What Remains True

by Thomas, Janis

  “Sam, I need to talk to you right now. Would you come here? Please?” Her please doesn’t sound sincere. It doesn’t even sound like an afterthought. Her please sounds a little bit like fuck you.

  “Daddy, Daddy!” Jonah bounds into the kitchen. I can’t give him my attention. I’m too wound up. What do I say to Rachel?

  The truth. Tell her the truth.

  Perhaps subconsciously, I left the jacket there on purpose, knowing Rachel would find it. Maybe a part of me wants her to know so that there will be no secrets between us.

  “Daddy?”

  I push past my son. My legs feel like lead as I stomp from the kitchen, past the staircase, and head down the hall toward the garage.

  Greta’s face fills my mind, her repellent lips, wandering hands, cloying perfume—that same perfume that permeates my jacket.

  “Daddy, I have to—I have to—Daddy!”

  Jonah trails me. I stop in my tracks and whirl around to face him.

  “Not now, Jonah!” I bark at my son. Rarely do I use that tone, and I turn away from him before I can see the aftermath of my outburst, his trembling-lipped response.

  Rachel waits for me at the threshold to the garage. She stands in front of the washing machine, my jacket in her white-knuckled grip. Her eyes search my face.

  Thirty minutes ago, she rode atop me, gazing into my eyes with passion and lust and unswerving love. Now she looks at me as though I’m a felon. And I am.

  The truth, Sam. Tell her the truth.

  SEVENTY-ONE

  RACHEL

  No way, not possible.

  When I bring the linens to the washing machine in the garage, I’m assaulted by a strong and familiar smell. At first I think it’s my laundry detergent, but I just started testing a detergent for one of my sponsors that has no dyes or perfumes. This fragrance is more citrusy. No, not citrusy. Peachy. Peaches and vanilla, like cobbler.

  The realization hits me.

  I drop the linens to the floor and gaze at the black net bag hanging from the wall that holds my husband’s dry cleaning. I take a tentative step toward the bag, and the scent of peach cobbler grows more intense. Partially obscured by the netting, but not obscured enough, is Sam’s olive jacket, the one he wore to work yesterday.

  My mind is blank, at least for the moment, as I grab the bag and plunge my hand into its contents. I pull out the jacket and drop the bag. It falls to the floor and lands next to the Easter linens. I press my nose against the jacket.

  Peach and vanilla. Nonnegotiable. Greta.

  “Sam,” I call. “Can you come here? Now?”

  My mind reels as I try to make sense of something totally incomprehensible. The saturation level of Greta’s perfume on my husband’s jacket—aka, his person—is not the result of a quick hug, which Sam has been known to impart upon his employees. The hug that created this had to have been long, drawn out. To get your scent embedded in someone else’s clothing would require a certain amount of grinding, pressing, hugging.

  I shake my head. No, no, no. Can’t be.

  Shadow is barking from somewhere in the house, loud and urgent. I almost don’t notice.

  “Sam, I need to talk to you right now. Would you come here? Please?”

  Sam’s been a little off lately, and I . . . I’m not sure what it is.

  Is he having an affair?

  No. It’s not that.

  Are you sure?

  I think of this morning, of making love with Sam. His sudden passion, his intensity, his urgency. Guilty conscience? I feel like I’m going to retch.

  It can’t be.

  I defended him to Ruth. I told her, told myself, Sam would never do that. God, how could I have been so stupid?

  Sam stands in the doorway, and the look on his face tells me everything. I don’t even need to ask the question. I throw the jacket at him with as much force as I can. “Greta? What the hell?”

  “It’s not what you think.” He takes a step closer to me, and I mimic it with a step back.

  “Don’t even, Sam. What a freaking cliché.”

  “It’s nothing, Rach. I swear to you. Nothing happened. On my life.”

  “Nothing? Then how did Miss Thing’s perfume get all over your jacket? Wait, let me guess. She was cold and you were chivalrous and gave her your jacket to keep her warm.”

  He shakes his head.

  “You took her out to the site. Was Carson there?”

  Again, he shakes his head. My anger erupts. My heart pumps at double speed and my mouth is dry, and I’m afraid if I say anything, I’m going to start screaming. He swears nothing happened. But something was going to happen. Which means something did happen.

  “I don’t know why I took her out there, Rach.”

  “Shut up!”

  “No, let me explain.”

  “Mommy?” Jonah calls from the house. An instant later he appears at the door, face flushed.

  I rush to him and grab him by the shoulders and forcefully shove him back into the house.

  “Private time,” I tell him, then slam the door shut.

  SEVENTY-TWO

  RUTH

  I pull to the curb in front of Rachel’s house and check the clock on the dash. I can’t believe it’s already close to ten. I haven’t spent that long in Target in ages. But I was in such a good mood, I allowed myself to roam the aisles and peruse all the bargains, unbothered by the mothers shopping for Easter presents for their brood. I think I could have run into Charlie’s wife and I would have been fine, wished her a happy Easter. Of course, I can say that now, since it didn’t happen. But I like to think I would have been fine.

  I look up to the house and see Shadow at the front window, his paws against the glass, which I know is a no-no. Damn dog. I suppose, by canine standards, Shadow is a good dog. He’s gentle with the kids and fairly obedient, and very good-natured. I’m just not a dog person. I shudder at the thought of picking up after a dog his size. And forget about the expense of a dog. I’ll bet Shadow costs as much to care for as one of Rachel’s kids. Try telling my sister that. She loves dogs. Always has.

  I climb out of my car and walk around to the passenger side. I grab my Target bags. They are numerous. Along with the hair dye, I bought Rachel and the kids some little love presents, and I can’t leave the ingredients for the pies in the car, as they are perishable.

  Halfway up the path, I lose my balance and drop two of the bags. My meds are in effect, but my joints still protest as I kneel down to retrieve my bounty.

  I stand up and see Shadow, still barking furiously. He sees me and thumps his tail, then redirects his focus to something behind me. I glance back and see the Persian cat from across the street sitting on the sidewalk, swinging its tail back and forth violently, like a scythe.

  “It’s just a cat, Shadow,” I call to him, although he probably can’t hear me over the ruckus he’s making.

  I trudge to the porch, the bags growing heavier with each step. Perhaps I went a little overboard at Target, but the children’s clothes in the clearance section were hard to pass up. And the model T. rex that makes noise for 50 percent off? I know Jonah’s into bugs, but I think he’ll like it. Then there’s the Our Generation doll for Eden. I’m pretty sure she still plays with dolls. At least I hope so.

  I climb the porch steps and bypass the doorbell, loop my right hand through the handles of two of the bags, then grasp the doorknob. I turn the knob and push the door open. It swings wide, and I step into the house. I reach out with my foot to close the door, but it doesn’t close all the way.

  Jonah comes bouncing down the stairs holding something in his hands, the stuffed monkey on his hip.

  “Hi, Aunt Ruth!” he says breathlessly, then rushes past me to the front porch. I hear him shriek, “Gigi, no!”

  Just then, Shadow bounds from the living room, and I think he’s coming to greet me, but instead, he shoots through the open door.

  “Damn it!” I shout as I hurry to the kitchen. “Rachel, Sam! Shadow got ou
t!”

  My sister and brother-in-law are nowhere to be seen. It’s my fault for leaving the door open, so although I know it’s going to cost me in the pain department, I don’t wait for them to come to my rescue. I set the bags down on the counter and retrace my steps to the front door, cursing Shadow under my breath. I remember his leash, curse again, then rush to the hall closet to retrieve it.

  SEVENTY-THREE

  SHADOW

  I hear Little Male say, “Gigi, no!” And I know I’m not supposed to be outside, but I won’t stop, can’t stop even if I wanted to stop, but I don’t want to stop.

  Because I’m finally going to get the cat.

  SEVENTY-FOUR

  The earsplitting shriek of brakes echoes through the morning air, followed by a grotesque thump.

  Barking, screaming, moaning, crying. The wail of a teenager, newly behind the wheel, his life forever altered by one error in judgment.

  Sirens howl in the distance, swiftly moving closer until their sound is cacophonous.

  Neighbors gape from front porches, front windows, sidewalks, driveways, hands over mouths, faces drawn, tearstained.

  Swirling red lights atop shiny red trucks. Uniformed men work futilely, jaws tightly clenched. Blood slowly seeps across asphalt.

  A cat watches, ambivalent, from a lawn.

  A katydid hides in a tree, awaiting nightfall.

  A stuffed monkey, unscathed save for a tiny spot of oil on its cheek, lies discarded on the far sidewalk.

  PART SIX: THE VERY BAD DAY REVISITED

  SEVENTY-FIVE

  JONAH

  I don’t know how many days have gone by since the very bad day. Time is different for me than it was. Maybe I’m like Shadow. Not long before I died, I remember Dad telling me that dogs have no sense of time. I didn’t know what that meant when he told me, but I do now.

  I’m still here, in my house, and my family is still broken. There isn’t as much crying as before. Mom still does, Dad and Eden, too, and even Aunt Ruth. But less. There’s not a lot of talking. There’s no laughter at all. Shadow only seems happy when I’m with him, which I can’t do very much anymore. The rest of the time, he mopes.

  I feel different from when I was alive. Not just that I’m dead—duh, that is different. But I feel like I understand things more than I did. Grown-up things.

  This one time at church, the Sunday school teacher said that when we die and go to heaven, we all are the same age as Jesus was when he died, which was like thirty years old. So maybe I’m thirty now.

  What I understand, too, that I didn’t before, is that everyone in my family thinks it’s their fault that I died. I also understand that if I don’t, somehow, let them know what really happened, they’ll always blame themselves, and they will never get unbroken.

  I know they’re seeing someone to help them. A doctor. I can tell from their energy, whenever they get back from seeing her, that she’s helping. Not much, but a little. I tried to go to her, the doctor, tried to sneak into her dreams, but she’s too far away from this house. Kind of like the hospital was when I tried to go to Mom that time she was there. I don’t know if I made it to the doctor. I don’t think I did.

  I’m fading from this place. I sense that, too. I don’t want to leave my family how they are now. But I’m starting to feel a pull to elsewhere. Maybe heaven. I’m not exactly sure yet, but it feels good and warm and nice, and I know I should let myself go there soon.

  But I can’t go until I fix my family. I know that’s why I’m still here.

  I’ve been trying to figure out how. I don’t have much strength left. Last night, I went to Mom. She started to cry and was begging me to forgive her, and I tried to tell her that it wasn’t her fault, but all I could do was shake my head, and she thought I was telling her I didn’t forgive her, and I know she feels even worse and more guilty than she already did.

  It takes a lot of energy to go to her and Shadow. It’s easier to go into their dreams. That takes energy, too, but not as much. I was thinking maybe I could go into all of their dreams, Mom’s, Dad’s, Eden’s, Aunt Ruth’s, even Shadow’s. And instead of trying to tell them it’s not their fault, I could show them what happened that day, so they can see for themselves.

  I know that going into all of their dreams at the same time will take all of my strength. I wonder if I can possibly do it, and also I wonder if, afterward, I’ll have enough energy left to go elsewhere. Maybe I won’t. I’m not worried or afraid. I remember those emotions, but I don’t feel them anymore. The only emotion I feel now is love. And it’s still so strong. I love my mom and dad, my sister, my aunt, my dog. Which is why I know it doesn’t matter if I use up all my energy and can’t go to the next place. I have to try.

  I am very small today. I have packed myself so tight, I could be a tarantula or a titan beetle or a praying mantis. I don’t go to Shadow. He is restless, perhaps searching the house for me, but I am trying to conserve my strength.

  When my family returns from the doctor, Mom goes upstairs right away. Eden turns on the TV, and Dad goes to the garage to do some work on his laptop. Aunt Ruth goes to the kitchen and starts on dinner.

  I wait. And wait.

  Pictures go through my mind. Picnics and finger painting and roasting marshmallows; riding my Big Wheel; riding in a stroller; rolling down the grassy hill at the park; Dad making faces; Mom striking a pose with a wooden spoon as her microphone; Eden giggling, dancing, holding my hand; Aunt Ruth rocking me to sleep; Shadow curling up next to me in my playpen, licking my cheek, bringing me his ball. So many pictures. So much life in so few years.

  I know when I go, I will lose these pictures. I’ve already lost so many others. It’s okay. I know that’s part of going. And I know that even though the pictures won’t come with me, the love will. Because love is always. Love lives on.

  Later, after the pictures fade, the house is dark. Everyone is asleep.

  If I were alive, I would take a deep breath. But I don’t breathe anymore, so I gather up all my strength and energy and love and hold it close.

  It’s time.

  SEVENTY-SIX

  THE DREAM

  I spotted the monarch first. It was beautiful. I know you don’t like bugs, Mommy, but butterflies are bugs and you like them, right? I wanted to catch it and bring it to you, but I never want to hurt my insect friends ’cause that wouldn’t be right. And anyways, he was too high up for me to catch and he flew off the flower—you know, Mommy, the big pink flowers on the hedge?—and went over into the Martins’ yard.

  Anyways, I kept going along the hedge, and that’s when I saw it. At first, I thought it was a leaf, but it was sort of shimmering, and when I got closer, I saw that it wasn’t a leaf at all, but a katydid. Right there on the hedge!

  I yelled to Marco, “Marco, Marco, it’s a katydid! It’s a katydid!” I couldn’t believe it. It was, like, a miracle. Because everyone knows that katydids mostly come out at night. Well, you guys might not know it, but the ’cyclopedia you gave me, Auntie Ruth, says that katydids are nocturnal. The even weirder thing was that when I woke up in the morning, the ’cyclopedia was open to that very page! The katydid page! It was like . . . what do you call it, Daddy? Mental teleopy or something!

  But there it was, sitting on the end of a leaf, its wings all green, like if you weren’t looking for bugs, you’d never ever see it, not in a million trillion gazillion years.

  I stepped closer to it, but I didn’t want to scare it. But, oh my gosh, it was so cool, like the coolest thing I ever saw. I never saw one that close up before, and I wanted to get closer to it. I wanted to see the wings better, and the brown eyes and everything and see if it was a girl or a boy katydid, ’cause you can tell if you look close enough.

  Just then, it jumped from the hedge and sailed over my head and landed right on the grass, right next to the corner of the path at the bottom of the porch. I ran after it, then bent down and looked at it. Away from the hedge, its wings and body looked even brighter green th
an before, with all these veins running through it like real leaves.

  Right then, I knew what I needed. My magnifying glass! I should have gotten it before I came outside, but I forgot.

  “Please stay right there,” I whispered to the katydid. I’m pretty sure he couldn’t understand English, but I hoped he wouldn’t go anywhere before I got back.

  I ran into the house and up the stairs to my room. But I couldn’t find my magnifying glass anywhere it was supposed to be, not in my desk or in my toy chest, or the cubby drawers on my shelf, not anywhere. I thought maybe you borrowed it, Eden, so I ran to your room and called your name.

  You were FaceTiming with your friends, and you said something to me, Eden, something I know you feel bad and guilty about, but I didn’t hear what you said, Eden, not even a little bit of it, ’cause I suddenly remembered that Daddy borrowed my magnifying glass to get a splinter out of his foot—remember, Daddy? You said your reading glasses weren’t strong enough so could you please borrow it?—so I raced back down the stairs to ask you.

  I called you, Daddy, and you came out of the kitchen, and I kind of followed you, but then I realized that the splinter happened a really long time ago, and I knew I used the magnifying glass after that. You said, “Not now, Jonah,” and that was okay because I already knew you wouldn’t know where it was.

  I went back outside, just really quick to make sure the katydid was still there, and he was. I thought maybe you might know where my magnifying glass was, Mommy, ’cause you always know where everything is, so I ran to the garage to ask you.

  You gave me a squeeze on my shoulder, and I always like your squeezes, Mommy, ’cause I know you love me so much and you squeeze me tight, and you did right then, and then you said something about “private,” and when you said that, Mommy, when you said the word private, it was like how it is in cartoons when a lightbulb goes on above your head. I knew ’zactly where my magnifying glass was. I left it in my private eye kit! So I ran back upstairs and found it, right where you said it would be, Mommy! In my private eye kit!