The first thing I do upon waking is listen for the bell. If it rings once, Cynthia has remembered what hunger feels like and wants to watch me eat breakfast. Twice, and she has forgotten her name, and she needs me to play the slideshow that explains her likes, dislikes, and current disembodied state. Three times, and the Angel of Death has come to pull her towards the light, and I must battle him over the course of three trials for the fate of Cynthia’s soul. Four times, and she wants me to make her a cup of coffee she’ll never be able to drink.
Ding.
I sigh with relief. I’ve gotten so tired of the trials.
In the kitchen I push aside a stack of unopened letters and begin to chop onions. Well, onion. “The usual?”
The bell rings once. Another Cynthia, one powered not by a restless spirit but rather by twenty years of marriage and a desperate, hungry imagination continues the conversation in my head. “With Tabasco, please.”
“Of course, Hun.” I open the fridge that I know for a fact contains nothing but an egg and two slices of bread and pretend to rummage around. “The usual with Tabasco, coming right up.”
The bell rings with contentment. That’s one of the things I picked up early. As long as I’ve got an egg and an onion, her mind just kind of fills in the rest. It’s not actually hunger, just the memory of it. Anything more would require a stomach, though she got mad the last time I brought this up.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see a necktie floating across the room, my briefcase alongside. The meaning is obvious.
“You’re going to be late for work.”
“I would be if I were going in.” I make sure to keep my voice light and cheerful. She deserves nothing but light and cheerful.
The necktie and briefcase shake in alarm, and the bell rings once, twice, three times more in rapid succession.
“Because the day is far too nice, our apartment is far too lovely, and you are far too beautiful to abandon for work today.” I sweep my arms across the room, carefully avoiding the stacks of unopened letters. “I’ll go in tomorrow, I promise. Today’s just for us.”
From somewhere distant I hear a radio begin to play our wedding song and I smile. She likely doesn’t remember that I made the same promise yesterday. And the day before. And every other day since the accident.
Memory is a funny thing when you’re dead.
“It will be great,” I continue. “We can watch that movie you like, and then I thought we could paint the bedroom, any color you want, anything at all, and then I got a bottle of—”
“At the beep, please begin your message.” The voicemail begins before I can stop it.
“Robert this is your landlord. I’m sorry, I’m so so sorry, but it’s been six months and I’ve tried to be reasonable but—”
—and suddenly the phone is in a million pieces. I don’t even remember doing it—one second I’m pretending to make an omelet and the next I’m on the floor bashing my telephone senseless. I’ve still got the knife in my hands and I’m bringing it down on my phone over and over again, bam bam bam, and I can’t seem to stop, don’t even really want to, just over and over and over—
The bell rings.
I freeze. Shards of glass stick out of my hand, and if I focus I can feel them burning but I can’t let it show. The bell rings again. “Honey?”
“Cynthia, I’m sorry, I must have slipped or something, really, I’m just so clumsy.” Can’t let her see mustn’t let her see. “Don’t come over here, there’s still some glass on the floor, and I don’t want you to hurt yourself.”
The bell rings several times, like she’s laughing. I sweep up the remaining shards from the floor without answering and dump them in the trash, adding in the stacks of unpaid bills and final notices and otherwise dire warnings. I make sure to tear those up first, though, so that she won’t see, can’t see, mustn’t see.
“Where was I? A movie, some arts and crafts—”
She rings the bell. This time it’s deeper, angry and insistent. “Cynthia, please,” I beg, but she just keeps ringing that bell that I can never see, or touch, or hold, just rings it over and over again until I realize it’s not the bell at all but someone knocking at the door. Funny, I didn’t recognize it; it’s been so long since anyone’s done that. I’d forgotten what it sounds like but there it is, not a ringing at all but a bang bang bang that sets the walls shaking and my heart pounding.
“Mr. Forest,” Cynthia says in my head, but she sounds different, forceful, angry, and it occurs to me that the voice isn’t in my head at all but on the other side of the door, and it’s not her at all but a man. “Mr. Forest, please open the door, this is the police. You have been ordered to vacate this property. Your landlord has sent you several notices. You owe six months back rent and have failed to maintain sanitary living conditions for yourself and your neighbors. Mr. Forest, please open up.”
“Cynthia,” I whisper quietly, so quietly. My quietness could calm wildfires, stop the stars from burning. I could teach classes on quietude. “Go wait in the bedroom.” I hear the bell ring comfortingly, drifting further and further away, and I’m pleasantly surprised to find the knife still in my hand. That will make this next part easier.
“Just a second, Officer,” I call out loud and steady, so steady, the steadiness of my voice could stop an earthquake with a whisper. “I’m coming to the door now.”
I shuffle forward and know all of this is my fault, but what else could I do? Cynthia was here: that, I understood. Then she was gone, and it destroyed me, utterly and completely, but I understood that too. Then she … she returned and that was something different, because if she could return, then she could leave again, and how could I go to an office and sit at a desk and type away at emails and budgets not knowing if she’d be there when I came home? Better to stay. Better to know.
“Mr. Forest?”
“Yes, yes, I’m coming.” I’ll be smarter this time. I can set up defenses so I’m not surprised like this again. And money, I’ll need money. This too will be fixed. I’m not quite sure how, yet, I just know it will be. It seems simple now, so simple. Some crime, maybe, or light blackmail. There are things that I know now, you see.
“Honey, what’s going on?” My mental Cynthia asks but she’s quieter now. Worried. The irony is not lost on me.
“Hush honey, hush,” I say. “Just stay in the bedroom.” Louder, knife in hand, I call out, “I’m opening the door.”
