Even after six months, everything reminds him of her. Her scent still seems to linger in every room of the apartment, though this could be his imagination. But whether it's just his imagination or not doesn't matter, he can't seem to get away from it. Not that he wants to. And yet he does. He doesn't know. He's conflicted. Why wouldn't he be? His friends call and he talks to them... sometimes ...though “talk” is not exactly the right word. He accepts their calls and listens, mumbling into the phone when they ask questions. Many times he just lets the calls go to voice mail, and generally deletes them without listening. Some of his friends try to sympathize, but they don't understand. They can't understand.
He sleepwalks through work, doing everything by rote, nodding and smiling at patrons, though mentally he is miles and months away. His coworkers are aware of this, noting the lack of light in his eyes and life in his conversation. He no longer jokes. He is a shell of himself...a zombie...merely existing rather than living. They whisper among themselves and he is oblivious to it, uncaring. His supervisor invites him into her office and suggests a vacation, but he politely declines. She expresses concern; he reassures her that he can keep up the work just fine.
Then, one day, he notices a message from an unknown number on his cell phone. He frowns and considers his options, shrugging and pressing the “listen” button. The message begins with silence, and he is about to press “delete” when a woman's voice hesitantly, quietly speaks.
“I miss you,” she says. Everything stops - his breath, his heart, time itself. It's her voice. “I just wanted to hear your voice again. I don't think I can keep going without you.” The voice is tragic, forlorn. “I don't know what I'm gonna do.” More silence...then a click. That's it. He listens to it again and again, holding his breath during each playing. How can this be? He is sure it's her voice. But how can it be? He listens to it a dozen times. Then he realizes the number is still on his phone. He pulls up the list of calls and gazes at the unrecognized set of digits. It's not her number. Why isn't it her number? What's going on? He highlights the number and presses the “call” button. It rings and he holds his breath again.
“Hello?” It's a man's voice. He hangs up, frowning, staring at the number as if he can solve this mystery just by looking at the number long enough. Then the phone rings, startling him. It's the number again. He answers it.
“Hello?” he says, clearing his voice.
“Did you just call me and hang up?” the man asks.
“Uh...yeah, sorry. I misdialed.” he stammers. The guy hangs up without another word. He sits and stares at the numbers. Then he flips over to the message tab and listens to her again...and again. For the rest of the night he waits for the phone to ring again. At one point, he checks to make sure the ringer is switched on. He doesn't sleep, afraid she'll call and he'll miss it. He goes online to look up the number and finds that it's unlisted. Who is the man? Why would Kate call from his number? Her boss, maybe? A friend? Her father?
Wait. How could she call? She's dead. She died in a car accident six months ago. But he is certain it was her. He listens to the message again. That is her voice, he has no doubt. He examines the call data. It had come a day ago, so it wasn't an old message. But how? How could a dead person call him? He turns to his computer and begins searching for paranormal evidence. He reads articles about people dying and not moving on because of their strong ties to their lives on earth. Was it possible? Had her love for him kept her bound to earth? Was it possible for her to call his phone? He finds a paranormal chat forum, registers, and posts the question. Within minutes someone responds with an enthusiastic “yes!” but gives no details or explanation. Moments later, another person responds and writes that it isn't technically possible for Kate to use a phone, though since she is pure energy now, she could theoretically tap into the phone system and leave him a message that way. He frowns. If that were the case, why would there be a number listed? He posts a response with this question and waits. Nothing. He paces and drinks bottled water. He hasn't eaten for hours, but feels no hunger, only anxiety.
The next morning he is a mess. He absent-mindedly shaves, rushes through his shower, a nervous wreck thinking he may be missing her call as he scrubs like a wildman, then dresses after checking his phone for missed calls. His coworkers immediately notice the change. He says nothing about her call, after all, they'd think him stark-raving mad. He thinks he convinces them that he's simply turned a corner and finally let her go. They don't buy it. They don't know why he seems so frenetic and full of energy, and a couple of them suggest he's turned to drugs. This, they do out of his earshot, of course. His boss is a mix of relief and concern. She knows such a sudden change is often a dangerous sign. She quietly assures him they she is available if he wants to talk...anytime. He wonders, for just a fleeting second, if she is taking advantage of the situation to make a move, but quickly dismisses the thought. Everyone notices his constant checking of his phone and the rumors of drug use intensify, especially after he skips lunch.
For his part, he feels renewed, as if he's been reborn. He feels hope, a thing that has been resurrected in him. She had contacted him. From beyond. Love is indeed eternal and her love for him had given her the strength or courage or whatever it took for her to cross a boundary rarely crossed. Just the thought of this causes his heart to soar. He doesn't care what his coworkers or friends say in the back rooms and from shadowed hallways. Their love is stronger than death. And she will call again. This time, he'll answer.
And he does.
“Hello?” he says breathlessly into the phone. Silence. “Please say something,” he whispers.
“Who is this?” she asks.
It's her voice. Tears form in his eyes and he closes them, breathing at last.
“It's me,” he whispers, his voice breaking. “It's Mike.”
More silence.
“Kate?”
She is speechless. She never expected him to answer. Why wouldn't she expect him to answer?
“Mike?” she whispers quietly. “How?”
A sob erupts from his throat. “I don't know,” he says. He is weeping openly now. He hears her loose a sob on her end.
“Where are you?” he manages to ask between heaving breaths.
She is sniffling. “I'm in our apartment,” she whimpers.
“I'm here too,” he says. This brings another sob out of her.
“I don't understand,” she stammers. “How is this possible?”
He shakes his head, and then chuckles to himself. “I don't know,” he says. “And right now, I don't care.”
They both break down into heaving sobs.
“I've missed you so much,” she says after composing herself.
“I've missed you too, baby,” he says. “More than I could ever tell you.”
“I just want you to hold me, so bad,” she says, sniffling again.
“I want nothing more,” he says.
“I didn't know what I was gonna do when you left,” she says.
He stops breathing. When I left? “What do you mean, baby?”
She snivels. “You know, when you...passed.”
He closes his eyes. Does she think I'm the one who died? He bites his lip and tries to figure out how to break this to her. “Baby...oh baby,” he says, but can't bring himself to go on.
“Thank God for Reggie,” she says.
Reggie? Is that the guy who answered before?
“Baby, who's Reggie?”
She pauses. “What?”
“Is Reggie a friend of yours?”
Another pause. “Mike, what are you talking about?”
Now he's uncomfortable. He knows Kate better than he knows anyone and yet he has no idea what to say next.
“Babe, I don't know anyone named 'Reggie,'” he says apologetically.
This time she is quiet for more than a few seconds.
“Babe?” he says.
“What is your last name?” she asks.
“What?”
“I
think I've got the wrong Mike. The Mike I know would definitely know who Reggie is.”
She sounds...different. Irritation? Anxiety? Irked? Unhappy in some way. Perhaps a mixture of surprise and disappointment? He doesn't understand this, nor does he understand who Reggie is. Could it be that she isn't his Kate?
“Garringer,” he says flatly.
She is silent again. Then, “I don't understand. How can you not remember Reggie? Is that what happens when you...pass away? You forget everyone? Will you forget me too?”
He sighs. “Kate, you said you were in our apartment, right?”
“Yes.”
“What's the address?”
“The address? You don't remember?”
“Can you just tell me what it is?”
She pauses. “1227 East Lanier. Apartment 4B.”
He writes that down. “Kate, what would you say if I told you that I am sitting in our apartment and the address is 408 Pecan Street, number 8?”
“Pecan street? I don't even know where that is.”
“Oh, and Kate, I didn't pass away six months ago. You did.”
“That's not funny, Michael.”
“I'm not joking. And I don't know who Reggie is.”
Silence. “What's going on, Mike? Reggie was your dog. You had him before we even met. And we've never lived on Pecan street.”
“I don't know what's going on, Babe. But I've never had a dog and I've never lived on East Lanier.”
They both sit in silence for a few uncomfortable moments. He considers the odd situation and a few questions occur to him.
“Do you remember the Banders?” he asks her.
“You mean Joey's parents?”
He frowns. “No, Joey and Sarah.”
“Sarah who?”
“Sarah Bander, Joey's wife.”
She pauses. “I know Joey Bander. He's single. Doesn't even have a girlfriend, much less a wife.”
They both know something is wrong, but neither has any idea what that might be. Mike is determined, however, not to lose her again.
“Listen, Babe,” he says, “I think we both know something strange is happening, right?”
“That's putting it lightly,” she cracks.
“But I know I love you and never want to lose you again, so I say we deal with whatever's happening the best we can.”
She is silent again, then after a few moments, he hears her sniffling again. “I love you, Mike.”
“That's all I need to know, Babe.” He glances at his clock and notices it's quite late. “Will you be home tomorrow night around seven?”
“Yes,” she whispers.
“I know where Lanier is. I'll come over tomorrow at seven.”
And he does.
He stands at her door precisely at seven o'clock, a mess of nervous energy, repeatedly clenching his fists and then stretching out his fingers. After some time, he rings the bell. He listens as her footfalls echo into the hall. His heart beats so fast that for a brief moment, he fears he may have a heart attack. When the door opens, a woman that he doesn't recognize stands before him. Roommate?
“Hi...um...is Kate here?” he asks nervously.
She furrows her brow and tilts her head slightly. “Mike?”
He stares. She speaks with Kate's voice. He frowns, a look of consternation. She, too, gazes at him, her face masked with confusion. They stand there, gaping at one another, both befuddled, neither knowing what to say. At last, she pushes the door open and quietly says, “Come in.”
He slowly steps inside, eyeing the woman curiously. “Kate?” he asks.
She turns and gives him wan smile, then moves over to the sofa, motioning for him to sit. She then sits in a cushioned chair across from him.
“This is...unexpected,” he says. She nods, a sad look of resignation in her eyes. Just then, a black and white cocker spaniel trots into the room and settles at her feet.
“This is Reggie,” she says, scratching the back of his head.
He feels a tinge of deja vu, just before asking, “Had him long?”
She frowns, as if thinking, though she is experiencing a bit of deja vu as well. “About three years,” she says, somewhat absently.
“You look...different,” he says. “I mean, good, just different.”
She raises her chin and meets his gaze. “Yeah, you too.” She feels strange, as though she should feel something deeper. It is an odd, empty feeling, almost a hunger, though not quite.
He shakes his head, unable to understand what is happening. He expected Kate, and here she is, but it's not her. It is her, and yet it's not her. He feels a lost feeling, as if some knowledge that should be readily available is suddenly missing without explanation. He thinks to himself that this is what Alzheimer's feels like, then a moment later, doesn't have the slightest idea why that thought occurred to him.
“Do you feel alright?” he asks her.
She shakes her head. “Not really. I'm not really sure what's wrong, but I do feel a little ill.”
He rises. “Maybe we should do this another time?” Even as he says this, he feels a rush of panic, as if leaving will be the end of it, and yet he doesn't know what it would end.
She hesitates and gazes up at him, almost pleadingly, as if she too is afraid to end something. Yet she closes her eyes and slowly nods.
“Can I call you?” he asks, moving toward the door.
She rises to see him out. “I'd like that,” she says, smiling weakly again. Then she looks away and frowns, chewing on her thumbnail.
Later, he sits in his car outside his apartment, trying to figure out what just happened. He had expected it to be somewhat awkward, after all, first meetings always are. Except that wasn't a first meeting, it was a reunion. But for the life of him, he can't remember at the moment where or when they had first met. It seems like the last couple of days had been filled with deja vu moments and tidbits slipping from his mind. He frowns, trying to remember, but decides it's immaterial. Maybe it will come to him tomorrow. He has her number, he'll call her in the next couple of days.
And he does.
They meet for lunch and talk and laugh and oddly, become best friends in one afternoon. Over the next ten years, they support each other as they each meet and marry others. His marriage fails, hers succeeds, though only just and through very hard work. When they get together, especially with others, they often talk about how they met. She accidentally dialed his number, they say, and they spoke for an hour, instantly becoming friends. This is not true, but it is their truth. It is how they remember it. They tell the story of their first meeting, his coming to her apartment, and how at ease they felt with each other, as if they were brother and sister, having grown up together. Again, this is not true, but it is what each of them remembers.
Occasionally, each of them feels a twinge of romantic nostalgia for the other, a feeling that seems odd and out of place, and neither speak of it. It would be awkward. They are friends and only friends. There are also odd instances of deja vu for each of them that seem to occur when they are together, as if they have been somewhere before together. They usually laugh about this and shrug it off, since everyone experiences deja vu and no one really knows why. Then, late one afternoon, as they sit and enjoy a glass of wine, Kate brings it up.
“Do you believe in reincarnation?” she prods.
Mike swirls the wine in his glass and looks off into the distance. “I dunno, maybe,” he says, shrugging.
“Doesn't it seem strange to you that we met one day and were like, best friends instantly?”
He smiles a half-smile, a look that she knows is his “I'm about to make a joke or wise crack” face, and before he can, she nudges him with her fist. “I'm serious,” she proclaims, flashing him a look of mock hurt.
He laughs and shakes his head. “We do know each other pretty well, huh?”
She nods. “So, whattaya think?”
“Honestly, I don't think about it,” he says.
She gives him a l
ook of incredulity that is only half-mocking. “Seriously? You're not curious about this at all?”
He pauses and gazes into her eyes and one of those odd, nostalgic feelings washes over him. He quickly shakes his head and looks away, sipping his wine.
“What?” she asks.
He sighs. “Nothing.”
She reaches up and grabs his chin, turning his face toward hers. “What?” she repeats a little more forcefully.
He bites his bottom lip and peers at her, trying to see something, though he doesn't know what. “Sometimes,” he begins, then takes a sip of wine. “Sometimes, I get these really strange feelings, kinda like deja vu, but they're connected to you.”
“What kind of feelings?” she asks, tilting her head slightly and lifting her eyebrows.
It's a look he finds endearing. If it were anyone else, he'd lean in and kiss her. He knows this. But this is Kate...his buddy...his best friend...who is married. He sighs again.
“I dunno, like a reminiscent feeling,” he says.
“Like nostalgia?” she suggests.
“Yeah, I guess,” he says, sipping his wine.
This brings a smile to her face. A knowing smile. She gets them too.
“You know what I'm talking about, don't ya?” he says, narrowing his eyes and eyeing her sideways.
She sips and grins slightly, then nods.
“So, you think maybe we had a romantic relationship in a previous life?” he asks. As soon as the question is in the air, he feels a lightness in his chest.
She nods. “I honestly do. I've suspected that for a few years.” She sips her wine and looks away, blushing slightly.
He suddenly feels uncomfortable, as if he's opened someone's luggage and rustled through it without their permission. Like he's prying into someone else's life. He rises.
“What's wrong?” she asks, setting her glass on the end table.
He shakes his head. “This feels...wrong,” he says. He gazes into her eyes and then turns and leaves. She watches him go, a wisp of wistfulness brushing her awareness, then sighs and rises, taking both glasses into the kitchen. She's not concerned. He'll call in the next couple of days.
But he doesn't.
She doesn't call him, determined to give him space to work things out. She's always done that when he was upset. She greets Rick, her husband, when he returns from his trip, and he shows no awareness of her heart's swaying, just as she is unaware of his. They have grown apart, despite their hard work. After a couple of days, he asks about Mike.
“Maybe you should call him,” he says.
So she does, but he doesn't answer. She leaves a message, but he doesn't return her call, even after another day passes, and she begins to grow concerned. She calls his office and Annie answers.
“Hi Annie, this is Kate, is Mike around?”
Annie pauses. “Oh Kate, you haven't heard?”
Everything stops – her breathing, her heart, time. She listens to Annie explain that Mike was hit by a car two days ago. He was in a coma for a few hours, but then passed away. She listens to this but she is far away. She hangs up the phone without saying goodbye and stands there, stunned. She looks around her house, a house she shares with a man she doesn't love, and wonders if Annie could be mistaken. Tears come later.
Six months pass and she is back in her old apartment, her husband having declared his love for a woman in another state. The divorce was quick and painless, she wanted it as much as he. She is alone, now, however, and she feels Mike's absence like an ulcer on her heart. She feels empty, like a shell of a human being, aimless and pointless. She weeps often, calling in sick to escape the knowing looks of her coworkers. She is a mess. She misses him in a way she has never imagined. She just wants so terribly to hear his laugh again. She reaches for her phone and dials his number, just to hear his voice mail message, just to hear his voice.
The Minstrel's Tale
A Shadewalker Story