Visitations

by Saul, Jonas

  After dialing and reaching Mary, he asked her how it was possible. Jake angled the phone so Jessica could hear too.

  “How was what possible?” Mary asked. She sounded subdued, wounded.

  “My mother. Last night she was in a coma and today she’s all dressed up and at my wedding.” Jake heard Mary gasp and then clear her throat. “Are you okay?” Jake asked as he looked at Jessica.

  “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. Jake, your mother passed away at two o’clock this morning. There is no way she could’ve been at your wedding. I’m not sure what you’re saying.”

  Jake acted as stunned as he should have felt. Jessica’s eyes were seriously wide.

  “That’s impossible. Jessica saw her too. She was there, I tell you. She was there, Mary.”

  “I’m sorry, Jake. Your mother never left this building.”

  “Are you sure?” he asked, his teeth clenched, sounding angry.

  “Yes.”

  Jake hung up and tried to cry. After a few moments Jessica started weeping as she realized she had been witness to something incredible.

  #

  Two years later…

  Jake placed the photo album back into the plastic container. Jessica was just home from the hospital. Their second child would be home in a few days.

  They had had two children, just as his mother said they would.

  The photo album confirmed the identity of the man who’d accompanied his mother, the man with the suit he’d recognized but couldn’t place.

  His father had died not long after Jake was born. When going through his mother’s belongings, he’d come across the photo albums and had seen a picture of his father holding him. That was why he’d recognized the suit. His father had been wearing the same suit at the wedding that he’d wore in that picture, thirty-eight years before.

  Jessica was calling him from downstairs. She was still recovering, as the staples in her stomach had just been removed twenty-four hours before.

  Jake got up and walked to the attic stairs. He said a silent prayer and walked down the stairs, knowing he was doing the right thing.

  Jessica called him again. She was stuck in their bedroom. Unless she wanted to scream in pain, she had to wait for Jake to take her to the bathroom. Coughing and sneezing were complete torture.

  He made his way to the kitchen. There he grabbed a long blade, one used numerous times to slice vegetables.

  He touched the sharp edge. It would work just fine.

  Jake headed for their bedroom. Jessica screamed his name again. He didn’t hear her.

  All that meandered through his head were words related to his mother’s debt.

  That she would sacrifice for him. That she would pay such a debt to be at his wedding, to partake in a momentous event, was enough for any man to comply with her wishes.

  He couldn’t allow his mother to burn for eternity.

  Jessica wouldn’t even perform an intimate ceremony near his mother’s deathbed. Would she love him enough to do what his mother did for him?

  Never.

  She was the reason his mother had had to make the choice she did.

  Women like Jessica were the reason for all the wrong decisions made in the name of love.

  Jake had made the right decision though: have the two kids, as his mother had said they would, then take Jessica’s life so she could pay. His kids would grow up knowing that their mother was a whore, that she had run away and moved into a whorehouse somewhere. He had tried to stop her, but she couldn’t see what love was. Jessica was incapable of seeing what real love was.

  What Jake was about to do was real love.

  Nothing was equal to the love of one’s mother.

  He entered the bedroom and turned off the light.

  “Jake, what are you doing? I’ve been calling for you for over ten minutes. I really need the bathroom. Turn the light back on and come help me up.”

  Jake moved forward by memory, the knife in front of him.

  “Jake? What are you doing? I can hear you moving around. Don’t make me jump. You know how much that’ll hurt. Jake?”

  He made the edge of the bed.

  He placed his hand on her hip.

  “Jake, watch it. You almost hit the wound. It hasn’t healed completely yet.”

  He judged where her face would be. He touched her shoulder.

  “I’m sorry mother; I wish I had done this sooner.”

  He swung with everything he had at Jessica’s throat, the blade extended, his knife hand ready to jab multiple times.

  #

  Jessica screamed. She scrambled to the side and flicked on the lamp beside the bed.

  The pain meant little to her as she saw what had become of her husband and who was standing over him in her bedroom.

  The man from her wedding. He stood in his long trench coat, smiling down at Jake who lay on the floor going through seizures. Blood raced out of his jugular where the knife had entered.

  Jessica used up all her resources of strength as she screamed and wailed, trying to move away from the stranger.

  Then she heard him speak and quieted to catch the words.

  “Your mother’s debt has been paid. Thank you, Jake, for showing me a greater evil.” He looked at Jessica. “I won’t be bothering you again. This was between myself, Jake and his mother. But I have to tell you, Jake was a good sport. He came here to kill you for me. What a great guy.”

  The man in the trench coat glided to the bedroom door and then turned back.

  Jessica panted, wondering what was happening to her sanity.

  “Maybe we’ll meet again, or maybe not.”

  Jessica didn’t stop screaming after he disappeared until the police arrived and broke down her door.

  Near Death Experience

  The love of my life died last week. I didn’t even get to meet her.

  It all started on a lark. I joined an online chatroom four months ago. After a few days, I was talking to an upbeat woman. We hit it off right away. Exchanged email addresses and started a day-to-day conversation. Our online dates escalated to a romantic level. I sent roses to her office for her birthday. I also mailed twenty-seven birthday cards. Each one represented the years I hadn’t met her yet: the years that finally brought us together.

  Yet the whole time, I felt something was missing. Not missing in the sense of what the relationship offered me, missing in the sense that she wasn’t telling me something. Like she was married, or maybe she was a man (that would suck). This undiscussed thing made me feel I couldn’t completely trust her.

  This knowledge, that something wasn’t quite right, made me lose sleep. Eventually, after a few months of our online dating, she still hadn’t told me the one thing she was holding back, but I knew that one thing existed. I could tell by the words she chose, and the extra pause before answering questions. She came across as reserved, cautious, careful: there were times when she was evasive.

  I’d had no intention of getting involved in an online romance - I’m a writer, and at the beginning I was simply collecting information for a short story. I used to be the guy who wondered about the social skills of people who met others online. Why couldn’t they meet the old-fashioned way? I wanted to get some insight into the chatroom fad.

  I had no idea I’d fall in love.

  But now she’s dead.

  Andrea had been a blessing. She opened areas of my heart that I didn’t even know I had. Writers are loners; we sit by ourselves and develop our craft. I had no idea how alone I was until I met Andrea.

  I read in the newspaper about a murder the police had responded to on the other side of the city. I saw the name of the deceased. It was Andrea. Next of kin had been notified. Her boyfriend was in custody. (I finally found out the information she was hiding from me. She had an abusive boyfriend). According to witnesses, her boyfriend had a history of abuse, and she had been in the process of leaving the relationship. Hence her chats with me. I was supposed to be her way out. I became someone
she was excited about again. She once told me, I was her savior.

  I was devastated.

  The last email I received from Andrea confirmed a meeting place. It would have been the first time we were to meet in person. Neither one of us had ever sent a photo; we’d used descriptions in our correspondence, but never pictures.

  We had agreed to show up at the coffee shop and try to find each other. A sly smile, a nervous twitch in the stomach, shuffling of the feet, and then a warm hello. Both of us were super-nervous about meeting the other.

  Out of respect to the dead girl I was, and still am, in love with, I decided to go to our prearranged meeting place anyway.

  There I was, sitting with the coffee I had just ordered. It tasted like dishwater and had a peculiar smell to it. I held it in my hands and glanced through the large window to my left. Cars whizzed by. I wiped a tear off my cheek. I think it was the loneliest I’d ever been. I sat there and whispered a silent prayer for Andrea.

  How could the world be so cruel?

  The door chime made me turn. A woman walked in, scarves wrapped around her neck and lower face. Something about the woman held my attention. The first scarf came away and our eyes locked. I could see how bruised up her face was, purple splotches surrounded by yellowing areas.

  For a heartbeat, I wondered if this was Andrea. Wouldn’t that be something? Back from the dead.

  Another scarf came away. More bruising around the neck. For some reason she was watching me as much as I was watching her. I looked back out at the cars on the street. My coffee was getting cold but I didn’t care. It tasted like shit anyway.

  When I turned back, the woman was about to sit in the booth across from me. I leaned away, startled.

  “Can I help you? Do I know you?” I asked, feeling a little befuddled.

  She smiled and I felt my heart flutter.

  “I saw you when I died,” she said.

  I didn’t know what to say. I knew it couldn’t be Andrea. She was dead. So who was this woman? No one knew why I was there, so it couldn’t be a joke. I wasn’t being punked, either. I had read the obituaries and knew Andrea was dead.

  “Who are you?” I asked.

  “Andrea.”

  I was more stymied than shocked. “But that’s not possible. How could it be?” I tilted my head and really stared at her. Could I be talking to the dead? I immediately dismissed that idea. I’m not into new age religion. I’ve never seen a ghost.

  “My death wasn’t permanent. It’s what they call a Near Death Experience.”

  She went on to explain how she died. I sat in rapt fascination, my stomach clenching, my hands twitching. The writer in me wanted to jot everything down, but I resisted, lest it be construed as rude.

  She said that her vital signs had ceased. When she woke, she found that a blanket - which rose and fell to the soft rhythmic caress of her breathing - had been placed over her body.

  “I saw you,” she said again.

  I wasn’t ready to talk much yet, so all I said was, “When?”

  “When I died. I saw you writing on a laptop. You looked at peace, relaxed as you typed.”

  I didn’t know what to say. I usually have words at my disposal, but she had rendered me speechless.

  “I saw something else,” she said.

  I waited to see if she’d reveal this other tidbit, still not finding more than one word replies in my mouth.

  “I saw you save me.”

  So cryptic.

  “Save you?” I found my voice. It came from a place of confusion.

  How could I save her?

  “Yes, save me. And I love you for it Max.”

  She leaned forward and made to kiss me. I let her. After all, this was Andrea, the woman of my dreams, the woman I had fallen in love with, back from the dead, talking about how I saved her.

  How the hell did I pull that feat off?

  The least I could do was accept a kiss, even though I felt lost. I was stunned and completely flabbergasted that Andrea wasn’t dead. Questions raced through my mind: how come she hadn’t emailed me in the last week? What if I hadn’t come to the coffee shop? Could there be even more secrets?

  Our lips parted as the door to the coffee shop banged open, the door chime almost ripping off. I jumped at the sound of the door, me being a bundle of nerves and all, and turned to see a tall man enter. He looked angry, eyes wild, breathing rapidly.

  He stared at us. I stared back. He wore a black leather jacket and some kind of biker pants. A black goatee clung to his chin and a long tattoo of a scythe circled and dropped down along his neck. He looked mean. He looked angry. But most of all, the violence on his face made my bowels feel loose.

  I wasn’t the only one who noticed that this man didn’t look like a paying customer. The guy behind the counter stepped back and put his hand on the phone. Maybe it was the clenched fists, or the red face, or maybe the low moan the man emitted that made the coffee shop worker hold the receiver in his hand. I noticed he started dialing when the man screamed Andrea’s name.

  The angry man stormed over to our table and looked down at me. I thought for a quick second that he was going to wind up and punch me. I was surprised that my underwear didn’t need to be changed yet.

  “Colin, you’re not supposed to be here. I have a restraining order,” Andrea said, her voice weak. “Please, Colin, just leave before something bad happens.”

  He turned to face her. “Fuck you, you fucking whore. How dare you fake your own death? Thought you could get away from me? Well, I’ve got news for you.” He jabbed a thumb my way. “Who’s the asshole? He better be a long-lost brother or giving you a job interview.”

  The angry - Colin-the-abusive-boyfriend - was shouting now. I was more scared than I’d ever been, or than I’d care to admit. I’m a writer. I write these things. I don’t act them out. As Michael said: I’m a lover, not a fighter.

  “Get up. Now. We’re leaving.” He reached for Andrea’s arm but missed. She’d pulled back far enough to avoid his grasp.

  A red and blue flashing light registered in my peripheral vision.

  Good, the coffee shop guy had called the police.

  The biker saw it too. He turned around and shouted in a deep guttural grunt, “I’ll be back to deal with you,” as he pointed at the clerk.

  He leaned down and reached out far enough to get Andrea. With a display of massive strength, he pulled her out of the booth and into a standing position. She squealed and tried to wriggle out of his hand clamp.

  I had no idea what I was doing. I look back and try to reason why I would do it in the first place. Rationally, I know why; but on every other level of my being, I remain puzzled.

  My foot swung out. I grabbed the edge of his jeans and gave him a sharp tug, which caught him off balance. He fell backwards over my outstretched leg, his hands releasing Andrea as he flailed his arms on his way to the floor.

  I grabbed my coffee, still somewhat warm on the outside of the cup, and flung it in his face.

  He roared like a bear, shook his face to clear his vision, and jumped back to his feet like his name was Jack and someone had wound his little box.

  The cop car stopped out front. I would be dead in four seconds. They would arrive in ten. So much for balls.

  Andrea had moved away from him. She stood by the bathroom doors, wiping at her tears.

  I didn’t see his fist. I couldn’t see it coming. A blur of movement, a subtle shift in position, and then what felt like a large rock broke my cheekbone. My head flew back and banged the wall behind me.

  Fight-or-flight alarms flooded my system, with “flight” winning by the time I slipped out of the booth chair and landed on my ass on the floor under the table.

  Andrea screamed. Her voice, even in peril, reminded me why I was here. Why she was here. In that moment, I realized that I hated to do the right thing, but I had no other choice.

  My face felt like someone had set burning coals in my cheek. The pain was so intense that e
verything went woozy for a second.

  What pulled me out was the broken ankle.

  Andrea’s boyfriend couldn’t bend down and yank me out fast enough, so he jumped up and landed all two hundred and twenty pounds of biker muscle on my right foot, snapping a couple of the twenty-six bones I have in there.

  My scream rose higher than Andrea’s, I’m embarrassed to admit.