The Girl With Aquamarine Eyes (14 page)

* * *

Rays of sun burst through the imported Tuscany curtains. Metallic
threads interwoven in the fleur-de-lis fabric danced in the morning light. They
mixed with the rising glow, and set the room on fire in a bath of gold.

Harmon slowly opened his eyes. He blinked, and blinked
again. He must be dead. He had to be dead. He remembered nothing. No, there was
something. Deep down in the darkest closet of his cobwebbed mind. He must’ve
fallen off the stage.

No, he hadn’t fallen. He remembered the blood. A fuzzy image
danced beyond his memory. Too much blood. His life ebbed from his wound, much
like the tide had ebbed when he was on the beach in the moonlight, leaving
behind a pool of crimson on the pristine sands.

He gazed toward the sunlight. Next to his bed an angel sat
upon a gilded chair. She seemed to be sleeping. But angels didn’t sleep. The
sun glinted in her golden hair, spinning the delicate strands into silken
threads.

“Heaven, is that you?”

She didn’t respond. He stared at her a moment longer.
Satisfied she was breathing, he realized his mouth was terribly dry. His belly
churned with pangs of hunger, unwilling to be stifled. He couldn’t be dead.
Dead people didn’t get hungry. Or for that matter, thirsty.

He raised his hand to his face. His skin was glowing pink,
far from the hand of a skeleton he expected to see. He turned it over and
studied his veins. There appeared to still be blood coursing through them.

He wasn’t convinced. He pressed his fingertips to his
cheeks, searching for the warmth only a living body could bring. Still
unsatisfied, he ran his hand down his neck and across his chest. The warm,
gentle beat deep within finally reassured him once and for all. He was still a
Musical God.

“Harmon?” Bice asked. “Good morning. How are you feeling?”

Harmon turned toward the voice. He gasped as is eyes fell
upon his manager.

Bice looked like he’d wrangled with the devil himself the
entire night. His eyes were sunken and bloodshot. Dark circles beneath nearly
overcame the soft allure of his auburn gaze. Orange stains mottled his shirt
collar. What seemed to be traces of blood lined his cuffs.

He sat up and gazed at his manager. “What happened to you?”

Bice sighed and rubbed his chin. “I’m fine. The real
question is, what happened to you last night?”

Harmon noticed his foot felt rather odd. Prickling
sensations overcame it, yet it was freezing cold at the same time. He threw the
covers back in fear.

Thick gauze covered his limb, reaching upward beyond his
mummified ankle. On each side were packs of ice, encased in sea blue latex
gloves. The fingers stuck out at odd angles, mimicking a mime without a body.

Harmon struggled to reply. Feathery wisps of a headache were
beginning to form deep within his temples. “I was on the beach and I stepped on
something. I managed to get back to the house, but must’ve fallen in the
kitchen.”

Bice gave the musician a reassuring smile. “The doctor said
you’ll be fine, but you lost a lot of blood. Apparently you fainted. He said
you didn’t loose enough blood to cause you to loose consciousness. He sewed up
your foot and explained your fainting spells are most likely stress related, or
due to the fact that you can’t stand the sight of blood.”

Harmon barely listened to his assistant, choosing instead to
gaze at Heaven. “Why is she in here? What’s going on?”

“I needed to keep an eye on her.” Bice hesitated a moment,
gazing at her as she slept on the chair. He started to chew his nail, but
suddenly stopped as the image of a termite played in his mind. “Someone needs
to.”

Harmon fought to bring back the memory of the night before. “The
vases. They are whole again.” He kicked aside the ice packs, and swung his legs
over the side of the bed. “Bice, tell me it was a hallucination. Tell me it isn’t
so.”

Bice paled. After the doctor had left the night before and
Harmon was safely in bed, he’d gathered the vases up. He hid them in a linen
closet on a mostly unused wing of the great house. He’d be damned if Thornton
or Bonita walked into the kitchen and discovered them as new again. He wouldn’t
be the chosen one left holding the bag, grasping for explanations to tell the
staff.

Finally he’d checked on Heaven. She was safely and
surprisingly, asleep on her bed. Once again, her hands were burned to a crisp.
He’d spent the next hour applying ointment and bandages.

At a loss as what to do with Heaven, he’d finally decided to
carry her into Harmon’s suite. He quickly deposited her on the chair next to
the musician’s bed. The girl was apparently exhausted. She’d never woke.

He locked the door to the room, and rushed downstairs to
clean up the mess in the kitchen. Unbelievably, the staff had slept through it
all. Finally, he’d sopped up the musician’s bloodied footprints.

Bonita had apparently not seen a thing, nor had he, because
the hallways were so dim. He’d gone back to the kitchen and stared in amazement
at the collection of golden coins. He finally tucked them away at his next
stop, Harmon’s room.

The rays of sun were filtering through the curtains as he
finally settled into the chair near Harmon. He’d not slept the entire night. He’d
held vigil at the musician’s bedside, while keeping his other eye on Heaven.

“I can’t tell you it’s a hallucination.” He replied. “It’s
real. I saw the vases myself, and nearly choked to death on a blasted orange
juice when I did. We have a problem, Harmon. A big problem.”

Harmon turned his gaze to the girl at his bedside. He was
suddenly stricken, yet again, by her overwhelming beauty. It was not her fault
strange things were happening in the household. Her bandaged hands seemed
haphazardly secured. Lengths of knotted gauze hung in ribbons from each. She
looked beyond exhausted. Almost as if she were in a coma.

“She can’t help it, Bice.” Harmon responded. Whatever it is,
we must learn to live with it. Most of all, she must learn to live with it. All
we can do is accept it, and support her. There couldn’t possibly be a logical
explanation for any of this.”

Bice sighed as a look of resignation swept over him. He
already knew the girl held a very odd gift. The gift to somehow mend broken
lamps and broken legs. He wasn’t sure what happened on the staircase, but he knew
he’d have to accept it.

“What will her future bring?” He asked the musician. “How
can we give her a normal life when our own lives are so far from normal?”

Harmon gazed at the glinting sun as it streamed through the
window, lighting her golden hair into a burst of fiery hues. “Que sera, sera.”
He whispered. “Let it be. Let’s try to accept it and carry on as normally as we
possibly can.” He laid back on the bed, and was soon asleep.

Bice stared at his employer. The musician who’d also become
a close friend over the years. The same man who helped him overcome his own
addiction to alcohol, even though he had demons of his own burning. He always
had a great deal of respect for Harmon. This was the side of the man the public
would never see.

“Que sera, sera.” He whispered to the sleeping musician. He
leaned back in the chair and finally, closed his eyes.

* * *

Bonita pushed a stray hair from her brow as she glanced out the
kitchen window.

The last rays of the sun were slowly fading beyond the
hills. The enormous mansion had been unusually quiet today. Neither Harmon,
Bice nor Heaven had come down.

After her housekeeping chores, she’d busied herself
preparing her employer his favorite meal, tomato soup. She glanced at the clock
on the far side of the kitchen. It was nearing dinnertime. The wealthy families
she’d worked for in the past might have paled in horror at the thought tomato
soup for dinner. She knew the hearty aroma would weave its way upstairs and
lure Harmon down any minute.

Despite his wealth, he’d never sought to indulge in the
frivolities of fine cuisine. He was a Southerner. To the best of her
recollection, he’d been raised on tomato soup. Or maybe, it was chicken friend
steak. Often, she couldn’t remember. Nevertheless, she was certain he’d pop his
head through the doors soon. She dipped the spoon into the bubbling broth, and
gently stirred it.

The double kitchen doors whooshed open suddenly and startled
her. The ladle slipped from her hands and plunked onto the floor in an
explosion of orange broth.

She stared in horror at the mess. “Oh no!”

“I’m sorry, Bonita.” Heaven stood in the doorway, staring at
the mess on the alabaster floor.

Bonita wrung her fingers against the bottom of her apron. “No
problem.”

Heaven approached the housekeeper. “What is that?”

“Tomato soup.”

Heaven shook her head. “No, look where the spoon fell.” She
pointed at the mess it’d left behind. A metallic glint sparkled from beneath
the edge of the counter.

Bonita lifted the strange object and studied it. “It’s a
golden coin. A pure gold coin.”

Heaven stared at the token, as a faint wave of familiarity
embedded itself into her frozen thoughts. She shook her head in disbelief. It
was impossible.

Suddenly, drums beat in the distance. She spun on her heel
and gazed around the kitchen, searching for the source of the sound. But there
were no drums being pounded nearby. Maybe in the studio, but not here.

She felt her knees grow weak as she gazed once again at the
token Bonita held. A tingling sensation slowly marched upward from the back of
her thighs, until it made its way to her lower back. She flexed her fingers
repeatedly as her arm went helplessly numb.

But it was no use. The numbness quickly spread to her
opposite hand. She gasped, realizing her hands were not numb. They were burning
hot. She stared at her palms, while beads of sweat materialized across her
cheeks.

“What is it?” Bonita asked. “Is something wrong?”

Heaven could only gaze at the coin. Her mouth opened and
closed, but no words came. She clenched her fists, willing the searing heat to
go away and shook her hands violently.

The ants had made their way to her shoulders now. She
reached behind her and tried desperately to wipe them away. The drums beat
louder as the ants slowly spread across her face. They were in her eyes now,
and in her mouth.

A seagull cried from high above. She gazed at it, but it was
not there. Only a bright light stared back at her, surrounded by carved ceiling
tiles with tiny bits of glitter dotted throughout.

“Heaven, steady now.”

Bonita watched the girls face pale as if she were staring
into the portal of death itself. She felt the coin fall from her hand, and
watched as it rolled silently across the slick tile. It finally hit the far
wall, fell to its side and lay in the last rays of the setting sun.

Heaven stood like a statue as the coin performed its swan
song. She moved toward it and stared at it as if it were Medusa herself. Her
hand shook as she knelt and picked it up.

Staring back at her were etched palm trees in gold relief.
She moved her thumb across its face, feeling the rise and fall of the golden
token. A native stood in front of the trees, a spear poised above his head.
Behind him, the rolling sea. There was no date on the coin, nor any words, only
a 24k mark.

She flipped it over, squinting to see it as the last of the
sun’s rays coming through the window near her were held at bay by the falling
darkness. Her heart fluttered, it was suddenly a butterfly, beating mercilessly
against a wind that would surely slam it into a rocky ledge.

She inhaled sharply. The gulls screeched once more above
her. But this time, she did not look. She knew they weren’t there. Unbelieving,
she studied the coin again and willed the picture she gazed at to mercifully
fade away.

It did not.

The back of the coin bore her own image. Her long golden
hair billowed in the wind, the curls seemingly tossed about by an invisible
breeze. Her chiseled cheekbones were perfectly etched, right down to her narrow
nose and full lips. Behind her head, the rays of the sun beamed outward and
came to rest at the edge of the token.

She was staring into her own eyes. But she was staring into
the eyes of a stranger. The coin slithered from her sweaty fingers as if it
were made of molten lava. She stood up and staggered across the kitchen, the
taste of bile filling her throat.

“Heaven?” Bonita moved toward her.

She did not care. She had to get out of this place. Deep
inside, she knew she could not run from her memories, but she would still try.
There must be a place somewhere. A faraway place where she could live in peace.

Her belly lurched in anger as she fought to stifle the bile
foaming in her throat. The burning liquid would not be abated. She rushed out
the kitchen doors and vomited onto Harmon’s fine imported wool rug.

Bonita shook as she reached for the phone. “Mr. Steele, come
to the kitchen quickly. Miss Heaven appears to have taken ill.”

She let the phone fall from her hand and watched the girl
stagger into the darkened hallway.

* * *

Bice woke to a rumbling thunder in his belly.

He opened his eyes and stifled a yawn. Rubbing the back of
his neck, he gazed around the gloomy suite. Harmon lay asleep. He’d have to
wake him soon, none of the trio had eaten all day and he was near starved.
Plus, it would be time to check his foot for swelling.

He rose and stretched. Now, his back hurt. He should’ve
known better than to sleep in the chair. But he had no choice. He was lucky he’d
slept at all.

He gazed at Heaven. It took him a few seconds to realize an
empty chair stared back at him. His heart stopped a moment in fear, as his
stare moved toward the window beyond the chair. The glossy pane was still
intact.