Fruitbat

19. 19

19

Si

6:42 am

Death doesn’t feel any different than life. The city still smells, a bit sweeter than normal, and Danny’s hand squeezes mine tangibly with more static shock than is usual, but aren’t spirits supposed to be spectral. I feel as solid as I ever have, —I think? My clothes fit the same, and the fabric is soft on my skin, or is this all some sort of illusion that I’m bound to? There’s no stairway to the sky and no one has come to welcome me, home ? Isn’t that what all the spiritualist gurus and near-death claimants say happens?

Am I just going to keep existing on this planet, like I’ve done for thirty years? Some poor soul no one remembers .

Danny keeps looking at me, like he’s scared I’ll disappear. His fingers are locked tightly in mine.

“I’m still here.”

“I know,” he says softly and smiles.

The streets are quiet and the early sun casts a golden hue over the world. Pigeons are flitting about the sidewalk.

Right on cue, a figure steps out from around the corner of a building about two blocks ahead. She has wavy dark hair and a big smile. Her long skirt floats on wind, even though the air is still, and she raises an arm to wave.

Danny pauses and his jaw hangs open.

“Do we know her?”

He doesn’t speak, but halts like his feet are glued to the ground, staring forward.

“Danny?”

He nods and his eyes glaze over. “Mom?”

“But?” Oh yeah, he sees spirits.

He steps forward again, tugging me along with him, gripping my hand tight. I follow his lead.

She stands on the corner, like Lady Liberty, beaming and waving until we’re just a few yards away, before she steps back around the corner.

The sidewalk is empty when we reach the end of the street.

“Danny?”

He’s not speaking, just staring with swimmy eyes, searching for his mother.

“She’s never visited me before. Not once,’’ he whimpers .

His pain climbs through my arm and knots in my chest like a ribbon tied around my heart. I see a heartbroken boy in his maple eyes.

My family won’t even notice I’m gone. Will they notice when I don’t show up for the performative holiday dinners?

“Maybe she’s up ahead?” We’re still a block away from the bend around the street the convenience store is on.

Danny trots on and I match his stride, squeezing his hand back tighter. I’m not going to lose him.

There are voices past the corner, they’re muffled, but they’re there.

Police cars, an ambulance, and the coroner’s wagon.

We both halt in our tracks.