Taking a Risk …Finale …Bewildered and Bereft

God gave us memory so we might have roses in December.
—J.M. Barrie

On the Edge

After spending the afternoon conferring with Harry, my grief counsellor, I finally feel it's time to move on with my life.

Harry has encouraged me to pursue my relationship with Celeste and basically confirmed the decision I already made in my heart.

I need to get out of my own head and move ahead and the best way to do that is to get to know the girl with whom I've decided to spend the rest of my life.

And there's no better place to begin than to ask Celeste to take me to her secret place on the bluffs, several hundred feet above the lake and to try to see the world through her lens.

Celeste agrees and we start out immediately because it's already close to dusk and I want to see her special place while there's still light.

We walk for some time along the cliff’s edge until we finally come to the spot. It’s exactly as she described it.

There’s a squall out on the lake and the long white waves are racing landward. The place has a wild beauty about it, but it’s treacherous too.

The three hundred foot drop to rocks below is sobering.

“Do you like it?” she asks.

“I do. Thanks for bringing me here.”

I lean over and kiss her cheek and notice her skin is chilled.

“Are you cold? Your face is freezing.”

“I’m a little shivery—I’ll be all right.”

I shake my head. “I don’t think so—it’s frigid here with that wind off the lake. We should get back.”

She nods and allows me to put one arm around her and guide her away from the edge.

She’s strangely quiet on the walk home and seems preoccupied.

When we get in, the fire is still burning in the hearth, but I add another log and use the bellows to fan it to a roar.

She’s still somber, standing with arms folded near the door.

“Look, Celeste—I’m sorry if I was too forward. I just felt so close to you out there.”

She waves off the remark. “It’s all fine, Scott—you did nothing wrong. You’re a perfect gentleman.”

“Then what’s wrong? You seem upset.”

Her eyes are glistening with tears and she’s twisting her gloves in her hands, trying to remain calm.

“It’s not you—it’s me. I know how you feel Scott—and truly, I feel the same way too, but I’m not the girl for you.”

“I think you are, Celeste—I’ve fallen in love with you.”

She begins to cry. “This shouldn’t have happened—this is all my fault.”

I go over to her and wrap my arms around her. She goes stiff as a statue.

“Please, don’t touch me now.”

I back off.

“You don’t understand Scott—I’ve suffered a trauma too and as much as I need you, clinging to you now just wouldn’t be right.”

“Is there somebody else?”

She shakes her head.

“Then why—what is it, Love? I’m willing to wait for you as long as it takes.”

“No!” she says fiercely, “you have to trust me and go on with your life.”

“But will I see you again?”

She pauses a long time before answering. Her eyes are filled with pain.

“Perhaps—if I’m too weak—if I can’t resist the urge to be in your arms again.”

At that moment the phone rings in the study, as the voice mail speaker indicates a call from Harry.

“Go ahead, take the call, Scott—it’s your publisher. It might be important.”

“I’ll be right back,” I say.

But when I return from the study, she’s gone.

At Harry’s suggestion, I file a missing persons report with the Toronto police. Immediately, we get a hit—her name and photo are on file, but in relation to an old case.

It seems in 1935, Celeste Warren died in a fall from the Bluffs. The police report from that year cited a weakening of the cliff wall due to an excessive rainy spring. Apparently, a large portion of ground fell away leaving only a narrow ledge.

Celeste fell over the edge and perished on the rocks below.

Harry and I are both in shock. What happened makes absolutely no sense. Why would a girl dead for eighty years suddenly appear to me?

We both talk about it for hours—sometimes late into the night.

Martin Wallace, my psychiatrist, is mystified, but I sometimes wonder if he doubts me—especially since only I saw Celeste.

Harry’s more optimistic about the sad affair. “It’s changed you for the better,” he maintains, “so we should publish your book—dedicated to her—as a tribute to your love.”

I agree. And though I’m in grief, it’s better it seems.

I’m less fearful nights and untroubled by dreams.

So now, I sit up late and stare into the flames and talk to her inside my head.

I feel she’s still here.

Jules, my dog, senses it too and lays his head on my foot, making soft whuffling sounds. He’s entitled to miss her too.

I'm reminded of the Bible verse my deceased brother bookmarked comparing sparrows to swallows

Si, my dead brother, ia a sparrow winging away somewhere in another world, while I’m a swallow in an empty nest longing for a love that may never return.

All day long the lines from a Dinah Wasington song keep playing over and over in my head...

Where are you, Love?
Where have you gone without me?
I thought you cared about me.
Where are you, Love?

© 2025, John J Geddes. All rights reserved

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