Turning to him, she gently pushes a droplet of milk from the corner of his mouth with her thumb. It hangs there, in perfect balance, from her hand, wobbling lightly as gravity fights with beauty, a passionate dance of reality versus hope. Watching it, Alice sees the way the light bends gently around it, making shadows dance. She flicks her hand abruptly, sending the drop flying across the room. Shaking her head, she turns back to her son. She needs to clear her head, think about things that matter. Neville. He is probably too hot. She’ll need to change his diaper soon. Through the mist that is blurring her mind, that has been for days, she tries to think clearly, logically. His blanket. He doesn’t need that. Take it off. Put it in your bag. Don’t forget it here, like you did the other day.

She sighs, closing her eyes. She tries to breathe in, deeply. Her chest clenches tightly. Stop. Breathe out. In. Don’t think. Stay calm.

She hears another high pitched giggle. Turning to look, she watches a group of twelve year olds rushing to the Charmer, asking for an autograph. He grins, signing their napkins with lipstick hurriedly offered by their mother, and waves as they leave. As he turns back to the barmaid, he sees Alice staring at him, and shoots her a perfect grin. Suddenly she knows who he is. Or at least where she has seen him. Witch Weekly. . .I remember. The cover. Yesterday, I think, when I bought that copy. She hasn’t bought a copy in years. Not since at least fifth year. But he had made it to the cover yesterday, and if she remembers correctly, it was his second time that he had won witch Weekly’s Best Smile of the Week. Smile . . . More like a crocodile waiting for his prey. Not like Frank. . .
She remembers the first time she truly saw his smile.


Seventh year. By the lake. She closes her eyes, sinking back, giving in to the mist that has been nagging her all day. All week.

***
It was just after the school year had started. Alice had decided to go for a walk, breathe in the cool autumn air, see the beauty of the lake at sunset. She had snuck out during dinner, whispering a hurried farewell to Marlene and the others, wanting a few gentle moments by herself before she had to do homework. She had wandered, blissfully ignorant of the crowds of students in the castle, simply walking around the grounds. The dew had already set, and she could feel the wetness through her boots. The memory was as vivid as it had been on the very day it happened. The way her breath escaped her in little clouds. The way a leaf blew onto her cloak and the way she had left it there, hardly noticing it in her joy of being outside, almost feeling her soul drinking it all in. She must have wandered for an hour, seeing the way the light filtered though the trees just at the edge of the Forest, tasting the sharp fresh air all the way as it travelled through her lungs, filling her with energy and happiness. The sun spewed brilliant golds and blues across the sky, bled red and yellow and orange and splashed greens. She had never truly realised the colours of a sunset. Never truly appreciated the full beauty of this wonder, her life that bubbled up inside of her. She made her way to up a hill to a rock. The ground dropped out from under her, down a steep slope to the lake’s edge. This was her favourite spot. On a farther side of the lake from the castle it took a long walk to get there, and students rarely graced it with their visits. The hill, almost opposite the lake from the Quidditch pitch, was in full view of the castle, but not of the tree where students usually gathered. She had never been sure if it was out of bounds, but no one had rebuked her for going there in the past, and if one sat on the rock it almost seemed as if you were part of the hill, the landscape. Behind her, the hill swept down and all around her the school grounds spread themselves out in full splendour. The sun set slowly, dying away as if to say, remember me, I belong to you now. It had been getting cold, and she tucked her cloak around her in the gathering darkness, knowing her friends would begin to worry. Stepping away from the rock, she scrambled down the dark hill to the castle, almost missing the shadow sitting at the foot of the hill. She turned, frightened, and saw as Frank turned his head to see her for the first time too. The suns dying rays lit his face, and he smiled, as she did, knowing they had shared this beautiful moment together. As she turned away, she walked back to the common room, the trace of a smile still faint on her lips, that image struck in her mind. Frank, his face half lit and half in shadow, smiling as if to say, remember me, I belong to you now.
***

She blinks slowly, not wanting to dissolve that image that is in her mind, knowing as she does so that Frank is not here any longer. That instead she is sitting in the heat of a crowded bar, her son at her elbow, needing to be changed. She is so tired. For the past week she has not slept, nor eaten much. Her coffee sits on the table in front of her, cold. Her clothes are wrinkled and dirty- the same dress she has worn for the last four days. She had forgotten to brush her hair that morning, forgotten to wash her face. Only Neville’s cries awake her to his needs. She feels numb, in a daze. She knows she must look terrible, like a lost puppy, a forgotten glove, a helpless widow. Widow.She cannot think the word.

Pushing her hair back from her forehead, she groans. Every movement hurts, every limb feels heavy and brittle, whether from the heat or her pain, the pain that she feels, the pain ringing in her ears, the pain pushing the mist of memories to distract her, pushing harder and harder, she doesn’t know. She doesn’t want to give in, knowing that afterwards it will only be worse. She looks to her coffee, unseeing. She doesn’t hear the next gaggle of admiring fans rush the man at the counter, doesn’t feel Neville’s nibble on her finger, doesn’t register the fact that her son has his first tooth. Only a few weeks earlier she would have been ecstatic, jumping with glee, laughing, rushing to the barmaid and the man, any stranger, to show them her son’s, her son accomplishment. Now she doesn’t realise it, doesn’t feel his tiny tooth sucking on her finger, his tiny hands grabbing at hers. She is only seeing Frank’s face. It has been two weeks since she has seen him last. A week since he was supposed to be back from his mission for the Ministry. Frank.

A hand on her shoulder shocks her. She looks up into concerned blue eyes, curled blonde hair. A ringlet falls from the barmaid’s shoulder as her lipsticked lips move. Alice watches, dazed, her lips moving, sees the girl bite at the corner of her mouth. The girl is waiting for a reply. Alice shivers again, jolting herself out of her daydream, her daymare. She nods. ‘Please.’
She doesn’t know or remember what the girl asks. She watches as her hand, red painted nails, picks up the mug and disappears. There is a ring of coffee on the table where the mug has sat. Alice reaches out a finger and traces her name in the coffee. Once it would have been sand. . .

***
Only a year ago, Alice and Frank had been sitting at the sea, their toes dipped into the water as each wave washed up to the shore. Hand in hand, dried sand crusting on their entwined fingers, a smudge of sand on Alice’s face. They had been laughing, talking about something, forgetting for a moment that their lives were in danger. Simply enjoying each others company, the comfort they gave one another. A piece of seaweed had drifted in, over Frank’s big toe. Alice reached down, picking it up and tossing it back to the sea. Where it belonged, Frank said. Bringing it home. Alice said it was more like sending it out, to explore the rest of the wild, wide world. They had argued, foolishly, and then Alice had jumped up, pulling Frank up by the hand, and they both had run. Past angry mothers watching their toddlers wading in the sand, kicking up the sea spray and tasting the salt on their lips. They had run until they were out of breath, throwing themselves gasping onto the sand at the end of the beach. Feeling their hearts beating with exhaustion, beating together. Frank had sat up and written their names in the sand, like so many others before them. A storybook proposal. A fairy tale wedding.
***

Now it would end as no fairy tale did. Only her heart beating on, the tide washing out their names, the only salt on her lips that of her tears. The only laughter memories.

There is a fresh cup of coffee before her. She doesn’t want it, doesn’t remember the barmaid bringing it. She hears a baby crying, realising suddenly that it’s hers, not knowing when he has started. It seems as if the present has been extinguished in the flames of the past.

She picks up Neville, and feels the dampness of his nappy. His shrill cries pierce her ears. Home. I must get home. Although what home would there be without Frank?

She gets up, leaving her coffee on the table. Pushing Neville’s carriage with her knees, she makes her way with her baby, yet alone, to the counter. She fumbles for her purse, looking for a coin. There are tissues there, tissues that she has not yet used. She has not shed any tears yet for her husband, but she knows in the days ahead, she will. There is a melted caramel candy, a gum wrapper. She crushes it in her hand, seeing the whiteness of her knuckles. Frank.
She empties her purse on the counter, whispering an apology to the barmaid, knowing that she must have forgotten her money at home. Tears well up in her eyes. Not this, not now.

The bell jingles. She turns, helpless, not knowing why she turns, but hearing Neville’s sudden silence, and feeling an unresistible pull on her heart. She sees a torn shirt, a shirt she has tried to mend by hand so many times. A face, lined with worry and lack of sleep. A face she cannot, will not, ever forget.

Her arms suddenly in his, their child between them, inexplicable joy welling up through her lungs in a sob, fully appreciating at last this life bubbling up between them, knowing in the whisper of his eyes,
Remember this. I belong to you now.