Bring Me Back

by Micalea Smeltzer

  Chloe perks up with interest. “How hot? Like on a scale of one to ten.”

  “Twelve,” she says. “Maybe more.”

  Chloe fans herself. “Oh, girl, please tell me you’re going to try to get under him.”

  Hannah’s eyes widen. “Um, no, I hadn’t really thought about that.”

  Chloe shakes her head. “I will never understand you. You’re hot, Hannah, in that nerdy-cute kind of way. Guys dig that. Embrace it. Get some lovin’.”

  Hannah wiggles uncomfortably in her seat. “Yeah, no thanks.”

  Casey wraps her hands around her coffee mug. The dark liquid is probably cold by now, but she sips at it anyway. “I broke up with James.” We all grow quiet. “What?” She looks at each of us and waves a hand. “You guys knew it was bound to happen. Sooner’s better than later, right?”

  “Well, yeah,” I say slowly, “but how are you feeling about it?”

  “Fine.” She shrugs like it’s no big deal. “It’s not important.” When we all continue to stare at each other, she huffs. “You all knew it wasn’t going anywhere with us—in fact, you’ve all on more than one occasion urged me to break up with him, so what’s the big deal?”

  “You didn’t say anything,” Chloe says softly.

  “I didn’t think I should, not with …” she trails off, but I already know what she was going to say.

  Not with Ben gone.

  “It’s okay,” I tell her. “My life is on pause, but I know no one else’s is. Please don’t treat me like broken glass. It only makes this harder for me.”

  Casey nods. “I’m sorry, I should have said something, but it only happened a week ago and it’s not like we’ve all been able to get together.”

  I know her excuse is a feeble one, but I don’t bother calling her on it. I don’t have the energy. I take a few bites of my sandwich for manners sake, and push away from the table.

  “Well, it was good seeing you guys, but I need to go.” I stand up from the table.

  They take turns hugging me and say goodbye.

  As promised, my mom and dad are still waiting outside in the car.

  “How’d it go, Kid?” my dad asks when I slide into the back and begin buckling my seatbelt.

  “Surprisingly well,” I answer.

  He smiles in the rearview mirror. “Good. Here’s that sticker.”

  I actually laugh when he passes back a gold star sticker. “Thanks, Dad,” I say and stick it on my shirt.

  He smiles and nods. He’s pleased, and I’m happy that he’s happy. My mom looks happy too. I know I’ve scared her the last few weeks. It’s been hard adjusting to life without Ben and I know this isn’t even the half of it. The storm is only beginning.

  “I can’t find my pen,” I shout at no one in particular. I’m in my office trying to catch up on work and my mountain of emails is out of control. I’m so overwhelmed, and this is just adding to my stress. I can’t take much more. I’m losing my mind.

  “What’s wrong?” my mom asks, standing in the doorway of my office.

  “I can’t find my mother-fucking pen,” I yell, slamming my hands on my desk.

  “Blaire—” I begin to sob. “Blaire,” she says again, taking a hesitant step into my office. “What’s really going on?”

  I cover my face with my hands and wail. I’m pretty sure this is my soul crying. I never knew that was a thing until today. I can’t believe my mom hasn’t figured out what today is.

  I wipe at my face. I know it’s bound to be red and splotchy. I point to my desk calendar even though she can’t see it from where she stands. “We were supposed to get married today,” I croak.

  Her mouth parts in a surprised O shape. She forgot. Ben hasn’t even been gone a month yet and she already forgot our wedding day. He’s gone, so suddenly today doesn’t mean anything to anyone else.

  “I’m so sorry, B,” she says, coming around my desk to hug me. I don’t want her hug, but I do at the same time. It’s a weird feeling—feeling like you want someone to hold you together, but wanting to fall apart at the same time. “I’m sorry,” she says again as she holds me. “God, I wish you didn’t have to go through this.”

  “I wish no one ever had to feel this kind of pain.” My voice cracks when I speak. My throat is raw and sore from so much crying and screaming.

  “Me too, sweetie.” She lets me go and looks me over. “I’m going to make you some homemade soup. How about that? Your favorite—broccoli and cheese?”

  I’m not hungry, and the thought of food makes me want to throw up, but I nod anyway. I know she wants something to do besides sit around while my dad watches sports. “Sure, yeah, that’d be great.”

  She smiles. “I’ll go to the grocery store, is there anything else you want?”

  I think. “Fruit roll-ups,” I say. I don’t know why I ask for that, of all things. I haven’t eaten any in years, but right now it sounds like the best thing ever.

  “Okay. Anything else?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  She starts for the door, but turns back. “Is that the pen?” She points at one lying five inches to my right.

  I look at the pen—studying the slender barrel. “Yeah, that’s the one.” I sigh.

  She leaves me alone then and I breathe a sigh of relief.

  I force myself to focus on replying to emails—there’s over two hundred so it’s going to take awhile. I’m grateful that so many people are interested in working with me—and city people, at that—but it’s a bit overwhelming. After answering close to thirty emails, I decide to take a break. It’s probably not a good idea, because the chances of me going back to work are slim, but I can’t take another second of staring at my computer. I go to shove my keyboard back under the desk when my pen goes flying through the air.

  “Stupid pen,” I mumble to myself and climb under my desk to retrieve it.

  While I’m under there, I happen to look up at the underside of my desk. Taped beneath it is a paper crane. I gasp, and my heart momentarily stops before restarting and picking up speed.

  Ben.

  It’s like he’s speaking to me from beyond the grave.

  I carefully peel away the tape and the paper crane comes loose. I want to open it and read it immediately, but at the same time I want to savor the moment.

  I opt for savoring.

  I slowly peel open the wings of the bird to find what he’s written.

  “Why didn’t the lifeguard save the hippie?

  Because he was too far out.”

  Right about now you’re probably rolling your eyes at me and saying, “You and your stupid jokes.” But I know you secretly love my stupid jokes. You know what else I know? You’re smiling right now.

  Love you.

  —Ben

  He’s right. I’m smiling. Not a little smile, but a full-blown grin. Despite my smile, I feel tears creep into my eyes.

  “Oh, Ben,” I whisper. “What has become of us. When did our love story become a tragedy?”

  I take a deep, shaky breath and refold the bird. I climb out from under my desk and let out a scream when I find my dad standing in the doorway.

  “Any particular reason why you’re under your desk?” He raises a brow, holding his hands behind his back.

  “I dropped my pen and then I found this.” I hold up the paper crane for him to see.

  “Ah.” He nods.

  “What are you hiding?” I ask, nodding at his still hidden hands.

  He smiles sheepishly and holds out a plate. “I made you lunch—I figured you’d use lunch as an excuse to stop working.” My dad knew me way too well. “So here.” He sets the plate on my desk. I eye the sandwich. It’s a mess—seriously, it looks like a bear mauled it. Before I can say anything, he says, “I know it looks bad, but I tried. Give your old man some credit.”

  “It’s great. Thanks, Dad.”

  He stands by my desk. “Aren’t you going to take a bite?”

  I stare at the ham and mustard sandwich and
my stomach rolls. “Um…”

  “Come on, Kid, one bite?” he pleads.

  “I’m not hungry,” I say. “I promise it has nothing to do with your sandwich making skills.” He frowns. “Fine,” I groan. “I’ll take one bite.”

  He brightens immediately. “I made one for myself too,” he says. “It was good, I promise.”

  I lift the sandwich and nearly gag from the smell, but I swallow back the bile and take a bite. I chew slowly and the texture of the meat and bread is too much.

  “I’m gonna be sick,” I cry, and launch out of my desk chair. I run into the hall bathroom and fall to the floor, throwing up all the contents in my stomach—which isn’t much.

  My dad appears in the bathroom and grabs my hair, holding it back while I’m sick.

  “Jeez, I’m sorry, Kid.” He rubs my back, trying to soothe me. “I guess I shouldn’t have pushed you—was it really that bad?”

  I finish retching and he lets go of my hair. I stand and rinse out my mouth.

  “No, Dad, I think I’m getting sick.” I lean against the counter, suddenly feeling weak. I bend down and grab a cloth from the cabinet and dampen it with cool water. I press it to my forehead and take deep breaths through my mouth.

  “Blaire …” He hesitates in the doorway, seeming unsure if he wants to continue what he has to say.

  “What?” I prompt.

  “Nothing.” He waves a hand dismissively.

  “Dad?” I raise a brow. “Spit it out.”

  He sways slightly—something he only does when he’s super nervous. “Do you think maybe you’re pregnant?”

  Shutters come down over my eyes, and I give him the most withering glare I can muster. “We both know that’s not possible.”

  He shrugs. “Those things are wrong all the time. Maybe it was too early or somethin’. I don’t know.”

  “I’m not pregnant, dad,” I say harshly. The last thing I need right now is false hope. My heart can only handle so much heartbreak. “I just have a bug or something, that’s all.”

  He nods. “Fine. Sure.” He doesn’t look convinced.

  “Seriously,” I say, moving past him and back into my office. I gag at the smell of the sandwich. I pick up the plate and turn around, practically shoving it at him. “Thanks for trying, Dad, but get this out of here.”

  “Is there somethin’ else I can make you?”

  My stomach rolls. “Nope, I’m good.”

  He looks crestfallen. I feel bad, because I know he tried—there’s nothing wrong with the sandwich, just me.

  He leaves me alone and I return to my emails. I set up a few meetings with potential clients. As I work, I bite my nails—a habit I gave up long ago, but it’s suddenly returned with the amount of stress I feel. I hope my extended absence hasn’t ruined my business. I know there’s nothing I can do about it now, so I have to take everything in stride.

  When I’m all caught up I shut down my computer and turn off the desk light. The chandelier in the center of the room still shines, though. I close my eyes, smiling lightly at the memory.

  “Are you sure you want that gaudy thing?” Ben asked, reaching up to touch one of the dangling clear jewels.

  “Yes,” I laughed. “It’s perfect.”

  He made a face. “It doesn’t seem very you.”

  “I want it for my office,” I said defensively. “I want that space to be different.”

  He shrugged. “Okay, it’s your office. We’ll get it if that’s what you want.”

  “It is.”

  He wrapped his arms around me and kissed my forehead. “You’re awfully sure about that chandelier—how do you know it’s the one?”

  I raised my brows. I knew he wasn’t talking about the chandelier anymore.

  “I just know,” I whispered. “When it’s right, it’s right. Why question it?”

  He nodded. “Good answer.”

  I open my eyes, and they’re now clouded with tears. That memory feels like it happened a lifetime ago, when it was really only two years ago. That girl, the one who was so happy and in love, she’s gone.

  I don’t think she’s coming back.

  Stage Three: Bargaining

  I lie in bed, staring at the smooth white ceilings. There’s not a blemish on the surface. Not a crack or speck. Nothing to look at it. Nothing but whiteness. It’s after one in the morning, and I’ve been in bed for hours, sleeping off and on, but now I’m wide awake and sleep is elusive.

  I’ve been crying off and on. I’ve grown used to the random bouts of tears that overtake me every day. It’s something I’m going to have to live with.

  “Please,” I beg, staring at the ceiling, “I’ll do anything, just bring him back. Anything, I mean it.” A tear slides down the side of my face and gets lost in the sheets. Sheets that no longer smell like Ben. When I want to smell him I have to sneak into our closet and smell his shirts. My mom is urging me to donate his stuff, but I don’t want to. Not yet. It’s too soon.

  “I love him,” I continue, “so much. I’m lost without him. Bring him back to me.” I choke on a sob. “I’m a good person, right?” I question. “Why would you do this to me? What did I do to deserve this? Whatever it was, I take it back. I’ll be a better person. Please. If someone had to die, it should’ve been me, not Ben. He was good. A better person than I’ll ever be. He didn’t deserve this.”

  I cover my face with my hands and sob. My hands grow wet with my tears, and my eyes begin to feel puffy. I roll over and clutch the pillow Ben used to sleep on. His head hasn’t touched that pillow in over a month.

  He’s been dead for five weeks.

  Even thinking the word makes me want to throw up. It still doesn’t feel real. I feel like I’m trapped in a nightmare that’s never going to end. I guess in a way I am.

  I push off the covers and head downstairs to the kitchen. I know there’s no chance of me sleeping. Once in the kitchen, I turn on one set of lights and rifle through the cabinets. I find the packet of hot chocolate and set about making it. I grab a mug and dump in the packet and hot water. I stir the mixture around, the spoon clinking against the side of the mug. I add whip cream, a little bit of chocolate syrup and some chocolate shavings. Extravagant? Yes, but it helps quiet my mind.

  I pull out one of the barstools and take a seat. I take a tentative sip. It sucks. Seriously, it tastes like dirty dishwater—not that I know what that tastes like. I drink it anyway, though.

  I hear footsteps and I look up to see my dad shuffling into the room in his robe and slippers. His thin hair is mussed around his head, and his eyes are tired.

  “I thought I heard ya, Kid.” His voice is thick with sleep. “What are you doing up?”

  I shrug. “Couldn’t sleep.”

  “What’s that?” He nods at my mug.

  “Hot chocolate. It tastes awful, but …”

  He laughs and shakes his head. “But you wanted it anyway,” he finishes for me.

  I nod. “Yep.” I take another sip and wince.

  “Give me that, Kid.” He swipes the mug from me. “If there’s anything your old man can make it’s hot chocolate, or have you forgotten?”

  I smile and shake my head. “No, of course not.”

  Hot chocolate late at night—granted, not at one in the morning—was something my dad and I cherished. We didn’t do it often, maybe once a month, but it was our time. He’d ask me about school, and I’d ask him about work. Then we’d usually end up talking about my friends. He’d listen with rapt attention, even though he was probably bored out of his mind.

  He dumps my pathetic attempt at hot chocolate out in the sink and grabs a pan. He places it on the stove, adding milk, cocoa powder, and a little bit of sugar. He stirs the mixture as it heats.

  “Talk to me, Kid. No one’s up at this hour unless their mind’s full.”

  I trace the pattern in the granite countertop. “I was wondering what I did wrong,” I whisper. “To deserve this,” I add.

  He continues to stir,
but turns to look at me. “You didn’t do nothin’. You’re a good girl, Blaire. Things like this … they just happen.”

  “It’s my fault,” I cry. “I know it is.” I inhale a shaky breath and look away. I don’t want my dad to see me break down—I mean, he already has about a million times, but I don’t want to add another one to the list.

  He finishes stirring and adds the mixture to two mugs. He tops it with whipped cream and marshmallows. He hands me my cup and then sits down beside me.

  “You’ve got to stop this, Kid. You’re goin’ down a slippery path. You can’t blame yourself for this. The only person at fault is the guy that was drinkin’ and drivin’. He did this, not you. But you can’t blame him, either. Blame gets you nowhere in life. You have to move on, Blaire.”

  I shake my head. “It’s too soon.”

  He shrugs. “Maybe so, but you have to move on eventually. I hate to burst your bubble, Kid, but he ain’t comin’ back. He’s gone. But you, you’re still here. You have to live your life—he’d want that for you. You don’t need to feel guilty for that.”

  “I need more time,” I whisper.

  “You keep sayin’ that—” he shrugs “—but I don’t see you doin’ anything to get better.” He wraps his weathered hands around the mug. “I think you should talk to someone. A therapist.”

  I roll my eyes. “You sound like Mom.”

  “Your momma’s a wise woman. You should listen to her more often—but you’re stubborn like me.” He bumps my shoulder with his. “Sorry about that, Kid. She’s right when she says we’re exactly alike.”

  I soften. “That’s not a bad thing, Dad.”

  “Sometimes it is.” He stands and empties his mug. “Goodnight, Kid.” He kisses my forehead as he passes. “Get some sleep.”

  “I’ll try,” I whisper, but he’s gone.

  Stage Four: Depression

  I dress robotically.

  Slacks.

  Blouse.

  Sweater.

  Heels.

  Necklace.