Sloane explored the square she'd been tugged to through her rainy-day filter, but it felt hollow. With no one to share it with, seeing monuments bored her. If she could go somewhere else, more remote, she may have been okay with her aloneness.
She watched a pair of lovers so focused on each other it was as if they were alone in the crowds of tourists. The man played with the woman's hair while he whispered, "I love you." As the light began to fade, they danced by an eerily lit fountain.
Sloane's heart ached. To be in Italy and stuck once again was a cruel joke.
Nearer than she thought she'd ever be to Francesca again, Sloane thought of nothing but dark curls and constellation freckles. Her stomach flipped as The Gray tugged. Blackness surrounded her for but a moment.
Boiling water sat on the stove of a blue and white patterned kitchen with a terra-cotta tiled floor. Sloane recognized it from the group dinner party photographs Mama Nuccio sent occasionally. Though she knew she couldn't, Sloane took a big deep breath, hoping to smell whatever bubbled next to the pasta water. The strength of memories filled the space where the scents should have been.
Seeing Mama Nuccio's doughy pasta reminded Sloane of the first time she and Francesca tried to make fresh pasta together. Francesca left the room for one minute, and in that incremental period, Sloane overworked the dough.
Unbleached flour coated her hands, and the place looked like her grandmother's kitchen did after rolling out biscuits. Sloane's extra layer of flour overwhelmed the beautiful, fresh eggy smell. Luckily, the aroma of Francesca's sweet basil and robust tomato sauce filled their home soon after.
"No!" Mama Nuccio shouted at Francesca. Sloane had gotten so swept up, she'd almost forgot she wasn't making pasta with Francesca–Mama was. Sloane wasn't even there; she was in the in-between space.
Francesca stopped untangling and counting out silverware. "Exactly. You could have said no."
"No–the silverware. You should know better. Use the set from the china cabinet." Mama Nuccio precariously balanced on a footstool with her arm deep in the top shelf of the cupboard above the refrigerator. "How could I have said no? We asked about dinner in the first place." She pulled back and steadied herself.
"But she invited us over, so we could have suggested to meet out for dinner. Not our fault that some teenager drove into her garage door."
"Never!" Mama Nuccio always had a flair for the dramatic. "That would be horribly rude!"
"How exactly? Never mind. This is what you get, though." And what Francesca got, apparently. Shadows under her eyes made them dull. She could use a nap. Sloane knew that face well, and it usually ended in one angry Italian angel barely making it to the bed.
"Fine, fine. Did you find the silverware?" Mama Nuccio mumbled something about showering and setting the table so quickly Sloane barely understood it all. "Oh!" She threw up her hands. "Decorations!"
"You're kidding!" Francesca slipped into English.
Mama Nuccio replied in Italian, wearing a stern, annoyed expression. "In the closet, down the hall. There are lights, candles, bowls for candies–"
"Is this a wedding?" Francesca's slender fingers rested on her cocked hip. Sloane imagined them on her own and sighed.
She ignored Francesca's snark. "Flowers! Go pick some flowers and put them in those pitchers," she urged, pointing to a pair of hand-painted cream and flower patterned porcelain tea pitchers.
Sloane thought to try and move something again, brush Francesca's hair, move a spoon, but she was rapt with the normalcy of the preparation process. Life moved forward without her. Was it possible she'd already missed her window? Francesca's sad eyes the moment Mama Nuccio turned around to stir the sauces gave Sloane a glimmer of hope.
Through the glass of the French doors, Sloane craned her neck to watch Francesca's shape move under a pink sky. A breeze shifted Francesca's hair into her face. Sloane's fingers itched to push it behind her ears, just how she liked. Francesca tossed her head back, as she'd already gotten dirt on her hands. The long, loose curl slipped right back into the center of her face, splitting her near mirror freckles.
On the side of the house sat Mama Nuccio's modest garden. Though Francesca tended to kill anything alive and green, Mama had taught her how to cut the stems of flowers so they'd live through the butchery.
Francesca was only outside a moment–a place The Gray wouldn't allow Sloane to follow–before she strolled back in with a small array of blue and purple flowers with a few sprigs of a white weed-ish plant.
She sighed as she took in the scent of the exotic-looking flower bunch.
"Got 'em," she mumbled to herself in English. "I'm going to finish up and get ready," she said aloud, back in Italian, to Mama.
Sloane left Francesca to dress the table so she could explore the sprawling home–her new home? Mama Nuccio had done well for herself. Four pale, minimally decorated bedrooms looked similar, with luxurious fabric, one had an en-suite. Even the guest bathroom had a rain shower and a glass bowl sink. Mama had little in the way of overhead lighting, just large windows and skylights, grand lamps scattered in corners, and sweet vanity lamps on hand-carved tables. It reeked of wealth Sloane had no idea she possessed.
Water hit tile in the far bathroom of the house. Sloane followed the beating sound, her heart matching its rhythm. Francesca's clothes were piled by a towel on the floor. Between The Gray and steam, the shower walls were nearly opaque. Sloane put her hand on the glass, imagining Francesca doing the same.
Her breath quickened as she searched for a space where the fog wasn't thick. A tiny smear rewarded her with the naked shape of Francesca. Curves and matted curls would have stopped Sloane's heart right then if she'd been alive. But metal squealed, and the water dripped away. Just a quick shower, it seemed. Francesca stepped out and squeezed her hair. Sloane used to try and beat her to that; she enjoyed playing with Francesca's wet hair.
Non-corporeal hands slid along the space beside Francesca's body. Sloane shivered with memories but shook them off. She'd gone down that road and only frustrated herself.
"Sloane?" Francesca's eyes were wide. Her hands slid down her hips, but she laughed. "Right. Been down that road before," Francesca said to herself as she grabbed the nearest towel and covered the beauty of her skin from Sloane.
Sloane lurked in the corner, watching her lover dress. It had become so normal for both of them that they flirted while they did it. Now, Francesca threw on clothes unceremoniously. Sloane left the room sadder than she'd been before, and finished roaming the house.
After the tour, she charged the closed doors again. No matter how hard she tried, her feet couldn't move over the threshold, as if they'd been bolted to the ground. The garden, Francesca's beautifully decorated dinner table, the oncoming candy sunset were all just out of reach. They were so high up on a nearly mountainous hill, they could see every house, shop, and ruin as if it were a miniature of itself, but Sloane had to see it with an obstructed view.
Ding, dong.
Sloane slid toward the front door to observe the dinner guests. Francesca jogged to the door and tugged at her yellow shift dress. Two wet strands of darkened hair dangled partially out of her bun in the back.
They'd tickle her neck once or twice during the evening. Without Sloane there, Francesca would probably assume a bug found her delicious.
A deep inhale puffed Francesca's chest before she put her hand on the knob; it visibly shook. No wonder she was wearing the teardrop diamond earrings Sloane had given to her for their third anniversary. According to Francesca, happy memories equaled positive vibes.
A chorus of hellos sounded through the entryway before she'd fully opened the door.
"Come, come. What are you drinking? I have a few kinds of vinos we picked up at a few tours we took today." Laughter followed Mama Nuccio's comment as she ushered her guests in around the stock still Francesca. "Red or white would be a good place to start."
The consensus: red. Francesca took another deep breath and put on her best hostess smile–all teeth and round cheeks. Once, after she and Sloane had hosted a small gathering at a nearby park, Francesca had told her she never wanted to smile again. She'd insisted they watch depressing romantic dramas with a sad twist of death or miscommunication for the rest of the evening.
"Good evening, Francesca. Don't you look breathtaking?" a classically handsome, tall man asked. Dark brown Fabio hair framed his face and hung just below his ears. Sloane didn't like how his eyes twinkled at Francesca. Taken and not straight, thanks.
"Thanks." Francesca slugged him on the shoulder. Sloane snickered loudly; she covered her mouth out of instinct even as The Gray devoured it. "You don't look too bad yourself. I heard through the grapevine there was wine. Ha! Look at me, making bad jokes, and I stopped drinking a few hours ago. Better get some wine in everyone so I'm funny again."
"I'll grab us something," the man said. "Then I can introduce you."
"Nonsense!" said a perfectly aged, tan woman. The resemblance to the man was uncanny.
"Alma, I presume?" Francesca asked, smiling.
The woman wore a bright blue maxi dress that would have dragged the floor if it weren't for her wedged heels. So chic. Her hair rested in loose, soft curls on her shoulders.
She took Francesca's hand. "My dear, it is so nice to meet you. I feel I know you already. I'm so sorry about Susan."
Francesca took a full step backwards, snatched her hand back, threw it to her chest, and paled to Sloane's color. At the same moment, Sloane's eyes bulged as she gasped into The Gray. Who was that woman? How did she know her real name?
"I overstepped!" Alma admonished herself. "I barely meet you, and I presume… I just feel like I–"
"You called her Susan."
"That's–that was her name, was it not?"
Francesca sputtered out the word yes. "Very few people kn–She went by Sloane. Even I wasn't allowed to call her Susan." She chuckled to hide her obvious hurt.
A wave of stones crushed Sloane's chest. She never wanted Francesca to feel she wasn't allowed to do something. Still, that's what she'd asked, wasn't it?
Alma shook her head, and said, "I'm sorry. It won't happen again."
"No… I mean, thank you," Francesca stumbled as she stared at her bare feet.
Her toenails were painted a coral. Sloane felt a moment of pride that Francesca had remembered to do that for herself. She must have done it during Sloane's frustrating time stuck in San Francisco.
"Could we start over?" Alma asked.
"I'd like that. A lot."
She coughed. "Hi, I'm Alma–a friend of your mother's."
Long past time for Sloane to leave, she retreated to Francesca's room. Francesca could make it through an evening–shakily, but she could. Sloane just knew she had to make contact before Francesca was okay enough to open the door without a taking a pause.
The bedroom door slammed shut.
It was the moment Francesca left her all over again. Sloane seemed to be unable to go through walls or doors once they had been closed. Hoping this time would be different, she tried to run through it, but could only bounce into an invisible wall, unable to reach the doorknob she couldn't interact with.
No–not again. It couldn't be so simple. It couldn't be so easy to trap her for hours, days, weeks at a time.
Sloane felt a scream build inside of her. Usually, she'd smother it with a pillow, snuff it out until she could calm herself again. But the unknowing helplessness of The Gray wouldn't allow it; she had to release it aloud. The sounds that ripped through her should have shattered the glass panes of the only window in the room. Instead, the scream became a slight whir around her. Part of Sloane even convinced herself her throat hurt from the strain.
When a curtain shifted, she stopped, unsure if it was her hard efforts or the Tuscan summer wind blowing through the cracked window. As much as she wanted it to be her, it wasn't; after she'd stopped screaming, the sheer fabric had still moved. She needed concrete proof that she had an impact on the living world, as it had on her. Sloane should have stayed with Francesca and her party, watched her enjoy her evening as if Sloane had never been. She felt forgotten and weak.
She crawled on the tall bed, lying on Francesca's usual side of the bed because she now slept on Sloane's. Her hand fell into the impression of Francesca's body, and the ball of grief bounced back in. Nausea she'd become accustomed to feeling most hours settled in her stomach first.
The door to the bedroom flung open. Sloane barely noticed it, as if it were the ghost and not she. The sound of Francesca's laughter made Sloane turn to see a familiar sight. Francesca held a ring Sloane's grandmother had given her. Sloane watched as the smokey grey stone on a delicate tarnished band hovered over Francesca's ring finger. With a quick frown at herself in the mirror, she slid it onto her right ring finger. Francesca leaned forward and held onto the dresser.
"It's okay; it's okay; it's okay," she said to herself in the mirror. She shook her head. "I love you, Sloane. You know that, don't you?"
A tear slipped down her naked face and dropped to the floor. Standing up straight, she wiped it away and took in a shaky breath. Sloane knew that sound of bravery well; she'd heard it echoing off the walls of abandoned buildings many times as a teen.
Francesca would have a different ring on her ring finger–an engagement ring–if only the truck driver had one more nap or one less beer.
Sloane could remember staring at her body, and then the ring. Francesca had been within reaching distance of it but didn't know to look for it. The small shining symbol of everything Sloane had felt since the moment she'd seen Francesca in the grocery store checkout line had been right beside a piece of broken glass. It had taken years, but Sloane had finally found what to say, how to propose properly. Just imagining the practiced words had Sloane caught between grief and rage.
As if made of sunlight, her pain began to radiate: legs heavy, arms weak, ribs cracking. The heat of the loss had her eyes burning, as every muscle collapsed in on itself. Both lungs would have become useless chunks of meat if she'd been alive.
If ever there was a time to connect with the world, it was that moment.
Sloane screamed into the abyss as she pushed through The Gray's blur and punched a pillow. A different kind of cry released from her as she created an indention–nothing near the size of her fist, but it was a start.
A voice came from a whisper of a shape. "Are you all right?"
"Of course I'm not okay," Sloane shouted before she realized someone had addressed her.
A lightning fear struck her. She had no place to run, to hide.
"Do not be afraid," a quiet voice called from a flickering shadow–the same one she'd been ignoring for months.
Sloane backed up against the headboard and curled into a ball. Francesca strode out of the room, unaware of the horror going on around her. It happened so quickly, Sloane didn't have time to think and run out. When the door closed again, Sloane felt ill. She'd missed another window. Now no one could help her; she was utterly alone–except for the voice.
"What… uh, who are you?"
Had she gone crazy? Could that happen in The Gray? Had her voice always been deeper than Francesca's? Her throat itched. With her toned, tattooed arms and manly voice, Sloane had the desire to tug at the turquoise dress she wished she wasn't stuck in. Thank God she'd listened to Francesca and not shaved one side of her head. People would constantly have asked her about her sexuality. Whose business was it? Not that she was ashamed in the least–Sloane loved showing Francesca off–but she didn't feel the need to justify her life choices to strangers.
"Does not matter who I am," the shadow replied. It was a feminine voice with a hint of an accent Sloane couldn't place. "It only matters that I can hear you."
The Gray shimmered as the shadow began to form an almost translucent shape of a young girl. Sloane didn't trust the apparition.
"How can you hear me?" Sloane asked.
"I do not know. I have felt ripples of other's grief through the years. Many others." A sigh filled the air. "Their grief threatened to break through the barrier, but none have been able to. You, on the other hand…"
"I don't understand. My grief broke a barrier? What barrier? Wouldn't everyone have grief? That's why we're stuck… Right?" She did have unfinished business.
"I do not know. You pierced the wall months ago, but I was unable to make my way through to you." The voice sighed. "I still have not figured out why I cannot leave this side. As a small child, I heard many theories on The Veil in my village before she killed me. It could be any one of them."
"Who killed you?" Sloane asked more demandingly than she'd intended.
The girl faded into almost nothing with a soft heave; the beginning of a sob sounded far away.
"I'm sorry! Please don't go; I don't want to be alone again. She's so close but untouchable. I can't–" Sloane broke away.
"I know," the wisp said. "I watched Papa until he died of loneliness. I thought, surely I could go then, but I stayed on. I have wandered since." Instead of talking more, she calmed her breathing, which had grown erratic.
Sloane wasn't prepared to deal with the thought of Francesca on her deathbed, old, broken, and frail.
They stayed like that: Sloane sitting on the bed and the shadow girl standing in the corner, both crying for their own reasons, until Francesca swooped back into the room to use its bathroom. The door closing behind her shook them from their trances. Being trapped in the room no longer mattered. Sloane would have stayed to talk to the shadow either way. Francesca would be back later. They could sleep beside each other as they always did.
When Francesca rushed back into the party again, the shadow girl asked, "That is her, is it not?"
"Francesca, yeah."
"What happened? What caused the ripple? Something had to."
Shadow Girl was nosy, but Sloane didn't have anyone else.
"Do you mean what happened right before you showed up? Francesca came into the room to get a ring but put it on the wrong finger. But I guess it wasn't wrong; I never had a chance to propose. But then she said she loved me, and it felt so… so…"
"Like she loved another?"
Sloane's arms and legs erupted with goosebumps as she stuttered. "No! What makes you think that? How could she? She doesn't know anyone out there. But it wasn't just that. For some reason, that made me remember something. It was as if I was there again: the night of the crash. I remembered that the ring I had planned to ask her to marry me with was only a few feet away from her. She didn't see it. If she had, she would have known. She'd be wearing it now, not enjoying a dinner party," Sloane lamented, knowing that may not be true. "I just wish I was out there, by her side. She's always been the more social of us. With so many people around, and Mama Nuccio pushing her, she'll move on."
A soothing noise came from the dark shape.
“I just want to touch her again,” Sloane said as she stared at the shadow.
The silence needed filling.
“So, what can you tell me about my heartbeat?"