Page 24 of Remain (one-of-a-kind)

“I promise I’ll keep it between the two of us,” I said. “And I can understand why you didn’t want to discuss it this morning.”

“I have a question for you, though. Different subject.”

“Go ahead.”

She leaned toward me, elbows on her knees. “Were you right, or was your sister right, about the reason you’ve never fallen in love?”

I debated how best to answer. “For my sister, love came naturally. It was easy to find, and easy to keep alive. And who knows, if you’re lucky enough to meet the right person like she did, maybe it is, but I think Sylvia felt I wasn’t really open to the possibility that someone like that even existed for me.

” I tried to smile, but it felt more like a grimace. “Maybe my childhood ruined me forever.”

Her expression was gentle. “I don’t think you’re ruined. I think it’s more likely that you haven’t met the right woman yet.”

Unbidden, the thought arose that perhaps I had, and that I was sitting across from her now. “Possibly,” I conceded.

“Do you think you’ll know when you meet her, the right woman?” Her expression was unreadable, but I thought I detected a provocative note in her question.

“According to my sister, I should be on the lookout for tender moments,” I said. Pulling my phone from my pocket, I queued up the video from the night before. I rose and took a seat beside her before hitting play. She watched in silence before giving me a sidelong look.

“No wonder she fell in love with Mike,” she commented. “I’m almost in love with him, too. No one’s ever treated me to a private concert.”

“I admit it was the ultimate romantic gesture. But now it’s your turn. Have you ever been in love?”

She screwed up her face as she weighed her response. “No,” she answered. “But I was close once, and there was another time when I tried to convince myself that I was.”

“Do you want to explain that?”

“I think I was close to being in love with Brian, my boyfriend back in high school. We were together during our sophomore and junior years. He was sensitive and smart and we got along well, but his family moved to Arizona right before our senior year. I knew the move was coming for a long time, so I held back, you know? I wouldn’t let myself fall in love because I was afraid of being hurt more than I already would be, and after he left, there was no chance for the two of us.

He’s married and lives in California now. ”

“And the time when you tried to convince yourself that you were in love?”

She looked away for a beat before raising her eyes to meet mine. “I’m married,” she confessed. “Or more accurately, I’m separated and doing my best to finalize the divorce, even though he’s fighting it. I never should have said yes to him in the first place.”

I absorbed this news in silence, trying to figure out how she had managed to avoid mentioning it during our prior conversations.

“Why did you?” I finally asked.

She hesitated, then leaned toward me, her hands clasped in her lap.

“Do you know the kids’ game musical chairs?

” she asked. “They play music and when the music stops, you’re supposed to sit down, but they take away a chair every time the music starts again?

That’s kind of how I think about it now.

I’d dated a few different men in my early twenties, and the music kept playing, but after my grandma died, it was like the music stopped for good, and Griffin happened to be the one sitting in the chair.

I was afraid to be alone, so when he asked, I said yes.

We hadn’t even been going out that long. ”

“Do you want to talk about him?”

“Not right now,” she said. “Griffin is a subject best avoided at the present time.”

“Then how about some Boggle?” I suggested, hoping that the activity would restore her spirits.

When she nodded, I set the game on the coffee table.

“I’m going to get my notepad and a pen from upstairs,” I said. “Do you need some paper?”

“No,” she said. “I’ll scrounge up what I need from the kitchen drawer.”

By the time I returned, she was ready. I took a seat in the chair, relieved to see a sly grin playing on her lips.

“I have to warn you, I’m pretty good at this game.”

“How did I know you were going to say that?”

· · ·

We played while the sun drifted toward the horizon.

As the afternoon wore on, she faded out once or twice, her color draining away first, leaving a grayish translucent shape whose edges dissolved.

My stomach would twist in anticipation that she might not return, but then she’d snap back into focus, our conversation resuming where we had left off.

At one point I touched on my earlier bout with depression, admitting that there were times when I’d considered suicide, and told her more about my stay in the hospital; as her eyes held mine, I marveled again at how comfortable I felt sharing such intimate details.

There were a few uncanny exchanges where she seemed to know what I was thinking even before I did, and I found myself wishing that we had met years earlier.

I wanted to believe that our connection would have been as instantaneous and powerful as it felt now, but part of me doubted it.

I was a different man back then, after all; barricaded behind my brittle facade, I never would have given her a chance.

Nor did I think she would have been drawn to my former self.

Instead, I was gradually coming to believe that it was our shared understanding of loss, and our hard roads back, that had brought us together.

There was something melancholy in her expression as she broke eye contact to stare out the window once more.

My gaze followed hers, admiring the painted sky of sunset before I realized what I was seeing.

I sighed in disappointment, knowing she’d be gone when I looked back.

· · ·

That night, I repeated my routine from the previous night, though I set the bench closer to the hallway bathroom door. I’m not sure what awakened me later, for I heard nothing at all in the bathroom, but I readied the flashlight on my phone and began recording.

Near the door, I steeled myself before entering and reminded myself that this version could be both terrifying and unpredictable.

Again, the light grew dimmer, but this time, Wren was on her knees in front of the tub.

She was facing me though her head was bent, her hair hiding her face like a curtain. I cautiously edged toward her.

“Wren?” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. “What are you doing?”

After an extended beat, her body shivered, and I watched as she slowly raised her head.

I recoiled as I recognized her death mask, the mottled skin and cloudy eyes.

Dark blood trickled down her shoulders. I braced myself, but she made no sudden movement toward me.

Instead, as she stared, her jaw opened and shifted from side to side, as though she was trying to remember how to speak.

“I wanted to take a bath,” she whispered, not to me but rather, through me.

“What happened?”

She cocked her head, holding it at an unnatural angle. Behind her, the faucet turned and the pipes squealed as water began filling the tub.

“I couldn’t get away,” she said, her voice eerily flat.

“How can I help you?”

“I couldn’t get away,” she repeated, louder this time.

“What do you need me to do?” I pressed.

Instantly, she was no longer kneeling but standing before me, only inches from my face.

In shock, I reared back, losing my balance.

I hit the floor on my back and watched as she leaned over me and stared with what seemed like curiosity.

She tilted her head one way, then the other, tendrils of her long hair snaking toward my face.

I heard an unnatural clicking in her throat before her mouth opened, her jaw dropping lower and lower, elongating her face into something from a nightmare, her words finally emerging as a screech.

“I couldn’t get away!”

In terror, I squeezed my eyes shut, waiting for the pain to come, but there was nothing. All at once, her scream died away, and water stopped flowing into the tub. Not even an echo of sound remained.

When I opened my eyes, she was gone.