Vanilla

Thirty Eight

[Vanilla]

The strangest thing about having a brain is having it cease to exist in the most important of times, quite literally forgetting its own presence in the head and allowing, instead, a dark silence to fill the void. I was fortunate enough to have never been on the receiving end of this shadowy abyss, scrambling for ground and having every next possible solution fall through. To confess: I did not know what to do next.

And as though standing in the doorway, just barely out of sight, was going to somehow provide me with a concrete answer to an endless question, I'd dug my feet into the floor and stayed in that exact position for a near minute or two—waiting for the recovery of my mind and listening to the faint laughter coming from the living room.

We had to talk. That much, I knew; yet the steps in which I would have to take seemed almost frenzied and warped in panicked thoughts, somehow involving the immediate kidnapping of Leroy regardless of the consequences or the stopping of the entire thanksgiving dinner.

Those thoughts, they were child-like and selfish—as though for a moment, my mind had been reduced to the workings of a four-year-old on the brink of losing his only friend. This was no mind.

"Nillie?" Chip had neared the blind spot I'd chosen to think in, returning to the kitchen with two empty glasses. "Did you find the souvenirs? Is everything okay?"

I threw parts of myself together, straightening up and adjusting my glasses. "Oh yes. Yes, everything's fine. I had to, um, recall where I put them and I was just admiring the design of this archway. Distracted. I-it's a beautiful archway."

My godfather was the most unsuspecting person to ever exist. Yet, he'd paused in his tracks and placed the glasses on the bar top before slowly turning to me with gentle eyes. "Giselle designed it. There's an eagle and a sparrow carved into the wood on both sides. Miki loves it. But... the Nillie I know doesn't have to recall where he's put his things, does he?"

Those words were heavy and at present, I was at a loss for truth and lies. "The bag's in a cabinet by the entrance."

"But, so," he searched my eyes. "You're going to get the goodies or... is there something you'd like to tell me?"

"I-it's nothing," I settled quickly, relieved he'd given the option of an urgent escape. "Thank you. I'll be right there in the living room."

Then I was fetching everything from the cabinet and handing them out one by one—trinkets, the soapstone figurines I'd got from Brazil, the exclusive culinary handbooks—consciously avoiding the gaze of anyone specific, fearing that the look in my eyes were dead giveaway of the rocky waves within.

I'd managed a private conversation with Uncle Al upon handing him a handwoven trinket basket for his cufflinks, conveying my general discomfort. "It's a migraine. I'm really sorry."

"Goodness gracious. Sit down, I'll ask Chip for some medication."

"O-oh I wouldn't want to cause any trouble..." I held on to his arm, panicking slightly. "I probably just need to lie down. Would it... could we perhaps head to the hotel anytime soon?"

It was half-past ten. Any later than eleven, I wasn't quite comfortable with. The sooner I could speak to Leroy alone in our room, the sooner we could have this resolved. And I say that, 'resolve', but I really mean explaining myself and hoping he'd see where I was coming from after, of course, listening to his side of things.