Drops of Cerulean by Dawn Adams Cole

Author:Dawn Adams Cole
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Greenleaf Book Group Press

The reason old souls enjoy spending time alone is because they never really are.

—AUTHOR UNKNOWN

PART

TWO

DELPHINA

Autumn 1973

“DELPHINA,” PATRICIA ANSWERED WHEN THE nurse asked for the name of her baby, who was born on the eleventh of October 1973.

“Come again?” the nurse asked with a quizzical gaze, suggesting a misunderstanding.

“Delphina Ann Cizek,” Benny emphasized, his protective fatherly instincts kicking into gear.

Patricia decided to name her daughter Delphina long before her birth-date, the decision rendered during the 1963–64 school year when she was in the sixth grade. The essence for the name dawned the summer before the school year started, the summer Patricia spent alone in her room, draped perpendicularly across her bed, arm’s-length from the battered record player that rested on her nightstand, so she could reset the needle for a continuous running of “Pintor” by The Pharos. The melodic rhythms of the guitar, punctuated by crisp claps of the maracas, took her to another place, and the fact that there were no words—only sheer instrumental musings—offered an invitation to create her own romantic narrative of a life that bore little resemblance to the current one she held as the second youngest of the six Vizcek children.

Only three children remained at home, and since she was the only daughter left in the house, it was agreed she would have a room to herself while her two brothers shared another. And even though she had her privacy, the thin walls gave way to her brothers pounding, “Knock it off with the cha-cha stuff. Cain’t ya play somethin’ else?”

But she could not play something else. The song was a muse for the life she would one day inhabit, and starting junior high was as good of a time as any to start the transition. Her best friend’s mother not only read Vogue, but she also had an actual subscription, a fact that pushed her to the top of the ranks as far as mothers were concerned. Patricia could not believe her luck when Mrs. Spilka had asked her if she wanted her April issue because she planned on throwing it away.

Patricia carried the magazine home right-side up, as if she were carrying a three-layer cake. Jean Shrimpton stared into her eyes, saying, I know what you want, and I promise you it is as wonderful as you imagine. She painstakingly studied Jean, and with her chipped plastic hand mirror, she practiced what she hoped to be her default expression: aloof, yet inquisitive eyes; a barely there smile; and excellent posture with a slight tilt of the head to elongate her neck.

One day during the summer holiday, Patricia went to Cloth World to rifle through discounted fabrics—some so outdated they carried a coat of dust and others being nicer remnants considered treasures for those lucky enough to have a smaller frame. Patricia, cloudy from the buzz of a morning spent daydreaming about white sands, drinks with umbrellas, and an olive-skinned gentleman, stopped when she came across a fabric dotted with tropical trees and squiggly lines meant to resemble birds.

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