Cutler 02 - Secrets of the Morning

now he's somewhere over the Atlantic, I imagine. He was supposed to see you today, Miss . . ."
    "No," I said, "he can't be gone. All his things are here," I pointed out. "The paintings, the furniture . . ."
    "These aren't Michael's things, Miss. Michael was subletting my apartment. I'm sure there is some confusion. I've got his forwarding address in London if you want it, but . . ."
    "No, he's got to be here," I insisted and walked by him. He didn't stop me from entering. I ran through the apartment. "Michael, Michael!"
    One look at the bedroom told me he was indeed gone. The things I knew were his were missing and different clothing was hanging in the closet. There was even a different bedspread. The gentleman who had let me in stood behind me, a look of annoyance on his face now.
    "Listen, Miss, I told you, Michael Sutton is gone. Now do you want his forwarding address or what?"
    "He can't be gone," I repeated, but barely audible. I started out of the apartment and stopped to look at our little Christmas tree.
    "Those are all presents for me," I said softly. The gentleman heard me and laughed.
    "Really? Well, they're not very expensive gifts. All those boxes are empty. He put them there just for decorative purposes," the gentleman said. "I'm sorry. I see you're very disturbed, but . . ."
    "No. He's waiting for me someplace else. That must be it. Maybe he's called me. Oh, no," I said. "He's calling me and I'm not there."
    "If he's calling you, it's from an airplane over the ocean," the gentleman said dryly. "Believe me, I know. I took him to the airport myself."
    I stared at him a moment and then shook my head.
    "No, he's waiting for me someplace else. That has to be it. Thank you, thank you. Oh," I said, stopping in the doorway. "Have a Merry Christmas."
    "Thanks. You, too," he said and closed the door behind me as soon as I stepped into the corridor.
    I walked slowly to the elevator. It seemed to me I could hear Michael singing somewhere. He was singing that love song he had sung when we had had our first private lesson. I began to hum along softly. I stepped into the elevator and went down to the lobby where the sound of Michael's singing was even louder. The doorman opened the door for me and stood back.
    "Do you hear him?" I asked. "Isn't it beautiful?"
    "Huh? Hear who?"
    He watched me step into the snowfall. The flakes struck my cheeks and eyes, but I welcomed the coolness which to me were as soft as Michael's kisses. He was just down the corner, singing. How romantic. I smiled and walked on, his voice drawing me, his promises of love growing stronger and stronger as I moved forward. But when I reached the corner, I found he was singing from another corner, again, just ahead of me.
    Car horns blared as I walked on, ignoring everything but Michael.
    "I'm coming, my love," I whispered, and then, I began to sing along, just as I had that first day. Soon I would be in his arms as I had been and he would kiss me again.
    The snow was blinding, but I didn't need to see where I was going. Michael's voice kept me in the right direction. I could barely make out the traffic lights. Were they red or green? It didn't matter. Everyone in the world was watching us now, waiting and watching. The world was our audience. In moments there would be enormous applause, just the way I had always dreamt there would be.
    I raised my voice and sang louder. He was only a few feet away now. I could see him standing there, his arms extended toward me.
    "Oh Michael," I cried.
    And then I heard the sound of a car horn. It seemed right on top of me.
    There was the squeal of brakes and something brushed across my right leg. It sent me spinning, but I felt as if I were rising, floating up into the snow storm, whirling around and around, going higher and higher.
    Until all went black.

 
    11
NOWHERE TO TURN
     
    I was falling through a great white tunnel, and as I fell, I spun around and around. Each time I turned, I saw another familiar face. There was Momma Longchamp looking so sad and tired; there was Daddy Longchamp with his eyes down looking ashamed; there was Jimmy holding back his tears in anger, and then there was baby Fern smiling and extending her arms toward me.
    I dropped farther and farther down the tunnel and slipped past Grandmother Cutler who scowled. I saw Randolph looking distracted and busy, and I saw my mother, her face all pink, her head resting comfortably on a white silk pillow. Right below her was Clara Sue smiling