Just One More Kiss: Based on the Motion Picture

by Faleena Hopkins

  She remained quiet for a time.

  We wrapped paper around plates, saucers, and bowls without talking, but I could feel her stewing beside me while carefully setting each dish into a box where it would live until its new home.

  She asked, “What are you going to do for money?”

  I opened the glasses cabinet and pulled two champagne flutes down. “Max made us take out life insurance policies right after we got married.”

  Alice said with pain in her voice, “I told him to do that. How much?”

  I leaned against the counter, flutes hanging at my sides, whole body a shrug without moving. “Enough to live off of if I continue to invest it properly.” Alice nodded, and I offered, “At least with the cabin I don't have as many memories.”

  Her bobbed hair hung lower on one side as she tilted her head, matching brown eyes softer. “That was Max's favorite place. He's everywhere there.”

  Hopeless, I nodded. “I know.”

  She straightened her head, lips parting. “Oh. I see.”

  I want to be where he really is, was, and not where we lived.

  Our apartment in Manhattan, smack in the center of SoHo with its amenities of a virtual doorman and private deck and washer and dryer and air conditioner that actually works, reminds me of all the times we stayed where he didn’t want to be.

  And just a few blocks away is where he last was. I’ve avoided it but it’s always on my mind.

  Max loved his cabin. We bought it from his parents when they wanted something on the beach. We inherited with it the quaint dishes and decor he’d grown up in. The O’Connell’s spent their summers there, went every Christmas, too. After snowfall, New Paltz, New York, is a fairytale town.

  Before Max was my husband, Barry used to go there with him. As boys, then men, they went fishing, camping, hiking, swimming under the waterfalls in Minnewaska State Park, everything a competition. Even chopping wood. I heard all the stories, and over time went to all the same places. Sometimes Barry would even join us, bringing a date we never met again.

  When we drove upstate, Max’s shoulders relaxed. His baby-blue eyes lost their dullness, his foot bore down on the gas pedal, and his smile said stress was a memory.

  “Look at this place!” he’d sigh, stretching his arms on the deck that creaked when we walked on it.

  His soul needed a fix of country life where the air smelled like pine needles and good health.

  And my soul needs a fix of him.

  Yes, he’s everywhere there, my steady gaze told Alice. She dropped the subject finally and entirely. Because she misses him too, though her busy-ness is a tool for hiding it, for coping, for moving on.

  I don’t want to move on.

  I want to go back in time.

  Lorna was worse. She dropped by while I sat waiting for the donation truck to arrive.

  “You’re acting like a man defines you, Abby. That’s crazy! Just because...” She stopped talking, silenced by the anger that suddenly flashed from my eyes. Her hands flew out. “I’m just saying, you don’t have to throw everything you’ve worked for away because you lost your husband.”

  “Soulmate,” I corrected her, gaze rising to the sun as I squinted against its light. “I lost my soulmate, Lorna. How do I keep doing meaningless shit?”

  “How can you be sure he was your…you know what? Never mind! I don’t believe in any of that, anyway.” She jumped in front of me, dressed all in black, just like I was. Only hers was for fashion and mine used to be. “Abs, don’t give your skills up! All you ever talked about was wanting to own that company and now you’re going to live in the sticks?”

  I said a flat, “Yep.”

  “You hate the country!” she exclaimed, slicing a knife into my soul because it’s the same way Max felt about me, and it’s not true. Well, sorta not true. Lorna crossed her arms. “I’m not coming to visit you.”

  I almost laughed as I confessed, “I don't want you to.”

  “I’m going to say it again.”

  “Please don’t.”

  “This is not your fault.”

  I pressed my thumb and index finger into my eyes. “You said it.”

  She pulled my hand down. “And here it comes again. What happened to Max is not your fault.”

  “I know that.”

  She tilted her head. “Do you?”

  The truck double-parked, its only option, and out jumped two men who’d seen it all, weren’t impressed.

  I knew the feeling.

  The only one who hasn’t attempted to change my mind is Henry. At the last dinner I had at their apartment in the Upper East Side, he nodded with a smile that said he understood. That meant a lot to me.

  The drive up 87 today feels like it’s taking forever. Then again, I don’t speed like my husband loved to.

  Turning left on the street that bears my last name — Lyons, a coincidence Max absolutely loved when he met me — I push the gas a little to top this hill, bouncing on shocks that long for Manhattan’s flat streets.

  This is going to be painful.

  It’ll be exactly as we left it.

  The sun shines through my windshield as I park on our dirt and graveled driveway. I lean forward to see the A-frame two-story cabin that Max will never set foot in again.

  My stomach turns over as I shut off the ignition, open the door and step out in my black heels and black dress, pushing hair out of my eyes as a breeze catches it and tries to stop me from seeing this.

  My past.

  My future.

  Chapter 13

  Max

  Wow.

  Haven’t been here since Abby and I last spent a weekend away, long before I bit the dust.

  Never came here because it would’ve hurt to have seen it abandoned, and I knew Abby wouldn’t come. Been with her this whole time, other than visiting my parents, and the two jaunts to the “Double Bs.”

  It’s beautiful.

  As it always was.

  Acres of green forest flank the cabin on all sides, with a stretch of lawn carved out for practicality purposes around the structure itself. The grass is mowed by our shifty landscaper’s son who scrapes a little off the top from every job, no doubt about it. But he came with the place after Mom and Dad opted for the Atlantic ocean over our pond, and he does good work. Grass is always short when we arrive, paths free of weeds.

  It’s a small pond, but you can swim in it, nestled about fifty steps from our front porch. Colorful dragonflies and tiny schools of fish live there. Oh, and frogs. Gotta love those barking frogs. Tadpoles float in the sun between June and August every year. Abby loves the cute li’l guys. She’ll even put a book down to sit by the water and watch them look at her, no hurry to be anywhere.

  Wouldn’t let me catch them for fear it would stunt their growth. Don’t know if that’s possible, but if it is, Barry and I created some pretty short frogs in our day.

  A freshwater stream comes out of the mountain on the north side of our property and what doesn’t get trapped in the pond, travels in a quiet stream all the way to who cares where.

  Nearest neighbors live across the dirt road that leads to our driveway, but they’re never home. It’s their second place, too, or their third. I can’t even recall their names, that’s how rarely we’ve seen them.

  Our cabin is as remote as it could be while still built within driving distance to shops and enough civilization to meet all of our needs. Since it’s just a couple of hours outside Manhattan, chefs from the city move here to get away from it all, bringing their talents with them.

  It’s a good thing, too, because Abby isn’t a good cook. She’ll need delivery and lots of it. Maybe this will spark an interest in cooking? Perhaps her culinary skills lie dormant?

  My heart aches with my wife as she stares at our cabin, and out of habit I almost go to help her with that suitcase, and realize…I can’t.

  She lugs it up the steps to our porch — first floor above snow-level with a storage room underneath we never
go into anymore. She’s silent the whole way.

  Me too.

  My chattering at her, that made feel connected, stopped when I overheard the confession to Jen that Abby was abandoning Manhattan for a life she used to avoid.

  Guess this move has me speechless.

  It’s fucked up my psyche.

  Do I even have a psyche?

  What am I?

  What is a ghost?

  A collection of memories?

  There’s enough here to go around. Man, I used to love coming up to New Paltz.

  Me and Barry vanished for entire days in Minnewaska State Park pretending to be Indiana Jones, taking turns playing the villain, the funner of the two roles for sure because of the evil laugh alone. Then we’d come home, starving, and Mom would make dinner for us, treating Barry like he was her son.

  Ma was always good like that.

  Abby finds the hidden key and opens our door, staring inside as I flash up to the second floor where our bedroom is.

  Yep, still unmade.

  I remember that day.

  Talked her into staying over on a Sunday even though we both had to work Monday. Nuzzling her neck with my hand between her legs I said I’d wake up at five and we’d beat the traffic easily. I slept through the alarm, but she woke me and we did beat the clock.

  She teased me for a week, “You awake?”

  At the top of our stairs I look over and see my wife dressed up like a city girl, out of place in this antiquated home as she soaks it all in.

  I know what she’s thinking.

  That I’m not here.

  “I’m upstairs, Abs.”

  She walks to my favorite picture of us where I’m in my baseball cap, standing with my arms wrapped around her. My face is buried in her red hair. She’s got such a loving smile in that photo. Abs uses her thumb to rub dust from our faces.

  “Abby…I’m right here.”

  She looks around, but not because I spoke. Her expression wouldn’t be so sad if she’d heard me.

  I flash downstairs and watch her drag her suitcase in, opening it in our living room, spreading the contents everywhere, aimless.

  Abandoning it, Abby searches our cupboards.

  She rises with a bottle of red wine, stares at it a moment, then picks out a stubby glass it wasn’t meant for. With the sink at her back, sunlight framing her hair, she drinks like it’s medicine.

  Winces.

  Pours more.

  Drinks again.

  “Abs,” I whisper, “I miss you this much, too.”

  Chapter 14

  Abby

  I’ve run out of wine.

  Been days since I had more than stale beet crackers and a bag of trail mix that may have expired before I was born.

  Alice and Henry kept an abundance of booze on their shelves which Max and I added to on the rare occasions we entertained — sometimes our friends would drive up during summertime. Hard booze has this strange skill — it doesn’t get old. But I’ve never been into liquor so I stick to wine and avoid the shelves.

  My empty stomach drove me into town, but it’s nauseous, so that’s fun. I’m dehydrated for sure.

  Pulling up to the parking lot outside My Market, the small grocery store in town, I slide down from the driver’s seat and plop onto concrete so warm I can feel it through my sneakers.

  There’s one of those wash-your-own-car joints across the street and I glance over to see people scrubbing away. Waste of time really.

  My hair is unwashed, up in a messy bun. I’m hiding from the light like Dracula behind designer sunglasses I used to worry about scratching, and now don’t. Threw them into the car, in fact. Felt like a big step for me.

  Downward?

  Debatable.

  Separating a red basket from the herd, and fumbling with the handles, feels like work. I mean, why do these always have to be red? Did they think we wouldn’t be able to spot a basket if the plastic wasn’t dyed the color of a stop sign? I don’t get it.

  Stop thinking about advertising, Abby. You left that world. And if you were, you’d stay away from yellow, too, because from the looks of these shelves, most overdo it.

  Yes, I know the eye sees these first.

  Red.

  Then yellow.

  But blech.

  Originality please.

  And some water.

  Lots and lots of agua.

  I skip the fruit and veggie section because they look like health. Unless you count fermented grapes.

  I’m so fucking thirsty my throat hurts.

  Pulling a water bottle from my basket mid-aisle, I crack the seal and glug until my stomach shouts, I don’t recognize this foreign substance!

  Erm.

  Anything else?

  Nope.

  At the check-stand, basket on counter, donuts and wine bottles beeping their way through inventory calculations, I hear a voice — a woman’s voice — and look up at an easy- green apron awaiting my response.

  “Sorry?”

  She repeats what, from the look in her eyes, I didn’t hear, “You don't look like you're from around here and I know everyone.”

  Blinking to my future wine-breakfast, I mutter, “No. I just moved in.”

  “Are you a writer? We get a lot of writers up here.”

  “I’m not a writer.”

  She doesn’t catch the not-so-subtle hint that I’m not here for chit-chat.

  “What do you do then? Are you a gardener? We have a great volunteer gardening group that tends to all the local businesses that can't afford big time landscaping companies. Keeps the town pretty, you know? Blooming all year round.”

  Trying not to barf, I pay the woman and put my sunglasses back on. “Does everyone know everyone here?”

  “The town as a whole is a tight-knit group, a lot of loyalty.”

  I pick up my paper bag of groceries which feels much heavier than it probably is, and head off. “That’s great,” I mutter, “Have a nice day.”

  She calls after me, “You too!” and her voice changes to familiarity as she greets the next customer, “Jack! Well, aren't you a sight for sore eyes.”

  “Wanda, where have you been all my life?”

  She giggles, “Stop it!” right before I walk outside.

  Volunteer gardening program?

  Wanda where have you been all my life?!!

  What am I doing in the country with all this happy? Did they give these people the corny pill?

  Chapter 15

  MAX

  Abandoned wrappers, dirty glasses, open styrofoam container of french fries she grew bored of eating.

  Abby hates styrofoam, a fact she’d drum into your head if you let her, along with all the evils of any substance which — as of yet — cannot be recycled.

  Yet here it is, wide open next to her propped open suitcase that never made it upstairs weeks later, clothes strewn and forgotten since she hasn’t changed from her favorite blue silky pants and black halter top in four days. I believe.

  She’s sleeping day in and day out with little nutrition, way too much wine, in designer clothing she used to covet and has now downgraded to pajamas.

  My baby is curled on our couch without a blanket, hair dirty, circles around her eyes, passed out, having no idea I’m standing over her.

  Hours go by.

  She doesn’t budge.

  Is she even breathing?

  A little.

  Short breaths like she’s hanging on.

  Baby, please snap out of it.

  I miss you, too.

  But I’m right here.

  God, what can I do?

  Please let me help her.

  She’s wasting away.

  “Abs,” I whisper, and walk outside feeling more down than I have since I found out I died.

  “Max?”

  I freeze, and flash back inside our living room, antique trunk coffee table between us as Abby slowly lifts herself to sitting, searching the darkness for me.

  She i
nhales, hope removing the tired from her eyes as she hoarsely whispers, “I can smell you!”

  “I’m right here, Abs! I’m standing right in front of you, baby!”

  But she doesn’t hear me, isn’t looking in my direction. Abby slowly stands up, scanning our living room.

  I’m stunned as I watch her follow the path I just walked. I flash in front of her to keep the scent going, the one she’s memorized like I’ve memorized hers.

  “I’m right here!”

  Outside, bottom of the stairs, her bare feet crunching grass and dead leaves, Abby stops to whisper my name.

  I watch my wife plead with the darkness, looking right through me, “Come back to me!” and my heart breaks.

  She keeps walking, searching.

  I turn around.

  Powerless.

  Abs steps onto the trimmed grass that overlooks our pond, talking to the breeze like it’s me, like I’m part of nature.

  “You don't know how good it was to breathe you in just one more time. I'm losing it.” She raises her hands as I stand behind her, my desire to help her so strong and so impotent as she confesses, “I don't know what I'm doing anymore.” Abby trails off, “ I'm really just…” and her shoulders slump.

  How can fate be this cruel. Why did she smell me and now can’t? That was our first tangible connection for the first time since I died.

  Why am I here?

  Is this some cruel joke?

  My wife turns around, dejected, lifts her head and locks eyes with me.

  I blurt, “Hi!”

  She covers her mouth, “Oh my God!” eyes huge.

  “You can see me!”

  She lowers her hands, a little scared, whispers, “Is it really you?”

  I shift weight like a human, because I want to grab her and kiss her. “It's really me!”

  Abby melts with relief, “Oh my God. Oh my God!” opens her arms, rushes to hug me, and falls right through my ghostly body, dropping to the grass.

  I flip around, squat in front of her. “Yeah, that's probably not a good idea. I can't catch you anymore.” Abby is staring at me, stunned, and I scan her body, noticing, “You're shivering. Let's get you inside.”