Until We Are Gone

by Gia Riley

  I can’t blame her.

  She’s not in any shape to care for kids. She can’t even take care of herself. But, at least out here, in the country, she doesn’t have to worry about crossing paths with too many familiar faces. Nothing encourages the drinking more than a person she’s supposed to recognize.

  And, now, here I am, a gash on my leg, blood soaking through to my socks, and I have no choice but to fight through the pain and walk.

  About a quarter mile down the road, the glow of headlights catches my attention. Crossing the yellow line, I move to the other lane and get ready to flag the driver down before they pass by.

  The car doesn’t seem to be getting any closer though. In fact, it might not be moving at all.

  This stretch of the road doesn’t have a wide shoulder, so if you’re pulled over, it’s probably from a flat tire or something even worse, like hitting a deer. This time of year, that’s entirely possible, and my heart nosedives toward my stomach. If a driver can’t see an animal, they might not have seen Meadow either.

  I’m no more than a hundred yards away, terrified of the high beams shining into the cornfield. One more deliberate step, and I’m seconds away from a full-blown panic attack.

  I can’t go through another helicopter ride, and I can’t listen to a ventilator pumping air into my wife’s lungs because she’s too weak and fragile to breathe for herself. I won’t survive more testing or rounds of doctors spewing explanations about her condition that make no sense to me.

  Once was enough.

  I’ve already been to hell and back.

  But what doesn’t make sense is how calm the woman standing next to her vehicle is acting. Surely, she’d be in hysterics if she’d hit a human being.

  She’s quietly standing on her tiptoes, trying to peer through the cornstalks.

  While her back is toward me, I walk around her car and check each tire. They’re all fine, not even a twisted hubcap to slow her down. I even bend down and try to rattle one loose.

  When she turns around and sees me, she stops dead in her tracks.

  “Are you okay?” she asks as she lowers the phone from her ear to her side.

  Whomever she’s talking to is forgotten, and I’m now her sole focus.

  I’m the one who should be asking if she’s all right, yet here I am, half-dressed and bleeding, probably scaring the shit out of this woman.

  “I’m sorry,” I tell her, apologizing for my appearance. “This must look terrible.”

  Unafraid, the woman takes a step toward me. Any sane human wouldn’t willingly walk toward a man in my condition. But she does.

  Two more steps, and she’s free of the shadows, shielding her face, and I realize who she is. I’ve looked into those blue eyes before. They haunt me late at night when I am trying to sleep and can’t.

  The day the movers pulled up and the house across the street was no longer vacant, I knew life would only get harder. I prayed the new neighbor wouldn’t come across the street and introduce herself. It wasn’t like I could invite her inside. How would I explain the missing carpet and the bare walls? And, if she asked questions about the other neighbors, I wouldn’t have much information to give her because I didn’t know them that well. I needed it to stay that way.

  I’m sure stories have floated around the neighborhood about the strange couple who stays quiet during the day and fights like hell after the sun goes down. It’s probably only a matter of time before an open window or a tantrum exposes us completely.

  But so far, I’ve only had one real interaction with this woman, and I wouldn’t say I handled it very well. A simple trip to the mailbox turned into an uncomfortable exchange.

  I wasn’t stupid. I knew she was curious and perfectly timed her own trip to get the mail. She wanted to see the mystery from across the street.

  For a few painful seconds, I raised my hand and waved like any other neighbor would. I was so afraid I’d opened the pathway for future conversations that I panicked and went back inside without ever grabbing the mail.

  She stared at my back until I was inside the house. I knew because, the second the door was closed behind me and the lock in place, I peered through the peephole and watched her.

  She couldn’t see me looking, but it still felt like she knew I was. And, if there wasn’t a door between us, we’d still be staring at each other.

  When her shoulders slumped and she went back inside, I felt like a total asshole. Hurting her feelings wasn’t my intention.

  From what I could tell, she lived alone, and like our house, I never saw anyone coming or going. Maybe she was lonely, hoping for a friend in her new neighborhood, and then she realized she’d gotten stuck living across from us.

  Of all the people in the world, she couldn’t have chosen a worse spot to settle down. For that I was sorry, and I wished I had at least gotten her name. Because, deep down, I missed genuine human interaction as much as I missed my wife.

  Keeping secrets wasn’t who I was. I wasn’t cut out to live a life in solitude. And I wasn’t sure how much longer I could pretend to be someone I wasn’t.

  Looking back on that day, she probably thought I’d been hiding a deep, dark secret—something crazy like holding my wife captive. Why else would I have run back into the house? And, now that Meadow’s disappeared, it won’t be easy to convince her otherwise.

  We live in a safe borough, yet I installed cameras around the house. Not for potential burglaries, just so that I can spy on my wife while I’m at work.

  Another red flag.

  The neighbor clears her throat and snaps me out of a daze.

  “Do you need help?” she asks. From the tone of her voice, she means it.

  But nothing I tell her will make much sense unless I sit her down and unveil the ugly truth from the day of the accident all the way up to tonight. That would take hours, and with Meadow lost somewhere around here, I don’t have time to waste.

  “Just tell me if you’ve seen a woman with long brown hair. She’s about as tall as you are. I’m not sure what she’s wearing, but I think she might have come this way.”

  The woman bites her lip. Her eyes roam the length of me—with pity, I think.

  I’m guessing she’d rather protect the mystery woman I’m looking for than give me any information. It’s girl code or something, especially after the way I’ve acted in the past.

  But she surprises me. She doesn’t tell me to get lost. She simply asks, “Is your wife in trouble?”

  I never told her I was looking for my wife or that I was even married. But her eyes soften when she glances at my wedding band, the only thing still tying me to Meadow.

  Swallowing the lump in my throat, I nod. I’m too ashamed to say more, but I don’t have to. She knows. She’s figured it out for herself.

  No matter how hard I’ve tried shielding us from the rest of the world, we aren’t fooling anyone.

  “Someone ran into the field the second they saw my headlights. I’m assuming it’s her.”

  Meadow doesn’t like the light. Even drunk, she’d run in the opposite direction. I’m just glad she was next to a field and not a bridge.

  “Thank you,” I tell her, truly meaning it. “I’ll find her.”

  “Wait,” she says, reaching her arm out to stop me. “You’ll get lost. Wait for the police.”

  The cops will only make this worse. Meadow won’t come out of the field if she thinks she’s in trouble.

  “Please, don’t involve the cops.”

  The neighbor stares at her phone, and I can see the call is still logging minutes. I’m sure the dispatcher’s been listening to the entire conversation, wondering what the hell is going on in the middle of nowhere.

  She takes a deep breath and then says, “I had to call. She didn’t have any shoes on. Not even a jacket. I was worried she needed to go to the hospital. And, now that I’ve seen you, I think you should go, too.”

  Her voice isn’t small, like I thought it’d be. She’s not worried about
overstepping boundaries, and I’m furious with Meadow for putting me in this situation.

  Knowing her, she’s passed out in the field, sleeping it off, while I stand here and try to put the pieces back together.

  “No hospital. No cops,” I tell her. I can’t afford to have any of this on record. “I’ll find Meadow and take her home. Everything will be fine.”

  She presses the phone against her ear, and I see the indecision in her eyes.

  I’ve been in her shoes, trying to figure out what the best option is, but she won’t find one. There’s never going to be a right answer for addiction. You’re damned if you do, damned if you don’t.

  Honesty’s all I have left. Lies aren’t going to make her hang up, so I rub my bloody palm against my pants and hold out my hand. “I’m Cash. The woman in the field is Meadow. We’re not perfect, not even close. But she’s suffering from the effects of an accident, and I’d appreciate it if you hung up and respected our privacy.”

  She doesn’t bat a lash at my dirty hand. Placing her palm in mine, she says, “Teddi. It’s nice to finally meet you. Please, let me help you.”

  Help—the dirtiest four-letter word in the dictionary.

  I’ve had the weight of the world on my shoulders for six months, and now, the damn neighbor thinks she can help. And, for some strange reason, I want that more than anything. Only I don’t know how to tell her that without looking pathetic.

  Plus, Meadow wouldn’t like me reaching out. She can barely handle therapists sticking their noses in her business, and it’s their job.

  I shake my head and tell her, “Thank you, Teddi. But I’ve got it.”

  She lets go of my hand, and the warmth of her kindness is replaced with a chilly gust of wind.

  For those few seconds we were joined, it was a little easier to catch my breath. But I’m sure I imagined that, too. Good things don’t happen anymore.

  I’m wearing pajamas, my pride’s been stepped all over, and I’m battered and bruised.

  I’m so fucking tired.

  Teddi chews on her lip again and clutches the phone against her chest.

  As I turn toward the field and slide between the stalks of corn, I have no idea if she ended the call or not.

  six

  CASH

  Each step through the corn, my mind plays tricks on me. I can’t see more than an inch in front of my face, and I’m freaking out because there’s no way Meadow made it through this jungle. She has enough trouble with navigating the house, and I half-expect to find her by tripping over her body.

  The husks are like sandpaper against my cuts, and dozens of bugs swarm my body. The height of the dried-out corn blocks some of the wind at least, so it’s a little easier to catch my breath without cold air blowing in my face.

  But, without a plan and very little light from the road, I worry this’ll take the rest of the night and long into the morning. I don’t know how I’ll explain to the coordinators at the treatment center that we’ll be late—or worse, that we’re not coming at all.

  I have to find her.

  There’s no way I’m going home unless she’s with me.

  I think my prayers might have been answered when the corn ends, and the field opens up into an overgrown pasture. One giant step over a ditch, and then I’m on a dirt path leading to the front porch of an old, abandoned farmhouse.

  I imagine it used to belong to the farmer who worked these fields, and though there’s no way someone lives here, remnants of someone’s past are still littered all over the place—a shed with a shovel leaning against it, a rusty tractor that looks like it could turn to dust with one strong gust of wind, and a barn that’s equally dilapidated.

  From the road, you’d never know any of this was back here, but it has Meadow’s name written all over it. There’s no use wandering around in the corn anymore. I know exactly where to find my wife.

  Before I even reach the porch steps, I hear her voice. I’d recognize that chilling melody anywhere.

  On our first anniversary, I gave her a music box. It wasn’t just any music box. I searched every antique shop east of the Mississippi until I came across one like her grandmother used to have.

  Meadow had told me how much it meant to her and how much she wanted to keep it for herself after her grandmother passed away.

  The box played during the entire viewing, and when it was time to lay Grandma to rest, Meadow couldn’t close the casket without it inside. She had wanted to keep the tarnished silver more than anything, but in the end, she couldn’t deprive her grandma of her favorite song.

  I was sure heaven didn’t work that way, that Grandma didn’t physically need the music box to hear her favorite song, but I didn’t argue. I followed Meadow’s wishes.

  The day I found another music box just like it, I’d never seen my wife so happy. From the second I placed it in her hands, she cherished the gift.

  Each morning as she got ready, she’d listen to the song over and over, never tiring of the repetitive notes. I didn’t have to ask why she played it so much. I knew that listening to the song was her way of communicating with Grandma and keeping her close. The rare mornings she didn’t have time to listen, she’d have some of the worst days of her life.

  The music box was the first thing of Meadow’s I grabbed after the accident. While she was in the hospital, unconscious, I would play the song each morning like she’d have done if she were at home. Her days were awful enough, and I didn’t want any superstitions making them worse.

  When Meadow woke up, she didn’t seem to remember the song or the music box at all. Yet here she is, nestled inside an old porcelain bathtub, humming the tune she’d forgotten.

  She’s getting all the words right, and even out here in the cold, her voice melts right through the wind.

  I want to run all the way home, just so I can grab the music box and show her that she hasn’t forgotten everything. She remembers.

  But Meadow is drunk. Come morning, the chances of her remembering a conversation are slim.

  She has so much vodka in her system, she doesn’t notice the stinging pain from the wind or the frozen tub beneath her. Her thin pair of leggings and tank top have her lips turning blue, yet I want to stand here all night and listen to her. I can’t help wondering how many other things have come back to her while she’s been at this house.

  Meadow remembers. Unknowingly but she still remembers.

  By the time the sun rises, she won’t have a clue about tonight. Like a fool, I’ll get out the music box again and tell her the story for the tenth time. I’ll get the same passive shrug of her shoulders, like it is no big deal, and then I’ll tuck it away again, defeated.

  That’s our pattern, but tonight, I see a glimpse of my Meadow. I feel like she’s on the cusp of coming back to me, and I’ve never been so hopeful.

  Taking careful steps toward her, afraid that one wrong move will send her running, I listen to the last verse of the song while she plays with the weeds growing up the side of the porch. A small smile dances across her lips as the greens tickle her palm.

  Meadow loves being outside. I wonder if she somehow pushed the old tub outside, or if it was already there. I’d also love to know how many times she’s come here in the middle of the night without me knowing.

  How does she find her way? When did she discover the farmhouse?

  I have so many questions, but her head lulls to the side, and the singing ends. While she’s on the verge of passing out, I bend down next to the tub and run my finger down her cheek.

  “Baby,” I whisper, “wake up.”

  Her eyelashes flutter, and she responds to my voice the way she used to.

  I can’t get my hopes up. I just wait for a reaction.

  Will tonight be the night she remembers me?

  Or am I still completely erased from her memory?

  I’m a grown-ass man, jealous of a song.

  “Wake up,” I say again, a little louder.

  Meadow’s eerily calm w
hen her eyes open. She turns her head toward me and stares.

  “I’m taking a bath,” is all she says with the same cold emptiness I’ve grown to hate.

  I’m not sure she realizes she’s outside or that she even left the house, yet here we are, back in her world. A world I’ll never understand. All I can do is play along, like I’m okay with the delusions that surround her.

  “I’ll draw you a warm bath at home, Meadow. You’re freezing.”

  “I want to stay here with Grandma.”

  If I wasn’t positive before, I am now. Meadow’s spent a lot of time at this house. And, like the rocking chair, this old, rusty tub is another comfort to her. She thinks this is the house she spent her summers at with Grandma.

  “Grandma isn’t here,” I tell her. “She would want you to go home where you’re safe.”

  “I am safe,” she says as she reaches toward her feet and grabs a half-empty bottle of alcohol. It’s the same brand I buy her, but the label’s dirty and peeling off. There’s no way to tell how long it’s been lying there, but she definitely didn’t bring it with her tonight.

  I have cameras all over the house. I should have caught her sneaking out, but I didn’t. I’ve severely underestimated Meadow, and now, I’ll have to go through dozens of hours of footage to figure out how she’s getting out of the house without me knowing.

  What else will I have to Meadow-proof?

  “It’s time to go home, Meadow.”

  She cradles the bottle the way she used to treasure the music box. Then, she shakes her head.

  I didn’t expect her to leave without a fight, but I have nothing left to give her. I’m too cold to sit on the porch until she decides she’s ready to leave. And, as much as I’d like to see how she finds her way back to the house on her own, I can’t. She could pass out and end up with hypothermia before that happens.

  The only way to get out of here is to get rid of the vodka. Because, if she has something to drink, she won’t budge. So, I grab the bottle out of her hands and throw it against the nearest pillar. Liquid splashes all over us, and Meadow licks the droplets off her arm, like she’s been lost in the desert for days without water.