by fallensea
I hadn’t given up on traveling, but I had put it on hold, unable to figure out how we would make it work. Dermott wanted me to find my way, but he was doing well at the freight yard. I couldn’t expect him to give up everything he had broken his bones for, not so I could follow an unknown path. So I stalled, for him, but I remained full of doubts, still unconvinced I could fulfil the role he wanted me to play in those giant, wondrous dreams of his.
Ashamed, I turned away from my dress, and I sat in the rocking chair against the wall to finish off the last of my bourbon-filled orange juice.
Relax, I told myself. Just relax.
A shadow passed across the room to me. Knowing the fears racing through my mind, Dermott picked me up off the rocking chair. “Today, it’s just you, me, and the harvest moon,” he said firmly. “We’ll make tomorrow work tomorrow.”
I liked that. “You, me, and the harvest moon,” I recited as the joy all brides should experience on their wedding day finally kicked in.
Nuzzling the sun-kissed skin my T-shirt left exposed, Dermott carried me back towards the bed. “I can think of a few ways to relax you before you walk down the aisle,” he murmured.
“I’m not walking down the aisle,” I reminded him. “We’re arriving together.”
He set me gently on the quilt. “Good. Then there’s no hurry. Everyone else can wait.”
***
I pulled my wedding dress over my head, feeling the supple fabric slide lavishly against my shoulders. Then I put on my black hoodie and zipped it up, the hoodie my only bridal accessory, not unless I counted the helmet Dermott handed me.
“Your tiara, my darling,” he said as he slid the helmet over my head and fastened the straps, his strong hands leaving a spark against my skin. When the helmet was secure, he escorted me out into an afternoon full of marvelous risk, the type of risk that led to happy endings.
While Dermott readied his motorcycle, I closed my eyes, embracing the autumn sun that had been beckoning to us all morning. I really was happy. My doubts would always linger, but I was convinced that this was the beginning of something so much greater.
“Hop on, Cuddles,” Dermott called from his large black cruiser, beaming.
I hesitated, realizing the flaw to our plan. “I don’t want the exhaust pipe to ruin my dress,” I protested. “It’ll burn the fabric.”
“Woo hoo hoo, look who’s finally starting to sound like a bride!” Dermott laughed, delighted. “Just gather the material to the front and tuck it between your legs. You’ve got great pins, darling. Might as well show them off.” When I was settled on the bike, my arms wrapped around him, he squeezed my hands. “Ready? Just you, me, and the harvest moon.”
“Ready,” I confirmed. And I meant it. “But drive slow.”
“I always do. Precious cargo. You’re radiant, by the way.”
With the tangles of my hair and white dress billowing behind me, we navigated through the residential streets that led the way to the nature reserve. The further we drove, the more certain I was about the man I would soon call my husband. Dermott was good to me, but he also challenged me. He made me face myself, to accept all that I was. And I loved him for it.
Resting my head against the soft leather of his jacket, I was filled with a peace that was new to me. I usually observed the world through closed eyes, appreciating the beauty around me but finding no logic in its existence. Now, my eyes were wide open. It must have been my decision to get on the bike—my promise to Dermott was already made. I wouldn’t run. I would hold on.
The scorching Louisiana heat that had kept everyone prisoners inside their houses was breaking for the autumn, allowing the generic staleness from the overuse of air conditioners to be replaced by the sweet, soothing flavors of the outdoors. Sweat no longer coated our fatigued bodies. It was possible to move freely again, evident by the season’s pilgrims out in their yards. Children, with crumbs of bread pudding stuck to their lips, jumped through sprinklers and ran around with buckets of rusty water from the garden hose. Parents washed their middle-income cars and read bargain books on their sun loungers. Turning down a short lane, the mellow vocals of June Christy filled the neighborhood as an elderly couple danced on their lawn to How High the Moon, their movements slow but deliberate.
The motorcycle came to a stop at a red light. Without the wind rushing across my ear, I could hear Dermott humming a song in his helmet. It was one of his country rock anthems. Happy, he bobbed his head back and forth and tapped his foot against the tarry road while we waited for the light to turn. I burrowed my head further into his jacket, taking all of him in.
A pecan orchard was near—I could smell it. I inhaled the buttery scent of the pecans as a little girl to my right waved at me from beneath the shade of a folded cardboard box, fascinated by the hum of the motorcycle. I waved back and the girl brightened, so trusting.
Children trusted in almost everything. That a new day would rise. That everything would be okay. The reality was, nothing was certain. There was no real knowing. The hours passed and the days passed, and everyone was left without confirmation of what was to come. Bound to the chaos of transient time, all anyone could really do was trust, like children. With trust, there was hope.
When the light changed, we rode on briefly before turning onto a cramped road that cut through the orchard. Hundreds of bushy pecan trees flourished in imperfect rows around us. I had spent many summers taking shelter under the elongated branches of pecan trees. They were ingrained into my childhood memories.
And now, the memory of my last breath.
***
It was not easy dying.
Most people feared how they would die, but the act of dying was only a minor detail. There were much worse things to worry about. There was no preparation for the heartache you felt leaving those you loved behind. That was the hardest part for me—hearing Dermott’s whispered pleas, his painful gasps, as he held my lifeless body.
It happened near the end of the road—my death. Leaves and twigs were scattered around the road, as was the nature of an orchard. We didn’t see the oil on the road, not until Dermott drove across the slick leaves that covered it. He lost control of the bike and it went skidding. He’d been going slow, as promised. Any faster and the scene would have been a lot more gruesome. But his life was spared, and mine probably could have been too, if only I hadn’t landed the way I did…
If only.
My death was just one of those things. We couldn’t have prevented it, not unless we’d decided not to get married. But that was life. It was linear—marching endlessly forward and never looking back.
I didn’t feel much when I died—just a strange fear as I flew through the air, and then a rush of cold. It was over in seconds. Almost instantly, I was standing over Dermott’s shoulders, watching him hold me—the former me. I should be thankful there was no pain, except the missing time that saved me from the pain also deprived me of my last moments with Dermott.
“Ronnie—” he choked as he held me. “Don’t.”
“I’m here!” I shouted, but my voice bounced back at me in a thousand small vibrations, none of which Dermott could hear.
“Just you, me, and the harvest moon,” he said, hoarse with anguish.
I felt a tear roll down my cheek, but I ignored it, still too much in shock to be surprised that a ghost-angel could cry. “Just you, me, and the harvest moon,” I echoed back in my silent, lonely world.
I felt as if I were caught in some sort of bizarre, out-of-sync looking glass. I didn’t feel dead. The autumn breeze brushed past the back of my neck, and I could hear the blue jays cry. If anything, I felt more animated, more vibrant than I ever had before. The world had purpose. It was potent, even in the tiny earthworms and humble shrubs that surrounded my body. I would describe death as enlightening, if it wasn’t so sad.
Dermott’s cries made it impossible to heed the invading beauty around me for long. I’d never seen Dermott cry before. I’d seen him be a lot of things
, but never crying. Neither of us had been good at shedding tears, but unlike me, he could crack a joke during a crisis, or lend an optimistic thought when there didn’t seem to be any answers. He was such a happy creature. He deserved life. He deserved his survival.
He smoothed back the blood-soaked strands of my hair with a tenderness I suddenly ached for. How many times had I taken his touch for granted? I wanted nothing more than to know the warmth of his palm across my forehead, to feel his face pressed against mine once more. But those sensations were out of my reach. I could only watch from a short distance as Dermott’s tears merged with the streaks of crimson dirt that ran across the vacancy of my face.
“Ronnie,” he gasped. “I need you. Please don’t be dead. Please don’t be dead. Not like this. You said you’d be my wife. You promised.” He closed his eyes. “What have I done?”
He blamed himself. Now I felt the pain. Later, when I would think of this moment, it left a blister in my heart, so raw and torn that it was unbearable.
“Just you, me, and the harvest moon,” he whispered again then paused, waiting with hope for me to say it back.
When I didn’t, the change in him was immediate. His tears wrenched into a heart-breaking mask of disbelief and anger. He began to shake uncontrollably, to holler and wail over my dead body so violently the birds feasting in the orchard scattered away. Acting on impulse, I wrapped my arms around him. He felt warm, alive. My former body, the part I touched with my hand, was also warm. But it felt different. Like touching metal. Real but lacking something.
Me, I guessed.
As I sat there, my head nuzzled into the back of Dermott’s neck, his shaking began to ease. He continued to cry, but his tears were less maniac, more sorrowful and heavy.
“I won’t leave you,” I promised him. “I’ll never leave you.”
I didn’t know how long we sat like that. Long enough for a couple to drive upon the scene, park their car, and call an ambulance. They didn’t offer assistance, probably realizing the damage was done. Instead, they waited with further sadness by their SUV and gave directions to the emergency operator.
Sirens broke through the orchard. I noticed the paramedics before Dermott did. He refused to look away from my body. When the first paramedic approached him, he blocked the man out, continuing to caress my cheek, his cries now mute, denying the truth around him though he kneeled in my blood.
“Sir,” the paramedic said with great compassion. “My name is George. I need to look at you. Both of you.” He crouched down and reached his hand out as two police officers joined him.
Tersely, Dermott raised his chest like a jouster ready to charge, but he calmed as he scanned the crowd forming around him. “I can’t,” he said, collapsing. “I can’t.”
Understanding, George worked around Dermott to examine my body. He checked the pulse on my neck and pressed an ear to my chest, confirming his suspicions that I was dead. He then asked Dermott a few questions. Did his ribs hurt? Could he move his legs? But his questions were useless. Dermott wouldn’t respond.
More paramedics approached with a stretcher. “He’s in shock,” George announced, looking sympathetically upon Dermott. “He wouldn’t know what hurt, even if you asked him.”
As one police officer reported the scene into his radio, the second picked up Dermott’s tattered wallet from the ground. “Dermott, is it?” she asked, studying his driver’s license.
Dermott ignored her.
“Dermott, I need you to talk to me.”
Nothing.
She turned to her fellow officer, trying to determine the best way to proceed. Then she tried again. “May I ask what your relationship is to the victim?”
It seemed at first that her question would go unanswered like the rest, but Dermott eventually replied, a desolate harmony of pride, love, and grief in his voice. “I’m her husband.”
The injustice of his words was a spring for a trap. His anger returned, and he started to shake again. “Leave us alone!” he shouted to the paramedics, swiping his arm out like they were minions sent from hell to steal me away. “Get away from her!”
“Dermott, don’t!” I warned, hoping some part of him would hear me.
It wasn’t enough. The police were instantly on him. They held his arms back while one of the paramedics scrambled to inject a sedative into his arm. I thought it a good thing—anything to help Dermott’s pain go away. Minutes later, he was drowsy but lucid as they led him to an ambulance.
Ignoring my body, I followed Dermott, remaining by his side during the journey to the hospital. At times, one of the paramedics would pass through me. It was a weird sensation—uncomfortable like a static shock, but nothing more. At the hospital, Dermott was given his own room while the sedative wore off and, hours later, when it was clear he was walking away with only a few cuts and bruises, he was allowed down to the morgue to see me.
He stood inert, viewing my body through a window of protective glass. He wasn’t allowed into the small room where I was laid out, my bloodied white dress draped over the side of a steel table. The police were afraid it would set him off again. They were probably right.
I couldn’t read his expression. He had frozen over. I feared his heart was turning to stone underneath the florescent lights and sterile walls of the morgue, and I prayed that such a cold, motionless rage wouldn’t haunt him his whole life.
“I’m here with you,” I attempted to tell him, standing beside him, shoulder to shoulder. I felt him relax. Unsure of what else to say but knowing he was responding to my presence, I began reciting the vows I’d written for him. “You are the wolf that guards my bedside—”
I was cut off. Aileen and Emer stepped into the room with us. Dermott had always been their protective older brother, but today he was the vulnerable one. In dresses and heels, they approached him with tears in their eyes. Aileen cried out when she saw my body on the other side of the glass. Emer turned her head away.
I wanted to stay, to be there with Dermott, but without warning, a strong force pulled me backward, and I was gone.
***
Before me was a meadow flecked with oak trees. From the obtuse branches of the oaks hung hundreds of small paper lanterns in a candy shop’s worth of colors. I walked through the meadow, dazed by the bold shades around me. The lanterns, the moss on the trees, the blue sky—they almost hurt my eyes, as if everything had been remastered, the substance of their color intensified. Even the aging bark of the oaks, so old and faded, had a heightened authenticity.
This was death. It made that which was already alluring even more beautiful and legitimate.
I halted in front of a solitary tree, the runt of the meadow. The place was almost unrecognizable with its alien textures, but now it was so blatantly obvious where I stood, my heart ached with a late sorrow. Was heaven so cruel?
White chairs formed a circle in the tall wild grass. There was no aisle. No altar. Instead, the seating had been arranged to face the runt tree, which was decorated with shreds of white linen and fairy lights. In the fading afternoon, it would have glowed with a natural alchemy.
This was the place I had meant to marry Dermott.
It was an injustice for me to be standing there in my white dress and black hoodie, a ghost-angel who now had no control over my destiny. I would not be holding Dermott’s hand under the tree to exchange our vows. Nor would I be feasting with our loved ones at the picnic tables nearby. Dermott and I would never be married.
It hit me then—the overwhelming sense of loss. The Great Sadness. A merciless flood of grief rushed through me. I was dead. The end had come. Everything I’d hoped for, all the traveling I planned to do, it didn’t matter anymore because it would never happen.
Worse, I may never see Dermott again. Soon, I’d be nothing but dust to him. Our love would become but a shadow of the force it once was, our pillow talk an inaudible song. He would grow older and find someone new to marry. I would not, my emotions locked to those I felt when I died.
>
I wept, feeling warm trickles fall down my cheeks. I traced the warmth with my hand, surprised to see that sapphire blue tears stained my fingertips. I stared at them in disbelief.
“Even angels cry,” a man said from nearby.
Nothing startled me in this strange, dewy reality. Somehow, my mind was prepared to accept anything that may come. But I was apprehensive, unsure of where the road may lead or who I’d meet. So I studied the man carefully, my guard up.
He was at the border of his youth with creases in his black skin. Several strands of grey were evident within his long dreadlocks, the ends dyed blonde, but his pale green eyes held a playful awkwardness reminiscent of boyhood. From his ear hung a long feather, white and brown like that of a falcon. He was timeless, wearing a plain brown tunic that covered leather slacks.
Perhaps it was the raw energy, the unsatisfied confidence that emanated in waves from the man, but something about him made me uncomfortable, like he carried a false power. A Trickster.
“And which are you?” I asked.
“What do you mean?” His voice was thick and uninhibited.
“Angel… or the other kind.”
Moving faster than I’d seen a man move before, he came right up to me. He was so close, I could feel the ends of his dreadlocks against my skin. A wide smile spread across his face. His glee was terrifying.
“Great question,” he uttered without explanation. “Now I have one for you. But think of it more as a proposition.”
There was a number of things I suspected he’d ask, most of them dark and sinister. But not that one. Not the one question that would bring me such hope, such desire.