by Laura Lanni
“All right, that’s scary, but I think I understand a little better about controlling where and when I go. But you still haven’t explained how I was there in the future. I was alive there. Mom, how did I do that?”
“Honey, the mysteries of life and death and outer space and all the contradictions of physics have baffled humans since they became a conscious species. They have invented myths to explain every natural phenomenon they have encountered, and they cling stubbornly to those myths well after they fully and scientifically understand. I tried to help you keep your mind open in life to every possible answer to all of life’s questions. That was my motherly duty. It turns out there are even more questions to be answered in death. The universe is infinitely more complex than our beloved little planet. You are just beginning your journey of questions. Let the answers come to you. I can reassure you that the answers are there, but I cannot explain it all to you. Full understanding of your choices is a personal mission. And even when you do understand your choices, I can’t help you make the right one. Each choice is right.”
“What kind of choices? What are you talking about?” I demand. I know perfectly well that her professor speeches are cloaked in smoke and mirrors to cover up when she intends to deliberately dodge my questions. I also recognize that she is too stubborn to be forced out from behind the smoke when she wants to hide.
I feel a mom-hug in her voice as she assures me, “You’re my smart girl. You’ll see.”
She leaves.
So I try it again. I let myself think of Eddie and wait, curious to see where these thoughts take me.
15
Nightmare in the Future
The street is so crowded with people and filth that, though he has a firm grip on my hand, I have trouble keeping up with Eddie. On his other side, Bethany holds tight to his arm as he pushes through the crowd to the barred front door of a hotel. He bangs on the glass and shows his medical identification, and we are allowed inside. It is an enormous luxury to find a place to stay for the night.
We sleep in our clothes. Eddie wakes me before dawn. “Anna. We have to get out of here.”
I drag my old body up, grab my backpack, and the three of us leave the safe shelter of the hotel. Bethany is older—maybe in her thirties. We find a crowded restaurant that serves weak coffee and toast. We stay there the entire day because the street is closed, barricaded by what appear to be military police. With no working satellites, our cell phones are useless. Eddie and Bethany will not be able to get to the wounded today. We wait, cold and hungry, listening to gunshots, worrying all afternoon.
An hour after dark, we sneak out a side door. We lose Eddie in a crowd. Men grab me and Bethany and pull us back into the restaurant. They throw me to the floor and drag Bethany away through a door to what must be the kitchen.
Eddie comes back and finds me on the floor.
“They took her, Eddie!”
He bangs on the door, yelling that Bethany is a nurse and is under protection for her skills.
I meet the eye of a stranger who hands me a gun.
The kitchen door cracks open, and Eddie is pulled in. I follow.
When they accuse Eddie of theft, he hurls an empty glass bottle at a burly man and hits him in the face. I slip past in the fight to where Bethany sits, bruised and crying, while two men argue about what to do with her. Without hesitation, I pull the trigger, blowing a hole in the wall. Eddie grabs Bethany and pulls her out.
I lower the gun.
We run.
| | | |
What the hell was that?
“Quite like a nightmare, I know,” my mother’s voice soothes.
I demand, “Was that one real, too?”
Mom sounds exasperated when she replies, “What does ‘real’ mean? The meaning of the word is as elusive as always. Layers of time and reality allow for infinite possibilities, Anna. Not all of them are pleasant, and not all of them occur.”
“Another nightmare on the dead side? Help me get away from it.”
“The effect is quite like when you woke from nightmares in life. You have to rise up to full consciousness and will yourself away from it. Declare a time or a place, or both.”
“Just bring me back to my real life.” I almost laugh. What is real life?
“That’s too vague. Pick a place.”
“I don’t know—how about just take me home again?” I don’t care at all. I just want to get away. Far away from the dark feeling of that bad dream.
“Past or present?” she asks.
“Present. Let me see what Eddie’s up to.”
“Still hung up on that man, aren’t you?”
“He’s my kryptonite, I guess. I want to know if he’s hurting or happy.”
“There you go,” Mom says as she leaves. It feels like maybe this time she nudged me in the right direction.
16
Another Lesson and a Palindrome
Death has numbed some of the pain of my crumbling marriage. It was lucky for Eddie that I kicked the bucket and relieved him of the nasty burden of me.
Now, he sits alone and quiet on my swing. He looks so formal in his suit and tie and stiff dress shoes. He also looks sad. I wonder if it’s harder on him that I died while we were fighting. He was fighting; I was just playing possum and trying to survive. But he was ready for a fight any minute of any day or night. Tiptoeing around his moods was exhausting. I went to work on November eleventh because I needed to get away from him.
While we were fighting, Eddie and I had an unspoken contest to see who could withhold attention, and especially eye contact, the longest. For months, I never caught him looking at me. This made my life as desolate as our lack of touch. When your best friend won’t spread his gaze over you, you become invisible. Eddie looked away or down, even during the few times when we spoke. The man was guilty of something. At first, I played along in self-defense. Eventually, I became certain that he’d never look at me again, so I began to study him. While reading, mowing the lawn, paying bills, tucking Joey in bed or watching TV, his sad eyes and downturned lips revealed his disgust with his life. With me.
I continue my self-torture and study him still, now from the dead side, trying to understand this man I used to know as well as I knew myself. I’m not seeing what I expect. If I’d died last spring, back when he was my prince, I’d expect him to be devastated. I died during his funk, though, when it was obvious that Eddie suffered from my mere presence in the room. I expected him to be relieved, like I feel. But he looks like a man destroyed by the loss of his wife. This baffles me.
“Yes, Mr. Ed does looks pathetic, Anna.”
I’m startled by her voice in my thoughts. “Mom, did I call you?”
“No, dear, it’s like cell phones. I can call you, too.”
I haven’t been interrupted by my mom in years. “You never liked Eddie, did you?”
“Not much, no,” she says, point blank and frank as always. “He took you away.”
“But getting married always takes people from their parents. What was the big deal with Eddie and me?”
“The big deal was that he changed your plans so drastically. You were accepted to the doctoral program in physics at Cornell. How could you turn away from that to become a high school teacher?”
She really didn’t get us. “Those were your plans for me. I was following along because it was the easiest thing to do. Don’t rock the boat. Don’t make people mad. I have the same confrontational issues as you. But Eddie fell for me. Nobody had ever loved me before. Nobody had ever thought I was beautiful before. I was always the ugly, nerd sister.”
Mom is quiet for a while. “I thought you were beautiful.”
“That doesn’t count. You’re my mom; you have to think I’m beautiful. You probably thought so when I was a wrinkled, old-man newborn.”
“I did. But something didn’t feel quite right with you and that man. It all happened too fast. I wasn’t convinced. Obviously, you were in love. You were delirious. But y
ou were also incoherent—so different from my normal, level-headed, capable Anna. Do you remember what you told me when you said you were marrying this perfect guy? Do you remember why you were so sure, so soon, that Mr. Ed was the one?”
“I could just feel it. Love might be as hard to explain as this timelessness that I’m still struggling with.”
“Well, you didn’t express that feeling very clearly. What you told me and your father was that your fiancé had the perfect last name.”
“I did?”
“You did. And that’s about all you offered as justification for marrying Mr. Ed in such a hurry and for changing all of your—all right—our plans.”
I think back to our discussion about Eddie’s last name. It’s my name now and has been for half my life. I take it for granted. Then, suddenly, I remember. Mostly I remember the dead silence on the other end of the phone when I broke my big news to my parents. “I told you his name was a palindrome, just like ‘Anna,’ didn’t I?”
“Exactly.”
“You know how I love palindromes. Oh! I remember you argued with me that Wixim wasn’t a palindrome.”
“Yes. And that was my biggest mistake. Instead of arguing that a palindrome last name is a weak sign that your love would last forever, I argued that Wixim wasn’t a palindrome, as though convincing you of that would make you change your mind. Your father watched and listened in horror from across the kitchen table as I wrote W-I-X-I-M on a piece of paper and whispered to him that our brilliant daughter was marrying this strange man named Ed because she thought his name was a palindrome.”
“I remember. You were going a little bonkers over the phone, yelling that Wixim is definitely not a palindrome, and then all of a sudden you went silent. I thought you’d passed out, or we were disconnected.”
“That’s when your dad rotated the paper upside-down to me and showed me your unique rotational palindrome. What kind of mind notices these things? I was shocked into silence.”
“That wasn’t the only reason I knew Eddie was right for me. My feelings were so strong and undeniable, so right and certain, but, at the same time, I couldn’t explain them. Not with mere words.”
“Do you remember ranting about elevens?” Mom asks.
“Elevens?” Of course I remember, but I want to hear her take on it.
“You said Wixim has elevens both ways. ‘Roman elevens! Roman elevens!’ And you loved elevens. The time 11:11, the date November eleventh—you were a bit obsessed. And you insisted that the Roman numeral eleven ‘both ways’,” she mimics me, “in his last name was the most perfect married name for you.”
She’s right. I was a little crazy then. I decided not to remind her of how much I loved my first name back when she first taught me about element symbols when I was eight years old. I was thrilled that my palindrome first name was made from the symbol for sodium, Na, frontwards and backwards. Sodium reacts violently with water, forming explosive hydrogen gas, sparks, and flames. And, drum roll, please, its atomic number is eleven. No kidding. My obsession with elevens was my mother’s fault in every way. I’m a geek, just like her.
With Eddie, though, I lost my head with my heart. I was just so caught up in being in love. But I did die on November eleventh, so the elevens of my obsession did turn out to be significant. Was that a coincidence? I decide not to push this sore spot with my mom anymore just now. I’m sure I’ll need more of her help, and I don’t want her mad or distracted. I avoid confrontation in death just like I did in life. Instead, I try to convince her that Eddie, the guy I almost divorced, was the right guy way back then.
“But look at him now, Mom. He misses me. We were fighting two days ago, and now he misses fighting with me.”
“Anna, I watched enough since I died to see that he loved you. I saw what I couldn’t see while I was living. Alive, I just knew he had you, so I had to give you up. That’s a hard lesson for a parent.”
Once again, she’s gone, just like a dropped cell phone call.
17
Getting Ready, Letting Go
Bethany’s cell phone sings an old Elton John love song and wakes up Joey. She lets it ring. Joey comes down the stairs in his Superman pajamas, humming “Rocket Man,” and he goes straight to the bottom cabinet where he digs to find a big bowl.
“Hey, Joe-boy.” Bethany grabs him to kiss the top of his head. I miss the sweaty boy smell of the top of his head. “Want me to make some pancakes?” He wiggles out of her hug.
“Nah. Daddy bought me Fruity Pebbles.” He climbs up the pantry shelves and topples down the box. After a struggle to rip open the inner bag, he pours the cereal into the big bowl. He opens the fridge, holding his spoon up like a weapon, and stares into the bright box for a full minute. Without turning around, he says into the cold air, “Bethany, will you help with the milk? It’s too heavy. Mommy used to leave me a cup on the bottom shelf.”
Only a few days ago I left a cup of milk for my son on the bottom shelf of our fridge and already he’s saying I used to do it.
“Sure. Grab me a bowl. I’m having some of these, too. I haven’t seen sugar in the morning at this house since before you were born.”
“What was it like before I was born?”
Bethany pours milk in his bowl, snorts, and says, “Quiet.” She eats a spoonful of her cereal and gags. Kid food. Ick.
After she puts a bagel into the toaster and pours the sickly sweet cereal down the drain, she starts a fresh pot of coffee. I’m gonna need some C8H10N4O2 to get through this day.
My daughter tells my son, “Hurry up with that cereal, Joey. We need to get dressed for Mom’s memorial service.”
My memorial service. Cripes. I might just need some of that caffeine myself.
| | | |
Eddie waits for the rest of our clan to get ready. He’s all alone outside on my swing, not swinging. Just sitting still as stone, staring at nothing. Somehow, he found Joey’s little blue suit and some dark socks and has them ready, all laid out on his bed to wrestle Joey into. Now, for a few minutes of peace, he just sits in the sun and lets his thoughts leave again. Empty-headed is the best way to be.
This time we agree. I wish I could stay empty-headed.
On the couch in the library, Michelle sips black coffee. The pile of used tissues beside her tells me she has not managed to reach Eddie’s empty-headed state. She holds a pen over a page of scribbled notes and hums. A bowl of half-eaten Fruity Pebbles rests on the floor at her feet.
My family looks pretty good today. Everyone is awake, getting ready, and even eating.
Mom’s voice answers me. “Yes. It doesn’t take long. The energy created by matter’s union with antimatter compels life to continue, even though your family will miss your atoms and your presence every day.”
“And I’ll miss them every day.”
“Even Mr. Ed?” she challenges.
“Please stop calling him Mr. Ed. Eddie’s a smart guy. Not at all like a talking horse.”
My Eddie earned his doctorate in electrical engineering and then went on to medical school and worked as a pediatric oncologist for a dozen years. After all of this my mother still never gives him any credit.
“At least you could call him Dr. Ed,” I say, wondering why I am defending the man.
Mom considers this. “Hmm, Dr. Ed. D-R-E-D. I kind of like that. Do you think he’d rather be called Dread than Mr. Ed? I could be like you and endear him by calling him my Mr. Ed, if you prefer.”
“Mo-ther,” I moan.
“Sorry, old habits die hard—no pun intended. Did you know today is your cremation and memorial service?”
“Yes, I saw Eddie write it in purple ink in my planner.”
“Ooh, purple ink. That sounds serious. He wrote it in your planner?”
“That’s what Eddie does. He always read my lists. He liked to check what I did and didn’t finish at the end of the day. I’d leave my planner out at night so he could look it over after I went to sleep. Some nights he started my list for
the next day before he came to bed. We were a good match most of the time.”
Again I hear myself defending him. Where is this coming from? Eddie drove me crazy and broke my heart, but I still defend him to my mother. After a long silence, she is wise to change the subject.
“I understand the need to linger nearby,” she says. “But you will eventually have to make your final choice, Anna. It could help them all to heal and move on if you let them go and try to depart soon after the memorial service. Then stay away for a while.”
How could I stay away? It all sounded so final. So over. The end. My finite little life reached its conclusion while I thought I was in the middle of the twisting plot of an odyssey. But it turns out I was the lead in a one-act play. The audience walked out when the director stopped the action. I always understood, in theory, that my body was only on loan to me, made up of borrowed, recycled, previously used atoms. Yet I am still bitter about giving it up.
“Cremation sounded like a good idea when I was alive. Now, the thought of such a rapid return and redistribution of my atoms, breaking down my proteins and amino acids to ash and smoke, seems the most final of all of the phases of death so far.”
“Try not to worry about that. You don’t need that body anymore, Anna. You can exist in death and make your choices without it. You have all you need at your disposal.”
Death still doesn’t make much sense to me. Especially the part about choices—I have no idea what she’s talking about there. But I understand the grieving process from too much life experience. Memorials and funerals and wakes and the gatherings of family and friends afterward were always an unexpectedly comforting time. Dealing with the loss was harder alone, and being together, crying and hugging, laughing and eating, always helped. Maybe it would help me to be there, too.