Lisa Unger - Die For You

“We’re the moonwalkers, my girl. Just you and me, alone with the stars.”

She crossed the yard, the dewy grass soaking through the canvas of her sneakers. She heard a rustling and banging behind her, on the side of the house. Raccoons in the garbage. Margie was going to have a fit. Linda would tell her father and they’d have a laugh. It was another thing they shared, a mischievous pleasure in the things that got her mother’s “panties in a knot.” She couldn’t have said why at the time. But when the cool and measured Margie cursed and blustered over scattered garbage, or the same fuse that always blew, or the cabinet door that kept coming off its hinge, Linda and her father exchanged a secret smile.

“Was that the only way you could connect with your father, over a shared disdain for your mother?” Erik had asked her once. Linda felt ashamed, chastised.

“Disdain isn’t the right word.” She sounded like Isabel.

“Then what?”

“I don’t know. It was almost a relief when she lost her cool. Like, wow, she’s human after all-not some robot, always programmed for appropriateness. I think we liked it because-sometimes we wanted to see those frayed edges that everybody else has.”

“Hmm,” said Erik. “I don’t see her that way, not stiff and robotic like that. I find her kind of warm, funny.” “That’s because she’s not your mother.”

“Touché.”

AT THE DOOR, she’d knocked lightly. “Dad? Daddy?”

She thought she might find him dozing, sitting upright on his work stool, with his elbow on the table, chin resting on fist, eyes closed. Or he might be so focused on his work that he wouldn’t hear her come in. But then he’d look at her and smile.

“Hello, Moonbeam,” he’d say. “Have a seat.”

And she’d have him to herself. The day belonged to Izzy His eyes always drifted to Isabel first; he always laughed at her jokes loudest, was quicker to take her hand or stroke her hair. Not that he didn’t do those things with Linda, too. But it always felt like sloppy seconds, even if-and maybe because-he didn’t mean it to be.

She pushed the door and it swung wide and slow with a mournful creeking. Her sinuses began to tingle with some foreign smell that wafted out-something metallic, something sweet. The scene revealed itself in snapshots: a cigarette still burning in an ashtray, a nearly empty bottle of liquor and a toppled glass, a frozen, mocking smile, a dark swath down the white of his shirt, a pistol on the ground. Everything existed in a separate frame, nothing coalesced. It was too dark to see the gore. He’d put the gun beneath his chin, an inefficient way to end your life, better at the temple where there’s no margin for error.

At the time, she’d fixated on the cigarette. She’d never seen her father smoke; it seemed like an insult, a dirty secret he’d kept. She was angry about it. But years later what she’d remember, what she’d dream about, was that smile. She’d never seen that look on him in life, that derisive grin, that “Fuck you, world” expression. But maybe it had been there all along, waiting for the veil to fall away.

There was a red wash of terror, mingling with rage that felt like a cramp; feelings she barely understood then as adrenaline rocketed through her frame. She wasn’t much older than Emily was now, and younger in many ways, less sophisticated, more sheltered. Nothing had ever prepared her for the sight before her; it was so utterly incomprehensible that it was nearly invisible. They’d find her vomit beside the door in the morning; that’s how they’d know she’d seen him first. She remembered a wash of numbness, a kind of internal powering down.

A dream , she told herself. I’ll close the door and go back to bed. In the morning, I’ll have forgotten this .

She told herself this with absolute conviction. In that walk from the shed, through the back door to the house, where she stepped out of her wet sneakers and wiped her feet dry on the mat, up the stairs and back into her own bed, she could believe that the power of her will might bend reality. She lay in a deep state of shock, mercifully blank until the sun rose and her sister stirred. She told her sister about her dream.

“Dreams can’t hurt you,” Isabel said.

Then Margie’s screaming, a horrible keening wail, cut through the silence of morning, ending the world as they all knew it.

Why should she want to think about that? What good did it do? But there it was, as her children slept in the hospital bed next to Fred’s, wrapped around each other like a couple of monkeys. Trevor snored lightly. Every now and then Emily would issue a low moan or a deep sigh. Fred looked so still and pale that a couple of times she’d gotten up and leaned over him to detect his shallow breathing.

Margie would be on a plane by now, on her way home. Linda had promised to wait at the hospital until her mother arrived. The kids didn’t want to leave her to go to Erik’s mother, so she’d made them as comfortable as she could. She was a little surprised when they drifted off quickly, clinging to each other.

Linda sat in an uncomfortable chair, staring at the ugly orange glow from the row of parking lot lampposts. It was a starless night, the moon nowhere to be seen. Another night when there would be no sleep. She would sit vigil, bear witness to whatever came next alone. Hours had passed since last she’d heard from Erik. She knew his phone was dead because her calls went straight to voice mail; the charge had been low when he left the hospital hours earlier. He had Isabel’s phone but that, too, went straight to the recorded message, her sister’s light, airy “Leave a message. I’ll call you back.” A sick dread had settled into her chest. Worry gnawed on her innards. Where were they?

The fresh rush of anxiety caused her to step out into the hallway and dial Ben. She didn’t worry about disturbing him or arousing the suspicions of his wife. She knew if he wasn’t able to take the call, he wouldn’t. But he answered on the first ring.

“Hey,” he said. His voice was soft, warm, and just the sound of it brought tears to her eyes. Was it just this morning that they’d been together, romping in a public restroom? Was it today that she promised herself she’d never see him again?

“Hey,” she whispered, looking around. The hallway was empty. Somewhere a radio played “Silent Night” very softly. “Are you alone?”

“Yeah,” he said, but didn’t elaborate. “Everything okay?”

“Not really,” she said, leaning against the wall. “Not at all.”

“Tell me.”

She glanced at the clock on the wall over the empty nurses’ station. It was late, nearly ten.

“Where’s your family?” she asked. Once, she’d been talking to him, flirting with him, talking sexy, and they were interrupted when his daughter asked him for some milk.

“Daddy, milk in cup?” she’d said sweetly. She was so little, maybe two, just starting to put words together in her own way.

She’d hated herself in that moment, felt so dirty and foolish. She didn’t want a repeat. He didn’t say anything for a second, and she thought they’d lost the connection. Then she heard him breathing, remembered how his breath felt on her neck that morning.

“They’re home,” he said. Then: “I’m not.”

“Where are you?”

“I left,” he said, solemn, final.

She remembered how he looked this morning. So sad and lost.

“Ben.”

“I know, Linda. You don’t have to say it.”

“I can’t-” she started. “I don’t feel-”

“I know,” he said. Was there an edge to his voice? Something angry? When he spoke again it was gone. “But that’s not the point. I can. And I do feel for you enough to leave my marriage and my kids. And that’s not fair to anyone, is it?”