I can see it on their faces.
They haven’t accepted it yet.
Neither have I.
Lorna closes the door, turns to the one that leads to our deck, staring at Abby through the glass as she squares her shoulders.
“Not used to taking care of other people, are you, Lorna? Don’t fuck this up!”
The door closes between us.
Suddenly I’m outside with Abby without trying or intending to be, like I’m controlled by something else. My soul?
I’m watching her look up, feeling Lorna’s approach. She’s not heartened by it.
Can’t blame her.
Never met a colder woman than Lorna Lyons.
“Abs? I need to hear your voice.”
It takes her a second, but like she hasn’t talked in days, Abby whispers, “I don't know what to do!”
Lorna lays her head on my wife’s shoulder. “Nothing. That's what you do. Nothing. Just rest and…” Lorna blinks a few times, out of things to say. “Time. They say that thing about time.” She glances up and mutters, “I won't bore you with the adage.”
With sarcasm I laugh and shout, “You’re lucky you didn’t say Time heals all wounds, because I would’ve haunted you for eternity! How’s that for TIME!”
I go silent as Abs starts to speak.
“Then time doesn't know me very well. I will never get over this.”
Chapter 10
Max
Been six long fucking months of not being able to talk to anyone. I was at Abby’s work today. Don’t go there often. It’s too depressing watching her stare at a computer screen, email people, and not talk to anyone except when she has to.
I keep her company every night, though. Take the train with her to and from the office. I’ve gotten used to people walking through me now. With commuter traffic it didn’t take long. I’ve been waiting for someone to see me — a psychic maybe? — but they all look and walk right through me.
It’s painful to see her so silent every night. Watch her making dinner for herself, basic meals with zero presentation and no music on, like we used to do. Abs and I used to see live bands nearly every weekend. It’s how we met Arthur. But she hasn’t gone to one since.
She even cleans the house in silence. We used to put on Motown for that, dancing it out, because of course it’s no longer a chore when you’re being goofballs.
More than one cleaning session turned into sex on the kitchen counter, the floor, or the couch with the vacuum cord at its full extension patiently waiting to tangle after we did.
Every day she accepts less phone calls, declines every invitation from her friends.
And she’d better not have sex, or I’ll haunt her for the rest of eternity. Not in the nice way I’m doing now, either.
Outside of the grief counselor sessions where she numbly talks about our history, telling stories that break my heart as much as hers, Abs sits at home after work, like she knows I’m here with her and wants to be alone with me.
But that’s crazy.
I know it is.
She’s got no clue.
While she was sleeping, I visited the two travel destinations I’d always planned on seeing — Belize and Belfast. ‘The Double B’s’ I used to call them, because that’s all they have in common.
As an Irishman who’s sadly never been to Ireland, I had to go. ‘Walked’ around Dublin, too. The islands surrounding Ireland all got a good look from these ghostly eyes.
And who doesn’t want to visit Belize?
Just as pretty as in the photographs.
And just as lonely without Abby.
So I stopped exploring.
Why be anywhere else?
She’s my love.
It was empty without her. And I certainly couldn’t enjoy myself knowing the state she’s in. That’s why I went when she slept.
When Abs awoke after I visited Ireland, I started rambling on as she got ready for work, her face blank. It hurt not to be able to share with her what I’d seen.
Turns out I can feel pain as a ghost.
Pity, that — as my mom likes to say.
A habit I acquired in the repetition of teasing her about it.
I can’t feel Abby.
But I can feel pain.
Sucks.
Had to ditch Abby’s office just now. She was talking to Jennifer about something and I just vanished without trying to. That’s how bored I was.
Thought I’d visit my parents, at their second home outside of the city, a cute cottage on the beach.
“What’re you working on?” I ask Mom while she types on her laptop that has the fake-wood cover I gave her for Christmas two years ago.
Sunlight shines on the back of her bobbed, dark chocolate-brown hair, fingers typing away without pause at my question. She’s sitting with her back to the window — ‘views distract a writer,’ she once explained — while Dad is over in the kitchen, staring out a window, longing for a distraction.
I lean in to check out her story that’s spreading faster than I can read.
I chuckle, “Have you ever had Writer’s Block, Ma?” happy she’s doing what she loves.
After a while, Pops walks up to us with two coffee cups in his hands. Tucking my hands under my biceps like I used to do in life, I stand by. My form to me seems tangible, still. Maybe it just makes me feel alive to stand like this, walk rather than float, talk when nobody can hear, gesture with hands even though I don’t really have any.
Perhaps I’ll give up the habit one day.
Stop trying to be human.
Doubt it.
But who knows?
As Dad sets Mom’s cup down, she surprises me by grabbing his arm. They locks eyes, hers saying she’s here for him when he wants to talk. She gives his hand a loving squeeze.
“Stop typing and go do something fun, Ma. Get him out of this place.”
But she doesn’t do it.
Probably on a deadline.
“Hey Dad, you gonna drink that coffee?” I smile, as he sets it down and picks up a book from a stack on their table. “Because if you’re not, I’ll take a sip.”
I cross to him as he thumbs through the book and notices a bookmarked page. He’s in no hurry to see where he left off, and when he opens to the old spot, Dad gasps.
I flash to his side, staring at a photograph of me at age seven, when my hair was light brown. It darkened as I hit my teens. I’m smiling my ass off, standing on one leg, arms spread and other leg extended like I was about to do a cartwheel and decided against it, so he could take the picture.
Wow.
Yep.
I can still feel pain.
Dad closes the book. We both look over at Mom to see if she noticed his discovery — when did Pops last read this book, anyway? Had to be years ago — but she’s typing away like she found a solution to something that wasn’t working.
Dad returns to staring at nothing.
Only this time he’s got company in me.
I wish you could solve my problem, Ma.
Wish you could solve mine.
I whisper to no one…
To anyone…
“Why am I here?”
Chapter 11
Max