Spent the plane ride home with my head down, resting on the folding tray until my arms went numb, then sitting back with eyes closed, head falling. I didn't think of the time I'd spent with my family and childhood friends. I didn't even miss them. I only thought of him. Of the conversation of white and blue bubbles. Hearts poured out through thumbs and screens. My shoulders ached.
The next morning: heaviness. Messaging my sister in bed, crying. Voice clips sent back and forth until the weight lifted.
That night at a friends house. Smell of incense, a soft cat in my arms. We opened the rosé I'd bought earlier and sat down to a game of cribbage. When she asked me how my christmas was, I offered the text conversation for her to read. He’s way out of your league and also a narcissist, she tells me. I realize those are both probably true. We drink more wine and then pull on our coats and boots at 11:45 PM. Walking through downtown, loud music and cheers coming from bars, restaurants, cars, people on the street. There are people on Ha Ling, A notices. She points to the little lights at the top of the peak. We follow crowds through the streets to Millenium Park, the both of us wishing we either had a joint or were wasted. Preferably both. At the park, drunken crowds along the caution tape barrier. A countdown, cheers, hugs and then fireworks bursting into the night, loud cracks echoing off the mountainsides. So this is the new year, I think, as we walk back, weaving through bodies. We talk about next year, a proper party or bar night. Back at her place, we finish our card game and I head out, the both of us sore and tired from the weeks we’ve had.
amsterdam streets in the early morning, before the cleaners came around: littered with takeout containers and cigarettes. dog shit and coffee cups, broken glass glittering in the rising sun.
winter. dark country roads and him driving figure eights in the parking lot of a church on the outskirts of the city. listening to music i hated. talking to him always felt like talking to a persona. like a spell, it took just the right combination of words at the right time to get through the facade. naked, vulnerable. but like a mirage, he'd quickly disappear again behind whoever he was trying to be. ocassionally i would remember years before that, him crying on the couch in his aunt's basement when the news came that his mother's body had been found. ocassionally i remember seeing him for the first time, sunglasses indoors, leather jacket - we thought he was so cool. and halloween 2010, by the complex garbage shed, and running down our streets with pillowcases filled of candy.
isn't it strange how our connections with other people can shapeshift over the years: from crush to brother to old friend to stranger?
Meadow sat at the back corner booth in the diner, tapping her chewed fingertips on the crumb-strewn table. She rested her chin in the palm of her other hand, eyes darting to every car driving past as she watched the parking lot outside.
She saw when Regine pulled in with her new minivan, tall and pristine amongst the other dirt-coated and dinged-up cars in the lot. She parked directly in front of the diner window where Meadow was sitting - when the headlights faded, Regine and Meadow’s eyes met through the windshield. Regine turned and got out of her car, wearing one of her ever-present business suits, this one a bright red.
The bell chimed as she walked in and strode over to the booth. “Here, really?” she hissed down at Meadow, indicating the table she sat at.
Meadow glanced up at her in response but said nothing. Memories of the group of them, piling into the diner after a day of ghost-hunting in the Woods, dirty, disheveled, hungry, and a little viler than before. At least back then the diner had played good music - not these drony love ballads from a decade previous. The food had been better then, too.
[continues below the cut]
Now the coffee was just as crappy as the music, though Meadow had drank it down to the sludge. The empty mug sat on the table in front of her, next to her lighter and pack of cigarettes.
Regine slid into the booth across from her with a sigh. She sat rigid in her seat, back straight, hand still on her purse.
Meadow thought maybe Regine was comparing, triumphantly, their lives: Look who made it, Meadow. Look who was right.
“So,” Regine finally said, her words calm and carefully considered. “Why are we here?”
Meadow laughed. Ran her finger along the rim of her mug. “Well, isn’t that the question?” she smirked.
“I am sorry,” Regine said suddenly, as if remembering she should address it. “I said that to you at the funeral, but I doubt you remember, the blur of it all. I’m so sorry.”
“I do remember it,” Meadow said. Then: “How is Elle?”
Regine stiffened again. “You should know. She’s with Rilynne all the time now.” The words were spoken with a barely concealed disdain. Meadow nearly laughed again. The irony, it must have been for Regine, who never approved of Tucker, that Elle should become close with another of Meadow’s children after Tucker’s death.
“I don’t see my daughter very much,” Meadow said in reply.
There was quiet. The waitress came over. Meadow ordered another coffee, Regine nothing.
“Why did you ask me here?” Regine said when the waitress left.
Meadow took a breath and leaned forward, about to speak, but the waitress had returned already with the coffee. Meadow thanked her as she walked away, then, when she was out of earshot, leaned across the table again.
“There are strange things going on.”
Regine didn’t say anything, but fixed Meadow with a narrowed stare.
“I just…” Meadow’s eyes flitted around. She tapped her fingers again. “I haven’t seen any ghosts around.”
Regine shifted uncomfortably. “Why do you think I want to hear about that.” Then, in a lower, grave voice: “We agreed to leave all that in the past. Never to discuss it again.”
“Yes, but you see,” Meadow said urgently, leaning forward so much that her gold cross necklace grazed the tabletop. “I was wondering if you’ve felt anything. Anything different, or odd.”
Meadow leaned back again and took a sip of her coffee. Regine’s perfectly polished mask of indifference had crumbled ever-so-slightly, and Meadow knew - for once you learn to read someone, it is often easy to do so even decades later - Meadow knew that Regine had, indeed, been feeling something a little off.
Just as soon, Regine regained her composure and said, evenly, “I’m not sure what you’re talking about. All those childish games ended.”
“We were not children,” Meadow said.
“We were acting like children.”
“It’s not over for me. It never was. I can’t just turn it off.”
“Well, it’s over for me.”
Meadow took another sip of her coffee, watching Regine. “And how did you manage that? Did you just flip a switch?”
Regine paused. “It just went away.”
“Went away? When? A few months ago?”
Regine didn’t respond.
“Something’s wrong, Regine.”
“So what if you don’t see your ghosts anymore?” Regine said, exasperated. “Isn’t that a good thing? Isn’t that what you want?”
Not if it means I cannot see my husband anymore, Meadow did not say.
“I’ve had enough of this. This was a waste of my time.” Regine grabbed her purse and stood. She looked down at Meadow. “I’ve left the past in the past. I’ve repented for my sins. I continue to. Every day. Do you?”
She turned and walked away.
Meadow looked into her coffee, saw her warped reflection stare back at her.
“And ensure you keep Elle out of this - whatever it is you and your daughter think you’re doing.” Regine had stopped a few feet away and turned back.
“Rilynne doesn’t know anything. I told you, we don’t speak.”
“Well, I’ve seen her nosing around. Elle lies to me about what they do, I can tell. Your daughter is up to something.”
