The Last Post

by Renee Carlino

  Here is where I thought I would blow it because the words just spilled out of my mouth. “Laya, you can always help. You helped me and I wasn’t even the patient.”

  She stood there, staring at me for a long time. “I never thought of it that way.”

  When my parents showed up finally, my mother was in a tizzy, running down the hall toward Mel’s room. Laya stopped her before my mother went in, and though Laya was still wearing her street clothes, she tried to calm my mom by saying Mel’s injuries were fairly superficial. Laya didn’t realize she appeared to my parents to be a complete stranger commenting on Mel’s wounds.

  My mother blew up at her. “Who the hell are you?”

  “Mom, this is Laya Bennett. She’s a friend of mine who happens to live on the street where Mel got hit. Laya, this is my mom, Leslie, and my dad, Peter.”

  Mom looked her up and down. “And what makes you an authority on my daughter’s health?”

  “Mom,” I said. “Laya is an orthopedic surgeon and helped when Mel was hit. I don’t know what we would have done without her.”

  My parents exchanged a look; I could see my mom calming down. “Well.” She shrugged. “Thank you, I guess.”

  Very humbly—more than my parents deserved at the moment, Laya said, “You’re welcome.” A professionalism I had never seen before in her came out.

  My mom and dad went into Mel’s room, waking her from near-sleep. I leaned against the doorframe and watched my mother rest her head on Mel’s bed and cry. Mel had some bandages but it wasn’t like she was in a full body cast. I looked in and saw my father stroking her hair, kissing her forehead over and over. Then he said, “What were you thinking, Melissa? Did I not teach you to look both ways?”

  Mel just smiled up at him.

  I said, “See, they do love you. I have no idea why.” My mother shot me a look of irritation, but I just chuckled.

  Right at that moment Kenny walked in with Fritos and placed them on Mel’s nightstand before saying, “I’m sorry.”

  Mel’s eyes welled up. Buy her Fritos and she turns into a ball of mush. My parents looked confused by the exchange, but they didn’t say a word.

  From behind me, I heard Laya say very quietly, “Can I talk to you again, Micah?”

  I stepped out into the hall and followed Laya to a spot where it was just the two of us. She leaned back against the wall and looked down at her feet.

  “Uh-oh. Should I be worried?”

  “No.”

  “What were you two doing in front of my building?”

  “I swear, Laya, we just happened to be walking by.”

  “It’s just strange.” Her eyes were probing mine. Apparently she didn’t find what she needed because she switched directions abruptly. “I’m not scared of being alone, Micah.”

  That surprised me. “I didn’t think you were. What are you trying to tell me?” I put my hand against my chest in a defensive gesture. I recalled our last conversation about where our relationship was going. “I’m not trying to pressure you into anything. The last thing I want to do is push you away by rushing you into this.”

  “There isn’t a this, Micah.”

  I shook my head, disagreeing with her. There was something, but neither of us had a name for it. “Laya, I just want to get to know you. I thought we connected at lunch and at the movies, and then the argument the other day was just out of the blue. I thought about it for weeks. I didn’t mean to make this a thing we need to attach a label to. All I know is that I called from the street because I knew you could help. I thought of you immediately.”

  Compassion flooded her face. Again, like we had done before, we were staring at each other without scrutiny. I considered myself passive and closed off, but something about Laya made me want to open up to her.

  No one walked by for several moments; it was just the two of us. There was no escaping each other. We had said our piece, but there were still so many unspoken feelings left swirling around us in the silence. Questions about the night in the club hung thickly in the air. I was torn and confused about what had happened. It was not that I regretted what we had done . . . I regretted not telling her how I felt that night. I should have told her she was the most beautiful woman I knew. I should have acknowledged her pain and expressed an understanding instead of coming off as an opportunist.

  Finally, I broke the silence. “Why the club?”

  She shook her head. “I’m not sure. I’ve thought about it a lot.”

  “What’d you come up with?”

  “I guess I needed to feel something. You seemed safe to me, but I wasn’t using you. I swear.”

  “I’m less concerned about my feelings than I am about yours.”

  “We hardly knew each other. We hardly know each other now,” she said.

  I took a step toward her and ran my thumb down her cheek. “Don’t say that. It felt good to be with you . . . even if the circumstances weren’t ideal.” I was still curious as to why she said Cameron’s name that night in the club. It was hard not to think she was imagining being with him and not me, but I couldn’t exactly ask her about it. “Your feelings were all muddled up. I get it. I wasn’t trying to take his place.”

  “I wasn’t thinking about him; I was thinking about you. But then it hit me and it crushed me to think he was gone and there I was, seeking out some release or affection from someone else.” She seemed to stop herself from saying more. “Listen, I need to go. I’m not feeling well. I’m glad your sister is okay.”

  Just when I felt like we were making progress, she got scared.

  “Don’t run.”

  “I need to go.”

  “Let me get you a cab?”

  Her eyebrows pinched together. “I’m very capable of getting my own cab, Micah.”

  “I didn’t mean it like that.”

  “How did you mean it?” she asked.

  “To pay for it, to return the favor in some small way.”

  “It wasn’t a favor to help your sister. You owe me nothing . . .”

  “Can I see you soon?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know. I have to get my head together.”

  “Why won’t you let me help you?” As soon as the words came out of my mouth, I knew it was the wrong thing to say.

  “Help me? Help me what?” She was shaking her head, looking past me down the hall. “I don’t need your help. I need time.”

  “I have feelings for you.”

  “That’s what I’m questioning. Why would you have feelings for me? I’m damaged—don’t you see that?”

  “I don’t think you are.”

  “Micah, are you there?” my mother called out from around the corner.

  “You need to go, and I need to go, too,” Laya said.

  She started to walk away without saying good-bye. I was frozen in place, trying to find the right words that would make her stay. When she made it to the elevator and pressed the button, it occurred to me that I might not get another opportunity to talk to her . . . to convince her to give me a chance. I walked quickly toward the elevator. As she stepped in and turned around, our eyes locked. I prevented the door from closing with my arm.

  Laya spoke first. “I’m scared.”

  “Of what?”

  “Of everything. I’m scared to let him go. And . . . I’m scared to fall in love.”

  “I’m scared, too.”

  She closed her eyes. A tear ran down her cheek. I reached out and wiped it away with my thumb, but she stepped back.

  “Go be with your family,” she said.

  Stay with me. We can be scared together.

  I kept my eyes on her as she stared at the floor. Just as the doors closed, she lifted her head, meeting my gaze with a gut-wrenching sadness in her eyes.

  17. Habitat

  LAYA

  LAYA BENNETT to CAMERON BENNETT

  Hey, Cam. What are you up to? Get it?

  Remember when we would visit my dad, and we’d go to the East Village first
and go to Grace Church and light candles? Or I would anyway. It was for all your friends who went diving off cliffs or out of planes and ended up dying? I haven’t done that for you yet, because you didn’t believe in it. Frankly, neither did I, but I thought it would help you mourn. I’ve learned other people can’t help a person mourn. Three. Two. One. See ya.

  My text pinged right before I got into the shower. I realized there were several built-up texts I hadn’t seen. The first was from my father.

  Dad: The chief of surgery called me and asked if you were ready.

  My dad knew a lot of people at the hospital. He kept in touch with the doctors who had worked on my mother. I think because my father had to eventually give the order to pull the plug on my mother, he felt like he had left a part of her there. After her death, he’d designed a wing and donated money to the hospital.

  My father and Richard Wellington, the chief at The Hospital for Special Surgery, were good friends. I didn’t want my dad calling in any favors on my behalf. I wanted my accomplishments to be my own, so it made me sad that Richard had to call my dad to find out if he could trust me.

  Still, I remembered the sensation of being back in the hospital—how familiar the sterile scent was, how thrilling it was to have adrenaline rushing through my body again. I welcomed the certainty in my actions after grappling with so many unknowns.

  Me: What did you say?

  Dad: I said “undoubtedly,” honey.

  Me: I am ready. Thank you, Dad.

  Dad: It’s not going to be easy.

  Me: What is ever easy?

  Dad: Come and see me this week.

  I thought about seeing Micah again and my stomach dropped but I knew I couldn’t avoid the office forever.

  Me: I might have to get all my ducks in a row before I start the fellowship.

  Dad: Got it. Soon, though?

  Me: Okay.

  The next four texts were a string from Micah.

  Micah: Again, thank you. Mel is on the mend, being the normal smartass that she is.

  Micah: My parents are not easy people to deal with. I think my mom wants me to stay single for the rest of my life.

  Micah: I didn’t mean that I was implying . . . never mind. I saw your post. I’ll go down to Grace with you if you want to light a candle.

  Me: No, thank you, Micah. It’s personal for me.

  Micah: Of course. I didn’t mean to intrude, just thought you might want some company.

  I didn’t respond.

  At Grace Church, I put one penny in an envelope, stuck it in the slot out of spite for Cameron basically killing himself, and then I walked outside without lighting a candle because I was thinking his soul could be sitting at the bottom of that ravine. It’s terrible that my thoughts for Cameron had gone in such a pitiful direction.

  I was constantly vacillating between being angry with Cameron and missing him desperately. I wished I could stop feeling sorry for myself. I wished I hadn’t made every day of the last several months all about him.

  Outside, I sat on the freezing steps and cried. Why were Cameron and I still punishing each other when we loved each other?

  An old man sat down next to me. He had bushy eyebrows and wild hair, Albert Einstein–style. He didn’t say anything at first, but he was sitting uncomfortably close to me, especially considering that I was crying into my hands, soaking my sweater and jeans.

  Looking up at him, I said, “Hello,” as tears poured from my eyes.

  “I know someone,” he said.

  “Oh yeah?” Alarm bells should have been going off in my head but they weren’t. There was something particularly warm about the man. He might have been in his seventies or eighties; it was hard to tell.

  “Yeah, I know someone.”

  Maybe he’s a few sandwiches short of a picnic.

  “Who do you know?” I asked. My tears had subsided.

  “I know God. The man, the master, his holiness, the creator, the divine being, the holy spirit, the almighty.”

  “Do you now?”

  He raised his eyebrows, shot me a tight smile, and nodded. Had he not smelled good, and looked fairly put together, aside from his gray, long disheveled hair, I would have thought he was homeless or crazy. Crazy was still up for debate, but I was sure he wasn’t homeless.

  “Has he mentioned anything to you about me?” I asked.

  “No, he hasn’t said a thing.” He shrugged as if to say sorry.

  “So, it’s definitely a him?” I said with a frown.

  “Well, hmm . . . more like an it.”

  “That doesn’t sound very pleasant.”

  “What’s your name? I’m Henry.” He stuck his hand out to shake mine.

  “Laya.” His hand was remarkably warm for how cold it was outside.

  “You know, it’s just semantics; it doesn’t really matter whether it’s a him or a her. It’s all around us . . . him, her, us, them, we . . . that’s God. That’s what I believe anyway.”

  “What are you trying to sell me on, mister?”

  “I saw you inside.”

  I was becoming very suspicious. I wondered if the man worked for the church.

  “Did you see me only put a penny in the envelope? Is that why you’re talking to me now?”

  “That’s not why. Of course not. I saw you didn’t light a candle, though, and I did wonder. That is sort of the point of the donation, regardless of the amount.”

  “Are you the candle police?”

  He actually smiled when I said that. “Why are you so angry? Are you angry at God?”

  I shook my head. “I’m not sure I even believe in God.”

  “Then who are you angry at?”

  “Well, Henry, I guess I’m angry at my husband for killing himself.”

  His face fell. “Your husband committed suicide? I’m so sorry.”

  I felt awful for saying that about Cameron. That’s not really what happened. “He didn’t actually kill himself. He just took a very big risk and he died because of it.”

  “Are you upset at him for taking the risk?”

  Now he’s the church shrink?

  “Who are you?”

  “I’m just a man. I saw you crying and it looked like you were really hurting and needed a friend.”

  My heart suddenly felt warm. I stared into his grayish eyes and I could see my reflection. “You’re right. I do need a friend. Thank you.”

  “Tell me about your husband.”

  “I’m not upset at him for taking the risk. I’m upset at the universe for making it so hard for me to move on. And somehow that makes me angry with Cameron.”

  “So, Cameron is his name?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you think he’s gone?

  “I know he’s gone; I watched him die.”

  He looked disappointed. “You watched his body die, not his soul. Isn’t that why you’re here? To light a candle for him . . . for his soul? To keep his soul right there?” He pointed to my heart. “Isn’t that why you still talk to him every day?”

  My eyes shot open. “How do you know that?”

  “Because we all do. We all talk to the ones we loved and lost. That’s why I’m here. I lost my Margaret twenty-five years ago, and I still talk to her. I still come down here every now and then and light a candle to remind her that she will never be forgotten.”

  Tears sprang into my eyes. “See, that’s the hard part for me. So, you never move on? You just keep mourning day after day for the rest of your life?”

  “No, dear. I moved on. I married and had two more children after Margaret passed. Now I have my Sophia, and she’s a beauty, and we’re just gonna love each other until one of us goes. And then who knows after that? You’re still here, though, and you didn’t die. Your Cameron lives inside you now. Go light a candle and talk to him. Let him know you won’t forget, but you’re here and he’s not. And you have to live your life.”

  I patted him on the knee and said, “Thanks, Henry.” As it turned out, H
enry was just a well-meaning old man who wanted to help someone, and I was just a cynical brat who couldn’t see that at first.

  Still wiping tears from my face, I walked back into the church and put a hundred dollars in an envelope. Evidently, Red Bull had to carry a very plump insurance policy on their stunt people. I was rich now. I didn’t put a deceased person’s name on the envelope. I didn’t need to. I lit a candle next to Saint Anthony, the patron saint of lost things, but I didn’t talk to Cameron. I had been doing that enough lately. I just thought about him. I thought about his smile. I thought about his humor and his laugh. I thought about our moments together, and then unintentionally my mind wandered to Micah.

  I thought about his shy smile. His easy demeanor, and his light laugh that always came out in one quiet puff of air. I thought about how he felt in that club. God forgive me, I was in a church, thinking about the way he held my hips. The way he kissed me rigidly at first, but eased into it. How he pushed me against the wall, not gently but passionately, like he couldn’t get enough.

  I thought about whispering “relax” to him, and immediately feeling the tension in his body retreat. I thought about the way we made eye contact, and how I wasn’t uncomfortable. How it seemed like he wanted to please me. How it seemed like he was enamored of me.

  On the long walk home, I thought only about Micah.

  When I got home, I realized my apartment was infinitesimally cleaner than it had been for so long. I had been getting things done without even really realizing it. The sink was empty and the blinds were open. I said, “Progress” out loud, and the moment I said it, my stomach sank. Getting over losing Cameron could not possibly mean progress.

  I searched frantically for his phone. It had always been in reach before. I found it under a dish towel near the kitchen where I had mindlessly set it. I deleted forty-two voicemails I had left in the past so I could call and make a new one.

  “Cameron, I lit a candle at Grace Church today. Not for you, but for me. I lit it under the statue of Saint Anthony. You know, the saint of lost things? Because I’m still lost. I met an old man at the church. He moved on after his wife died. Should I? Why can’t you tell me? Why can’t you give me a sign that it’s okay? Why can’t you talk to me anymore, Cam? Why don’t I see you in my dreams? Where’d you go, Cam? Are you still at the bottom of that ravine?