Every Time You Go Away

by Beth Harbison

  We got in the car, opened all the windows, and drove across the bridge over the bay to the inlet. It was a sparkling sunny day and the light danced on the water like shards of gleaming glass. The scene took my breath away, it was so perfect, and for a moment I forgot all the heaviness I’d been carrying around for so long and felt light.

  “This was a good idea,” I said to Kristin, who was in the driver’s seat.

  “Good. I thought you were going to say no.”

  “I was.”

  “You just need to break up the monotony a little bit now and then. Get those thought paths going in different directions.”

  I looked at the skyline of hotels and condominiums and thought about how many people came here just for fun and had a great time. If the buildings were mood rings, they’d probably be mostly blue.

  We threaded our way through the traffic on the Coastal Highway and got a prime parking spot by the wide end of the boardwalk. “See?” Kristin said. “It was meant to be.”

  I laughed and we got out of the car. The unique smell of the beach hit me: sugar, popcorn, fries, cotton candy, pizza, and salt air. It made me hungry for everything, which I took as progress, since I hadn’t had much of an appetite for a while.

  “Fisher’s?” Kristin asked.

  Fisher’s meant caramel popcorn, a longtime Ocean City staple. “Absolutely,” I agreed.

  We got a bucket of caramel corn, then went to the ticket window to buy tickets for the Ferris wheel. The line was long and we were taller than most of the people in it, but we stood and waited, people-watching and munching our caramel corn, until we finally got up to the front and a dubious-looking guy with cigarettes rolled in his sleeve and two dead teeth ushered us on to the seat. I imagined he probably had whiskey on his breath as well.

  “Don’t worry,” Kristin said, as if reading my mind. “It’s not like he assembled it.”

  “But he’s in charge of running it,” I said, as the wheel jerked back and the next people were loaded on. “What if he forgets to turn it off, or turns it on too fast?”

  “Then we’ll have a great time!” She tossed a few pieces of caramel corn in the air. “Hey, remember when we used to bring the kids here?”

  “Jamie hated the Ferris wheel!”

  “He did! And Kelsey loved it. She used to tease him about being scared.”

  The ride moved again. “And then she’d hold his hand during the ride.”

  Kristin smiled. “That’s right. She’s a pretty good egg, when it comes down to it. They both are.”

  And with that the Ferris wheel swooped up and I felt the familiar rush of fear and excitement that always seemed to come with the ride. We rose into the air and the ocean stretched, vast and endless, ahead of us, and I felt a peace I hadn’t felt in three years come over me. It was almost as if nothing bad had ever happened, because the moment was so full and complete. Just my best friend and me on a boardwalk ride, it could have been twenty years ago or now, the moment was just timeless. Nothing was missing.

  The ride did seem to go on for a long time, soaring and dipping, and eventually stopping to let riders off. We hung, suspended, at the very top for a moment, and the wind gently blew the chair, which creaked like the riggings on a ship.

  “This is perfect,” I breathed.

  “It never gets old.”

  “We should play hooky today and just do all the rides.”

  Kristin looked at me, surprised. “For real?” She put a hand to my forehead, pretending to check my temperature. “Is this really you?”

  “Yes, it’s really me.” I laughed. “This is the new me. I’m tired of being neurotic and walking on eggshells and always, always, always trying to figure out how to do things right. I can’t think of a reason in the world why we shouldn’t just pig out on Tony’s pizza and go on the roller coaster till we’re afraid we’re going to throw it all up.”

  “You know how to tempt a girl!”

  “Oh, you know you want to do the same thing.”

  And so we did. We spent the next two hours riding everything except for the littlest toddler rides. (And we only had to forgo those because we weren’t allowed on them.) We ate pizza and drank Love’s lemonade, bought too much fudge from the Candy Kitchen, then waddled our sorry selves to a bench that overlooked the shoreline.

  “It’s going to be hard to say goodbye to all of this,” I said, and found myself putting my hand to my chest.

  Kristin looked at me. “Have you thought about maybe not doing that?”

  “Not what?”

  “Not selling. Keeping the place.” She shrugged. “I’m not saying you should or you shouldn’t, but it’s the first time you’ve been here since, you know…”

  “Ben died.” It came out easier than I expected this time.

  “Yes, since that. And I know you dreaded coming all this time, but now that you’re here … I don’t know, you seem to be…” She splayed her arms. “I don’t know, you seem to be loosening up a little.”

  I knew what she meant. It wasn’t just that I’d agreed to come here today and then made the unusual-for-me decision to blow off work, but I also hadn’t obsessively called Jamie to micromanage him, for once. I knew that was progress and that if I wanted our relationship to improve and become what it should be (at least as far as I was concerned), I needed to do more of that.

  But keep the house?

  Maybe you’re noticing a change because I’m crazily seeing Ben when I’m there, I wanted to say. But what could she say to that?

  And, really, no matter what prompted the change in me, wasn’t it good regardless?

  But still … keep the house?

  “It would be crazy for me to just keep it for myself, without Ben. I mean, he was half the heart of the home, you know?”

  “I know,” she conceded. “But you kept the house in Potomac, as you totally should. You’ve moved on there. You changed it up, redecorated, made it into something old and something new. And, it’s hard to say this because I don’t know how you’re going to take it, but, honey, you’re young. The chances of you meeting someone new and making it into a happy old age with him are really good.”

  I felt a stab in my heart. Someone new? Who was this nameless, faceless person that was trying to change my life and make me into something else? That’s what it felt like every time I contemplated moving on, and yet she was right. I didn’t want to grow old alone. Die alone. Of course I didn’t want that. No one did!

  In the distance, the ocean rolled and crashed onto the shore. I could see the telltale section of the waves that indicated a riptide, and it occurred to me that I was trapped in a riptide myself. Trying so hard to resist the pull of reason that I was getting exhausted.

  I had to move on.

  Maybe these visits from Ben indicated just that. A mind that had grown so stuck on what it wanted that it was creating it in a way that was nothing short of nuts.

  “Did I say the wrong thing?” Kristin asked, worried.

  I shook my head. “No, no. I’m sorry, I was just lost in thought. As hard as it is for me to fathom, I think you’re right. Life goes on and I have no choice but to go with it. I’m just not so sure keeping the beach house is the way to do it.”

  “Understood.” She lifted an eyebrow. “Let’s just see what we can do with it in the next few weeks, no matter what you want to do with it.”

  Chapter Twenty-four

  The place really came together in the next couple of weeks. It was amazing what a fresh coat of paint and a weeding-out of old furniture could achieve. It felt like a new place, and, with all the windows open and the sea breeze blowing through day and night, I was truly beginning to feel like a new person.

  During that time I didn’t see or “sense” Ben at all. I’d like to say it was because I reached such a new level of mental health that I didn’t need the crutch of an imagined ghost anymore, but the truth is that I was worried that somehow my conversation with Kristin about finding someone new might have pushed him
away, despite the fact that he had suggested the same thing. Which, of course, made me feel like I needed to retract it all and vow to go beyond our wedding promises of “till death do us part” and just commit my life to being a widow.

  But that was an idea that didn’t hold much appeal.

  And some small part deep inside of me was glad I recognized that. Still, a whole other part of me was still waist-high in memories as I went through his things—and our things—and boxed up everything that gave me even a moment’s pause or a hint of negativity.

  “Oh, Ben,” I found myself saying one day as I was working in the master bedroom. “I can’t believe I’m doing this. If you’re really around, please come and tell me what I’m supposed to do.”

  The box of clothes I was working on was full and I sealed it and shoved it aside. This was hard but cathartic. I dragged another box over, this one emblazoned with the Amazon Prime logo, and opened it. I was surprised to see it wasn’t empty. At the bottom of the box there was a flat plastic-covered item, almost invisible. I’d overlooked smaller inclusions in Amazon boxes before, so it wasn’t surprising that Ben had too. I reached in and took it out.

  It was one of those flat magnets, with an old-fashioned picture of a woman on it and the inscription A CLEAN HOUSE IS A SIGN OF A WASTED LIFE.

  He always did say I broke my back cleaning too much. He helped out, of course, but I was a bit OCD about cleaning. That’s annoying for the other people in the house, I know that. It always carries an implication of Help me out or Why aren’t you doing more? Do I have to do everything around here? A person can’t just relax while someone else is working their butt off.

  So this was just a little joke from him. Typical and kind of adorable, even while it was heart-wrenching.

  I held it to my chest for a moment, then set it aside, deciding I’d put it on my fridge as a reminder of him and as a posthumous joke that would always make me smile when I saw it.

  Even if it was somewhat through tears.

  Then I returned to my work, everything into the box. I barely even looked at the items, just tossed them in.

  “Wait, wait,” I heard behind me. “I always liked that one.”

  I was holding a green crop top that I hadn’t worn since my bartending days in my twenties. As soon as I heard the voice, I closed my eyes for a minute, fervently praying it wasn’t just my imagination, and then turned to see him.

  Ben was back, sitting on the bed, watching me. Interestingly, he was dressed differently this time. Whereas before he’d been wearing jeans and a T-shirt that read ATHLETIC DEPARTMENT, which I’d seen him wear a million times (where was that T-shirt now?), this time he was in jeans still, but with a different shirt, the short-sleeved white cotton one I’d gotten him from Banana Republic. I didn’t always score at that store, but that time I had; the shirt looked great on him.

  “This?” I raised the top. “You’ve got to be kidding.” Then it hit me, as it had before. This was Ben. Or this seemed to be Ben. I was talking to Ben.

  “It’s sexy,” he said with a lascivious grin.

  Man, I loved that grin.

  “It’s indecent,” I corrected, though my heart was pounding at the sight of him. “Particularly at my age.”

  “Oh, yes. You’re such an old woman.”

  “Hey, I’m a widow.” I couldn’t help looking at him accusingly, as if he’d chosen to leave me in this position. Quickly I corrected my expression, but not before he’d taken note of it.

  “So you are. The Merry Widow.”

  “Not so merry.”

  “Oh, hey, that magnet! You found the magnet.” He laughed heartily. “I thought about that damn thing so much more than I should have. Don’t you just hate how Amazon does that, sticks little tiny things in a big box full of paper towels or whatever and you never even know they’re there?”

  “Yes, I—”

  “I kept meaning to go check that box again, I thought about it right up to the time…” He shook his head, still smiling. “I can’t believe it. You know, if I weren’t here, that’s just the kind of thing you’d think was a sign from me, but honestly, I had no idea where the damn thing was.”

  I had to laugh. That was just so Ben. Losing presents, thinking he should do something but not getting around to it. I can’t say literally dying was his style—that part was unprecedented—but he was right, I would have wanted to see it as a sign. And it was—it was a sign that people pretty much are who you think they are, and that transcends life and death.

  Which was actually a good thing, because I also thought he loved me, and this was pretty good proof of that.

  Except I had this niggling question about why it was so seemingly easy for him to come and go, to be with me then to disappear into a world I couldn’t join him in until the end. “Why don’t you want to stay?”

  Confusion crossed his expression, then alit. “You don’t think I want to be here with you?”

  I shrugged and was embarrassed to feel my lower lip start to tremble with uncontrolled emotion. “You are now,” I said. “You were before. Why did you leave?”

  He pressed his lips together and thought for a moment. “I don’t know. It’s not up to me.”

  “Where did you go when you disappeared?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What do you mean, you don’t know?” I had raised my voice and immediately thought of Kristin, hearing me yelling to myself. “You’re here, then you’re gone, now you’re back, you’re a kid, you’re my young husband, now you’re … you’re you. How is all of this happening?”

  “I honestly don’t know,” he said. “You obviously needed me, so I came. I was sent. I was allowed. I’m not sure how to put it, but time and place are different over there. I can’t give you the answers you want because there’s no way to make you understand.”

  “Then make me understand this one thing only: If you’re here now, why can’t you stay?” My voice broke. “At least until it’s time for me to join you. Can’t you just stay? Didn’t you say time is different there? Isn’t a lifetime here just the blink of an eye … there?”

  He looked at me sincerely and stood up to move toward me. As before, he grew a little blurrier as he moved close. He must have seen the upset in my eyes and he stepped back as if he understood. “I don’t belong here,” he said earnestly. “You do, but I no longer do. You know that.”

  “I don’t know that.”

  “Inside, you do. It’s time for you to move forward.”

  “No. I can’t.” I shook my head. “None of this makes sense. Every other death I’ve known made some sort of sense—he was out of his misery at last, or she had lived a full life. I can’t make sense of yours. You were so young. You left behind such a young son, who misses you so much. And me…”

  He looked sad, an emotion I had kind of thought he couldn’t feel anymore. “I heard what Kristin said to you. About how brave you’ve been and what a good job you’ve done with Jamie.”

  Hearing him say our son’s name broke a whole new level of my heart. A place I hadn’t really realized existed. “Did you see?” I asked, like a child wondering if there is really a Santa Clause. “Have you been watching us?”

  It actually was like Santa, I realized. Did he see when we were sleeping? Did he know when we were awake? That’s kind of how I’d always thought of God and angels, and I guess I was labeling Ben an angel now because “ghost” seemed so harsh and spooky.

  When I was young, I had an old record album of haunted house sounds. It was a Disney production, much older than I was, but I’d found it at a garage sale I’d gone to with my mom and I was captivated by the moody, Halloweeny cover and simply had to have it.

  And I listened to that thing like I was a teenage girl in the sixties listening to the Beatles. Don’t ask me how or why, it was crazy that I did, but I could listen to those creepy creaks and howls and boos from dawn till dusk.

  It was pretend then. I loved it. I think we human beings want to feel things, but
safely. That’s why horror movies and thrillers are so popular. We feel scared or tense or on the edge of our seats but we know, even going into it, that everything will be resolved in the end. It’s a few hours of safely feeling.

  So it was with my haunted house record—I’d listen and I’d feel, then I’d go upstairs and put on my Carter’s pajamas, watch some silly sitcoms or movies with my parents, then go to sleep, carrying with me the Cheers episode we’d watched, or Trading Places, rather than the ghosts.

  Now I couldn’t bear to associate Ben with those sad, lonely ghost cries I remembered from my childhood. And there was nothing to suggest he was suffering or would moan through the night like they did, so I was being morbid about this anyway, but I still preferred to look at him as my own private guardian angel now.

  “No, I haven’t been watching you,” he said, and in so doing deflated my guardian-angel hopes. “I don’t have that kind of control between worlds.”

  “But I swear sometimes I have felt you around me. Was that my imagination? The crazed thoughts of my grief?”

  “No,” he said gently. “Of course not. I have sometimes felt the pull of your heart and I’ve been drawn to it. That’s the best I can explain. So, yes, I have been there when you’ve needed me. I hope. Maybe not every time, because”—he shook his head—“we all know that’s not how it works. Unfortunately.”

  There was comfort in that. Just in knowing I’d been right when I’d felt him. I hadn’t been alone at my times of greatest sorrow. “But you can’t control it at all? Is it every time I’m really sad?”

  “You tell me,” he said knowingly. “Have I been here every time you were really sad?”

  “No…”

  “No.” He gave a rueful smile.

  Now, that was honesty. I was glad he didn’t try to dress it up like something prettier than the sow’s ear it was. He couldn’t be here for me reliably. For all the great things that spirit was, or could be, it failed in the mutual-support department. Mortality had that all over spirit.

  “Do you ever need me?” I asked, half afraid of the answer. “Are you ever scared there?”