It had been easy to look back on living with nostalgia. Everything here was so gray and mundane, it must have been better back then. And at times, it was—until the end. That last year had been unrelenting and brutal. Every day was a struggle, every mistake seemingly fatal. My only recourse was an equally relentless and brutal act of rebellion. I’d hurt myself physically, the way life had. It seemed like the only solution. The only way to take some control back.
I so desperately wanted that kiss to be baptismal, but it came like heavy rain, knocking me down into her lap, a sobbing, aching mess. I wrapped my arms around her thin frame and held on as tight as I could, the bottom of her T-shirt growing wet and warm. She brushed my hair back calmly, offering whispered shushes and the heat of her body as comfort.
I couldn’t find the words to speak for a long time after that, my head resting fully across her lap, my mind and nerves racing, screaming. I could feel it. Every slash of the safety razor, every gouge so calmly scored before, they now rushed the length of my forearms in a frenzy, a full-on blitzkrieg of slices, severed nerves, and shrieking nerve endings. The specter of my suicide circled my forearms, a grim reminder of just how I’d arrived here. The weight of every ounce of hurt that compounded under that heavy mountain of depression was excruciating.
I remembered in full—leaning back against the linoleum tiling, my breathing growing heavy, the water turning sickly pink as the life drained from my body. It had been so fucking slow. Agonizing. I hadn’t kept my eyes closed. I watched. I had to. I had to make sure this was it. That it would all be over for good. I sang along through the tears, a mumbled half-singing as I waited for the blood to drain.
I lay in her lap for what I imagine was an uncomfortable amount of time. She seemed to understand, but I was terrified that I’d look up to see those comforting blue eyes frozen over. As I lifted my head, I found the same eyes as before, calming and blue, tinged with sympathy and compassion. I held on to her like the very fabric of reality would tear apart if I let go.
“Let’s go home,” she said, her hands running the length of my scalp. She slid her fingers through my hair, trying to quell the anxiety ripping and tearing through me.
I nodded, shakily exiting the Edsel. I pushed open the door and held it, half for her and half to hold myself up. She shut it behind us and grabbed my hand, leading me out past the gear-heads and mechanics still fruitlessly trying to restore the classics to working condition. My stare vacant, my smile off on vacation and unlikely to return to this shithole of an existence, I wasn’t much for company.
She somehow helped me walk, despite being roughly half of my size. We scrambled over loose parts and scraps of tires, through mud, and across dirt, ash, and the poor excuse for grass that pockmarked this place. What once seemed like an escape was now just another reminder that life was savagely unforgiving. Those feelings always bubbled under the surface like a swamp ghoul, waiting to drag me down into the depths.
I didn’t look at the used cars we scrambled past, unconcerned with where they could take me, if they could take me anywhere at all. Maybe I could get a last-minute meeting with Michael and just leave tomorrow. It had to feel better up there. Except for the brief respite Mia offered, this place had been nothing more than another twelve years of inexorable depression, except here misery pervaded the entire landscape rather than just my perception.
I’d dealt with my impulsive nature. Now, I just wanted some kind of peace.
***
The silent twenty-minute walk back to the bus stop passed like another twenty-one years of damage, heartache, and disappointment. At least the bus was there waiting for us, and we were able to sit together. She rested her head against my shoulder, and my cheek found solace on her forehead. We napped the entire way back to the city, refusing to take in any of the sights or think up stories for our fellow passengers. This place was cold, and it was empty, but I was blessed enough to have her here.
The green line stopped two blocks from her apartment. By the time we arrived, I’d regained some sense of humanity. She invited me up. I wasn’t surprised that her space was similar to mine. I accepted the seat at her crooked kitchen table and tried not to examine too hard.
She put a kettle on and went to her bedroom to change. I waited for the whistle and she returned in a pair of pajama shorts and a baseball jersey. She pulled two mugs from her cupboard, gently placing tea bags in them before the kettle squealed. All I could muster was a quiet “thank you” as she placed the mug in front of me, my face still glazed from the ordeal. I never cared for tea, but I wasn’t in the condition to turn down anything given to me, especially sympathy. I clumsily steeped my tea bag, watching the placid amber darken into an unappealing brown. I swallowed every drop, as if this kindness could purify whatever was festering inside me. We didn’t speak, but I found serenity in her smile—not quite the beaming one I’d grown accustomed to, but one that was almost medicinal: small but strong, with just enough of a curve to curl up in and pretend, for a little while, that the world wasn’t quite so sharp and there were no such things as monsters.
She offered me her bed, but I couldn’t bring myself to take it. Instead, I called the couch, knowing full well there was no comfort to be found on it.
“It will be better when you wake up,” she promised.
I heard that so many times when I was alive. It had come from my mother, my father, my ex-girlfriend, my best friend. They always tried to assure me, but they were never right. Mia I wanted to believe.
“Thank you,” I muttered before she made it to the doorway of her bedroom, “for everything.” I expected her to get some rest, but instead she returned, sitting cross-legged next to me on the floor, her hands nestled in my hair and slowly, soothingly working through the follicles.
“Hey,” she whispered, her words like a sedative. “We take care of our own, right?” I could sense her lips arch into a slight smile.
I was drifting to sleep when I heard her stand up, her feet sliding across the hardwood floor, gracefully avoiding squeaks and splinters. She slipped under the ratty blanket she’d laid over me and rested her head on my chest. We said nothing as my fingers glided through her hair, hers slowly tracing along my forearm, memorizing every peak and valley. I let her, my heart beating faster—not out of anxiety, but something else entirely. I was certain she could hear my pulse pounding, and when she lifted her head, I assumed she had tired of it. Instead, she pressed her lips to mine. This time, the motivation was neither sympathy nor apology. Her willowy arms wrapped around my neck, pulling me closer, and my arms enveloped her. As our tongues danced and teased one another, I wanted to melt right into her.
I tugged at her pajama shorts, and she wiggled them down the length of her legs, dangling them from her toes before dropping them silently to the floor. Soon, she was unbuttoning my fly, and yanking my jeans down just enough to find what she needed.
This was something I hadn’t felt in so long. The warmth, the connection, the feel of her body pressed to mine—the sensation was unfamiliar and foreign. Now, it felt binding—like a quiet, ethereal understanding. Yes, you fucked up. Yes, you were damaged, but you are a whole person all the same, and you are deserving of love, too. It wasn’t the groans or moans, the panting, or the sweat that stuck with me. What I kept was that connection. I could have stayed there forever, and maybe, just maybe, nothing would ever hurt again. As she collapsed on me, her bare chest against mine, I could feel her heart beating, slow and steady. It was to that gentle drum beat that I finally drifted off to sleep.
Neither of us came, but neither of us came away the same.
11
Back in the living world, there were few things more unpleasant than waking up alone. I was never one to enjoy the sunlight creeping through the curtains, but tangled up with another human being, legs entwined, warm breath and tousled hair everywhere? That was one of the few things that felt, to me, like home. I hoped, after passing out with her head on my chest, that I would wake up feeling
somewhere closer to that home.
Instead, I woke up alone, a spring buried in my lower back. She had scampered off without waking me, but that wasn’t surprising. After our rendezvous, I slept like I’d never been afraid of anything. If sex with her was a drug, I’d have been a first-time addict, selling my body in back alleys for just a small hit of that precious serenity.
I reached for the blanket only to notice an unfamiliar weight on my chest. It wasn’t heavy, but it was impossible to decipher with sleep still crusting my eyes. I wiped vigorously, and as my hands returned to the mystery object, it became significantly more familiar. A small blue paperback with eyes stared back at me. Not the gorgeous, icy-blue irises I’d grown accustomed to; these eyes were sad and golden, bright lights reflecting in them. An elegant title was scrawled above them, with the author’s name at the bottom. As I greedily thumbed through to the first page, a note fell out and landed on my chest. The handwriting was scratchy, but captivating.
I found this tucked away in a corner in the records office. It’s only missing one page in the middle, a party scene that doesn’t have any lines that you’re really missing out on. I thought you might like to replace your copy.
– M
I sat astonished, completely charmed at the gesture, and grinning from ear to ear. The barely-blanket somehow provided enough warmth to beat the chill of the apartment. I wondered what Paradise might be like with her in it, and if she’d be willing to share a couch for the rest of eternity. A blanket had never kept me as warm as she had. I was disappointed when I glanced around the apartment to see that she was nowhere in sight.
I looked up at her clock. She must have gone to work, I thought, realizing I was going to be late for my own shift. Jonas would probably understand, so I took my time before I left, enjoying this little place that had become her home. The smell of seawater pervaded the apartment as if it were a mermaid’s cove.
I marveled at her treasures as I assembled my clothing and belongings. My wallet and pocket comb had found their way to her night stand, nestled comfortably atop a battered copy of The Prince of Tides. I thumbed through it, wondering how she’d been lucky enough to come by a book with nary a blacked-out passage, before setting it down again, knocking stray rings onto the floor in the process. I spent more time collecting the little silver hoops than I did attempting to make myself presentable, but I returned them to their proper resting place, hoping my clumsiness would go unnoticed. I even washed the mugs from the night before, drying them and placing them back in the cabinet.
***
Even from her unfamiliar apartment, I knew my way to the Depot. My satellite-guided steps missed every crack and bump in the pavement, and my mind was aflutter at my next move. I had fewer than five full days left, which normally would have been cause for celebration. But the thought of leaving Mia here and having to wait for her warranted a full funeral dirge. It had been just over a week, but I felt like I’d known her for all of existence, as if we’d been two souls encircling one another through the entirety of space and time, from creation to destruction. My hands found the ridges of a few spare coins in my pockets, and I stopped off at the nearest payphone, plopping in the scuffed silver discs and dialing each number with precision and determination.
An awful voice spoke from the other end.
“Hallo! Michael’s aw-fice, how can I direct your call?” Janice’s sandpaper-throated croak was near the top of the list of In-Between things that I would be grateful to escape.
“Yeah, Janice? This is Owen. I’m Michael’s case, and I’d really like to speak to him, please?” She sighed, as if being asked to do her job was an inconvenience.
“Alroight. Yer gonna have to hold,” she bellowed. I thought I heard her mumble “ya little asshole.” No please, no sorry, no courtesy whatsoever. So much for angels.
I was immediately frustrated when she hit the transfer button. The hold music was some worthless, nameless, eighties power ballad, the kind I could imagine Michael pumping through the sound system of a convertible as he cruised down some heavenly highway. I could picture it perfectly: his slicked-back hair and Wayfarers as he smoked pack after pack of cigarettes, exhausting every single sensitive song that the Sunset Strip produced over an entire decade. I idly peeled at a patch of wallpaper growing in the corner of the booth.
Click.
“It’s the PCH, actually. Err, the Pacific Coast Highway. Sorry kid, I don’t think you made it out there while you were alive.” Michael’s gruff voice kicked in. “We’ve got a near-perfect replica you can cruise upstairs. And if I catch wind of you knocking power ballads one more time, I’m sending your little punk ass straight downstairs, you got me, O?”
“Yeah, man. Sorry, I was just doing some thinking, that’s all.” I could tell by his tone that he hadn’t smoked today and was in dire need of a nicotine fix.
“I know you were thinking. I swear kid, it’s like you forget about this whole higher-being thing. You’re right, I haven’t had a cigarette in about two days now. I’m trying this gum stuff, but it’s not the same. Worst thing your kind ever did, make cigarettes so damn good.”
“That’s the worst thing we ever did? Not genocide, or war, or that band Jackyl?” I laughed.
“Those boys are goddamn saints, and I’ll see to it that, when they go, they get the dignified treatment and respect they deserve around here,” he barked. “Now, are you going to ask about a meeting, or are we gonna beat around the bush and get me even more pissed off?”
“I was hoping that maybe we could meet sometime tomorrow, if you had an opening. I need to talk to you about something.” I wondered if he already knew what I was thinking and what I wanted to know. If so, he wasn’t making it apparent.
“You gonna bring smokes?”
“Yeah, two packs, even.”
I picked at the wallpaper in the corner, certain that I could remove this piece all by myself. My pointer finger stung as an awful, thin slice across the tip proved me wrong.
“Be here at one o’clock, don’t worry about grabbing a number.” The words were clearly spilling out through gritted teeth, and I knew his lack-of-nicotine induced acrimony would not benefit my cause. I had to at least leave him smiling.
“Hey, before you hang up, I heard a pretty great joke the other day I think you’ll get a kick out of.” If there was one way besides tobacoo to warm the guy’s cockles, it was a good dirty joke.
“All right kid, you got two minutes, hit me with your best shot.”
“Okay. So, there’s three nuns, and they’re all standing at the pearly gates, right? They’re lined up in a row, right in front of St. Peter, and he’s sitting there with his list.”
“Mhm.”
“So, St. Peter says to the first nun, ‘My child, before you enter Heaven, you must cleanse your body of your past sins’ and he points over to this fountain.” I chuckle preemptively. “The nun looks up at St. Pete and she says, ‘St. Peter, I have devoted my life to the Lord.’ And St. Peter just kind of looks down his nose at her, right? And he says, a little more sternly this time. ‘my child, your body has known the sin of fornication.’ The nun doesn’t say anything and St. Peter finally glares at her.”
“Go on, kid.”
“So, the nun penguin-waddles her way over to the fountain, looking a little ashamed, and she washes her hands in the fountain. And then, sure enough, the pearly gates open up and St. Peter gestures her in.”
“Keep going.”
“Okay, so the second nun walks up to St. Pete and he gives her the same speech, ‘My child, before you enter Heaven you must cleanse your body of your past sins,’ and he points at the fountain again.”
Silence.
“The second nun looks up at St. Pete, and she’s about to say that she’s an innocent, too, when nun number three pushes number two out of the way so she can dunk her face in the fountain. The third nun comes back up for air and St. Peter says, ‘My child, why have you done this?’ She looks back at St. Peter as the gates
start to open and she says, ‘There’s no way I’m washing my lips after she washes her ass!’”
There was a long silence on the other end of the line, and I started to wonder if maybe I’d missed the click of the receiver. And then it exploded out of him like an avalanche, the laugh-cough combination of a man who’d been smoking for centuries. The coughing fit followed quickly after, and for a minute I wondered to myself if it was possible for an Archangel to cough himself to death. Fortunately, it subsided, and he settled into a comfortable chuckle.
“You know what, kid? I’m actually gonna miss you.” The receiver clicked before I could respond. In a strange way, I’d miss him too. He hadn’t shared much advice—he basically used me as a cigarette courier, and he was prone to being a bit of an asshole—but he was also one of the few people I had connected with In-Between, and the thought of not having our biweekly visits left me almost wistful. Thinking about it for too long would have me skulking back to the Depot with my head down. I didn’t have time for that. I had plans. Big plans.
Big plans that were halted as I barged right into the path of an oncoming jogger. We toppled to the pavement, loud, vulgar utterances escaping us both. The voice was all too familiar. It was the same one that had told me to wear shorts in gym class, and that I couldn’t expect to pass if I kept bringing in doctor’s notes every day that we weren’t playing dodgeball.
We both sat up, and he looked at me with his one good eye and the same scowl he wore whenever I accidentally tagged him with one of those red rubber balls.
“I should have known it would be you, kid.” The phrase slipped from his lips like a snarl from an angry dog. I did my best to focus on anything but the gaping hole in his face.
“Woah, Coach West, just calm down, okay?” I said, trying to defuse the situation. “I wasn’t trying to run into you. It was my mistake. I wasn’t looking. Just on my way to work.”
He stood, dusting himself off and adjusting his headband so that it covered most of his wound. I found that more comforting, though I doubt he was concerned about my comfort.Nothing was easy here.
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