“You’ve got too much shit in here,” Pandora says as she tosses a handful of Tad’s shirts to the floor.
“Watch it,” I say, my voice sharp.
“You’d have more room if you got rid of his things. It’s not like he’s gonna use them.” Her soft tone dissolves my anger.
“I know. But seeing his things reminds me that he was here, once.”
“I’d think seeing his things would remind you he’s dead.”
I sigh. “Yeah.” I finish fastening the left earring and wipe my face. The amber stones against my skin makes my complexion less sallow, my dark circles less noticeable. They are surprisingly light, and they warm my earlobes. I shake my head to feel their pendulum-like weight.
“Life’s a bitch, huh? Wowza,” Pandora says as she takes in my appearance. “You look hot. Here, wear these.” She hands me a pair of jeweled heels.
I suddenly feel too alive to object.
We are in the darkened theater when I hear it. I am enjoying the movie, laughing at an absurd scene, and I am thinking that Tad would enjoy this, too.
You’re right, I am enjoying it.
I stop and look around, catching a faint scent of licorice. “Did you hear that?” I whisper to Pandora.
“Hear what?” she whispers back, wiping tears from her eyes. I am jealous, because the last time I laughed so hard that I cried I was laughing with Tad.
Cut the shit. You were laughing at me that time.
“That! Did you hear it?”
“No,” she says, watching the screen. Laughter erupts through the crowd again, and Pandora joins the cackles.
I sit back and pretend to watch to rest of the movie.
Afterward, I resist Pandora’s insistence that we get a martini. Being social has exhausted me, and once I get to my apartment, I shed my clothes and fall into bed. I roll onto my side and an earring pokes behind my ear, reminding me I am not completely undressed. Grimacing, I sit up and begin to unscrew the post.
Don’t.
I freeze, hold my breath, and listen hard. I only hear my pulse in my ears. Licking my lips, I whisper, “Tad?”
Yeah. I just want you to hear me for a little longer. Please. Don’t take the earrings off.
Gooseflesh covers my body, and I smell licorice again. “Am I going insane?” I am afraid to speak above a whisper.
Tad snorts. You’ve always been insane. Why should you be any different now?
“Not possible. It can’t be you. You can’t prove…”
As to proving it’s me… I have been dead two months. The last food I ate was leftover cake from Susan’s wedding, and the last drink I had was a shot of Jaeger. The last time we-
“Stop,” I say as I begin to cry. “But that’s not proof. Tell me something else.”
Silence stretches out so long, and I am about to pull the covers over me when the voice comes again.
On my side of the closet there’s a shoebox on the top shelf, way back in the corner. Inside is a bracelet I bought you for your birthday.
I push the covers off, whip open the closet door and pull down stacks of neatly folded sweaters. Finding the shoebox, I rip the lid off and pull out a square velvet box. Inside is a delicate gold band with a single ruby set in the center. Slipping it over my wrist, I say, “It’s beautiful.”
Tad buying a gift four months in advance of my birthday is-was-so typical of him.
“It’s the earrings, isn’t it?”
Isn’t what?
“The earrings. That’s why I can hear you.”
He doesn’t answer, but I know then that I will never give these earrings back.
“What’s it like to be dead?” I ask.
Can’t tell you.
“What do you mean, you can’t tell me? Is it that hard to describe?
Oh, no, it’s not that. I mean it’s a rule. I had to sign papers and everything.
“They made you sign a contract?” I laugh. Having a conversation about the afterlife with my dead husband is just absurd enough so that believing the dead have contractual obligations is easy. “Did they notarize it, too?”
I’ve already said too much. Listen, do me a favor.
“Anything.”
It’s time you donated my things. I’m dead, remember? Don’t think I’m gonna need that Cubs hat anymore.
The irony strikes me and I laugh. Tad is pragmatic even when he’s dead.
“Tomorrow,” I promise.
What’s wrong with tonight?
“What’s right with tonight?” I say too quickly.
Anne. You will never get over my death when you have reminders of my life slapping you in the face everywhere in the apartment.
“ ‘Get over’ you? One doesn’t ‘get over’ a spouse’s death in sixty days,” I say.
You’ll end up like that batty old woman down the block.
“What have you got against Mrs. Neadlebeck? For all we know, the CIA did murder her husband.”
When I was alive you thought she was creepy, too.
“When you were alive… I… oh, fuck you,” I say. All of a sudden I’m so angry I can’t breath. “Sometimes you’re just so impossible, Tad! Did you come back from the afterlife just to piss me off? Well, you succeeded.” I regret the words as soon as I say them, but I am too stubborn to apologize.
First off, Tad says, and I can hear the smile in his words, I didn’t “come back.” I’ve been here all along. And second, I’ll piss you off if that’s what it takes.
“Takes to do what?” My curiosity takes the edge from my anger.
Remember when my boss at work died? The bald guy everyone hated?
“Ye-e-e-ah.” I know where he is going with this, and I don’t want to hear it.
Everyone I worked with thought he was an incompetent, selfish, small man. But if you were at the funeral and didn’t know better, you’d have thought he was the most beloved man at the company. His eulogies made him out to be this big philanthropist.
I smile at Tad’s vocabulary. “Human, even.”
Right. And remember how I made you promise not to do that? That, if I died, I wanted you to be honest about who I was?
“Yeah.”
I still want that. Don’t make me a martyr, Anne. Don’t be a martyr yourself. There’s plenty you didn’t like about me.
“Like what?”
Like how I used to eat rare beef. Or how I used to ignore the dirty dishes in the sink when it was my turn. Or how I used to fart in my sleep.
“That was actually kind of funny,” I say. “I didn’t mind it as much as I let on.”
I’m so glad you finally told me.
His sarcasm makes me chuckle.
Sobering, I say, “But what if I forget the good things? What if I throw out your hats and I forget how insane you got during baseball season? What if I throw out your ties and I forget you liked stripes? What if I throw out your cologne and I forget how you smelled?”
You won’t. My dad died when I was five, and I still remember him helping me break in my first ball glove. The baby oil smell, the rubber band around the ball and the glove, him showing me where to crease it-all of it is right there. If I close my eyes, I can still hear him laughing when I caught my first ball with it. I can remember how the ball just fell into the spot I’d made for it, like he said it would. You can’t forget me. I’ve marked up your heart too much.
“But how can I be sure?” I don’t realize I’m crying until I hear my creaky voice.
You’ll just have to trust me.
These are the exact same words he said to me after he proposed. I had asked how he could be sure he would love me in fifty years. He said I’d have to trust him. And I did, completely. I am pleased to find that I still do.