Sometime, Somewhere

by Kalyn Fogarty

  Something is wrong this morning. Each day after his alarm goes off, he brushes a kiss against her cheek before rising to shower. Today he pauses, his brow furrowing in concern. I step from my spot in the corner, drawing so close I should feel their breaths.

  “Wren,” he whispers, gently shaking her shoulder.

  It’s too long before she opens her eyes. They’re glassy and bloodshot, her cheeks flushed. She stares up at Jimmy, teeth chattering.

  “Wren, we need to go to the doctor,” Jimmy says, his voice quiet and firm, a tone I recognize at once. I speak to clients like this all the time. Spoke.

  She doesn’t answer, just shakes her head. Her cold tears leave tracks down her burning cheeks.

  Jimmy lifts her from the bed as if she were a child. She wraps her arms around his neck, unable to fight. Her fingernails are painted yellow, I notice.

  ***

  Somehow I’m in the back seat of the SUV. Wren dozes in the passenger seat while Jimmy drives us to the hospital. We’ll be lucky if we survive the twenty-minute ride with all Jimmy’s swerving and stop-and-go braking to avoid the heavy traffic. To make matters worse, his Blackberry is glued to his ear as he talks to the oncologist, arranging to meet at Dana-Farber in Boston.

  After a near miss with a Mini Cooper and a lot of cursing, me make it in one piece to the emergency entrance of the hospital. Wren gathers enough strength to walk inside on her own. I doubt if we could force her into a wheelchair, stubborn as she is.

  Now I’m in the pale-pink waiting room, surrounded by strangers reading the same pages over and over in outdated magazines. Jimmy perches on the edge of his chair, elbows on his knees, head resting in his hands. I’m not sure if he’s sleeping or crying. I wouldn’t blame him for either.

  Dr. Russo arrives not long after we sit, and we all head toward the exam room, Jimmy and the doctor talking in hurried whispers. Wren finally relinquishes herself to that wheelchair, but she doesn’t look happy about it. She keeps reaching over her shoulder to put her hand on Jimmy’s. I follow at a close distance, hovering on the edges of their conversation like I’m prone to do.

  The story is much the same as it’s been. The fever, abdominal cramping, loss of appetite, and fatigue aren’t new to any of us, all signs that Wren needs treatment again. A more aggressive course of action is already being discussed with Jimmy. Wren perks up only when the doctor mentions surgery. Her hand tightens on Jimmy’s, and she gives him a look. She doesn’t need to say a word. Wren asks to see the doctor alone for the rest of the exam and Jimmy reluctantly leaves, me right behind him.

  Back into the pink waiting room. Jimmy sits ramrod straight, staring blankly at the muted television. Fifteen minutes pass. Ten more. He still doesn’t move. I’m not sure how he isn’t going crazy wondering what’s going on behind the closed exam room door. I can’t wait any longer; I’m going in without him. Testing the new limits, now that I’m somehow out of the damned yellow house.

  “You and Jimmy need to agree on where to go next. If you’re going to beat this, your best shot is to have a support system around you,” Dr. Russo is saying to Wren.

  She is sitting on the exam table, covered only in a thin white gown. Her cheeks are still flushed, but now I wonder if it’s fever or anger that colors them red.

  “I am not having one,” she says. Her face is set, her mind long ago made up. Why they even bother bringing this up over and over again, I’m not sure.

  Dr. Russo shakes her head. “I know you can’t imagine not having a child, but you need to understand that if this keeps progressing, you might not be around long enough to see your child grow up.”

  Wren looks away from her doctor so that she’s staring directly at me. I wait—hope—for a flicker of recognition. Anything.

  “This is my choice,” she repeats.

  They are interrupted by a light knock on the door. Wren nods to Dr Russo, and she opens the door. Jimmy stands gingerly on the other side, his hands clasped in front of him. Looking at him from the other side of the room, I wonder what I’m looking like these days. This Jimmy’s hair is a mess, like he just woke up and hasn’t showered in a few days. I haven’t run my fingers through my hair in so long, it would be nice to feel the familiar weight of it. Something so simple that I took for granted. He steps into the room and shuts the door behind him, but a cool breeze enters with him. Why are hospitals always so cold? Then, seconds later, it hits me like an electric shock. I can feel the cold.

  Since the car accident, I have physically felt nothing. I observe and emote; that’s the extent of my existence. But suddenly I can feel the air stir around me, and it’s freezing cold. Am I waking up? Maybe this has been some bad dream after all.

  Jimmy and Wren talk seriously with the doctor, but their argument fades into the background as a familiar voice fills the room.

  “Who are you?” the voice demands. It’s female and harsh but still musical. Jimmy and Wren keep talking as if nothing has been shouted around them.

  The owner of the familiar angry voice shoves me, hard, before I can answer. I grab for her arm and make contact, gripping her tight and turning her to face me. Touch. I can touch her.

  Forced to stand still, she turns her face up to mine. Cold, black eyes stare at me and her lips are pulled back in a snarl, a row of straight white teeth just visible. Still, I’d recognize her face anywhere. “Karen?” I murmur, one eye taking in Wren sitting on the exam table, the other focused on the look-alike in my grasp. Both of them bite their cheeks.

  “Who are you?” she repeats, ripping her arm from my hold. The feel of her skin lingers on my fingertips.

  “It’s me,” I say, unsure how I’m suddenly able to make sound. “James.” My voice sounds just like I remember. I expect her expression to soften, but she looks even more severe than before.

  We stand awkwardly facing each other, two others in the same room with the living, breathing version of themselves. Her brows are knit together tightly and her lips are pursed, every muscle in her body poised to bolt. I want nothing more than for her to stay.

  I try smiling, but she doesn’t smile back. Her hands clench and unclench. We stand off. I wish I could hug her, kiss her, squeeze her to my chest just to feel her weight, but I don’t dare move. I bite back hysterical tears of joy that bubble just beneath the surface. Instead of crying, I laugh, a sound I feared I’d never hear again except from the mouth of the man who is and isn’t me.

  “You have no idea how happy I am to see you,” I say. and take a step toward her.

  Without hesitation, she slaps me with all her might. My face stings.

  “Don’t touch me!” she hisses. Then she is gone.

  36

  Karen

  After

  May 2005

  When I was alive, days rolled into weeks and weeks into months, then before I knew it, years had passed. Time flew by without me noticing. I wish this had been because I was doing something exciting, but it was the exact opposite. Even before the cancer, my life had become a dreadful monotony. Every day I did the same thing: Wake up. Breakfast. Eight hours at the gymnasium. Dinner alone. Bad TV. Sleep. Repeat. After my diagnosis it was more of the same, except it revolved around treatment. Three pills in the morning. Three pills at lunch. Five at dinner. Radiation on the second and last Thursdays of each month. I spent a lot of time at the gym and still spent every night alone in front of the tube, choking down whatever food I might not puke back up. That was why I ended it.

  Existing as a ghost isn’t all that different, except now I’m watching Jimmy and Wren attend to this tedious adventure they call a life. I know how long I’ve been here only because of the calendar I can’t help but glimpse from my favorite hiding spot. Two years feels like an eternity. Wren’s life is obviously different than mine was, but so much is the same. Sometimes I forget which memories are mine and which are hers.

  Never a loud person, I’m used to not being heard. I’ve always valued silence in myself and in others. One might think bei
ng trapped in a prison of quiet solitude would be torture, but this may be the only thing keeping me sane. If I were able to interact in this world, I wouldn’t survive. I killed myself for a reason—to stop all the interaction. At least now I’m just an observer, allowed to relish in being alone.

  I think the cat is onto me. When I first came into this world, I don’t think it sensed me. Fat and lazy, it’s only ever been concerned with food and licking itself. But over the last few months, it has seemed more aware of me. There have been subtle shifts in the air and strange noises in the house that could only come from the cat. I notice these slight variances only because I’ve felt nothing for so long, and it’s strange to feel a sudden idea of cold on my face. I’d almost forgotten what temperature was. It must be Prissy, because otherwise something crazy is happening. Maybe I’m becoming sentient. Maybe one day Wren and Jimmy will turn to me and start talking to me like I’ve been here all along.

  This morning, Wren woke up looking all too familiar to me. Her yellow face, the cold sweat drying on her brow, and her pores screaming sick! were too much to ignore. Having nothing better to do, I tagged along with them to the hospital. Usually I don’t try to leave the safety of the house, but as long as they both go elsewhere, I’ve discovered, I can go as well. In my wildest fantasy, I dream that if I stay in the exam room with Wren and wish hard enough, she might agree to the hysterectomy. Perhaps some piece of me is connected to her, some cosmic link. Clearly my plan hasn’t worked, but still I try.

  Someone at the hospital knows I’m here. I suspect it’s one of the superaware nurses, the ones who seem to look directly at me with a knowing stare. A hospital is probably a good place to find people who believe in ghosts. There are so many sad people here, people praying for loved ones to survive and mourning those who have passed on. The nurses see so much death each day, they must know the dead walk among them. Whatever it is, the hairs on my arm are standing on edge. My senses have been set on high alert, and this time I can’t blame it on the damn cat.

  ***

  Double take.

  I blink, clearing my mind from this sleepy haze. Sleep is different from what it was when I was alive. Now, I shut down. Like a computer. I fold into myself and the world goes quiet. Since I don’t feel anything, it’s fairly easy for me to turn off. I “sleep” whenever I can. I hope one day I will shut down and stay that way. It reminds me of the dead man’s float, like when you’re a kid and floating in a pool. You can’t hear anything, but you’re moving, suspended. It’s as close to death as I can create for myself, since suicide didn’t work out for me.

  Yet I still dream. I close my eyes and see things from my life, things I know are no longer real. Maybe it’s only remembering. Either way, it’s confusing. With my eyes closed and ears shut against the world, it’s hard to decipher what’s real and what was.

  When I crack open my eyes and see two Jimmys, I assume I’m having one of my shut-down dreams. I blink. I open them again, readjust my eyes, make sure I’m awake. The Jimmy I see when I fully wake up isn’t the way I remember him from my life, back when he was young and innocent. Most of the time, the Jimmy in my dreams is the same sixteen-year-old boy who used to sneak in through my bedroom window. When I was alive, I dreamed the same dream, but with a slightly older Jim. I dreamed he climbed into my apartment window, my modern-day Prince Charming come to save his princess.

  The Jimmy I see now is neither of these. Nor is he the one I am forced to watch day in and day out, the early-thirty-something Jimmy. This one is older. His hair is shorter, his body more muscled, the skin around his eyes tighter, slightly wrinkled. His aura is different. Wren’s Jimmy exudes kindness and love. This one is strung too tight.

  Muffled noise behind me catches my attention. I glance back and see the real Jimmy sitting with his head in his hands on the chair outside Wren’s exam room. So who is this other Jimmy? Panic grips me, but excitement sneaks into parts not on the brink of flight. This must be a dream. It feels different, but a dream is the only way to explain this.

  The feeling disappears as soon as the apparition does. Poof. Gone. Did I wake up? No, I’m awake. I know I am. Something’s different. Something feels, and I haven’t felt anything in a long, long time. The Jimmy that disappeared didn’t dissolve into my fantasies; he just dissolved someplace else, out of the waiting room.

  ***

  I’m in the exam room before I can think twice. Whenever I get the idea that I control my haunting, I’m reminded that there’s a greater hand moving me, like I’m a ghostly chess piece. Whatever compelled me, I followed the feeling and find myself face-to-face with my biggest fear.

  His force hits me before I even see him clearly. From far away, he looks like Jimmy’s older twin. Up close, I see this isn’t the case. This thing is like me. A ghost. His aura surrounds him, a magnetic energy pulling me toward him. He is a gravitational force unto himself. I wish only to pull away.

  “Who are you?” I hiss. I try to stop myself, but my sheer attraction to him catapults me straight into him. Not-Jimmy looks up, and when he sees me, he looks so happy. He stretches his arms out to embrace me, like he’s been waiting forever for me. A hug is the last thing I want, so I bulldoze right through him.

  He grabs my arm, steadying me. I rip it back. His touch burns. I haven’t felt another’s skin in so long I’m oversensitive. Even his breath offends me.

  He says my name, lets it linger on his lips. He says my name like I’m his savior.

  How dare he say my name like he knows me. Stepping back, I snarl, “Who are you?” I glare at him-who-looks-like-Jimmy. I’ve been in this hell long enough to know the answer to that question could never be simple.

  Clearly, he thinks it is this easy. “It’s me,” he says, smiling. “James.” He reaches his hand toward me, like he doesn’t believe I’m real, that I’m standing before him. He moves toward me and I can’t take it any longer. His presence hurts me. The sound of my own voice after so long pierces through my ears.

  “Don’t touch me!” I slap him with all my might and watch him recoil. My hand stings from the hit, from the heat of his skin. My fingertips are on fire and freezing cold simultaneously. I wish to be away from here, away from him. I wish, I wish.

  Poof, gone. I leave him standing there with the imprint of my hand on my cheek. If only I didn’t feel the imprint of his presence pressing on my heart.

  37

  James

  After

  May 2005

  She’s disappeared. I’m not sure where she’s gone, but it can’t be that far. In my months of haunting Jimmy and Wren, I’ve tested the boundaries of my new world. If they are both home, I can’t leave. If Jimmy is at work, I can follow him or stay at the house. I’ve tried following Wren when she leaves on her own, but if she goes much beyond the end of the driveway, I end up back in the house, waiting for her to return. I’m free to wander their backyard. Once I made it to the end of their street, but once I step foot past that block mark, I’m back in the living room of the little yellow house.

  Movement is simple now. All I need to do is think hard and I go where I wish, as long as it’s within my confines. Upstairs and up I go. Basement and down I find myself. I tried my parents’ house and NYC apartment but I stay where I am, rooted to Jimmy and Wren’s house.

  Based on this logic—provided Karen’s ghost is constrained by similar rules—there are only two places she could possibly be: home alone or here at the hospital. Unfortunately, this place is huge, four stories high with hundreds of rooms; there must be thousands of places to hide. It’s also full of death. I’m hoping that after bumping into another ghost, she’s freaked out enough to stay close by for fear of running into yet other ghosts. If I could shiver at the thought, I would.

  Home. Strangely enough, I no longer consider my NYC apartment home. The little yellow Cape house is home now. Maybe it’s because I never felt at home in my apartment. I haven’t felt at home anywhere in a long, long time. Ironic I had to die to find home.<
br />
  Instantly I’m in the living room. I move toward the couch and strain to hear any noises in the house. Now that I know what to listen for, I try to drown out the sound of the heating system and all the little sounds a creaky old house makes. I listen for her, for some specific movement that can’t be explained away by a cat.

  “Karen?” I open my mouth to call out, but no sound emerges. I try again, but still nothing. I guess she’s not here. Not close, anyway. I don’t know these rules yet.

  Kitchen. “Hello?” My lips move, but silence again. I’m beginning to think she’s still at the hospital, willing to risk running into strange ghosts to avoid talking to me.

  Bedroom. “Please come out,” I beg, but she’s not in the master bedroom.

  Maybe she’s in the baby room, the “extra room” no one ever goes in. I’ve avoided it since the night I saw Wren crying on the rocking chair. Nursery.

  “Karen?” I ask, tentatively. This time, I hear my voice. It’s quiet, barely a whisper, but noise is noise.

  “I know you can hear me,” I say, walking to the window. The sun is setting, and the room is cast in shadows. “Please, just talk to me.”

  She appears on the rocking chair. One second it’s empty, the next she’s fully formed. Moonlight shining in through the window makes her glimmer. She actually looks like a ghost in this light.

  She raises her eyebrows and crosses her arms over her chest. I want to laugh. She looks exactly the same as when I pissed her off in high school, right down to the petulant set of her mouth. She shakes her head impatiently, willing me to speak.

  I have so much to say to her, but I’m at a loss for words. I want to talk about what happened to us, why we’re here. I want to ask her about how she died. I want to ask her about her life. I want to ask her if she still hates me for breaking her heart. I want to ask so many things, but nothing comes out.

  She keeps staring at me. It’s strange. This woman is so much like the Wren I’ve spent months studying. She’s the same girl I once loved, but I know she’s not the same. Just like I’m the same Jimmy, but different.