Out of the Shadows (20 page)

He stared down at the stump where his leg used to be. “You should just cut off your broken leg so we match.”

She laughed, the unexpected sound surprising her. “I’ll think about it.” She had forgotten how good it felt to laugh, and the thought made her smile.

“I know ya did it on purpose just to pull me out of active duty. You’ve been wantin’ a new partner for years,” he joked.

They both fell silent at the realization that Jonathan’s career as a patrol officer was over, and Christine would need to find a new partner. She wondered if she would ever be able to trust someone the way she trusted Jonathan.

“I’m sure Leslie will be happy,” he said, trying to put a positive spin on things.

“But will
you
be?”

A minute passed as Jonathan thought about the life he almost never got to have with his beautiful wife, and he smiled. “Yeah. I will be.”

The two of them looked up at the unfinished icy dome overhead.

He pointed to it and said, “That’s gonna be a fallin’ ice hazard when the weather warms up.”

When Christine didn’t acknowledge his joke, he turned to look at her and noticed that she was deep in thought.

“Hey, what’s wrong?”

“Colt…” she started, unsure she wanted to voice the thought on her mind. “How am I so different from Jessica?”

“Come off it, Brody!”

“I actually thought for a minute about joining her when she offered it to me.”

He sighed. “But ya didn’t, right?”

Christine felt emotionally overwhelmed from the day, and she could no longer hold it back. Tears suddenly burst forth from her eyes, and she cried, openly sobbing into Jonathan’s shoulder.

He placed his arm around her and, holding her tightly, said, “You’re a good person, Brody. That’s what makes you different from her. We all have shitty things happen to us, but how we choose to deal with them is what defines us. It’s why you’re still sittin’ here, and she’s not.”

After a moment, she pulled away from him, wiping her face on her sleeve. Frustrated, she threw her arms into the air. “Jesus, this day
really
sucks!”

“Hey, at least the universe is bein’ consistent, lettin’ all the bad stuff happen on the same day so the other days don’t get ruined for ya,” he mused.

She allowed herself to laugh, feeling much better after releasing the day’s pent up emotions. They both sat back and admired the gracefully falling snow flurries, marveling at the distinct beauty of every single one.

As a soft wind gust blew through the streets of downtown Camden, those unique, crystalline flakes twirled and danced, euphoric from the freedom that the breeze brought with it. And when they finally gave themselves over to the frosty air current, accepting their new path with open arms, they peacefully fluttered away to a better place.

The End.

One year ago, I died.

A minute later, the doctors had been able to revive me. But for that handful of seconds where my life had slipped through the fingers of fate, I had crossed over into the land of the dead. I had seen flashes of my deceased grandparents, an uncle that had passed from cancer, friends from college that had died too young…

And then I had felt the surge of electricity from the hospital’s defibrillator course through my muscles, shocking me back into the unconscious darkness where I anticipated my awakening.

When my eyes had finally fluttered open, the pain from my grievous wounds slowly trickled through my tortured limbs, making me wish I still had been unconscious. The rhythmic beeps from the surrounding life machines had exacerbated the throbbing pain throughout my body. My long blonde hair had felt stringy, my skin greasy. I remember wondering how long I had been lying in that hospital bed, battered yet bandaged after my car had veered into oncoming traffic, colliding with another and sending me barreling through the air. A nurse had said a guy from the other car had died, but I didn’t want to know any more.

Since then, I’ve spent over three hundred fifty days thinking about the crash. Over three hundred fifty days thinking about my “death.” Over three hundred fifty days thinking about the man I killed and what his family might think of me. Over three hundred fifty days…

That much thinking can wear a girl down.

So, I recently decided that every week, I ought to recline on overpriced leather furniture and talk to someone. The problem with my plan is that I’m a much better thinker than I am a talker. As a result, I now reclined on the aforementioned couch, my blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail, and I stared at the ceiling fan above me, watching it spin hypnotically.

The room was dim, the blinds drawn to shade the den from the gray light of winter. Across from the couch rested a large mahogany desk that held a small lamp warmly illuminating the space. Seated behind the desk was Dr. Abner, his sweater vest covering a buttoned shirt with the sleeves rolled up and his thinning hair a curly mess on top of his head. He leaned forward in his leather office chair, his arms crossed on the desktop in front of him. I don’t usually look at him much, because he doesn’t blink nearly as often as a normal person should, but I could tell that he was currently staring.

And so was his wife. Mrs. Abner sat in a chair at the far corner of the room with her hands folded in her lap, her flowered sundress a stark contrast to the sad expression on her face, framed by a short bob hairdo.

The ceiling fan twirled, lulling me into a daydream of a light snowfall over the midnight sky of Chicago. I remembered driving my coupe down the road, reveling in the classical concerto pouring from the speakers. I remembered smiling – god, it’s been so long since I’ve smiled. I remembered the semi-truck in front of me start to skid on the icy freeway. I remembered swerving…

I didn’t feel like remembering anymore, so I spoke instead:

“With a name like ‘Melissa Perdition,’ I’ve had my fair share of struggles in life,” I said.

Dr. Abner looked on with keen interest, taking a moment before replying, “What’s wrong with the name ‘Melissa?’”

I rolled my eyes. “I didn’t realize you guys told jokes.”

“I have to fill the hour with
something
.”

Touché, Mr. Therapist
, I thought. “‘Perdition.’ It means—. You know what it means.”

“I do. But what does it have to do with you?”

As if an alarm had gone off in my brain, informing me that an intruder was trying to break in to steal my thoughts, I deflected the question. “Never mind.”

I glanced over at his silent wife as he scribbled something on his notepad. “Tomorrow’s a big day,” he said.

“I guess.”

“One year anniversary,” he clarified, like I didn’t know what the hell he was talking about.

“Maybe you should throw me a party,” I said dryly.

When he sighed in response, a feeling of guilt flooded over me. I was acting unnecessarily bitchy when he was only trying to do what I paid him to do.

I attempted to correct my actions by engaging him in some harmless small talk. “Why is it always so dark in here?”

“You told me you prefer the night.”

“It’s easier to write at night.”

“And how’s that going?”

That sneak always found a way to turn the conversation back to me. I suppose I should give credit where credit is due – he knew how to do his job.

After a dreadful minute of silence, he finally leaned back in his chair, a slight hint of irritation to his voice. “Why are you here, Melissa?”

Something about his bluntness took me by surprise, and I looked at him, my brow furrowing. I appreciated that he’d suddenly decided to cut through the therapist bullshit and lay his cards on the table. Or maybe his silent, staring wife in her flowery sundress compelled me to finally plant a seed of truth.

“Something’s wrong with me,” I divulged.

“I
know
what’s wrong with you,” came his matter-of-fact reply.

Again with the bluntness. I jolted from the couch and sat upright. “You do?”

“I’ve known since our first session, but telling you isn’t going to help you deal with it.” He tossed his pencil onto his desk with abandon. “You’d just go home, look it up on the Internet, and come back here next week telling me all the things you think I want to hear.”

This guy knew me better than I thought he did. But as I sat on the couch, my eyes darting around aimlessly, searching for the best response to his disarming honesty, I decided it was time to stop watching from the sidelines as life passed by. I had nowhere else to go but up, so I relented and threw my own cards on the table with his.

Let the game begin.

“I’m different now…” I hesitated, my brain still searching for meaningful words.

He leaned forward in his chair, listening intently.

“…since the accident.”

This is it, Melissa. All in.

“I see things
,
now.” I paused but then clarified, “People. I think they need help, but… it’s like they can’t ask for it.”

Dr. Abner scribbled quickly on his notepad. “And you didn’t feel this way before the accident?”

I shook my head in reply because my throat was dry and clenched, and I knew my voice would quaver if I spoke.

“What do you think would happen if you tried to help one of these people?”

“I…” my voice trembled. I took a deep breath to calm myself. “I don’t really know how.”

He carefully placed his pencil on the desk and folded his hands. “How do you feel about that?”

My gaze was pulled to his wife, sitting quietly in the chair in the corner. “Helpless,” I finally said. I felt the tide begin to rise within my body, and tears threatened to spill forth from my eyes. “I feel helpless.”

The doctor nodded at my admission, and after a moment, he offered, “Would you do something for me?”

I wiped the moisture from my eyes before it had the chance to streak down my cheeks.

“The next time you come across one of these people, try to help them. No matter how small. A smile… a hug… a dollar. And next week, you can let me know how it went.”

I was willing to try, of course, but I knew it would be easier said than done. I glanced one last time at Mrs. Abner in the corner, her sad expression permeating the room. “Tell me about your wife,” I said.

Dr. Abner sat up in his chair, startled by the random question. “My wife…” His gaze fell to a framed photo on his desk, and a smile crossed his lips. “Vibrant. Stunning. Caring.”

The woman in the chair grinned broadly, and she placed her delicate hand over her heart.

“And understanding,” he nodded. “Always willing to listen. The light of my life, quite honestly.”

I considered him briefly before asking, “How did she die?”

*     *     *

As I mentioned before, in my twenty-six years of life (and my one minute of death), strife has not been unknown to me. The path to adulthood certainly wasn’t paved very smoothly. But now, since the accident, my name’s coincidence is just too unsettling. It’s as if I never fully came back from death, like I’m trapped somewhere between two harsh worlds, where I’m forever forced to interact with both the living and the deceased.

I haven’t told anyone, because I’d prefer to remain out of an institution. The dead can’t talk, so I’m usually able to ignore them when I see them. But every now and then, there’s one that gets under my skin that I can’t seem to shake.

Like the one who was standing on the sidewalk in front of my apartment building, staring at me intensely.

He was barely five feet tall, brown shaggy hair that hung down into his deep hazel eyes, twelve – maybe thirteen – years old. Besides the creep factor of having the spirits of dead people follow me around, I wanted this particular boy to leave me alone, because I felt an incredible sadness at the idea of the death of a child. I wondered frequently what had happened to his parents. Were they still alive? Was the boy an orphan? Did he have anyone at all in this world that missed him?

I exited my quaint apartment building on the quiet, tree-lined street, the curb on both sides filled with parked cars, a light dusting of snow falling from the gloomy morning sky. With my petite, girlish figure wrapped in my black felt jacket and white scarf, my hands stuffed in my deep pockets to keep warm from the crisp attack by the biting December winds, I walked quickly down the sidewalk, headed to the train station, ignoring the dead boy as I usually did.

I endured the forty-five minute subway ride in the over-packed train car, dozens of other pedestrians standing in fluffy winter coats, constantly bumping into one another as the train rocked to and fro. After finally emerging above ground once more, I was thrown into the hustle and bustle of downtown rush hour. Horns honked unnecessarily, and a sea of pedestrians ebbed and flowed down the sidewalks, not even bothering to acknowledge one another.

I smiled at the homeless man selling gossip rags on the busy street corner. I nodded politely to the traffic cop as she blew her whistle and halted oncoming cars with her white-gloved hand. But as I saw the guy huddled in a blanket in the alley, I slowed a bit, melancholy overtaking me, even though I knew he could not feel the cold.

I knew this, because I’d seen him every morning on my way to work for the past year. Always just as huddled. Always just as despondent.

Always just as dead.

Despite my warm coat and fuzzy scarf, I shivered. I continued through downtown as the winter gloom blanketing the steel and concrete jungle gave way to a lighter shade of gray as the morning became fuller. Early rising tourists also clogged the intersections, pointing at landmarks and taking photos of overelaborate storefront window decorations that embraced the holiday season.

An old woman stood, wearing a light cardigan and leaning heavily on a cane, staring longingly at a particular decorative scene displayed in a department store window. Two mannequins decked in leisure clothes lovingly trimmed a tree together next to the fireplace. Pedestrians passed through the old woman’s incorporeal form, none the wiser to the presence of the dead. I grew immensely sad for her, imagining that she saw her former self and her lost lover within the two frozen faces of the smiling plastic people, wistfully wishing for a time that no longer existed.

I made a point to step around her, even though no one else did, and I continued through the mindless mob of rush hour commuters.

It’s ironic that I enjoy living in a big city so much, considering my introverted existence. With my brother away at college and both of my parents having moved south when my father lost his job, I didn’t really socialize with many people outside of water cooler small talk while at the office.

People sometimes ask what I do, and I want to say, “I’m a writer,” because that’s where my passions lie – further proof of my introversion. But the truth is that since my accident, I’ve been fairly passionless. When I sit down at my desk with a goal in mind, I barely get three words typed before I swap over to my web browser or decide my cat needs to be brushed immediately.

So, I begin to tell them about my day job by saying, “I work for an investment firm,” and then the conversation quickly steers away from my life, because they realize how unremarkable I truly am.

I glanced over my shoulder and noticed the dead boy from earlier. He continued to follow me, having the luxury of ignoring pedestrian lights and walking straight through traffic. Sometimes it can be tricky to spot the dead among the living, but solid objects passing through their bodies without causing them harm is always a dead giveaway.

No pun intended.

They also have no reflections, as far as I can tell, but it’s when I get close to them that their lifelessness becomes apparent. It’s difficult to describe with words, but something in their eyes is…
different
. Maybe the color is just a little duller, the white just a little grayer, the bags under their eyelids just a little darker. It unsettles me, so I prefer to keep my distance.