“It’s not what you think,” she says. Her voice sounds distant. Small.
“Then what is it?”
“When you were gone, I wasn’t sure if I would make it. I—”
Six weeks in a hole. Daily torture and interrogation. Months of constantly being moved from place to place. Maggot-filled meat. Avoiding my own shit. Scrambling for worms.
“—Often wanted to leave. To run away.”
“There was a plane ticket for this weekend, and money.”
“This weekend? I bought that ticket months ago. I thought, if you’re still missing I would… move to Chicago. I’m sorry James. I should have unpacked it the day you returned. I should have.…” She trails off.
Relief floods in. “Why didn’t you tell me? I’ve been this jealous wreck all night.”
“You came home and I—I forgot.”
The car has slowed to a crawl, and I feel like complete and utter shit. Worse than shit. I feel like whatever shit is embarrassed to feel like.
“Oh god, and the mayor with the champagne cork.”
She lets out a laugh. “I was mortified, that’s why I ran out of there.”
“I’ll never be invited into public again.”
“Screw them. You don’t want that, anyway.”
“But I thought you did?” I ask.
She turns to me, her face soft and inviting. “I thought it sounded romantic, but it’s not me.” She rolls her eyes. “Did you see the way the mayor was hitting on me all evening?”
“My god, yes.” I say.
Molly lets out a snorting laugh.
The car has come to a complete halt. Flashing red and whites have joined the pulsing yellows of the construction crew. Everything is painted in yellows and oranges and reds, like a scene from a Wong Kar-wai film.
“What now?” I mutter.
There’s another whir, and the divider lowers again. “Sorry guys, it’s all blocked off. I’m going to get off here and take 96th over to 1st.”
“It’s fine,” I say. “We’re not in a rush.”
The driver nods. He presses a button, and the divider elevates again as the car turns, angling down the off-ramp. Out the window to our right, the East River comes back into view, glittering with the reflections of a million city lights.
Molly gives me a smile. “I only want to be home with you. That’s it.”
I smile back and give her a small kiss on the mouth, but I stop as something catches me eye.
“James, what’s wrong?” Molly asks.
Behind her, framed in the car’s passenger window, a pair of headlights grow large as a truck—oblivious to the intersection, the red stoplight, and the East River only thirty feet in front of it—barrels straight at us. I feel a burst of acceleration as our driver hits the gas, angling away from the impact, toward pedestrian walkway between the road and the river.
Then the world explodes around us.
The truck slams our car over the divider between the street and the pedestrian walkway.
A crunch of metal.
The back window shattering inward.
Thousands of glass daggers cutting at my neck and shoulders.
And then we are flying up, over the pedestrian walkway straight into the air.
Suspended for a moment in midair.
Then tipping downward.
A wall of gray rushing toward us, and—
Impact.
Nothing can prepare you for a car crash. Maybe the fight was a blessing. Maybe my body, being tensed up in anger, was better prepared for the impact: first from the truck, and then from the water, which smashed against the hood of the limousine like a concrete wall. The million other things that might save our lives stand out in bright contrast. The divider, just so recently closed, keeps out the onslaught of water I hear filling the front of the limo.
I tug at my seat belt, cursing the sudden, impossible intricacy of the buckle until it comes loose with a snap.
I fall against the divider.
Molly’s head lolls to the side. Her eyes are closed. I feel a panic that she’s dead. I place a foot against the front of the divider, bracing my body weight against the shifting gravity. Molly leans forward, straining against the belt.
There’s a rush of cold as the back window of the limo, shattered by the impact, descends past the waterline.
Shit, shit, shit, shit. Any moment now and the back cabin will fill with water.
There’s a sudden blast of noise. Fireworks? No, hell, its gunfire. There’s the distant sound of a crack and more rushing water. No doubt the driver, clearing away the windshield to escape out of. The jarring notion that our driver was carrying a gun only briefly crosses my mind.
Fuck these seat belts.
“James?”
Her voice is soft, distant.
“Don’t worry, we’re almost there.”
A click and the seat belt comes loose. And not a moment too soon as the water begins to rise into the cabin. I put my arm under her chest and unwrap the seat belt from around her body.
“I won’t leave you, I won’t ever leave you.”
“What’s happened?”
She blinks at me, her face pale and uncomprehending.
“Hold your breath.”
“I’ve dreamt this,” she says, her eyes distant.
“Hold your breath,” I say again, locking eyes with her. Trying to get her to understand. I can feel the water rising, now at my chest. She nods, understanding, and takes in a deep breath. A moment later and I’m enveloped in icy cold darkness.
I push out of the cabin, pulling Molly with me and into the dark water. Everything is so damn dark. Where is the surface? Somewhere in the back of my mind, I know that the East River is only about forty feet deep, but it feels like we’ve been sinking for hours. I grab her arm and shove with my legs. Molly’s face is a pale shadow in the dark water, but we clasp arms desperately. I hold on tight and glance up, at least toward what I think is up. Her hand slips from mine and I grab at it, and now I’m being pulled down, pulled by both Molly and the vehicle.
A hand grabs at my shoulder. It’s the driver. I shake him loose. Goddamnit, he wants me to let go. But if I let go, she’ll be gone. Gone forever and lost in this black abyss.
The hand pulls again, more roughly this time, and I feel Molly’s hand slipping from my own. Her fingers catch onto something. My ring. I feel a pop and then Molly is gone, taking my ring with her.
I twist in the water, pulling away from the driver’s grip. The car is receding into darkness. I can barely see her inside. I strain to swim back to her, but the driver swims around me, pushing me back up toward the surface. He turns, swimming back for the car as I drift upward, my lungs burning.
Bubbles explode from of my mouth, along with the muted noise of my cry, as I scream, watching the car as it disappears, with Molly and the driver, into darkness.
I burst out of the water. A moment later, strong arms are pulling me up onto the pedestrian pathway. A crowd has already formed.
I try to sit up but hands gently force me back down. “Take it easy, pal,” a young man with a Jersey accent says. “You need to relax.”
“My wife, she’s still down there!”
The Jersey man stands and shouts, “There’s a woman down there!” Another young man pulls his shirt off and dives into the water. The Jersey man turns back. “It’s gonna be okay.”
I fall back on the pavement, taking in huge gasping breaths of air. Time seems to speed up. A parade of concerned faces move past me. The stars spin and turn on their axis. There’s a scream of sirens. A blur of movement as the EMTs rush to my side. And then a hushed refrain cuts through the other noise as the onlookers whisper above me, glancing down at me with looks of growing concern and horror. “They can’t find her,” they say. “The driver and the other woman in the car,” they say, “they’re gone.” The EMTs try to ask me a question, but all I can say in response is, “she’s gone?” over and over and over again. The EMTs slide me on
to a board and get to work bracing my neck. Under the straps, I feel the small lump in the side of my jacket. The box I’d received at the start of the evening is still safely inside. Insane laughter bubbles out of me. The EMTs exchange worried glances, but I keep laughing. My ring is gone. Molly is gone. But that stupid box I’d been asked to keep? That’s just fine.
November 24
Wake. Eat. Bathe. Try not to think of your dead wife. Take a walk. Drink too much coffee. Do anything at all to avoid thinking about your dead wife. Eat. Sleep. Repeat. This is my list to get through each day. Some of the items are flexible. Sleep doesn’t always happen in a bed; I’ve been sleeping on the couch since coming back home.
How many days has it been since Molly’s been gone? Twenty? Thirty? I move in cautious circles around the mess of my apartment. There’s a pile of clothes on the floor and stacks of dishes and takeout boxes both on and around the coffee table. A staleness fills the air. The smell of burnt coffee seems to have covered every square inch of the place. My apartment is a graveyard and I am the one haunting it. But only the first floor. Like a ghost who didn’t make it into St. Peter’s book, the second floor—where most of what is left of Molly remains—is out of reach.
The television is on, playing Good Morning America as the vapid hosts discuss interview parents about a new show called South Park that they’re all apparently enraged about. I stare out the window, watching the sway of the poplar trees in the breeze, hearing the distant voices of passersby on the street below.
The clothes I’m wearing were either purchased the night after the accident at a drug store up the street, are from our downstairs laundry room, or had been left at the dry-cleaners. The downstairs living space is now my apartment. The upstairs bedroom and office are a mausoleum that I refuse to enter. Not for fear of being reminded of her death, but for fear of being reminded of what I could have done to stop it.
I could have stopped her…
The thought is a dull ache in the pit of my bowels.
We could have stayed at that party…
The voice in my head shouts at me like a drill sergeant scaring the shit out of new recruits.
She would still be alive…
I try to block the voices out.
Wake. Eat. Bathe. Go mad with grief. Eat. Sleep.
There’s a knock at the door, but it sounds distant. It must be the neighbors’. I roll over on the couch, trying to ignore Kevin Newman’s incessant droning and return to sleep.
“Jim!”
That was not at the neighbors’ door.
“Jim, it’s Artie Longdale. Can I come in?”
I groan and pick myself up from the couch. At least I’m dressed, if gym shorts and a Camton University T-shirt can be called “dressed.” Stumbling to the door, I fumble with the lock and swing it open.
“Come on in,” I mutter.
Artie Longdale stands in the doorway staring at me. “Jesus Christ,” he says. “How long has it been since you left your apartment?”
“Not long enough,” I say.
Longdale steps inside, pushing aside a pile of takeout boxes, and takes in the room. “We’ve gotta do something about this.” It’s muttered more to himself than to me.
“No,” I say. “I don’t need you coming in here trying to fix me.” I move to push him toward the door but he sidesteps, lithely swinging the door shut behind him.
“Not so fast,” He glances around. “Good God, have you been outside even once in the last two weeks? At least let me buy you a cup of coffee. There’s a Starbucks up the street.”
“That new fancy crap? No thanks.”
“Your choice?”
I consider for a moment. “I like my coffee lukewarm and weak.”
“I know just the place,” Longdale says.
“How do you know this city better than I do when you spend all your time in Silicon Valley?”
He holds the door open for me. “I didn’t spend the last decade on the other side of the world.”
He looks away, realizing he’s hit a sore point. I step past him, shading my eyes from the morning light. “You’re not saying anything I haven’t heard before.”
We sit on a park bench overlooking the fountain in Central Park. The path through the park is jam-packed with a constant stream of tourists, joggers, and cyclists all vying for their strip of concrete. It’s a warm day for November, and many people are dressed in only light outerwear. I had grabbed a light jacket from the downstairs closet; my heavier coat that was soaked in the accident is in a dry-cleaner’s bag draped across the armchair in the living room. I stare at the joggers and tourists, sipping my coffee, feeling numb.
“You have to start living your life,” Longdale says.
“No I don’t,” I say. “I was ready to stop living before this happened. Why should I start now?”
“Because you’re still a young man.”
I shoot him a skeptical look.
Longdale shrugs. “Relatively speaking. It’s not over 'til it’s over. That sort of thing.”
“You’re terrible at this.”
“I know…”
The whir of a bicycle. The pant of a jogger. The murmuring wind.
“What brings you back so soon to New York?”
Longdale takes in a deep breath. “A divorce hearing.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
He glances at me. “Andra. That was her name. Don’t feel bad about not remembering it. I know, I know, I know. She was number three. A fashion model from Estonia, for God’s sake. She wanted me for my money and now she is going to get nearly half of it, thanks to an ironclad prenup filed in the New York court system.”
“And that’s why you were here before?”
“Trying to work things out. Trying and failing. She kept saying she just doesn’t like Silicon Valley. Too hot. What she really wants is the apartment.”
“You could have said something.”
“To you? I hadn’t seen you since you were brought back…”
“No, it’s fine. That hardly seems real anymore. Nothing does.”
He takes a sip of his coffee and grimaces. “This is shit.”
“It’s perfect,” I say.
“When are you going to have a funeral?” Longdale asks.
I shake my head. “I want them to find her body.”
“She’s gone, Jim.”
“I know. I know. But the idea of—of burying an empty casket.”
Longdale nods and we fall into silence. I stare into my coffee. Longdale takes in a breath as he looks out across the park. “I was thinking about the last time we had to do this.”
“Jesus… I haven’t thought about Vance in…”
“In years?” Longdale asks. “Me neither. But we were all convinced he wasn’t really gone. That he was going to come waltzing over to our corner booth some night at the bar, a beer in his hand and a big grin on his face.”
“All of us but Ellis.”
“Ellis always liked being the contrarian,” Longdale says. “But Vance didn’t come back, Jim. He didn’t come back, and his parents had a funeral, and we grieved, and we moved on.”
“This is different.”
Longdale holds up a hand, palm out in a comforting gesture. “I know. Of course it’s different. But one of the benefits of this divorce mess is that I’ve seen a lot of therapists—they’ve taught me a thing or two about the human psyche. When we go through similar trauma, it brings back the old trauma on top of the new. So it’s not just Molly. It’s Vance too. You’re having to grieve for your wife and your old college buddy again, all at the same time.”
“What of it?” I ask.
Longdale slaps his hand on my shoulder. “You need some help, compadre.”
“You didn’t come by my apartment this morning to help me clean, did you?”
Longdale shrugs. “I have a court date tomorrow, during which I will have to be in intolerably close quarters with my soon-to-be ex-wife.… Yeah, I selfishly want to use your pain
to help me forget my own. What of it?”
“That’s the Longdale I know.” I sip my coffee. “How exactly do you propose to help?”
Longdale turns to me, a smile on the corner of his mouth. “Like you said, let’s clean.”
Spray bottle and trash bag in hand, we face the mess of the apartment like two wild-west gunmen facing off against an unruly gang. Longdale had found my CD collection and picked a choice album for cleaning: Bruce Springsteen’s Born to Run. I skip ahead to the title track. Longdale adjusts the face mask over his mouth and I do the same.
“Ready?” Longdale asks.
We begin our work, set to the soundtrack of Ernest “Boom” Carter’s ear-shattering drums, David Sancious’s infectious piano, and, of course, the Boss’s incomparable voice.
“I’ll start in here,” Longdale says. He grabs a trash bag and begins throwing pizza boxes and paper plates into it.
“Sounds like a plan,” I say.
I move past him, propelled by the music, down the hallway toward the kitchen. Passing the small laundry room underneath the stairs, I catch a glance of the basket of laundry on top of the washing machine. We had been halfway through a load of laundry the night of the fundraiser, and the smell of molding clothes burst out at me.
“I’m going to need one of those trash bags!” I shout.
Longdale tosses me a bag. I pull out all of Molly’s clothes and toss them into the trash bag. Hefting the bag, I carry it back down the hallway and toss it next to Longdale’s bag of garbage.
“Are you going to give those away?” Longdale asks.
I shake my head. “The thought of spotting someone else walking down the street in a dress she used to wear and then wondering if it could be her actual clothes. Nuh-uh. I want to know they’re gone.”
“You sure?” Longdale asks.
I stare at the pile of clothes, noticing one of my favorite dresses of hers just as the next track starts, She’s the One. I feel a moment of hesitation, of intense nostalgia.
Longdale puts a hand on my shoulder. “I can finish up down here, why don’t you start upstairs. Unless you want me to…”
“What?” I ask.
Incursion: Book Three of The Recursion Event Saga Page 3
