Nineteen

 

Henry had dreamed about his wife every night since coming home from the hospital. He'd taken to memorizing the small details, the details that he hadn't noticed so much when she was still alive. Now he could recall them so easily--the wispy hairs at the nape of her neck that were too short to make it into an updo, the heart-shaped locket she always wore, the way her toes turned in slightly when she stood, the brown specks in her green eyes, the smell of lilacs on her clothes, her hands always reaching for him. Why hadn't he noticed these things when she was still with him?

In his dreams, she was always the same age. She was that anxious twenty-five-year-old who'd rear ended him in traffic--the crease in her brow that became more prominent with age was already beginning to show. In this particular dream, she was waiting for him on the steps of a building on a street he'd never seen before. He could see her standing there in a red sundress impatiently slipping her left foot in and out of her open back sandals. Every once in a while she'd glance at the chain watch that hung loosely from her wrist, or crane her neck to see if she could see Henry in the crowd.

Henry was trying to get to her, but no matter how hard he tried he just didn't seem able. The street was too crowded. As he tried to push forward against the stream of people, they carried him like a current further and further away. Sometimes when she looked out over the crowd for him he'd wave his arms and yell her name, but she never seemed to notice him. Somewhere in his consciousness he knew that she just didn't recognize this older version of himself.

As the crowd of bodies pushed him further and further away, he waved wildly and called out to her, before tumbling to the ground. His fall was slow, cushioned by the bodies around him. Hard soled shoes walked across him. The sharp edges of heels drove into his face.

Jolted from sleep, Henry opened his eyes in the darkness. He felt Ava all around him. He could smell lilacs in the air and he knew she was there. He sat up in bed and whispered her name. The bathroom door closed slowly. "Ava," Henry said a little louder. His heart beating quickly, he swung his feet to the side of the bed and stood up. "Is that you?" he said as he moved toward the closed door. The cold, dry air from the air conditioner made the tiny hairs on his neck stand on end. His hands shook slightly and his legs felt weak. He put his hand on the cool smooth metal of the doorknob, and twisted. Inside, the nightlight cast its cool bluish light on the white porcelain. The room was empty.

Disappointed, Henry sat on the edge of his bed and turned on the bedside lamp. He pressed his palms to his eyes. He could feel the tears coming on, but didn't want to cry. He breathed deeply to calm his racing heart.

Henry took his hands from his eyes and glanced around the room. "She's dead," he said to himself. "She's dead and she's not coming back." He reached over to turn off the lamp and noticed Rosa's picture lying beside it. The picture had changed. Standing next to the tree, in the same pink mini-dress and lace-up white boots, was Ava. Henry closed his eyes and opened them again to make sure that he was really seeing what he thought he was seeing. She was still there, frozen in time, that twenty-five-year-old-face from his memories, from his dreams, the face he wanted to see so badly again.

Henry felt like his insides were coming out, like every secret he'd ever tried to keep was seeping out with each breath. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't keep it in anymore. Tears spilled from his eyes and his body crumpled onto itself, shaking violently. Between sobs, he said the only thing he could think to say, "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

 

**

 

Henry didn't remember going back to sleep that night, but when he awoke in the morning he was neatly tucked into the blankets. It was raining outside. Though he couldn't hear the rain, he guessed by the grayness of the light coming in through the slit in the drapes.

The first thing he did was roll over to grab the photo off the nightstand. He wanted to see if she was still there. She wasn't. Instead, the picture was just what it should've been--a young Rosa laughing into the camera.

He slipped out into the living room. The drapes on the windows were all still closed making the room quite dark. He shuffled his slipper-clad feet across the tile to the kitchen where he peeked into the microwave. There was nothing inside. Chandra had laid out the instant oatmeal on the counter along with a note.

 

Oatmeal is good for your heart. Eat up. Doctor's orders.

Love you,

Chandra

 

Since getting out of the hospital, Henry wanted to eat all the time. The problem was that he didn't want to cook. Even doing something as simple as making instant oatmeal seemed like a chore to him.

He emptied a packet of oatmeal into a bowl, added some water and stuck it in the microwave. He watched the bowl spin round and round in the lit up box as he ran through the events of the previous night in his head. When the microwave beeped, he opened the door and reached in to get out his bowl. That's when he noticed it. Instead of the sweet smell that he expected from apple and cinnamon instant oatmeal, he could smell lilacs. The scent was stronger than it'd ever been.

He felt something brush past him. He tried to follow it, but there was nothing there. He was just following a feeling into the living room where the smell was even stronger. "Ava?" he said aloud. He stood in the center of the dim room looking around for the source of the smell. Then he felt it again, that gentle brushing past him and he followed the feeling into the bedroom. He yelled her name as he rounded the corner into the bedroom. This continued, taking him from room to room. Before he knew it, Henry had worked himself up into a frenzy, running desperately around the house chasing the ghost of his wife.

The doorbell rang. When Henry finally stopped moving, his fatigue caught up with him. He just wanted to sit down, but he already knew who it was, and she'd have food for him.

"You don't look good at all." Rosa stood on the doorstep with a glass casserole dish in hand.

"Just what I need--food." He motioned for her to come in.

Rosa headed straight for the dining table to put the dish down. Henry followed her. His pulse raced and he did feel like he might faint.

"What happened to you? You look a mess." She reached up to touch his forehead, checking for a fever.

Henry stooped slightly. "I just don't feel very good."

"You're sweating." Rosa pulled out a chair. "Sit down."

Henry sat down slowly, bending his knees and touching the seat cushion with his right hand. He sighed as he sank back into the chair. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. The scent of lilacs had been replaced by the vanilla of Rosa's perfume. She sat down next to him, and placed a reassuring hand on his knee. He sighed deeply and opened his eyes. She was sitting there next to him, her face etched with concern.

"Are you all right?" Rosa asked. She took her hand from his knee, but continued to lean forward in her chair.

"Yeah, I'm fine. Just hungry I guess."

She looked skeptical for a moment, but then slapped her hands against her thighs as she stood up. "Good, because I brought you the best rice this side of the border. We have to make sure you get all the food you need. You are recovering after all. This isn't just rice, it's beans, chicken, chorizo, olives ... It's delicious. You'll love it." She went to the kitchen.

Henry could hear the clinking of plates as she removed them from the cabinet. "I think I'm pretty much recovered now." He pulled his robe around his neck.

"Really? You don't seem recovered to me." She riffled around in a drawer for a serving spoon. "What were you doing when I got here? You seemed out of breath." She brought the plates out and set them on the table. She removed the lid from the casserole dish and stuck a large silver spoon in it. "We need silverware," she said before retreating to the kitchen again.

Henry thought about her question for awhile. He didn't want to answer.

Rosa returned from the kitchen with the silverware. As she carefully set their places at the table, she asked, "Do you ever think you see her?"

Henry knew exactly what she was talking about, but still he asked, "Who?"

Rosa folded two napkins and placed them in the middle of each plate. "Your wife." She glanced up at him. "Do you ever think you see her around the house, in the kitchen cooking or sitting on the couch reading a book? It's like flashes of the past come here to the present." She was standing next to the table now staring at him.

"Yes," Henry said slowly.

She smiled. "Don't be afraid to tell me. I mean, seriously, look at who you're talking to." She held her arms out as if presenting herself on stage.

"I know. I know." Henry looked down at his feet.

"When you love someone it can be hard to really let them go."

They were both quiet for a few seconds. Neither was quite sure what to say next. Rosa looked at the food on the table. "My mother used to make this. It was always one of my favorites as a child." She touched the edge of the table, letting her fingers drag across it.

Henry wasn't ready to drop the topic yet. He needed to talk about what had happened to him the previous night. "Ava visits me now, mostly in my dreams, but sometimes when I'm awake too. That's what I was doing when you came. That's what I've been doing all morning--chasing her from room to room. She's always just out of reach, slipping around corners. I can smell her and sometimes I swear I can even hear her laugh, but she's never really there."

He looked up at Rosa and her brown eyes softened with compassion.

"Most days, I'm fine, but sometimes the grief takes over--even now. Last night I dreamed about her, and when I woke up, I thought maybe she was in the bathroom. I waited to hear the toilet flush, but it never did. Of course it didn't. I feel so crazy. It's been sixteen years. Why am I feeling this way now? I think about what I should've done differently. But why should I worry about things I can't change?" Henry knew he'd already said too much, but wanted to keep going. He'd never said these words aloud before, even though he found himself thinking them everyday. "Do you know that feeling? I can't explain it any differently. It's just like everything's slipping away. Have you felt it? I know you have."

Rosa folded her arms across her chest and looked toward the window, her eyes glossing over.

"I know you've felt it. I saw him. I saw him just before I had the heart attack. He was like smoke in the corner watching us. I wanted to catch him, but I couldn't."

A tear rolled down her cheek and she wiped it away with her hand. "Maybe I should go home," she said already heading for the door.

Henry caught her hand. "What are you running from? You can't run from this."

She looked away from him, but didn't try to free herself from his grip. More tears fell from her eyes. She didn't bother to wipe them away. "I'm not running from anything." She put her other hand to her face and began to sob.

Henry froze, and watched her body shaking with tears, much as his own had the night before.

"I can't let him go. I keep him there because I can't bear to let him go. What would my life be without him?"

Henry tried to let go of her hand, but now she held on to his tightly.

"What would it be?" she asked again.

"Like mine."

"How are you liking your life?"

"Not much at all right now."

She nodded.

"But it's better than pretending."

"Isn't that what you were just doing?"

Henry smiled. "Maybe it was. We should eat. You went through all that trouble and you admitted that it is your favorite."

Rosa sniffled. "You're right. We should eat."