Fluke (42 page)

I set my bag down by the table and stepped outside.
 
Back in the old days she would have given me one of those parental lectures about the detrimental effects of smoking on such a young man as myself.
 
These days, things like that seemed a little trivial, and she just let it go.
 
I sat down with a cigarette, and took the first drag, knowing that was when the first memory always came.

It was always the same:
 
I inhaled, and there I was again in Sara’s—our—bed.
 
It was the last night, the night I told her I didn’t think we could be together any longer.
 
We had just gotten into bed.
 
We had been crying for so long, like babies, or like the victims of a horrible accident. In a way, I guess we were victims of a horrible accident: us.

We sat in the darkness, two pairs of red, swollen eyes, and two heavy hearts.
 
We were no longer crying; we were both just incredibly tired.
 
I was pretty sure that my body had no water left for my eyes, and I’m sure she must have felt the same way.
 
We each sat smoking, lost in our own thoughts, processing the finality of things.
 
I supposed I’d move my things out while Sara was at work the next day.
 
I figured Sean would let me sleep on his couch for a few days until I could find a new place to live.
 
That’s what was playing through in my head when she spoke.

“I just don’t know if I can go on without you, Adam,” she had said.
 
It was a quiet, slow, deliberate statement.

The exhaustion I felt at that exact moment in time may have interfered with my ability to think, to distinguish between her words being the generic end of relationship babble that I had been a part of before, the voicing of regret when people realize that this chapter in the story of their life has come to an end, and a serious plea for help.
 
Sitting quietly in bed with Sara, who had been the rock solid entity in our relationship, I didn’t stop to think that it might be the latter.
 

“
Shhh
…you’re going to be fine, Sara,” I had replied.
 
The obligatory, soothing words I figured she wanted to hear, needed to hear.
 
We didn’t speak again, not even to say good night to one another.
 
I put out my cigarette and slid down in bed, falling asleep quickly.
 
Sara had lit another cigarette as I pushed my head in to the soft, familiar pillow.
 
I watched her for a moment before closing my eyes.
 
The moon was full, and light from the window shone gently across her face.
 
She was so very beautiful, even then.

That was the last time that I saw Sara alive.
 
She was gone when I woke up the next morning, and I packed my stuff in the Civic. I had a brief goodbye with Killer as I checked his food and water; he didn’t seem too concerned about my departure.
 
Finally, I grabbed
Flukey
and sat him down on the table with my key between his legs.

“Take care of your mother for me,
Flukey
,” I whispered to the stuffed bear.

He just stared back at me with his shiny black eyes, as usual, as I slowly opened the door.
 
I looked back in the living room, as sad as I’d ever been, but sure that leaving was the right thing to do, for Sara.
 
After stalling for a few moments in the doorway, I shut the door behind me and left, bound for Sean’s.

“Ouch!
 
Shit!” I said, snapping out of the memory as my cigarette burned down to the point where my fingers were holding it.
 
I dropped it and stared at the butt for a moment, smoke coming from the other end, as it lay on the patio, before I put it in the ashtray that my mother had begun leaving outside for me.
 
I remained sitting a minute longer, listening to the sounds of morning, birds singing, car engines turning over, the trash man somewhere down the block.
 
Sighing heavily, I went back inside.
 
My mother kissed me quickly on the cheek, and told me to have a good day as I grabbed my things and went to my car.
 
I turned it on, and the Foo-Fighters remake of “Baker Street” came blaring through the speakers.
 
Checking my mirrors, I pulled out of the driveway, and into the street.
 
The saxophone solo from the original, replaced in this version by a guitar solo, began, and I sped off for school, feeling oddly in touch with the music as I drove.

****

About eight months ago, in a blindingly drunken event, I drove to the beach with
Flukey
buckled in the passenger seat and a bottle of Jack Daniel’s between my legs. This was a few months after I had gotten the call from Mike, Sara’s boss at the museum, telling me that Sara was gone.
 
I was very drunk, crying, and actually talking to
Flukey
.
 
I was asking him why these things happen, who controls them, and could I have changed things.
 
I asked him where Sara was, if she was watching us.
 
I almost wrecked the car when I decided to give him a drink; as I poured whiskey on him, I realized was in the wrong lane. I adjusted and apologized to
Flukey
, but if he heard me, he didn’t say. He just stared straight ahead with his shiny black eyes, like always.

I parked and stumbled over the dune, Jack in one hand,
Flukey
in the other. It was all very melodramatic to me, and in an attempt to do something symbolic, I waded waist deep into the cool water, kissed
Flukey
on the nose, and then threw him as far as I could toward the horizon.

He didn’t fly very far, and a small part of my inebriated brain knew he’d just wash right back up on the beach, but I didn’t care. It seemed right.

I’d never know, anyway, since I wouldn’t be coming back to that particular beach anymore.

“Bye,
Flukey
,” I called out. “Tell Sara I love her.”

I finished off the bottle of whiskey and, miraculously, I didn’t wreck and die on the drive home. Funny how that happens.

****

My first two classes that day went by quickly and uneventfully.
 
Lectures, notes, assignments doled out.
 
I took it all in silently, finding that when I tried, I actually had a pretty good aptitude for college, for learning.
 
I just hadn’t been serious about it before.

The professor dismissed us early, and I scooped my things into my bag for my stroll across campus.
 
My third and final class that day was a pretty good hike, and I was always thankful when we got out early.
 
My next teacher was a true ass about tardiness.
 
My suggestion of changing our class time by 5-10 minutes, to allow for more walking time, had only marked me as a trouble maker.
 
I didn’t make any suggestions after that.

I zoned out as I walked along the tree-lined path.
 
I passed the bookstore, where I used to work and didn’t recognize the employees.
 
I wondered briefly if
Joggin
’ Jennifer, my old co-worker, was still around, when I heard someone calling my name.

“Hey Adam!
 
Over here!” I turned in the direction of the voice and saw Heather running toward me.
 
She looked great.

“Hi, Heather.
 
Wow.
 
Long time no see, huh?” I asked her when she caught up with me.

“Too long, Adam.
 
How are you?” I could tell by the tone of her voice that she knew what happened.
 
Sean had probably told her.

“Oh, good…you know.
 
Just going to class.
 
I have History in a few,” I told her, nodding my head towards the building at the outskirts of the campus.
 
“What are you doing here?”

“I started taking some classes again this semester,” she said.
 
“Man, you should have heard Perry when I told him I could no longer work the early shift.”
 
She laughed, and I joined her, feeling honestly good for the first time in months.
 
There had always been something about Heather.

“So, yeah, I’m back in school,” she continued.
 
“It’s funny.
 
I’m doing so much better than before…maybe I’ve matured or something,” she said, laughing lightly again, slapping me lightly on the arm.
 
“I have sure missed you, Adam,” she added.

I cleared my throat and told her, “I missed you, too, Heather.”
 
This verbal acknowledgement and realization of my own caught me off guard.
 
I actually
had
missed her.
 
I was extremely happy to see her.
 
I suddenly regretted not calling her a long time ago; it might have made the last year a bit more bearable.

“Good,” she said, smiling.
 
“So…”

“So?” I replied, and surprisingly, she blushed.
 
At least I
think
she blushed.
 
Maybe not.

“Well, Adam.
 
Do you want to go out tonight?
 
Catch up with each other and all that?” she asked.

I looked at this lovely woman standing in front of me.
 
I thought about the nightmarish year that I had just gone through, but watching Heather stand patiently in front of me, waiting for an answer, I felt something let go.
 
I felt my reservations begin to sneak out the window as yet another beautiful woman asked me out.
 
I smiled at her.
 
Why had I never realized just how beautiful she was?

“I’d love to, Heather,” I told her.

“Good, Fluke,” she told me, taking out a pen and scrap of paper and writing her cell phone number down for me.
 
She smiled, said she had to go, and was off so quickly that I wondered if I hadn’t imagined the entire meeting.
 
I glanced down at my watch and saw I was going to be late to
Eckhardt’s
class.
 
Again.
 
Unless I had paused on my own for 10 minutes in the middle of the pavement, then I really had bumped into Heather.
 
I smiled and continued my walk to class at a leisurely pace.

I was going to be late, but it really didn’t matter.
 
What mattered was that, for the first time in a very long time, what felt like an entire lifetime, I felt like everything was going to be just fine.

With a lighter step, I continued my walk.

ABOUT THE AUTHORS

David Elliott is a Florida native currently living in North Carolina.
 
He is a father of four daughters, and he has spent time in Florida, Nebraska, Germany, South Korea, Bosnia, and Iraq.
 
He has been writing since he was a teenager and has completed a number of short stories.
 
Fluke
is his first completed novel and he is currently working on his next novel,
Cherokee Spleen
.

Bart Hopkins is originally from Galveston, Texas, but has lived in Mississippi, Louisiana, Tennessee, South Korea, and Germany.
 
His passions include reading, traveling, photography, writing, and sharing time with his beautiful wife and children.
 
This is his first novel.

Combined, the authors have 3
8
years of service in the U
.
S
.
Air Force.
 
The brunt of
Fluke
was conceived and written during their back-to-back deployments to Bosnia in 2001-2002.