Phoenix Rising

by Anais Ninja

  After the phone call, I went back downstairs and sat with Helen and Bradley in the library. I poured three snifters of brandy from the crystal decanter on the sideboard and sat and listened to them talk about Brad, reminiscing about the good things in his life, the highlights, the happy memories.

  “He was so scared of the water,” Bradley said, his arm resting on his wife’s shoulders. “When we had the pool put in he wouldn’t even go into the backyard.”

  “When he did finally go into the pool, he had to wear those floatie things,” Helen said.

  “Water wings,” Bradley added. He got up from the couch and went over to one of the bookshelves, where there was a row of trophies. He picked one up and handed it to me. It was Brad’s, a varsity swimming team award.

  “Water wings, a life preserver, and an inflatable cushion,” Helen said, laughing for the first time in almost a week. “He looked like the son of the Michelin Man.”

  “What do you remember, Annie?” Bradley asked me. “What’s your best memory?”

  “I really can’t say,” I said, blushing. I had a vision of his smile, his muscular body, his beautiful cock.

  “Tell us,” Helen said, reaching for my hand.

  “It was that weekend we spent at Julia’s house,” I said. “We made love in her garden...”

  “Annie...,” Helen said, her eyes filling with tears even though she was smiling. As we held each other’s hands, I remembered something, that dream I’d had on the mesa, the cave, the old man, the vision.

  “Where did they find him?” I asked Bradley.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Where was Brad when they found him?”

  “He was in his dorm room, on the floor,” he said.

  “Was it carpeted?”

  “Why?”

  “Tell me, was there a carpet on the floor?”

  “All of the rooms had carpets,” Helen said. “I remember this from that time we visited him in October, for Parents’ Weekend.”

  “Why do you want to know this?” Bradley asked.

  I told them about the dream, how I’d seen a young man on the floor of a room, describing it as best as I could. I couldn’t see his face, but I had the feeling that I knew him. And there were the words of old Makya, his reply when I’d asked him who the boy was: “He tugs at your heart”.

  “I saw him,” I said. “I saw him.”

  “Come here,” Helen said. I got up from the leather armchair and sat next to her on the couch, and she held me as my tears began anew.

  “You loved him,” she whispered. “You were connected. That’s how you could see him. There was a bond.”

  “I loved him,” I said as she rocked me in her arms. I didn’t want to cry, I didn’t want to fall apart like this. I needed to be strong, for myself, for Bradley and Helen, and for Brad. Helen dried my tears and handed me the snifter of brandy. I took a sip and choked back my tears, trying to put on a brave face. As bad as it was now, I knew it would get worse after Brad was taken off of the breathing machine.

  We sat and talked for a while, until we couldn’t fight our exhaustion, our weariness. I went upstairs with Bradley and Helen and kissed them good night before they went into their bedroom and closed the door. I sat in Carrie’s bed for a while, wearing one of her comfortable old flannel nightgowns, alone with my thoughts, afraid of what my dreams might hold. Then I tiptoed into Brad’s room and turned on the light.

  It was as if he’d never left, everything in its place, books on the shelves, guitar leaning up against the corner of the room, the bed made, ready for him to come home from the hospital and convalesce. I sat on his bed and clutched his pillow, hoping to catch a scent of him, but the linen had been freshly washed. I opened his closet and looked around, finding an old varsity jacket of his, pulling it out, holding it to my face. It smelled of stale sweat, that locker room aroma, but it was his sweat, his scent. I laid down on his bed, holding the jacket in my arms as I fell asleep.

  * * *