Ill be waiting, p.1
I'll Be Waiting, page 1
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ONE
Snow drives into the windshield, turning an evening ride home into a theme-park spaceship ride, launching us into orbit, light streaking past, making me feel as if we’re hurtling forward instead of inching along the highway.
“I’m thinking … Iceland,” Anton says from the driver’s seat.
I shake my head. “It’s a freak fall storm. By tomorrow, it’ll be gone. Wait until February. Then you can start complaining about the snow.”
“I mean I’m thinking about going to Iceland. The two of us. On a cruise into the midnight sun.”
I glance over at him. Headlights from the opposite lane catch his face, green eyes under dark hair falling over his forehead. He’s overdue for a haircut, but I’ll never be the one to remind him. I long to reach up and push the hair back, uncover the hidden strands of gray, run my fingers over the scar at his temple, maybe lean in to kiss his stubbled cheek. Yes, we’ve been married for two years, but I’m still ridiculously in love with my husband.
“Did you hear me, Nic?” he says.
“Mmm, no. I’m busy staring at you.”
His color rises, which is adorable. I resist the urge to reach out and touch his thigh, tickle my fingers over it. None of that while driving in a snowstorm.
“Fine,” I say, “you were saying something about a cruise to … Iceland?”
His gaze doesn’t leave the road. “I know cruises aren’t your thing, but this is an intimate one, with an emphasis on adventure and education. I’m quoting the pamphlet. Can you tell?”
I smile. “I can. I like the sound of ‘intimate,’ though.”
“And your brain stopped there. Small cruise, I mean. Fifty people. Lectures and sea kayaks. Glaciers and whale watching. That sort of thing.”
“I would love that. Seriously. It sounds amazing, but I’m not sure … Well, we’d need to see whether it’s doable. For me.”
He takes his eyes from the road just long enough to fix me with a look.
“Which you have already done,” I murmur. “You wouldn’t mention it unless you were already sure they could accommodate someone with CF. Because you are amazing and perfect.”
“Can I get that in writing? For the next time I burn breakfast? Yes, I found a travel blog from someone with CF who took the cruise, and I checked with Dr. Mendes. She thinks it would be fine, with all the usual precautions.”
Which means taking along my shitload of medical supplies— bottles of enzymes and my vest and my nebulizer—and a backup power supply. But it can be done, and that’s the important thing.
“I would love to see Iceland,” I murmur.
“Excellent, and if you want to test out cruising first, I found another small one that sails through the Great Lakes. Would you like that?”
“Yes, please.”
I smile and lean back against the headrest. Iceland. My parents would be proud of me, as if I were doing it at eighteen instead of thirty-eight. But I know, despite their boundless support, that they’d always worried I wouldn’t live to thirty-eight. When I’d been diagnosed as a baby, my life expectancy ended a decade ago. But a lifetime of advances mean I’m still here, even when my parents aren’t around to see it.
Thirty-eight years old, married, heading off on cruises with my husband. I spent my life being told that none of that was possible. Not by my parents, of course, or my brother or my doctors. But it felt like everyone else who heard I had cystic fibrosis put limits on me.
You won’t live past twenty, thirty if you’re lucky. You can’t play sports. You won’t marry. You won’t go to university.
I can still hear the guidance counselor telling me I could skip career-planning day because, well, that wasn’t for me, was it? No point in a career I won’t live long enough to need.
I ended up with a master’s in software engineering. At university I was part of the running club and ran three half-marathons. A decade ago, I started my own company. And then, just when I was certain marriage was no longer in the cards, Anton came back into my life.
I won’t say I’m running marathons these days. I know what’s in my future. I can feel it in my lungs. But for now, I am healthy enough to go on cruises and more, and we’re doing it all while I still can.
It helps that I’m on a new medication. A groundbreaking one that has me more hopeful than I’ve ever been. The fact that—as of last month—it’s covered by Canada’s health plan means we have the money to do those cruises.
“I want the best cabin they’ve got,” I say.
Anton smiles. “Do you now?”
“Yep. We are splurging. First-class airfare, best cabin on the ship.”
“Champagne every night?”
“Damn straight.”
He laughs and—
And then—
And then—
The rest comes in lightbulb flashes that illuminate a single scene before darkness falls.
Flash.
Headlights, closer than they should ever be, shining through Anton’s window. We rocket sideways, and there’s a crash, the sound coming on a delay, just as my brain screams What the hell is happening?
Flash.
The car has stopped. People are shouting. I’m … upside down? Sideways? I can only tell that I’m suspended somehow, the airbag in my face, seat belt cutting into my chest. I yank at it, panic making me struggle to breathe until I’m sure I can.
“Nic?”
Anton’s voice is a groan. I turn my head, but all I see is my airbag. And blood. I see blood.
Flash.
Hands pulling me out of the car. A man’s voice, pitched high.
“My truck hit ice. I lost control.”
A woman’s voice, snapping. “You were driving too fast. I told you to slow down.”
“They’re okay, right? They’re going to be okay?”
“Does he look okay?”
Anton …
Flash.
So many voices. Everyone talking. Shouting for a doctor. Asking whether anyone’s called 911.
“We’ve all called.”
“Where the hell’s the ambulance?”
“On its way. The storm…”
Flash.
I’m kneeling on grass. Slush soaks through my jeans. Blood drips down my face. Anton lies on a blanket someone has dragged from their trunk.
Anton, his breath wheezing, his chest caved in, blood streaming from his head, one eye fixed on me, the other off to the side, unable to focus.
“The airbag,” a woman whispers. “Why didn’t his airbag go off?”
Someone else shushes her. Strangers all around, pacing and whispering and keeping their distance, as if they’re witnesses at a vigil.
“The ambulance is coming,” I say, as I squeeze Anton’s hand.
“I love you,” he says.
“Shh. The ambulance—”
“Stay with me.”
“I’m right here, baby.”
“No, stay…” He struggles for breath, that awful wheezing sucking sound bubbling up. “It’s okay. Just stay with me. Focus on me.”
A noise comes out of my throat, an almost hysterical yip. “That’s supposed to be my line.”
“Nic?”
I squeeze his hand tighter. “I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere. Can you see me?”
His lips quirk. “I always saw you.”
I squeeze his hand.
“Even when we were kids,” he says. “You might not have seen me, but I saw you.”
“I saw you, too.”
Another quirk. “But not in a good way. I was a jerk.”
“Your friends were jerks. You were just a guy with really bad taste in friends.”
A soft laugh. “Maybe, but I had very good taste in girls. I always saw you, Nic. I always…” His voice catches. “I need to tell you something. A secret.”
Something in me flails, a wild and unreasonable urge to stop him. Whatever he’s about to say, don’t say it. Just—
“Remember how I said I accidentally found your company when I went looking for a coder?” He’s wheezing, struggling to get the words out. I try to stop him, tell him to rest, but he plows on. “It wasn’t an accident. I recognized you in an article, and I had to reach out, take a chance.” His fingers flutter in a weak squeeze on mine. “Best damn chance I ever took.”
I lean over, pressing my lips to his. “I’m glad you did.”
His mouth twists in a wry smile. “I don’t think I’m going to Iceland, Nic.”
“Don’t say—”
“Wherever I do go, though?” His fingers tighten on mine, startling me with their sudden strength. “I’ll be waiting for you. But…” His lips form the next word, but nothing co
mes out, and his eyes roll back, and his fingers release mine and, with a soft exhale …
Anton is gone.
TWO
Seven Months Later
“This way,” says the woman. She flaps her arms in what I presume is a welcoming gesture, but with her voluminous black robe she looks like a vulture about to take flight, red talons flashing.
As soon as Shania and I step into the hall, the reek of incense hits and my insides twist.
Fake. You know this is fake, so what the hell are you doing here?
Even as my brain screams that, a little voice whispers that I know it’s not always fake. It is possible to reach beyond this world into the next.
Of all people, I know that.
I also know what can happen if you do.
An image flashes. Blood sprayed across a bush—
I shove that aside. That was two decades ago. This séance is about Anton, and I am not the least bit concerned about summoning my husband’s spirit.
I follow the medium down the dim hall. Beside me, Shania fairly vibrates with excitement. Tiny and dark-haired, Shania has kohl-liner cat eyes that make her look much younger than her twenty-five years. So does the hope shining in her face.
I met Shania two months ago, at grief counseling, where I’d been assigned as a mentor to help her mourn the loss of her sister.
I can say I’m here for her. She desperately wants proof of an afterlife. But that’s a lie, and I won’t give in to it.
I’m here for me. Because I’m a damn coward who can’t accept that her husband is gone.
As the medium—call me Leilani—herds us toward the room, Shania whispers, “This time we’ll reach him. I know we will.” She squeezes my hand, her skin hot against my clammy fingers.
We enter a tiny, windowless room. It looks like the den in my grandparents’ house, complete with wood paneling and a stucco ceiling. Mystical abstract art on the walls seems to all be painted by the same amateur, maybe Leilani herself.
Two women and a man sit at an old table draped in a black cloth. All three are middle-aged, white, and nondescript enough that they could be related. Three pairs of eyes stare at me. Leilani introduces them as spirit helpers, but I know why they’re really here. To gape at me. Nicola Laughton. The woman from the news. The woman from a viral story that rises from the grave every few weeks, which I know by the sudden surge of messages with titles like “Have you seen him yet?” and “I can help you contact him.”
My life changed in one night. A winter storm, not even that bad, just earlier than usual. An asshole who wasn’t letting a little snow slow him down. Faulty airbags in a nearly new car. Between the three, I went from giddy newlywed to grieving widow in twenty minutes flat. A private tragedy that should have damn well remained private.
Except it didn’t.
One of those strangers milling around that night had recognized a story unfolding before them. Was it one of the Good Samaritans who helped get us out of the car, wrapped us in blankets, called 911? Or one of the ghouls who only stopped to gape?
It doesn’t matter. Someone overheard me telling the paramedics that I had cystic fibrosis, just warning them as you would with any chronic condition, and suddenly, a back-page “One Dead in Highway Accident” became a front-page “Terminally Ill Newlywed Widowed in Horrific Winter Crash.”
I’m not sure what enraged me more: the idea that having CF made me “terminally ill” or that the headline centered around me, when Anton was the one who’d lost his life.
“Man Dies in Crash” isn’t a story. Not until someone hears that he married a woman in the late stages of a chronic illness and—plot twist!—she’s the one now planning his funeral. I’m not even in the late stages of CF, but given my age, someone apparently decided I was.
That story would have made the front page, but it wouldn’t have gone viral. It’s the other one that counted. That night, when I’d said goodbye to Anton, people had overheard us talking. They’d heard his last words to me.
I’ll be waiting.
One witness swore that after he said that, his spirit flowed from his body and bent to kiss the top of my head. They even took a damn photo—because that’s what you do when you unintentionally eavesdrop on a stranger’s dying words. You get out your phone for a picture.
In the photo, a white blur hangs over me. It’s some kind of optical illusion—from the snow and the night and the headlights—but people see what they want to see. And what they want to see is the ghost of a dead man, standing over his “terminally ill” wife, reassuring her that he’ll be waiting on the other side. For, you know, when she dies. Which will be soon. Aww. How sweet.
That’s the story that went viral. That’s also the story that brought every medium to my virtual—and sometimes actual—doorstep. I’m the perfect client, grief-stricken and financially comfortable enough to fork over cash for a séance, pathetically hopeful after that photo, and also minor-league social-media famous, guaranteeing publicity if they can contact my husband.
Do I sound angry? I am angry. I’m pissed off at that driver, at the car manufacturer, at whoever shared those stories, at whoever took that picture, at the phony mediums preying on my grief. But the person I’m angry at the most?
Me.
Because I keep falling for the con artists. Because I am smarter than this, stronger than this, wiser than this. Or I should be. Yet here I am in another medium’s house, paying to be tricked and gaped at by strangers.
Worse, I’m here after swearing to everyone that I won’t do this again. I’m like a junkie sneaking away for her fix, and I am ashamed.
I am so damned ashamed of myself.
I’ve never been what you’d call meek. Dad always said I plow through life, and there may have been some mention of a bull and a china shop, implying that my “plowing” comes with the strong possibility of destruction. But when I enter Leilani’s lair, I am as meek as can be. Gaze downcast, greetings murmured, praying my face isn’t bright red with shame and embarrassment. I’m sure it is—the perils of being the pale and freckled kind of redhead.
I take my seat, and Shania slides in beside me. I offer her a smile that I try—really try—to make genuine. She deserves better. She deserves a mentor who can help her move past her sister’s death. But how am I supposed to help her do something I can’t do myself?
I know all the platitudes. Cherish the memories. Be thankful for the time you had with them. They would want you to be happy. All true. Anton would be horrified to see me in this room. But this is where I am.
Leilani lights candles and lowers the lights. She doesn’t turn them off. The candles aren’t strong enough for that. But the illusion of a séance by candlelight is all that matters. The illusion of the whole thing is all that matters. A proper séance must look as if we wandered into a nineties movie-set séance, complete with candles, incense, a black-clad medium, and a Ouija board. Don’t forget the Ouija board.
What do you mean Ouija boards aren’t traditional spiritualism? You’re saying they were created by a novelty company for parlor games? Fie on you and your easily confirmable data.
Once the candles are lit, we hold hands and Leilani sends out an invitation for Anton to join us. It’s a very pretty invitation, all curlicues of words, verbal calligraphy that would have Anton scratching his head: Does she mean me? What does she want me to do? I don’t get it, Nic.
Just say something, damn it. Tell a joke and get the punch line wrong, as usual. Whistle Green Day and My Chemical Romance songs so off-key that only I recognize them.
Just say hi.
That’s all, Anton.
Say hello.
Tell me you are out there, somewhere.
Tell me your last words weren’t blind and empty reassurances.
Tell me you are waiting.
As Leilani continues, I let the sarcasm and cynicism roll off me. There’s no point in asking for help contacting Anton if I refuse to listen.
Find my breath. Clear my mind. Focus on the sound of Leilani’s voice. Forget what she’s saying and focus on her voice, low and rhythmic.
It only takes a few moments, and then I am where I need to be. Calm and just slightly outside of myself. Aware of the heat of Shania’s hand, of the smell of candle wax cutting through the incense, the tick-tick-tick of …
Is that a metronome? I peek. Yes, there’s an antique metronome by Leilani’s elbow. That makes me smile and relax a little more. Anton had a metronome on his desk. It was his form of meditation, for times when his work as a mathematician got too stressful.
