I’ve never understood why the bells in the tower bring me comfort. Perhaps they remind me of an easier time—a time when the most pressing issue in my arsenal was having to suffer through an hour of mass while wearing a bowtie. My parents were all about donning your Sunday best when it came to The Lord. That meant slacks, blazer, button-up, the whole nine yards. Which was torturous as a pre-adolescent. The issues that plague a youthful mind seem abhorrent in the moment—we can’t fathom that things can be worse. I’m a firm believer that sadness never leaves us, but neither does happiness. They compound, additions to either side tipping the scale so that we are more of one or the other at any given moment. Wearing that bowtie is still down at the bottom of that bucket somewhere, but it’s buried underneath death and disappointments and loneliness.
As I travel along the sidewalk with my niece, I’m reminded of this. We haven’t spoken much about last night’s incident. She took some coaxing, but after I sat with her for a few minutes, she fell right asleep—youthful minds might not forget trauma, but in some ways they’re better at temporarily coping with it. I didn’t sleep worth shit, tossing and turning on the couch downstairs and angry as hell with myself for being so awake. After all, I hadn’t seen anything, but Mariana’s reaction had been enough to spook me.
She turns to me now, hand yanking mine to get attention, and says, “Do you think it’s because of Mommy?”
I snap out of my bell-filled train of thought. “Do I think what was because of your mommy?”
“The monster last night.”
“Why would you say that?”
“Things happen, but only since Mommy died.”
I pause, looking between the tiny girl holding my hand and the church maybe a quarter mile ahead of us. We’ll be late, probably, which won’t make Aunt Evora very happy, but I think some things are more important than being punctual.
“Have you seen the monster before?” I ask, squatting down so that we’re at eye level. She avoids my gaze.
“No,” she says. “But the night after Mommy died, Daddy was looking at old pictures, so I did too. And I thought something was watching me, only I couldn’t see it.”
“I see. That doesn’t sound very nice.”
She shakes her head, mouth a thin, straight line.
I try my best to sound confident and understanding. “Sometimes, when we’re at our most vulnerable, we imagine things—our fears come to life. Your mommy would’ve never sent anything to scare or harm you. I know that for a fact, so you should believe it too. She loved you more than the whole wide world.”
Mariana nods, crossing her arms, though it looks more like she’s hugging herself for comfort. “I miss her a lot,” she says, looking like she might start crying.
“I know you do,” I whisper. “I miss her too.”
“She wouldn’t have let the monster near me.”
“You bet.”
“Daddy says she could see them too—because of her disease.”
So that’s what this is about. I close my eyes, letting my head fall just a little bit. The world can be such a fucked-up place. Especially for a little kid. We try to spare children the worst of it, but the universe doesn’t care about age. Maybe it’s because the world is so ancient; the difference between a newborn and a hundred-year-old is indistinguishable.
“Your mommy had a shitty disease, yes,” I say, trying to keep myself from crying now. All I can see in my head is a vision of Dores, smiling and carefree like I remember her. No signs whatsoever that she was suffering. “But that doesn’t mean you do too. It doesn’t always work that way. It might…it might just be that all the scary monsters are up here.” I tap my temple with my index finger.
Then I stand. The bells have stopped ringing.
“Come on,” I say, holding out my hand for her to take. She’s hesitant at first, but after a few seconds she relents. Her fingers are so small, her palm a fraction of the size of my own. And yet her words carry so much weight on my heart. She’s too young to become this familiar with grief. I know that’s just a matter of opinion, but damn if it isn’t true.
~
All throughout the mass, I can’t stop seeing Dores’ coffin positioned beneath the hanging statue of the crucifixion. When I take my usual seat in the back, a flustered Aunt Evora grabs Mariana and brings her forward to sit between her and Brian in one of the front pews. The services run their course. I sit, stand, sit, stand, kneel, and mutter the recitations in unison with the other churchgoers. In the end, the priest recedes down the aisle, and Evora returns to ask me why we were late. No excuse will be good enough, I’m sure, so I mumble a brief apology. Brian invites me to breakfast at his house, but I politely decline. I need some time on my own.
Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
My feet carry me to William Land Park, where the verdant fields stand in stark contrast to the barren trees. This late in the season, the sky retains a colorless palette like wet cement. Since the funeral, I can’t step inside that church without images of her coffin displayed before the altar. I came here to find relief, but now that Dores is on my mind I’m finding that everywhere carries remnants of her. I suppose that’s the disadvantage of having lived so close together. There are benches where we used to congregate for lunch some weekends. The pond we always joked was filled with more goose shit than water. The softball field where I’d been forced to watch her work team lose on Saturdays. Funny, I wandered through this park hundreds of times without these intruding memories, and now that I’m purposely trying to find peace, the memories are inescapable.
I allow myself to wade through the recollections for a few more minutes, but then seeing my sister’s face in every corner of the park begins to frustrate me. It’s just a park. It never belonged to us. I don’t want to start tearing out holes in my world map with all the places I can’t go because her memory is too strong.
But then again, I suppose it’s been less than two weeks. Everything is still fresh.
Daddy says she could see them too.
I stare into the foliage, wondering if I’ll see Mariana’s monster come waltzing out. The idea is ridiculous, but as I stand there on my own on this overcast Sunday morning, I begin to feel a chill run down my spine—along with the sensation of eyes upon me. Nothing is coming out onto the path, but that doesn’t mean there’s nothing there. Not a monster, of course, but the eyes could belong to an animal. Or a person.
Great, now I’m being paranoid.
Did Dores have the same fears? She had Lacrimosus—she had just cause to be afraid, as far as I know. How could she hide it so well?
How could she hide it from me so well?
I suppose maybe, in the end, we weren’t as different as I’d thought. She always seemed to play fast and loose with her emotions, willing and able to unload emotional heft with anyone close by. That’s what made her so fun to be around: she wasn’t afraid to be vulnerable. I, on the other hand, wouldn’t tell someone I was dying even if they were standing on my fucking grave.
Okay, maybe that comparison was a little too close to home.
My phone vibrates in my pocket. Eager for distraction, I draw it out to see who’s contacted me. The screen lights up, and I can see the preview of an urgent-looking text from Felicia.
I need your selections for next issue.
So much for having “all the time I need.” Although, to be fair, she’s just doing what I asked her to do since I told her I didn’t want to take any time off. “Don’t say what you don’t mean” is her philosophy. A part of me is glad to have been yanked from a spiral of memories. The task-oriented mind is best kept occupied.
I head for home, wanting to get the request done as soon as possible.
~
Somewhere in the shuffle, I’ve even managed to forget about my date tonight.
My phone buzzes again and I fly across the living room to see who it is, welcoming the distracting glow of the notification. Shout out to my phone for being the only thing that consistently lights up when I touch it.
The orange dialogue bubble portrays Milo’s intentions to pick me up at six. Of all the minutiae that goes into the selection of a perfectly matched mate, I’m glad that he hasn’t decided to fetch me later. I have never in my life chosen to eat dinner later than seven in the evening, and I will never choose to do so. Men who flaunt reservations at eight or later are an instant source of suspicion. Not that I have experience with any of those. I’m basing this purely off of my own eating habits.
I spend about three hours in front of the mirror, wondering if I’m spending far too much time deciding what to wear. Half of me wishes I had someone to bounce outfits off of, while the other half is grateful to have no audience during this arduous period of turmoil. By five thirty, I’m ready to call the whole shitty ordeal off—figuring a worthy ensemble is not worth the effort of a date. But by five minutes to six, I’ve settled on the most mundane, inoffensive number I could’ve conjured—which is perhaps most representative of my state of existence. I’m wearing a solid black button-up over tastefully fitted jeans. I only have one coat, so that’ll have to do. Wow, if he isn’t getting a taste of my personality.
At approximately 6:08, the bell rings and Mr. Reid awaits at my door. My heart immediately starts flipping like a rabbit gymnast ingesting caffeine for the first time. I’m simultaneously the most excited I’ve ever been and feeling the urge to vomit all over my doormat. Since that would fuck up his fly-ass adidas, I do my best not to follow through on this urge.
Milo smiles sheepishly at me, a crooked grin that wrinkles his forehead, and I almost slam the door in his face. If this is how difficult it’s going to be to get through the night without creaming my pants, then I don’t think I can make it. Making small talk at the gym or over the phone was one thing; having him collect me for a bona fide date is another.
Stop being a cunt waffle.
“Glad I picked the right house,” he says. “I couldn’t tell if your number was on the left or the right.”
A common conundrum for first-time visitors, which usually means pizza delivery guys, Chinese food delivery guys, ramen delivery guys—you get the picture.
“You’re right!” Who said I don’t have a way with words?
“You look nice,” he says, taking in my appearance. I run my eyes over his sweatered torso, admiring the shape of his chest for a moment longer than is necessary. He must do some lifting in addition to the basketball. Unless you can also get that shape from climbing. Damn, if only we’d had the chance to climb together.
Stop gawking.
“Should we…uh, go?” he asks, chuckling.
“Yeah, sorry—uhm. You look great! I—Yes, I’m ready.”
It’s going to be a long date.