by Layne Deemer
She says those words with such a finality. She may understand why I called her Sarah’s name, but it doesn’t mean she can forgive me for it. I’ve cut too deep.
“Lydia, please. It didn’t mean anything at all. It doesn’t mean anything. Please, believe me when I say that.” I take both of her hands in mine, and she doesn’t pull away. I try not to give wings to the hope that starts to form in my heart.
“I understand. Truly, I do. And I want to forgive you. In fact, I do forgive you. I just don’t know how to compete with a ghost. I don’t even want to try.”
I shake my head, willing her words away. There’s no truth to them whatsoever. “There’s no competition here. Sarah is gone and you’re here, but I have to be completely honest with you. Even if she were still alive, I would still be here with you.” My eyes scan hers in search of a glimmer of anything. I find a small spark, a tiny speck of warmth, and I grab it. “Lydia, listen to me. I thought I knew what love was, but it turns out, I didn’t have a clue. No feeling I’ve ever experienced has even come close to the way I feel when I’m with you.”
She blinks back tears, but one still manages to break free and trail down her cheek. I catch it with my finger and cradle her face in my hand. She leans in and sighs. “Well, I guess when you put it that way…” she says with a chuckle. It’s the sweetest sound in the world.
A few feet away from us, a mother shouts at her child to stop running. A man coughs loudly from the table behind us as he reaches for the wrapper in front of him. He snatches it up and crumbles up the remains of his sausage sandwich inside. There’s a willow tree off to our right. Two teenagers sit at its base and kiss each other in that young love kind of way where nothing else matters more than the moment they’re in.
Life is happening all around us in various forms, and it makes me realize that I haven’t been living. I’ve just been existing. Stuck in a limbo, my life a kind of purgatory. Lydia makes me feel alive. She mends the cracks and heals the wounds. Sitting here on this park bench with her in my arms, I feel whole again. I can’t remember the last time I felt this way. Maybe I never have. It’s here that I decide to do everything in my power to hold onto this feeling. My arms tighten instinctively around Lydia. I can’t ever let her go.
She tilts her head back and regards me with warm eyes that mirror the thoughts swirling around behind mine. “You know, I’m not really feeling much like a festival anymore. What do you say we head back to the apartments?” She says this last line with raised eyebrows and a sultry expression on her face. I like where this is going.
“Lead and I’ll follow, my lady,” I say in my best British accent.
She gifts me with another small giggle before linking her hand in mine and pulling us up to stand. We move through the maze of picnic tables and out into the sea of people on the walkway. We never say a word, but we both keep stealing glances at each other; the anticipation of what’s to come weighs heavily on our thoughts.
As we walk through the crowd, a slight woman with chestnut brown shoulder-length hair walks toward us. One of the extra-large teddy bears is perched on her shoulders. She’s gripping it by the legs and one of its huge paws obscures her face.
I feel the unease start to build deep within my gut as she gets nearer. She passes me on my left side and I never see her face, but I recognize that smell. Marc Jacobs Daisy was Sarah’s go-to perfume. She called it her “signature scent” and never went a day without using it. But that wasn’t Sarah. It can’t be her. I saw her lifeless body in the driver’s seat of my car. I felt her skin go cold and rigid and watched it turn a sickening shade of pale blue. Still, I can’t stop myself from stealing another glimpse. She’s looking back over her shoulder and our eyes lock. Her impossibly clear turquoise bore deep into my chocolate brown. There’s a wry grin on her lips as she takes in the surprise on my face and the dread deep within the marrow of my bones.
“H-How?” I whisper to myself.
“Hmmm?” Lydia answers. I guess I wasn’t as quiet as I thought, but I can’t bring myself to respond. This must be what shock feels like.
“Yoo-hoo! Earth to Owen!” she calls out, but I still can’t find my voice. I feel like the wind has been knocked out of me. I can barely breathe much less speak.
Lydia reaches up and puts a hand on each side of my face, drawing my attention back to her. I notice that we’ve stopped moving and are a bit of a roadblock for the throng of people moving about on the path. “Hey, you. There you are. Where’d you go?” Her brow furrows with concern. “Owen, are you okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
I turn back to where I saw her, but she’s gone. Swallowed up into the crowd.
“I, uh, sorry, I thought I saw Inspector 8.” The lie tastes sour on my tongue, but I continue. “You know, the guy you were hired to replace? I’m sure you heard the story about him.”
“The guy who made the dramatic exit?” she asks with a light tone. “Yup, I heard all about him from at least three different people within the first hour of my first day.”
“That sounds about right,” I say with a groan. West Apparel is overflowing with gossip. “Well, I thought I saw him just now, but I was wrong. No one has seen or heard from him since he left so I was surprised he’d be walking so out in the open here. Turns out he wasn’t.”
“That’s too bad.” She has a genuine look of concern on her face for someone she hasn’t even met. She’s the most selfless person I know.
Which is precisely why I can’t tell her the truth.
36
Sarah is dead.
Sarah is dead.
Sarah. Is. Dead.
I repeat the words like a mantra in my head, but it’s not doing much to convince me. It was the knowing gleam in those crystal aquamarine eyes of hers. I always thought they had the power to turn the living into stone and that’s practically what happened to me when I looked into them at the festival this afternoon.
The last time I saw those eyes they were lifeless.
This is crazy. Sarah died on that winding road in Connecticut. I was there. I was sitting right beside her. It must’ve been my mind conjuring up images from the past, confusing me. I was still processing the memories of winning the bear for Sarah. Lydia and I were talking about it in detail. The past was rudely inserted into the present, but it was all an illusion. It wouldn’t be the first time that happened.
When we left the fairgrounds, Lydia went up to her apartment. She said she wanted to take care of a few things and then she’d come see me. Any other time, I would’ve been disappointed, but the truth is I needed some time to pull myself together.
I schooled my emotions, so she had no idea of the turmoil that was going on inside my head. But now that I’m alone in my apartment, I’m pacing and wearing a path in the wood planks of my living room. George is lounging on his bed in the corner. He cocks his head and studies me, but the expression in his eyes is disinterest. He’s bored with me and my mania. It isn’t the first time he’s witnessed my slow descent into madness.
“If I could stop this I would, Uncle G. You, of all people, know that.”
He looks at me with disgust. Even in human form, he couldn’t stand when someone gave in to their emotions. He said it was a sign of weakness. But I disagree. Emotions are the reason for everything we do, everything we say, everything we are. They are the very essence of life. And right now my emotions are telling me to get a grip. I did not see my dead fiancée very much alive at a festival in Minnesota, of all places.
I stop my pacing and close my eyes.
I can almost feel the cold air and bits of frozen rain hitting my cheeks as I stand statue-still on the side of the road. The only illumination coming from the flashing red and blue lights on the police cruiser pulled up behind the mangled metal that was once a car. The EMTs are preparing the stretcher. Their movements are meticulous and slow. There’s no need to rush. There are no lives waiting to be saved here. I watch as they open the driver’s side door and carefully lift Sara
h’s lifeless body out of the seat. She’s laid out on the gurney and a thin white sheet is placed on top of her body and pulled up to cover her face. Her very dead face.
Shaking my head, I bring myself back to the present. I can’t deny what I saw with my own eyes, but I also can’t accept it, either. After all, these eyes witnessed Sarah die two and a half years ago and then today they saw her alive and well. It can be either or, but it can’t be both.
I look over at George. I already know what he’d tell me. “You can’t hear the truth. You can’t feel the truth. You can only see it.”
Stifling a laugh, I say out loud to no one, “Well, that’s not super helpful here, is it?”
Or is it?
What happened on that dark, icy night years ago was a truth I can never deny. But what I saw today? That was a classic case of my mind playing tricks on me. Memories are powerful things, and if we’re not careful, they can infiltrate our lives and blur the lines of reality.
It’s settled. I did not see Sarah this afternoon casually walking down the path, the giant teddy bear that I won for her all those years ago perched on her shoulders. It makes zero sense. Rationally, I know that.
So why can’t I shake this feeling? Unease has settled over me. Carefully covering my body in the same way that flimsy piece of cotton draped over Sarah on that cold October night. The door to my past has been blown open, and I fear the contents that might start spilling out.
I left my apartment door slightly ajar, knowing that Lydia would be down soon. “Knock, knock,” she says with a lightness in her voice. I’m envious of how carefree she is. She’s not bogged down by the weight of her past. Which reminds me…
“Hey there.” I smile warmly at her. “So, I’ve been meaning to ask you about something and please feel free to tell me to mind my own business here, but…” I let my voice drift off and watch her for any signs that I might be treading on dangerous ground.
She looks up at me with nothing but kindness. It’s etched on her face in the faint lines by her mouth and the slight crinkling by her eyes.
I clear my throat and continue. “This morning when we were sorting our mail downstairs, I noticed that you seemed a little upset by something in your mailbox. Is everything all right?”
She keeps her eyes fixed on me, but I notice the slight smoothing of her smile lines as her resolve falters a bit. She regains control in seconds, and a less astute person might’ve missed the small clue, but not me. I know I’ve touched on something and I give her time to collect her thoughts.
She doesn’t take long. “Oh, that,” she says on a sigh. “It’s my cell phone bill. I haven’t been great about making sure I’m on Wi-Fi at work, and I’ve been living in fear of those data overage charges.” She grits her teeth and gulps for emphasis.
Well, isn’t this an interesting twist? I never would’ve pegged Lydia as a liar, but she does it with such skill I’m positive it’s not her first time. I reach into the glass candy dish that I keep on the kitchen counter and grab a handful of skittles—a little sweetness to balance the sour taste Lydia’s lie left in my mouth. I let the sugary candy mix with the bitterness and swallow it all.
“Can’t say I blame you there.” And because I can’t leave well enough alone, I add, “It wasn’t too bad, I hope?”
“Bad enough, but it’s nothing I can’t handle.” She doesn’t miss a beat with her answer, but this one feels like there’s a bit of truth mixed in.
I decide to leave well enough alone for now. Still, I can’t help but wonder—she lied to me so easily. How many other lies has she told me?
37
My mind has been in a fog all weekend. Seeing your dead fiancée walking around with the living and being fed lies by your girlfriend will do that to you.
It’s Monday, and I don’t think I’ve ever been so relieved to go to work.
I haven’t seen Lydia since the cell phone bill incident. I didn’t let on that I knew she was lying. I’m sure she had a good reason for it. I just wish she felt comfortable enough with me to be honest. Lydia despises lying, or so she said, when I came clean about the notes. The way she can turn around and lie so easily to me now fills me with uncertainty.
After placating me with half-truths about her mysterious mail, she announced that she needed to take the rest of the weekend to work on a few things. She didn’t elaborate, and I didn’t ask her to. I’m not convinced she would’ve told me even if I had.
We’ve been meeting up in the lobby each morning and walking to work together for weeks now, but today feels different. Something has shifted between us, and now I’m not so sure if Lydia will be waiting for me or if she’ll leave without me.
The elevator doors glide open, revealing the first floor littered with activity. Mrs. Matz juggles FiFi and the tower of gossip magazines she openly swiped from the communal rack in the lobby. Mr. James has the maintenance guy (whom I’ve never spoken to, but always referred to him as Toby in my head) cornered and is explaining in intricate detail about the recent outpatient surgery he had on his ingrown toenail. Toby has his hand up in front of his face in an attempt to conceal a grimace. I empathize and should probably offer to rescue him, but this morning I’m far too distracted by my own thoughts.
Lydia isn’t here, and I don’t know if that means she hasn’t been downstairs yet or if she has and she already left. Without me. Part of me wishes I could go back in time and take back the question I asked her. It really wasn’t any of my business what she got in the mail, and it’s obvious I upset the delicate balance of our relationship by asking. But there’s a stronger part of me that’s glad I brought it up. Experience has shown me that it’s always best to know exactly what someone is capable of before you get too close. Now I know that Lydia is adept at lying right to my face.
I take a quick glance at my watch. It’s 7:05. I tell myself I’ll wait five more minutes.
Twenty-eight minutes pass. Despite my internal pleas with the elevator, when the doors slide open time after time, she’s never behind them. I feel defeat settle on my shoulders. It weighs me down until I can barely move. I turn to leave slowly in the hopes that maybe she’ll appear at the last second. She doesn’t.
As I walk out onto the busy sidewalk in front of my apartment building, my phone starts buzzing incessantly in my back pocket. It must be Lydia. I smile as I rationalize that she probably had a reason for not meeting me this morning and she’s calling to explain. I know she lied to me last night, but now I have hope that we can move past everything. I glance at the screen and my hand stills. It’s Dr. Jamie. The wave of disappointment that washes over me is almost unbearable. For a split second, I consider accepting the call. After all, I did promise my mom that I’d answer if he called at a time when I could talk. My finger wavers back and forth over the phone before finally hitting the decline button and sentencing the good doctor to voicemail where he belongs. “Sorry, Mom, but I’m afraid my mind is far too jumbled to talk to Dr. Jamie right now.” The last thing I need is more psychoanalyzing from the “doc bot.” I shudder at the thought.
I started seeing Dr. Jamie my senior year of high school. He listened to me rattle on while dutifully taking notes in a wire-bound notebook which I always suspected to be filled with mindless doodles rather than words. He was always nodding and smiling like some kind of android and I’m still not convinced he wasn’t one. No human is ever that happy and compliant. I never believed a word of his diagnosis. And who could blame me—it’s hard to take anyone who goes by “Dr. Jamie” seriously.
By the time I arrive in front of West Apparel, I can hardly breathe. The despair I felt when I woke up this morning has only intensified during my lonely walk into work. I tried to tell myself that this “thing” with Lydia was only casual. I shouldn’t be upset about losing something that I never really had to begin with. But I’m full of shit.
I started to fall for Lydia the day Mr. Shelton was giving her a tour of the inspection floor. I was gone the second our eyes met. In the sho
rt time we’ve known each other, my feelings for her have grown deep and are vastly different from anything I’ve ever felt before. Losing her would never be anything less than soul-crushing.
The thick gray clouds dance along the tops of the tall buildings surrounding West. There’s a slight mist in the air that leaves a wet sheen on everything it comes in contact with. It’s a dismal Monday morning. It’s as if the universe got the memo and decided to adjust the scenery to match my mood.
I push open the glass entry doors with more force than necessary, but the hinges don’t register my effort. Trudging up the stairs to the sorting floor, I’m filled with dread. I can’t stop myself from internally analyzing everything Lydia and I said and didn’t say the last time we spoke. I thought I handled myself well, but her absence this morning tells me otherwise. I roll my eyes at myself. Since when did I become so needy?
I reach the door to the second floor and spot my little gray cubicle through the narrow glass window. It beckons me like a cup of hot tea on a cold and rainy day. Over these past few years, it’s become my sanctuary, my only means of escape from the dark thoughts that are always sifting through my brain. If I angle my head slightly to the right, I can see the corner seam of Lydia’s cube. I wonder if she’s there. I can picture her at her desk, pushing a loose wave of hair behind her ear as she leans in close to inspect the seam of the tube sock she’s holding. It would be so easy to walk over there. I could peek my head inside her cubicle and offer a “Good morning.” But I refuse to give in to temptation. If Lydia didn’t wait for me this morning, then it’s obvious she needs some space. If I’m completely honest with myself, I could use a bit of distance, as well.
Seated at my tidy desk, I take my first deep breath of the day. This is exactly where I need to be. There were two bins waiting for me when I arrived. Both are filled to capacity with striped tube socks, and I welcome the distraction with open arms. With a podcast in my ear and an armload of socks deposited onto my desk, I get to work.