by H. M. Ward
My throat has turned to chalk. I crack my knuckles and glance around the room. The students are perched on stools at slanted desks with their pencils and drawing pads. They murmur amongst themselves ignoring me. Engrossed in their art or secretly thumbing through their phone screens thinking I don’t see. It’s the end of the year. If they turned everything in, I don’t ‘see’ a thing. And neither do they. I’m a widow. The childish rumors say I killed my husband on vacation and buried him at the bottom of the ocean.
I wish I never saw his body. But I did. That memory will haunt me until I take my last breath.
Facebook. Focus. I need to make the post before the bell rings. Before my peers wander in and notice my sweat and pallor has nothing to do with the weather. My pinky hoovers over the ENTER key. The URL is typed into the bar, cursor blinking. Waiting. I’m a junkie, wanting a hit—to see a picture of him. Just one more even though it’ll end with my heart in pieces and my cheeks covered in tears. Regrets surge through me. I hate the way things ended with us. I feel like an angry ghost. Robbed of what could have been. We were on the brink of disaster, divorce imminent. Or we were on the precious of something new. I’ll never now. That last fight was left unfinished. Unresolved.
It leaves me feeling agitates because I’m stuck walking a fence for the rest of my life. Was he going to leave me? I never thought we’d fall apart. No one did. It was the type of thing that started the size of a grain of sand. It got in there and grew, festered. Too many things unsaid and too many tears avoided. When we laughed, we laughed. But toward the end, when we fought, it was ugly. I didn’t recognize him anymore. At the time I blamed him, and still do to some extent—but I wasn’t me anymore either. I became this placating version of me. Docile, whining, and filterless. I said everything I thought, good and bad. Most of it complaining. Yet, I linger here hoping to see an old picture of him because there are none at home. The past was erased every photo of us destroyed. So, I perch on this stool, shoulders forward, wringing my fingers hoping for a glimpse of him. Like when we first met.
My stomach sinks and I straighten in my seat. Click away. Leave the page, but I can’t. I click on private message with a blue dot indicating that it’s new. When the screen loads, my face falls when I see who it’s from. That little blue dot is perched directly next to Zach’s face. It’s a message from him. And it’s unread.
The way my heart slams into my chest physically aches. This has happened before. More than once. Both were glitches. Cruel technological fails. The steel cage I built around my heart—the same cage that saved me and let me soul wither—cracks. In that split-second hope fills my body and my grief falls away. Forgotten. I slap the key, clicking the private message only to realize it is old. The note was written before he died.
LET’S TRY TO WORK THINGS OUT. ME & YOU IN THE CAYMANS. JUST US. NO DISTRACTIONS. WHAT DO YOU SAY?
The steel cage slams shut, metal torques, eyes shining. I want to scream, but I swallow it and manage to keep that plastic smile on my face.
CHAPTER 2
I stiffen in my seat as a student nears my desk at the front of the classroom. Large windows frame the young woman. She’s my little prodigy, Aleigha Thamas. Her dark eyes meet mine as rosy lips pull into a shy smile. She’s clutching her drawing pad to her chest. I told the class to draw clouds today. Partly because grades are due, partly because I need their backs turned in case I get emotionally impaled on a Facebook picture when I send their parents invitations to the spring program.
“Ms. Abby?” In a southern school, there would be no issue with the students calling me this. It shows respect, but in the north, it’s super weird. I can’t remember when I changed it, when I asked the first student to stop calling me Ms. Sabba and use my first name instead. The months have blurred into years, but a bleeding heart doesn’t recognize time. The only way I know it’s passing is when report cards are due or summer is looming, like now. I dread those months of nothing to do, of being assaulted by memories that I can’t control.
I glance up at Aleigha, glad to look away from the laptop for a moment. I tuck a strand of dark hair behind my ear. It wasn’t out of place. “Yes, what can I help you with?”
“I was wondering what you thought of this—” Her gaze cuts to the side mid-sentence and I know she’s nervous about whatever is on her sketchpad.
I reach out for her drawing pad and when I look down at the creamy paper, I’m surprised. There’s a page of clouds, but instead of pencil lines and strokes, each ball of mist is made of a string of zeros and ones. It looks like computer coding, all strings of numbers that mean something to techies, but not me.
I take a wild guess, “Is this binary?”
She ducks her head, hiding her face behind a wall of hair. “Not really. Well, maybe a little. I was thinking about how cool it would be if the clouds could be drawn as molecules, but I didn’t have my science textbook with me, so I switched to coding. Is it dumb?” Her face scrunches as uncertainty floods her features.
The one thing the girl lacks is confidence. No one ever told her that she was any good, so she’s the last person to see it when she succeeds.
“This is amazing.” I grasp her notepad between my hands and stare at it. The composition and flow are perfect. The fact that she did it with numbers and shading is even more entrancing. I tip the sketchpad sideways and tilt my head, admiring her work. “I don’t know that much about coding. Do you?” I glance up at her.
Aleigha shakes her head. “Not really. I saw my brother messing around with something yesterday and I thought it might look cool. Robot clouds.” She offers me an uncertain lopsided grin.
I hand her back her sketchpad. “You are amazing at conceptual execution. You remained true to the subject matter while infusing it with something different.” Smiling softly, I add, “It feels like geo warning.”
Her face lights up. “It does?”
“Yes, is that what you were hoping to achieve?” Aleigha nods fervently. “Well, go finish it up before the bell rings. You’re onto something.” She represses a grin as she crosses the room to peer out the window once more.
When she’s settled on her stool once more with her back toward me and eyes fixed on the clouds, I return to gathering my guts to make the Facebook parent post. It’s now or never. All eyes are on the sky and nowhere near me.
Ignore the pictures. Don’t click around. Go to the page. Post, and get out.
I go straight to the school’s page this time, click events, and start typing, entering the information for the High School Spring Art Program. Time, directions, dates, awards, and a little graphic. I close the event window, revealing my feed from a lifetime ago. Since there’s nothing new, old images and posts fill my cyber wall.
The page is filled with ancient heartaches—Zara’s smiling face looks out at me with her sun-kissed arm draped over my shoulder. The photograph was taken nearly fourteen years ago. She was closer than any friend could be and was a sister in every way, even before Zach and I got married. She was my maid of honor at our wedding. She should have been laughing, walking up and down these hallways with me now.
I scroll down. I can’t help it. I’ve been sucked into the black hole. Pictures I’ve seen before fill the frame and I drink them in greedily. The emotion of past moments, the echoes of laughter long silenced fill my mind.
I should stop. No one ever walked forward while constantly looking back. It’s the reason I can’t seem to move on with my life. The reason for the unending nightmares and a general lack of sleep. Maybe so. Or maybe I’m just angry. Zach said we’d work it out, that he wouldn’t leave me—but he left me. It’s not the same, but it is. Either way, I didn’t want things to go this way. I’m a forty-year-old New Yorker, living on Long Island, alone. Empty house. Empty heart. Empty life.
I sigh and rest my finger on the down button, watching the promises of a former lifetime of happiness scroll by in a blur. When I blink, the page refreshes, and a new image is at the top. I’m staring at the screen
, thinking I’m seeing a picture from a long time ago. There’s nothing new on this account. I abandoned it when Zach died. No new pictures have been posted since. No new posts on my personal wall. Nothing.
But in this picture, Zach stands there on the beach. His beautifully ripped chest coupled with chiseled abs has more definition than I recall. He’s wearing nothing but faded floral boardshorts and a crooked grin. That long, lean body stand in the sandy surf on Grand Cayman Island on the East End somewhere, Cayman Kai, maybe? There are no tourists traps around. Just tons of turquoise water and a sandy shore leading to an old dock with a little boat.
I stare at the image. What is this? A picture from our second honeymoon? Every inch of his shirtless body is sun-kissed. A bronzed god. When he hit forty, the man began working harder to maintain his health. He started running, lifting weights, but the alcohol thickened his mid-section. I’ve never seen him so trim, so sculpted as he is in this photo. This picture had to be from then. Maybe I’m not remembering right? But the man had love-handles, and this guy doesn’t have an inch of fat on him. His dark hair ruffles in the wind, obscuring his face as he bends forward and ties a boat to the dock. That pose defines every muscle in his body. I can see each place I used to touch gently and trace with my fingertips. Kiss with my lips.
The dread is hollowing the center of my chest fades as curiosity rises. Where were we? I must have taken this picture, but I don’t remember. We were supposed to go out on a dive boat that day, but that’s not the vessel. And that’s not that dock we went to that day. The long wooden wharf in this picture is weather-worn and old. Splintering in patches and sun-bleached. The place on Seven Mile Beach where we were supposed to depart to go diving had silver-colored aluminum planks, almost blinding in the sun. This image was taken elsewhere.
I click on the picture and make it larger. Zach is bent forward, his face hidden slightly by the tips of his dark hair as he bends over to grab the rope. That’s when I see it. The shiny spot on his torso. I double click, enlarging the image as big as it can go, thinking its sunscreen—assuming I took this picture but can’t remember—or anything that is remotely logical and describes what I’m seeing because this is wrong. As my eyes sweep the light patch of skin, I instinctively know.
Hands shaking, I jerk away from the computer, toppling it to the floor. Eyes wide, my skin flushes as I stagger backward, reaching for the wall, the counter, anything so my body doesn’t crash to the floor. Gaping, my mouth opens wide trying to suck in air but it feels as if my face were covered in plastic wrap. I can’t breathe. It’s not possible.
Aleigha is there, repeating the same few words, “Are you all right? Should I call for help?” When I don’t answer, she places her cold fingers on my arm. Her dark eyes meet mine.
A nervous laugh escapes my lips and I shake my head. Color returns to my face as my heart resumes a less frantic pace. I pat her hand and pull away. “I’m fine.”
“Are you sure?” She doesn’t believe me.
“Yeah,” offering a fake smile, I come up with a fast explanation that sounds possible. “There was a spider on my desk. I didn’t see it until it crawled onto the keyboard.” OK, the story doesn’t make sense, but it’s enough to explain why I threw my laptop across the floor. Maybe. If she was two-years-old.
Aleigha’s face scrunches up as she wrings her fingers. “I hate spiders.” She says the words like she wants to believe me.
The entire class is watching the exchange. Every set of eyes turned from their sketchbooks, watching their teacher go insane.
Act normal. Another high-pitched plastic laugh escapes my lips. I shiver again and rub my palms over my arms. “Me too. I was so enthralled in what I was doing that it crawled across my hand. I didn’t see it. When I jerked away, my laptop went flying.” I glance around the room and give a girlish shrug. A few male students laugh it off, but Aleigha knows I’m lying.
She doesn’t press me. Instead, she picks up my computer off the floor. The screen is intact, but it’s gone dark. “Let me see if I can reboot this for you. It’s possible the fall broke something. Do you have a solid state hard-drive?”
I shrug, unable to find my voice. As she begins reviving the computer, the bell rings.
I repress all emotion, shoot up my stone walls around my heart in a blink, and bark out reminders for their parents to check Facebook for the invite to their Spring art show. “End of year awards will be given. And food!”
“They’re already gone.” Vi Trinka rounds the door. I hear the clink of her heels before I see her face. She hurries over to me. She’s about my age and considers herself a catch. Plastic boobs, a trim waist, a bit of Botox in the right places, and silky black hair make it difficult to tell her exact age. But I know we’re both forty years old. Tight-fitting clothing hugs her thin Italian frame, an oxymoron since she loves to eat, but loves showing off that narrow waist.
We’re supposed to have lunch. The woman has a sixth sense and can tell something’s wrong. “What happened here? Nonni Spingoli is like screaming in my ear that something is batshit crazy right now.”
Nonni is her great grandmother who came over from Italy in the early 1900s. Vi never met her but swears the woman haunts her, tells her things. Nonni’s first appearance coincides with the accident. Vi was driving and Zara was on the passenger side. The right side of the car was decimated. Zara died instantly. Vi survived with a few stitches and a lot of heartaches which she combats with men and being haunted by Nonni.
Waving a hand at her, I say, “Nonni is off today. I’m just clumsy and dropped it.” I lie and offer a sheepish smile.
Vi glances at my student, but Aleigha says nothing. The girl continues trying to reboot the computer.
“Nonni is never wrong.” Vi arches a dark brow at me, but I offer nothing. Then she tips her head toward the door. “I’ll meet you downstairs in the cafeteria, then? I don’t have much time today. I need to finish grades and all the end of year shit—” she glances at student and corrects herself—“year-end assignments, and so on. Let’s go out tonight. Catch up.” Vi wanders out, talking over her shoulder in a thick Brooklyn accent, “I won’t take no for an answer.”
Aleigha has the computer half alive but it sounds like it ate rocks. She frowns. “I think you’re going to need a new hard drive. It wasn’t solid state so it didn’t survive the crash very well. This sounds bad, but you should be able to get your stuff off it before it totally croaks.”
Without realizing it, I’m rubbing my palms over my forearms, which are covered in goosebumps with every hair standing on end. “Well, thanks for trying. I’m too clumsy sometimes.”
My lips press together in a thin line. It’s all over my face. Please leave. Please don’t ask me. I think it so loudly that a wombat in Australia could hear me.
Aleigha notices the movement, the way my body language closed off suddenly. She tactfully ignores it. Shrugs. Accepts the way of the wombat. Tentative tip of the lips, and lies. “Yeah, me too.” Then sincerely, “Hey, if you ever need help with something technical, just ask.”
A nervous bark of a laugh tumbles out of my mouth. I sound like a man. Embarrassed, I find myself with my arms folded over my chest, half avoiding her gaze. “What makes you say that?”
She gives me a look that’s kind, soft. “Between the time of year, Facebook, and the look on your face, Ms. Abby, it doesn’t take a genius to realize something’s bothering you.”
I swat a hand at her as if it were nothing. All the students know my husband died suddenly on our second honeymoon and due to particularly poor form on my part, they knew we were racing towards a divorce when I flipped out on Zach at the art show that year. Then the unthinkable happened. We both left of vacation but only I came home. The students had a sub for six months. I haven’t personally said anything about it to them. Every time I tried, I couldn’t find it in me to explain how my high school sweetheart hated me at the end, how he died—why he didn’t come home—and how I got this scar across my face. Chee
k to the chin, a nefarious razor line, deep gash. I hear them say, “She was pretty once, before that happened.”
They speculate, say it was a huge fight—and that’s when I stop listening. Lies that contain a bit of truth are the hardest to hear.
“It didn’t bother me. There was a—” I’m about to say ‘spider’ but the girl’s face makes me tell the truth. I don’t want to lie to her. She’s been kind to me, never took advantage of my bereavement. Even when I stupidly showed up for work and couldn’t do more than sit there.
I change what I’m saying with a sigh, “Listen, I saw a picture of Zach that I don’t remember taking. That’s all. I wish I could remember.” I need to remember because that can’t be a new shot. That makes no sense.
“There’s a way to pull EXIF data from a picture, you know. If you can’t remember where it was taken or when.” She speaks like this is common knowledge. Maybe it is to her, but it’s not to me.
Jaw gaping, I smile politely. “Exit data?”
Aleigha shakes her head making her dark hair tumble over her shoulders. She shoves it away like it’s annoying. “EX-IF,” she over-enunciates the IF at the end of the word, “data is like metadata that’s stored in the photograph. Digital images have a file hidden in the actual picture. It tells you a bunch of information like what kind of camera took the picture, the exposure, lens, aperture, location, date, and a bunch of other stuff.”
“Oh,” I kind of want to ask her about it, but decide it’s inappropriate to ask her to help me figure out when and where the picture was taken. Okay, I’m lying. I’d totally ask her, but I don’t want her asking questions about Zach, about my scar, or what happened.
“I can pull it for you,” she offers.
“Thanks, but I’ll just Google how to do it. It’s personal, but thank you. I didn’t realize there was that much information in an image.” I sound like my mother. Technology passed me by and I didn’t even notice. Exit data. Geeze.