Find me, James

By Sirikit Syah

For six months he had been only a name to me. Sheila liked to tell me stories of her three children, and being her favorite, James was mentioned the most frequently.

And the stories about him were so fascinating I became so impressed by them, and encouraged Sheila to tell me more and more about him.

James is the youngest and the most troubled of Sheila's three children. He got married when he was very young, at 20, and had three children by 25. One day he went home from work and found his wife and a man in bed. He almost killed the man, said Sheila, and was sent to prison.

The other man, crippled by his injuries, and his ex-wife are now happily married. But James still had a scar in his heart. He had loved his wife too much, and now hated her so much.

After spending seven years in prison, he had become a womanizer.

"He was traumatized by marriage, he could not trust any woman," said Sheila during one of our kitchen talks together.

That was until he met Sarah, who had been so patient, understanding, and loving. They were together for five years before he decided to marry her. They had one little boy now. The three children from his previous marriage were living in the U.S. with their mother and stepfather.

The only time they made contact with him was when they started university and asked for financial help. It was his responsibility anyway, so he sent them money.

James had been only a name to me, and a mystery. But after that Christmas dinner party, he became a shadow that haunted me for the next six months. It was at that Christmas dinner party that we met. Sheila and I cooked and she invited her children, grandchildren, and in-laws to celebrate Christmas at home. That was the first time the extended family had gathered together and was introduced to me, an Indonesian woman, living with their mother for one year of study.

James, the mystery man, was not handsome. His eyes showed those troubled years he had experienced, his hair was graying and there was a scar on his left cheek. I remember Sheila told me about his sons playing rugby when they were young. The wound was a memory from those happy times. He was a fine man, however.

James surprised me when he hugged me and kissed me on the cheek when we were introduced. The others did not do that.

"So, this is the sister you have been telling us about, Mum. What has my mother told you about me?"

I was dumbfounded. How dare a stranger kiss my cheek. Didn't Sheila tell him that I was a Muslim? Didn't he know that kissing a Muslim woman was an outrageous act? He did it so quickly, unpredictably, I hadn't had a chance to avoid him.

His spontaneous kiss bothered me a lot, and I could not enjoy the delicious meal. He arranged things so I was seated on his right and Sarah, his wife, was on his left side. He was a very passionate man. He touched my hand, he whispered into my ear, he looked into my eyes, and he put his arm on my shoulder.

He put food on my plate, serving me like the English gentleman I had always dreamed of, except that he was not cold at all. I tried hard to catch what was happening at the table, tried to smile or laugh when somebody told a joke or story, but I was actually lost.

James had a child inside him, which seemed sexy to me. He teased his mother and elder brother and sister, and his wife. He was so noisy I almost believed he was always a happy man. Or, was that the way he tried to forget his past? After dinner, we opened Christmas presents.

When everybody had left that night, James was the last to say goodbye, and I was the last person he said goodbye to. This time I was aware -- and guiltily feeling ready -- that he would hug me and kiss me again. I had forgotten that, according to my religion, I should avoid him at all costs. Only, this time, a few hours later -- after that shocking introductory kiss -- I was besotted with him.

When he approached me after saying goodbye to his parents, his movement toward me felt like slow motion. He held me nicely, and kissed me on the cheek near the edge of my mouth. I might even have closed my eyes for it. For an instant I thought of moving my head so our mouths met, but I managed to control the burning desire inside me.

"Happy New Year, little sister, success in your studies," he said.

The shadow of James haunted me for the last six months of my stay in England, like the clouds on London's skyline that always came no matter what the season was. I still felt his touch in my hand, so warm on that chilly winter night. His voice in my ears sounded like a peaceful and soothing Christmas carol. His breath smelled like morning dew, his mouth on my cheek made me quiver every time I remembered it, and I felt like drowning in his deep dark blue eyes.

After that night, I could not spend one day without thinking about him. Every night I invited him to come to my dreams, and I always dreamt of him making love to me. I experienced an endless climax. For the first time in my life, I understood the meaning and the feeling of being a woman. Then, in my dreams, I would die happily, having been explored, exploited, used, fulfilled.

I looked at the family photo album every day, observing him growing from a baby to a child, and then a teenage boy (he looked gorgeous in his rugby costume), and his first marriage, his first family, his second marriage, his happy face when carrying the baby boy. I wish I had been there through all those years beside him.

I was obsessed with him. I almost failed my exams and had to accept the "only-just pass mark", quite embarrassing for a recipient of scholarship like me. Should I have blamed him? He's gone. It was only a brief encounter. He never visited his mother and me, never called, never appeared again. For him I might only be a cute or exotic little creature from a foreign country, another Christmas decoration, nothing spectacular. I had to forget him. I was leaving for home, back to my country and my people where I belonged.

I was in the garden with Sheila, finishing our summer project before I left for good, when John, Sheila's husband, shouted from the house, "Mia, there is a call for you."

It was seven in the evening but the summer sun was lingering. The sky was as bright as it is at late afternoon in Jakarta. I left my work and went to the kitchen where the phone waited for me. Sheila came after me.

"Mia, this is James." My heart stopped beating for a moment, and I had to take a very deep breath before continuing.

"Hello, Mia ..."

"Hi James. You called to say goodbye? I go home the day after tomorrow." I managed to sound casual, hiding my excitement in hearing his baritone voice.

"No. I want to meet you tomorrow."

"Why?" My heart was beating faster. I could hardly breathe.

"You know why. I have to see you."

My hand was shaking. Did he feel how much I wanted to be found by him? Did he hear my prayer every night for the last six months? I saw Sheila was making tea and I knew she was eavesdropping on our conversation.

"Why did you never visit us, James?" I almost cried.

"I tried to avoid you. And I failed. Please, meet me tomorrow."

His voice was trembling too. I felt the electricity run from where he was through the phone wire into my hand, my ears, my brain, my nerves and my heart.

"What about Sarah?" I asked carefully.

"She knows. I am like an open book to her. She noticed from the first time I laid eyes on you. She helps me through this, and ... my God, she's the best wife any man could ever have. She has given me one day, and she asks me to let go, to forget you after this. Please, darling, say yes ..."

I felt the earth crack beneath my feet. I felt I was dying of ecstasy. I wanted to laugh with joy and yet I also wanted to cry. I was never happier and more sad in life.

"Dear James, I may die on the plane if I do not see you one more time .... "

Saying this, I looked into Sheila's eyes. I couldn't hide it any more.

"Meet me tomorrow at Northwick Park station. I will pick you up and we can go to a nice place. Sarah will accompany my Mum to take you to the airport the day after. I will say goodbye to you tomorrow. Mia, we will just talk. But, OK, frankly speaking, I want to kiss you properly this time, love. I feel I owe you one."

My eyes were wet. I was already feeling his lips on mine, deeply and passionately: A kiss that would last for the rest of my life. I felt his long-fingered hands caressing my body. Sheila looked at me while putting a cup of hot tea in front me.

"I can't promise, James. But I will see."

"Please Mia, this feeling I have for you is so strong. Don't leave me this way ..."

"I think I am in love with you too, James." When I put the phone down, tears were running down my cheeks.

I felt exhausted. All my energy was gone. I was limping. I sat down on one of the kitchen chairs. Sheila put her hand on my head and caressed my hair. I looked up at her angelic face.

"What shall I do, Sheila? I love your son, I am not supposed to."

"I understand your feelings. I have noticed for the past few months. You spent hours every day with those photo albums. But you are a strong woman to keep that feeling inside you for this long. You didn't say a word to me."

"I wish he were not married. I would love to stay here with you and with him. I love you, you know. You have been a good mother to me. But he's married, and Sarah needs him. Oh, why is this happening? Why was he born much too early? Why didn't we meet before? Oh, why is life so complicated?"

"I love you too, darling. You will always be my little daughter and James' little sister. I understand why James has a crush on you. You are a lovely lady."

"What happens if I meet him tomorrow, Sheila?"

"I don't know. You never know. You have one whole night to think about it, and decide tomorrow morning, OK? Now have your tea and rest your mind."

James. For six months you had been only a name. One night of "forbidden touch", and another six months of obsession and burning desire. Since that Christmas dinner party, I had always wanted to be found. Now you found me. I felt my body become so light and my soul flew among the clouds in London's summer sky. I was feeling the warmth of forbidden love.