The Last Post

by Renee Carlino

  Why am I speaking in the past tense now?

  “It meant a lot to me, too, I just showed it in a different way. Please don’t confront me about this now.”

  “You were always so busy; you hardly ever showed me any of your feelings. And you were rarely true to your word.”

  “You were busy, too, Laya. You shouldn’t put all the blame on me.”

  “Why did we fight?” I asked him, my voice lower and becoming more passive and hopeless.

  “Because we were different,” he said.

  The words felt like a gut punch. I always thought he appreciated our differences. “But we were so alike, too.” I argued. “And our relationship worked.”

  He just smiled. “I want you to be happy, always, forever. I care about you and . . . ” He hesitated. “And I love you. I’ll see you on the other side. Count me down, Laya.”

  “What?”

  “Honey, count me down.”

  Wind, from out of nowhere, was suddenly all I could hear. The room temperature dropped.

  “No!” I yelled.

  “Three,” he said.

  “No, please. Just a little more. More time, please.” I was begging now.

  “Two,” he said.

  Neither of us spoke. He was still near the door, looking sullen and penitent. It took me a while, but I finally said, “One.” I let him go.

  The wind roared, and the sound of ice collapsing—like it did that day—finally pulled me from my dream. When I woke up, my face was in my pillow. And I was crying again.

  When I stopped sobbing, I mulled over the dream—because it was just that, a dream. It was perfectly clear; I remembered every detail. In real life, Cameron never looked me in the eyes while we were making love. What Cameron and I had was passionate, but he never made eye contact with me that way. Yes, it was a sex dream, but there was something in it, some kind of finality in his expression. He was a combination of who I wanted him to be and who he really was.

  When the real Cameron started to come through at the end, I got sad. When he had a hard time expressing himself, and when faced with the idea that he might be hurting me, he retreated. He either made a joke out of it, or he claimed it was just his personality, when I knew it was a character flaw. We all have them. I wished he would have realized it.

  I didn’t want to demonize him. Thinking about him now was the opposite. I saw him clearly now. I didn’t want to change Cameron; I wanted Cameron to grow up and to show me how much he loved me with actions, not words. I knew as long as he was making excuses and saying “That’s just how I am” and “Nothing really matters,” despite the fact that he was hurting me, then he would always be that way: selfish, not thoughtful or considerate of my needs, even though I followed him across the world and back, extending my residency far longer than I had planned. But he would say it’s not “tit for tat, Laya.” I bought into it that notion because for whatever reason, I loved him, and I wanted him to love me. It wasn’t ever “tit for tat.” It was just me asking for common respect and reciprocation between two people who claimed to have such a connection.

  There were countless things I had made for him, or gifts I had given him, strewn throughout his room. It was as if I only existed in his thoughts when we were together, and nothing I did had meaning when he was practicing for a stunt. He would forget my birthday and say “I will get you something real nice, I will.” Then he would laugh it off or tell me that asking was not a good way to get what I wanted. Or he would try to tickle me, having forgotten that I wasn’t ticklish. These were things I couldn’t let go of.

  He would tell me, “You feel too much, Laya, and you have more of a capacity to address your emotions than I do. I can’t express myself like you can.”

  I would argue with him and say, “But, Cameron, I had no model for love, or self-expression, so I can’t be those things any more than you can.”

  He’d respond, “It’s just how you are, Laya. It’s just how you are, and this is how I am.”

  Sometimes we can’t really tell who we are in our twenties, or even thirties or beyond. It gets muddled up with ideals we’ve entertained. It’s what we’ve been taught by other people and society, or what we’ve read in a book.

  I didn’t ever want to be in a committed relationship; it just happened, and once I was . . . I loved it. I loved spending time with him, even though it was limited and we fought often. Cameron and I fought because we were two independent people who, despite loving each other, were still figuring out how to share a life. We were used to the autonomous lives we had before we met. It took practice and sacrifice to make things work. Cameron wasn’t always good at it, neither was I, but now in retrospect, it seemed like I made more of an effort.

  When I had brought up issues to Cameron, he would tell me I was being paranoid or needy or that he couldn’t handle the stress of me being unhappy. Since he had passed, I never thought this deeply about our dynamic. I always focused on his good traits, so it made me miss him even more. How can you bad-mouth a dead person anyway?

  Before I demanded from him that my needs be met, I should have looked within. I should have searched for what my needs really were. My needs were not to be with some careless spirit so focused on doing dangerous stunts that he would forget I even existed while he was in his mode. It should have been a red flag when the person you’re claiming to love chalked up sex to being an arbitrary action. It was immature and hurtful.

  I would say, “Do you think of me when I’m not around?”

  And he would always say, “Of course.” He didn’t know how he made me feel. He was too blinded by what he wanted.

  If he was capable of forgetting I had called or texted and wouldn’t respond for days, I knew he wasn’t thinking about anyone but himself. The way he turned it around and placed the blame on me was selfish. He would say, “The last thing I need right now, while I’m practicing for the most dangerous stunt of my life, is another needy girlfriend.” I was just a needy girlfriend. He probably married me to appease me.

  Cameron hadn’t even had a real girlfriend in his life, just a few “needy women” here and there. Had I ever asked him if he could recognize the common denominator?

  Now I had to face that he was gone, and he wasn’t perfect, and he wasn’t my soul mate, and if he was, then we can have more than one in a lifetime. I hated the notion of soul mates anyway.

  He was inexperienced when it came to relationships and every emotion attached to them. He had some words for it, but they would quickly lose their meanings when he wouldn’t follow them through with actions. The dream made me remember, and deep down I knew it was just my subconscious speaking to me, not Cameron.

  22. Buildings and Bridges

  MICAH

  My alarm went off at six a.m., and even though I was excited to see Laya, I mistakenly turned it off rather than hitting snooze. I stayed up way too late. Like a little kid, excited to go to Disneyland the next day, I couldn’t sleep.

  I imagined, over and over again, how our breakfast would go. In my mind there were at least five versions of what would happen. One where she tells me how good it feels to get out of the house. Another ridiculous version where she tells me she’s been attracted to me since we met and was thrilled to be forming a deeper relationship with me. That was only silly because I knew it was a projection of my own feelings. The other three were extended versions of how she couldn’t see me anymore, or how she never thought I was good-looking or interesting, even though she’d pulled me into a dark space in a bar and had sex with me. The worst version of all was her tearing into me again about leaving the gifts on her porch.

  When I finally woke up, it was seven fifteen. I was running around yelling, “Shit, shit, shit!” I stared into my closet and wondered what to wear. I felt stupid. I didn’t want to be overdressed, so I grabbed black pants, Nikes, a black T-shirt and a hoodie. I looked like a burglar, but I didn’t really have time to try on a bunch of outfits like I was some teenager going on a first date.

>   I ran to the subway and quickly realized I would never make it on time. I knew a taxi wouldn’t be any faster.

  Glad I had my Nikes on, I literally ran to the restaurant from the subway stop. But when I arrived, Laya wasn’t there. It was eight seventeen. Maybe she wasn’t a punctual person. Maybe she’d changed her mind. After putting my name on the waiting list, I sat on a bench to text Mel.

  Me: I’m going on a breakfast date with Laya. She’s like fifteen minutes late.

  Mel: That hot male nurse is cutting up my French toast.

  Me: Do you pay attention to anything I say? You’re like talking to a three-year-old.

  Mel: Laya is damaged goods, Micah.

  Me: That’s a cliché. Just because her husband died doesn’t mean she is damaged. She’s young. She deserves a second chance.

  Mel: What if you die a year after you get married? What if you get sucked into a tree cutter, or get hit by space junk, or get your head caught in elevator doors just as they’re closing?

  Me: Why do you have to do that?

  Mel: Because I love you.

  Me: Thinking of all the morbid and graphic ways I could die is your way of showing me you love me?

  Mel: Oh, you’re one to talk with your creepy-ass omens.

  Me: I don’t do that anymore, I told you! Oh my god, I think I just saw her cross the street a block away. I gotta go.

  It was her. When she approached me, she was smiling and it made me smile. When she got closer, she was still smiling, except I noticed she had very dark circles under her eyes, probably matching mine.

  I bent and kissed her on the cheek. “Hi, beautiful,” I said near her ear. I wondered if I was being too forward.

  Laya pulled back, squinting, but her smile didn’t disappear. She said, “You’re sweet.”

  I paused. “You’re otherworldly.”

  Her smile turned to a full, beautiful, cosmic grin. She giggled and said, “You’re full of compliments today . . . come on, we better go in. I think I heard your name.” Before we went in, we stood there staring at each other for a few seconds. She finally grabbed me by the arm and said in a low, hesitant voice, “No one has ever called me otherworldly before. Thank you.”

  “Well, you are.” I took her hand in mine and led her into the restaurant, praying we wouldn’t revisit what I had done. “By the way, where is Pretzel?”

  “He wasn’t hungry.”

  I laughed.

  We were seated at a booth and neither of us seemed able to find words to start the conversation. She spoke up first. “I’ve been here before. Have you?”

  “Yeah, a couple of years ago, actually. I haven’t been here in a long time, but I loved it.”

  She stared though the window, out into the distance, seemingly sad. God, I wanted again to profess how much I liked her in every way.

  “This place is so cool. I can’t believe I forgot I had been here with . . . ” She paused. “I can’t believe I forgot I had been here before, is what I meant.”

  I leaned forward. “Laya, I don’t want to press you, or make you feel like you have to . . . but if you want to talk about what you’re going through, I’m here for you. I know what I did was so wrong but—” I realized I was talking a million miles an hour.

  “Stop. Just stop.”

  “I’m sorry. I don’t want to make you feel uncomfortable. I just wanted you to know.” It wasn’t even five minutes into our breakfast and I had almost messed things up again.

  She was staring directly into my eyes like she was trying to look inside me to see what I was made of.

  “I’m going to be blatant with you,” she said.

  I took a deep breath. “Please do.”

  “I don’t want to talk about Cameron. Cameron is dead.” I wasn’t sure if Laya had ever said those words to me. “I will miss him desperately, but the last thing I want to do when I’m out to breakfast with you is talk about Cameron, or his death, or how I’m handling it, or even the things you left on my stoop.”

  “I understand,” I said immediately, feeling extremely relieved. I didn’t want to talk about those things either.

  “Do you?” she shot back.

  “What?” I asked, confused.

  “Do you truly understand?”

  “No, no, I don’t understand . . . I mean, I’m trying to.”

  She looked as if she wanted to cry again, and it’d be all my fault, so I wanted to do what I could to comfort her. I reached for her, laying my hand on hers.

  “I’m sorry. . . did I say something wrong?”

  “No. It’s not anything you’ve said. There’s something I should tell you. Something has been eating away at me and I haven’t told a single soul.”

  “Go on, I’m listening.”

  “I lost my mother when I was three. I lost Cameron three years after meeting him. I’m a dark cloud, Micah. You should stay away from me. I’ll probably put an expiration date on you the moment you get close to me.”

  “That’s crazy, Laya.”

  “Yes, it is. I hadn’t even said it out loud to myself but it’s been a thought haunting me for months.”

  Taking a deep breath, she looked down again as though she was trying to stifle a thought. When she looked up, she arched her eyebrows and that’s when I was positive she was waiting for me to respond, but I couldn’t think of what to say.

  “So, Micah . . . if you feel like dying in . . . oh, about three years—”

  I leaned over the table, grasped her from behind the neck, and interrupted her with a kiss. I kissed her slowly, delicately, and completely.

  When I pulled away, her eyes were still closed. Quietly, I said, “I’m sorry to say, Laya, but your theory is horseshit. I don’t care about your superstition. I’ll take my chances.”

  She huffed and shook her head. “Another risk taker.”

  “I get a flu shot every year,” I said, smirking.

  The waitress came, forcing us to look at our menus, but it was hard to look away from Laya. I couldn’t pretend I knew what she was feeling. The only thing I could tell was that she seemed stronger and stronger each time I saw her.

  After the waitress took our order, Laya told me about her fellowship at the hospital, her nerves about going back into practice as a doctor, and also about the pains and joys of having a dog. I told her about my relationship with my sister, my parents, and the people in the office. When I told her about what I had been up to the last couple of years, the conversation turned again.

  “Why did you lock yourself away outside of work? What were you going through?”

  “I don’t know, honestly. I’ve thought about it a lot and I can’t pinpoint one thing.”

  She squinted like she didn’t believe me.

  “What?” I said.

  “Nothing.”

  “Tell me.”

  “I’m guessing you have an inkling, or you know at least one of the factors,” she said.

  What I had said was true; there were a lot of factors, but I think I knew the one she was hinting at.

  “What do you know, Laya?” I said humorously.

  “I popped in to see my dad last week. I was in a bad place and Devin cornered me and—”

  “This story already sounds like a very unhappy one.”

  “Let me finish.” I nodded, prompting her to continue. “I asked where you were.”

  “You did?” I could feel my mouth turning up into a smile.

  “Yes. I was roaming around the office, waiting for my dad to finish a meeting. I noticed the plaque with your name on it was still outside your cubicle but you weren’t there. A minute later Devin found me by the water cooler. He asked if I wanted to go to a club or something—”

  “Sounds like Devin,” I interjected.

  “Anyway, I told him no and then asked where you were. He said you were probably trying to be celibate.” She started giggling, and when the words hit me, my eyebrows shot up to the crown of my head.

  “What?”

  “Yeah, his
exact words were, ‘Micah might be playing Unabomber in the forest and trying to be celibate.’ He laughed, so I knew he was joking about the Unabomber part at least,” she said with humor.

  “Devin had no clue where I was at. I was probably at the hospital visiting Melissa. And frankly, the Unabomber comments were not only insulting to me, they were also insensitive.” I hadn’t even realized my food was in front of me getting cold. Even though I wanted to playfully dismiss Devin’s comments, a part of me wondered when Devin would grow up.

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa. Don’t shoot the messenger.”

  I hesitated. “I just . . . no, I mean . . . I just . . . ”

  “You just what?”

  Her beautiful green eyes looked translucent and her golden-brown hair framed her face in soft, long curls. I couldn’t look away. It was like the first time I met her.

  Finally, I said, “A few months ago I was spending a lot of time at my parents’ cabin in the Adirondacks to just reflect on my life and what I wanted. Honestly, Laya, I was tired of the scene. I felt like I had put so much time, money, and energy into college and my career that I wasn’t living the way I wanted to. I was taking shortcuts in my personal life. Any spare time I had, I was out at clubs with Devin and Jeff, just trying to find an empty promise for a night. And then I met you.”

  Her expression fell. Quietly, she said, “Is that what I was to you? An empty promise? Someone who was easy, hurting, and lonely? Someone who you knew you could do that with and not have to commit to later?”

  “No,” I said with fervor. “That’s what I’m trying to tell you. You’re the reason I was starting to come out of the dark, but—”

  “But what?”

  “But I still don’t know how you feel. That night in the club, I thought you wanted to just feel good.”