It had been a couple of weeks since Aaron allowed himself to enter the master bedroom. He chose to sleep, eat, and survive at the other end of the house. Upon pulling the door slowly open, stale air escaped in a subtle puff, hollow and lifeless, as if Aaron was opening a long sealed tomb.
Aaron was not surprised that he remembered everything about the enclosed space, every piece of furniture and exactly how they were placed, each shadow and where they fell and when they moved, and each specific smell. The room had remained with him, like a permanent blue-print etched in his mind.
For several minutes Aaron stood in the doorway, questioning whether to enter or flee. It would be like stepping in to the past, but not in to one specific moment or year. Instead, he would cross the threshold and return to an era. The Era of Caitlin. And the happiness and motion that filled and moved that time. He would be reminded, fully. But he would not be able to stay there, no matter how hard he tried. The act of returning would only make the loss seem more real, his breath more still, and leaving would be that more painful.
And, with that knowledge, he entered.
He sat on the floor with his back against the messy bed. The blankets and sheets had not been touched or tucked since. And Aaron could still smell the vanilla. Lying his head back against the edge of the bed, he inhaled the vanilla.
Vanilla had woken Aaron. Sex the previous night was deep and his sleep afterward had been just as deep and comfortable. The feeling of Caitlin’s body, her soft skin, had followed him in to his dreams, making them full of silk and satin. Her vanilla lotion had also crept in, luring him from his sleep, guiding him back to consciousness.
“It’s 10 after 6,” Caitlin told him, standing in the bathroom doorway, gently rubbing lotion on her arms. “I will wake you in 20 minutes if you want to snooze a little bit longer.” The bathroom light outlined her form, giving the illusion of an angel in the doorway.
“How did you sleep?” Aaron found himself asking, perhaps because he had slept so well. Rising slightly, he added, “Because I slept like a cloud.”
“Oh really?” Caitlin’s voice was light as song. “Maybe we will just have to do it again tonight” Quickly, she added, “Because I am still ovulating. Next time might be the charm.”
For Aaron, the stoic and metaphoric feelings were gone, swept away, replaced by the mechanical images of ovulation and baby making; the body machine in all its robotic splendor.
Dr. Riley would love to here Caitlin talk like that though, full of hope instead of beating herself up week after week. The baby will come, the doctor would often repeat to her again and again. The future will be born.
Dr. Riley sat still, stiller than any living being should be able to. Perhaps he was waiting for Caitlin’s reaction, waiting for his words to sink all the way down. But for several seconds Caitlin simply returned his stare, unwilling to move before he did.
“There are options,” Dr. Riley finally said.
“Like what?”
“Fertility therapy,” Dr. Riley began, “would be the first thing to try. I want you to know immediately that the chances for success are always low but success does happen, if you truly believe and have hope. Let me explain all the details, and if you choose it I would like to move forward as soon as possible.”
Aaron simply sat back, watching his wife as her dreams of having children seemed to be slipping away. But Caitlin did not cry. She sat up. She listened. And she choose to move forward, wherever the motion might take her. And he sat back and watched, wondering if it was possible for him to do the same.
The ceiling fan above them twirled slowly, attempting to move the thick atmosphere around. Around. And around. The ceiling fan pulled in the smoke from Aaron’s cigarette, capturing and sending it out toward the four walls like the funnel cloud of a hurricane. With a wet, filtered butt hanging from the corner of his mouth, loosely clenched by two lips, Aaron scribbled a couple more words, etching them upon the opened notebook tilting on top of his right leg.
Poetic words taunted him, briefly showing themselves before dancing away within the rising smoke. Deep and metaphoric thoughts were always difficult for Aaron to capture and manipulate. He struggled through his high school English classes, surviving on simple, short sentences and blue collar ideas. Caitlin was the poet. Not him. Caitlin loved poems. And Aaron loved Caitlin.
…and death. Aaron jotted. But what rhymed with death? What?
Growing frustrated again, Aaron ripped the partially used piece of paper from its spine. He quickly crumpled the paper into a small ball and tossed it with the his earlier attempts. The dead ideas gathering around him, forming a chaotic circular graveyard of poetry, with him as the central reaper.
“Damn it,” Aaron exhaled before flicking the pillar of ash from the tip of his cigarette into the plastic blue ashtray. “I hear you, Caitlin. I am trying to speak back. I swear.”
Aaron placed three pairs of candles around the room, on top of the dresser, on the bedside stand, and on the entertainment stand beneath the dusty television. The dancing flames filled the dark air with a soft glow, giving Aaron enough light to see the paper. The moving shadows matched his mind, dim and distant. Every adult family member or friend dressed in brown or dark blues, saving their good black garments for the funeral, while the children played with smiles in their Sunday best, oblivious to the weight of death. And after nearly an hour of shaking hands and nodding heads, Aaron finally found himself alone with his wife.
The casket was closed.
Bowing his head and folding his hands, Aaron became very still. Closing his eyes, Aaron could feel the movement of those around him, continuing with their conversations, smiles, and replies. But inside himself every thing had grown calm, leaving barely a breath, barely a heartbeat to feel.
No tears would flow.
Caitlin spoke from the coffin, her voice from a far way, “The tears will come, my darling. Give it time.”
Aaron knew the voice wasn’t real. No ghost or phantom or angel. Caitlin spoke from within him. Her voice was engraved so deeply within Aaron that she was able to vocalize his thoughts and fears, and do it in a way that soothed the situation. Caitlin’s voice simply made everything better. When she spoke to him, it all made sense. And he needed that. Even with her body gone, Aaron needed Caitlin’s voice. Or else he was truly alone and lost.
“Excuse me,” someone said from behind him. “May I help you, sir?”
“She’s my wife,” Aaron replied without turning from the tiny window.
The female voice behind him replied, “Your not supposed to be back here, sir. A doctor will talk to you once your wife is out of surgery. Please, go back into the waiting room and have a seat. Sir?”
“A seat?” Aaron replied, turning to the dark skinned nurse. “How the hell am I suppose to be still while my wife is in there dying. How? I can’t sit. I can’t be still while she fights for her life.”
The nurse wanted to reply, but chose not to.
Alarms and buzzers began to scream, and Aaron immediately found himself running forward, through the door way and into the operating room. The bright florescent lights engulfed him, and the alarms and buzzers continued to scream.
Ring. Ring. Ring.
The phone rang, first from far away, through Aaron’s skull and in to his dreams. Aaron followed the fifth ring back into consciousness. At once he noticed the absence of Caitlin. She must have stayed at her mother’s, Aaron told himself. It was supposed to snow pretty something awful.
Aaron had spent all day searching for a new job. He had been laid off from the Steel Mill last week, and finding another job was taking a lot out of him. He had fallen asleep before 9 o’clock, tired and frustrated.
The clock next to the phone read 10:03 p.m. in large red numbers.
“Caitlin?” he managed to groan, half expected to hear the voice of his wife, telling him that sh
e was safe and loved him and would see him in the morning.
“Mr. Spendor?” came a question from the darkness. The voice was not from Caitlin. Caitlin did not have gravel in her throat. “Mr. Aaron Spendor?”
“Yes,” Aaron replied. The dead ringing still echoed in his ears.
“I’m calling from Trumbull Memorial Hospital,” the voice answered. “There has been a car accident, Mr. Spendor. Your wife, her mother, along with a woman in another vehicle were involved in a collision.”
“Are they there?”
“They are in route now,” the voice said. “We would like you to come to the hospital, right away. We should know more by the time you get here.”
Aaron did not answer, but instead hung up the phone, the dead ringing still in his ears.
Aaron spun his wedding ring around and around his finger, fighting to focus his thoughts in to something meaningful.
…and then death…with nothing left…
The gold of the wedding ring was a subtle yellow, but turned in to a sunny presence when light struck it at an angle. Yellow. Like a halo. Yellow. Like the small post-it stuck to Aaron’s right leg.
Aaron took another hit from his cigarette and stared blankly at the motionless pen resting on top of the motionless words. Replacing the burning butt back onto the ashtray, Aaron ran his hand through the ragged red hair on his head and then rubbed his fingers across stubble of hair on his chin.
“The words will flow,” Caitlin told him. “They will come like a river, sweetheart.”
Aaron looked down at the yellow post-it.
“I don’t know if I can. I want to speak back but I don‘t know if I can,” Aaron replied to the empty bedroom. He read over the words, brushing through each line of the short poem. It was written for him. But when? And why hadn’t he seen it before?
“Where the hell did you come from?” Aaron asked the small piece of yellow paper stuck to his wife’s mirror. He stood there confused, unsure whether to look away or to even move. Would the yellow paper vanish if he were not looking directly at it? Caitlin? Is this you?
“You’re dead, sweetheart,” Aaron told the piece of paper. “You’ve been dead a year.”
“I am still,” Caitlin replied.
The door was still nearby, Aaron told himself. He could run. He could close the door and reseal the tomb. Lock it. Forever.
Finally allowing himself motion, Aaron snatched the post-it from the mirror. And he continued the motion throughout the rest of the bedroom, turning it from a slow caution to dramatic frenzy. From the lampshade. From the headboard. From the wall. Aaron seized each and every little post-it that he found. And then did the same to the next room and the next room, until he had them all, every one in the entire house.
“You died yesterday,” Aaron said through short breaths. “Your poems are dead too.”
“I am still,” Caitlin replied.
Aaron closed his eyes. With his eyes still closed, he listened for Caitlin’s voice, humming or singing in the bathroom or the kitchen. But there was only silence. What time was it? Aaron could feel the weight of the day already heavy into the late morning.
“Caitlin!?”
No answer.
Forcing his eyelids upward, Aaron was struck by a bright light. Both curtains were drawn completely open, letting in the Saturday rays. Instantly he turned away from it, pondering whether to rise or fall.
“Caitlin!?”
No answer.
Aaron turned on his back to admire the ceiling. Looking toward the white plaster, he noticed a sticky yellow paper stuck to the headboard. Conjuring a chuckle, Aaron pulled himself on to an elbow. Pulling his face in close, he read it twice.
…rise and greet…with battered feet…a great day…with sun to play…
Aaron could smell his cigarettes, even though they were within a pack across the room. Normally he would yell for Caitlin, ask her to bring him his morning cigarette, so that he could have the nicotine needed to start the day. But she had gone. He would take a few puffs before crawling out of bed. He would lie back and think, watching the smoke rise from the tip of ash. The smoke began to rise faster toward the ceiling fan. Instead remaining a straight stream, the smoke began to spiral slightly. Aaron watched the smoke spiral, like his life spiraled, around Caitlin’s death.
Caitlin’s final poem, sticking to his leg, echoed in his mind.
…memories are worlds…where lost loves survive…they go not unto death…but into reminiscing…
Aaron had never read the words until this day, which was exactly one year since Caitlin’s death. Had the words come from her? From death? Or were the words written by a man broken, fractured from loss that he created the poem himself, the same way he creates her voice in his head? Because he can’t let go. Because he can’t break free?
“I am still here,” Caitlin whispered. “I love you.”
“What do you think baby?” Aaron asked Caitlin, pointing to the long single-floor house. “It’s light blue.”
“My favorite,” Caitlin replied. “Can we afford it, sweetheart?”
“Let me worry about that,” Aaron replied. “Do you want it? That is all I need to know.”
“I don’t know,” Caitlin said.
“Do you like it? Be honest.”
“I love it,” Caitlin replied.
“Do you want it?”
“Of course,” she answered.
“Then,” Aaron began, “honey, from now on this is your house.”
“Our house,” Caitlin corrected.
“Our home.”
“Well, then,” she began, “let’s sign the papers quickly so that we can start making babies and filling the bedrooms with munchkins.” Caitlin kissed Aaron with intensity. Pointing at the home, “I am ready to bless our new temple, my dear. If you know what I mean.”
Aaron distinguished his cigarette before sparking another one.
The pile of bills sat on the table like a snow covered mound, with Aaron looming over the peak. Desperately he punched the buttons of a small calculator, trying to find the right combination, trying to find the right numbers to scale the mountain of debt before him. But Aaron didn’t have enough numbers to work with. More money was going out than was coming in; a fact he couldn’t escape. Yet, he banged the buttons again, trying to twist simple addition and subtraction to his despairing will.
“I won’t give you up,” Aaron told the walls of house. “I will get a second job if I have to. A third. A fourth. I won’t give up your temple.” Aaron told his deceased wife. “I won’t!” At that moment Aaron decided to hurl the calculator at wall so that he could hear something break. He regretted it immediately. “Damn it!”
Burning through another cigarette along with several more poetic attempts. The rotating fan kept the air circulating, pulling in the spiraling smoke and dispersing it along the ceiling. But, in spite of the attempt at circulation, the room continued to smell like fire.
The bedroom was like a stranger with a familiar face. The face of a ghost. Why had I come in here this time? Aaron already knew the answer. Caitlin. Tonight marked the end of the first year of her death, a 12 month rewind that Aaron could not seem to escape. Until tonight. He somehow knew that. Somehow.
Aaron took the yellow post-it filled with Caitlin’s resurrected words, and stuck it to his leg. Grabbing an old notebook and pen from the top of the dresser, he sat on the floor with his back against the messy bed. The blankets and sheets had not been touched or tucked since. And Aaron could still smell the vanilla. Lying his head back against the edge of the bed, he inhaled the vanilla.
Letting his mind dance within the fragrance, Aaron tried to clear his mind of everything except his wife. A poem would come.
“Poetry comes from within the odor of life,” Caitlin whispered. “Find me in the vanilla.”
> …memories are worlds…where lost loves survive…they go not unto death…but into reminiscing…
As Aaron was rubbing out the red tip of yet another cigarette, the red digits of the table clock struck 10:03 p.m. And then everything around him stopped. He was immediately aware of the pause. The ceiling fan ceased its rotation, leaving the air dirty with smoke. Every candle flame became smothered, dying without flowing oxygen. Aaron could feel his heart pounding and his blood rushing through veins, but that was the only motion in the room. It felt as if time itself had become completely still.
A thin light suddenly outlined the bedroom door, disturbing the motionless dark.
Aaron thought about rising but remained seated, pressing his back against the familiar bed. He found comfort in having something solid at his back. He could either go above or below the bed. He had options. Even bad options could lessen the fear a little.
Without the knob turning, the door swung in. A bright white filled the room. Amidst the light was a solid figure, deep black in contrast to the pure white.
“Who?” Aaron only managed one word.
“Hello, Aaron.” The voice carried like music.
“Caitlin?”
“Of course,” Caitlin replied. Around her the bright light dimmed, giving focus and features to the solid black. Her hair was pure blond, falling like sunshine across shoulders, which was covered by a thin white dress. Her eyes were a perfect blue, without a single man-made flaw, like the deep ocean or peacock feather. And folded upon her back were two white wings, crossed over each other like relaxed arms.
Using the surface of the bed, Aaron pushed himself to his feet, hoping that his nervous legs wouldn’t give under the weight.
“How are you here?” Aaron asked.
“I have never been all that far away, sweetheart,” Caitlin answered. “I have always been within shouting distance. Haven‘t you felt me there. Haven‘t you heard my voice.”
“Yes,” Aaron replied. “But I thought that I was imagining your voice. Because I couldn’t deal. Because…I was…maybe…losing my mind a little.”
Caitlin giggled, slightly. “You are not losing your mind. I am here. Don’t I look real?”
“But are you,” Aaron began, “real? Are you really here? No. You are dead. I buried you. I watched you get lowered into the ground and then covered by six feet of earth. I saw it happen. That was real. You, right now, are not.”
“Come here, sweetheart,” Caitlin replied. “Feel how real I am. Feel my existence so that we can move on past this, quickly.”
Aaron hesitated. But like the end to many of his sweet dreams, Aaron found himself holding Caitlin again. He embraced her touch, and took in the vanilla exhaling from her skin. Beneath his hands and forearms, Aaron could feel Caitlin’s wings, delicate yet tough.
“See,” Caitlin whispered. “I am as still real. And I am here, as I always have been. In the sounds. In the smells. In the touch.”
“But why…” Aaron began to form the question, but immediately cut himself off. “I don’t care. I don’t care why. That does not matter, because you are here and I can feel you and hold you and hear you.”
Aaron kissed his wife. Her lips were as soft as the rest of her.
“Aaron,” Caitlin whispered, pushing Aaron to arms length. “Let me look at you. Let me see what the past year has done to you. The hair. The face. The eyes. You haven‘t changed at all, my dear. And neither has this room. This house. Everything is exactly the same as I remember.”
“I know,” Aaron replied. “It has all been waiting for you, I guess.”
“Yes,” Caitlin replied, sadness in her song, “I guess it all has. And that is why I am here, sweetheart.”
“I don’t understand,” Aaron said. “I thought you would be happy. Everything is the same. And we can pick up where we left off, before you were taken from me. We can go back then and forget that this past year ever happened.”
“We can’t,” Caitlin replied. “The past year did happen. It did. It did happen.”
“But it doesn’t have to,” Aaron answered. “Come in.” Aaron pulled away from Caitlin, walking to the center of the tomb. “You are here. You have always been here. You have been no other place.”
Caitlin stared back silently.
“I can’t stay, Aaron,” she finally said.
“What?” Every muscle in Aaron’s face seemed to twitch. “But why?”
“I am only here for a moment,” Caitlin replied. “And then I will have to be gone again.”
“Gone? Again? Why?’
“Look around you, Aaron,” Caitlin requested, pointing to the stale room within the pale walls. “Nothing has changed. Nothing has moved on beyond my death. This rooms sits still as if I had never left it.”
“You haven’t left,” Aaron replied, thinking that if he gave his voice a slight more bass it would turn the lie to truth. “You have always been here.”
“I have left,” Caitlin responded. “I have not been here. And I will not be here again. You need to understand this, so that you can stop making your life a shrine to me. I am dead, sweetheart, but you are very much alive. Living requires motion. Get moving, my love. Move forward. Move on. Move about. Move.”
“How?” Aaron’s bass died, living the mumbled pitches of despair. “I don’t know how.”
“It is easy,” Caitlin replied. “Remember me. Love those memories but do not live in them. And be, Aaron, without being still. A new day will follow the next. Eventually I will simply be part of your life that you cherish in afterthought.”
Aaron stood for a few seconds without speaking or moving.
“No,” he finally said. “I can’t. I won’t. I don’t want you to simply be an afterthought. I won’t you to be my only thought.”
“Aaron…”
“Leave.” Aaron’s word quickly cut her off.
“What?”
“If I have to lose you again,” Aaron began, “then let’s get it over with. I lose you day after day, every other thought, every time that I have to remind myself. This time can’t be any more painful than the last. Leave. Please. Leave me be.” Tears came, fresh and warm.
“But, Aaron,” Caitlin tried to say, but her voice began to drift back into the light. “Listen to me.”
“Go!” Aaron screamed so loud that his throat hurt. His tears flowed quickly down his cheeks. “Go!”
“Be,” Caitlin replied, her song slowly becoming a hum. “Be without being still.”
As the light once again grew bright, bright enough to completely swallow Caitlin, Aaron began to smell smoke. Looking around the room, Aaron could not find the source. His last cigarette was out, and the remaining smoke still hung motionless in the air. Besides, Aaron knew cigarette smoke. This was another kind of smoke, stronger than burning tobacco. It smelled like campfire. It smelled like burning leaves.
Aaron turned, round and round. He tried to find the source of the odor. But what he found was empty room.
Something bit his arm.
Screaming. Aaron’s eyes flung open to the bedroom. Closed door. Fallen candle. Burning carpet. Flames leaping on to the messy bed and pale walls.
Aaron felt another bite as a flame licked his arm.
Dark smoke burned his lungs as he panicked and gasped.
Aaron hurried to his feet. Caitlin? Caitlin? Gone. Again.
Placing palm and fingers over his mouth and nose, Aaron ran toward the closed door. With his free hand, he fumbled at the knob for a second before jerking the door open. Light headed, he stumbled down the hall toward the front door and fresh air.
Aaron’s knees soon found the damp grass of his front yard. Behind his back, Aaron could hear the snap and crackle of burning wood. He felt the heat on his ears.
Finally rising, Aaron turned
to watch the fire spreading with passionate hunger throughout Caitlin’s temple. His past was wickedly blazing in front of him, dying toward embers. His home. Caitlin’s home. Everything he knew. It was being destroyed. All he could do was watch and wave it goodbye.
Survivors
A Devil in the Midst (A Collection of Stories) Page 4