Chapter 17

Crazy dreams.

Dirty-skinned men, an unhealthy pallor on their faces. Eyes that were crazy—ready to dive at you, break your neck if you accidentally insulted their manhood.

Or dead eyes. Waiting for their shot to brutalize you, in a split second, when you were least expecting it. End you.

And then they'd have dinner, stuff down their burgers or tacos and life would go on.

Then those scenes shifted away. Other ones slid over them, into the forefront.

And in those, she was there.

Bed hair. Golden strands spiking in all directions. Long-limbed, sleek, in a white, ribbed man's tank, waking up in the morning. Smiling, soft. Or grumpy because she needed a few more z's.

And curiously, the latter was the more intimate to him. He'd always felt privileged to be there when she was grumpy. Real.

Because she trusted him enough to be herself.

His Tish.

Cameos of her that last Christmas Eve, everything intensified. Each moment, flowing like a river, leading them to their life, entwined together.

House. Neighborhood. Life in Jack’s Bay, among friends and family, the Canadian North. The inevitable ‘I do’s’ hinted at. Understood by both as inevitable.

Then the text.

-Val’s corners. 30 minutes. Secret. Life or death.

Something in him had died that day. And a new reality had taken over.

His last view of Tish had been as a pretzeled lump, blankets heaped over her on the floor in the old bedroom. Moonlight streaming in, casting silver over the scene.

He’d freeze-framed it in his mind's eye.

And the warmth, the welcome promises, had fled. Everything turned to unreality, cold. That fast. As if it didn't exist, was just a $Chapter

And then she'd stirred. He'd never been sure after if he'd made some noise, or if subconsciously, in her dream world, she was aware he was leaving. That something serious was going down. The lump moved a fraction, settled. One word escaped her, that he had to strain to hear. But there it was. "Eli."

And she was back to sleep.

He’d walked down the hallway, a zombie. Away from her.

But something in him couldn't move on. Seemed a part of his spirit pulled him back. He’d gone back into the bedroom, to the bag of stuff he'd had beside him on the floor. Her gift.

He hadn't given her her Christmas gift.

A clock. An antique one, brass, with authentic, old-fashioned workings. One that still had to be wound. She loved old stuff, and he was always teasing her she was late everywhere. She'd seen this one in a shop window with him, and it simply wasn't in the budget. But she'd loved it, told him it would keep her on time, and she'd enjoy it. Forever.

Forever.

He'd gotten it. He was the forever dude, after all, wasn’t he? He’d had to squeeze in a couple of extra jobs to his already crazy schedule and done without almost any groceries for a few weeks, and the clock was his.

Hers.

He pulled it from the bag as she lay there, her back slowly rising and falling, the covers shifting slightly with her breathing. He hadn't had a chance to wrap it yet, and the metal casing was extra cold in the freezing room. He gave it another wind with the key on the back, to get it working. The gears whirred as he held it in his palm, the softest, almost inaudible little tick tick started.

But where to put it?

Then he remembered he'd come up to ask her how to work the hot-pot and he'd seen her hiding something in the wall, by the register on the other side of the room. His interest had been piqued, but he'd decided to just enjoy the view of her bare ass and back, and let her have her secret. Whatever it was, he knew she'd be checking it again, in the morning when he was gone—the thought collapsed him inside but he steeled himself—so he hid it there. Off to the side, there was a pocket big enough he could push it into. She'd hear the ticking, he told himself.

Her gift. Ready for her.

Thank god he’d gotten it for her.

She lay motionless as he left. He'd looked down on her, and at that moment learned that the proverbial lump in one's throat wasn't fancy wording, but real.

The damn lump was real. In his throat, and it was huge.

He squatted quietly beside her, lowered his hand gently to her shoulder, knowing it was folly to touch her—okay, even to touch the covers that swaddled her warm figure—but he wasn't able to stop the motion. His fingers and palm rested on the bunched-up blankets, ever so gently, and he pressed a bit harder—still lightly though—and felt the solidness under those blankets, the contact with her upper arm. And tried to pour it into her, with the barest touch. His love.

And then he'd turned and didn't look back. He'd gone down the quiet staircase, grabbed his coat, and left, into the freezing December night.

Into the rest of his cold, dark life.