Remember The Moon (7 page)

“Huh. OK. How do I do that?”

“Like everything in this realm, Jay. With the power of thought. People who are experiencing the strong emotions that grief cause are often very open to these signs.”

“She might not want to hear from me. I think she’s angry with me for dying. Plus, I wasn’t always the best husband.”

“Why is that?”

“For a bunch of reasons...”

I wouldn’t have admitted it in life, but our sex life suffered after Calder was born. We both seemed to lose interest. We were busy. Her pregnant body turned me off. It freaked me out that I might hurt the baby if we had sex. Then when Calder was born, Maya’s focus was all on him. There was never a good time. Maya nursed Calder for a year and wore this hideous nursing nightgown, with slits cut lengthwise down the front, exposing her breasts with their wide brown nipples. I think after a while she just gave up trying to get laid, and I didn’t push the matter, or try to seduce her in any way.

“That’s perfectly normal, Jay.” Alice’s comment startled me, since I hadn’t spoken my thoughts out loud. I kept forgetting about the mind reading. I really had no intention of telling Alice about our sex life.

“Childbirth is an intense emotional experience,” Alice continued. “I’m sure Calder's birth reminded you of your own father and his loss in your life.”

“Maybe. I never really linked my dad’s death with Calder's birth before.” I saw a brief image of Calder’s tiny body, wrapped in a soft blue blanket and nestled into my arms as I lay on the couch. It was a moment I was overcome with emotion. Tears streamed down my cheeks as I looked into his tiny sleeping face. I couldn’t have explained then what the tears were about, but my confusing emotions in that moment now made sense.

“Birth is a powerful reminder of the cycle of life and death. Witnessing the birth of your own child can elicit some pretty intense emotions that may have interfered with your sex life.”

“I can’t say I ever thought about grief much. After my dad died, I just threw myself into school and later, work. I worked harder than most people, maybe to prove to myself that I was better than my dad or something, as if I could make myself too good or too important to die.”

“Working hard is also a good escape from the emotions of grief. You don’t have to think about your loss.”

“Yeah, that makes sense.”

“Which is perhaps why the birth of your son caused you such anxiety. You no longer had control of your life.”

“That’s for sure.”

“Perhaps in your mind, sex equated to a loss of control, potentially spurring messy emotions.”

I cringed at her words. I hated all this psycho-babble. I had no desire to talk about sex with my afterlife therapist. “Maybe...”

“You can still let her know how much you loved her. It’s never too late.”

“How do I do that?”

“Like I said before. With the signs. And in dreams. Let her know you’re around.”

“OK, I’ll try.”

Alice smiled. “There are endless possibilities, Jay. I think it could teach you both a little about yourselves.”

“Teach us what?”

“Jay, I can’t answer that. It will come from your experiences. You may also use the same techniques to connect with Calder. He needs your guidance. Don’t you remember your grief after your father died?”

“Not really. I blocked it out. Is that why I’m in therapy for the dead?”

“Transitional Intake is a common path toward accepting your death. Most people experience some form of it.”

“What do you have to do in your life to avoid it?”

Alice smiled.

“Oh, I get it. When I know the answer to that question, I won’t need the therapy, right?”

“Something like that, yes.”

“So what do I do now?”

“You look for opportunities to connect with your family in your new incarnation. Children are more easily accessible to us. They have not yet developed belief systems that block them from seeing what is right in front of them.”

“Ha. You make it sound easy. Like I’m just going to hover over Calder's world and have little chats with him. Tell him what to do. Isn’t that like trying to control his fate? I thought someone else had that job.”

“Your job will be to direct your family toward opportunities that will enrich their lives.”

“How will I know what those opportunities will be?”

“When it’s time for you to know, you will know.”

“That’s vague. Can’t I get something a little more concrete?”

Alice smiled again. “Well, Jay, that’s it for today.”

J
ay,

What to say to you exactly? I sit here in our too big bed, your imprint still visible in the ten-year-old mattress despite the four months you’ve been gone. I type my thoughts, my lap warmed by the heat of aluminum circuitry, thinking that you might hear in bits and bytes, a secret language of the dead. Your bathrobe still smells of your shaving cream and a sweetish smell like candy apples that was uniquely yours. Perversely, it is still flung over the green velvet chair in the corner where you left it that morning. I can’t bear to move it. I run my fingers over it, or sometimes hold it to my nose, trying to infuse myself with your scent, as if that might bring you back to life.

I can’t decide between my bouts of pillow-muffled sobs if I am mad at you for dying or if this boiling emotion is grief. A surprising anger spreads across my being, a stain that refuses to be rubbed away. I hate you for dying on me, on us. I almost wonder if you did it on purpose, to be the martyr of our unresolved fight that morning, passing your guilt to me to bear for a lifetime. I know you didn’t want to visit my sister for the weekend, but selfishly, I wanted you there. I thought your presence would prove your devotion to your family, to me. I am not blameless. Did you drive spitefully, anger driving you right off that cliff? Damn you. So selfish to leave me with this guilt. Or perhaps I am irrational in grief, my anger and guilt unwarranted.

The insurance agency called asking if Jay had been depressed, had been seeing a therapist, if he’d seemed different in the weeks before he died. It took me a few minutes before I fully understood why they were asking me such questions.

“Do you think my husband committed suicide?”

“No, no ma’am. Nothing like that. These are just routine questions...”

“Bullshit! I think I’m done talking with you. There is no way my husband drove himself off that cliff and I’m disgusted that your company would insinuate such a thing!”

I got off the phone and burst into tears. Could Jay have killed himself? Was he so unhappy in his life with me? Or was this just a big company trying to avoid a large payout? I chose to believe that Jay fell asleep at the wheel and didn’t take his own life out of spite to get back at me. The thought had me laughing and then crying. Was Jay’s life with me miserable? A momentary scene flashed in my mind. Jay, leaning over a steaming bowl of beef stew I had made, simmering it over the stove for an entire Sunday afternoon a few weeks before he died. He took large spoonfuls and tore into the rustic loaf of bread I bought to go with it, using it to wipe clean his bowl. When he was done, he sat back, reached over and grabbed my hand, to show his pleasure.

“That was amazing, Lenie. God. I am so lucky to have you!” I remembered the sensation of what I had felt at that moment, the warmth, the happiness, the contentedness. As we stood side by side by the sink cleaning up afterwards, I draped Jay’s big arm around my shoulder like a heavy fox stole, warm and protective. I felt safe in his embrace. Surely that was not a man who would kill himself out of spite?

He was too devoted to Calder to kill himself. As proof, I thought of the image of a baby Calder that Jay had installed as his computer wallpaper - the way he held Calder’s chubby thighs as he thrust him up in the air, his two-year-old body rigid as he looked down at his dad, giggling; and Jay’s pride at being there when Calder swallowed his first loose tooth with chewing on a bagel, Jay soothing his tears when Calder thought the tooth fairy wouldn’t come. I can still see those crinkles in the corner of his eyes when he smiled that pleasure-smile, content with a life that always seemed to amaze him, one I knew deep down Jay never felt he deserved.

Jay was never the same after his father’s death. It’s strange that I was with him that day, a day indelibly burned into my childhood. It was the first death I had ever witnessed, the first funeral I had ever been to. It chiseled away my smug sense of security. I knew Jay had a crush on me then, but my 16 to his 14 was impossible math for a teenager and I saw Jay as something like a little brother. Still I was flattered he liked me, even though I had Marcus. Marcus was older and dangerous and perhaps toxic. I liked him, but he thought I was too young, or innocent, or something that made me not attractive to him.

Until the night of Jay’s dad’s death.

I tried to console Jay when he came home from the hospital that night, but it was like he didn’t even see me. He pushed me away and walked down to the dock and I understood, but was hurt that I couldn’t comfort him. I needed to be held and found my way to Marcus’s bunk house, where we fell into each other in a strange, desperate way. I lost my virginity that night with Marcus, our lovemaking furtive and hungry and sweaty, and a little frightening.

The next day, everyone left the cottage and I didn’t see Marcus for a few months. We went to different high schools. It wasn’t until Homecoming that I heard from him. He called me on the phone. His voice, out of the context of the cottage, was unfamiliar, and it took me a while to figure out who it was. He asked me to his high school’s dance and I felt my knees wobble when he said the words. We got serious after that night and dated during his whole senior year and into the summer. Marcus chose to go to the University of Toronto so he could stay in the city and be near me, but it didn’t really work out between us. He wanted to hang out with his university friends and didn’t want the embarrassment of a high school girlfriend. That was the first time he broke my heart.

I didn’t see Marcus again for a couple of years. I was finishing my art degree and on a whim I decided to invite him to my senior thesis show. He hadn’t always been incredibly supportive of my art. I didn’t think he’d show, but then, as I stood talking to one of my girlfriends, he breezed in the door and my heart skipped a beat. His dark hair was longish and combed back; he wore a leather jacket and jeans and carried a motorcycle helmet under his arm. When he spotted me, I pretended I didn’t notice him. As he approached, I turned toward him and saw a look in his eyes I could only describe as desire. The feeling was electrifying. No one had ever made me feel so desired. We went for Chinese food in Chinatown and caught up. I grabbed at pieces of barbecue pork with my chopsticks as he talked.

“I was an idiot, Maya. I should never have let you go.”

“You’re right. You shouldn’t have. I was the best you’re ever going to get,” I joked, smirking at him.

“You’re right about that.” He wasn’t laughing. He was dead serious.

“I was joking, Marcus. I was heartbroken, but I got over it. See? Look how well I’ve adjusted. I can even eat my food with chopsticks.” I clicked them at his and then picked up another piece of pork and stuffed the whole thing into my mouth.

“I wasth the besth girlfriend ever!” I said, going for my most disgusting mouth-full-of-food-face. I gulped down some Coke and then let out a giant burp.

“The best!” I said, laughing. He couldn’t help himself and laughed too.

“So refined and cultured... and dainty!” he said. “That’s what I love about you, Maya. Your daintiness. Like a flower.” Our laughter calmed and we continued to eat quietly. “I’ve missed you, Maya.”

I looked up at him, surprised. “You have? I thought by now you would have found some amazing med student to make beautiful, smart babies with.”

“Med student? Nah. They’re boring. All they ever do is study and work. I like the tortured, artsy types who lie around all day drinking bad red wine and talking about Neitze or something.”

“Is that what you think artsy types do? This is not Paris, circa 1954, you know.” I filled our tiny tea cups for the seventh time, emptying the metal pot. I tipped the lid and slid it toward the edge of the table where it was hastily replaced with a fresh pot.

“Do you want to try again, Maya?”

I cupped my hands around the tea cup to warm them, wishing I knew what to say.

“I don’t know,” I said.

“Do you remember our first night?”

“You mean the very first night? The night Frank died in the canoe?”

“Yeah. I think about that night a lot.”

“We were in shock, Marc. I’m sure it was very intense for that reason.”

“For me, there was more to it. I have always felt guilty. Guilty that I couldn’t save him. I felt like it was my fault. It was my idea that we go for a canoe ride that night. I knew they were drunk, but I knew you were at the dock with Jay and I thought that if we went for a canoe ride, you would come with us, and I would win you over Jay.”

“You went for a canoe ride because you were jealous of Jay?”

“Yeah. I guess that pretty much sums it up.”

“And then you did win me that night.”

“Yeah.”

“Shit, Marcus.”

“Yeah.”

“You didn’t ‘win’ me as a result of Frank’s death, but I can see how maybe that would be complicated in your mind. Maybe we both have a little of that guilt. God, Marcus, you’ve been carrying that for five years?”

“Yeah, I guess I have.”

It began again that night. I went to his apartment in the Annex and we clung to each other. I wondered later if it was doomed again for the same reason. Frank’s death. We clung to one another out of some misplaced guilt or shame or something neither of us could define exactly.

Marcus got a good job with a big Toronto advertising agency, one that demanded a lot of client lunches and drinks after work. He developed a habit for having a Scotch every night when he got home. It became several over time. We partied every night with his work buddies, drinking, clubbing, more drinking, and smoking. I didn’t see how self-destructive his behavior was becoming, that the drinking was starting to get out of control. He kept a keg of beer in the kitchen and his drinking buddies came over almost every night. By then we were living together, and I would usually retreat to the bedroom to read or paint. I think I applied to the art school in Italy to escape that life. I knew I couldn’t keep living it, but I didn’t know how to get out of it, other than to leave. But then Marcus followed me, and the partying lifestyle just moved to Italy. I couldn’t take it and when I found him with that girl, I finally had an excuse to leave him for good. Perhaps I had been looking for an excuse that I could explain. The drinking was somehow not enough of an excuse to leave him. I knew he wasn’t serious about the girl, but I wanted out.

And then Jay fell on me in Pompeii. I couldn’t believe the coincidence of it. How tied-in he was with the breakup I had just instigated, its roots in his dad’s death. I could only imagine how devastating Frank’s death was on Jay. He never said so, but I think he shouldered responsibility for not making them come back for the lifejackets that night. Or that it wasn’t him who found his dad, but Marcus. In our ten years together, I could never quite help Jay over the hurdle of that loss. Perhaps my love was not enough. Calder's love came close, I think, and I am ashamed to say it made me jealous, the way Jay’s eyes lit up for his son. Did they light up for me that way too? I couldn’t remember. None of it mattered anymore.

I wonder if you can hear my thoughts. I wonder where you are, if you are anywhere. I sense your presence, though I can’t describe how. The waft of your bathrobe scent, or the crow that flies by the window as I think of you, or the whispery breeze that comes from nowhere. I feel you watching me now as I type and so I will continue my clicking conversation with you, pretend I can hear your silent replies. Can you see the same moon that I see right now out the window? Bound by childhood, bound by loss, bound by the moon. Now it seems your losses have infected me - they follow me, they follow Marcus, they follow Calder. Will the legacy of an untimely death be true for Calder too?

The angry moment has passed and now I long for you, to touch the flesh of your earlobe, bask in the warmth of you sitting next to me on the couch as we watch another rerun of CSI. I long to step off this rollercoaster of emotion, long to sleep and wake up refreshed instead of re-entering the nightmare of our fractured family.

Oh Jay, help me to find my way out of this mire. They say you shouldn’t move when you fall into quicksand, but immobility will only go so far and won’t ultimately pull you free. I still need the hand that will pull me free. I don’t know why I think you can still rescue me from wherever you are, but in grief anything seems possible.

Love Maya.