by Layne Deemer
I end the call with an audible sigh, startling Uncle George from his mid-afternoon nap. He glares at me and lets out an irritated meow. I’m sure he disapproves of what I just did. I spoke without thinking and vomited my feelings all over Lydia’s voicemail. Normally, I’d feel mortified right about now, but I’m honestly too tired to care. It all needed to be said. And now I just wait for her to react.
I move into the living room and flop onto my futon. The books I picked up from Rudy’s stare back at me, daring me to read them. I hesitate for a moment. This feels a bit like an invisible line separating reality from hysteria. Once I cross that line, I’m not sure I’ll be able to turn back. I take a deep breath and grab the top one. It seems appropriate since Sarah seems to be walking among the living despite being very dead.
I flip open the cover and examine the table of contents. The book is divided into three sections: Where Do We Go When We Die?, What Happens When The Spirit World Collides With The Living World?, and What Does It All Mean? The second section seems to be the most fitting for my current situation. I rifle through the pages until I find where it begins. Something is wedged in between the pages. I know what it is even before I see it. My hand trembles as I take hold of the open book and turn it upside down, giving it a small shake. A tiny, folded piece of orange paper tumbles out and lands on the rug next to my feet.
40
All I can do is stare at it. I know I need to open it and read what it says, but I can’t seem to summon the courage. George sidles up beside me and looks down at the offensive orange note, an expectant look on his smug face. He turns his head and gives me a side-eye as if to ask what I’m waiting for.
“Yes, yes, I know, Uncle G. It’s a piece of paper. But that little note is like a tiny orange grenade. As soon as I open it, it’ll only be a matter of time before this whole thing explodes in my face.”
George mews in agreement and leaps off of the futon, deftly leaving the room. “It’s nice to know you have my back,” I spit out with an eye roll.
Alone with the note still perched next to my foot, I let out a sigh and bend down to retrieve it. My teakettle picks that very moment to let out a shrill whistle. The high-pitched shriek catches me off guard and I fling my arms up in alarm, sending the note flying across the room. It skids to a stop in front of the door.
I sprint to the kitchen and turn off the stove, removing the kettle from the heat of the burner. Gripping the counter, I turn toward the door and find the orange paper exactly where it landed. With slow and deliberate movements, I amble over and pick it up. Carrying it back to the living room, I take a seat on the futon and begin unfolding the intricate origami paper, taking great care not to disturb whatever might be inside. I’m fairly certain it’s just words, but those are as lethal as any weapon.
I gasp when I see the letters that stare up at me from the page. On instinct, I begin to turn my head left and right and all around in jerky movements as I feel the sweat begin to form at my hairline. My heart pounds out a rhythm that sounds like a warning deep within my chest. Every alarm bell inside my body is sounding at full volume.
Did you miss me?
I blink my eyes several times in an attempt to clear them and will the words to change, but they remain the same. This makes no sense, yet perfect sense all at the same time. As I examine the handwriting on the paper, I realize that I’ve seen it before. I don’t know how I missed it. I must’ve been in denial with the other notes, because as I look at this one now, it’s glaringly familiar. I lived under the rules of this very handwriting, following the plans laid out in an intricate balance of cursive and print. Sarah filled dozens of notebooks with her unique penmanship. I would recognize it a mile away. I can’t believe it hadn’t occurred to me before now, but then again, why would it? After all, the dead can’t write notes. At least, I didn’t think they could.
I feel an overwhelming sense of apprehension deep within the pit of my stomach.
The day after Sarah’s funeral, I was at my parents’ home. Sitting on the bed of my childhood room, I looked around at posters on the walls and books lining the shelves and felt like a stranger in my own home. I didn’t know who I was without Sarah and the thought terrified me, but underneath all the fear, I felt liberated. I realized in that moment that I could pick up and leave. I could start over someplace new and completely reinvent myself. Without hesitation, I began packing up the few belongings I would need. Three days later, I drove halfway across the country leaving the past buried in Connecticut.
Now I hold the past in my hands. Somehow it found me, and I can’t even say I’m surprised. I think I’ve always known I couldn’t outrun it forever. Sitting here on this faded futon in my apartment in this sleepy small Minnesota town, the very same instinct I had those years ago compels me again. I could leave. I could grab George and a few necessities, and I could start over again somewhere else. I’ve always wanted to visit Arizona. I’m sure it’s nice this time of year.
I dart down the hallway and fling open the closet in my bedroom. I reach for my suitcase on the shelf and toss it onto my bed. Scurrying throughout the room, I hurl random articles of clothing into it before dashing into the bathroom to grab a few toiletries. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. My eyes are wild and searching; my hair is a furious nest of strands pulled in every direction; my nostrils are flared; my mouth is parted to accept the quick breaths that keep coming. I look wild, rabid, deranged. My emotions are in the driver seat. This happened to me once before and it’s not something I care to relive. I need someone to talk me off of this cliff that I’m standing on so precariously.
With my shoulders slumped and my head hung low, I lumber back into the living room and grab my phone off the cedar chest. I’m knocking on the door of crazy town and I think a reality check from my mom is the best medicine.
Before I call her, I notice I have a missed call and a message waiting for me. I don’t recognize the number and concern washes over me, my mind immediately on Sarah. If she’s somehow alive and writing me notes, could phone calls be next? I hesitate for a moment and then press play on the message. With a shaky hand, I bring the phone up to my ear.
Lydia’s voice on the other end is like a lifeline.
She’s breathless as she speaks. “Owen, hi. My cell phone battery keeps dying on me so I’m calling you from a payphone. Can you believe they still make those?” She lets out a chuckle, but it’s forced. I can hear her try to catch her breath as she continues. “Anyway, I uh, I got your message and I’m just, I’m so sorry for leaving and not telling you. God, you must be wondering what the hell’s going on.” There’s a pause on the line and I lean in, afraid the message might cut off, but a few moments later, she continues. “Listen, you’re right, it’s time we talked. There’s so much I need to tell you. Things I should’ve told you a while ago. I don’t want to do this over the phone. I’d rather talk in person.” I can hear shuffling in the background. A voice on a loudspeaker announces a last call for boarding. It sounds like she’s calling from an airport. “I’ll be back tonight. It’ll be late, but this can’t wait. When I knock, please open the door. Let me explain. You’ve never been insignificant to me, Owen. I love—um, I, I’ll see you soon. Bye.”
I slide my phone into my pocket. The urge to flee that was so strong a few moments ago, has all but evaporated. I’ve been waiting for Lydia to open up and confide in me since we shared a bench the day after we first met. It’s also not lost on me that she almost told me she loved me. Even though she stopped herself, I can’t help the hope that begins to take root.
Up until this moment, I haven’t allowed myself to think too deeply about my relationship with Lydia. If my mind started heading in that direction, I always stopped those thoughts short. I’ve only ever known love to cause destruction and heartbreak. I’m not even sure I want Lydia to love me. But despite all of my efforts, I’m even more sure that I love her.
41
It’s 10:34 p.m. I’ve been lying in this same spot
on my bed for the past three hours. I selected a random sitcom on Netflix and have allowed it to keep playing, one episode after the other, but I’m not paying attention to it. My thoughts keep drifting to a dark windy road on an icy night in Connecticut—the crunch from the impact of metal hitting a tree at forty-five miles per hour, the whirring sound in my ears as time seemed to stand still, the tremor of adrenaline that overtook my body hours later as I lay in bed replaying the accident over and over in my mind.
I feel like I’m looking at a puzzle that’s been pieced together upside down. All I can see is the brown cardboard backing of each piece as it interlocks with another. I’m close to completing it yet I have no sense of what it will look like when it’s finished.
I’ve always thought of myself as a rational person. I can easily decipher between fantasy and reality, but lately, those lines are blurring. It would be so easy to give in to the idea that Sarah didn’t die that night. Somehow she survived and kept that hidden from me and everyone else for the past few years. But giving in to those thoughts brings forth so many questions. Where has she been all this time? Why did she wait so long to contact me, and why this way? Is she trying to punish me? Is someone helping her? And the most glaring question of all is just one word—How?
She wasn’t wearing a seatbelt. There was nothing to hold her steady and secure in her seat. I saw her head hit the windshield. I heard the thud. I looked into those bewitching eyes of hers and watched the life drain out of them. I was there when the coroner pronounced her dead, and I watched as the paramedics moved about unhurriedly. If there had been even a remote chance of her survival, they would’ve reacted much more swiftly. She would’ve been rushed into the ambulance and they would have wasted no time slamming the doors and speeding off to the hospital. Instead, they treated her body with a reverence reserved for the dead, draping a sheet over her and carefully raising the gurney up into the ambulance. No doors were slammed. No sirens blared.
I keep repeating the facts over in my head until I feel convinced. Sarah died that night. She isn’t sending me cryptic notes. I didn’t see her at the festival a few days ago and again this afternoon. I’ve been trying to solve the mystery behind the messages I’ve been receiving, and my imagination has run wild in search of answers. That’s the logical reason for my temporary insanity.
Now that I’ve ruled that out, one question still remains. If Sarah isn’t behind the notes, who is?
A small knock at the door gets my attention. I walk down the short hallway and notice a flickering of light from the kitchen. For one brief moment, I tense up as thoughts of Sarah threaten to overtake my mind. I slow my steps and move with trepidation. When I reach the kitchen, I chuckle. The bulb in the hood over the stove is blinking on and off. If I were Rudy, I would be prepared for a situation like this one, but I don’t have a reserve of replacements on hand. Instead, I settle for turning off the light and making a mental note to buy a new bulb tomorrow.
Another knock comes again, this time with a bit more force. Even though I’m ninety-nine percent certain who is on the other side of the door, I can’t stop myself from peering through the peephole. At first, I don’t see anyone. Can ghosts make themselves invisible? Oh Jesus Christ, Owen. Get a hold of yourself. You’re losing it.
I see a bit of movement to the right and then she’s there, filling up my line of vision and making my heart rate speed up. I give the doorknob a twist and reach out, pulling her into my arms. I rest my cheek on the top of her head and take a deep breath. Her unique scent is an earthy mix of cinnamon and clove. I inhale deeply, wishing I could bottle it up and keep it on a shelf to revisit every time I need comfort. It feeds my soul and feels like home.
Lydia pulls back slightly, interrupting our embrace. She keeps her palms resting on my chest as her gaze travels up, pausing at my lips for a beat before settling on my eyes. Her eyebrow lifts as her eyes fill with heat.
We stay like that. A thousand unsaid words seem to hover between us. Her gaze is filled with want, but there’s something more. She looks away, breaking the connection. Her throat bobs with a swallow and her bottom lip quivers slightly. When she turns back to face me, her expression is a mix of sadness and fear. Taking her hand in mine, I lead her into the living room.
She’s sitting statue-still on my futon staring down at her hands clasped tightly on her lap. Neither one of us has spoken, but even without words, I can feel the heaviness in the air. As I stand here at the sink in the kitchen filling my teakettle with water, it’s obvious that I’m avoiding the inevitable. I keep myself busy with useless chores while the water simmers on the stove. I’ve wanted Lydia’s truth this whole time and now that she’s ready to give it to me, all I seem to want is her silence. Even though I don’t know what she’s going to tell me, I can’t help the worry I feel that her words will change everything.
I steep the red rooibos tea and smile as I add a squeeze of honey to Lydia’s. Knowing how someone takes their tea is such a simple thing yet there’s an intimacy to it. I sneak a glance at her. She hasn’t moved since she sat down. Whatever she has to tell me must be serious. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. I’ve held off as long as I could. There’s nothing left to do but listen to what Lydia has to say.
I grasp a handle in each hand and carry the tea to the living room. Handing Lydia her cup, I take a seat on top of the cedar chest in front of her. This feels like the sort of conversation that’s best had face-to-face.
Lydia lifts her chin and looks up, her eyes flitting every which way before finally settling on mine. And then she opens her mouth and destroys me.
42
“There’s someone else.”
I recoil from her words as though I’ve been slapped. She notices my reaction and immediately jumps to rearrange her confession. “Wait! What I meant to say is, there was someone else.”
“O-k-a-y.” I speak slowly unable to hide my confusion.
“I broke up with him months ago, but the thing is…” She pauses to collect her thoughts. “He doesn’t accept that we’re over. He won’t let me go.”
I feel fear radiating off her in waves, making my stomach plummet. Lydia’s words seem to echo in the stillness of the room. The sound reverberates inside my chest, becoming louder than the beating of my own heart.
“What do you mean, he won’t let you go?” I ask. “Is he stalking you?”
Her eyes pool with water, giving me a silent answer.
She hasn’t said his name, but it’s Gabe. I know it is. Anger surges through me with such intensity it’s hard to contain. He’s lucky there are so many miles between us right now. I need more details so I can make a plan of attack. “Tell me what happened.”
She takes in a deep breath and lets out an audible sigh. “Where do I start?”
I take both of her hands in mine and hold them in my lap. She tilts her head and her eyes glisten as they flick back and forth between mine. “Why don’t you start at the beginning.”
Her mouth forms a straight line and she nods.
“When you find yourself tied to someone who has gone out of their way to be cruel to you, it’s nearly impossible to understand how you ever put yourself in such a predicament.” She looks up at the ceiling, a pensive expression on her face. “It’s kind of like painting the walls of a room a new color. They were once a bright blue and now, as you brush strokes of red over top, you mask the old color and all you can see is the new. You know what’s hidden underneath, but since you can’t see it, it’s easily forgotten. Much like those blue walls, I know Gabe was charismatic and likable, at first. But even thinking back on that first day of meeting him, I can feel the edges of my memory fraying a bit and hindsight causing me to see what I ignored.”
And there it is, the confirmation I was waiting for, but never really needed. Gabe is the one responsible for the fear I see in Lydia’s eyes. I give her a nod of encouragement, and she continues.
“Gabe and I met in college. He transferred to UDub my sophomore year. He
was a junior at the University of Colorado, but he told me that he had an issue with a professor and he had to leave. Looking back on it now, that was a red flag—the first of many, as it turns out. He was so vague about what happened and made it sound like he was a victim. Recently, I found out that he had become infatuated with his economics professor. Despite her being married and a mother of two small children, he pursued her mercilessly. She filed a restraining order against him and that’s why he left Colorado.”
“Holy shit, Lydia!” I interrupt her, but I can’t help it. “He was stalking one of his college professors?”
She dips her chin in confirmation. “When I first met him, he was charming and handsome and he took notice of me immediately. I wasn’t outgoing and tended to keep to myself so I wasn’t used to that kind of attention. He was unapologetic in his pursuit of me, and I basked in it. He would send me flowers and write me poems. It was incredibly romantic, and I became addicted to the feelings that it stirred in me.”
Her hands are knotted in her lap. She twists her wrists, and her fingers unravel and splay out, smoothing out the material on her dress. “We dated for three months, and in that time, he became increasingly more controlling. It started out small. If I had my hair pulled back, he would slide out the hair tie letting my hair fall down my back. He would smooth out the strands with the palm of his hand and say he loved my hair best that way. Before I even realized what was happening, I was wearing my hair down every time we were together, even going so far as to quickly take it down if I saw him walking my way. Eventually, his control moved onto other areas of my life, stretching far beyond my outward appearance.”
