I Never Stopped

by Elizabeth Mitchell

  "You don't know what Sloane would want," Francesca whined softly towards the machine. Hunched shoulders and a drooping head kept her still at first. Eventually, with a heave, she picked up her head and pushed the blanket aside. Atrophied calves shook as she stood.

  Floating around the house, Sloane tried to halt her packing process. She tried again to knock over the knock-off Tiffany lamp they'd bought at an antique show in San Mateo. As her hand passed right through it, she cursed. Almost eleven months and she hadn't figured it out.

  She attempted to indent a pillow with an angry fist; her tattoos looked like one black sleeve as she tensed her arm. After failing to rattle a bowl filled with sour milk and a food-crusted spoon, she tried to grab things from Francesca's hand. But Sloane knew she could only watch in abject horror.

  Francesca's eyes were too busy swimming to choose logical items. She grabbed a hodgepodge of clothing, a hairbrush, a toothbrush that she forgot to use regularly as of late–much to Sloane's nonverbal attempts to remind her, the book she wasn't reading, and a myriad of Sloane's things. One of Sloane's favorite worn t-shirts made it in before Francesca remembered deodorant.

  The entire contents of Sloane's side table were tossed into her bag: two zebra gum wrappers from the afternoon Francesca had taken her to Toys-R-Us to have a real childhood experience, a ripped notebook paper that read, "Sloane, You're my forever," an old book that smelled like wonder, and a chipped coffee mug with a purple lipstick stain.

  Sloane's perfume was collected last, seemingly so it could be on top. Though Sloane watched Francesca untwist the glass strawberry day after day, she never sprayed it. Francesca tugged a cotton candy pink crop-top sweater with sparkles woven through it from atop one of the many stacks of books which made up their library loft of an apartment. Carefully she rolled the frosted pink glass strawberry bottle in the rayon cotton blend.

  Francesca buried her face in the sweater. After a moment, she pulled back and sobbed. "Now you've gone and ruined it! It can never smell like her again. And you've stained it. Everything is your fault, Francesca. You did this; you caused everything. You kil–"

  Her voice dropped to a whisper as she apologized to Sloane once again. Abandoning her packing, she crawled into bed and wrapped her limbs around one of Sloane's many salt and drool crusted pillows. Her chest caved in with the loss of Sloane who stood by the bed begging to be heard. When a shadow flickered in her peripheral again, she didn't turn. All the while, Sloane willed Francesca to feel the hand hovering over hers.

  An annoying techno song sounded Francesca's alarm in the morning, and Sloane tried to scream through the encompassing mist. "I'm here, don't go." Still, no words came out. Her lip quivered. "What if I can't leave?"

  After her morning ritual of remembering the accident, Francesca grabbed her suitcase and glanced around the room through blurred vision. Without brushing her hair or teeth, Francesca left Sloane to stare at a closing door. The lock's soft click trapped her in her own home.

  Sloane wanted to drug herself to sleep, forget it all, not notice the time Francesca was gone. But no matter how many times she closed her eyes, they'd always creak back open–her body wide awake despite her mind's fogginess matching The Gray's. Sloane could never have another second of Francesca's love. At least Francesca experienced it in her dreams; whether that made it better or worse, Sloane wished she could see for herself. Instead, her chest ached with the loss and absence.

  Book stacks that used to comfort Sloane closed in on her. Dirty dishes sat in the sink. Her imagination of the odor through The Gray made her gag. Dust clumps clung to the velvet backs of face down framed photographs of her and Francesca. Months without cleaning left their house a shell of the lively home it once had been. And now, Sloane would be stuck in the lifeless home alone.

  Straddling the line of devastation and rage, she watched the light change through their single picture window. Francesca was so present in the tiny loft that Sloane began to resent her for renting them the hole-in-the-wall she'd wanted.

  When they'd first moved in together, neither of them had known how to exist in a small space with another person, despite Francesca having lived with friends and other lovers. They couldn't seem to stop bumping into one another, saying, “Excuse me,” like strangers. After over a week of awkward days and steamy nights, Francesca's shoulder had nearly touched Sloane's as she left the bathroom. Sloane had grabbed and kissed Francesca before she could apologize for being in the same space.

  "I never want to hear you apologize or say, 'Excuse me,' again unless I've got a paintbrush in my hand and paint gets on something it shouldn't. Got it?" In an attempt to look serious, she'd pulled her invisible eyebrows together.

  Francesca had hugged Sloane tightly. "I promise to kiss you instead of saying anything. How's that?"

  "That–" Her smile had widened. "I can work with."

  Sloane stared at a miniature card from Francesca's great-grandmother she'd thumbtacked to the side of a bookshelf. A mouse in overalls sat in a teacup. Inside, squiggly handwriting told her she was a beautiful and sweet girl. As if a beacon cutting through The Gray, it was a sign that she'd have to come home.

  Did Francesca leave to forget about Sloane? Months of pain and grief, and she had to be done? If Sloane found a way to Italy, found a way to see Francesca again, would it matter? She couldn't touch her. Francesca could barely sense her. But Sloane probably shouldn't go anywhere. Francesca couldn't live without that card.

  Another flicker of darkness interrupted Sloane's spiral. She turned only to see a dirty kitchen slightly obscured by mist.

  "What's going on?" she shouted to an empty room–each syllable snatched by The Gray almost as fast as they escaped her lips.

  The only sounds were the tink of the water from the boiler room hitting copper pipes and the songs of traffic as they leaked through the broken window seal above Francesca's side of the bed. Silent to the world, Sloane sighed. The ambient noise their home had provided lulled Sloane to sleep, inspired her paintings, become the soundtrack of her lovemaking–it had been everything.

  She'd leave and never hear it again, forget it existed even, just to see Francesca's freckles again.

  5

  Francesca

  The man beside Francesca coughed loudly and nudged her elbow off the armrest. "Excuse me; sorry," he mumbled as he settled into the stiff, blue cushioned seat beside her.

  "Sure, my arm wasn't there," she mumbled to the middle-aged, overweight man in a suit. Angry rap pumped from his headphones. Either he was deaf or in pain.

  Lights dimmed, and cold, plastic air burst through tentacle vents overhead. Francesca wanted to sleep through as many of the nineteen hours that lay ahead of her as humanly possible.

  Her second therapist had been a psychiatrist, so he thought pills were better than talking. The useless three sessions had begun the same, but he'd given her Eszopiclone for her nightmares.

  After she had filled the prescription, she'd never seen Dr. You-Have-Twelve-Disorders again. She had a few chalky white pills left; they still resided in a small clamshell box in her purse. Due to the fact she wouldn't have to get off the plane for any stops it made, she almost took one. But a look around at the passengers had her thinking better of it. Earbuds would have to do. Francesca got uncomfortable, and the plane took off.

  An unhappy baby screamed as her ears popped.

  "Please remain seated–" A squeaky drawl droned over a crackling system. "Until the seatbelt light–"

  Francesca had picked a winner of a flight. Only fifteen feet away from the attendant and her walky-talky couldn't project her voice seven rows back.

  Why had she agreed to go to Italy again? She'd stopped crying publicly altogether. No one needed to know about the nights. Or God, the mornings. Eventually, she would be able to function an entire day without crying at all; she would work on saving it all for the nights. Those may be bad forever.

  Before she knew it, a woman made her way down the cramped aisle with a
little metal cart, squeezing a release handle to make it roll. It was reminiscent of the horrible wheelchairs some hospitals have that discourage anyone from actually using them; they basically have a sign which reads, 'Use at your own risk. Pusher may break fingers, and rider may end up with a spinal cord injury'.

  "Water? Coffee? Coke? Orange Juice? A little something extra?"

  The flight attendant's muddled brown eyes filled with a combination of pity and worry. A dare lived behind it. 'I dare you to get drunk at 8:30 in the morning. Be that person.'

  Francesca slid her earbuds out. Her throat felt rawer than usual as she croaked, "Water, coffee, and do you have Irish cream?" She didn't want it, but ruffling feathers sounded entertaining.

  "Yes, uh, one second. I have to–" The harried woman scrambled back to the curtained area of the plane. When she came back, frazzled with a side of irritated, she held the bottle with a look of distaste. "Sorry, I forgot to restock the cart. I usually do that before dinner."

  Jab noted.

  "Cream? Sugar?" Dishwater blonde hair was pulled up in a frizzy bun. Last night must have been a rough one for her too–only she'd probably had more fun.

  Could she have more questions?

  "Extra napkins?"

  Of course.

  "Cream and extra napkins would be great, thanks." Francesca hoped she sounded pleasant; she didn't feel pleasant.

  A bit of black covered the woman's canine tooth. Whether food or decay, Francesca didn't comment on it.

  "A'course darling. Let me know if you need anything else." The fake smile revealed two other places where specks clung to her teeth. She could use a brush.

  The instant coffee tasted like dirt. It reminded Francesca of playgrounds, swings, the first time she'd pushed Sloane so high she'd squealed, "This is amazing! It's like I'm flying." Francesca had been so happy, and yet so sad at that. Her tear-ducts burned like fire.

  Maybe 'a little something extra' wouldn't be the worst thing. It was going to be a long flight.

  Stuffing her earbuds in, she turned the music up to eleven. The bottle of 'extra' was small; she drank it down in one gulp. In an hour, she'd probably want another. No, maybe it wasn't the worst thing at all.

  Every so often, a hairy arm would tap on her shoulder to ask her about herself, to which she gave short, quipped answers.

  "Where ya headed?" Cologne and stale breath hit Francesca at the same time.

  Ha. What a conversation starter: 'Are you on the same long flight to the same international destination as me?’ Even if she'd had another flight planned for after, she wouldn't be telling a stranger about it.

  "Livingston, Nevada." Was that a place?

  "What do you do for a living?"

  "Got laid off."

  Fifteen minutes later, just as Francesca had begun to doze off, the rotund man bothered her once again. "Oh, how rude! I totally forgot to ask your name, mine's Cory."

  "Charlotte." A woman's got to lie now and again.

  "What kinds of things do you like to do?" he asked, leaning into her.

  Francesca pressed as far back into her seat as she could. "I hate most things."

  Cory stopped talking to her for a long while. Almost an hour, a nice nap, and two angry girl jams later, he tapped her again.

  "Are you married?"

  After glancing at her bare finger, she burst into silent tears. Cory turned away and curled into an in-flight pillow.

  Twenty-three hours later, Cory stretched sweaty arms forward nearly punching Francesca. "What a flight!"

  It was indeed.

  Francesca's swollen cheeks probably looked covered in splattered burst blood vessels, not freckles. Sloane had loved how unusual it was for the Italian to be covered, while the sort-of Irish only had three moles on her entire body. They made a beautiful triangle Francesca had loved to trace on the underside of her left breast.

  The plane had a semi-orderly line of people waiting to grab their bags from overhead and go on their way. Most seemed to be on vacation. When Francesca stopped to think about what she'd packed, it overwhelmed her.

  A blank spot lived where the memory of her putting items in her suitcase should have been. Had she packed her favorite necklace?

  Her fingers flew up to her neck. She sighed and leaned against the side of the polyester material–still on. Sloane had given her a key at the end of their second date. Before Francesca had crawled into bed that night, she'd hung it from the only free chain she'd had–a cheap and ugly thing that had eventually turned her neck green. After they'd replaced the chain, she'd occasionally forget to put it on in the morning. Guilt sawed at her for being forgetful.

  Her purse always had headphones, her wallet, passport–much to Sloane's and her mother's worry–and gum. She popped some into her gummy mouth.

  Sloane's possessions had come with her, which was a relief. Which possessions, however, were all wrong. Francesca wanted more: the dresses they'd worn at their commitment ceremony, the five rings Sloane used to wear, her bracelet, Sloane.

  She broke away from her darkening thoughts. At least she'd remembered the perfume. Francesca enjoyed imagining the Strawberry Fields still clung to Sloane's favorite pink sweater. It didn't.

  Like a scratch-and-sniff, it had dried up months ago. But Francesca didn't want to waste a drop by spraying it on the sweater again. Maybe being rolled up together would re-invigorate the smell.

  Francesca shifted from one foot to the other. She wouldn't mind being off the plane.

  Cory seemed unperturbed and as chatty as ever. Ignoring him turned out to be more difficult than expected, but imagining him as a chubby bee from a children's play helped immensely. His headband antennae smacked the top of the cramped plane; his wings hooked on the chairs. Sloane would have appreciated the imagery.

  In desperate need of a good crack and massage, her back ached. Sloane had been the only one who'd ever been able to get the one knot under her shoulder blade out. Francesca's breath caught again. She wiggled her nose and rolled her eyes upward.

  As she pulled her purple duffle bag from the overhead compartment, she wondered again if she'd made a colossal mistake. In the five minutes following that thought, logistics began to set in.

  The apartment! Francesca had to call and pay her landlord, Timothy, a month in advance so it would still be there. She'd be back. Wouldn't she? Their life was there. Sloane's smell, her laughter; everything would be lost if Francesca didn't go home.

  Was the airport an acceptable place to leave a car for an untold amount of time?

  Finally, she trudged down the aisle towards fresh air and her smothering mother on weak muscles. She spent most of the trek to the baggage area practicing a smile. But the moment she saw Mama waving a silk scarf she'd had since dinosaurs had roamed the earth, Francesca dropped her bags and ran. Crouching into Mama's small arms, she sobbed.

  Dozing on a large stone patio, Francesca stared out at an expansive valley and tried to shake off jet lag.

  The too-white cushions were so plush, it was easy to forget almost anything but the view for a while. Mama owned a villa in Montepulciano, a little over two hours away from the Pisa airport. Francesca had not visited her yet. It had been in Sloane's three-year plan. Several things had been.

  "Wake up." Mama broke through another windy road of Sloane. "You've been sleeping too long," she spoke in English. As Mama rarely spoke anything but Italian, using it was probably to make Francesca feel more comfortable.

  They'd used both languages when Francesca was a child. However, when Mama had moved back to Italy, she'd stopped speaking English almost entirely. She enjoyed pretending to be the cute, fumbling little Italian woman who tried her best to speak other languages; that was hardly the case as Mama had learned to speak French and German fluently while they lived in New Mexico–nearly all of Francesca's childhood. Mama tried to learn multiple different Native American languages as well, but none of those took.

  "It's fine, Mama. We can speak in Italian," Francesca assu
red her. Obligatorily, her lips curved up into what she hoped was a smile.

  Mama's small shoulders drooped. "Thank goodness. Essie, I tell you, I'm not great at English anymore. I am good at cooking," she joked as she brought the subject back to why she had come outside in the first place. Aged hands, shades tanner than Francesca, held a large black tray as if she were a server. "Here, eat." Italians.

  When Mama dropped the four plates of pasta in front of her on the wrought iron patio table, she beamed. A curl fell into her eye, but the wind made quick work of it. The wine bottle patterned apron Francesca had bought her for her birthday flew up. Mama pushed it down; her small hands slid over stains of cream and red near the pockets.

  "Why aren't you eating?"

  "You just sat it down. Oh, and I'm not hungry."

  Her mother's eyes narrowed as her thick brows clenched together. "You're too skinny. Susan liked your curves. Eat, for her."

  "Sloane," Francesca corrected but nodded.

  Worrying with a string on the seam of her grey tank top, she stared at nails which used to be long and manicured. Sloane used to make fun of her for her obsession with them. Without her joking mockery, Francesca had bitten them to the quick and skinned the sides pink. She'd gotten her first pimple since middle school two months ago, and her hair fell limp–an extraordinary loss.

  Everything about Francesca had lost its luster.

  She and Sloane had first met in a grocery store checkout line. It had been through an off-the-cuff compliment about the natural black curls that hung down to the middle of her back. Francesca could still feel Sloane's hand graze the small of her back. If she hadn't already believed in love at first sight, when their eyes met, she'd have changed her tune. Francesca had almost blurted, "I love you," right then and there.

  Then, the world had faded away, until only Francesca and a woman with porcelain skin, fiery hair, and pouty lips had remained.