Tim twisted out of my hands. “I’m not making it up, she’s alive. I just saw her.”
Before I could stop him, Tim bolted across the road, a car horn blaring in response as the driver of a Honda Civic slammed his brakes on to avoid sending my son to see his mother in a more literal sense, which would have been an ironic twist of fate if he’d died in the same way.
“Come back,” I shouted before giving chase.
I couldn’t be too angry with him. His mother’s death had hit him hard. Probably harder than it had me if I’m honest, but saying he’d seen her in the street, well, it was sad and rather unnerving.
Sure I shed bucketsful of tears when Joanna died, spent days questioning why God was so cruel to take her away from us in the prime of her life, but Tim and his mother, they’d shared a special bond, one that only mothers and sons can share.
I dodged shoppers wandering along the high street and gulped deep breaths, my knees cracking. Although only in my mid-thirties, I was out of shape.
Tim was about forty feet ahead and running like a gazelle, his gangly frame almost as thin as the shadow that trailed in his wake. He got his willowy stature from his mum. Not that I was obese, but my trouser size had outgrown my age by a couple of numbers, giving me a paunch—much of which was a direct result of the alcohol I’d drowned myself in after the funeral. Tim had been my lifeline. When I realized how destructive my drinking had become, I stopped. Had to be strong.
I still hadn’t adjusted fully and had taken for granted all that Joanna did around the house. I didn’t have a clue how the washing machine worked, couldn’t iron to save my life, but I’d had to go on a steep learning curve, if not for my sake, then for Tim’s. The house had become a shit hole. I didn’t wash or clean for days at a time. Dishes piled up in the sink and once the cupboards were empty we’d relied on takeaway food. The local Chinese restaurant was on speed dial.
For a while Tim became the adult and me the child. But now I was back in control. I’d gone back to work at the bank and Tim had settled back in at school. He’d fallen behind on his work, but he was catching up and the teachers were understanding and weren’t on his back about it.
I realized that Tim had stopped running and he was standing in front of a disheveled-looking figure that from behind looked like a homeless person, one of the dispossessed as I liked to think of them.
As I caught him up I could feel a pain in my side and I stood wheezing for a couple of seconds. “Come on, Tim. Let’s go home.”
“I told you. I told you it was her,” Tim said, a smile on his face that I never thought I’d see again.
Confused, I shook my head. “Come on, stop being stupid.”
“Look. Look at her.” He pointed at the homeless person.
I glanced towards the figure, not really wanting to make eye contact in case I got drawn into conversation with them, but I felt that I should apologize. Instead I stared open-mouthed. Despite the gray skin with the sores and welts, the lopsided mouth and the dead, glassy eyes, there was no mistaking the face. Impossible as it seemed, it was Joanna.
“Mum, it’s me, Tim.”
I listened to my son as though he was speaking from the end of a tunnel; couldn’t take my eyes off Joanna. Her skin looked papery and dry, tendons protruding from the back of her hands where the skin had sunken in. Her fingernails were torn and there was dirt around them as though she had been clawing through the earth.
Joanna didn’t respond. She started walking, although it was more of a shuffle.
“Mum. Talk to me, mum.” Tim barred her path and Joanna bumped into him, rocking back on her heels.
She was wearing the dress we’d buried her in. Tim had chosen it, saying it was her favorite. I guess he knew her better than me as I didn’t have a clue what her favorite piece of clothing had been.
Sunlight glared from the shop window behind Joanna, making me squint. When I looked back it had given her a halo effect, like an angel.
I gulped, tongue a thick slug stuck to the roof of my mouth.
“Jo, is it really you?” I asked, the words coming out in a rush.
Joanna didn’t reply.
I cleared my throat and said, “How? I don’t understand. You . . . you were dead. They buried you.”
Still no response.
Afraid that I may have been caught up in Tim’s delusion, I reached out and touched Jo’s hand. She was real but her skin was cold and leathery to the touch and I recoiled slightly.
After a moment I realized there was an aroma in the air that originated from Joanna. It was cloying, like spoiled meat that had gone past its sell by date.
“Dad, why isn’t she answering?”
I looked at Tim and shook my head. “I don’t know.” Truth was I didn’t know anything anymore. Joanna was dead, and yet here she was, walking.
It just wasn’t possible.
“We need to get her home,” Tim said.
I watched Joanna keep trying to walk forwards, but Tim kept holding her back. She was like an insistent fly butting into a window and seemed to have no concept of what was happening.
Swallowing to moisten my throat, I tried to think what to do. I noticed a few people staring at us as they walked past and knew that I had to get us off the street to somewhere that we could work this out.
“Okay, give me hand to help her,” I said as I grabbed her arm. Tim took hold of her on the other side and we walked her towards the car park where I’d left the car.
Once we arrived I opened the door and bent her joints to allow us to sit her on the front seat. Then I fastened the seat belt, more to secure her in position than for any form of safety, as deep in my heart I knew she was dead.
With us all inside the car the smell was more pungent and it clung to the back of my throat, making me feel a little sick so I lowered the window to let some fresh air in then started the engine.
Joanna sat there, rocking backwards and forwards like a nodding car novelty.
I glanced in the rear view mirror. Tim was still smiling.
Before going home I drove to the cemetery.
“What are we doing here?” Tim asked.
“I need to check that it’s really her.”
“Of course it’s her.”
I exhaled slowly. “Well, I just need to check.” I exited the vehicle and Tim followed. He grabbed the door handle to help his mother out, but I said, “She’ll be better off staying in the car.” Tim looked at me for a moment and then nodded.
We followed the path among the gravestones. I tried to swallow as I walked, but couldn’t produce any saliva. Dappled sunlight flickered through the surrounding trees. I was hoping to see the grave was undisturbed so that I could say it wasn’t Joanna, but even from a distance I noticed a mound of earth like a giant mole had burrowed its way out.
I stood before the mound and stared down into the hole, trying to imagine Joanna clawing at the coffin lid, scraping away for weeks on end until she scratched her way through.
I parked in the driveway and then made sure the coast was clear before leading Joanna out of the car. I didn’t want to explain what was going on to the neighbors as I didn’t have a clue myself and wouldn’t know where to begin. All I knew was that, impossible as it seemed, my wife had returned from the grave.
Tim and I ushered her into the house and I closed the door. Joanna hadn’t said a word all the way home. I wondered whether she recognized us. Wondered whether she was cognizant.
“We need to get her cleaned up and then get some fresh clothes on her,” Tim said.
I nodded dumbly, happy to let Tim take control of the situation while I tried to think about what the hell was going on. We led Joanna upstairs to the bathroom and I started to undress her while Tim went to fetch some fresh clothes from the ones we hadn’t yet been able to throw away. Joanna stood stockstill as I unbuttoned her dress at the back, letting it drop to the floor and I saw she was staring at her reflection in the mirror. Did she recognize herself?