There’s one of those wash-your-own-car joints across the street and I glance over to see people scrubbing away. Waste of time really.
My hair is unwashed, up in a messy bun. I’m hiding from the light like Dracula behind designer sunglasses I used to worry about scratching, and now don’t. Threw them into the car, in fact. Felt like a big step for me.
Downward?
Debatable.
Separating a red basket from the herd, and fumbling with the handles, feels like work. I mean, why do these always have to be red? Did they think we wouldn’t be able to spot a basket if the plastic wasn’t dyed the color of a stop sign? I don’t get it.
Stop thinking about advertising, Abby. You left that world. And if you were, you’d stay away from yellow, too, because from the looks of these shelves, most overdo it.
Yes, I know the eye sees these first.
Red.
Then yellow.
But blech.
Originality please.
And some water.
Lots and lots of agua.
I skip the fruit and veggie section because they look like health. Unless you count fermented grapes.
I’m so fucking thirsty my throat hurts.
Pulling a water bottle from my basket mid-aisle, I crack the seal and glug until my stomach shouts, I don’t recognize this foreign substance!
Erm.
Anything else?
Nope.
At the check-stand, basket on counter, donuts and wine bottles beeping their way through inventory calculations, I hear a voice — a woman’s voice — and look up at an easy- green apron awaiting my response.
“Sorry?”
She repeats what, from the look in her eyes, I didn’t hear, “You don't look like you're from around here and I know everyone.”
Blinking to my future wine-breakfast, I mutter, “No. I just moved in.”
“Are you a writer? We get a lot of writers up here.”
“I’m not a writer.”
She doesn’t catch the not-so-subtle hint that I’m not here for chit-chat.
“What do you do then? Are you a gardener? We have a great volunteer gardening group that tends to all the local businesses that can't afford big time landscaping companies. Keeps the town pretty, you know? Blooming all year round.”
Trying not to barf, I pay the woman and put my sunglasses back on. “Does everyone know everyone here?”
“The town as a whole is a tight-knit group, a lot of loyalty.”
I pick up my paper bag of groceries which feels much heavier than it probably is, and head off. “That’s great,” I mutter, “Have a nice day.”
She calls after me, “You too!” and her voice changes to familiarity as she greets the next customer, “Jack! Well, aren't you a sight for sore eyes.”
“Wanda, where have you been all my life?”
She giggles, “Stop it!” right before I walk outside.
Volunteer gardening program?
Wanda where have you been all my life?!!
What am I doing in the country with all this happy? Did they give these people the corny pill?
Chapter 15
MAX
Abandoned wrappers, dirty glasses, open styrofoam container of french fries she grew bored of eating.
Abby hates styrofoam, a fact she’d drum into your head if you let her, along with all the evils of any substance which — as of yet — cannot be recycled.
Yet here it is, wide open next to her propped open suitcase that never made it upstairs weeks later, clothes strewn and forgotten since she hasn’t changed from her favorite blue silky pants and black halter top in four days. I believe.
She’s sleeping day in and day out with little nutrition, way too much wine, in designer clothing she used to covet and has now downgraded to pajamas.
My baby is curled on our couch without a blanket, hair dirty, circles around her eyes, passed out, having no idea I’m standing over her.
Hours go by.
She doesn’t budge.
Is she even breathing?
A little.
Short breaths like she’s hanging on.
Baby, please snap out of it.
I miss you, too.
But I’m right here.
God, what can I do?
Please let me help her.
She’s wasting away.
“Abs,” I whisper, and walk outside feeling more down than I have since I found out I died.
“Max?”
I freeze, and flash back inside our living room, antique trunk coffee table between us as Abby slowly lifts herself to sitting, searching the darkness for me.
She inhales, hope removing the tired from her eyes as she hoarsely whispers, “I can smell you!”
“I’m right here, Abs! I’m standing right in front of you, baby!”
But she doesn’t hear me, isn’t looking in my direction. Abby slowly stands up, scanning our living room.
I’m stunned as I watch her follow the path I just walked. I flash in front of her to keep the scent going, the one she’s memorized like I’ve memorized hers.
“I’m right here!”
Outside, bottom of the stairs, her bare feet crunching grass and dead leaves, Abby stops to whisper my name.
I watch my wife plead with the darkness, looking right through me, “Come back to me!” and my heart breaks.
She keeps walking, searching.
I turn around.
Powerless.
Abs steps onto the trimmed grass that overlooks our pond, talking to the breeze like it’s me, like I’m part of nature.
“You don't know how good it was to breathe you in just one more time. I'm losing it.” She raises her hands as I stand behind her, my desire to help her so strong and so impotent as she confesses, “I don't know what I'm doing anymore.” Abby trails off, “ I'm really just…” and her shoulders slump.
How can fate be this cruel. Why did she smell me and now can’t? That was our first tangible connection for the first time since I died.
Why am I here?
Is this some cruel joke?
My wife turns around, dejected, lifts her head and locks eyes with me.
I blurt, “Hi!”
She covers her mouth, “Oh my God!” eyes huge.
“You can see me!”
She lowers her hands, a little scared, whispers, “Is it really you?”
I shift weight like a human, because I want to grab her and kiss her. “It's really me!”
Abby melts with relief, “Oh my God. Oh my God!” opens her arms, rushes to hug me, and falls right through my ghostly body, dropping to the grass.
I flip around, squat in front of her. “Yeah, that's probably not a good idea. I can't catch you anymore.” Abby is staring at me, stunned, and I scan her body, noticing, “You're shivering. Let's get you inside.”
“It's not from the cold!”
“It's not just from you seeing a ghost, either. I know what you've been eating. We have to get you inside or you'll get sick.” She doesn’t move, so I smile, “It's okay. I'm going with you.”
She asks, “Am I dreaming?” fear in her voice that she might be, that this isn’t real.
“You're not dreaming.”
Unable to take her eyes off me, she stands up.
It feels so good to be seen by her again! I laugh at her expression — a small, super fucking happy laugh.