by Janis Thomas
I type a few sentences in the message box, hit “Send,” then shut the computer down. I stand and stretch. My jeans fall down to my upper thighs. I hike them up and walk to the bedroom, shutting off lights as I go. I climb into bed without changing into my pajamas, without brushing my teeth or washing my face, because, really, who cares at this point?
I stare at the dark ceiling. After a few seconds, I hear the soft click of puppy nails on the hardwood. A soft yelp sounds from next to the bed. I turn to see Charlemagne gazing up at me from the floor. I reach over and grab him, then raise him to the bed. He sniffs the air, walks around in a few circles, paws the comforter, then plops down against my chest.
He is just a dog. He isn’t a husband or a daughter or a son. But he is here. I wrap my arms around him.
THIRTY-SEVEN
The next morning begins the same way, except that my disorientation is cut short by the presence of Charlemagne. He sleeps in the crook of my arm.
The employee at Paw-Tastic Pets—I found out her name, Tammy—told me that puppies generally pee several times a night until their bladders mature. But there is no way Charlemagne could have gotten himself back up onto the bed after a visit to his urine pad. I check the bedding. It’s dry. He felt my need, I decide. He knew I needed the warmth of him, the constancy of his heartbeat, the softness of his fur. He held himself for me. I snuggle against him and kiss him on the top of his head.
As soon as I shift, he jumps to his feet, hops off the bed, and makes a beeline for his urine pad. I laugh, and the sound is strange to my ears. I don’t dislike it, but it hurts.
I push back the covers to see that I’m still wearing my clothes from yesterday. One less thing to do. One more check mark on my short list.
The nightstand beside me is not the one from my house, but I know the journal will be in the drawer, next to a necklace with a lion pendant. I pull the necklace out and gaze at the pendant, then clasp it around my neck. The pendant feels heavier than it should. I withdraw the journal and run my fingers across the cover, but I don’t open it. I carry it with me into the main room and stow it in my purse, then head to the kitchen, where I fill Charlemagne’s bowls with kibble and water. I grab a cracker and pop it in my mouth. It’s dry and stale. I wash it down with water.
As Charlemagne munches loudly on his food, I backtrack to the dining alcove and boot up my computer. A horn blares from the street below, muted by the triple-paned glass. I realize my jeans are falling off, so I head to the bedroom and search through the boxes until I find another pair. I put them on. They are even roomier than the last pair, so I grab a belt from the same box and loop it around my waist. I’m forced to use the very last hole.
I return to my computer and sit and push away thoughts about my diminishing middle. I log on to Facebook and see that Dante has responded to my message. I read his reply, then leave the site. I glance at the clock on the lower corner of the computer. I have an hour. Plenty of time. I go to my banking website and pay the few bills I have: rent, which is a pittance compared to my mortgage and includes my utilities; cell phone; basic cable.
I open my email provider and click on a correspondence from Val.
Hi, Emma. Hope you are doing as well as possible under the circumstances. Mr. Canning and Mr. Wells asked me to reach out to you to let you know that you can take as much or as little time as you need. I should tell you, also, that they are making some changes, but they want you to know that there will always be a place for you here. Call me if you want to get together. I miss you and am sending you love and prayers.
Val. She is a lovely woman with whom I could have been friends, but I was unwilling to let her in. I worked with her for years and never told her about Josh’s disability. I never confided in her at all. And yet she was one of the first people to offer help when my son died. Perhaps we can still be friends. I won’t return to Canning and Wells—I know what she means by “changes”—but I can seek her out apart from work. If I’m still here.
As I reread her email, I realize that I have been given a kind of do-over. I don’t want it. I’m forty-one years old and alone. But if this is my fate, if I am relegated to this new reality, I have to forge on. I have to make different choices than the ones I made in my old life. I must do it right this time. Or end it. Or. End. It.
The new wish, the one that has been lingering in the back of my mind since I awoke yesterday morning in this apartment, expands in my brain, pushes against the inside of my skull. I hear the words at full volume. I want to say them. Because I don’t want to start over. I don’t want this new life. I want my old life. If I can’t have it, I don’t want anything.
All I have to do is give the wish the gift of my voice.
A soft tap on my foot breaks through my thoughts. Charlemagne sits beside the table leg, one paw resting on my toes, looking up at me curiously. I bend down and pick him up, then place him in my lap and stroke his fur. He licks my fingers, my hand, straightens up and presses his forepaws on my chest and attempts to lick my face.
The wish is still there, hovering. But the volume has decreased.
Twenty minutes later, with Charlemagne leashed, my pockets full of dog treats and poop bags, my purse holstered over my shoulder, I leave the apartment. The day is warm, but a soft breeze cuts through the August heat and cools my face as I walk.
My destination is two miles from downtown. My stride is leisurely because I have the time and also because I need to pace myself. My strength and endurance are lower than they were before. I’m going to have to start nourishing myself with more than crackers and water if I am to keep up with Charlemagne. If I am going to go on.
I reach the gates of the park five minutes before ten. He is already there, sitting on a green wood-slatted bench a stone’s throw from the playground. Although we are a hundred yards apart, he recognizes me immediately and raises himself off the bench. My heart beats faster, like it did every time I saw him, every time I was in his presence, all those years ago.
Dante.
I walk toward him down a path that cuts through an expansive grassy lawn. Charlemagne pulls at his leash, wanting to have at the grass, and I kneel down to release him from his leash. He bounds across the lawn, rolls over, cuts back toward me. I withdraw a small red ball from my purse and toss it for him. Enchanted, he races after the ball, then plops down and starts to gnaw on it voraciously.
Dante doesn’t move, just stands there watching me, waiting for me to reach him. Just as it used to be. He was the light and I was the moth. Even now we play those roles.
All the questions one might ask just before a reunion such as this—What is he like now? What will he think of me? What will we say to each other?—none of those questions matter. I release them into the air.
So tall, still so tall and so broad, like a bear. He wears jeans and a T-shirt with the legend NAMASTE emblazoned across the front. How like him. I reach the concrete perimeter of the playground a few feet from where he stands and I stop. I gaze at him for a moment, taking in the whole of him, the gray in his short hair and his beard, the deep grooves around his eyes and mouth, the grin, the sparkle in his eyes. He opens his arms to me. I rush into them. He smells the same, deodorant soap and sweat and faded musky cologne. My tears are sudden and fierce.
“Em,” he says in his round baritone. “Emma, my Em.” He strokes my hair with one hand while holding me tightly with the other. “God, it’s been a long time. I’m so glad to see you.”
I feel the same, but I can’t access the words.
He grabs me around the waist. “My God, you’re so thin.”
“I had liposuction” is all I can think of to say. I don’t remember the procedure specifically, but my stomach still bears the tiny incision scars.
“Well, I daresay they took too much out of you. You need some of my bolognese to fatten you up.” He laughs his hearty laugh and pulls away so that he can look at me. His eyes find mine and he stares down at me intently. I realize the passage of time hasn’t dimi
nished the connection we shared. This man knew me better than anyone. He knows me still. We are not in love anymore, but we know each other.
Looking at Dante makes me think of another man. A man with a receding hairline, a strong nose, and hazel eyes. Colin. My husband. He knew me also, even though I didn’t want him to, even though I never really let him in. He took me as I was, the good and the bad, and I resented him for it because I didn’t like who I was. Colin never made me tremble with lust or tingle with anticipation; he didn’t make my heart flutter, not the way Dante did. But he made me feel safe and warm when I allowed him to. Those times became less frequent, but that was my fault, not his.
I swallow the lump in my throat as thoughts of Colin fade. He’s gone. I wished him away.
“What is it, Em? What’s wrong?”
I don’t answer. Where to begin?
He covers my hand with his enormous mitt of a hand and draws me to the bench. We sit, side by side. I glance over at the grass, where Charlemagne is still at work on his ball. Dante follows my gaze.
“Cute little guy.”
I nod. We are both quiet for a moment.
“You know, I was so happy when you reached out to me. After all these years, I thought I’d never hear from you. I wanted to get in touch so many times, but I didn’t want to hurt you. I hurt you enough. So when you sent me that friend request . . . I . . . it was a wonderful surprise. But now, I see that you didn’t get in touch so that we could catch up. You need something from me.”
I turn toward him. He smiles knowingly.
“If it’s an apology you need, you have it. I’m so sorry, Em, for leaving like I did.”
I shake my head. “It’s not that, Dante. That was another life. Another me.”
“Then what?”
I take a deep breath and blow it out slowly. “I didn’t know who else to turn to. Something happened to me. Something unbelievable, inconceivable. No one would believe me if I told them, that’s how crazy it is. If I shared it with anyone, they’d think I’m insane. I might be. I don’t know. I don’t know anything anymore. Except that I needed to share it with you, this story of mine. You, because you know me. And because you’ve been all over the world and seen amazing things, uncovered mysteries, witnessed miracles. You’re a Renaissance man.”
He grins. “I’m a plumber, Em. Didn’t you read my Facebook page?”
“That’s what you do, not what you are.”
“What I am is a lonely man who lives in a studio apartment in Queens. I have no wife, no kids, no real home. I have a thousand life experiences and no life.” He places his hand on my knee, pats it. “But I do know you, Em. Even now. And I’ll listen to your story.”
I reach into my purse and pull out the journal, then give it to him. “It’s all there. It shouldn’t take you too long.”
He nods then says, “Okay.”
I stand and stretch my back, then walk to the grass where Charlemagne lies. He jumps up at my arrival and starts growling at me playfully, then bats the ball over to my feet. I grab it and toss it and Charlemagne makes chase.
Every so often, I glance back at Dante. His eyes are glued to the page. I wonder what he will make of my words. Perhaps he will suggest I seek therapy. Maybe he’ll call the police. Possibly, he’ll simply put the journal down on the bench and walk away. It doesn’t matter. As much as I can feel, I feel good to have let someone in on my secret.
Seconds become minutes and minutes become a half an hour. Charlemagne entertains me. Finally, in my peripheral vision, I see Dante close the journal. He doesn’t set it aside; instead, he holds it in his lap. I wander over to him slowly, hesitantly. He looks up at me. His expression is inscrutable.
“Well,” he says.
“Well,” I agree.
“You do realize how absolutely nuts this is.”
“Yes,” I say. My spirits, which are already low, bottom out. Dante doesn’t believe me. He won’t kidnap me and put me under psychiatric hold. He loves me too much for that. At least, he did a long time ago. I lower my gaze to the rough concrete.
He averts his eyes, shakes his head. “I’ve never heard of anything like this happening, ever.”
I laugh mirthlessly. “Neither have I.”
The wish, my final wish, whispers in my ear.
“Of course, that doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.”
Relief floods through me. I look at him, and he gives me that mischievous smile, the one that made me fall in love with him the first time I saw it.
“So, what do I do now?” I ask, even though I suspect he doesn’t have the answer. I suspect no one has the answer.
“The way I see it, there’s only one thing you can do.”
I let out a sigh. I already know what he’s about to say. Move on. Let go of this. Live your life. Live it better.
“We need to go down to that antiques shop and talk to Dolores.”
I stare at him dumbly. “What?”
He shrugs. “It’s just a suggestion.”
I’m about to ask him why, how he came to that conclusion, but the question sticks to my tongue and stays behind my teeth. I don’t need to ask. I knew yesterday that I would have to face Dolores, but I didn’t know when. I didn’t foresee our rendezvous happening so soon. I thought I might be granted some time to get my bearings, to adjust to my new circumstances, accept my new life. Or not accept it. But Dante read my journal. And this is what he suggests. I know how his mind works. I was in love with the inner workings of his brain as much as the man himself. The sponge that could soak up, sift through, analyze and interpret information and come out on the other side with the answer. The only answer. His knowing me was only half of why I invited him here. The other half was his mind.
I reach out to him, and he hands me my journal. I take it and tuck it in my purse, then reach out to him again. “Let’s go.”
THIRTY-EIGHT
The light of the day has changed. The sky resembles dusk, a deep indigo, although it can’t yet be noon. I glance at my watch as Dante weaves his Fiat toward downtown. The digital screen has gone dead. Charlemagne sleeps in the back seat, his head resting on his front paws. Dante concentrates on the road and hums “La Vie en Rose.”
Main Street is deserted. We have entered a ghost town. The buildings along the block sag with fatigue. Storefronts are closed, shuttered, boarded up. I glance at Dante for his reaction, but his expression is indifferent, relaxed. I mimic him and pretend that nothing is amiss.
If my life over the course of the last several weeks had been normal, if none of the bizarre, implausible, impossible events had transpired, I might be afraid, terrified even. But of all the things that have occurred, a shift in daylight and the sudden abandonment of a city street are the least concerning.
I point to the antiques store but realize I needn’t have bothered. Dante already seems to know where he’s going, and the little shop is the only business on Main Street that shows any signs of life. The display window glows, and within the display case, the miniature house, my house, is bathed in amber light.
Dante pulls to the curb in front of the shop. I reach over and grab Charlemagne, and for the first time, I notice how thin my arms are. My wrist bone is a protruding knob that leads down to skeletal fingers.
You wanted to escape. To disappear. Wishes come true.
Charlemagne protests, yawns, then allows me to pull him into my lap. I attach his leash, open the car door, and set him on the ground. Dante gets out of the car and comes around to my side, offering me a gentle assist. I’m so frail a gust of wind could blow me away.
Dante, Charlemagne, and I walk to the storefront and stand before the display window. The glass is opaque; I can only discern the outline of the house.
The sky above has gone a starless purple. The streetlamps are dark.
“Well?” Dante says. His voice is a thousand miles away. “This is it, Emma. Go in.”
I turn to him to protest, but he has vanished into thin air. The scent of him ling
ers for a moment, then evaporates as though he were never here at all. Was he? Perhaps not. I look down at my feet. Charlemagne is also gone. I am alone. Again.
My legs feel like they are made of straw. I limp to the front door and use the little strength I have left to shove it open. The shop is dark save for the display window and a single recessed ceiling light toward the back of the showroom.
Dolores stands in the center of the shower of light. She doesn’t look old. She looks ancient. Her face is a road map of furrows and grooves and skin as insubstantial as cellophane. But her eyes are ageless and very much alive. Her irises dance.
“I knew you’d come back,” she says.
“What’s happening to me?”
She smiles, amused. “The necklace is lovely, isn’t it?”
I touch the pendant. My fingers slide over it, then rest on the middle of my chest. I can feel my clavicles through my skin.
“Do you remember the day you bought it?”
I open my mouth to speak. My voice is friable, my words sounding more like the croaking of a bullfrog. “Not specifically. I know it happened, but I can’t quite call up the memory.”
“Memories are funny things, aren’t they? We silly humans have a strange relationship with them. We change our memories all the time, shape them, twist them, mold them so that we can live with them. When, really, all we ought to do is cherish them and learn from them.”
“How can I cherish them if I’ve lost them?” I ask. My throat is sandpaper. My mouth is parched.
“You could always make a wish,” she says, then gives me a puckish grin. “No, wait. That’s what got you into trouble in the first place, isn’t it?”
I feel my lower lip tremble, but I have no tears to shed. My cheeks feel sunken and hollow. My guts feel as though they are digesting themselves.
