“Karen Martin,” I reply. A crown is forming around us. They’re a few steps away but close enough to hear our conversation and gossip about it over lunch tomorrow.
“I know,” he says, his hair falling across his brow.
“I’m so sorry I hit you in the face,” I say. “I meant to hit you in the arm or something.”
He laughs again, a deep, singsong laugh that makes me giggle. “Oh, well, in that case, I guess your aim isn’t so good.” His bright eyes shine, and I realize he’s flirting with me. All the girls who were so concerned for his safety moments ago move away in defeat. A couple look me up and down and sneer.
I take a deep breath and go for it. Fate favors the brave and all that. “Want to grab an ice cream after this crap ends?” I ask. “Or I can buy you a bag of peas for your eye.”
“Ice cream would be good,” he says. “I think I’ll let my eye turn black so I can tell all my friends my girlfriend beat me up,” he jokes.
“Girlfriend?” I stammer. Girlfriend?
He smiles down at me, a good head taller than me. I’m so close I can smell his minty gum and a cologne, maybe Old Spice. He nudges me with his elbow, and my entire body feels the shock of his touch. “I’ve wanted you to be my girlfriend since eighth grade, Karen Martin. I’ve always been too chicken to talk to you.” Tenderly, he brushes a strand of hair back from my face. My skin burns where his fingers graze. “I threw a ball at you instead.”
My voice is caught in my throat. Part of me wants to run away, tell him he’s arrogant and conceited and that I’d never be his girlfriend. But for some reason I think he’s telling me the truth. “Well, you have quite the way of getting a girl’s attention,” I say, biting my cheek. I blink, and the gym comes back into focus. We’re again surrounded by a crowd of cheering peers.
But for one blissful moment, it felt like just me and him.
May 1986
No one told me the appropriate funeral etiquette for the girlfriend of the deceased’s brother. My mom insisted on joining me at the service, even though I promised I was fine to go alone. Now—as much as I hate to admit it—I’m relieved I have her next to me. I’m unsure what James expects of me, and we haven’t spoken yet.
He’s seated in the first pew with the rest of his family. Mrs. Knight leans heavily on her husband, and I can see his broad shoulders shaking as though he’s sobbing. James stands on his mom’s right side, his hand protectively on her elbow.
“Why don’t we sit here, Karen,” my mom whispers. She always whispers in churches. She claims it’s why she never goes, because she hates whispering so much.
I nod and follow her into a pew near the center of the church. The rest of the seats fill up quickly, mourners dressed in shades of black holding tissues and each other. Some people stand in the back and along the sides beneath the stained-glass windows.
The ceremony is brief and beautiful. Because of the extent of June’s injuries, the family decided on a closed-casket funeral. Daffodils, her favorite flower, are arranged in giant bouquets all around the mahogany box. A giant picture of her from her senior prom is blown up and propped on an easel to its left. At the pulpit, the priest is finishing up his sermon. Most of the congregation is either crying or on the verge of tears. From my seat I can see James’s profile. He stands tall, his shoulders set firmly back and his chin lifted. At some points it seems like both his parents are holding on to him for support. The priest nods in his direction, and he steps toward the front of the church, an index card in his right hand.
“June’s brother wishes to say some closing words before we move on to the final burying,” the priest says.
The way the index card shakes a bit in his hand is the only tell that he’s nervous standing up there in front of the crowd of mourners. Otherwise, he’s amazingly composed. Tall and handsome, he looks a lot like his sister, and it’s hard not to recognize the similarities as he talks next to her portrait. I’m amazed at his bravery. I could never get up in front of all these people, and definitely not at such an emotional time. Watching him now, I can envision him years from now, a grown man. The image is comforting, and I imagine myself right there with him.
“Thank you all for being here. June would have been honored that you came to say good-bye. She always did like a good party,” he starts, his voice strong and clear. A couple people chuckle; more are sniffing back tears. “June was the perfect big sister and perfect daughter. Too perfect, I always told her. Straight As, captain of the softball team, scholarship to Tufts University. She was loved by everybody, and not only because of her many accolades. June was just a wonderful person. She was kind and giving, and she had this incredible ability to make you feel like you were the best person she knew. She brought out the best in everyone. I wanted to stand up here today and give her a shout-out up in heaven. I know she will be up there, watching over me, forcing me to be the best I can be. She was an inspiration to us all, and I am thankful I had her in my life, even if it wasn’t for long enough. We all love you, June.” He looks up at the ceiling and smiles.
Now anyone who wasn’t crying before is bawling. My mother’s cheeks are wet with tears, and she looks at me with worried eyes. She’s not worried because I’m upset but because I’m not crying.
James scans the crowded church. His gaze stops when he finds me and I nod, pursing my lips to blow him a kiss. Despite all he’s been through, despite how sad he must be, he reaches up to catch my kiss before drawing his fist to his eye. He winds his pitching arm and throws me back a kiss of his own. I touch my arm and smile. My mother has no idea what’s come over me and grabs my shoulder to catch me, as if I were falling. Maybe I am.
40
Jimmy
Age 34
December 2005
Screw tradition this year. Wren’s parents aren’t coming over for Christmas Eve dinner, and we won’t be spending the day at my parents’ house. This year we’re skipping Christmas and getting the hell out of Dodge. Or at least Boston.
It was a last-minute plan. I didn’t dare tell Wren until all the details were arranged. If everything was perfect, she couldn’t say no. Lately all she seems to say is no, so I knew I had my work cut out for me.
Two thousand five has been a bad year. Generally I’m a glass-half-full type of guy, but I can’t deny that this year has either been half-empty or filled with a whole lot of crap. My goal is to send it off on a high note and bring the new year in with a bang.
Our medical bills have been piling up and we’ve spent almost half our savings, so I knew she’d never agree to an expensive vacation. My insurance covered up to a certain point, but not everything. As our account dwindles, she’s begun panicking about going into bankruptcy. No matter how many times I tell her this will never happen, I can’t ease her mind. She refuses to accept help from my parents—we aren’t at that point yet, but they’re there if we need them. This irrational fear of losing the house and the shirts off our backs has been the catalyst for the constant no phase we currently live in. She says no to going out to dinner. No to yoga class. No to visiting friends. She claims it’s all to save money, but I know there’s more to it. After her hair fell out the first time, she refused to leave the house for a week. Then she spent a week special ordering wigs and returning them until she found the perfect match before she would allow herself to be seen in public. No was a lot easier to say after this point, and who was I to argue?
The year began all right. Remission found us and stayed on for a few sweet months. Relapse sneaked in and lasted too many months after this, making us forget the respite of remission. All the chemo was tough, but the radiation proved tougher. As we head into the new year, we are back in remission, but we don’t trust it to last. It never sticks around long enough. Wren is low on hope and I try to muster enough for both of us, but it’s getting harder to come by.
For some reason, the one thing Wren says yes to is the one thing I’m having a hard time with. Sex. She wants it all the time. However, it’s not my l
ovely wife eager to make love to me. Instead, it’s some baby-crazed woman hell-bent on getting pregnant. I’m a tool she needs for this purpose. I wish I didn’t feel this way, but I do. Every time I move on top for her, I think about what might happen to her body if she does get pregnant. She barely has enough strength to keep herself healthy; how can her body support another life? These thoughts spiral and distract me, and half the time I can’t finish. This pisses her off and she pushes me away, turning her back on me and folding into herself. I’ve stopped trying to comfort her in these moments. There’s nothing I can say to make a difference. More and more I find it hard to even get excited enough to start the process. And no matter what she says, it’s not the wig or her body. She’s as beautiful today as the day I met her. It’s that look in her eyes while she undresses, this look of intense longing and desire. If only she longed for me. But I know it’s a baby she desires.
Dad noticed my distraction, and I confided in him some of my fears. Of course, he was full of reassurances, promising me it was completely normal to worry. But he’s confused. I’m not worried about the unborn baby. I’m worried that pregnancy will be too much for Wren. Wren talks about this theoretical baby as though its real, like it’s something she already loves. But I don’t know this baby. It’s not real to me. What I do know is that Wren is here and real and alive and I love her more than anything. I won’t let anything hurt her, not even a baby.
This getaway is my last hope. I’m grasping at straws, at a crossroads. On the one hand, I want Wren healthy and alive. On the other, I also want her happy. Somehow it seems like the only thing that will make her happy is a baby, and this might be the one thing that jeopardizes the other. For Wren, I need to overcome my fear. What good is remission and health if she’s miserable? If I truly love her, I need to do what’s best for both of us, and maybe she’s right. Maybe a baby is what’s best.
***
“Just one glass,” Wren says, sipping her mimosa and closing her eyes against the bright morning sun.
Puerto Rico is magical. After a little cajoling and promises that it would cost next to nothing, we each packed a duffel bag and set off for the little piece of paradise my parents own in a time-share on the north shore of the island. Although this time of year can tend toward being rainy, our trip has been picture-perfect. The bluebird sky is dotted with puffy white clouds that look straight out of a dream. Where the sky meets the water is indistinguishable, the water is so blue.
“You can handle two,” I tease, pulling my sunglasses down. I sink deeper into the cushion on the porch swing and shift so I’m leaning against her, our knees touching.
“Well, maybe two,” she agrees, laying her head on my shoulder. “I don’t want to go home,” she sighs, pushing off the porch with her bare toes, and we sway faster.
Wrapping my arm around her slight shoulders, I pull her closer. We have one day left, but I wish we could stay forever. In these five days I’ve seen a transformation in Wren. Imagine what five more could do. Ten. She’s breathing easier, laughing louder. My mind races as I try to think of ways to extend our stay. The other couple who shares the condo are family friends; I’m sure my parents could convince them to give us another week.
“Tonight is going to be a good night,” I murmur as a large bird dips into the open and lifts a fish from the depths. Wren points and gasps.
“Thank god this year is over,” she says, taking another sip. “To the last day of 2005.” She clinks her half-empty glass against mine.
“Good riddance to 2005,” I exclaim, and kiss her beautifully cool forehead.
Wren looks up at me from beneath the fringe of her long lashes and tilts her head coyly to the side. “You know what?” she says, tracing an invisible pattern up my bare thigh. She edges around the bottom of my khaki shorts.
“What?” She looks at me in a way I haven’t seen in far too long. I tuck a finger under the strap of her flimsy sundress and nudge it across her collarbone.
“I’ve forgotten how cute you look in shorts.” She giggles, moving her hands up to my belt and deftly unbuckling it.
“If shorts turn you on, I’ll gladly wear them when we get home,” I joke. “Although it’s pretty cold in Boston right now.” I let the strap fall down her right arm and then finger the strap on the other side.
“Guess we should stay here,” she whispers, reaching up to kiss my jaw.
For the first time in as long as I can remember, I’m not afraid of breaking her. This is what I want. What we want.
41
Karen
After
June 2006
Life’s not terrible with James around. He talks a lot—which can be a little annoying—but he doesn’t take offense when I listen without responding. It’s nice to hear someone else’s voice. Even though he sounds similar to Jimmy, he has his own sound. When he speaks, he drowns out Wren and Jimmy, his voice overshadowing them. It’s like they’re on mute when we talk.
Right away he informed me he was claustrophobic and wouldn’t be hiding in closets with me. Since I refused to lounge in the living room watching the couple watch television, we compromised and settled for hanging out in an empty room. The nursery is our place. At first he found it a little creepy being among all the unloved stuffed animals, but I like to think the room appreciates our company.
“Have they ever noticed you?” James asks me.
We lie together on the plush white rug looking up at the ceiling, where Jimmy has glued a few of those glow-in-the-dark stars. They are lit up now, and although they don’t seem to be set in any discernible pattern, knowing Jimmy, they make up a constellation dedicated to Wren. James laughed when I said this, agreeing that Jimmy is definitely his corny alter ego.
“No, I don’t think so,” I answer. Cocking my head, I look at the stars sideways and think maybe I’m looking at a crab. Maybe it’s Cancer. Ironically, Wren and I are Cancers. “You?”
“I think I broke something when I first got here,” he says, rolling onto his side so he’s looking at my profile. “A vase,” he specifies. “Actually, it was in this room.”
I remember the day the vase fell. Wren was yelling at Jimmy and I was crouched in the closet. She was freaking out that the nursery was missing a baby, and although I thought I heard a scream, I assumed she threw something and that’s what shattered. Honestly, I don’t get why they built a nursery before they were even pregnant. Seems like a good way to jinx things.
“Did you touch it?” I ask, even though I already know the answer. We’ve both tried to touch things in this world and failed.
He hesitates. “I don’t know exactly what happened.” He pauses and takes a deep breath, like he’s afraid to embarrass himself. “It sounds lame when I say it out loud, but I was really upset, and the vase just exploded.” He looks at me like he’s waiting for me to laugh. I don’t.
“I believe it. I mean, we’re freaking ghosts. As far as I’m concerned, anything is possible. Maybe we can move things with our minds. We can move around the house by thinking, so it actually makes sense,” I say.
“Why did we come back?” he asks. He’s always asking questions like I might have all the answers, when in reality I’m as clueless as he is. I’ve been here longer, but I’ve spent the majority of my time in the closet.
My voice is harsher than I intend, but I’m exasperated. I don’t have any answers. “Because we’re fucking cursed.” He recoils, and I regret the words as soon as they’re out of my mouth. I don’t even mean it. My ghostness isn’t a curse. My life was cursed. I lower my voice and soften my brow. “When I first got here, I figured watching myself die of cancer all over again could only be purgatory.” I close my eyes, and the green glow of the ceiling stars dances behind my lids. “Then I realized I couldn’t change anything, couldn’t really do anything at all, and got more frustrated, convinced this was hell.”
He considers this. “But what if we’re meant to change something? What if we were put here to help them, since we know
the ending already?”
My jaw clenches. Clearly he hasn’t listened to a word I’ve said. And we don’t know the ending to Wren and Jimmy’s story. It’s not our story.
“I don’t want to talk about it anymore,” I snap, pulling my shoulder away from his so we aren’t touching. “We can’t change anything. They can’t see or hear us, and they don’t know we’re here.” I open my eyes, and the stars realign on the ceiling. “We know our ending, but theirs is still unwritten.”
He shrugs. “But how do you know that? I broke the vase. Maybe we can do more.”
Suddenly I wish I were alone in my closet, blissfully alone and ignorant of the hows and whys of my strange existence. This isn’t A Christmas Carol. We aren’t the ghosts of the Knights’ future. But I’m not alone. I’m stuck with James the ghost of Knights past.
“Do what, exactly?” I ask. “Shall we try and break a window and hope that cures Wren’s cancer? Shatter a picture frame and impregnate her? What’s the plan, James? If you want to know what I really think, we should try and set this fucking house on fire and put us all out of our misery. That would be doing something productive.”
This James isn’t the same James I once dated, but the look of hurt and defeat I see now is exactly the same. This ghost standing before me twenty years older than on the day I broke his heart has the same hopeless look in his eyes.
“I was only spitballing,” he mumbles, and looks away.
It’s only a matter of time before I suck all the optimism right out of him and drag him into my sad black hole of despair. “I’m sorry. I’m a bitch. Ignore me.”
Silence. I’m afraid the damage is done. The only other being that knows I exist wants nothing to do with me anymore. My death is even worse than my life.
“I can leave,” I offer, ready to wish myself back into hiding.
He shakes his head. “No. Please, stay.” Then he reaches his hand out and rests it on my forearm, squeezes lightly. I nod, fighting back tears.
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