Or Not to Be

by Laura Lanni

  or not to be

  laura lanni

  The characters and events in this book are fictional. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  OR NOT TO BE. Copyright © 2014 Laura Lanni. All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher constitute unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from this book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the author at lauralanni2014@gmail.com.Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

  Published by LMNO Press, P.O. Box 544, Chapin, SC 29036

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2014917181

  ISBN 978-0-9907757-1-3 (e-book)

  Cover design and image by Kate Lanni

  For every soul,

  Living or dead,

  Separated from loved ones,

  Forever listening.

  I would be delighted if there were a life after death, especially if it permitted me to continue to learn about this world and others, if it gave me a chance to discover how history turns out.

  Carl Sagan

  Table of Contents

  November 11, Morning

  Flashback: Asked Out by My Teacher

  November 11, Evening

  Falling Apart

  Advice and Kissing Lessons

  Wandering and Guidance After Death

  Bethany’s Birth

  My Sister

  Running with the Dogs

  Bookstore Shenanigans

  Stupid Market

  My Daughter

  Mom, Again

  Baby Foot

  Nightmare in the Future

  Another Lesson and a Palindrome

  Getting Ready, Letting Go

  My Memorial

  Last Lunch Duty

  How Did I Die?

  Good-bye, My Sister

  The Other Day I Died

  Deathday

  Space-Time Cracks Open

  Daddy’s Love

  Driving a Car

  Dogs

  Friday, November 11

  Invitation

  April 1, First Date

  Wedding

  Awed

  Hitch in Time

  Hair Farming and Parenting

  My Joey

  All Roads Lead to Dogs

  Approaching the End: Memory Leaks

  Anna’s Deathday

  Mood Swings

  November 11

  My Deaths

  First Guide: Grampa

  Another Birthday-Deathday, Another Guide

  Where Is Grampa?

  Old Man Eddie’s Life

  Chasing Anna

  Wonder Wander: The Big and the Deep

  Anna’s Deathday

  Old Man Running

  Future

  Dead

  November 11

  Pizza Boy

  Anna’s Hitch

  Eddie: Too Late

  Dying, Finally

  To Be

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Anna

  1

  November 11, Morning

  At the beginning of the last day of my marriage, I didn’t notice anything different. There were no signs or warnings, no flashing lights. The day began as bad and sad as the five dozen before it. I’d learned to live under that crushing dread in the same way the receptors in my nose disregarded the persnickety molecules of a bad smell. Gradually the daily battles that colored my marriage wore me down and I became numb, almost oblivious.

  When I walked into the kitchen on that morning, my final November eleventh, I went straight to my five-year-old, Joey, and smacked a kiss onto his fluffy head. The boy needed a bath. I took the cup of coffee that my husband and ex-best friend, Eddie, was offering. He looked guilty. Nothing new there. Avoiding eye contact was the man’s newest form of torturing me.

  I’d just swallowed my first daily hit of caffeine when Joey looked up at me and revealed the chocolate crumbs around his mouth. Then he surprised me with this stunt. “Ooh, Mommy. I don’t feel too good today. I need to stay home. Bellyache. Ooh.” My boy who loved going to school leaned to me for a hug. I let him wrap his dirty hands around the silk sleeve of my blouse. I tried to catch Eddie’s eye, but his gaze crept between the cereal bowls and onto the floor.

  A gush of tears and snot rose up and threatened to dissolve my crystalline wall of defense. Crying was ineffective in our current battles. It wouldn’t get me the hug I needed. He’d just shake his head and walk away, leaving me in my own entropic mess. If I could hold it all in, I’d earn ten good minutes of crying alone in the car after I dropped Joey at kindergarten.

  I wrapped one arm around Joey’s bony shoulders and got a firm grip on his chin with my free hand. We were nose to nose when I said, “Show me those teeth.”

  My sweet boy giggled, threw his head back, and revealed Oreo chunks between his baby teeth.

  “Joey, come on, now. How’d you get chocolate for breakfast?”

  My little boy’s green eyes grew huge when he realized he was in trouble. He looked to his father for support, but Eddie turned away from him. I resisted the urge to hurl my coffee at the back of my husband’s head for abandoning our son.

  “Joe. We all know why you have a bellyache. You can’t stay home from school today.”

  I jabbed my finger at Eddie, the true perpetrator of this breakfast fiasco, demanding he meet my eyes and acknowledge me. “You gave him cookies for breakfast?” I flung these words at him like knives, and when he finally looked up his guilty eyes gave him away. He didn’t even defend himself.

  At 7:30 we all left the house to start our days. I helped Joey with his seat belt. It was hard with gloves on and tears in my eyes, but crying was so common for me that I lived in a blurry haze. I tossed my heavy school bag into the front seat and realized with the saddest heart that I was relieved to be leaving my own house.

  Sunglasses on. Key in ignition. Escape.

  “Honey?”

  This was Eddie. He was leaning his head in the passenger window of my car, closer to me than he’d been since August.

  “Anna, how about a day off today? You and me and Joey. Let’s all play hooky.”

  Was he kidding me? After so many weeks of treating me to the grim profile of his face, grunting answers to my questions, walking away—now he wanted to spend a day together. My mind and heart were firing on all cylinders, blocking whatever the hell he was saying. When he shut up, I said, “You’re calling me honey now? Where’d that come from?”

  I pulled on my seat belt, put the car in gear, checked my mirrors, and turned back to him. “I’m going to work.” Glad the sunglasses blocked my wet eyes yet fully aware that this man knew my crying face by my crumpled chin, I blew out a giant sigh and said, “See you tonight, honey,” and I backed out of our garage.

  2

  Flashback: Asked Out by My Teacher

  If I’d stayed home this morning, Eddie and I would still be together. Maybe. But every day of your life you can play that game, and it’s always futile—that hindsight crap. You do what you do. Make choices in the moment and live, or die, with them. One chance, one choice, and everything flows from that point. The other paths don’t even count. They are only imaginary.

  If I’d stayed home, if I’d made myself talk to Eddie and hash out our problems, actually meet them head on, we might still have split up. It was coming, I’m sure of that, but I’m not sure it would have been any more pleasant than death. So many ifs. If I hadn’t taken that crippling elective Particle Physics course twenty years ago when Eddie was
the teaching assistant for my class, if I hadn’t been such a math geek, if I’d tried out for cheerleading, if I had a normal mother, I’d never have met Eddie in the first place. See what I mean? Live with your choices.

  Here are my facts, the products of these choices: I love my small family fiercely—my husband, sister, and two kids. I’m an accomplished and proud geek. My marriage disintegrated, unraveled so quickly that I couldn’t distinguish the loose thread from the knotted weave, because my husband mysteriously became unreachable, untouchable, and alien to me. He left me helpless, weak.

  I remember also feeling helpless when Eddie and I met half a lifetime ago, but that flavor of helplessness was delicious. He crashed, uninvited, into my orbit and showed me that my life wasn’t only mine to live but was under the influence of forces beyond my control. I was twenty-two and finishing my master’s degree in engineering at my half-life. I remember that self-assured, arrogant girl and still marvel that she, a fresher version of me, managed to win over a guy on the order of Eddie Wixim.

  He asked me out at the end of a killer week. I was a wee bit delirious. I’d taken three exams and written two long lab reports that, on top of typing through two long nights, required a dozen extra hours in the lab. My strategy for survival had worked. I’d traded sleep time for study time and abandoned all personal hygiene time in favor of an extra twenty minutes of sleep in the stupid mornings.

  In the hug of the long-anticipated Saturday, I hadn’t intended to leave my bed, but I got hungry so I was making myself a batch of blueberry muffins. Mentally and physically exhausted, I couldn’t remember the last time I’d touched soap or even toothpaste. I got my toothbrush from the bathroom and, to be efficient, brushed my teeth while I stirred the muffin batter. That’s when the doorbell rang. Great. I threw down the wooden spoon, spat in the kitchen sink, and yanked open the door.

  And there he stood. Mr. Wixim, in the flesh. The only good-looking instructor on campus. The guy that all the idiot girls talked about. At my door. I tossed my toothbrush onto the couch, out of his sight.

  Smooth, Anna.

  All the undergrad girls were after Mr. Wixim. I didn’t quite understand all of the hoopla. Sure, he had good hair, thick and dark. Sure, he had some massive shoulders, but he always hid them under ragged flannel shirts. He was so serious all the time, but I had seen him smile once, laughing silently, shoulders shaking, at his own dark joke during recitation, and I did think he was cute. I did. But I’d never admit that. Especially to the girly girls with their eyeliner and nail polish and hair that they brushed every single day whether it needed brushing or not.

  The guy stood on my porch with his lower lip hanging down, his bottom teeth exposed. Not too impressive. He looked a little stupid today. The prince turned back into a toad. In my presence. Figures.

  I asked if he’d maybe misplaced my assignment, and he said no.

  He told me to call him Ed instead of Mr. Wixim. Really?

  What the hell was going on?

  The alarm dinged on my oven to announce that the ancient thing was hot enough to bake my muffins. My stomach growled and reminded me of my urgent need for sugar molecules. I was fairly sure I’d eaten since my last shower but couldn’t remember exactly what—maybe a box of Pop-Tarts—or when. Extraneous details were a blur that week. I had to get rid of this guy so I could address my many issues.

  His mouth opened and a stream of words blew past me. He made no sense. “Anna, listen. I’ve been watching you in class ...”

  How creepy.

  “... and I like the way you help explain things, even to the guys who hate girls telling them anything. You are a very take-charge person.”

  Was he going to offer me a job? Did they need more teaching assistants? I didn’t have a spare minute to consider something like that.

  I realized I was way off base when he said, “I wondered if you had time on Friday to celebrate the end of the week with me. That is, if I actually survive.”

  Survive what? Holy shit. Did my teacher, the hot guy, just ask me out?

  “You’re asking me out? Can you do that? I mean, you’re my teacher.”

  He was talking again. I really had to pay attention and focus on his words. But he was talking so damn fast and saying such ridiculous things; I could not keep up so I focused on his mouth. His teeth were nice. White and straight.

  “I’m not really your teacher. I’m just the teaching assistant. Professor Hornsby is the teacher of record. He establishes grades and writes the tests. Do you see the difference?” He tossed his hair out of his eyes and stared at me. He looked a bit pathetic.

  From the depths of my murky mind I suddenly realized how funny this was. I barked a laugh, the one that usually scared guys away, and said, “That’s not the only difference! He’s old and bald and fat, and I would never go out with him.”

  And, somehow, in the next three minutes, through no fault of my own, we made a date. Eddie was grinning like an idiot. I was shocked. He left. I went back to my muffins and ate half the raw dough with a spoon while I baked the other half.

  So, yeah, though we had a rocky start, Eddie pursued me, and I, so confused by the entire charade, let him catch me, ignorant of the future we’d have, the pain that would ooze from our entwined thread of choices. Our beginning was sweet. Our ending was not. This man, who changed my life twenty-two years ago, left me as he found me—helpless.

  3

  November 11, Evening

  The lights are dimmed at the elementary school where I dropped off my son this morning. I would’ve picked him up hours ago; his dad is late.

  Buried under his puffy coat and backpack, Joey’s left knee jiggles—bent, straight, bent—as he blows frost clouds on the glass door. He draws a sad face on the cold pane, writes his name under it, and then glances at his teacher, Miss Abby, who ignores him and stares over his head. She’s annoyed that she drew the short straw and had to stay late, and too self-absorbed to notice that her student can sense her anger. The dent of Joey’s eyebrows and the straight line of his mouth, lips closed tight, are familiar components of his worried face. My son shouldn’t know how to worry. I hope he didn’t hear his teachers gossiping about me, those busybodies. He shouldn’t find out like that.

  I whisper in his ear, “Don’t worry, Joey. Daddy’s on the way.” But he doesn’t hear me. When the bright headlights pull in the parking lot with his dad’s car behind them, Joey is sweating a little. As soon as the blinding lights blink off, Miss Abby yanks his hat down over his ears, and she pushes him out the door.

  Eddie leans his forehead on the steering wheel. “Anna, how am I going to do this?”

  “Come on, Eddie, he’s been waiting for hours,” I insist in the nagging voice that annoys my husband. This is the tone I save especially for him whenever there’s no other choice and I’m required to speak to him. He’s got that annoyed look right now as he raises his eyes to the door, focuses on Joey, and doesn’t answer me. My husband rushes past me without a glance and scoops our boy up in a big hug. He tells Miss Abby he’s sorry, and she says she’s sorry, and he says it again. He ducks his head and won’t meet her eyes. Interesting. The man looks guilty even when he’s not alone with me.

  Eddie carries Joey to the car. He tosses Joey’s backpack into the passenger seat and helps him get his seat belt buckled. It’s hard with gloves on. Harder with tears blurring his eyes. He turns his head so Joey won’t see him cry.

  Joey’s mittened hands pat his dad’s thinning hair, and he asks the question, “Dad, where’s Mommy?”

  “I’m right here, Joe,” I say. He ignores me.

  Eddie meets our son’s eyes. Great. He’s going to tell Joey in the damn car.

  “Don’t you mess this up, Eddie.” I can hear the blame in my own voice.

  Stalling, Eddie wipes his nose with the back of his glove. “Joey,” he begins and stops. He takes a ragged breath. Come on, Eddie, get on with it if you’re going to do it in the school parking lot. He squats down beside the op
en car door in a slushy puddle and rests his hands on Joey’s knees. His eyes leak. Joey’s eyes are wide and dry, unblinking, locked on his dad.

  I watch my husband raise his hand to our son’s shoulder and say, “Mommy died.”

  I’m not surprised because death isn’t something that sneaks up on you. When you’re dead, the universe makes sure you feel it.

  Joey considers this news. He studies his father’s wet eyes and then asks, “Where is she?”

  Eddie leans in to kiss the top of Joey’s capped head and says, “At the hospital.”

  I’m not at the hospital, you fool. I’m right here.

  He gives his head a hard shake and angrily wipes his eyes. I’m certain Joey has never seen his dad cry before. In two decades, I’ve never seen it. “Let’s go home and call your sister, okay?” Joey nods, but he doesn’t look convinced.

  Joey’s sister, Bethany, is a freshman in college, one hundred long miles away. I hope her bumbling father improves his death announcement skills on his second try. I don’t approve of his parking lot approach.

  When Eddie starts the car, Joey asks, “Can we go see Mommy? Will she come home tonight?”

  “No, Joey. Mom isn’t coming home.” Eddie repeats the impossible words. “Mommy died.” His eyes plead with Joey. Understand this, kid. Don’t make me keep saying it.

  Anna?

  “Did she die like Grammy?”

  Anna! Where the hell are you?

  Even Eddie doesn’t know I’m here.

  “Yes, Joe. She’s with Grammy now.”

  Eddie continues to leak tears while he drives toward the house where we live. Well, where they live. I no longer live. Anywhere.

  “Don’t cry, Daddy. We can go to the hospital and get Mommy on the way home.”

  Damn it, Eddie, quit your blubbering and explain this to him. He’s a smart kid. He can understand if you spell it out.