by H. M. Ward
He groans dramatically. “I think I said a group of us could go, didn’t I. Did I say Vi? Let’s veto Vi? She drives me nuts.” He turns, smiling at me over his shoulder. “You can veto one of my annoying friends.”
I smirk. “You don’t have any friends.”
“Ouch,” he presses a hand to his chest. “That was harsh.”
I’m smiling for a moment, but it fades quickly. “Where would we go?”
“I don’t know.” He picks up a towel and wipes his hands off before coming over to sit with me on the lawn. “Wherever you want. Then the prick who broke into your house can have at it, or move on. Maybe being gone will make it stop.”
“That’d be nice.” Tim knows this has happened more than once. “Who would do something like this?”
He shakes his head and then leans back onto his elbows. “I don’t know. Someone who really thinks you need to stop diving?”
“Smartass.” The heat is oppressive. I push damp hair out of my eyes. “Seriously, other than your mom, I can’t think of anyone who hates me so much. And she’d throw all my stuff on the floor, not move it around.”
Tim is quiet for a moment. His shirt is stuck to his body, damp with sweat. “She’ll get over it. We all will. Eventually.”
Zach and Tim were as tight as brothers could be. The same hollow sadness that fills me is in Tim, but his doesn’t devour him. It’s not all consuming the way mine can get. I envy him at times, wishing I could let go of some of the pain.
I blurt it out. I have to. There’s something in the moment, so raw and real that I don’t want to keep it from him. Maybe part of me just wants to hear him say I’m crazy. Or maybe I want him to confirm that picture is old and I’m mistaken. I don’t know what my motivation is for telling him, but once I start, I can’t stop.
I spill the entire story about the Facebook picture. “There was a scar on his side.”
Silence swallows us. Tim remains in his position, lounging back on the grass, but closes his eyes for a moment. When he opens them again, he tips his head back and stares at the sky. “Zach didn’t have a scar on his side.”
“I know.” His eyes are locked on mine, as a crease appears between them. A moment passes with him staring at me in silence.
“So there are two scenarios here.” He sits up and ticks off on his fingers. “One, that wasn’t him. Or two, it was.” Tim swallows hard, forcing the Adam’s apple in his throat to bob.
“Yeah, you make it sound simple.”
“It is simple. Come on.” He rises and offers me a hand. “Show me. I’d know Zach anywhere.” I can’t tell if he’s humoring me or if he means it.
Feeling stupid, I sit in the grass and ignore his offered hand. “I can’t get the picture to come up again.”
Tim stands there, above me, and plants his hands on his narrow hips. “So we’ll find it.” He offers his hand again. This time I take it.
Chapter 4
There’s no picture of Zach to be found on Facebook. I try my feed, Tim tries his. We search through everyone else’s as well, and Google anything that might pull it up. Nothing. Tim leans back in the desk chair, his sweat-soaked shirt now dry. The man smells of summer, leather, and caulk. I’m in a folding chair next to him, staring at the flickering computer screen.
Tim sighs before turning to me, “The options are still the same, Abby. It’s either him, or it’s not. If it was Zach, that doesn’t mean he’s walking around.”
“But the scar—”
Tim’s face crumples with an emotion that looks much too close to pity. I glance away, but he places a hand on my shoulder. When I don’t look at him, he gently presses a finger to my chin, turning me toward him. “Zach didn’t have a scar. That’s your answer, Abby. It wasn’t him. Our Zach is gone, okay? I know Facebook has screwed with you before. It’s done the same thing to me. All of a sudden there’s movement on his page, and I think he’s there for a half a second. It’s cruel. I get it.”
I try to keep my lips in a straight line, but they wobble. The tiny flinches turn to a tremble, and before I can cry, Tim pulls me against his chest and mutters apologies for the smell. “If his grave was here, I’d take you there. We could talk to him and say good-bye, but he’s buried 3,000 miles away.”
“I know. I’m sorry. I didn’t know what to do when he died. I was too shocked to think clearly.” Tears streak my face, but there are no sobs. I’m aware of Tim’s hands on my back, dead center, where a friend would put them—but he’s stronger than Vi and holds me tighter.
Tim pulls back, and wipes the tears from my eyes. “I’m not blaming you.” After a long moment of silence, he offers carefully, “Abby, what if we started our summer off with saying good-bye? Would it help?” His face is so pained that I can barely look at him.
I stand and wrap my arms around my middle as I think of that grave. They don’t know, Tim doesn’t realize the type of place Zach is buried. It’s normal there, but not here. It’ll kill him to see that concrete grave. I didn’t understand until it was too late. I’m biting my lips, trying to keep them from falling open with sobs, when I sense Tim behind me.
“Abby, there’s a time to let go and say good-bye. Maybe it would do us both some good? I can’t stand seeing you like this. If it would help—”
I cut him off, blurting out, “You’ll hate me for it.”
“What?” Confusion spreads across his face.
I tug at my hair and feel myself shrink smaller. I look away from him and then shift my gaze, glancing out of the corner of my eye. I explain, while holding the ends of my hair over each shoulder. “The graves there aren’t like here. It’s an island. When you see where he’s buried, Tim—my God.”
He’s there, his hands on my elbows, gently anchoring me to the present. “Abby, you did what you had to do. I won’t blame you. Please, believe me.” His eyes hold mine, completely earnest. “Is he in an unmarked grave?”
I shake my head. “God, no. I wouldn’t do that to him.”
“Then, what?”
Tears roll down my cheeks. I try to blink them away, but it’s pointless. There are too many sorrows inside me. Too much guilt, and it comes flooding out. “The graves are concrete cellars with headstones. Like a basement.”
He laughs once, and when he sees the horror on my face, he catches my eye. “Not a basement, more like a catacomb. A tomb. I’m sure it’s a good resting place. Lots of sun and sand.”
“He’s in a basement.”
“No, he’s in a tomb. Abby, people used to be buried in crypts and holes in the city walls. This is no different. Actually, it’s a good resting place. You don’t need to feel like you failed him with this. I promise. I’d tell you.” He shakes his head and holds my gaze. “This isn’t a bad thing.”
I sniffle, not really sure that he won’t be angry about it once he sees for himself. Zach’s grave looks like a storm cellar. Swallowing hard, I sway in place, wondering if I can bear to see it again -- if it would help or harm. Sometimes I wish I buried him here, so I could go there, and leave flowers, or something. Maybe I’ve been wanting closure, to say goodbye. I never had the chance, and when I buried him, I didn’t say it then, either. Shock kept me from doing what I should have, from saying good-bye. Tim never said those words either.
A few shaky breaths make me shiver. Avoiding his gaze, I breathe, “Maybe it’s not a bad idea, but you have to promise not to be angry with me about the grave. I couldn’t bear it.” That’s the God’s honest truth. His disapproval on this would break me.
Tim pulls me to his chest again and holds me there. I feel his breath on the side of my face before I hear his voice. “Nothing you do or have done will make me upset. Not about this, Abby. Ask Patel. I don’t want to cause you harm, but if it helps—I’ll be there with you. We can have a memorial, me, you and Vi. Say what we want and then show us some of the things he liked most about the place. It’ll be hard, but maybe once that is done, we can move forward. I don’t know about you, but I’ve been stuck. It feel
s like I’ve been torn in two, Abby. I can’t seem to get to whatever’s next.” His voice catches and for the first time in a long time, I realize Tim is crying. Soft tears from him are rare. Angry sobs, I’ve seen, but not this.
Before I realize it, I’m cradling his head in my hand, running my fingers through his damp hair, cooing nonsense, telling him it’ll be all right. That his idea is a good one and maybe it’s what we both need. “I didn’t realize you were stuck in the same spot. I thought I was alone with this. First Zara and then Zach.”
He went from having siblings to being an only child. Tim chokes on his words, “I’ve been right here with you. I just hide it better.”
I shove him playfully, trying to get a smile. “No, you don’t.” He arches an eyebrow at me. “Yeah, fine, you do.”
Tim swipes at his eyes. “I thought the four of us would be in the same retirement home, with Zara chewing on sugar cubes and Zach drinking so much coffee that he vibrates. You’d wear those hats you made in the 1990’s but they’d barely fit over your old lady poodle hair.” He laughs.
“And what about you?”
Tim wraps his arms around me again, holding me tight, anchoring me to the present, while speaking of a future that will never happen. The moment is strange, surreal. It’s as if time’s stopped and the living room fades away. We’re on the same path, shoulder to shoulder, and I never noticed he was there with me, gutted from pain and loss. He hid it with a smile and determination that made me think he was over it. But he’s not. There’s comfort in the realization. I’m not alone.
“I’d look like this.” He gestures to himself. “Maybe smell a little less, but otherwise unchanged.”
We’re both smiling at the thought. A moment passes and we’re serious again. I can barely breathe the words, “I thought we had more time.”
“So did I, Abby. So did I.”
Chapter 5
The situation with Tim is changing and morphing into something else. Somehow, I feel less lost when he’s around, less hopeless. For the past few years my life has been a free-fall and I’ve been braced for impact, anticipating the bottom. It’s funny, but no matter how low I sink, there always seems to be a deeper level of unhappiness. These thoughts won’t help me sleep. I turn over in my bed, tangling my ankles in the sheets again. Annoyed, I jerk back the covers and sit up, swing my legs over the side of the bed and rub my face.
“I should seriously buy a dog,” I mutter to myself, because Tim? He’s Zach’s brother. No. Dr. Patel said to fix that, see the words and strike them out.
I see the thought in my mind, picturing the letters: Tim is Zach’s brother.
Now, I correct it: Tim was Zach’s brother.
Groaning, I tug at my hair and scold myself. “Live in the present, Abby.”
Glancing sideways, I peek at the clock. 3:04am. Damn. The witching hour. No matter what I do, I wake up at this time every night. If I ever wake up at sunrise again, I’ll die of shock.
There are better things to do at 3am, but I can’t think of any. So I push off the bed and pad across the room, shove my feet into a pair of slippers, and head downstairs. That picture is burned into my mind, but Tim is right. There are only two scenarios—it’s Zach or it’s not. I need to see for myself that it’s not, because last time I saw that photograph I really thought it was him.
God, I wish Zara was here. She died a few months before her brother, in a car accident on Sunrise Highway. Her tiny Miata got caught under an eighteen-wheeler. Her final moments had to be terrifying. The funeral was a closed casket because of the wreck. Goosebumps spread over my arms at the memory. Zach’s voice comes back to me, tight and angry, as if he was responsible for her death. We all felt that way. Everywhere I walked around the funeral home over those couple of days, people were whispering -- if they’d only asked her to wait, to come over, to take the parkway—anything to save her from such a horrific end.
Zara and I met freshman year in college. We were roommates. Those were some of the happiest years of my life. All smiles, no regrets. Living life in the moment with no real worries. Then she became my sister when I married Zach. She was in my wedding all those years ago, and around the house every other day. She had a fiancé. Now she’s gone.
Zach is also gone. I have no one to talk to, no one to confide in and hash out the big picture. Zara would have a stroke if I told her I felt something for Tim. At least I think she would. She’d defend Zach. All that history. Even if it did turn rancid at the end. But, maybe not. Maybe she’d just want me to be happy. I’d want her to be happy. In love. Totally smitten.
I mutter to myself, “I wish you were here, Zara.”
I plop down in front of the computer in my tank top and panties. I ditched my shorts hours ago. It’s too hot. The blinds are closed and no one is here, so I could walk around naked and it wouldn’t matter. The screen glows softly as the computer wakes up. My fingers glide over the keyboard as I type in the URL and land on the one website I’m supposed to avoid. Facebook.
I scroll through posts of the Sabba family, Zach and Zara’s, Tim and Tara—my mother-in-law. Tim tried to keep me in their clan, but I felt too guilty. And Tara wanted to string me up for losing her son. She blames me. I blame me, so I didn’t argue it.
Dr. Patel said it’s survivor’s remorse, and that I’ll sabotage the rest of my life if I don’t move past it. Since Facebook tends to focus on the past, I’m not supposed to be poking around on here either. I’m super good at looking backward. It’s moving forward that’s the issue.
Old pictures of Zara pop up, but they’re nothing I haven’t seen before. I smile at one from this day nine years ago. She’s beaming, a huge smile, ear to ear as she holds up her birthday cake. I took that picture. The cake went flying shortly after this photo was taken. Some of it landed on me, the rest on Zach and Tim. Those two were always together back then. Roommates, like me and Zara.
More images of Zara and a few of Zach, but not the one I’m looking for, so I lean back in the chair and close my eyes. “What am I doing?”
I’m looking for new pictures of a dead man.
That sounds crazy, even to me.
Before I can think about the right way to structure that sentence and cross it out in my mind, my cell phone buzzes. It’s on the desk next to the monitor. I lift it.
TIM: U AWAKE?
ME: YUP.
TIM: I’M NOT.
That makes me grin.
ME: DORK.
TIM: WHAT’S YOUR LAST DAY OF WORK?
ME: FRIDAY—ASSUMING I CAN PACK UP MY CLASSROOM THIS WEEK.
TIM: K. ASK VI WHAT SHE THINKS ABOUT LEAVING ON MONDAY. LET ME KNOW TOMORROW. I’LL GRAB TICKETS.
I hesitate for a moment. Do I really want to do this? Run off with Tim? I half expect Vi to ditch us out of awkwardness. And because she sorta hates Tim. Something about Nonni and Zara, which makes no sense, led her to believe that Tim is a bad guy. I don’t see it. He’s suffering. Like me.
I lift my phone and type my reply.
ME: KK.
Chapter 6
Are we really doing this? I stare at the phone for a moment and feel worry pinching my brow. Intentionally hurling myself into emotionally bloody waters seems like the height of stupidity, but it feels like there could be closure there. Maybe that’s the problem. I know it’s an issue for Tim. How important is it to actually say good-bye? Never saying it put me in a loop of grief and misery.
I’ll go. I’ll say it. I’ll mean it. And when I leave that island, I’m moving forward. No more living in the past. No more looking backwards and mourning what could have been.
I stand and push in the desk chair. My gaze lifts to the computer screen as it refreshes the feed just before the screensaver kicks on.
That picture. Of Zach. It’s there.
A shiver licks my spine as I jab a key to bring the screen back to life. This is it. The picture will be there. I will be able to see once and for all that it’s not Zach.
The pixels flare
to life and the forms on the screen take shape. The same photo appears. I lean in closer. The crooked smirk, the piercing blue eyes and dark tousled hair, narrow hips, square jaw covered in stubble, and a sun-kissed shirtless body that’s leaner than I’d ever seen it.
I’m not breathing. It can’t be him, but it is.
It’s Zach.
My hands are shaking. Last time this happened the picture vanished and I couldn’t show anyone. I can barely think now, but I manage to grab my cell phone and lift it to snap a picture. Then I take three more. I put the phone down, feeling more certain the image won’t vanish for good this time, and sit back down on the desk chair.
There’s a scar on the side of his body, a place that the golden tan doesn’t touch, a jagged line from mid-rib that disappears below the waistband of his shorts.
When was this taken? It can’t be Zach, but his name is on the picture. It’s on his profile page. I don’t understand.
Aleigha, from my class, said I could pull data from the picture, find out when it was taken and where. After opening another window, I Google how to do it. Then I flip back to the Facebook screen and click the image to enlarge it, but the picture disappears before my screen goes black.
“No. No, no, no.” I hit the back button, but the picture is gone. “What the hell is happening?”
I slam my fists on the desktop and resist the urge to throw the thing across the room. Think, Abby. Think.
I pull up Zach’s Facebook page.
No picture.
It’s the same as before. I don’t understand. His name was above the picture.
Worry pinches and twists my insides until I feel sick. By the time I reach for my phone, I think I’m going crazy and imagined it, but I didn’t. The images are there, and ZACH SABBA is there in capital letters.
I need a nerd. This has to be happening for a reason. There’s no way this picture appeared and disappeared like this without a reason. Zach can’t be alive. I buried him. I know it. Even if that image is making me wonder. It’s more likely K’Teal is right. Someone is fucking with me.
