Old Flames, Burned Hands

by McGregor, Tim

  She fixed him with a harsh look. “And? You think I’m going crazy?”

  “I’m worried.” He dumped the shards in the trash. “Maybe there’s something physical going on. Stress or high blood pressure or something.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with me. Life is just hard sometimes and the doctor can’t fix that.” Sweeping up spilled salad proved useless, the dressed greens clung to the floor like tape and the broom just flattened them more. She leaned the broom against the wall. “I’m going to lie down.”

  Shane brushed the grit from his hands and watched her walk away. Turning to the stove, he lifted the lid off a pot and looked inside.

  CONVINCING herself that what she had seen was a bad dream or the result of stress didn’t help. Staring at the eternal crack in the ceiling did nothing to soothe the fever in her brain. That left two options; she was losing her mind or what she had seen was a ghost.

  Terrific.

  Her eyes snapped open at every tiny sound, lifting her head from the pillow to catch it again but there was nothing more. The sound of Shane’s breathing, her pulse thumping her ears. She flung the blanket away and swung her legs over the side of the bed. A change of venue, she thought. Curl up on the sofa and let the TV dull her to sleep but when she got to the landing at the bottom of the stairs, she walked past the living room into the kitchen and unlocked the back door.

  The air was humid and it clung to her with no breeze to push it away. Standing on the flagstone pathway, Tilda folded her arms and surveyed the yard. Nothing out of place, no rustling shadows near the old weeping willow. The garage door firmly closed. Was she expecting to see something? She realized she had and suddenly felt foolish standing here in the backyard in the middle of the night.

  Still, the keys were clenched in her fist and she padded across the footpath to turn the key in the garage door. Hitting the lights, her stomach notched a measure of disappointment that the space was empty.

  The guitar on the bench.

  The concrete was cool against her feet as she slid onto the bench and folded her legs. Seating the foreign Hummingbird in her lap, she tested the strings and tuned them up. She already knew what song she was going to sing and wondered if she had known before she had even gotten out of bed.

  She strummed the chords in that simple progression and sang the words she had written so long ago. Her voice soft and low, this the fourth time she had ever sang the finished song. A seventeen year gap between performances. The song hadn’t dated or grown hoary. If anything, it bit hard and hooked strong.

  The last note hummed around the empty garage until she dampened the strings, ending it. Propping her arms over the guitar shell, she leaned back into the wall and told herself to go back to bed. There was no purpose to this. She was wallowing, plain and simple, so she laid the guitar back onto the bench and pushed it away.

  That’s when she heard a sound outside the door, like someone trampling through the rose bushes.

  A FIGURE SAT HUNCHED on the picnic table in the yard. Elbows perched on his knees, head bowed as if studying the ground. He didn’t look up when she stepped out of the garage, didn’t move at all.

  Tilda stopped cold. The two of them like statues planted in the yard, waiting for the other to blink first. She knew it was him. Even backlit, turned away from the patio light with his features blacked in shadow, she knew. She would know his frame anywhere.

  He still hadn’t moved. She was unable to, paralyzed like the nightmares that steal one’s voice, her mouth open but no sound spilling out. Even the old willow tree held its breath.

  “Gil…” she whispered in a dry voice.

  His head tilted by a fraction, the way a dog does at a strange sound.

  She tried again. “Look at me.”

  His words hushed across the grass in a low rumble. “I shouldn’t be here.”

  She winced as if snakebit at the sound of his voice. So familiar yet so absent it parched her throat. “Look at me. Please.”

  “You played the song,” he said.

  “What?”

  “Don’t play it again. I can’t be here.”

  She gripped the doorframe to steady herself. “I’m dreaming this, aren’t I?”

  “Yes. This is just a dream.”

  She let go of the door and took one small step forward. “Why won’t you look at me?”

  “I can’t. If I look at you, I’ll never go.”

  “Then don’t go.”

  He looked up, tilting his face into the weak light. Gil Dorsey. Exactly as she remembered him. Not the terrible image of his bloodied face that she had carried for so long but the way he had been. Beautiful and terrible at the same time. Gaunt and hungry.

  A thousand questions tumbled through her mind but all of them bottlenecked at her throat trying to get out. One little word squeezed past the rest and fell from her lips.

  “How?”

  He looked away, as if shamed by her question. She wanted to rush forward but feared he would vanish like a mirage at her touch or she would wake and the dream would be gone. Then his eyes swung back, landing on her bare feet in the wet grass and travelling up. Measured and unhurried, drinking in every inch and every detail until his eyes drew level with hers.

  The impact was physical. She thought her knees would give out.

  She gambled another step. He didn’t vanish in a wisp of smoke. “This is crazy,” she stammered, choked. “You died. Why did you—”

  “No questions,” he said. “I can’t answer them right now.” His eyes locked onto hers and would not let go. His mouth tilted, almost smiling. “Look at you. I’d almost forgotten how beautiful you are.”

  She flinched as if punched in the gut and the earth went lopsided under her feet. She was going to collapse but couldn’t stop it, didn’t care. The only word she could utter was his name, whispered in a church voice.

  “Sit down, Tilda. Before you fall over.”

  She was already pitching forward like she was drunk, the ground zooming up fast to smack her like it had the night before. She was dreaming all this, that’s all there was to it. She teetered but the impact never came, something clamped down hard and held her. His hands, gripped so tight that it hurt and she knew it would leave bruises on her arms even as she was scooped up and settled onto the picnic table. Seasick, she gripped the edge of the bench seat until the earth stopped pitching under her.

  When the pain slackened she realized he had let go and her hands shot out to pull him back. It didn’t matter if it hurt. She caught his wrist and his skin was cold in her hot palm but it was solid and didn’t dissipate under her touch like she had expected it to.

  He hovered over her with his arm thinned out in her grip. “Let go.”

  She wasn’t going to do that. Not now, not ever. How could he even ask that? “No.”

  The tables turned and now he swayed as if unsteady, his height ready to timber down like a felled tree. She tightened her grip on his cold wrist, pulling him back and his resistance evaporated. Gil dropped to his knees in the dewy grass as if strings had been cut. “Stop. I can’t be here.”

  “Yes, you can.” Any moment now he would vanish like smoke so she held tight, forcing the illusion to remain through brute force. “Gil. Where did you go? Why did you leave me?”

  He said nothing. A slight shake of his head as if she had asked the wrong question.

  She held her breath and tried again. “Why did you come back?”

  “The song. I heard you play the song.” He pried her grip loose then he pressed her hand flat between his. “I couldn’t stay away anymore.”

  Her bones were already scorched, her insides melting into slag and now this. What was she to make of that? Her brain steamed into vapour, unable to catch any of the thousand and one questions that swarmed up like a cloud of bees. She was let off the hook when he looked at her with a question of his own.

  “Why did you burn your guitar?”

  Her mind blanked, unable to remember anything in the momen
t. Why had she burned it? Why hadn’t she thrown herself onto the pyre like grieving widows were expected to?

  “I gave it up.”

  “You gave it up? What does that mean?”

  She had to claw her eyes away from his long enough to slot words into the right order. “I can’t do it anymore.”

  “Why would you do that?” His head dipped, trying to hook her eyes again but she held her gaze to the ground. The dry grass slowly turning brown from lack of rain. “Your songs, your voice. You can’t hide that away.”

  “I’m not hiding anything. I burned it. I don’t know how to explain it.” She smoothed her palm over the back of his hand, feeling every joint and contour. Scratching up friction but no heat came. Her eyes rose. “Why are you so cold?”

  “You know why.”

  “You died.”

  He nodded his head.

  “You died,” she repeated, “and left me all alone.”

  He slid forward until his chest bumped against her knees and his grip traced up her leg until his fingers clamped over her hip bone. The chill from his hand seeped through the thin pajama material, goosing her flesh.

  Tilda studied his face. Paler and more gaunt than she remembered but otherwise the same. Striking and angular. Her fingers stretched out involuntarily to touch his face, the pad of her thumb running the length of his bottom lip. His clock had stopped while hers wound on, marking every minute on her flesh. The contrast of her hand against that face was unsettling so she withdrew her hand and looked away.

  His grip bit into her hip. “Don’t turn away.”

  “You haven’t changed. You’re still twenty-six for God’s sakes. And beautiful.”

  “Your eyes have gotten greener.” Leaning in, he smiled. “I’ve missed their colour.”

  Chilled as she was, a rose of warmth bloomed over her cheeks. She felt dizzy again, her balance knocked from her. “What happens now?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  She tore her eyes from his face to look up over the trees. The rim of the sky was turning pink. “We could watch the sun come up. Like we used to do.”

  “I can’t.”

  She knew he would say that, even before asking the question. This was how fairy tales worked; ghosts vanishing at dawn, carriages turning back into pumpkins. Tilda lowered her eyes but avoided his face. She needed to think straight for a moment. “You’re going to disappear on me again, aren’t you?”

  “For now.” His hand squeezed down on hers, as if she was the one to vanish this time.

  “Will you come back?”

  “Yes.” He rose to his feet and turned to the eastern sky behind them. “Tomorrow. If you’ll have me.”

  “Yes. Come back.”

  She stood and her heart began knocking hard. How was she supposed to say goodbye to him? A handshake was out of the question but an embrace would leave her clinging to him. A kiss and she would open her mouth and swallow him whole.

  His hand came up and touched her cheek. She could feel his fingers trembling. “Goodbye, Tilda.”

  “Don’t say goodbye.”

  His eyes creased as he smiled. “Goodnight then.”

  He stepped back into the shadows beyond the cast of the patio light until she lost sight of him. The wooden fence creaked and swayed and he was gone.

  She shivered violently. The air was humid but she was frozen to the core and once it began, the shivering wouldn’t stop. Hurrying back inside, she tiptoed into the bedroom, holding her breath the whole time until she heard Shane sawing logs. Slipping back into bed, she pulled the covers to her chin but could not lose the chill no matter how tightly she curled up.

  OVERSLEEPING IS A LUXURY that comes with a price. Tilda jolted out of bed when she saw the time and staggered downstairs on stiff legs. She was greeted with the sight of her husband and daughter destroying the kitchen in an attempt to make breakfast. Eggs slimed across the counter and dark smoke rising from the toaster. Molly’s attempt to dice fruit resembled an attempt to make smoothies without a blender. Tilda swayed, unsteady on legs that were still asleep. “What have you done to my kitchen?”

  “Well look who’s up.” Never a morning person, Molly’s tone dripped venom. “Nice of you to join us this morning.”

  “Why didn’t you wake me?”

  “I tried,” Shane said. “You were dead to the world so I let you sleep.”

  Tilda unplugged the toaster and waved the smoke away. The chill that had followed her into sleep returned and she folded her arms around her ribs. “I was?”

  “Dad had this brilliant idea that we could handle the morning shift,” Molly moaned. “Too bad it all went tits-up.”

  “We’re doing fine,” Shane admonished. He splashed coffee into a mug and shooed her into a chair. “Sit down. I’ll get your breakfast.”

  Folding her hands over the steaming mug, Tilda brought the coffee to her lips and recoiled. The liquid may have been brown and hot but coffee it was not. “It’s okay. I’m not hungry.”

  He stopped and took a second look at her. “Are you all right? You look really pale.”

  “I’m fine,” she lied. The chill would not let up, the shivering unstoppable. “Just didn’t sleep well, I guess.”

  “Maybe you’re getting sick.” He touched her brow but the skin felt cool.

  “We’re gonna be late,” Molly interrupted. She abandoned her destroyed fruit altogether. “And we still got lunches to pack.”

  Tilda rose from her chair and chased them out. “I’ll get it. You finish getting ready.” She hoped neither of them noticed her clutching the counter to stay upright.

  “Sit back down,” Shane said. He peeled a few notes from his wallet and jammed one into Molly’s pocket. “We’ll buy lunch today.”

  Molly rolled her eyes at the bill. “Wow. Mickey Dee money.”

  Father and daughter ran pell-mell to get out the door on time. Tilda, spurred by guilt and obligation, located misplaced keys and the shoes Molly just had to wear that day. By the time the door banged shut behind them, Tilda was spent. She flopped into a chair, unable to face the collateral damage that was her kitchen.

  Running the shower, she dialled the tap to full heat until the bathroom steamed up and left her pajamas in a heap on the floor. Slipping under the jet stream, she waited for the heat to scald the chill from her bones.

  Gil.

  He had appeared to her last night. He had come back. How, she didn’t have a clue. She didn’t care. Every rational question was shouldered aside by the twanging tremolo deep inside her belly. A sharp intake of breath when she recalled the contour of his lip against her thumb.

  Was he a ghost, dredged up from whatever watery grave had claimed his remains or, more pedantically, just a figment of her imagination? An elaborate fabrication induced to life by her recent crisis and flailing attempt at soul-searching? Scalding her face under the hot water, she decided that it ultimately didn’t matter. He said he would be back. Had practically asked her permission to return. Later, when the sun went down on this day and the house was quiet and still, Gil Dorsey would come back to her.

  Towelling off, she opened the window to vent the steam. When the fog cleared from the big mirror, she noticed two purpled blotches on her upper arm. Fingerpaint bruises left when he stopped her fall. That or she had somehow done it to herself.

  THE day rolled out as slow as a snail and Tilda forced herself to stop checking the time because the clock didn’t move at all. The slow burn of anticipation and dread made it difficult to concentrate and she kept making silly mistakes. Sarah commented on her lack of colour, wondering if she wasn’t coming down with something and Tilda had to lock her jaw to keep from spilling everything that had happened the night before. She was desperate to tell Sarah, to relive every detail and obsess over the tiniest nuance with a fellow conspirator but she kept her mouth shut.

  It sounded insane, delusional, psychotic even. How else would Sarah, or anyone, respond? Tilda pushed her secret down to where all the butte
rflies swarmed and wondered if it was possible for a human being to explode. It got so bad at one point that, saying she needed some fresh air, she jogged three blocks west and three back just to burn the edge off. Wilting in the midday humidity, she hoped it would just sweat itself out like a fever.

  SHE hated all of her clothes. Every drawer in the dresser pulled out and the wardrobe open, Tilda could not find a single thing to wear. Everything was either worn out or frumpy, dowdy or stained. When had she become a slave to casual comfort?

  Dinner had been a complete washout. Distracted and pent up like a volcano, she charred the asparagus in the pan and overcooked the trout. Splattered hot oil on her hands, which stung like the devil. When she had finally joined her family at the table, Molly asked, with a condescending sneer, if she was dieting again. Asking what she had meant, the girl nodded at her mother’s empty place setting. Tilda had completely forgotten to fix her own plate.

  When the house had quieted, she ran upstairs to change her clothes only to be stymied by her options. Loads of clothes but not a thing to put on. She pulled on one top only to peel it off immediately and try another and throw it aside a moment later. She could already feel the nagging little doubts and recriminations that stung like nettles anytime she got too close to a mirror.

  The streak of white in her hair was still a shock to see in the reflection and her opinion of it waffled constantly. One minute it looked bold and almost punk but other times it just made her look old. Older than forty-one. Her hand went reflexively to the little pot belly she’d gained after having a baby and the lines around her eyes looked deeper than ever. She had to push back the shrill urge to crawl into bed and never come out.

  Why would Gil come back to her? She was almost twice his age now while he had somehow remained the same, flashfrozen at 26 years. What would he see in her now? She’s not even a singer anymore. Just a wife and mom, a working schmuck with worry lines and tired feet.

  Pounding footfalls boomed up the stairs. Shane sauntered into the bedroom, sweaty and blowing hard after his jog. He stripped out of his gear and tossed his damp clothes across the room into the hamper. “You feeling any better?”