The traffic noise from the street below stirred Andrew from a restless sleep. He lay motionless for a few moments, listening. It was Christmas Day, a time when the traffic should be sparse, yet the city noises sounded as if it were any other workday. The sunlight seeping through the blinds told him that the storm had passed them by, making the weather folks wrong yet again.
Then the events of the previous night crashed full force into his mind. The accident. Beth’s horrific death. His tearful good-bye at the hospital. The walk back. The strange locksmith with a most unusual proposition.
Three days.
He rushed to the window and cracked the blinds. No snow on the ground, not even a trace from the previous night’s blizzard.
Andrew took a calming breath and looked back at the empty bed. Maybe everything that happened last night, from after he left the hospital to when he crawled into bed, was just an illusion, a hallucination. It was possible. Grief did strange things to people.
But what about the snowstorm? Surely he wasn’t mistaken about that. Surely that was real.
The truth welled up and choked him. Beth was gone, and nothing in the world could bring her back. He sat on the edge of the bed and tried to breathe. He had to keep moving, had to find a way to go on.
And he had things to do. An obituary, a memorial service. He had to phone Beth’s relatives in Florida. He desperately wanted to crawl back under the covers and hide from all of it.
But if the situation were reversed, Beth wouldn’t be moping around, wallowing in self-pity. She’d have her cry, and then she’d pull herself together and give her late husband a send-off for the ages.
He smiled at the thought. If only the situation could be reversed, he’d jump at the chance.
Then, from somewhere in the apartment, he heard music. The stereo was playing Bing Crosby.
Happy holiday,
Happy holiday,
While the merry bells keep ringing
May your every wish come true.
Andrew stood up and slowly moved toward the sound. How could there be music? Beth must have set the alarm timer on the CD player.
As he stepped into the living room, he heard the pop and crackle of burning timber. There was a fire in the fireplace, a couple of extra logs in the firewood holder. Andrew thought for a moment, tried to retrace his steps from the night before. Could he have lit a fire and not remembered doing it? He knew he hadn’t; he wouldn’t have.
It made no sense. Maybe there were still embers from the previous evening—maybe they’d somehow reignited. If that was the case, why did the firewood look fresh? Nothing about the morning made sense. His heart quickened as he looked at the window. Something was missing.
The corner where Beth had set up that pitiful little Christmas tree—empty. No lights and bulbs, no popcorn strands or falling needles. No Charlie Brown tree.
But how could that be? He specifically remembered leaning down and unplugging the lights just before he’d staggered off to bed. The tree had been there. He had placed it there himself on Friday evening. Beth had stood in that corner and quietly decorated as he hurriedly packed for Chicago. She had been standing by its glowing branches in the window as he climbed into the cab.
But now it was gone. Maybe someone was playing a cruel trick on him. Or, even more disturbing, maybe his mind was slipping. Could this be some kind of post-traumatic stress brought on by Beth’s death?
Andrew walked over to the CD player and switched it off as a familiar scent hit him. Perfume. Beth’s perfume. Then he heard footfalls on the stairs, steps heading down the hall toward the apartment.
Someone is coming.
A moment later, the clatter of keys and the sound of one slipping into the lock. Andrew stared stupidly at the door as the bolt turned, the door pushed open, and Beth stepped through.
She was dressed in her woolen winter coat, ski hat, and gloves; her cheeks were kissed rosy by the cold. She looked wonderful. Andrew gaped at her as she removed the keys from the door, closed it behind her. In her arms she carried a brown bag from the bagel shop on the corner. Under her arm she gripped a copy of the New York Times. “Hey!” she said. “You’re up.”
She set the bag and newspaper on the kitchen counter, stepped over to him, and turned the backs of her cold hands against his cheeks. “Feel.”
Andrew stared at her smiling face and struggled to get control of himself. He watched in silence as she peeled off her wrappings and hung them by the door.
“Where were you?”
“I went for bagels,” Beth said. “It’s so beautiful out. Not a cloud in the sky.”
As Beth moved into the kitchen to start breakfast, Andrew went to the kitchen counter and unfolded the morning paper. Friday, December 22.
Andrew breathed a sigh of deep relief as the obvious truth sank in. It had been a dream. An incredibly vivid and realistic dream, but a dream nevertheless.
He smiled, tossed the paper back on the counter, and wrapped his arms around Beth from behind. “Good morning, beautiful.”
Beth turned to him. “Whoa,” she said. “Where did that come from?”
“I don’t know.” Andrew shrugged. “Can’t a guy call his wife beautiful once in a while?”
Beth shot him a quizzical look. “Sure. Anytime.”
“I had the funkiest dream last night,” Andrew said. “Seemed so real.”
Beth went back to her breakfast prep. “Speaking of funky, look what I found in the key tray this morning.” She held up the ornate key that Lionel had given Andrew. “Is this yours?”
Andrew stared at the key in her hand, his momentary relief sucked right out of him. He finally managed a nod.
“Where did you get it?”
Andrew felt his stomach clench. “I, um, found it on the street.”
“Well, it certainly is unusual,” Beth said. She placed the key on the counter and turned back to breakfast.
Andrew swallowed hard, his guts churning. It wasn’t a dream after all. And if it wasn’t a dream, that meant the clock was ticking.
“Three days,” he said.