Whenever Layla thought of him, he would return. While shopping for groceries, she’d spot that mango drink he liked, and Theo would appear at the end of the aisle. She would lie awake in bed, imagining the weight of him on top of her, and there he would be at the window seat. He’d materialize in the living room to see her humming along to a Wendy Rene record, methodically folding more of his shirts to donate, always unaware of his presence.
She had been lucky. The car had clipped her left arm, whipping her back onto the sidewalk like a spinning top. Theo had been right in its path. In the moment before impact, he thought of a line from the book his mother used to read to him before sleep: We can’t go over it, we can’t go under it – We’ve got to go through it!
Cold pavement beneath him. The smell of burnt rubber in his nostrils. Water gushing from somewhere, vaguely aware that the driver had skidded into a hydrant somewhere up the street. And the feeling of Layla holding his hand, until the moment he stopped being able to feel anything at all.
*
Those first few weeks, he never left Layla’s side, an unobserved shadow trailing her from room to room. He watched her sleep through the days, scratching at the sky blue cast encasing her left arm. Her sister Mina came to stay with her to make sure she ate and showered. One night in the kitchen, reminiscing over green curry and cheap whiskey, Mina reenacted the time their father forgot a sheet cake on top of their van. Layla fell from her chair, tears of laughter streaming down her cheeks. For the first time since the funeral, Theo slipped entirely from her thoughts.
A blank fog of static enveloped him. A distant memory surfaced: eleven years old and home alone, searching his family’s attic for birthday presents. Not paying attention, he had slipped through a small gap where the floor didn’t line up flush with the wall. With a yelp, he slid down, grasping desperately at the walls, chunks of pink insulation tearing off in his hands. He came to a stop about five feet down, his small frame pinned like a mounted butterfly. He’d screamed himself hoarse by the time his parents returned home and pulled him out. That was how he felt now, trapped again in the space between the walls.
It had only been a few seconds when he felt a strange tingling crawl across his skin. The static faded, and he was once more in their apartment. Layla’s apartment, he reminded himself. He had rematerialized in the bathroom. Layla bent over the toilet, choking out sobs between heaves. Mina held her hair back and gently kissed her sister’s shoulder. Through the doorway, Theo could spot the mantle clock. An hour had passed.
“Sorry. . .” Layla groaned.
“It’s ok,” Mina said, rubbing her back. “I hated those shoes, anyway.”
Theo sat on the edge of the tub and watched as Layla sank down, curling into a ball. Mina wrapped her in a tight embrace, and Theo realized that he, too, was crying.
*
Theo found himself in the space between the walls for longer and longer stretches of time. He would almost grow resigned to the nothingness before suddenly returning. Layla’s life played out in snapshots: Slowing while walking past what used to be their favorite bar, circling their empty apartment while the U-Haul idled outside, hyperventilating in a bathroom before a first date. Each time, having submerged back into the static, he would wonder how long it would be until she thought of him again.
A dropped slice of wedding cake.
Labor pains on the C train.
A child in overalls pressing a small hand against Layla’s swollen belly.
And then –
Nothing.
The longest nothing yet.
A sea of nothing disappearing into the offing of oblivion.
How long has it been? Had she finally thought of him for the last time?
It took Theo a moment to realize he wasn’t imagining the hospital room. Layla, in her seventies but still achingly beautiful, was propped up in bed, a man her age perched by her bedside. Her new husband. Two grown women slept in chairs off to the side. Her daughters, he realized with a start.
“Theo…Theo…” Layla babbled, confused. She was staring right at him, but as he walked around the side of the bed, her eyes stayed glued to the wall. Layla’s husband tried to remind her that Theo was gone, but she simply stared, pointing at the spot where he had been standing.
Later that night, once everyone had left, Theo watched her sleep. There was just enough room for him to wedge himself in next to her. They could have been in bed together in their old apartment. He might have just woken from a nightmare and reached over for her, the steady rise and fall of her chest lulling him back to sleep.
Dream of me, my love, he whispered in a voice she’d never heard. Dream of me tonight, and I’ll never have to go.
Bio:
Jeff Ronan is a writer and actor living in NYC. His writing has appeared in The Saturday Evening Post, Metastellar, Nocturne, Abyss & Apex, Tales to Terrify, Neon Door, City.River.Tree., Bards and Sages Quarterly, Sci Phi Journal, and Dread Machine. Jeffronan.com