Sometime, Somewhere

by Kalyn Fogarty

  “Thank you for coming out.” I wait for her to respond, but she remains stonily silent. I wonder how long we’ve shared this same small space.

  “I don’t come out very often,” she says, pointing to the closet and shrugging. “I don’t like watching,” she adds.

  “Did you know I was here?” I ask.

  She considers this for a moment, staring down at her hands. I notice she has calluses and very short nails, painted purple. “Yes and no. I started hearing things that weren’t normal, but I ignored them. I didn’t know it was possible for someone else to be here, so I didn’t look for the signs.”

  I nod. So many questions bubble to my lips that I have to slow my brain down. Take them one by one. “How long have you been here?”

  She stares out the window, licks her lips. “Depends on who you ask,” she huffs. Sensing my confusion, she clarifies. “I’ve been here about three years now, but I died in December 2003, my time. How about you?”

  “Only a year.” It’s amazing we had never sensed each other before now. A year is a long time. Looking down, I feel awkward standing above her, like she’s a child being scolded. Sit. I’m sliding down onto the floor, my back against the wall even though I can’t actually feel it. I know it’s there.

  “What happened to you?” She looks at me with sad eyes. I wonder if her eyes were always that sad or if it happened after being here.

  “I was driving home from work and got into a car accident,” I explain. The rest I’m less sure about. “I don’t exactly know what happened next. I swerved and I think I could have stopped the crash, but I swear to god, I saw someone sitting in the seat next to me.” I fold my hands in my lap and sigh. “Then I woke up downstairs and have been haunting them ever since.” When I glance up, she’s staring at me.

  “Who did you see?” she asks.

  “I swear I saw myself,” I say. “I would’ve thought it was crazy when I was alive, but now that I know ghosts are real, I think it must have been some other me, you know?” I’ve had a lot of time to think about this. Hypothesize, if you will.

  She nods, suddenly excited. “I saw the same thing,” she murmurs. Her hair falls around her cheek, and she absently brushes it away. “I overdosed,” she adds. “I was sick—like Wren—but I didn’t want to do it anymore. I was depressed.” She turns her face toward the moon again, and she shines. “Whatever, I was unhappy, blah, blah. I overdosed, and as I was falling asleep, I saw something in the mirror. I thought the drugs had made me hallucinate, but then I woke up and was a ghost and decided I must’ve seen one too.”

  We sit in silence for a second. It’s nice to share this experience with someone. It’s nice to talk to someone else, not just watch. She saw a ghost too, some other Karen from some other time or place.

  “You look older,” she says. Suddenly she’s next to me, back against the wall. She’s not touching me, but I can sense her, like there’s a magnetic force pulling us together.

  “I died in 2011,” I say. “Somehow I popped back to 2004”

  “Wow, cool,” she says, finally breaking into a small smile. “I died in 2003 and found myself in their kitchen in the spring of 2002, Wren time,” she adds. I can’t help but notice her smile fade at the mention of Wren’s name.

  I like her reference. Wren time. Using this system, I’m haunting 2005, Jimmy time. I’ve been referring to it as real time, but that’s not correct. My life was real, my time was real. Time itself has simply changed to something else since I popped on over to Jimmy time.

  “So,” she says, letting out a low whistle.

  “So,” I repeat, smiling. “Guess we’re stuck together.” Personally, I like the idea. It’s better than being alone.

  “Guess so,” she says.

  The past hangs between us. She hasn’t said anything, but it will come up. It always comes up. I don’t want old resentments to poison our chance at existing peacefully together in this afterlife.

  “I’m so sorry for how I ended things,” I say without looking at her. I long to take her hand in my own, but touching her didn’t end well for me last time.

  Turning to me, she lifts an eyebrow. “What are you talking about?”

  “Breaking up with you before college,” I remind her. Maybe our memories fade the longer we stay here. Another conjecture to talk about. “It was a shitty thing to do, and I’ve always regretted it.” It feels good to get this off my chest. An after-deathbed confession of sorts.

  She surprises me by grabbing my hand. “Oh, that’s funny,” she says, laughing. She laughs harder. “No, don’t apologize, please don’t.” She’s laughing so hard I think tears are rolling down her cheeks. “I broke up with you,” she says, wiping her face with her other hand.

  That’s not what happened. I shake my head, about to object.

  She interrupts. “James, think about it. How did I die in your time? Or had I died?” she asks, curiosity lighting up her sad eyes.

  I’m an idiot. Obviously what she says is true. I knew this Karen was the same but different. “Shit, you’re right. None of that happened to you.” She nods at me, her brow furrowing as she tries to wrap her own head around the situation. “Well, it happened to some version of you, I guess, but not you you.”

  “When did I die?” she asks again. “The version of me you knew.”

  “You died in 2005, my time,” I say, holding her hand a little tighter.

  “Cancer?” She looks hopeful, like maybe I’ll tell her it was a plane crash, a virus, anything besides cancer.

  I nod solemnly. “Sorry.” I inch closer to her, relishing her presence. “We weren’t in touch, but it shook me up pretty bad. I broke up with you in high school, but I always thought about you.” I doubt this is of any consolation to her, but she’s Karen, even though she wasn’t mine. Maybe it’s comforting to know she was loved in other times.

  “Thanks,” she murmurs. “I broke up with you at prom in my time. Stupid reasons. I never got over you and ended up drunk-calling you before killing myself.” She sighs. “I guess I always thought about you too.”

  Confirmed. It does feel nice to be loved, even if it was some other me. We sit in silence, watching the shadows in the room fade to pure darkness.

  38

  James

  Age 34

  October 2005

  I’m not easily unsettled. Once you hear a cop tell your parents there’s been an accident and watch that scene play out in real life, you can handle whatever life throws at you. It’s helped make me a great lawyer. My clients can say pretty much anything at all and it won’t shock me. Honestly, I thought I was immune to shock, hardened to pain.

  Come to find out, I’m human after all. It’s been so long since I’ve felt this rolling sensation in my gut, the tightness in my chest. I can’t blame it on indigestion this time.

  I lay the phone back in the cradle and slide it to the edge of the desk, as far from me as possible. Staring at it, I will it to ring again, for my mom to call a second time and tell me it was all a mistake, that she was joking. For her to take it all back, especially this monumental ache growing inside me.

  I buzz my secretary. “Sondra, hold all my calls today, please. I’m going to leave early. I’m not feeling so well.”

  She chirps back a few gets wells and no problems. I’m sure she’s thrilled the boss man is going home early, letting her leave before eight p.m. for once.

  The thought of driving home to my cold apartment and sitting alone scares the shit out of me. I don’t want to be alone, but I don’t know a single person I want to be with right now.

  Maybe I’ll call Mom in the car. I should have stayed on the line earlier, let her comfort me. Instead, I calmly listened as she cried while breaking the news to me. I thanked her for telling me and promised to send flowers and check my calendar against the funeral date. I told her I might drive up to Boston this weekend but warned her not to count on me, even though I know she never does. I didn’t bother asking about Dad. Shit. I’m a terrible
son. A terrible person, really.

  Karen Martin. Since high school, I’ve seen her only once, and that was last Christmas. Thinking back to that day in the grocery store, I can’t help but smile. She led me to the spice aisle and teased me like it hadn’t been fifteen years since I dumped her. Even though I knew she had been sick, I didn’t mention it then or ever. I invited her to dinner and then never followed up, not even with a lame excuse.

  Afraid to tie up the office line in case Mom does call back, I pick up my cell and scroll through my contacts. Finding the name, I hit send before I can second-guess myself. “Hey, Vic, it’s James.” I need to talk to someone. Anyone. Victoria will do.

  “Oh, hey, what’s going on?” Her tone is cold. She pauses, waiting, and I fear I’m mistaken. I thought she liked me, but from the sound of her voice, she doesn’t want to talk to me at all.

  “How have you been?” I think back to the last time we talked, nearly a month ago. She’d asked me to go home to meet her parents, but I declined, claiming work was too crazy. I thought I’d expressed appropriate disappointment, but clearly she saw right through my pathetic lie.

  “Great,” she says. “Busy with work. You?” I wish I heard any inkling of interest, but nothing. Completely neutral, not at all like the girl who used to call me ten times a day.

  “Same,” I mutter. “Busy, but good.” I take a deep breath, swallowing back the lump in my throat. “I’m, uh, sorry about the other weekend. I really wish I could’ve gone home with you. Can I take you out to dinner and make up for it?” Although I’m not so sure the prospect of an awkward night out begging for forgiveness is all that exciting.

  “You called to ask me out on a date?” she asks, sounding skeptical. Smart girl. Smarter than I gave her credit for.

  I laugh, caught off guard and sick of lying. “Well, no,” I admit. “I mean, yes, I do want to take you out. But I called because I wanted to talk,” I start, realizing how insane I sound, how completely off the mark this call is turning out. Too late now. I trudge onward, unsure of the response I’m trying to elicit, only that I need to tell someone. “A girl I went to high school with passed away, and I’m pretty fucking sad. Feeling my own mortality, I guess.” I try to make light of it and fail, the joke falling flat even to my own ears.

  She takes a deep breath across the line, measuring her response. “That’s awful. I’m so sorry to hear that. Were you close?”

  “Sorry?”

  “Were you still close with her?” she asks again, a perfectly reasonable question, given my current emotional state. It only makes sense that I’d be this upset over a good friend dying. Why else would I call Vic to share this news? I didn’t even call her to apologize for being a dick and bailing on meeting her parents; obviously I need a better reason to call now than some girl I used to know dying.

  “Well, we lost touch over the years, but she was my first girlfriend.” I hope this makes me sound less insane. “I’m nostalgic, that’s all. I guess it’s hitting me harder than I expected. We were pretty close in high school.” Strangely enough, this is the honest-to-God truth. I reach into the bottom drawer of my desk and pull out a bottle of Johnnie Walker and forgo a tumbler, taking a long swallow straight from the source. It burns my throat and I take another. “I’m feeling pretty vulnerable at the moment,” I add, unable to hide my true nature for long.

  “Oh, James,” she murmurs. Finally, the sympathy I’m longing for, craving. I need her to pity me. All I want is to wallow in her concern. Otherwise, I fear I’ll be consumed by my own guilt. “Is there anything I can do?” An invitation.

  “I’d love to see you later,” I say, both a statement and a question. It’s all I want right now, to indulge myself with her compassion, relish in her touch, and forget what a weak excuse for a man I am. I’ll hate myself tomorrow, but I don’t care.

  ***

  I spent most of this morning hungover from last night. I intend to spend the rest of the afternoon getting hammered again. This has been the pattern for three, maybe four days now. I’ve lost count. A state of blissful oblivion is my goal. I’m not normally a heavy drinker and I rarely drink during the day, but today is a special occasion. Today is Karen’s funeral.

  Last night I dreamed of her. Or maybe it was more like a series of memories stitched together to form a dream. Karen standing with me at June’s funeral. Karen, in her yellow gown, slow-dancing at prom. Karen twisting and flipping away from the bars. Karen sitting across from me at the diner when I broke her heart. A long time ago she helped me write something to say at June’s memorial service and forced me to get out of bed when all I wanted to do was hide. She’d be so ashamed of me now, hiding from her death, drowning in a bottle of Scotch and self-loathing. The answering machine clicks on. I stare from across the room, unsure when the phone even rang. I already know who’s calling.

  Beep. “James? It’s Mom. I’m leaving for the service pretty soon.” Pause, big sigh, longer pause. “I haven’t heard from you, so I guess you can’t make it. I’ll tell Karen’s mom you give your regards. Hope you aren’t working too hard. Love you.”

  “Fuck . . .” I pull the blankets back over my spinning head.

  The phone rings again, the sound splintering my hangover, resounding in my temples. “Leave a message . . .” Beep.

  “Hey, James, it’s Victoria. I had fun the other night. How about dinner tonight? I’ll let you make it up to me again,” she teases. It’s amazing how quickly she forgave me all my sins. Although she helped me forget my pain for a little while the other night, sex won’t fix me now. Not today, anyway.

  I never sent flowers. I wrote it on my desk calendar and in my Blackberry. I should’ve asked Sondra to do it; then there would at least be a bouquet at the service. But I wanted to write the card myself. Then I buried myself in work and booze and forgot the fucking flowers.

  Dragging myself from the couch, I cross the room to the phone hanging innocuously on the wall. “Fuck it,” I curse, and pull the cord from the hand piece. I hurl the receiver across the room and let it bounce on the white rug. “Fuck,” I mutter, and wipe my cheek, surprised at the tears streaming down my face.

  39

  Karen

  Age 14

  November 1985

  Pep rallies at Wellesley High are ridiculous. The pep squad—my squad, I’m reluctant to admit—transforms the gym into a carnival-like mutation encompassing every sport at the school. Somehow every team finds space to show off their skills (or lack thereof, in some cases) while the crowd chants to various songs that we—the cheerleaders—instigate. It’s a cluster of activity whose only positive spin is that it gets us exempt from fourth period.

  Unfortunately, WHS doesn’t have a gymnastics team. In an effort to beef up my college résumé, my guidance counselor convinced me to put my talents to use on the cheerleading squad. I vehemently resisted this plan for the first few weeks of school. I would not be seen walking around school in a short skirt, and I certainly wouldn’t be shaking pom-poms or anything else. My coach, Gordon, finally convinced me it was a good idea. That’s how I ended up here, on the top of this silly pyramid.

  We’re on our third cheer. The crowd lost interest after the initial hype over the football team wore off. The baseball team is running drills now. I have no idea if they’re any good, but based on the lack of enthusiasm for the pitcher, I’m guessing probably not. Honesty, I couldn’t tell you if their season has even started.

  “Heads!” the pitcher yells, but I’m already flying through the air, the arms stretched out and waiting for me below. The ball bounces off my bicep, leaving a nasty red mark that will certainly bruise tomorrow.

  “What the hell!” I yell as my teammates drop me to the ground. A broad-shouldered boy with shaggy hair sticking out from under a baseball cap walks toward me, glove in one hand. As he gets closer, he pulls off the hat and brushes the hair back with his free hand, all the while looking sheepishly in my direction.

  “I’m sorry. My catcher—” th
e boy starts, but before he can finish his lame explanation, I pull my arm back and let the ball loose, aiming right for him.

  Before this moment I’ve never thrown a baseball, never even held one. Somehow my overhand hurl crosses the distance between pitcher boy and me much faster than I anticipated. He doesn’t expect the throw, and it all happens so quickly it connects straight against his face—his left eye, to be exact. I cringe as I hear the slap of the hard little leather ball against his skin. I mean, I meant to hit him. Just not in the face.

  “Oh, James!” One of the girls on my squad rushes to his side, shooting me a dirty look over her shoulder. A few of my other “teammates” do the same. They form a circle around the pitcher like he’s a fallen hero. Jeez. I hit him with a baseball. Not like I shot him.

  To my surprise, the boy laughs. Lifting a hand to his cheek—already a deep red—he winces and touches a fingertip to the tender skin under his eye. He’s going to have quite the shiner tomorrow.

  “I’m okay, I’m okay,” he assures the crowd of concerned girls hovering around him. He lifts his gaze and finds me standing back in the crowd. The green uniform he wears brings out the bright green in his hazel eyes, and I suddenly understand why he has such an admiring fan base. He steps from the center of the circle and heads toward me.

  “Wow, I think you’re on the wrong team,” he kids, smiling and showing off his straight white teeth.

  “Huh?” I say, stupidly. Idiot! He’s talking to you!

  He looks away, suddenly shy. “Just saying, you throw pretty good. You should be on the softball team or something.”

  “Oh yeah, right,” I laugh, trying to act cool. I’ve never been good with boys.

  “I’m James,” he says. “Knight. James Knight,” he adds. He’s so formal, I feel compelled to shake his hand.