My pain is a distant memory here, especially with
Kate beside me again.
What happened tonight? she asks, ripping a little of that peace away.
“I can’t remember.” It’s true, strangely. I can’t remember.
You can remember. You don’t want to.
“Maybe there’s a good reason for that.”
Maybe .
“Why are you here, Kate?”
You called for me, remember? I came because you need me. And to remind you.
“Of what?”
Memories are who we are, Tul. In the end, that’s all the luggage you take with you.
Love and memories are what last. That’s why your life flashes before your eyes when
you die—you’re picking the memories you want. It’s like packing.
“Love and memories? Then I am double-Oreo fucked. I don’t remember anything, and love—”
Listen .
A voice is speaking. “Will she be herself when she wakes up?”
“Hey,” I say. “That’s—”
Johnny. The way she says her husband’s name is full of love and pain.
“… if she wakes up is really the question…” A male voice.
Wait. They are talking about my death . And the chance of something worse—a brain-damaged life. An image flashes through
my mind—me, confined to bed, held together by tubes, unable to think or speak or move.
I concentrate hard and I am in the hospital room again.
Johnny is standing by my bed, looking down at me. A stranger in blue scrubs is beside
him.
“Is she a spiritual woman?” This from the stranger.
“No. I wouldn’t say so,” Johnny says tiredly. He sounds so sad I want to take his
hand, even after all that has happened between us, or maybe because of it.
He sits down by the bed where my body is. “I’m sorry,” he says to the me that can’t
hear.
I have waited so long to hear those words from him, but why? I can see now that he
loves me. I can see it in his moist eyes, in his shaking hands, in the way he bows
his head to pray. He doesn’t pray—I know him better than that; it is defeat, that
lowering of his chin to his chest.
He will miss me, even after all of it.
And I will miss him.
“Fight, Tully.”
I want to answer him, to let him know that he has reached me, that I am here, but nothing works. “Open your eyes,” I say to my body. “Open your eyes. Tell him
you’re sorry, too.”
And then he starts to sing in a cracked, croaking voice. “Just a small town girl…”
God, I love that man, Kate says.
He is halfway through the song when someone else walks into the room. A beefy man
in a cheap brown sport coat and blue slacks. “I’m Detective Gates,” the man says.
I hear the words car accident and images flash through my mind—a rainy night, a concrete stanchion, my hands on
the steering wheel. It almost becomes a memory. I can feel it coming together, meaning
something, but before I can put it together, I am hit in the chest so hard I fall
back against the wall. The pain is crushing, excruciating.
CODEBLUECALLDRBEVAN.
“Kate!” I scream, but she is gone.
The noises are thunderous now, echoing and banging and beeping. I can’t breathe. The
pain in my chest is killing me.
ALLCLEAR.
I am thrown into the air like a kid’s rag doll, and up there, I burst into flames.
When it’s over, I’m floating again, falling alongside the starlight.
Kate takes my hand in the darkness, and instead of falling, we are flying. We touch
down, soft as a butterfly landing, in a pair of worn wooden chairs that face the beach.
The world is dark but somehow electrically bright: white, white moon, endless stars,
candles flickering in Mason jars from the branches of an old maple tree.
Her back deck. Kate’s.
Here, the pain is an echo, not the beat. Thank God for that.
I hear Kate breathing beside me. In each exhalation I smell lavender and something
else, snow, maybe. Johnny fell apart, she says, reminding me of where we were before—talking about my life. I didn’t think he would .
“We all did.” That’s the sad, sorry truth of it.
Kate beside me again.
What happened tonight? she asks, ripping a little of that peace away.
“I can’t remember.” It’s true, strangely. I can’t remember.
You can remember. You don’t want to.
“Maybe there’s a good reason for that.”
Maybe .
“Why are you here, Kate?”
You called for me, remember? I came because you need me. And to remind you.
“Of what?”
Memories are who we are, Tul. In the end, that’s all the luggage you take with you.
Love and memories are what last. That’s why your life flashes before your eyes when
you die—you’re picking the memories you want. It’s like packing.
“Love and memories? Then I am double-Oreo fucked. I don’t remember anything, and love—”
Listen .
A voice is speaking. “Will she be herself when she wakes up?”
“Hey,” I say. “That’s—”
Johnny. The way she says her husband’s name is full of love and pain.
“… if she wakes up is really the question…” A male voice.
Wait. They are talking about my death . And the chance of something worse—a brain-damaged life. An image flashes through
my mind—me, confined to bed, held together by tubes, unable to think or speak or move.
I concentrate hard and I am in the hospital room again.
Johnny is standing by my bed, looking down at me. A stranger in blue scrubs is beside
him.
“Is she a spiritual woman?” This from the stranger.
“No. I wouldn’t say so,” Johnny says tiredly. He sounds so sad I want to take his
hand, even after all that has happened between us, or maybe because of it.
He sits down by the bed where my body is. “I’m sorry,” he says to the me that can’t
hear.
I have waited so long to hear those words from him, but why? I can see now that he
loves me. I can see it in his moist eyes, in his shaking hands, in the way he bows
his head to pray. He doesn’t pray—I know him better than that; it is defeat, that
lowering of his chin to his chest.
He will miss me, even after all of it.
And I will miss him.
“Fight, Tully.”
I want to answer him, to let him know that he has reached me, that I am here, but nothing works. “Open your eyes,” I say to my body. “Open your eyes. Tell him
you’re sorry, too.”
And then he starts to sing in a cracked, croaking voice. “Just a small town girl…”
God, I love that man, Kate says.
He is halfway through the song when someone else walks into the room. A beefy man
in a cheap brown sport coat and blue slacks. “I’m Detective Gates,” the man says.
I hear the words car accident and images flash through my mind—a rainy night, a concrete stanchion, my hands on
the steering wheel. It almost becomes a memory. I can feel it coming together, meaning
something, but before I can put it together, I am hit in the chest so hard I fall
back against the wall. The pain is crushing, excruciating.
CODEBLUECALLDRBEVAN.
“Kate!” I scream, but she is gone.
The noises are thunderous now, echoing and banging and beeping. I can’t breathe. The
pain in my chest is killing me.
ALLCLEAR.
I am thrown into the air like a kid’s rag doll, and up there, I burst into flames.
When it’s over, I’m floating again, falling alongside the starlight.
Kate takes my hand in the darkness, and instead of falling, we are flying. We touch
down, soft as a butterfly landing, in a pair of worn wooden chairs that face the beach.
The world is dark but somehow electrically bright: white, white moon, endless stars,
candles flickering in Mason jars from the branches of an old maple tree.
Her back deck. Kate’s.
Here, the pain is an echo, not the beat. Thank God for that.
I hear Kate breathing beside me. In each exhalation I smell lavender and something
else, snow, maybe. Johnny fell apart, she says, reminding me of where we were before—talking about my life. I didn’t think he would .
“We all did.” That’s the sad, sorry truth of it.
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