I'll Be Waiting, page 2
I loved to sit in his office and start up the metronome while I waited for him to solve whatever problem gripped his mind.
Tick-tick-tick.
I can see him hunched over his pages, scribbling furiously, reading glasses on.
Reading glasses before forty? I say. That’s what you get for straining to read teeny-tiny numbers without good lighting.
That’s a myth, Nic.
Mmm, not so sure.
He’s writing and frowning and writing more. There’s a laptop and a desktop computer nearby, but he likes to work by hand.
Luddite.
Tick-tick-tick.
Hair falls over his broad forehead. I catch a few silver hairs and smile smugly. About time. I’ve had them since I was twenty-five. Never dyed them out. I’m too damn proud of having lived to see gray hair.
Anton rests the tip of his pencil in his mouth.
Going to get lead poisoning, I say.
The amount of lead absorbed—
Don’t math on me, Novak.
I smile and keep reaching for that image of him, constructing it until I see the whole of his office, right down to—
“Janica.”
The name whispers up from my left, and I stiffen. That’s not my name. It used to be, once upon a time, but it’s not now, and no one in this room knows me as anything but Nicola.
I look at Leilani, but she’s still invoking Anton.
I imagined it. Imagined hearing my old name. Imagined hearing it in Anton’s voice, because he knew it, though he never called me that. Only my mom called me Janica, while sighing that everyone ignored the lovely name she’d picked for me, in favor of the boyish diminutive, Nic.
But might Anton use that name if he reached out? So I know it’s really him?
I shake it off, making Shania glance over, worry clouding her brown eyes. I smile reassuringly and focus on the metronome again.
Tick-tick-tick.
Anton in his office, working out a problem. Finally, with a start, he realizes I’m there.
What time is it? he says.
Finish up.
Sorry. I lost track of—
Finish. We have time.
All the time in the world.
“Janica,” the voice whispers. “Careful…”
The hair on my neck rises. I seem to hear Anton. Isn’t that what I’m here for? So why am I stiffening, my heart picking up speed, panic rising?
Because it can’t be him. Because I’m imagining—
Something moves, a shape caught just in the corner of my eye. I startle, and Leilani’s soothing voice stops.
“Nicola?” she says.
There’s nothing there, and I’m not even sure what I thought I saw. A sensation of movement. I sensed …
I blink hard.
“Continue,” I say, my voice croaking.
“I don’t think I need to,” Leilani says. “He’s here. I sense him.”
A soft whisper has Shania jumping and one of the observers gasping softly.
“Nic…” The name swirls around me. The voice says something else, but it’s garbled, indistinct.
“Anton?” Leilani says. “Am I addressing Anton Novak, husband of Nicola Laughton, who is here with me today?”
“Yes…” The word comes as a hiss. Then more, still garbled like two radio stations coming in at once.
“Anton? We’re having trouble—”
Cold air snakes over my bare calves.
Shania jumps and squeaks. “Did anyone else…?” She claps a hand to her mouth. “Sorry.”
“Did you experience something, dear?” Leilani asks.
“Cold air. I felt—”
“I did, too,” the male observer says.
“There!” one of the women says. “Did you see that?”
“The candle flames wavered.” Shania’s hand tightens painfully hard on mine. “Nic, he’s here. Anton’s really here.”
I look at Shania’s shining face, and I want to smile at her and say that yes, Anton’s here. If he’s here, that’s proof of an afterlife, proof that her sister is somewhere and Shania can move on with her own life, confident in the knowledge that she will see her sister again.
Part of me wants to be the person who can do that.
The person who can lie to make others feel better.
The person who doesn’t have to face the truth. Always.
I extricate my hand from Shania’s. Then I stand and walk to where the candle flames had flickered. They’re on a small cabinet, nestled between two statuettes of Egyptian deities. I lift one statuette.
“What are you doing?” Leilani says, stumbling to her feet.
The statuette only moves a couple of inches. Enough to reveal the tube running into it. An air tube that runs out the side, right at the level to make the candles flicker. Then I bend, hiking my skirt past my knees to get low enough. Another tube runs along the bottom shelf of the cabinet. That’s where the blast of cold air came from.
I don’t say anything. I just look at Leilani, and she flinches before setting her jaw.
“I don’t know what you think you’ve found,” she says.
“Shall I say it out loud?”
I walk back to the table. Then I pause, remembering which direction the voice had come from. The one that called me Nic.
There’s another yard-sale-quality cabinet right behind the chair where I’d been sitting. Where I’d been told to sit. I find the speaker hidden in a picture frame. I turn the frame around so everyone can see the small speaker. I don’t say anything, and no one else does either.
The other voice, the one that called me Janica, came from my left, right at my ear. I look around that area, but I don’t see where a speaker would hide and, honestly, I don’t expect to. No one in this room knows me by that name. That voice, then, I must have imagined.
I tap the picture-frame speaker as my gaze meets Leilani’s. I still don’t say anything. I could sneer that I know my husband’s voice. I could roll my eyes at her for using tricks I’ve seen a half-dozen times. I could even rage at her for preying on my grief.
Instead, I just look at her and say, “I expect a refund.”
When I glance at Shania, I falter. The disappointment on her face stings, but the resignation is worse. She’s accompanied me to three séances, and she already knows this is what she can expect. The decent mediums admit they can’t make contact. The charlatans pull this shit. And most of them are charlatans.
I can feel bad for not letting Shania believe in this one, but that would be patronizing. She isn’t a child. She’d seen through the last one before I did. She might have been fooled here temporarily, but that would have passed, and she’d have been rightfully pissed off with me for playing along.
When I look over, she’s already on her feet, her glare fixed on Leilani.
“I trusted you,” Shania says to Leilani. “I let you convince me to bring Nicola. If you haven’t transferred back her money before we reach the door, you’ll have one-star reviews on every site by sundown.”
That’s my Shania. I smile at her, and she mouths an apology. I wave it off and put my hand against her back, guiding her from the room. No one tries to follow us. We walk through the tiny house … and make a wrong turn at the kitchen.
“Kinda ruins the whole storming-out thing when we can’t find the exit,” I whisper.
Shania gives a strained laugh. Then she whispers back, “I am so sorry, Nic. I know you were trying to quit, and I talked you into it.”
“I’m a grown-up, Shania, and part of being a grown-up is, sadly, that no one else gets the blame for my shitty choices. Oh, there’s the front door. Whew. What do you say to a midafternoon sugar splurge? I saw one of those fancy artisanal ice cream places on the drive in.”
I pull open the door. “My treat, but only if you promise not to apologize…”
I trail off. There’s a pickup parked in front of the small house. Parked illegally, which is why I didn’t take the spot. A blond woman in jeans and a pullover perches on the truck’s front bumper, while a dark-haired guy in a sport jacket leans against the front panel, arms crossed over his chest.
“Shit,” Shania whispers.
“Yep.”
Shania surges forward, boot heels clicking down the concrete steps. “Libby. Jin. I am so sorry. This is my fault. I talked her into it.”
“No one talks Nic into anything,” Libby says, straightening. “Trust me. We’ve all tried. If she agrees, it’s because she already wanted to do it. Like visiting another spiritualist after promising she’d quit.”
“How’d you find me?” I ask as I walk over.
Jin lifts his cell phone with the Find My Friends app displayed. “Forgot to turn it off this time, Nic. You’re slipping.”
“Or she wants to get caught,” Libby says, using her psychologist-in-session voice.
I roll my eyes at her. No, I do not want to be caught. I might seem calm, but inside, I’m cringing like I’m eight again and Mom found chocolate-bar wrappers in my pocket after I’d forgotten—again—to take my enzyme pills with me. And after I swore I never had snacks if I forgot the pills.
I look from Jin to Libby. From my one best friend to the other. From my brother’s husband to his ex-wife. And, yep, that’s as complicated as it sounds, but Keith has good taste in partners. It’s probably his one redeeming quality.
Okay, fine, Keith has lots of redeeming qualities. I just happen to prefer hanging out with his spouses. And I definitely prefer having them show up, because they know the shame is punishment enough. If Keith were here … Well, my older brother has a knack for making me feel like I really am eight again, sneaking those chocolate bars.
“I am sorry,” Shania says.
I wag my index finger at her. “No more of that. I messed up, and I’ll take my licks, which apparently won’t come with ice cream.” I look at them. “I suppose it’s Nicola-intervention time?”
“It is,” Libby says. “If you want to meet us after your ice cream, that’s fine. I’d just need to ask Keith to pick up the kids at school and look after them for an hour. Which is not a bad idea. Hayden is in a mood. Twelve years old and already sulking like a teen.” She takes out her phone. “Yep, I’m definitely calling Keith, whatever you decide. Then we can hold the intervention over drinks.”
“You go on,” Shania says. “I’ll catch a cab and see you at group tomorrow.”
“No, I’m driving you home.” I turn to Jin. “Meet me at my place. You can drive Libby and me to the bar, so I can have a couple of drinks. I have a feeling I’m going to need them.”
THREE
I take Shania home, then I go to my place, where Libby and Jin will be waiting. Anton and I have a condo in downtown Toronto. It was stage one of “the plan” when we got married. We’d both owned condos in less central—and more affordable—neighborhoods. We sold them for a down payment on this because I dreamed of living right in the heart of the city, where I could walk everywhere, including along the shores of Lake Ontario. We planned to live here for a few years and then flip the condo and buy a house in the country, because I’d dreamed of that, too—rural living within easy driving distance to a CF center.
We’d been on the verge of selling last fall, as the housing-market bubble seemed prepared to burst. Sell at a profit, and then rent for a few months before taking advantage of the housing dip to buy. So smart, right? Yep, it was. And now the bubble has burst, and I’m still in this condo, barely able to face getting up in the morning much less moving.
I arrive at my door to find Jin and Libby in the hall.
“You have keys,” I say with a sigh. “Both of you.”
They don’t comment. While Libby and Jin are very different, my brother does have a type, and it’s the sort of person who’ll happily take my condo key for emergencies or house-sitting, but will politely wait at the door instead of letting themselves in.
They are also the type who don’t comment on the boxes in the front hall, dropped off by Anton’s colleagues two weeks after his death. They’ve each separately offered once to help me deal with that, and they won’t mention it again, knowing I’ll accept that offer if and when I’m ready to unpack those boxes … and empty his closet and move the coffee cup he left on the counter that morning before work, the one he’d always only rinse out because he’d want a coffee when he got home. It sits there, gathering dust, waiting for him to need it.
Jin pauses by the hall table and silently scans the growing tablecloth of unopened mail. He knows there will be nothing urgent—I’m responsible enough to deal with all that. I mentally recite the contents of that pile as I pass it. Two cruise ship brochures I don’t need. Three subscription magazines I can’t read. And eight letters addressed to Anton. It’s the last that Jin’s looking for.
He spreads them and takes a photo, saying, “We’ll deal with these.”
He means he and Keith will notify the senders that Anton has died. I want to say I’ll handle it. I want to be able to handle it. I tried, but even cutting and pasting a prewritten blurb into an email felt like being at that roadside again.
I regret to inform you that Anton Novak has died.
I could have handled that. What I couldn’t handle were the replies that demanded additional proof. Additional proof? My husband is dead. Dead. You really think I’d lie about that?
Oh, I know people do lie about it, but that was the part I couldn’t handle—demands to prove Anton was dead, as if I wouldn’t give my right arm to say “Ha! No, I was just trying to scam you. He’s fine.”
Jin is walking away when Libby says, “Nic?”
I turn around to see her at that table, holding a letter to me. I march back, take it, and head straight into my office, where I feed it, unopened, into the shredder.
“Good riddance,” Jin mutters from the doorway.
“He shouldn’t be contacting you,” Libby says.
I don’t answer. What can I say? That I agree, but I lack the energy—or the will—to take more concrete action?
The letter is from the guy who hit us. After I blocked his email, he resorted to old-fashioned letter writing, which I suppose is also better than laying on my buzzer at two in the morning.
I’ve read a couple of the letters. He alternates between begging forgiveness and blaming me for ruining his life. After all, he hadn’t been driving drunk or high. He’d just been going too fast, typical twenty-four-year-old guy confident in his skills, not about to be slowed down by a little snow.
Now his life is ruined because of a momentary lapse of judgment. And was it really his fault? Couldn’t my husband have veered out of the way? What about the airbags? That’s the real villain here—the airbags that didn’t go off. I’m suing the company, right? Suing for millions, that’s what he’s heard. So what right do I have to complain? I’ll be rich.
Anton didn’t have time to veer. That was never questioned. Yes, I am suing the automaker, at Keith’s urging, and it’s not for millions, and that money will go to charity because I have enough and what we really wanted was the recall, which has been issued. But the kid who hit us isn’t the only one who snarks about that.
Did you hear the widow is suing the car company, too—first that story about ghosts and now this. She’s such an attention whore. Probably doesn’t even have CF.
It doesn’t stop. None of it stops.
Prove that your husband is dead.
Forgive the guy who killed him.
Don’t you want to contact your husband’s ghost? He’s right there, waiting for you, like he said.
I turn sharply and brush past Libby and Jin. “Let me comb my hair and we’ll go.”
* * *
Jin drives to our favorite pub on Queen West. It’s a little dive bar, the interior so dark you’d never know it’s only late afternoon. Also dark enough that you can barely see the decor, which is a blessing. At this time of day, it’s practically empty. We order at the bar, get our drinks, and take our usual table in the back.
“So…” Jin says. “Another séance.”
I sink into the booth, cracked vinyl squeaking under me. “I screwed up.”
“That depends,” Libby says, folding her hands on the scarred table. “Do you really want to quit? Then yes, you screwed up. But is it possible you don’t want to quit, and you’re only saying that to get Keith off your back?”
I sigh. “I wouldn’t do that to you guys. If I say I want help quitting, I really do. I don’t know why I keep sabotaging myself. It’s humiliating. I know they’re all con artists. I just can’t help…”
“Hoping,” Libby murmurs.
I slump into my seat. “God, I’m pathetic.”
“No. You’re grieving, and they’re taking advantage of that. I know you want to be stronger, Nic, but no one blames you. What happened was…” She sucks in breath. “The worst. Horrible and unfair. To both of you. You guys got married knowing you might not have much time left. Then you got on that new medicine, and suddenly, that timeline is shifting, giving you more of a future. But it’s always been your timeline. That’s the shittiest part of it. You and Anton were on your timeline. That’s what counted.”
How much more time I had left.
How much more time I had to be healthy.
How much more time I had to be alive.
I knock back my shot, and then make a face. “That’d be way more impressive if it wasn’t a shooter.”
“We know you’re hard-core, Nic,” Jin says. “Even if you drink like you’re still in college.”
“What’s that one called again?” Libby says.
Jin grins. “Redheaded Slut. It’s her favorite.”
“Damn straight.” I slam back a second test tube of Jägermeister, peach schnapps, and cranberry juice. Then I hold out the shot glass. “Hit me again, bartender.”
Jin sets it aside and shakes his head. Then he leans forward. “Look, I know what Keith thinks about this spiritualist stuff. It freaks him out.”
