She turned her attention back to Kianna in time to hear her say, “… and of course Charlie hasn’t helped me pack a single thing. I bet he doesn’t even want me to move in. Why do I bother?”
Amara was at a loss for a reply so she remained silent, sourly fiddling with her teabag.
*28*
The phone rang loudly in the office, stopped momentarily, then rang again. Shoulder deep in the belly of a 1965 Chris-Craft, Nathan was too preoccupied to be bothered with customers.
“Leave a message!” he yelled across the garage, though no one was there to hear him.
By the third iteration, however, his curiosity got the better of him. He hastily wiped his hands on a grease rag as he trotted inside the building. A small red light flashed by the voicemail icon. He reached for the receiver to hear the message but paused as the cellphone in his pocket began to buzz. He reached into his back pocket instead. The number for X’s school flashed across the cellphone screen.
“Damn,” he swore.
“Hello?”
“Mr. Newman? This is Ms. Hayes, your son’s teacher,” a shrill voice said. “I’d like to have a word with you today after school if you have a few minutes.”
“Is something wrong? Is X okay?” Nathan asked in concern.
“Your son is fine. But I’d like to talk with you about one of his projects he recently turned in. Can I schedule you at three-thirty? In my classroom?”
“Uh, sure,” he replied. The voice thanked him and disconnected.
He glanced at the clock just as the minute changed to 1:11 p.m. No time for lunch today if he was going to finish this job before picking X up from school. Nathan nodded to himself, let out a soft sigh, and walked across the workshop. His footsteps echoed sharply off the high, metallic ceiling, making him acutely aware of the room’s emptiness. He was the only one there.
Though Nathan’s miserable disposition had improved with time, Sal’s had aged poorly, like a dram of single-malt Scotch left out in the sun. Nathan avoided the old man as much as possible, completing the majority of his work on the days when Sal was not around to pester him. This wasn’t difficult to do, as Sal had taken to coming in less and less in the last year. So far, he hadn’t bothered to show up once this week. Nathan was starting to wonder if Sal had finally decided to retired and simply forgot to tell anyone. He wouldn’t put it past the old man.
As he climbed up the lift, the numbers on the clock stuck in his head: 111. Over the years, that number had haunted him. He saw it everywhere: in the time, in phone numbers, in work order receipts, even in the odometer on his car. He felt it had to be more than a coincidence, because that number was personal for him. After the accident, the doctors said he had been dead for over a minute – 1:11, to be exact. He had started to take it as a sign, a message from the universe that he was destined to be alone, a single digit repeating. Popping his collar against the draft, Nathan ducked his head back into the engine compartment.
The clock struck three just as Nathan finished installing the isolator switch. Grabbing his coat off the back of the chair, he darted out the door, making sure to lock up the garage before he left. As he hopped in the truck, Nathan checked his voicemail. The first was a message from his mom, asking if she could watch X this evening; she’d heard there was an AA meeting tonight, in case Nathan wanted to go. He skipped over the rest of her circuitous commentary. The second message was a reminder from Ms. Hayes, confirming their meeting this afternoon. Nathan sighed. Her assumption that he might forget their conversation two hours ago was a little insulting.
Ms. Hayes, X’s second grade teacher, was an expressive woman who was prone to emotional outbursts of joy and, equally, of sorrow. Her classroom was decorated in pastel colors of pink, green, and orange, giving the illusion that one may have just stepped inside an Easter egg. Though she tried her best to cultivate X’s explorations, she had sent Nathan more than one message over the school year stating subtle concerns about X’s singular obsessions. “You can’t learn everything from comics,” Ms. Hayes had said to him. “He needs to read other things.”
Nathan had a feeling this meeting might pertain to yet another assigned book review in which X had detailed the mind-bending powers of his beloved Major Xtra.
Ms. Hayes motioned for Nathan to enter. “Please, have a seat, Mr. Newman.”
X was seated in his wheelchair in the front row. Nathan patted him on the shoulder, taking the seat next to him.
“What is this about?” he inquired.
“As you may know, the students had an assignment to create a short bio of an influential woman in their life. We’re going to use them to create a collage in the front lobby for International Woman’s Day next week. Most of the kids used their moms, though some chose other relatives.”
Nathan gave X a look of concern. Avoiding his gaze, X stared blankly at the fish tank on the windowsill, watching as a snail slowly streaked across the glass.
Before Nathan could reply, Ms. Hayes pushed on.
“Your son turned this in.” She presented a stack of papers on the desk.
Nathan thumbed through the booklet. Each page contained a hand-drawn portrait of a woman, faces he didn’t recognize. The first was a fiery-haired, freckled lady in her forties with a high-collared red shirt and a name tag. “Sandra,” it read. The second page detailed Sandra’s story as a cashier at the local grocery store who, having never had kids of her own, spent all of her time nurturing her four guinea pigs. Then there was Tanya, a young girl with dark skin and a thin face who, according to her bio, was an environmental science student at Western Washington University who spent her evenings sorting food waste from restaurant dumpsters to repurpose as compost. Page after page, a collage of women of various ages, colors, and sizes peered out from the paper.
He paused on the last page, which depicted a pretty woman in her mid-twenties with dark hair curled tightly around her face, framing her bright green eyes. She was unnamed, and her bio was left empty as if the picture had been included only as a last-minute decision. Nathan lingered on the picture. The woman held a remarkable resemblance to what he guessed Cece would have looked like if she were sitting with them today.
Shocked, Nathan turned to his son. “Who are all these people?” he asked, dumbfounded. He didn’t even know his son could draw like this. The lines were rudimentary and scratchy to be sure, but they also had a certain personal style that Nathan had to admire. The motor control alone that was required to make these drawings was something to celebrate.
X remained silent, so Ms. Hayes spoke in his place. “He said most of them are women that he has seen or met around town. It looks like some probably work in the stores or restaurants that you have frequented.” She paused momentarily. “Obviously I am aware of his … circumstances,” She trailed off, unsure how to proceed. Her features sank in a momentary wave of utter sadness. Pushing back her tears, she carried on, “I guess I assumed he would draw his grandma or another relative, maybe even a teacher or therapist. But this …” Her eyes scanned over the pages.
Another question occurred to Nathan as he turned his attention back to X.
“How do you know their stories? Did you talk to all of them?”
“I read their minds,” he said boldly.
His teacher huffed quietly but quickly replaced her frustration with a placid smile. “This again …”
Nathan’s mouth gaped open, but he didn’t press for more.
X continued slowly. “Some of them spoke to me. Others I only saw in my head. They all had a story to tell, so I wrote it down for them.”
His teacher interjected, “Mr. Newman, if I could have a word with you out in the hall.” She stood from her desk and gestured toward the door.
Nathan complied.
Shutting the door softly behind her, Ms. Hayes looked intently at Nathan.
“If I may be so bold,” she started, “I think your son may be creating these stories and ... uh, ‘powers’ as a means of coping with his loss.”
Nathan narrowed his eyes on Ms. Hayes, fighting his initial urge to lash out at her measured tone. He was all too familiar with the voice people used when they were trying to pass judgment for advice.
Collecting himself, he asked, “What are you saying?”
“He’s a curious six-year-old with an active imagination. He thinks he can hear voices in his head, people who aren’t there, who aren’t real. Is it possible that this ‘superpower’ is his way of trying to connect with his mom?”
Nathan stared blankly at her for a long moment, before his thoughts caught up to him.
“I never really thought about it,” he said absently. “I mean, we’ve talked about her before, and I’m sure his grandparents, her parents, have mentioned her when he visits them. But he never really asks about his mom. I guess I assumed he understood.”
A dull ache formed in his gut. On some level he was relieved that X didn’t ask about Cece more, one less thing to remind him of his mistakes. But X was also nearly seven now, it was only natural that he would start to have more questions.
Wanting to escape further scrutiny from Ms. Hayes, Nathan abruptly excused himself.
“Thank you for your, uh … insights, Ms. Hayes. If that’s all, I think X and I should be heading home.”
He pushed past her into the classroom to collect his son.
Ms. Hayes stepped aside to let them pass. She watched the unusual pair as they wheeled down the dim hallway, the booklet of pictures tucked under Nathan’s arm.
*29*
Amara’s current patient was a man named Larry who lived in an unconventional cottage with his wife and two robust, orange tabby cats. Larry was forty-six and dying of cancer. He had spent most of his earlier years developing software for a small online retail chain, which was now ranked in the top five highest-grossing companies of the online sector. His wife, Amy, a librarian, worked at the nearby elementary school. She had never been gifted with kids of her own, but she took great pleasure in sharing her love of books with her students.
His success had come at a price, however. Larry had spent countless weekends, holidays, and anniversaries at the office, selling his time and health for a profit. It wasn’t until after he collapsed in his office that he had finally bothered to address his increasingly persistent headaches.
Larry was diagnosed with a stage four glioblastoma in his left frontal lobe nearly three years prior. He had chosen to fight against his illness, opting for two resections and a cocktail of chemotherapy drugs. Five months after the surgeries, Larry was discharged from his rehabilitation program and sent home. By this point he was tired, malnourished, and weak, but he wasn’t giving up.
His wife had always dreamed of seeing the Northern Lights, and in his final days, Larry desperately wanted to show her. A week after he was discharged, they took a week-long trip to Juneau, Alaska, where they stayed in a tiny A-frame rental on the bank of an alpine lake. At night, they turned off all the lights in the house and watched as green ribbons danced across the sky, mirrored beautifully in the frozen water below. “It was like heaven on Earth!” Larry had exclaimed to Amara during her initial visit. But the cold temperatures were too much for Larry’s weak immune system, and he returned home with a severe case of pneumonia. By the time Larry came into Amara's charge, he was frail and bedridden with a deep cough that rattled his bones.
His wife pleaded desperately to anyone who would listen.
“He’s strong!” she insisted. “There must be something else you can do, another medication, maybe? Something he hasn’t tried yet.”
But Larry had tried everything, and now there was nothing left to do but wait.
On this clear March morning, Larry was sleeping soundly in bed when Amara arrived at the house for her daily check-up. His wife bustled downstairs in the kitchen making breakfast.
Sitting in a plush armchair in the corner of the room, Amara observed Larry while she finished the last of her tedious paperwork. A line of morphine dripped steadily through a tube into Larry’s arm. His breath was ragged and shallow, rattling in and out of his chest. It stopped momentarily, then slowly started again. Amara’s years of experience told her what was coming next. She immediately moved to the bedside for closer assessment.
Just as she turned to fetch his Amy, Larry’s wife entered the room carrying a tray of French-pressed coffee, toast, and poached eggs.
“I made his favorite,” Amy said happily to Amara and she entered. “I hope he wakes up before the eggs get cold.”
Amara politely reached for the tray and set it on the dresser next to a pile of Amy’s favorite books, which she had recently taken to reading aloud to Larry while he slept.
“Amy,” she said softly, “I think it’s time. You should go sit with him, talk to him. He needs you to be with him.”
Amy took a moment to process Amara’s instructions. Her face flashed briefly with shock before landing on anguish. Amara put her arm around Amy’s shoulders, led her gently to the bedside, then stepped back.
For more than an hour Amara watched as Larry struggled to breathe while his wife wailed into his shoulder. It was a heart-wrenching scene. Amara felt tears welling behind her own eyes more than once, but she successfully hid it from Amy long enough to compose herself, not that Amy was paying much attention to Amara.
With each exhale, his breath dragged on slower and slower, until finally, with a constricted gasp, Larry’s life escaped from his body.
His wife let out a shriek of desperation.
At that final moment, it all became too much. By now she’d watched many patients die from cancer, even some with the same kind of brain cancer. But something about this time – Larry’s cancer, the house, the books, his wife – it was just too close. Amara couldn’t handle it. She had to get out of the room. A tight, squeezing sensation gripped her chest. Her eyes stung. The walls in the room constricted, compressing the air around her. She quietly excused herself to the hallway to catch her breath.
Amy didn’t notice.
Over the years, Amara had seen many people die, possibly hundreds. That final moment was always the hardest, the most powerful. It happened in an instant, in the blink of an eye, when the light went out inside as they finally slipped away. The form on the bed was immediately and all at once just a body, just a mass, an elaborately sculpted statue. Larry’s light, however, had clung to life until the very last beam was torn painfully from the flesh. In fact, Amara guessed sadly, his light had probably been fading slowly for years, being stolen drop by drop with every pill and every cough. This, she recognized now, was how it could have been with Henry.
Willing herself back together, Amara knew she couldn’t hide in the hall forever. She would have to go back in the room. She would have to face it. Closing her eyes, she took three deep breaths, and returned to comfort Larry’s sobbing widow.
*30*
It was late evening by the time Amara returned home from Larry’s house. Her apartment was dark and quiet as she opened the front door. Only a few boxes of clothes remained in Kianna’s bedroom. Once inside the entry, she immediately stripped off her scrubs, tossing them onto the washer to her right. She wandered to the kitchen in her underwear, pulling down a bottle of wine and a glass from the cupboard. Opening the fridge, she scanned the near-empty shelves, and closed it again. After more searching, she excavated a frozen dinner from the back of the freezer and tossed it in the microwave. While her food cooked, Amara wandered down the hall to the bathroom. She plugged the tub and turned the hot water on high.
Once she had eaten her bland macaroni and guzzled a glass of wine in the tub, Amara lazily dried herself with a towel and tossed it on the floor. Naked, she walked down the hall to her room. One of the perks of living alone, she tried to muse, but her attempt at humor fell flat even to herself. She flopped onto her back on the bed, arms and legs splayed wide, and inhaled deeply. Tears pressed behind her eyes again. She closed her lids to contain them, but the dam didn’t hold. Tears streamed silently dow
n the sides of her face into her wet hair. She sniffled. Soon, she was sobbing uncontrollably.
Minutes passed. Her thoughts spiraled from Larry to LeRoy to all the other people she had lost over the years. In general, she didn’t cry for her patients. Maybe it was callous, maybe it was self-preservation. Maybe I’m heartless, she thought despondently, but she knew she wasn’t, not really. She honored her patients by caring for them after death as she had in life, with tenderness and compassion. She bathed them, dressed them, and comforted them. Those people who lived such extraordinary lives – traveling, inventing, teaching, falling in love – Amara knew that she was just a minor role in the final chapter of their book. But something about Larry’s story had been more personal to her.
Henry. His name drifted into her mind.
Larry’s death had been painful and slow, despite his constant sedation. Yes, he had managed to squeeze a few more years from his life, but at what cost? To a certain degree, his artificial extension had given his wife unrealistic expectations about the inevitability of his end, which made the outcome that much more difficult to manage when it finally came.
She saw, now, in Amy what Henry tried so desperately to avoid for her. She was ashamed of the anger that she harbored inside. She had been furious with him for so long, for not giving her the time that she wanted, for not fighting to stay with her, for giving up. Those three months of summer, before he was diagnosed, were the only time in her life that she had been truly alive. He had seen her, accepted her, and loved her; and she loved him fiercely in return. She still did. But now, sitting alone in her room, her feelings were aimless, without a target to which she could direct them. She needed someone to release her of her love before it swelled to the point of suffocating her.
Amara sat up and wrapped herself in a robe. Reaching over her bed, she pulled a journal from the drawer of the nightstand. She opened the front cover carefully, so as not to lose the dry, brittle redwood sprig that was carefully persevered between the front pages. From the back cover, Amara removed the portrait that Henry had drawn of her so long ago. She stared into the starry eyes of the young girl on the paper and almost couldn’t recognize herself in it anymore.
Life After Death: A Story of Love, Loss, and Living Page 13
