Life After Death

Chapter 37 (part two)

Delia had always wanted a daughter. Sure, Roman was a good son - kind, respectful, special - but secretly, she had always wanted a daughter. She wanted to dress her up. Do her hair.

And here, before her, was a beautiful young girl in front of her. The girl seemed off though. Not in a bad way but rather a sad way. The way fear lit up in her eyes when her mother was brought up made Delia wonder what in the world the young girl had been exposed to. She wondered why such a beautiful, delicate little creature was left to venture the dark world all alone with nothing but a yellow dress and shoes that contained holes.

In all honesty, Clara was a wreck. A mess. A disaster on beautiful, long legs.

Clara was a mystery.

Clara moved fast and took too little time to think things over. Especially in this circumstance. The Godfrey's could be murderers for all she knew, yet she wholeheartedly let Delia drag her upstairs and into the bathroom.

Clara thought the bathroom was something made for gods. The claw-foot bathtub was much nicer than hers back home. They didn't even have hot water back home.

Delia drew a bath and poured bath salts and other sweet smelling things into the tub. Delia disappeared and reappeared with a pale blue dress covered in white polka dots folded neatly in her arms, along with white heels.

"I'll wash your hair," Delia said  retrieving the shampoo from the white pine cabinet. She placed fresh towels on a rack, close to the tub and smiled. "Do you want me to look away. Or..."

Clara looked down. She was covered in bruises and cuts and scars because of her mother's abusive nature. She felt tears prick her eyes.

"Honey, darling, sweetie," Delia rushed to Clara's side, "what is the matter?"

Clara smiled at the endearments the woman called her. Delia hardly knew Clara, yet she treated her with such love and care and respect.

"Talk to me, Clara," Delia said in a soft voice. She placed a gentle hand on Clara's shoulder. Clara wasn't used to the affectionate touch and flinched. Delia removed her hand. "I am sorry -"

"No," Clara looked down, "there is something I must tell you. But you cannot speak of it to anyone - especially Roman." She did not want Roman to know about the abuse she went through. It was embarrassing. She would much rather tell an adult, a woman.

"What is it?" Delia frowned in concern.

"My mother... She," Clara sighed and let the dress pool around her ankles. Delia gasped at the sight of young girls body. It was tainted with purple and blue. Scars, as well.

"Clara..."

"My mother... she -"

"You don't have to," Delia said, pulling Clara in for a hug. "It's okay. Now," she looked at Clara at arms-length, "let's get you prettied up."

If Clara could have chosen her family - Delia would have been her mother. She was everything you could ever want in a mother - loving, nurturing, caring, thoughtful. Delia washed Clara's hair and styled it. Delia helped Clara get dressed and soon, Delia was announcing that Clara come down stairs so that Roman could see her.

And when she did, it was like time stopped for Roman.

Clara looked even more beautiful - if that was even possible. He was completely stunned and left in silence.

"Clara..." he said in awe.

"She's gorgeous, isn't she?" Delia said, nudging her son.

"She's..." Roman realized that he had been in a daze and cleared his throat. "She's okay." And he began to cough uncontrollably.

They took a cab to the church which was a couple of blocks away from their home. The church was this beautiful, pristine white building that had a cross mounted on the front. Wide mahogany doors were wide open and people were streaming in and out with white, gleaming smiles. There were families laughing together. Children running around. There was a group of men standing at a grill, each with a beer in hand, laughing together.

Clara felt out of place. Sure, she had the hair and the dress, but that didn't hide the nagging voice telling her that she was an outsider.

"You look great," Roman whispered to her as they hopped out the cab, "not 'okay'."

Clara laughed. "I know I do. You should thank your mother. She's... she's wonderful."

Roman smiled at her. They enjoyed their time together. It felt like she was part of the Godfrey family. Even though she knew her visit would be short-lived. She would enjoy it.

Later that evening, Delia insisted that Clara stay for the night.

Clara stayed in a spare bedroom which became her bedroom after three nights. Clara would help out around the house - clean, do the washing, cook food - but the one thing enjoyed the most was when Roman allowed Clara to clean the motorcycle. Clara even named it - Mac - and it became her best friend, other than Delia and Roman. She would talk to Mac all the time - she was a great listener.

After a month, Clara was a daughter to Delia and to Roman - things were a little more complicated.

Until, one night, Delia went to another one of the church functions, leaving Clara and Roman alone together. It was that night that things fell perfectly in place for the youngsters - Roman was in love with Clara, and she was in love with him.

Clara was the first one to admit it. Instead of saying it back he kissed her.

They were in the backyard, under the stars on a blanket. He kissed her with this searing, burning passion that was so intense that Clara could feel it. She felt it hard and fast. Just how she liked it. In the end, it caused her to fall harder in love with him.

They made love that night. Under the stars - to Clara it was painful but pleasurable; it had been her first time. To Roman, it was probably the best sex he had ever had; that caused him to fall harder for her.

Every night, around midnight, Roman would sneak in her room and they'd talk for hours - about animals, motorcycles, time, extraterrestrials, her mother and his father, everything.

"Take me on a ride," Clara told Roman one night as they lay in each other's arms.

"I just gave you the ride of your life!" Roman said, suggestively.

"Not like that," Clara laughed, swatting at Roman's chest playfully. "I never rode on your motorcycle. Take me on a ride Roman."

"Okay," he said, holding her closer.

"Now."

"What?"

"I want to go now Roman," she insisted.

He did as told. He would do anything for her.

It was past midnight as he lugged the machine out of the garage. He pushed it down the road, Clara trailing behind, and as soon as they were out of earshot of his mother he hopped on and helped her up.

Clara loved the feeling of the powerful machine between her legs. Roman loved the feeling of the woman he loved holding onto him.

The wind whipped around in a cool delight. The air smelt fresh crisp.

"I want to remember this feeling forever!" Clara said at the top of her lungs.

Roman laughed.

Clara laughed.

And then, in the matter of split seconds laughter and joy, turned into screams and horror. An oncoming drunk driver pummeled right into them.

Roman drifted into darkness. The last thing he whispered to Clara as he felt her hands slip from his waist was, "I love you." He hoped with all his might that she heard him because he meant it with every fibre of his being.