| |
Six Months Ago
The temptation to breathe was overwhelming, yet I knew if I gave in, it would be my end. I frantically searched the liquid blue depths for Max as my lungs burned. He was there, somewhere. He had to be—I felt him.
“Max! I heard you call. I’m here.”
Suddenly, the water was gone. There was darkness, a harsh light, and then that horrible sound— shovels of gritty, wet dirt falling into a deep, dark hole within the earth.
Although I knew better than to do it, I peeked into the abyss. I still felt Max out there somewhere— floating between this realm and the next. But there, in the center of the dark hole, lay an empty casket. The black-as-night soil cascaded over the polished wood shell, where a body should lay. The casket would remain empty as a symbol of my pain.
This casket was meant to be Max’s final resting place. It was meant to cocoon my forever soul mate, the only man I’d ever loved.
But as I gazed down, still more shovels of soil crashed across the space where his body should have been. The light he’d brought to the world had been extinguished forever.
I felt the truth of what I’d always known: his body would never be found.
Heather’s mind fought sleep paralysis. She ached to be with Max, floating like a spineless jellyfish through the waves. Max had been an oceanographer, a lover of those mad depths of curiosity and danger. Only in her dreams did Heather have such bravery. Her psyche was on an urgent quest to find him again.
The dreams were Heather’s only relief. Even now, as she edged out of this one and into the harsh realm of the living, she fought to remain. It was the closest she ever got to her husband. She had no life of her own, not out there.
But the external world had a mind of its own. Now, a metallic shriek pulsed. The sound penetrated her ears, sharp as needles.
Disoriented, she grunted. “Shut up!” With each stab of the alarm, she felt yanked away from her hungry search for her love. The sound ignored her cries, and she kicked the comforter in anger as her stomach lurched. The thick blanket trapped her legs, holding her in its tentacles but denying her the dream. Sweat billowed down her back and across her cheeks as the sound grew louder. In desperation, she rolled from the bed and landed on the hand-knotted Turkish rug with a thump.
Where did the sound come from? Frustrated, Heather grabbed the black Maglite from her nightstand, her weapon of choice, and began stalking the piercing shrieks. From one room to the next, the sound bounced off the plaster walls as it hid from her, just as Max always did in her dreams. Finally, there it was— the culprit of that annoying sound that pulled her from her reverie—a smoke alarm with failing batteries. It was too high to reach, so she did what any sensible person would do. She swung the flashlight over her head and smashed the alien device. At least it was quiet in death.
Back in the bedroom, she flipped on the light switch and dragged her vanity chair against the tall wardrobe. She climbed atop the chair and placed a hand on the wardrobe knob for balance while she searched up top. When she gripped the small box, she let out a pleasured sigh. She then clambered back down, kicked aside the comforter, and slid down the side of the bed until she sat straight-legged on the rug.
Max had always smoked Marlboro Reds. This was a box she’d found during the days after the accident out at sea when the ocean liner had exploded off the coast of Nova Scotia. It remained heavy: seventeen cigarettes still within the box of twenty. She wiped aside a tear with the sleeve of her sleepshirt, then slowly opened the lid of the box and held it to her nostrils. With closed eyes, Heather hesitantly drew in the tobacco scent. If she blanked her mind, just so, just for one second, she could still believe Max was there, lying next to her, a sheen coat of sweat making his tanned body slick after their lovemaking. Oh, how she’d worshipped those moments. Max, the triumphant male. Her powerful source of strength and knowledge and unconditional love.
Sometimes, when the pain was just too much, she would remove one of the cigarettes and put it between her lips. The bitter taste coated her tongue—just as it had when he’d kissed her.
Sometimes, pain was a comfort when the alternative was a void.
With cautious fingers, she slid the cigarette back into its casket and then put it back atop the wardrobe. If she were careful and kept them dry, perhaps their scent would hold her for the fifty years she and Max had planned to be each other’s soul mates.
She could only wish.