A Way Out

​

A Way Out: A Short Story

It was her 3rd week of writing in the little black book. He would sometimes peek at the contents. She had intertwined favorite quotes, a recipe or two (when was she ever cooking?), three gratitude platitudes a day, some class notes from a manifestation course she picked up, and one flattened peachy-pink flower that reminded him of her laughing blush. She didn't blush or laugh much anymore. She was too busy writing her way out. She was a toucher; she liked things she could pick up and hold, feel their texture. Their place had filled with magical, feel-good baubles ever since he’d met her, blue velvet ribbons around his blackout drapes, smooth and shiny selenite bookends, the softest towels, even the kitchenware had cozies. She once told him she wished that she had his soft skin. Sometimes he thought he caught a moment where she caressed the soft leather right before setting it aside and fixing her tea and getting down to business. If she felt him looking, she might for a hesitant moment slip a sideways glance his direction and he’d smile. She could feel him smile. He knew that. They used to pretend they could feel each other’s gazes just before they journeyed up the body to meet the other’s —- he wasn’t always sure that was true before or that she felt it just like he had, but now he was sure.

​

It didn’t matter if it was a crowded room or this empty one – the connection would always be there.

​

She let out a sigh. Was it a happy one? He couldn’t tell anymore. That was the thing about being gone. You could watch them, you could know they feel you, but you couldn’t get through to them. It was hard. He wasn’t sure how long this would last though, so he stayed. Day after day, he watched her write her way out of the pain and grief. She suddenly stared right at him…maybe it was through him. He turned to watch right as her rage made the glass shatter against the wall behind him. Rage—he vaguely recalled it. But it wasn’t something he could feel anymore. He remembered feeling it at random about something stupid, the way a car slammed on the brakes in front of him on the way to a job he hated or when the food delivery was late and terribly cold or when the neighbor boy bullied their dog. She had held his hand or patted a knee and he’d calm down. He came to her in a rush and thought of trying to grab her hand, but now she only got goosebumps. If he could cry, he probably would. But, in this life, there was just all bittersweet joy. A constant joy for what he’d had.

Then he saw their little honey-blonde daughter in her spitting image drawing quietly on the other side, resting at her knee on the tossed-aside red chenille blanket at her feet. She wrapped a little hand around her mom’s leg purely, the way an innocent child often reaches out before she learns not to trust or share. She always did follow in her mom’s footsteps. His babies. She leaned over grabbing her knees as tears fell across the pages. He couldn’t hold her hand, but he could rustle the peeking page at her elbow like a small breeze in a stagnant room. He blew at the corner of the gilded pages until they curled like an origami wave and fell back, until she was staring inquisitively.

​

“I miss you. Every day.”

​

He couldn’t tell who said it, her or him. It was true how deeply hearts are connected in life and the after. It wouldn’t be long before the black book was filled and found its way to the bookends among the photography and travel books, the wedding planning books resting amidst his Neil Gaiman and Batman comics and Sox baseball history. He knew the feeling would fade in time, so he looked her straight in the eyes, those beautiful gold-green eyes he’d eyelash kiss for laughs at night, and blew a kiss again. She resolutely sat up. She grabbed her pen and started a new sentence, pushing aside the big, fat $20,000 check she used as a place holder. Sometimes she’d repel from it like it was fire, other times linger over the carefully typed numbers like a sad longing. He forgot the plot as his chubby black French bulldog, Lumiere, came bark-racing into the room, rushing right for their daughter. That dog always was so protective, he laughed, as the crayons fell and he nuzzled his way into her lap. Both of his girls reached out at the same time to pet the silly, bulge-eyed twerp and he remembered jealousy.

​

But only for a fleeting second. All the moments were nothing more than fleeting seconds anyway.

She heard the timer go off. It was time to take her depression meds and call her mom. There was lots of talk of just coming home, cleaning out the place, and starting fresh with the old local church friends: “You remember Geri? She got divorced again. You guys could meet for dinner. Like before,” her mom pleaded.  She closed the black leather binder like he watched everyday as she stroked her way through another day of methodical intent to survive. The feeling was coming back, though, and she’d be okay.

​

They would stop coming around for a while to help her reacclimate to life. She breathed deep.

​

“That’s my girl,” he thought. Their daughter followed in dramatic suit, and his lips turned up at the corners.

​

With that, he tapped a hollow “I love you” on the leather with his finger, three taps that vibrated below on her thighs still wrapped in his t-shirt and not much else. She dropped the phone, starting to forget how this was their regular thing, the thing that replaced always finding each other in a crowded room.

​

Good—-the forgetting was like healing, in a way. With that, he reached out his finger for his daughter. She grabbed it, curled hers all around it, maneuvered a little wobble to stand and they slipped away.