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Though you grew up in the city, you always liked to look up at the stars.

On those rare visits to Grandma in the country, you’d always take the time to sit on the porch at night once she fell asleep, open-mouthed in front of the TV.

Lightning bugs would pop off like spark plugs in the field, and you would trace the constellations with your pointer finger. You liked the idea that way out there, galaxies away, they had their own planets spinning around them. From where you were standing, they were small enough to be afterthoughts, inconsequential. Yet they were still beautiful, still worth tracing with your finger. You’d always liked that.

Though, you liked them less with the dirt in your mouth. The muddy sticks piercing your back.

And even less with his hands around your throat, squeezing.

You didn’t see his face. You hadn’t the entire time. It’s not as if he had covered it, so you had in fact seen it. Still it floated at the edge of your mind – a shape beneath the surface of the water, dark and distant. You could smell him, though. Sweat and desperation. His breath reeked of cigarettes. He had offered you one. You wondered where that butt was, imagining it smoldering in the wet grass, maybe seething between the cushions of his passenger seat. It felt like the smoke was burning your lungs. You scratched at his hands, knowing your fingernails were broken, but that made them sharp. You hoped they hurt.

Even when the switch turned off and you were gone, your eyes stayed open. Looking at the stars.

 

You don’t remember being told you were dead. You just knew. You were dead and sitting in a chair and there was a woman in front of you and you didn’t understand that, because you were dead. Welcome, Graciela, the woman said, or she must have, though it didn’t look like she had.

On instinct, Gracie.

Welcome, Graciela.

I’m dead.

Yes.

Okay. What else are you supposed to say?

I’ll show you to your room.

You got up and followed her because, again, you didn’t have any idea what else to do. Walking as a dead person didn’t feel any different than walking as a living person. At least not yet. You were in a long hallway that did not turn, did not twist. There were doors far as you could see. The woman opened one. This is where you’ll stay for now.

Why?

No one knows you’re dead yet. This is the first step.

The room was long and skinny and full of girls. All girls no one knew were dead. There was some furniture, but as you’d learn, you didn’t have to sleep or eat or do anything bodily anymore, so it was more for show than for use. When you turned around to ask where you actually were, the woman was gone, but in her place was another girl. She looked like she was blown out of brown sugar and air.

I’m Trina. She told you she’d been dead for two months. Welcome to Saint Maria’s Home for Murdered Girls.

 

Time flowed differently when you’re dead. It seemed to be passing all at once and not at all. You learned the ropes fairly quickly. Your room designation depended on where your case stood. You were in “dead, not presumed dead.” There was “dead, presumed dead,” and “dead, body found,” and then “dead, no leads,” “dead, suspect identified,” and on and on and on, a million different doors for a million different situations for a million different girls.

Where do you go at the end? you asked Trina

The end?

When your case is solved.

Into the case solved room.

You never leave?

Only when you get justice.

And that isn’t always when your case is solved?

No. Usually isn’t.

For the most part, girls couldn’t go from room to room freely, but there were special circumstances, special girls. Normally if their case was infamous. If they were martyrs of legend. One in particular jumped around, bleeding through the walls, standing behind you until you turned around, whispering in your ear.

My name is Elizabeth Short; maybe you’ve heard of me.

No.

Well, they’ve made a lot of movies about me. Books and shows, too.

Oh.

Elizabeth seemed a little too old to be in a home for girls, but what do you know? She sought out newcomers. She acted drunk, delirious, always too close, always too happy. She had been dead for almost seventy-five years.  Do you know what he did with my tattoo? He cut it off and he put it up my-

You always tried to plug your ears whenever she was around. But of course, you could hear her anyway.

You spent most of your time with Trina, trying to do things that normal girls would do, like sit or talk. You tried braiding her hair once, but your hands couldn’t grasp onto anything solid. The brown strands just sifted right through your fingers like sand through an hourglass, spiderwebs in air. You gave up on that idea quickly.

Trina was killed by her stepfather. Her body was behind his work shed, disintegrating under feet of gravel and dirt. He convinced her mother she had run away.

She doesn’t realize what he did?

She never realized what he was doing.

Why did he do it?

Because I said I would tell her.

It felt to you that there was nothing more transient than the life of a girl. You’re there until you’re not anymore. Until someone doesn’t want you there anymore.

Every so often, you met with Maria to talk about your murder. She met with everyone; the first time Maria summoned you, you asked Trina who she was, and she reacted as if you were supposed to know. As if it was natural that a saint did something as benign as show you to your room or call you to chat. Even though that was the name of the home, you didn’t realize that she was the actual Saint Maria. You wished, not for the first time, that you had paid more attention in Sunday School.

Saint Maria was old and young all at once, morphing from a waxen-faced child to a wooden-faced woman in the same instant, never one or the other long enough to definitively be either. She asked you if you knew the man who killed you. You told her you didn’t know.

I want you to think about it, the girl told her. Then the old lady, really try.

You remembered asking for a ride. You remembered the stain on the passenger seat armrest. The cigarette, the wet leaves, his hands on your neck squeezing squeezing squeezing. He still had no face. You remembered until you didn’t want to remember anything else.

She let you go.

 

That morning had been one of those oppressively hot daybreaks only a Midwestern August can deliver. By the time you got up – not unreasonably late you thought, though Mama disagreed – everything was flattened under the weight of the humidity. The cicadas were even taking the day off, their crescendo of sound barely registering. The rising heat made the pavement swim before your eyes as you biked down Fourth Street, your drawstring bag secured over one shoulder, the other cords flying out behind you.

You were taking algebra that summer, surprisingly your own choice. By taking summer school, you freed up your semester enough to sign up for woodshop. You were in the second six-week session, July to mid-August. As the temperature ticked well into the nineties, you sat in an unair-conditioned classroom with two dozen other fuck ups and early planners, learning about quadratic equations with sweat pooling in the crooks of your elbows. You weren’t bad at algebra, you actually didn’t mind it, but the long days and the teacher’s droning voice were enough to make anyone want to crawl out of the open yet ineffective windows. But it was Friday, and that meant you had the day off.

As you pedaled past the Buckhead Strip Mall, you contemplated stopping to get a Big-Gulp but knew that Isabella was probably already waiting for you. The 7-Eleven was nestled between a beef jerky outlet and the Diamond Deli and Video Gaming, a place you went to once before realizing that ham sandwiches and arcade games are too strange a combination. You kept going.

 

Sometimes you visited your body. Or what was left of it. Even the lowly maggot had to eat, and on you, they feasted. You hadn’t thought about doing it until you once looked down and the sinews of your fingers were exposed, all bones and gaping flesh. You thought there might be something crawling under your skin.

Trina told you that a lot of your existence at Saint Maria’s depended on what was going on down there. If there was energy in your case, then you had energy. You looked as you did before death. Like a person. But the longer time went on when no one was looking, or nothing was happening, or it went cold, then your energy began to wilt. You didn’t have the stamina to keep up appearances. You could see that in the girls who died decades ago, just skeletons, but honestly, they weren’t so bad. It was the recent girls that no one cared about at all that were the worst. Rotting. Mangled. Especially if their death had been brutal. Some were missing pieces.

You could use your energy to check in on things on earth if you wanted.

So far, you hadn’t looked in on your parents or Isabella because you thought it would make you sad. So, you went to see yourself instead, the watery images coming to you when you closed your eyes, like peering through a slightly mottled mirror.

You were still lying face up. He had covered you with dirt, but barely. No one came out here but to hunt, and it wasn’t deer season yet. Your lips were gone, and that was the part that perhaps scared you the most, more so than your eyes or other fleshy bits. Without your lips, you looked old. Without your lips, your teeth, slightly crooked, which still bothered you even though you had better things to worry about at that point, were exposed for all to see. One of them was chipped, which was new. It must have happened during that night. You must have swallowed it.

You wondered what your Mama would do when they found your body. Perhaps if. When Abuela had died, Mama yelled at your dad when he even suggested cremation. They were still together then. Over her shoulder, the clock on the kitchen wall had ticked loudly, slightly crooked. It fell into one of the angles of the crucifix nailed below, giving the illusion that the splintered wooden cross held it up.

You couldn’t imagine your Mama letting them bury you like this. At least you hoped she wouldn’t. You didn’t want anyone to see you like that. But at the rate it was going, you wouldn’t have to worry about that for a while. She didn’t even know you were dead.

 

The community pool was nothing special, a lap pool with two diving boards on one end and a snack shack in a corner of the cement lot. But in the summers, it was the only place to be if you were in high school with even a grain of a social life. You and Isabella always claimed chairs near the boards, which had prime views of anybody taking the plunge. Sometimes Isabella would take a turn, but not you. You never went off the high dive. It felt too high, too precarious, and you always had the sneaking image of the water turning to concrete beneath you as you fell, a splat instead of a splash. You preferred to watch instead.

“You’re late.” Isabella didn’t look up from her phone, oversized sunglasses perched on her head. You knew she wasn’t mad, though. She’d saved your chair with a towel.

“My apologies,” you said with mock formality. You peeled your tank top over your head, unbuttoned your shorts. “What did I miss?”

From across the pool, you could feel Mr. Gregson’s eyes on you. He had been the sole operator of the snack shack for as long as you could remember, and he’d never been shy about looking just a little too long at girls’ chests, just a little too hungrily. Sometimes you and Isabella joked about flirting with him for free food, but you never actually did.

Isabella adjusted her top, blue with frills, definitely a push-up even though she claimed otherwise. Her nail polish was chipped. “There’s a Barn Party tonight, did you hear?”

Barn Parties were notorious, though not true to name. They took place not in a barn but in a fallow field about a half-hour west. There used to be a barn there a long time ago, and the name stuck long after it rotted. Current high schoolers and graduates alike went to those parties, and they were said to get wild. One of your homeroom friends went last month, and she said there were college boys there. You had never been. Neither had Isabella.

“I didn’t know.”

“We’re going, right?” She swung her legs over the side of the chaise, leaned over. “It’s probably the last one of the summer. Jason said he could give us a ride.”

Her brother was a few years older than Isabella and you. He’d always been friendly enough, if kind of awkward.

“Are we going to know anybody there?” you asked.

Isabella nodded a little too hard, her sunglasses slipping from their spot on her head. “We’re almost sophomores; anybody who is anybody starts going now. If we want to meet people, this is the way.”

She looked at you expectantly. You looked over at Mr. Gregson. He was looking at one of the lifeguards, her hip cocked, whistle in her mouth.

You turned back to Isabella. “Barn Party, here we come.”

 

After you’d been dead for about three weeks, the police still weren’t looking for you.  Your parents had been worried. Very worried, in fact. When you hadn’t shown up at the party, Isabella had tried calling you, but you didn’t answer. The next morning, she went to your house. Mama ran up the stairs before Isabella finished speaking, throwing open your empty bedroom door. She called your dad. Then, she called the police.

They told her that, in all likelihood, you had run away and would show up again soon, either back home or at your Dad’s, and that they should just be patient. In any case, they had to wait forty-eight hours to file a missing person’s report. As soon as the time allowed, your parents filed a report. Nothing came from it.

There were over a hundred missed calls on your phone. You didn’t know where he put it.

If you had enough energy, you could stir up interest in your case from the dead. It was called giving a nudge. You could target anyone, parents or detectives or reporters, to renew interest in the case. The more energy you had, the more nudges you could give your investigation, but you got all your energy from the effort being put into your case. A snake eating its own tail. At the moment, the police just considered you a runaway. You wanted them to care.

Everyone said that a girl named Caroline was the best person to talk to if you wanted guidance on how to give a nudge. Considering she, too, was still in the “dead, not presumed dead” room, you wondered how helpful she could actually be, but Trina swore by her. Apparently, two of the girls she had guided got their cases featured on podcasts, so she sounded reliable enough to you. Elizabeth also offered you opinions because, you know, she was on so many TV shows, but you didn’t want her advice.

You sat down with Caroline. She looked pretty enough; occasionally, she would glitch, and you caught a glimpse of a nasty hole in her head, but she seemed to keep it under control pretty well. Someone told you that her boyfriend killed her. He was older.

You told her you wanted to know how to get the police to look into your case.

Were you a cheerleader?

No.

What about an animal lover?

Not particularly.

She pouted a bit. Did you ever win a science fair or something? Anything to stand out?

I was pretty average, I guess. I didn’t like school that much. What you didn’t say is that you sometimes did run away, though just for a day or so at a time, jumping from one parent’s house to the next. What you didn’t say is that you occasionally smoked with some older kids behind the 7-Eleven, but when they offered you anything harder than weed, you refused. What you didn’t say is that sometimes you were tempted by the harder drugs.

Did that matter now?

Well, what about your parents? She crossed her skinny arms. Are they rich or important or anything like that?

Not really. They’re split up. My dad lives in Rockford now. You realized that she probably didn’t know anything about Rockford, but your tone of voice got the point across that it sucked.

 I don’t think I can help you right now. She shrugged. Maybe just wait and see if your mom or dad can get them going. I’d save your energy for when your case really gets underway.

Anger felt the same dead as alive. So, you’re saying I should do nothing?

What I’m saying is that you don’t exactly look like a Miss Teen USA, and there aren’t any photos of you smiling with a piglet in 4H club. Caroline looked down at her hands as if to pick at a nail. You realized, then, that she didn’t have any.

Look, she tried again, softer this time. Have you ever seen a crime show? The richer, the whiter, the weirder your disappearance is, the more people care, and we’re both out of luck in those departments. I wouldn’t waste energy trying to get the police to reconsider your case.

Then what do I do?

They’ll think you’re a runaway until they find your body. She looked back up to you, cocked her head. I hope he didn’t hide it too well.

 

You learned that even if there wasn’t sex, there was always sex. It was just disguised as stabbing or choking or burning.

Saint Maria encouraged you to keep checking in on your loved ones. It helps you feel more connected, she said. It was easy to see the people you loved in life; it required little energy. If you had enough juice, you could even check in on him. See what he was doing now. Where he was. What he had done with your things. You weren’t sure if you wanted to. But you kept returning to your body, watching yourself wither and wilt and melt and be devoured. Turn to dirt. To bone.

Why were you in his car? Where were you going? Why him?

Why you?

 

The fight had been about something stupid. It always was. When Dad still lived with you, he’d always say that you and Mama were his “two strong-willed women,” though you didn’t know if that was what you would call your frequent arguments. Little ones that spilled and roiled and sharpened into screaming. This one might have started when you remembered that you were supposed to drop off a new year enrollment form at the school that afternoon. You’d forgotten.

In any case, there was no way in hell that Mama was allowing you to go to that party, but as you slammed the door to your room, you knew that wasn’t going to stop you. She went to bed early, she was eternally tired, and in the morning, you two would act like nothing had happened as you always did. She would kiss you on the cheek on the way out the door, her scrubs always immaculately pressed.

The house was old, creaked when the wind blew, or when it rained, or the sun shone. But if you stepped just so, foot by foot along the far edges of the hallway, arms spread wide to support yourself, you could minimize the creaking. Make it down the stairs, out the door. It wasn’t the first time. You knew she had gone to sleep once the TV in her room turned off, but that night it was taking longer than usual. You checked your phone. Isabella had sent you four texts, variations of, “Where are you?” You were supposed to meet her at her house a half-hour ago.

Finally, you heard the low hum of the news fade away, a light snoring soon after. You made your break. Outside, the night air was crisper, wetter than it had seemed possible during the day. You made your way quickly down the quiet street, tennis shoes making a light, rubbery thunk with every step. The streetlights look like melted sunlight on the pavement.

 

When North High started again, Isabella put up missing flyers around school. The bulletin boards, doors, the light posts outside. Bring Gracie Home. She’d chosen one of your favorite photos. She had taken it during the school trip into the city, on the deck of one of the architectural tour riverboats, your hair slightly wild around you, the background a mixture of water and glittering steel. Mama loved that photo, too.

In those first couple of days, the attention your posters got did increase your energy level. You could feel it, a hum of electricity under your skin that wasn’t really skin. You wondered what your classmates were thinking about you or if they thought of you at all once they turned away from the posters. If they thought you ran away. If they even knew who you were – most did not. The missing sophomore, that girl, Graciela, Gracie. You were more popular now than you had ever been. People parted the halls when Isabella walked past. It was the attention you’d always wanted. This isn’t how you wanted it.

But despite the attention, the weeks turned into months and then several. Your parents kept appealing to the police, but not much came of it. Isabella had talked to them too, showing them your last texts from that night, which they thanked her for. You felt even more buzzing after that, but still, no leads. The longer you were in the “dead, not presumed dead” room, the more the skeletonized girls scared you; you didn’t want to become like them, disjointed wrists and elbows and knees, pits where eyes should be. A visual reminder of how little you were worth. Since Caroline wasn’t any help to you, you and Trina hatched a new plan.

As much as it pained you, you had to give Elizabeth some credit. You overheard her talking to another newcomer who hadn’t yet learned to turn away fast enough. She was going on about her movies, her shows, did you know there are internet sleuths now? And that’s when it came to you.

It didn’t take as much energy to nudge Isabella because she did love you. She was always on her phone, during classes, at lunch, and you knew if anyone could start a social media campaign, it would be her. You found Caroline again, and this time you asked her how to actually give a nudge. Your conversation was much more helpful this time around, now that she wasn’t reminding you how little people cared about you being dead. After your last meeting, you had wondered if it was possible to dye your hair post-mortem.

To give a nudge, Caroline explained, you just have to concentrate really hard on that person. Once you can see them, imagine that you’re speaking to them. Whatever you have to say will pop into their mind like their own thoughts.

You sat back. That’s it? You imagined something a little more complicated than that. It was pretty much the same as checking in on someone, only this time you spoke.

Yeah, that’s it.

Then, thanks, I guess.

You retreated further into the room, trying to find a quiet spot to concentrate. Two skeletonized girls who always kept to themselves waved at you as you passed. You called them Bones One and Bones Two. You were happy they had each other.

Once you had settled, you focused in on Isabella, sitting at her desk at home, her room still as pink as ever. Her assignment notebook was open with nothing checked off. You always joked that she liked writing her lists but never finishing them. Then, like Caroline suggested, you pretended you were talking to her. It felt weird speaking to someone when you were utterly dead and they were still alive, but you tried. You couldn’t tell if she heard any of it, if your nudge was working. But you felt like you were slowly deflating, your non-breath getting harder and harder, and you realized that you didn’t have enough energy to keep nudging. You stopped.

Trina asked you how it went. She was contemplating nudging her mother.

I don’t know yet. You hadn’t realized how wane Trina was getting. She looked almost translucent. I guess we’ll see.

 

You vaguely recognized him when he rolled down the window. Jason was getting annoyed about having to wait, and he didn’t want to pick you up because your house was in the exact opposite direction of the party. Isabella said he was close to leaving without you. You were walking as fast as you could, bordering on jogging, when he pulled up beside you.

“Hey, you go to North High, right?”

You kept walking, not looking over, thinking if you didn’t, he would eventually go away.

“Gracie. Gracie, right?”

The sound of your name drew your attention. When you looked at him again, closer this time, you realized you did recognize him. Someone’s cousin? You thought you smoked with him once or twice. He was older than you, early twenties maybe. He’d hand-rolled the joints and hadn’t made you pay for yours.

“Oh, hey,” you said. You stopped walking.

“Where are you headed in such a rush?” Some low-volume indie crap was coming from his speakers.

“The Barn Party tonight.”

“Oh, no way, I’m headed there myself.” He paused, then, “You need a ride?”

“No, that’s all right.”

“You sure?”

You looked down at your phone. Jason wasn’t going to wait for you, Isabella had texted. She was going to go with him. You didn’t know anyone else you could ask for a ride from.

“Actually, if you don’t mind.”

“Hop in.” He leaned over the passenger seat and popped the door open.

Your jean skirt was uncomfortably short when you sat down; the fabric of the passenger irritated the backs of your thighs. It felt slightly crusty. You hugged your flannel closer to your chest.

He flipped open a pack of cigarettes and put one in his mouth, offering you the pack with a lazy flick of his wrist across the console. You took one. Then you texted Isabella. “I found a ride.”

 

When you met with Maria again, she asked if you had put more thought into your murder. A sprig of forget-me-nots sat in a small glass bottle on her desk. You wondered if you grabbed it, would it feel like anything at all? You had a sudden craving for an Arizona iced tea.

Why does it matter so much if I remember it?

Why do you think I want you to remember? the old woman countered.

Her answer was so much like a teacher’s that you rolled your eyes, sparking a sudden funny feeling of your mother scolding you for disrespecting a saint. She probably would’ve melted on the spot.

I don’t know. Because it will somehow help.

Maria gave you a small smile, unfazed. The longer a case is open, the more narratives people create.

You looked down at your hands. You were having a good day; they looked whole.

If you know the truth of your case, no one can tell you differently. You don’t need anyone else’s version of what happened.

No one else has a version of what happened. No one has any clue at all.

When you looked back up, the child saint sat in front of you. Her feet didn’t touch the ground from where she sat on her chair. Just because they don’t have a clue what happened, doesn’t mean they don’t think they do.

You let your impulse get the better of you, and you reached for the bottle. It did feel remarkably like glass.

The old woman returned. Just think about it.

 

He wasn’t super weird at first. You hadn’t talked about much of anything, a few teachers that were still teaching back from when he went to North High, mostly. You confirmed that Mrs. Priestley, the European history teacher, was indeed “a real ballbuster.”

“You ever been to a Barn Party before?” he asked at one point.

“No, first one.”

“Got it, got it.” He tapped the steering wheel slightly offbeat to the music.

You wouldn’t say the ride was pleasant, but it wasn’t uncomfortable, either. You felt like it could’ve been worse. Then you felt his hand on your thigh.

You jerked your legs toward the door. “What are you doing?”

He laughed, but it sounded forced. “My bad, my bad. I was reaching for the CD on the floor by your feet. Can you grab it?”

You bent slightly and patted your hand around on the dirty floor mat, making sure to keep your face turned towards him. The carpet was slightly sticky near the console. You handed him the CD.

“Thanks.”

He put the CD in, even though the old one was only on track four. You tried to keep the conversation light. Your heart felt stiff in your chest. There was a crumpled paper birthday card laying on the passenger seat floor, crayon smiley faces leering up at you. “Who’s that from?”

“Kid sister.” Then he grabbed one of your upper arms, crossed over your chest, and rubbed his thumb over it. “What is this, flannel?”

“Don’t touch me!” Your voice came out higher than you intended. The car started to feel like it was shrinking around you, being crushed by one of those car compactors.

“All right, all right. Relax, would you? I’m not a creep.”

When he finally turned off the road, you were relieved. You shot Isabella a text saying you made it, but it didn’t go through. The service wasn’t good out here.

He parked in a small clearing, but there were no other cars. There was no music, even though you heard that the cops often busted the parties because of noise complaints. There were no other people.

“You said you would take me to the Barn Party.”

“It’s right up the road.” He turned the car off. The doors were still locked.

 

There was a news crew in front of your school. Isabella and your parents were holding pictures of you, some of the missing posters they had put up. In the background, other students cried for the camera.

Your parents didn’t fight anymore. They were just sad.

The scene was easy to see. You could feel the energy of all their thoughts buzzing. It was the most alive you’d felt since you’d been dead.

The crew focused on Mama’s tear-filled eyes. “My daughter has been missing since August 10th, and the police have done nothing but file a report. Please help us find Gracie.”

The reporter turned to Isabella. You could tell she’d curled her hair, put on the sparkly pink lip gloss you’d always borrowed from her. “Now, you’re Gracie’s friend who started the campaign, ‘Bring Gracie Home,’ the Facebook page that’s been shared more than forty-thousand times since you created it, asking people for any information they may have. How does it feel to think that you’ve done more investigating than local authorities?”

“I know Gracie didn’t run away. She was on her way to meet me when she disappeared.” Isabella was holding a photo taken earlier in the summer, the two of us sitting on her patio, cups of lemonade on the side table. “She said she had found a ride, but she never showed up.”

The reporter turned back to the cameras. “The police declined our request for comment, citing the ongoing investigation.”

After the interview with Isabella and your parents, the reporter stuck her microphone into your classmates’ faces.

“We were in summer school together. I always asked her for help on the homework, and she was super good at explaining it,” Ben Colson said.

“In fourth grade, she said she wanted to be a zookeeper when she grew up,” Hema Patel commented. “For some reason, that’s always stuck with me.”

Even Amy Cunningham, the girl who made fun of your legs in middle school gym class because Mama wouldn’t let you shave, had something to say. She had a tear roll down her perfect face as she talked. “We’ve been in school together since we were toddlers. It’s just so crazy to think something like this could happen.”

In a way, it was sweet. All these people, who you were never really friends with, had at least always registered that you were around. You had some sort of presence in homeroom or algebra or study hall. But the part you focused on was the fact you’d be remembered on national TV for wanting to shovel elephant shit for a living.

You thought about visiting your body again, imagining all this attention reanimating your limbs, imagined crawling out of the ground to dust yourself off, walking the long road home. But you knew that in reality, you were still laying there, perhaps a little scattered now; scraps of your flannel woven into birds’ nests like prayer flags, signaling X marks the grisly spot.

 

Do all the rooms look like this? you asked Trina.

Being disappeared opened a cavernous waiting game. You were not dead in the eyes of the world, of your family, just in your own little bubble. You were at the finish line, waiting for the others to catch up or to finally acknowledge you crossed the threshold. The sense of perpetual, purgatorial limbo was echoed by where they were, an empty room with empty girls, scant furniture that no one needed. The idea that this stretched on forever, over and over and over again until… Until what? You hoped the next room would look different if you ever got there.

I don’t know. Elizabeth will, she goes in them all the time. Trina’s mother and her boyfriend moved out of the house where her body was. She didn’t have a lot of energy to keep up appearances anymore. You made a point not to look at her neck; you knew she was embarrassed.

Why can she do that? You thought about Elizabeth, tripping through walls and over girls.

Because too many people are, like, obsessed with her death. It’s too much.

People loved a dead girl. People loved a beautiful dead girl even more.

Did you know that they gave her a new name after she was murdered? Most people don’t even know that her real name is Elizabeth.

What do they call her?

The Black Dahlia.

Oh. You had heard of her, then. Not that you would let her know that.

It’s kind of sad. That has to do something to your head, don’t you think?

You wanted people to care about you. You’d felt pretty good ever since Isabella had made the Facebook page and since your parents had been on the news. People were interested in what had happened to you. But what would happen if people theorized and obsessed and fetishized for years? How could those narratives not cloud your head, make you drunk, make your murder not yours anymore?

Whose story was it then?

 

You’d sworn to yourself that you weren’t going to check in on him, that he wasn’t worth straining your energy to see. If you were honest, you were scared to see him. But your campaign was picking up traction, your parents’ interview had been on the news last week, and you wanted to see what he was doing. You wanted to know if he was squirming. If he was scared.

When you focused in on him, he was in what you assumed was his living room, the TV turned to some game show, pillows and cans and plastic cups sprinkled around the floor. He was sitting next to a young girl on the couch, a light-yellow cap on her head. She had no eyebrows. There was an orange pill bottle on the side table. His face, which you never really had a great look at, was pale and scraggly, ingrown hairs on his chin forming angry red bumps. You still didn’t remember whose cousin he was. He was drinking a beer.

Yesterday’s newspaper was rolled up in the trash can, turned to a page with big block letters. “Local Girl Still Missing.”

 

“My little sister is sick. Cancer.”

“I’m sorry.”

“My girlfriend left me. She couldn’t take it.”

“Please let me out.” You could feel your eyes fill with tears, despite your attempt to keep them back. You knew he hadn’t taken you to the Barn Party. The nervous energy around him choked you; he wouldn’t look you in the eye. This time when he grabbed your thigh, he leaned over the console, too, and kissed you. You let him. It was sour, but you couldn’t tell if it was him or the taste of your own fear. You wondered if he could feel your heart smashing into your rib cage, into his.

“I just want to talk,” he breathed in your ear when he pulled away.

“Can we talk outside?” you asked. You sat as still as possible, the passenger side door digging into your shoulder blade. The cigarette you had was no longer in your hand.

“You’re going to leave.”

“I won’t, I promise. I just need air. It’s stuffy in here.”

He looked at you then, so sadly that you almost felt bad for him, before he leaned back into his seat. “Okay.” He took the keys out of the ignition, unlocked only his door. He walked around the car and opened the passenger side, offering you his hand as if it were a date. You took it.

He put his mouth on yours again. You tried to push him, but he was surprisingly strong, and you were saying no, and his hands were under your skirt, and then your underwear, and his breath was shuddering in your ear as he pinned you to the car. “Please,” he said. “Please, please,” his pleading mirrored your own. The heat of unspilled tears gathered in your eyes as you went limp. You imagined you felt as TV static did, crackling but immobile.

As he reached down to unzip his pants, you knew that it was time to go. To run. Eyes, nose, underarms, groin – that’s what they’d told you in health class. As he looked down, you swiped at his face, raised your knee as fast as you could, and as he stumbled back the few paces you needed, you ran for the trees. You didn’t think to scream.

There were no lights ahead and no way to know where you were, but at the moment that didn’t matter to you so much. Yesterday’s rain had made everything muddy, and you realized too late that one of your shoelaces was untied. When you fell, your face collided with a protruding root, a thwacking sound that reverberated around your brain. The taste of iron bloomed in your mouth.

You could hear him behind you as you tried to turn over. You were crying now. There was mud in your eyes, caked in your lashes. He was repeating, “I’m going to be in so much trouble.” She could hear him crying too.

“I’m not going to tell anyone. I promise. Please.”

He didn’t believe you.

 

Around the time the police finally sat down with your parents to open a formal investigation, Trina left the room. The couple who had moved into her mom’s old house had been shocked to discover the skeleton of a twelve-year-old girl in the spot where they wanted to build an in-ground pool. Her stepfather was arrested quickly, at least in terms of the afterlife. You didn’t know where she was now. You didn’t get to say goodbye.

Where do we go at the end of all of this? you asked Maria, remembering your conversation with Trina all that time ago. You imagined her there, at the end. You wished her there.

That is not something I can tell you. You can only find out on your own.

And you can’t tell me where Trina is?

No.

It didn’t seem to you that she could tell you much of anything besides to figure things out by yourself.

You’ve remembered your murder.

Yes.

On her desk, the forget-me-nots seemed to glow, illuminate, botanic neon signs that yelled, Look at me, look at me! Like a small galaxy.

And how do you feel?

Pretty bad. Whenever you cried, Dad would bring you a glass of water to calm you down. The coolness was soothing. Take a deep breath, he would say. Your nose pricked and you knew that meant you were about to cry, which apparently you could still do in the afterlife. You wished you had a drink.

Maria didn’t say anything else, just peered at you with her old woman face.

It just feels so stupid, you continued, trying to push down the choking sensation in your throat. Like, what was the point of that?

The point of what?

Me dying. It came out a squeak, the tears you finally spilled constricting your voice.  I died going to a dumb party.  I got in the car with someone I didn’t know, and he killed me, and that’s just it. It makes everything leading up to it feel pointless too.

Do you really think your life was pointless?

You thought about Isabella, your parents, who would keep being your parents even though they didn’t get to have a child anymore. You shrugged. I guess not pointless. But you couldn’t say what it was.

Despite what people may claim, there often is no point in killing. It’s a coward’s phrase of justification. She pushed a glass of water across the desk towards you. You didn’t see where it came from. But it does not make you pointless, too.

She let you sit in silence, gratefully sipping. It was a foreign action now. You worried it would spill down your chin if you didn’t concentrate. As you sat, sipping, concentrating, staring at the flowers that looked like stars, you remembered your very last night sky. The word that came to mind, again, was inconsequential. You decided it was not that, either.

 

The woods he buried you in didn’t get many visitors. The orange of the hunter’s hat splashed violently against the muted backdrop of dead leaves and early morning frost; his footsteps, a light crunch, might as well have been a gunshot. His breath made specters in the air.

The doe he was tracking couldn’t have been more than a few hundred yards away from him when he stepped on an unusually smooth branch. His foot rolled over it, causing him to stumble. He knew the doe had heard him. He only really looked at the branch as he kicked it, noticing it was just a little too white, a little too round.

When the police descended, they sent a flock of cedar waxwings into flight, their whistling like a serenade.

You followed Saint Maria into the hallway, expecting to turn into her office to talk. But she brushed past it, walking further down the hall, yawning like a mouth before her.

Where are we going?

Maria reached another door, opened it. Full of girls. New girls.

Full of girls everyone knew were dead.

“Promise,” she said.

Usually her eyes reminded him of icicles. Gray-blue and bright in the light, but today they glared. Vince strummed his thumb across the top of Ava’s hand. The tendons were raised like guitar strings.

“Promise,” she repeated. “Just us.”

Vince’s mind was clouded with static and he struggled to organize his thoughts.

Her eyes remained fierce and defiant, not at all the gentle smile he knew, and they sent a clear message: there’d be no negotiating.

She wanted privacy and he could understand that. So, he agreed, “Yes. Of course.”

Her eyes gave a slight look of suspicion. “Then, it’s a deal?”

He nodded slightly, “Yes. Absolutely.”

Ava extended her right hand, straight and firm, for a shake. Instead, he took her soft hand and kissed it.

 

***

            Outside, maple trees fluttered the fresh greens of April. Morning sun lay on Ava’s face, cozy as a quilt. She sat calmly in the recliner. Vince struggled to read, words jangled off the page. He wasn’t able to ignore the thin tubing connecting the pump to a PICC line in Ava’s arm. He felt ashamed to feel gratitude for the poison pushing into her vein.

The intoxicating rhythm of the infusion pump lulled him: clackity-spin, clackity-spin, clackity-spin. It sounded exactly like the old slide projector Mrs. Ross had back at Cooper Elementary. Sometimes, on rainy days, Mrs. Ross would set up the slide carousel, dim the lights, and angle the projector toward a screen balanced on a tippy tripod. Vince especially enjoyed the transcontinental railroad slides. The dynamite and the impossible piles of gray rock. Thin men, thick mustaches, all weary worn, looking at the camera vacantly.

Vince shook his head, memory is madness. It had been at least sixty years since he’d sat in the gloom of that brown, plaster classroom. How had he remembered Mrs. Ross’ name today when yesterday he couldn’t recall the oncologist’s?

Vince put down his book and scanned the room. Puppy-brown reclining chairs placed in exacting rows. Observation-styled windows ran the length of the east and west walls. Sunshine, all day, he concluded. A glossy credenza held a carafe of cucumber-water, a pedestaled bowl filled with fresh apples and oranges, and three insulated coffee pumps: French Roast, Columbian, and a Costa Rican blend. Woven baskets offered Nature Valley Granola bars, Saltine crackers, and Nilla Wafers.

The hospital staff wore identical green scrubs. Ava’s complimentary lap blanket was green. The waiting room chairs, the fern-print wallpaper, the free, plastic-wrapped slippers, and the hand-sanitizer pumps were all shades of green.

The vomit bags were white. I guess those don’t come in green.

That morning, as they stood at the new patient check-in counter, Ava commented that the room was lovely. She said it but didn’t mean it, like saying the weather’s nice while walking to a funeral.

But the intake nurse perked up, “We don’t call it a room, we call it a suite.”

“Oh,” Ava smiled, as if she cared.

Suddenly Vince understood. All the green, the cucumber water, the slippers. It was all a manipulation. The hospital was masking the infusion room as a day-spa. He scoffed at the absurdity.

A pump beeped. Vince slid his eyes toward the sound. Sitting in another recliner was a little man wearing new blue sweatpants. A nurse was disconnecting the tubing from the man’s right arm while a young man, the son maybe, flirted with her loudly, bombarding her with his wonderfulness. His T-shirt revealed a tattooed wolf on his bicep.

Vince was annoyed. For God’s sake! Can’t you see your father needs help getting out of the chair?

Ava sat up and checked the screen of her pump. “I hoped that beeping was my machine.” She placed her left arm behind her head, “Who knew thirty minutes could last so long.”

Vince immediately forgot about the flirting son and pounced into action, “What can I get you, my dear? A hot cup of something?”

Ava pointed her chin toward the ceiling and shook her head, no. She exhaled, “Distract me.”

Vince needed to close his eyes to quiet his mind, otherwise he’d never be able to shut out the clackity-spin and the shuffling feet. After a moment he leaned close. “Do you remember when the waiter brought us that broth?”

She closed her eyes, “Remind me.”

“Siena. Remember how the afternoon sun shaded the clocktower gold? The old Italian men with their easels, painting in the square.”

“And the broth?”

“Amazing. Beyond words.”

Vince leaned across Ava’s hips and pressed the recliner button. The motor hummed. Ava’s legs lifted and her head pressed back.

“Luxury,” she whispered.

He studied his wife. Her skin looked soft and smelled of lavender lotion. She wore a pink blouse. She always looked great in pink. He studied her shape. She carried extra weight in her arms. Her belly was rounder than she liked. “Best diet I’ll ever go on,” she joked during the drive in. Vince forced himself to laugh. He patted his small belly, “Maybe I’ll join you.”

Vince rubbed his hands over his face until his skin warmed. “There weren’t any menus at the restaurant. The owner greeted us, brought us to a table facing the square and asked, ‘Shall I feed you?’ We were charmed. The owner pointed to the kitchen and said, ‘My daughter. Best chef in Italy.’ We smiled and chuckled at his boast. A father’s love. But then we considered the possibility. Maybe this meal would stagger the mind and palate. We became a little giddy.

“Soon the owner returned, delivering two bowls of hot broth. Then, he stepped back, crossed his arms and watched us. We swirled spoons through the broth hoping there was more. Maybe something was hidden at the bottom of the bowl.

“The owner stepped toward our table. ‘Is something wrong?’

“We were a chorus of, ‘No, no, no! Of course not, no!’ Because, really, what can you say?

“In your best Italian you asked, ‘Un po ‘di pane, per favore?’

“His lips sagged, creating that Italian look of disgust. ‘Bread? No! No pane.’ He stomped away, huffing, his right hand making wild gestures in the air. We had insulted him. We felt horrible. To make amends we lifted our spoons, then ate.”

Ava’s smile was soft. “Then?”

“Life changing, my dear. Intoxicating. Such complex flavors. So multi-layered. We were transported to long forgotten memories. It made you laugh. It made me cry. You called out an apology. ‘Signore! Signore! Mi dispiace.’ We begged for more. We fell over ourselves congratulating the owner on his daughter’s talent. We thanked them, ‘grazie mille!’ He kissed your hand. I kissed his ring.”

There was dazzle in her eyes. “Then?”

“At the doorway we hugged and kissed cheeks. Then he presented you with a small, gold box, wrapped with a crisp, blue ribbon. ‘Ricciarelli,’ he said. Almond cookies. The chewy ones.

“We scurried back to our hotel room, slipped under the puffy-thick duvet and ate every crumb.”

Ava shifted her body and exhaled. “Luxury.”

“Indeed,” he said, then placed the thin, green blanket over Ava’s chest.

 

***

            They napped a lot now. After a month into treatment Vince required as much sleep as Ava, although for different reasons. Disease and treatment devoured Ava’s energy. Vince was drained by long jags of worry and helplessness.

The first time he heard Ava’s feet thunder across the bedroom floor, Vince bolted and found himself outside the bathroom door. Inside, she was retching. He felt jittery. Should I go in? Knock?  His voice was timid, “Can I help?”

She cleared her throat, “Clean pajamas, please.”

Vince returned with a blue set from the dresser. He was afraid to knock on the door. “May I come in?”

Ava was crumpled against the wall. The toilet seat and her white pajamas were splattered with yellowy vomit. He knelt on the floor and began to slide her upright.

“Be careful of your back,” she said, reaching for the pajamas. “Please leave,” she whispered.

Vince backed out of the bathroom, then sat on their bed and waited. He heard the shower turn on. Is she steady enough to shower?

When Ava reappeared she was dressed in the blue pajamas. Her wet hair was combed straight and she had transformed a large bath towel into a sack. Inside were her soiled pajamas and the rags she used to clean the toilet. Vince followed Ava down the hall to the washer. He placed a hand on her back while she poured detergent into the drum.

“You alright?”

She nodded then looked at Vince’s pants. “Give me those.” Vomit was smeared across the knees.

After placing his pants in the washer he asked, “Can I help you back to bed?”

She nodded, then he walked her to the bedroom.

They’d celebrated forty-four anniversaries. Over the years, life’s responsibilities sifted into His and Hers. Ava managed the laundry but never took the Camry for an oil change. Vince clipped coupons but had no idea where they kept the checkbook. When she said, “the thing’s beeping,” he installed new batteries in the smoke detector. When Vince asked Ava to “manage this madness,” she grabbed her sewing scissors to trim his hair.

As for the obligations that fell under no heading, their system was imperfect; those chores floated across their life like bubbles. And Vince and Ava reached and dove to pop them, one by one, before any, or most, hit the ground.

Vince returned to the washer. It hummed and churned. A box of OxiClean jiggled on the shelf. Having never used the machine before, he inspected the control dial. It could be turned left to a setting called Normal or turned right to a setting called Regular. Ava had chosen Regular. What’s the difference? He searched the shelving until he found the manual.

 

***

            Her oncologist always instructed, “Keep her hydrated. Small meals are best.”

There were many cans of Swanson’s low-sodium chicken broth in the pantry. Vince poured the broth into a pot, then, checking his watch, decided not to turn on the heat. He no longer heated food before Ava was awake.

Vince pulled the orange bottle of anti-nausea medication from Ava’s coat pocket and placed it on the table. He scanned the kitchen. Her knit hat was squashed under a stack of unopened mail, days of dirty dishes teetered in the sink and a Hefty bag was tied and waited by the back door.

Vince sorted the mail. Most was junk but two bills were past due. Damn it.

He prioritized. Call VISA then Electric North, explain, then find the checkbook.

There was an oversized envelope from Commonwealth Health.

Teaching public school – Vince, seventh grade English; Ava, eighth grade Biology – was no get-rich-quick plan but their retirement packages included premium health and dental insurance. Right now those plastic insurance cards were pure gold.

Inside the Commonwealth Health envelope was a Dear Subscriber letter and an Explanation of Benefits chart. Several pages line-listed hospital invoices. Vince studied the charges then saw, You Owe. My God, can that number be right?

He’d call Commonwealth Health after Electric North.

Vince reached for the phone. The voicemail light was blinking. Three messages.

First new message:

Hi there. I don’t mean to bother you but I just thought I’d check to see how Ava’s doing. And, you too, Vince. Let me know if you need anything, okay? You always liked my lasagna. I’d love to bring you two: one for now, one for later. Just give me the word, okay? Talk soon—oh, sorry—this is Frannie. Sorry. Bye.

Second new message:

It’s Ron here. Vince, listen, the son-in-law made sausages again and brought me a double pack last Tuesday. They’re spicier than before but pretty good. If you want, I could bring some around. Let me know. Terrible what you two are going through. Terrible. So. Let me know about the sausages.

Third new message:

Hi, Ava. Hi, Vince. It’s John and Nancy calling. Vince, you call us no matter what. We can do whatever you need. Happy to do laundry or run errands. With these boys of mine I’m driving to the supermarket seven days a week. Thank God for double coupons, right? Happy to grab what you need. Just let us know.

There was genuine concern in their voices but he also detected tones of obligation—and relief when the machine picked up. It had been weeks since anyone stopped by. Vince understood: no one wanted to intrude or be the knock that woke Ava, but he also knew they were afraid. It takes great courage to face another person’s despair.

Still, Vince wished someone would knock. He would have welcomed a friend at the door and the sight of a full, healthy face. He craved the benign, stand-in-the-street news. Proof that beyond the hospital and beyond their home, life was being lived. How the fish were biting. Town meeting scuttlebutt. Flooded basements and sump pumps. He wanted to hear all of it. Any of it. And when nothing was left to say he’d accept Frannie’s lasagnas with heartfelt gratitude. All he needed to do was dial the phone.

But he had promised.

Ava said, “I’ll go through treatment, get it done, then we’ll move on. Like it never happened.”

Vince agreed. “Yes, whatever you want.”

“Just us.”

He nodded.

“Promise?”

“Of course.”

“Then it’s a deal?”

“Yes. Absolutely.”

He promised. He meant it. So, Vince deleted the messages.

 

***

            Ava’s hair fell out. They knew it would. But no one warned that so much could fall out at once.

Vince stood at the edge of the bed. Ava brushed listless brown hair from her pillow then said, “Looks like a toddler had a tantrum and took it out on my hair.”

“Not so bad,” Vince said, reminding himself to breathe.

Her remaining hair looked mangy. Normally, Ava wasn’t fussy about her appearance but she always looked dignified.

They walked to the bathroom. She took a bath towel and swung it around her shoulders then sat on the toilet lid. She handed Vince her sewing scissors then bowed her head. A submission Vince found disturbing.

His voice shook, “I can’t do this to you.”

“You’re not doing it to me. You’re doing it for me.”

Vince took inventory of her accumulated side effects: numb fingertips, nausea, diarrhea, and now this. He checked his shirt pocket. “I need my readers.”

Ava reached her hand to his hip and gave him a pat.

Vince let out a long breath then pinched a thin section of Ava’s hair between his fingertips. He squeezed the sharp blades and felt the slice. He held Ava’s severed hair in his hand, then, as if hot, dropped it.

“This is so disrespectful.”

“Distract me.”

It was hot in the bathroom and his shirt was damp under the arms and at the waist, where it tucked into his khakis. He wiped his face against his sleeve then closed his eyes to control his breathing.

“Vince?”

Her voice brought him back. “Sorry. Lost in thought.”

He resumed cutting and dropping then began, “Do you remember when we followed a scary German man into the Black Forest?”

Ava’s voice was muffled by the towel at her chest. “Scary?”

“My dear, he had a shotgun!”

Her laugher sounded different now. Less robust.

“The man had a shotgun and we followed him into the woods because he claimed to know where to find chanterelles. Sure, he wore lederhosen, which was adorable, but who brings a gun to pick mushrooms? Gosh, what was his name? Hanz? Fritz?”

“Hanz.”

“Yes, Hanz. So we hiked and walked until Hanz stopped abruptly and pointed. Chanterelles. Dewy in the early morning light. Their orangey ruffles happily decorating the forest floor.

“Greed got the better of us. We bent and picked until his woven basket was stuffed. At which point, Hanz slipped his arms through the leather straps, adjusted the basket on his back then said, ‘Now we eat.’ Which was sobering. We? We planned to pick a few mushrooms, keep a few, then say our goodbyes.”

“But—”

“We left our car just off the road then got into Hanz’s—a complete stranger who, let’s remember, had a gun. Plus, where were we going? He drove East. Two hours. More maybe. I wanted to appear calm, so I casually asked, ‘You live far, huh?’ But he gave me nothing. No information. He just nodded and said, ‘Umm.’”

“Then?”

“Well, being Sunday, a family day, his yard was crowded with running grandchildren and a large group of adults, everyone dressed in gorgeous Bavarian clothing: edelweiss decoratively stitched on leather pants for the men and the ladies in their long dresses with puffy sleeves and lace collars.

“A long wooden table was nestled into a patio of traprock. The rocks kicked under foot as crates of lager and wheat beer were hauled outside. Then came platter after platter of food delivered to the table: roast duck, white sausages, stewed red cabbage, knödel. Where it all came from, I couldn’t say. It was magical. Then. Mushrooms. Hanz gave our chanterelles a quick wash then fried them in an enormous glop of butter, minced garlic, a splash of white wine—”

“I’m salivating.”

“He fried them crisp. Potato chip crisp. Earthy and rich and coated in a sinful amount of dripping butter. I had the strangest urge to drink them.”

“Heaven.”

“Quite possibly.”

Vince stopped cutting to look at Ava’s scalp. The remaining hair was patchy and her cream-colored skin showed through in places.

She looks sick.

Using a hand towel he gently dusted hair clippings from her head and shoulders. Suddenly, tears began to drip from his eyes. His lungs felt tightly compressed. He lifted his chin to the ceiling demanding to stop the tears.

To mask his emotions, he changed the pitch of his voice and chipped, “Now that I think about it, maybe those mushrooms weren’t really chanterelles.”

Ava removed the bath towel from her shoulders. “What?”

“Honestly, who knows what we ate. Maybe you’ve been misdiagnosed. Maybe you don’t have cancer—”

Her eyes shot Vince a warning, “Don’t—”

“Maybe you have a simple case of mushroom poisoning.”

“You agreed,” she said sharply, then left the bathroom.

It was true. Vince had agreed. No cancer jokes. He swept her hair into a pile with the tip of his shoe.

 

***

            Just before Vince retired they’d painted the kitchen walls Island Blue. After forty years of rushed mornings, heading to the car with toast clenched between teeth and travel mugs splashing hot coffee onto their wrists, they’d envisioned retirement consisting of fantastically drawn-out, island-style mornings—nowhere to go, nowhere to be. Just endless time to relax and sip coffee. He’d even splurged and bought a French coffee press.

Time was, indeed, drawn-out now but there was nothing fantastic about it. He waited for the kettle to boil alone and ate toast over the sink. The French press was still in the box.

He set Ava’s hot mug of ginger tea onto a small table next to the couch. Ava was laying on the couch wearing brown pajamas with tiny pink birds scattered on them. She was snuggled beneath a blue and white blanket she’d crocheted last fall. He remembered how deftly her hands moved the crochet hook, how swiftly the stitches linked, building something complicated and solid. He imagined her cancer cells multiplying into a complicated pattern. Something warm to wrap around her lung.

He knelt at the couch. “Can I tempt you with some broth?”

She smiled but it was forced.

“Or whatever you like.”

She patted his hand. “Tea’s enough, thank you. Now, please don’t kneel. You’ll never get up.”

He placed pillows behind Ava’s back for support. “Are you nauseous? Because, if you aren’t, you should eat. We need to get your weight up a little.”

“Is the heat on?”

He handed Ava the tea and she wrapped her hands around the hot mug. Vince tucked the blanket under her legs, then under her heels. Even with socks, her feet were always cold now.

“I’ll turn the heat up.”

She reached for a red boutique bag sitting on the floor next to the couch. “First, I want to show you something.”

Inside the bag was a thin gift box. She shook the lid until the bottom fell free. Inside, red tissue paper was neatly folded and sealed with an embossed silver sticker. Ava tore the paper and revealed a green and gold headscarf.  “The sales lady said green and gold were ‘colors of strength.’”

Vince felt dizzy. “When did you buy this?”

They’d never discussed it.

            Ava draped the soft silk over her head. He watched as her fingers slowly twisted and rolled the fabric. “After the diagnosis.”

That was so long ago.

“Can I help?” he asked.

She tucked fabric into place. “I want to see if my fingers can still do it.”

Still do it? When did she wear it? At the store?

“It’ll keep my head warm and conceal my hair. A little, anyway.”

In contrast to the scarf’s rich colors, Ava’s skin was sallow. Her eyebrows had thinned. Her eyelashes were gone. With great care, Vince adjusted the fabric around Ava’s ears.

“You look glamorous. Exotic. Like a gypsy.”

 

***

            Ava and Vince stepped off the hospital elevator then turned toward the chemotherapy suite (which they now called “that place”). An experienced nurse suggested Vince fill a backpack with items they might need: pen and paper for questions or notes for the doctors. An extra sweater, tissues, baby wipes, an extra pair of Ava’s underwear (diarrhea was unpredictable). Lifesavers or gum (for when she vomited). The backpack was bulky and slightly uncomfortable, but Vince felt competent and, secretly, he hoped someone would ask for a pen. He’d packed three.

It was the first day Ava wore the headscarf. Even though it was baby-soft and the color of gems, he hated it. It was a seething, retched kind of hate. And once treatment ended, he never wanted to see it again. Never. He planned to throw it out—or better, burn it.

He resented the hospital too, which he realized was illogical, but the hallways were crowded and smelled of sweat and bleach, staff was infuriatingly cheery (they smiled a lot), the artwork was insipid, antibacterial gel dried his skin raw and the coffee tasted like a Ho-Jo’s breakfast-buffet gone completely awry.

Ava patted his arm, “Get yourself a coffee while I check-in.”

His mind re-centered, “Coffee, yes. Can I get you something sweet? Fruit?”

“Water’s fine.”

The receptionist swooned, “Oh, Ava, what a beautiful headscarf!”

Vince gave the receptionist more of a sneer than a smile before walking toward the gleaming credenza. He overheard the receptionist say, “You two are the sweetest. Look how he cares for you. That Vince. He’s a keeper.”

Vince pressed his fingertips against the credenza to steady himself. He hated all of this and struggled not to run—to grab Ava and run through the park, past the newspaper kiosk, down toward the pond, then behind a massive, ancient oak to catch their breath. They’d laugh and shake, thrilled by their escape.

But then what? He sighed. You’re no good to her like this.

            He returned to find Ava reclined and waiting for the nurse. He handed her the water bottle but her fingers struggled to twist open the cap. She passed it back to Vince. With ease, he cranked it open.

“My hero,” she smiled, placing the bottle on a side table.

While the nurse attached the IV needle to Ava’s PICC line, Vince stood and looked out the east windows. He never watched this part. If it upset Ava, she never mentioned it. When he heard the pump begin its clackity-spin, clackity-spin he rested his forehead against the window. The glass was cool and refreshing against his warm skin. Morning sun blinked through the maple leaves. If he could reach through the glass the leaves would feel fleshy. In November they’d be yellowy-brown and brittle.

He sat next to Ava’s recliner then tore open a granola bar. He held out the bar as an offer. She shook her head, no.

Ava inhaled deeply then sighed, long and hard.

“What can I do?”

She slumped a bit. “Distract me.”

Vince patted down his hair. It felt thinner. Recently he noticed it had receded even further from his forehead. He’d always had a thick mop of hair and his buddies used to tease him. His friends were bald and blamed it on parenting – raising children caused hair to fall out. Because Vince didn’t have a teenager, he still had the hair of a teenager. Of course, his friends didn’t appreciate the stress of being childless, how difficult it is to celebrate someone else’s children being born then witness every step of their lives, how difficult it is to remain relevant to friends when you don’t share the common connector of parenthood. Not to mention, the crush of Mother and Father’s Day. Vince glimpsed at Ava’s headscarf.

He closed his eyes and focused on clearing his mind. After a few minutes he looked up and asked, “Remember Quebec? Our concierge with the pencil mustache?”

There was a slight smile on Ava’s face when she closed her eyes.

“Remember how he insisted, ‘You must try La Rêverie. It’s impossible to get a reservation but let me try.’ And voilà, a table for two.

“We were dressed to the nines. Your high-heels had those sparkly things on them—what are they called?”

“Sequins.”

“Right. Sequins. You wore a green dress with a low back. Tasteful but distracting. I wore a double-breasted dinner jacket. Gold buttons. And dress pants with razor sharp creases.

“The taxi ride was brief but when our cabbie pulled to the curb to let us off, we were confused. Maybe we had the wrong address? ‘C’est Rêverie’ he said, pointing to the sign.  ‘Le restaurant. C’est correct.’ So, okay, this was the right address, but the doorstep was dark. Dark-dark. No light above the door, no light shining from the windows. Were they closed? Did we have the wrong night?

“Our cabbie pointed to the faire and repeated, ‘Le restaurant. C’est correct.’ So, Merci beaucoup, monsieur, we paid him and stepped toward an enormous wooden door. Like a giant’s door. And I knocked.

“After an uncomfortable amount of time a teeny-tiny woman tugged open the hefty door. I tried to explain, I’m so sorry, we likely have the wrong night. But she stepped back, opened the door widely and invited us inside. Honestly, it felt creepy, like a horror movie—”

“You’ve always been a sucker for horror films.”

Vince laughed, “That’s true!”

“But inside?”

“Absolute elegance. Gray walls, black carpet. Thick and weighty curtains pooled at the floor like the Palace of Versailles. There were mirrors, with ornate filigree. Expansive chandeliers, with thin, white braids of color twisted within the glass—”

“Venetian?”

“Certainly. The room was small, only a dozen or so tables, but there wasn’t a single other seating—not one.”

“Strange—”

“When the tiny woman returned, she said, in her delightful accent, ‘Tonight is a seven-course menu.’ We looked at each other. Our eyes screamed, SEVEN? Then she added, ‘With wine pairings.’ So out came seven miniature plates with miniature servings. Canapés, beef carpaccio, trout almandine, dragon fruit sorbet, lamb lollypops, a local cheese tray with fresh figs, and, as a finalé, a hot peach tart with frangipane.”

“Bliss.”

“Beyond bliss, if there is such a thing. Then, our eighth course arrived. What’s that? How can there be an eighth course to a seven-course meal? Good question, my dear. We begged the tiny woman, ‘Please, no more food.’ We did not know of the miniature bite of dessert that sometimes follows dessert. Yes, true. Double-dessert. But the tiny woman insisted, ‘Compliments of the chef.’

“She placed a purple plate before you and a purple plate before me. On it was one stark, white cookie. No larger than an acorn.”

Ava turned to face Vince and smiled, “And?”

“We placed it on our tongues and it dissolved instantly. Then an explosion! Like a knock-out punch. Our taste buds could barely manage all the flavors. Lemon. Lavender. Hazelnut. Vanilla. Such a small cookie, how was it possible?”

“Perfection.”

“Extraordinary. Magical.”

 

***

            The toilet was too far and running was too exhausting. Now when Ava vomited, she used a bucket. It was placed on an old beach towel on her side of the bed. When she needed it, she rolled to the edge of the mattress. Afterwards, Vince helped roll her back, away from the edge.

Before emptying the contents of the bucket into the toilet, Vince closed the bathroom door. The smell was wretched. He gagged into the sink. His back heaved, saliva dripped from his mouth. Resting his face against the cold wall he muttered, “Okay. Okay.”

Vince washed and wiped the bucket with a rag, then returned it to her side of the bed.

“So sorry,” she moaned.

“Nothing to it,” he said.

He tossed the wet rag into the washer. The bedsheets needed a wash too. If he could get her to eat in the living room, he’d change the sheets and run a load after supper.

He called and put the newspaper subscription on hold. He only hauled them to the recycling, unread. Once a week he called the insurance company. It was a game and, by now, he’d learned the rules. Call and question every charge. Startling how many were removed.

He wrote checks in the company of the ticking kitchen clock. No TV, no radio because he needed to hear in case Ava called out. At first, the quiet made him lonely but, after a while, it became normal.

Later, Vince returned to the bedroom to bring Ava hot ginger tea. She was asleep. He placed the mug on her bedside table then peeked into the bucket. She had used it. He wondered if he could change the bed sheets without disturbing her. How do hospitals manage it?

In the bathroom, it was the same routine: empty the bucket, wash it, gag a little into the sink. He flushed then swirled the toilet brush around the bowl. To Vince, every time he dunked the toilet brush into the water and scrubbed away vomit or diarrhea, he absolved Ava of the indignities.

Her voice was muted, “Vince?”

He opened the bathroom door.

“I’m sorry, would you help me to the bathroom, please?”

He rushed to her. “Of course.”

Sliding her legs to the bedside she said, “I’m a little dizzy and I can’t seem to wake up.”

He wrapped one arm around her waist and held her elbow with the other. Her body was bony and her pajamas sagged. The doctor had recommended a safety rail for the toilet and Vince was grateful.

“Hold the rails before you turn around.”

He held her hips as she turned.

She said, “I’m not sure it’s worth it. Even if I get better.”

“Nonsense,” he said, while slipping his hands under her armpits to steady her body as she sat.

She continued, “This is just so—much. It would be easier for you if I just died.”

Her words stung. Vince backed away. “Easy! How would that be easy? Don’t ever say that.”

 

***

            Once Ava was settled back in bed, Vince poured himself a bowl of Cheerios. The milk had soured so he ate them dry.

After months of managing their grocery shopping, Vince still bought too many vegetables and poured sour milk down the drain. This time, he decided, everything had to go.

He snapped open a Hefty bag, then pitched decaying bell peppers and moldy onions into the trash bag. His thumb sunk right through a slimy cucumber. Leftovers were so revolting he tossed them, container and all. The deli roast beef he bought for sandwiches but never ate, the eggs, the escarole. Out. Then he wiped down the refrigerator and returned the butter, pickles, ketchup, and mayonnaise.

One by one, Vince hauled trash bags to the garage, filling one barrel to the top. The other barrel needed pressing to close the lid.

Did I miss garbage day? Garbage pick up was on Wednesdays. What’s today? Is it Wednesday? It was Thursday.

Garbage could wait until next week, but they were out of food and he needed to get to the market. But Ava was weak and couldn’t walk the aisles or risk exposure to germs. He couldn’t ask her to sit alone in the car; she might need the bathroom. And he couldn’t leave her home for the same reason.

He walked back to the house. Maybe someone could stay while she slept. Just for an hour. Maybe Frannie? Ava might agree to that. Maybe Frannie would bring lasagna. One for tonight, one for tomorrow.

When he entered the house he was lost in thoughts of lasagna. When he heard her, his body turned to stone, his stomach cinched.

Her voice was small.  “Vince?”

He sprinted without questioning if he could. Ava was in the bathroom. The doorknob gouged his hip when he pushed through the door. She was on the floor, curled like a comma, with her cheek pressed against the tile. There was vomit next to her face.

He didn’t mean to yell, “Don’t move! Don’t move!” Then he immediately negotiated her to a sitting position.

A wet gash above her ear bled into her pajama collar. Vince grabbed a sock from the laundry basket and pressed it against the wound. Ava winced.

Frantically, Vince searched her body. “Anything broken?”

“I got light-headed.”

“Did you black out?”

“I don’t know—”

“How hard did you hit your head?”

She didn’t answer.

Vince scanned his memory for where he’d left the phone. “You need an ambulance—”

“I just need to sit.”

He stood to find the phone. “We need an ambulance.”

She pled like a child, “Please, don’t.”

“Your head is bleeding. You could have a concussion. Or broken something—”

“I just want to sit a while.”

The carotid arteries in his neck were throbbing. His thoughts were jumpy. No ambulance. I’ll drive. I can get her to the car.

Slowly, he lifted the sock from her wound. Blood rose to the surface and slipped down her neck. He caught the stream, smeared it with the sock, and returned it to the wound. She moaned. He pressed more gently. “That needs a stitch. Maybe two.”

“I don’t want this anymore,” she said, taking over the sock and pressing it to the wound. “Let’s go to Siena for broth or to Quebec. I want to drink chanterelles.”

Vince’s legs and hands were shaking. “We will. As soon as you’re well.”

She leaned and kissed his cheek. “I’m vanishing. Right before your eyes.”

“No, you’re getting well!”

“I want to stop treatment.”

His mouth opened and his eyes grew to the size of lemons.

Before he could manage a word she said, “I miss living.”

 

***

            Vince turned off all the phones. After placing the kettle on the heat he helped Ava to the chair on the sunny side of the kitchen table. Her head was still wrapped with thick bandages. On the table were two coffee mugs, a pitcher of warm milk, and a small plate of Fig Newtons. Ava reached for a cookie, then took a nibble. Vince scooped coffee into the French press then sat next to Ava. They waited for the kettle’s whistle to blow. There was nothing but time.