by Lori L. Otto
“How do you know?” I finally manage to ask him.
“Because you’re still with us. And Emi,” he pauses, “I’m so grateful you are.”
“Thanks,” I mumble, anything but grateful. Eventually, I sit up and place the pillows against the headboard and lean back, pulling my one bare knee into my chest. “Where’s Anna?”
“She left.”
“Why?”
“She was going to stay at her place,” he explains.
“Chris, you know I don’t care if she stays here. I like her. She’s more of a sister to me than my own sister.”
“Oh, I know,” he says. “She had some things to take care of over there.”
“Well, make sure she knows she’s welcome. I really don’t want to impose.”
“She knows, and you’re not. Stop thinking that.”
“Okay,” I tell him. He puts his arm around my shoulders and I lay my head on his. We both look into the mirror facing us. “I hate this, Chris. I hate being here. I hate being around people... I just want to be alone.”
“I’m sorry, Emi. I don’t know what I can do to make it better.”
“Nothing,” I admit. “I mean... I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but I need some time to myself. I’m a mess.”
“No, you’re not, Em,” he laughs, tousling my wet hair. “And I’ll give you some alone time. I just want to help.”
“I know.”
“Listen.” He pauses, obviously nervous to bring something up. “Can I talk to you about something?”
“Of course.”
“It’s about Nate.”
“I figured.”
“Well, since you weren’t able to go to the funeral...” he begins. My heart skips a beat again. Every time someone brings it up, it’s like my body just realizes the shock of his death in that very moment. It happens multiple times a day. My brain knows... still doesn’t want to believe, but knows... but my poor heart still takes the news as if it’s the first time it’s been mentioned. I wonder when that will stop.
“Yeah,” I say, swallowing hard, letting him know it’s okay to continue with the topic. If I cry, they typically won’t continue. They’ve tried to have many conversations with me over the last week, and since I break down consistently, I don’t really know what anyone wants to talk to me about anymore.
“Well, we think it would be good to have a memorial service for him, just family and close friends.”
“I don’t think so, Chris.” I immediately hate the idea.
“Why don’t you think so?”
“I don’t know if I can handle it.”
“Well, Emi, it’s important for...” He sighs. “Important for closure.”
I start crying. The finality of it. Closure. I don’t want closure. Closure means I begin to put him behind me. I can never do that.
“I know it will be hard, Emi. We’ll all be there for you.”
I weep quietly as he rubs my arm. “No,” I whisper.
“It’s part of the grieving process, Em. The rest of us have already taken this first step. But if you don’t get that chance, like we had, I don’t know that you’ll ever begin to... heal... and we’re worried.”
“It’s too soon,” I plead. “It’s only been a week and a half.”
“I know, and we’re not trying to rush you. I know this is going to take time. A lot of time.”
“Okay, then when?”
“Next weekend...” he tells me. “Do you think you could do that?”
“No, I don’t think I can. I’m not ready.”
“Not ready for what, Emi?”
“I’m not ready to let him go.”
“Well,” he says gently, “you’re going to have to start this process sooner or later...”
“I know,” I say angrily. “But don’t tell me when. You can’t put a time limit on this.”
“You’re right, I can’t tell you when to heal,” he concedes. “But we’re going to have the memorial next Saturday, and we’d like you to be there.”
“I won’t go,” I cry.
“You don’t have to decide now,” he says.
“I have decided,” I continue. “And I won’t go.”
“Okay,” he squeezes me tighter. “Shhhh... it’s okay.”
“I miss him so much, Chris,” I barely manage to whisper.
“I miss him, too, Emi.” He starts to cry again, too. “Emi, it hurts me so much to see you like this. I had never seen you so happy since you started dating him. Not since we were younger, before Dad left Mom. I mean, anytime you were with him, over the years, as friends, you were a happier person, more content with life... in brief spurts, when he’d come home with you on holidays, or on the trips we’d all take together. He brought out a wonderful side of you, Em. He was so good for you.”
“He loved me,” I explain, “like no one ever could. Ever will. And he loved me all along. And I didn’t realize it. I could have had years with him. Years! And I only got weeks... because I was stupid or stubborn... or selfish, I don’t know.”
“Emi, you just have to cherish the time you did have together. And those other years, you had him as a friend, your very best friend. And those years made you who you are now,” he says. “Those years as friends made your love so much stronger, so much better.”
“That’s just what Nate would say,” I cry harder. “He never lived with any regrets.”
“And you shouldn’t either,” he explains to me. “Nate wouldn’t want that. He wouldn’t want you to be so sad. He would want you to remember how happy you two were together.”
“That’s all I think about. How happy we were together,” I say spitefully. “I’ll never have that again.”
“You don’t know that, Emi.”
“He called us soul mates. I don’t think I get more than one of those.” Chris has no comeback for that one.
“Are you tired?” he asks.
“Yes,” I tell him. I feel completely drained. My head hurts, as it does at the end of every day– and every morning– from crying. “I need some aspirin.”
“Let me get some for you.” He gets up and leaves the room. Anxious to smell Nate, I reach under the mattress and grab the bag. I open it quickly, inhale deeply. The scent of him takes me back to that non-existent morning. I can still feel his hand, tentative on my breast as he looked over my body for any marks or scars from the accident. There were none. There were none in that dream... and yet here I am, scraped, bruised, bandaged in casts...
“Love ya, Nate,” I whisper. I seal the bag up tightly and tuck it back in its hiding place before Chris comes back in. He has changed into sweatpants and a t-shirt. I swallow the two aspirin he brings me with a small glass of water.
“Here,” he says, helping me up. “Let’s get you tucked in.” He pulls the comforter and sheets back and I lie down. He tucks the blankets around me and kisses me on the cheek. “Good night, Em.”
“Chris?” I ask before he walks out.
“Yeah?”
“I know I said I wanted to be by myself... but I don’t think I want to be alone tonight.” Another tear falls from my eye.
“Sure, sis,” he says. He picks up a quilt and lies down on top of the comforter, pulling the blanket over him. I lie with my back to him, and he rubs my arm gently, soothingly. He falls asleep before I do.
The next morning I am awakened with a kiss. I know that kiss, those lips. Excitedly, I wake up, sit up in bed– Nate’s bed– the sun still shining brightly through his floor-to-ceiling windows.
“Nate!” I cry, happy tears falling at the sight of him, dressed in light tan khakis and a white t-shirt. I knew he was just gone. I knew it was all a bad, bad dream.
“Hey, Emi! What’s wrong?” he asks, smiling.
“I haven’t seen you... I thought you... are you really here?” He pushes a strand of hair behind my ear before kissing my forehead.
“Of course I am, silly. I came to visit you.”
“I’m confused,” I admit, s
miling. “Where have you been?”
“I was with the baby,” he tells me. For the first time, I realize he’s holding a small child, a little girl. Was he holding her all along? She has Nate’s gorgeous brown eyes and my reddish-blonde hair, but I don’t recognize this baby. She’s wearing a little green dress, my favorite color of green. She’s bigger than a newborn, though. How old is she?
“Whose baby is that?”
“Emi, she’s ours!” he laughs. Nothing is making sense to me. I look around the blinding room again. It’s definitely Nate’s. The last time we were here, his ribs were bandaged from the accident and I was unscathed. Judging by the way he holds the child with his left arm, I assume he is okay.
I shake my head, not understanding. “How are you?”
“I’m fine, Emi. Just fine.”
I notice my casts, experiencing a little bit of shock at their presence before vaguely remembering that I had been wearing them before... was it recent?
“How am I?” I ask, gesturing to my bandaged leg with my bandaged arm.
“You’re doing great, Emi,” he says sweetly. “You’re going to be fine.” I start to cry out of sheer frustration. Where had he been all this time? “Em, what is it?”
“How long have I been asleep?”
“Awhile,” he says.
“I don’t understand, Nate. I don’t know her,” I begin to sob, struggling to find some memory of this precious child... a child that I apparently had... some time ago. What happened to my memory? With the age of this child, I must have been out for... for more than a year? Or do I have amnesia or something?
“Emi, it’s okay,” he says soothingly. “She knows you.” He leans into me as he sits on the bed, and instinctively my good arm reaches out for her. Nate places her small body into my cradling grasp as he rubs my leg, the one that’s not bandaged in a cast.
“What happened to me?” I ask.
“There was a car wreck,” he explains. “But you’re going to be okay. You were in a coma for quite some time. It’s good to see you awake again.”
“But we were both okay,” I tell him. “Was there another wreck?”
“No, love,” he says, laughing quietly. “Just the one was enough.”
I nod, smiling, breathing in the scent of baby powder, examining in detail the little girl’s features. She’s beautiful. Tanned skin like Nate’s, his smile, adorable long eyelashes. She begins to babble, making the sweetest little baby sounds my ears have ever heard. My heart melts as I immediately fall in love with our child.
“And you’re alright?” I ask him again, taking my attention from the baby and getting lost in his gaze as he nods, assuaging my fears. He was hurt and I was fine before. Now it’s the other way around. I focus my thoughts on what’s happening in front of me. We’re here in his loft. He’s right here. I can touch him. How I’ve missed him. I reach out to feel his messy hair. It’s soft, just as I had remembered it.
“I was so worried,” I tell him, now just accepting the situation for what it is. Strange, unmemorable, but obviously my reality. I don’t care that I don’t remember the past year. All I care about is that Nate is here, that our little girl is healthy... that we’re all together. “What’s her name?” I ask Nate.
“Emi,” he says, his voice sounding different.
I look at him curiously. “Why did we name her that?”
“I have to go,” Nate says, taking the little girl from my arms.
“Go where?” I ask. “Don’t leave. Stay.”
“We can’t,” he says. “We have to go.”
“Emi,” another voice says, and I realize it’s not Nate’s.
“Love ya, Em,” he tells me, walking backwards out of the room, never losing eye contact with me. The child seems to smile in his grasp.
“I love you, too, Nate. Please don’t leave,” I cry. He turns the corner and walks out of my sight.
“Emi, wake up,” the other voice says. It’s Chris’s voice. He is telling me to wake up? God, no! Please, God, please don’t let this be the dream. I want this to be real. Give me my life back, God, give it back! Give him back! I just want to scream! I don’t ever want to open my eyes, to see that this wasn’t real. I need him.
Someone touches me on the shoulder and I open my eyes. I am no longer in Nate’s loft. I survey my surroundings, turn to look at my brother lying next to me. I begin to sob.
“Chris,” I cry. “He was here.”
“What?” he asks, his voice thick with sleep. “Emi, you were talking in your sleep.”
“No... no, no, no, no, NO!” I yell, sitting up abruptly, squeezing my eyes shut as I try to bring back the image of Nate and our little girl. “Where is he?”
“It was a dream,” Chris informs me. “You’re at my apartment, remember?” I know I am, but I don’t want to admit it. I open my eyes, trying to acclimate myself to my sad reality again. I can barely see through my own tears. After a few minutes of breathing deeply, I begin to calm down. Chris tugs my shirt, and I fall onto his chest, needing to feel safe in someone’s arms, but instead feeling completely lost and broken.
“I was with him,” I mumble softly as the crying begins to subside.
“Emi, just go back to sleep,” he encourages, pulling me closer to him and smoothing my hair down. “It wasn’t real.”
“Don’t tell me it wasn’t real! You don’t know! I could feel him,” I argue, rolling on my side, away from my brother, pulling the covers tighter around me.
“Emi, shhhhhh...” He continues to try to soothe me with his sounds, but he falls asleep before I do, failing miserably. Eventually, my exhaustion wins out and I’m back in a dreamless sleep. I wanted to see him again... feel him again... Instead, my head just swims in darkness... in nothing.
In the morning, I wake up with yet another headache. These days, they’re constant, nagging, come hand-in-hand with the tears. I go to the medicine cabinet in the bathroom, but it’s empty. Suicide watch.
“Chris!” I call down the hallway. “I need some aspirin, like, now. Please.” I’m just too impatient, want this pain to subside for good.
“Good morning, Em,” he smiles, carrying a glass of water and two pills. “Don’t panic.” I swallow the pills quickly. “Did you sleep okay the rest of the night?”
“I guess,” I tell him. I then remember the dream that awoke me in the middle of the night. “Oh,” I say, grasping my stomach.
“Are you okay?”
“Just... feeling empty... again,” I explain. “I just remembered the dream.”
He hugs me closely. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“No,” I tell him, still wanting to believe that it was real. “Not right now.”
“Okay. Anna’s coming over in a few minutes to help you bathe,” he says.
“Chris, I’m pretty sure I can manage myself. Just... please... let me have a little dignity. Plus, who cares if I bathe or not. I’ve got nowhere to go, you know,” I say.
“I guess that’s true,” he concedes. “But I invited Jack over tonight to watch the Rangers... do you think that will be okay?”
“Who?”
“Jack. You remember him from the party, don’t you?”
“I’m not sure. And I’d rather not try to remember that night, if that’s okay.”
“I’m sorry.”
I shake my head, frustrated that our conversation ended up where it did. “Back to the Rangers. It’s fine,” I tell him. “It’s your house... please continue with your life. You could even go to work, if you wanted... I’d actually like that.” Just leave me alone.
“I’m not in any hurry to do that,” he laughs. “You’re welcome to watch the game with us.”
“No thanks,” I decline his offer. “I’m busy,” I say sarcastically.
“Come on, Emi, you like hockey games,” he tries to convince me.
“No, I like going to hockey games,” I tell him. “There’s a difference.”
“You’ve been spoiled by your rich-” H
e stops suddenly.
“What?” I ask, taken by surprise. Chris had always teased me about the things Nate and I did together. If Nate wanted box seats to a Rangers game, he’d buy them. When he wanted to travel to a five-star resort, he’d go, often taking me with him if he was without a girlfriend at the time. Chris would tell me that I’d be so used to the “privileged” lifestyle that a normal guy would never be good enough for me. In truth, nothing we did ever felt “privileged.” He was always so down-to-earth... seemed normal enough to me.
“I’m sorry, Em.” He shakes his head.
“It’s fine,” I tell him, turning away from him to hide the tears. “He did spoil me.”
“But I didn’t mean to say that,” he says.
“It’s okay,” I repeat. “Really.”
He turns me around and nods quietly as we exchange sympathetic glances. He kisses me on the cheek. “Are you sure you can shower by yourself?” he asks, and I’m glad he’s changed the subject before I can dwell on what my life used to be like... what it would never be like again.
“I’m sure,” I tell him, annoyed.
“I’ll call Anna and tell her she doesn’t need to come right now, then.”
“And I’ll go give it a shot,” I tell him, returning to the bathroom.
Chris sits in his dining room, working quietly from home, later in the afternoon as I watch more TV. A reality show marathon has kept me distracted all day, but I can feel my brain turning to mush as a result. Eventually I turn off the television and sit in silence.
“You okay, Em?” he asks, coming to check on me.
“Yeah,” I answer, numb.
“Can I get you anything?”
“Do you have any wine?” I ask.
“No,” he laughs. “This is a beer-only apartment– until Anna moves in.”
I sigh. The idea of getting a little buzz was tempting... but not tempting enough for Chris’s cheap beer. “How about some water then?”
“Coming up,” he says.
“What time is your friend coming over?” I ask when he brings me my drink.
“Seven-thirty,” he tells me. “Are you going to join us?”