Roswell Fanatics

Winner - Round 7





Winner - Round 6



Winner - Round 5





Best Unconventional Couple Fanfiction

Best Lead Portrayal of Maria Deluca

Title: My Beloved Wife
Author: Karen
Rating: MATURE
Disclaimer: Not mine (the characters, that is - the story is all mine )
Summary: Max is devastated by a loss in his life
Author's Notes: If you're the least bit sensitive to suicide references, please move on and read something else. Lyrics are from "Beloved Wife" by Natalie Merchant. Thanks once again to Lolita Behrbuns for my wonderful banner!


Prologue

You were the love
For certain of my life
You were simply my beloved wife
I don't know for certain
How I'll live my life
Now alone without my beloved wife

I move as if in a dream. None of these things around me are real. My feet don’t touch the grass as I move toward the gaping hole in the ground. My ears don’t hear the minister’s words as he sings the post-humus praises of my love. My fingers don’t feel their damp lifelessness. And I can’t feel the pain inside of my heart.

Faces come and go, blurry images of people I may have once cared about. They pause before me, offering words I don’t comprehend, sad smiles of the uncomfortable. My sister is here, beautiful like I remember her, though her eyes are red and puffy. She says she’s sorry and that she’s worried about me – come by for dinner. I’m not sure how dinner will make any of this seem more real or less real, but the offer seems to comfort her. I also know that her concern is misplaced. Don’t worry about me. My path is set and I can’t change it.

Unafraid of mortality, I see Maria also, placing flowers atop the lonely wooden box. She’s beautiful, too, in her own way. I almost wish I could appreciate her beauty, could see her as being something to behold. But she has held such a neutral position in my life for so long that all I can recall is her loyalty and friendship. A friend to the bitter end. If the end is bitter – I can’t really tell any more.

In the car, moving toward the Evans home. Mom’s in the front seat, dabbing her running eyes and trying to be cheerful. Dad is silent. He’s uncomfortable with my silence, but there’s nothing I can do to comfort him. Mom’s ordered food, so everyone can be together for a little while longer. It doesn’t matter to me, but she seems to care, so I’ll carry out this charade for her.

More faces, some unfamiliar. More sympathetic looks. They tell me they understand how I feel, and I know they can’t possibly. No one knows how I feel. Not even me.

I can't believe
I've lost the very best of me

Michael, uncomfortable, eyes darting away. He wants out of here. I want him to leave, too, if only to end his suffering. He offers help with anything I might need, then shuffles away, staring at his feet. I only watch him go, without a word.

Now my suffering begins
My love is gone
Would it be wrong if I should
Surrender all the joy in my life
Go with her tonight?

Home. Alone. Our place is empty and cold. I can still smell her perfume in the air, hear her laugh down the hallway. But I’m standing here in solitude, looking for ghosts in the shadows.

The bathroom, where we showered together, laughed as we brushed our teeth. Her toothbrush is still in the holder, dry, unused. I pick it up and hold it, imagining her small fingers circling it. I can almost feel her there.

My love is gone
Would it be wrong if I should
Just turn my face away from the light
Go with her tonight?

The blade is smooth and sharp. I don’t feel it pierce my skin; my only evidence is the bubbling crimson river that springs from my wrist. For the first time in what seems an eternity, I can feel something and I smile. I close my eyes and take in a deep breath, waiting for the time to come…

A depth so deep
Into my grief
Without my beloved soul
I renounce my life

Peace.

That’s the only word I can put to it. I worry about nothing, I fear nothing. I’m not hungry or tired or concerned about anything at all. I’m happy, light, free. I’m at peace.

I feel her before I see her, her beautiful spirit wrapping around me, warm and caring. Then she’s before me, even lovelier than I remember. Her cheeks are flushed, pink and healthy and her smile is the most welcoming sight I’ve ever seen.

I still move as if in a dream, but gone is all of my earthly numbness. All I can feel is her love, greeting me into this new world with her. Silent, her lips lay a whisper of a kiss on my lips and I know now that everything is going to be okay. I want her to take me home, to show me the way. I don’t feel lost because I know she’s here to guide me. I’ll follow her wherever she wants.

But as she backs away, her eyes gentle, I can’t follow her. Peace is replaced by panic as she gradually dissipates before my eyes. Frantic, I reach for her, but my eyes have gone dark and I can no longer feel her around me.

My voice echoes in my ears as I release a cry of protest. Everything around me is loud and white and bright. My heart is convulsing in my chest and an electronic beep accompanies each beat. Hands on my body, forcing me down. A flash of long blond hair, hurried voices calling for aid. Gone is my peaceful state – I’ve gone straight to hell.

Rectangular, industrial lights whiz past overhead. Many voices, all foreign, assault my ears. I hear phrases I don’t want to comprehend –

“Who brought him?”

“Someone help me hold him down!”

“Has the family been notified?”

“Get a sedative!”

“We’re losing him!”

I fight them, this new enemy I’ve found. I want to be back in that peaceful place, so close to home. I punch and claw and thrash, trying to get away from them. I hear my voice again, a throaty cry, as something punctures my arm. As the poison enters my veins, I fight that, too, until I no longer have the strength.

Floating. Alone.

I look for her to reappear, to take my hand and kiss my lips like she loves me. But there is no warm feeling, no sense of finding my way home. I’m in darkness, alone, unable to feel anything…

I wake in a daze, not really sure where I am. The room is clean, antiseptic, white. There is a smell of disinfectant in the air. Blinking, I stare at the wall, windowless. Out of reflex, I try to move my arms and can’t – not because I lack the ability, but because someone is prohibiting me. Same deal with my legs.

I’m imprisoned in a white room, once again.

My wrists ache so I don’t strain against my constraints for too long. I feel parched, like I could swallow the sea. Rolling my head to the opposite side takes effort, and I find Isabel sitting in a chair near the door. She looks weary, drained of strength. I know she is the reason I’m here and I never thought I could hate her so much.

“You had no right,” I tell her.

Her defense is simple. “Neither did you.”

tbc

Thanks for the comments, everyone Save some tears for later, okay?


Part One

I answer all of their questions, play their little games, attend their “therapy” sessions just so they will let me go home. Often, while I’m trapped in one of their soul-searching psychiatry hours, I think about the ironies of life instead of the message they are trying to convey to me – why is it that I couldn’t prevent Liz from dying, but I also can’t prevent myself from living? Talk about failing on all levels.

Eventually, they let me leave, but I have no desire to return to the little house we called home. Instead, I move in with Mom and Dad, mostly because they were warned I shouldn’t be alone. Isabel tries to set up suicide watch in my head and I indignantly close my mind to her. This, of course, prompts a long, heart-felt lecture on how selfish I was to try to choose my own destiny. They all risked life and limp to spring me from the White Room and this is how casually I treat my chance at life? I hate to inform her, but if Pierce had carried out his plans to dispose of Liz, I would have let him send me down the same path. Without her, life is meaningless.

I still wear my wedding band. I think it unnerves them.

Mom cries a lot, but not around me. I hear her late at night, punishing herself for not seeing the signs of what was to come. Dad’s response is grim – “Max has always been closed off, Diane. Please don’t blame yourself for it.”

Blame. Everyone wants to blame. Isabel blames me. Michael blames Liz’s death. Mom blames herself. I’m not interested in blame. I’m interested in giving up.

Being an adequate handyman, Michael re-tiles the bathroom floor so I can sell the house. I suppose he didn’t think it a good selling point to have alien blood all over the place. I only go back there long enough to pack Liz’s things and grab some of my own – everything else, all of the furniture including the bed we shared, is sold at auction. Maria helps me put Liz’s belongings into a cedar chest that belonged to her grandmother. I know she’s sad, but she’s been the least judgmental of my acquaintances and she tries her best to be supportive. She doesn’t even comment when I keep the most mundane of items – a clip Liz used to hold her hair out of her face when she jogged.

Before she leaves to return to her own home, she gives me a smile and a kiss on my cheek. She hasn’t spoken of my attempt at an early exit, but as she’s wiping lipstick from my cheek, she says, “God wasn’t done with you yet, Max Evans.”

“I don’t believe in God,” I remind her.

“I know,” she says with a crooked grin. “But maybe he still believes in you.”

Strange how time passes without your really being aware of it. Hours turn into weeks, days into years. Michael and Maria decide that their on-again/off-again relationship is off for good. They part amicably, I think. She moves away and he sulks around like the walking wounded. Join the club, my brother. I get an apartment of my own once the family feels comfortable enough to let me go and Michael often crashes on my couch, lost like the rest of us.

I think about a movie that Liz and I once watched, a made-for-cable flick with Michelle Pfeifer and that actor with the eyebrows – I never can remember his name. Anyway, the movie is about a man whose wife died in an accident and his attachment to her alienates all of his friends and family. If I remember correctly, he thinks she visits him and he spends his hours waiting for her to come to him. Maybe I’ve become that man, only I never get the payoff of Liz reappearing before me.

I talk to her every day. I tell her I’m sorry about the accident and that if I had been there, maybe I could have saved her. I wait for her to accept my apology, but I never receive that reprieve. I tell her I’m sorry I failed in my attempt to join her, but I guess she already knows about that – I know I saw her, that I was with her again…before Isabel ruined all of my plans.

Maybe one day I’ll forgive my sister. But it’s been five long years now, and I still hold a grudge against her. I try to be civil with her, even when she tries to pry into my business. If she stops by my apartment, she always uses the bathroom and I can hear her opening the medicine cabinet. It must make her happy to see the anti-depressants in there. Little does she know that at the beginning of every month I fill that prescription – and at the end of every month I flush them down the toilet. I don’t want to be happy. I want to be sad. She’ll never understand that. She’ll never understand me.

I consider that maybe she hasn’t forgiven me, either. Maybe there is a sense of doom hanging over her head, wondering if some day when I don’t show up on time to some family gathering it means I’ve succeeded in eliminating myself. I feel a small wave of sympathy at the thought – even though I’m mad at her, I’ve never wanted to torment her.

I work at Dad’s law office for awhile, more as the office gopher/delivery-boy than anything else. I don’t believe the other people there like me – I hear whispers behind my back and suddenly I’m back in high school, that uneasy, awkward weirdo that no one understood. Funny how wounds that happened to you a decade ago can still be opened and able to hurt. After about a year, I save Dad the discomfort of having to fire to and quit. He acts surprised at my choice, but respects it. If nothing else, Dad has always respected my decisions.

So, now what do I do? I have money, thanks to my wife’s death, but I put all of that insurance settlement away, unable to bear using any of it for myself. I always thought that maybe a cause would come up that Liz would have liked to have donated to. Or maybe I’d open a scholarship for science students or something. At any rate, if worse came to worse and I had to swallow away the thought of using blood money, I could always dip into the pool to support myself. After all, Liz wouldn’t want me homeless and starving to death.

After a few weeks, boredom sets in. I grow tired of looking at the same four walls of my apartment. Isabel’s relentless phone calls start to irritate me – yes, I’m still alive, big sister, please go about your own life. Mom stops by and drops off casseroles and brownies, always smiling and cheerful. I really do love her, but I wish she’d just be honest with me and tell me that she feels responsible. Then we could discuss what happened and I could help her let herself off the hook. She can’t buy a pardon with tuna casserole and pastries.

Michael crashes on my couch for about a week and provides some entertainment before he disappears into the working world again. I have to wonder why he didn’t do something more interesting with his vacation – he’s a free man and he could go wherever he wanted. Why spend so much time with Mopey Max?

Just when I’m about two hours away from official cabin fever, I start clearing out my old desk, throwing away papers and bills I no longer need. In the stack of letters, I find one in a pinkish envelope, the writing a girlie script. One corner of my mouth lifts in a smile – Maria. It’s the last letter she sent – three years ago now – telling where she’d moved and that she’d gotten there okay. I remember when I received it that it smelled faintly like cologne, so I hold it to my nose, but the scent is gone. I take the paper from the envelope and read over her cheerful words – and I know immediately what my path is.

I’m in my bedroom stuffing clothes into a suitcase when I hear my front door open and close. There are footsteps, hard heels that sound like boots, and then I hear Isabel calling me. When I don’t answer immediately, her voice becomes a little more frantic. I imagine the same scene five years ago, with Isabel still grieving for Liz and then finding me bleeding to death in my bathroom. I hate that she’s held onto that event for so long. I hate that that is the one thing she will always remember about me.

“I’m in here, Iz,” I call, pushing down on a stack of pants to make them fit into the case.

She appears at the bedroom door, relief blatantly obvious on her face. “Oh, there you are.” Then her brow furrows as her eyes settle on the suitcase. “What are you doing?”

“Packing,” I say, grabbing a wad of socks.

She crosses her arms over her chest, a defensive maneuver. “Why are you packing?”

“Taking a trip.” The game of fifty questions has started. I could just explain myself to her, but that would be too easy. I pretty much feel like I owe her no explanation for anything I do.

Her hand sneaks to her neck and toys with her necklace. “What kind of trip?”

“Just to see an old friend.”

She cocks her head slightly. She knows I can count my friends on one hand, that much hasn’t changed. “Who?”

I straighten and turn to face her. “Maria.”

She raises her eyebrows and falls silent. After what seems an eternity, she clears her throat. “Will you be coming back?”

That’s a good question. I don’t even know the answer to that one. I don’t know what the future holds for me anymore. I shrug. “Maybe.”

In a move I totally didn’t expect, her bottom lip quivers and she bursts into tears. My mouth drops open slightly in disbelief as she covers her face with her hand. Why the water works? It’s not like I’m dying…

I don’t want to be supportive. I want to be selfish and push past her to start my trip. But I’m not an insensitive prick and her sobs touch me in places I’d forgotten I had. Commanding myself not to cry with her, I cross the room and put my arms around her. She falls into me, her body hiccupping with her cries.

“Hey,” I say over her shoulder. “It’s not the end of the world. I’m only going to Chicago.”

She pushes back and wipes at her cheeks. “Weren’t you even going to say goodbye, Max?”

Because there was one other time when I didn’t say goodbye either…

“I’m sorry,” I tell her. “I should have let you know earlier. But yes, I was planning on calling you before I left.” Not really, but I need to make her feel a little better.

“I don’t want you to leave,” she confesses.

“I need to,” I tell her gently, rubbing her arm. “I have to decide what I’m going to do.” I have to decide what I’m going to do with this life she’s stuck me with. “You have my cell phone number. I’m sure Maria has a phone, as well.”

“But it’s so far away.”

I shake my head. “Not really. It’s only a few thousand miles. We’ve traveled far more than that, Isabel.” I allow myself a little smile as I glance toward the ceiling.

She coughs a laugh and puts her arms around me again.

“Water my plants?” I ask her.

She nods as she releases me and seems relieved. If I haven’t sublet my apartment, it must mean my departure isn’t permanent. At least to her it must seem that way.

To make her feel better, I bum a ride with her to the airport. But only on the condition that she drops me off at the curb and doesn’t come in to weep while I leave. I’m not sure I could stand that. She weeps at the curb instead, but that’s okay because the traffic control person makes her move on shortly.

I sit and watch the people who will be getting on the plane with me. Old people, young people, babies. I smile at a dark-haired little girl with large dark eyes. She looks so like Liz did when she was a kid that I can absolutely imagine this is what our daughter would have looked like. I think about that lost opportunity often. We’d decided to wait to have a family. We’d never considered that “waiting” meant “never.” How would things be different now if we hadn’t waited? I’d have a little piece of her to tend to and I know that in itself would have kept me out of my depressive funk. But that’s not the choice we made – and now I am alone because of it. Liz was never a mother and I’ll never be a father.

The flight to Chicago is sparsely filled and I’m happy for that. I have a row all to myself and once the plane is airborne, I spread out and make myself comfortable. I press my face against the window and watch the world below get smaller and smaller. Eventually, I can’t make out trees or buildings and I’m among the clouds, floating again.

I wonder what lies ahead. Just as I didn’t call Isabel to tell her I was leaving, I also didn’t call Maria to tell her I was coming. Maybe she doesn’t even live there anymore - maybe she’s moved. I know nothing for sure and for the first time in an eternity, the uncertain is exciting. I hope she’s still there because since I found her letter, I’ve wanted more than anything to see her again.

With a start, I realize that somewhere along the way I’ve come to look forward to something other than dying.

tbc

Part Two

I’ve forgotten about the time change and it’s dark by the time my flight arrives in Chicago. O’Hare International is unbelievably vast and busy. I can honestly say that I’ve never been to an “International” airport before and the myriad of accents I hear around me is astounding. I catch myself staring in awe and realize I must look like quite the country bumpkin.

Act like you’ve been here before, Maxwell, I tell myself as I force my feet to move. I seem to walk forever and never get anywhere. It reminds me of walking in the desert – I keep moving, but the scenery never changes.

Eventually, I make it to the lower level and find the rental car companies. It’s not so late yet that the desks are closed, so at least I can get a car. I suppose I could stop and ask someone if one of the public transports will get me to Maria’s place, but I have a fear of getting stuck on a train and riding around lost for hours. At least if I drive I will be master of my own demise.

Pickings are slim and I get the family vehicle – a Buick four-door. I frown as I look at it, in all of its mundane glory. But it serves its purpose, so I toss my bag in the trunk and head out of the airport.

Twenty minutes and ten thousand wrong turns later, I’m on the freeway. The counter clerk gave me rough directions to Maria’s neighborhood, so I look for the exits she told me. The woman was very friendly. Too friendly. It made me uncomfortable and I have to wonder if it’s been so long since a woman gave me attention that I can’t handle it any more.

I’ve had all of two dates in the last five years. They weren’t by my choosing and neither of them progressed to date number two. The first one was a blind-side by my parents. I was to meet them at dinner one evening, maybe a year and a half after Liz died. I thought nothing of it, showed up at the restaurant and found Marjorie waiting for me with my parents. Marjorie was a few years older than me, full of teeth and giggles. I’ve hated my parents ever since that night.

The second wasn’t thrust upon me unknowingly. It wasn’t really a date at all. After Maria left, Michael played the field a bit. Okay, he played the field quite a bit. Everyone has their own way of dealing with things – mine was suicide, Michael’s was promiscuity. At any rate, he later claimed that he accidentally set up two dates on one night. Christine came to my door looking for him (it was one of those times when he’d been parked on my couch) and looked so disappointed that he wasn’t there that I felt obligated to do something to help out.

I didn’t want to date. I didn’t – and still don’t – want to be with another woman. But Christine was pretty and sweet and unassuming in every way. I took her to a movie and then we went for coffee. After a bit, she asked about the ring on my finger and why I was out with her. I couldn’t tell her that my wife was dead, so I just left it that I wasn’t really married any more. When I dropped her off at her apartment, she kissed me, but I couldn’t kiss her back. I didn’t want to hurt her and I somehow feel like she understood that because she didn’t act upset that I didn’t return her affections. I never saw her again.

And that’s been it as far as romance for me. I’m simply not interested. Especially not in car rental agency clerks who probably hit on every guy who crosses their path. I glance in the rearview mirror. Maybe she was hoping I’d invite her to join me in that huge back seat. I shudder and concentrate on the road.

An hour and a half and twenty thousand wrong turns later, I find Maria’s street. I pull to the curb and take her letter from my pocket to get the house number. Coincidentally, I’ve stopped right in front of it. Well, that was easy. I cut the engine and sit in silence, looking up at the front of the massive apartment building. Apartment 518. I wonder if she still lives there…

My eyes settle on the radio clock. It’s after eleven at night now. I have a bit of trepidation about knocking on her door so late, but I’ve nowhere else to go. I leave my suitcase in the trunk and trudge up the steps to the building.

As I walk through the halls, I can hear various noises coming from within some of the units – televisions, conversations. The walls must be as thin as paper. I locate the elevator and take it up to the fifth floor.

518 is all of the way at the end of the hall. I stop at the door, listening for activity within. I hear a stereo or a radio, faint and think that maybe she’s still awake. Suddenly I feel nervous and I don’t really know why. This is just Maria, my friend. I reach out and knock lightly on the door.

I pause and imagine the occupants looking surprised that they have a visitor. Maybe this is a bad neighborhood and having someone knock on your door after dark isn’t a good thing. Then I hear footsteps approaching the door and I brace myself.

There is no recognition in her eyes at first. She’s wrapped in a thin robe that conceals next to nothing and I quickly avoid looking anywhere that might embarrass her. I see the moment of realization pass her face and then she’s in my arms, screaming. I’m sure the neighbors enjoy that.

“Oh, my God! It’s Max!” she squeals right next to my ear.

I laugh and bring my arms around her. She’s so thin. I don’t remember her being so thin.

“Look at you!” she spouts as she pulls away.

She’d been holding the robe closed when she’d answered the door and now that she’s touching me instead, it falls open slightly. I see a glimpse of abdomen, a hint of thigh. She glances that way and gives a little giggle. Quickly, she covers herself and drags me into her apartment, letting the door slam behind us. Yep – her neighbors hate her.

“Max Evans,” she says wistfully as she ties her robe around her waist. She reaches for my hair and touches it. “Look how long your hair is.”

I can feel my cheeks starting to burn from the attention. I’m not used to that anymore. Abruptly, she tilts my head down and starts picking through my hair.

“What are you doing?” I laugh.

“Looking for grays. And there aren’t any!”

And she’s back in my arms, squeezing me so tightly that I see stars. Her perfume drifts to my nose and I remember now how her letter used to smell. She holds me for an uncomfortable amount of time, and when she pulls away she’s crying.

I work my mouth and try to figure out what has brought this on.

“I’m sorry,” she says, dabbing at the corners of her eyes. “It’s just that seeing you brings back so much. You know?”

I shouldn’t have come here. I know exactly what it is that has come back to her because it has been trying to come back to me as well. I shake my head to will away the images, the feelings.

“No, I’m sorry,” I correct her. “It was wrong for me to just show up here.”

I start to move for the door, but she grabs my hand.

“No, please,” she says. “I want you to stay. I didn’t mean that in a bad way.” Her lips curve into a small smile. “I’ve missed you, Max. I’m glad you’re here.”

I’m still contemplating the odds of getting a flight back to New Mexico tonight when I hear a voice come from the back of the apartment.

“Baby? Who’s out there?”

She almost looks disappointed, like she’d forgotten that she has company. Shortly, a man appears at the hallway entrance. He’s medium height, medium build, and he’s dressed in a pair of jeans and nothing else. His eyes and hair are jet black, his skin a light brown. The reason for her being nearly nude is blatantly apparent - Maria has a Latin lover. I’m sure I look surprised.

“This is Ramon,” she says carefully, trying to tell me with her eyes that everything is okay. “Ramon, this is Max. He’s an old friend of mine from New Mexico.”

Ramon steps forward and takes my hand in a firm grip. He’s cordial without being friendly.

“Ramon was just leaving,” Maria stresses.

“Maria, no,” I protest. “I can get a hotel room or something.”

“Nonsense,” she says. I can tell from her tone that she’s made up her mind. Some things about Maria haven’t changed. “Ramon has his own home to go to.”

“It’s cool,” Ramon says, backing toward the hallway. His words might indicate all is okay, but his eyes say otherwise.

Once he is gone, Maria turns a rather guilty expression to me. Why the guilt? She’s an adult, she has no ties. She’s free to do whatever she wants, see whomever she wants.

“I should have called,” I tell her in an attempt to quell the uneasy feeling in the room.

She smiles and shrugs. “You’re welcome here any time, Max – announced or unannounced.” Seeming to just become aware that she’s barely clad, she looks down at her robe and motions to the bedroom. “I’m going to go…make myself decent.”

After she leaves, I hear heated whispers from down the hall. I should have stayed in New Mexico. I’m having a hard time remembering why I came here.

While I wait, I wander around the living room, taking in Maria’s home. She has some pictures on the mantel, most of them people I don’t know. At the end, beside an often-burnt candle is a picture of Liz. I’ve pretty much removed constant reminders of my wife and seeing this picture startles me a bit.

My heart stops as I look at her smiling face, taking in her every feature. I settle on her eyes. I always loved Liz’s eyes. When I looked into them, I felt like I could see straight into her soul, like I knew exactly what she was made of, what she was thinking, how she saw me. I never felt that with anyone before. I doubt I’ll ever feel it again.

Gulping back a grief that is years old but still fresh, I reach out and touch the photo with my fingertips, as if the glass would give me just a hint of how soft her skin used to be. I was wrong to come here. I was wrong to dredge up anything from our past. I’m already hurting again – I should leave before I hurt Maria as well.

I’m about to move for the door when I hear Ramon and Maria behind me.

“Take it easy, man,” he says, lifting his chin in my direction.

I tip my head in his direction as well and watch as Maria stuffs him out the door. She’s wearing a pair of running pants and a T-shirt. Closing the door, she turns a wide smile in my direction.

“That was Ramon,” she says, stating the obvious.

“So you said,” I answer, trying to smile in return. “Are you two…?”

She shakes her head. “Ut uh. We’re, um, friends, I guess you could say.” She gives a self-conscious chuckle. She’s crossed the room as she was speaking, and she reaches down and picks up my left hand, her fingers toying with my wedding band. “What’s this?” Her lips are curved into a smirk. “Someone new in Max’s life?” she teases.

I look down at the ring and find it impossible to tell her that the only time this ring has left my finger was in the nut ward when they refused to let me keep it. But my expression must do all of my talking because she suddenly drops my hand as if I stung her.

“Oh,” she says, the playful tone gone from her voice. She clears her throat, trying to clear the awkwardness. Seems like there’s been a lot of that in the last ten minutes. “So, you’re still on the market, eh?”

I can’t help but laugh. That’s so Maria. She always has known how to lighten the mood. Laughing with me, she puts her arms around me more tenderly this time and holds me against her.

“Oh, I’ve missed you,” she says against my ear. “So many times I’ve wondered how you are and what you’re doing.” She pulls back but remains with her arms around my waist. Looking into my face, her eyebrows draw together. “You must be exhausted, what with the time change and all.”

I give a little shrug in agreement. I’m not sure if I’m tired or stressed out.

“Then let’s go to sleep,” she suggests. “I don’t have to work tomorrow – I’ll cancel all of my plans and you and I can just spend all day together. How does that sound?”

I agree, then look around for where I would sleep. I have a horrifying thought that maybe she insinuated I could share her bed. I’m not sure I want to. Partly because I know another guy just left it, partly because I don’t want to share a bed with any woman.

“I’ll make up the couch,” she says as she moves away, which relieves me.

She retrieves some linens, shows me where the bathroom is in case I need it in the night, then stops before me, her eyes filling with tears again.

“I mean it, Max. I’m glad you’re here.”

I believe her.

tbc

Comments on fb to follow!

Part Three

In the morning, I awake to the smell of fresh coffee. Stretching, I feel the effects of my travels yesterday – I’m tired and sore. I guess I’m not as young as I used to be.

Lifting my head and looking over the back of the couch, I spot Maria sitting in one of two wicker chairs by her bay window. Her gaze is fixed on something outside, her legs crossed Indian-style beneath her. A thin tendril of steam drifts from the cup of coffee she’s set on the window ledge. She appears to be signing softly to herself, though I can’t hear her – I can just tell by the way her lips move every now and then.

In daylight, I take the opportunity to study her since I didn’t last night. She’s got a new hairdo – kind of like Meg Ryan’s in City of Angels – a short curly bob. I never saw her with curly hair before and I kind of like it. While her appearance is more mature, I can’t say as she’s really “aged”. Maria appears to be more women now, while she seemed more girlish when she left Roswell three years ago.

Stifling a groan as my back protests its night on the couch, I sit up and stretch, reaching my arms toward the ceiling. When I finally stand up and turn around, she’s smiling at me.

“Morning,” she calls.

“Morning,” I answer, circling the sofa and taking the chair opposite of her.

“Sleep well?” she asks, tongue in cheek.

I nod.

“Liar.”

My eyebrows shoot up in surprise and she laughs.

“That couch is anything but comfortable,” she explains. “Sorry I don’t have another bed for you to sleep on – it’s a one-bedroom apartment.”

“It’s okay,” I assure her. “I would have gone to a hotel, but you were nice enough to put me up – I’m not going to complain about the accommodations.”

She grins, then retrieves a cup of coffee for me. I take a sip and smile internally – years of working at a café have taught Maria how to make a decent pot of coffee. We sit and watch the outside world for awhile, both of us quiet and pensive when we awake. I don’t feel uncomfortable sitting here saying nothing, and I don’t feel she does either.

“So,” she finally begins. “What brings you to Chicago?”

That’s a good question. I’m not even really sure.

“I was bored,” I finally answer.

Maria snorts an amused laugh. “So one day the king of Antar just wakes up and says, ‘Ya know, I’m bored. I think I’ll head several thousand miles east’?”

I can’t help it – I laugh. It has to be the tone of voice she used. “Sort of,” I say. “I just needed to get away from Roswell, ya know?”

She rolls her eyes. “Yeah, I know.” She sighs. “I might as well get it out of the way – how’s Michael?”

I can’t tell if she really cares, or if she’s just curious. “He’s good,” I say. “He’s working as a mason now.”

“A what?” Her brow crinkles.

“A bricklayer,” I clarify.

The brow crinkles more. I guess she can’t imagine her ex-lover doing that job. I don’t want to tell her he’s been laying more than bricks. I know they parted many years ago, but it still has to hurt a bit.

“And what about you?” she asks. “What are you working as?”

I shake my head. “Nothing.”

Her eyebrows arch upward. “Nothing?” I shake my head again and she laughs. “I’m sorry, Max – I can’t imagine you being shiftless.”

One side of my mouth lifts in an ironic smile. “I worked for my dad for awhile. That didn’t work out so well. So I quit and here I am.”

“Unemployed.”

“Unemployed,” I echo.

She grins. “Good!”

This time it’s my eyebrows that rise. “Good?”

“Yep! That means you can stay longer.”

The mood is definitely lighter than it was last night. Maria is so vibrant that everything around her glows.

“You’re still hot as hell when you smile,” she announces.

I will always hate that my ears betray me every time I’m a little embarrassed. I can feel them now, beginning to burn. Maria, however, delights in it.

“I knew it!” she laughs. “The same old Max underneath it all.”

I dip my head and scratch my eyebrow, nabbed. When I look up, her easy demeanor is gone and her eyes are fixed on my arm. I turn it over so I can get a glimpse of what has her so entranced. I’ve become so accustomed to living with the evidence of my self-mutilation that I had even forgotten the scars were there.

Reaching across the distance between us, she takes my hands in hers and turns both of my wrists toward the ceiling. With her soft fingertips, she traces the still-fading marks, her face solemn. She pauses with her fingers concealing the wounds and looks up to meet my eyes.

“Do you still want to die?” she asks.

That’s a hard question to answer. Do I wish I’d succeeded five years ago? Yes. Am I willing to try it again? Probably not. I’ve become too much of a coward to try to take my own life these days.

“Some days I wish I were dead,” I tell her honestly, slowly.

She snorts a nervous laugh. “Don’t we all?”

I give her a gentle smile. How many people claim to wish they were dead and really mean it? More often than not, someone has had a really bad day when they say that, but by morning all is well again. Me, when I say it, I really mean it.

Abruptly, Maria releases my hands and waves in the air. “Enough of that. I didn’t ask you to stay so we could both be uncomfortable.” She rubs her belly and her demeanor lightens significantly. “Let’s go get some breakfast. I’ll show you around the Windy City and then you can come listen to me sing tonight.”

My ears perk up at that revelation and I realize that I haven’t yet asked Maria what she does for a living. I feel a little spark of hope inside thinking that she’s accomplished her lifelong goal of being a performer. “You’re a singer?”

She shrugs nonchalantly. “Not in the sense that I get paid for it or anything. Friday is open mike night at Casper’s a few blocks over.”

Oh. Bars. I haven’t set foot in a club since before Liz died. I’m not sure I want to go now. People there are phony and insincere. I can’t drink. What is there to go for?

“Please, Max?”

I look into Maria’s eyes and all I see is anxious hope. She really wants me there to see her perform. I can’t deny her.

We go to breakfast then take the train downtown. We go to the top of the Sears Tower and Maria laughs when I start to get dizzy. I never did like heights. Then we return to her apartment late in the afternoon and she gets ready for her big performance at Casper’s.

The bar isn’t what I expected. I guess with a name like that, I had anticipated seeing cartoons on the walls or something. But it’s actually rather nice – clean, sort of classy, an older crowd of people. Maria nervously deposits me at the bar and makes her way to the back room to prepare – you can’t really call it “back stage” because the stage consists of an eight-foot-by-eight-foot platform that stands about a foot high. She has a little stage fright, but says she’ll be fine once it’s time for her to go on.

I take a seat at the bar, order a soda, then swivel around so that I’m facing the stage. No sooner have I claimed my perfect spot than a woman slides in next to me. She looks at me coquettishly from beneath her eyelashes and internally I sigh. I read once that women in bars are attracted to men with wedding rings. I don’t know if that’s true or not, but she’s here regardless.

“Hi,” she says, extending her hand. “I’m Vivian.”

I take her hand just to be polite and she practically wiggles right onto my lap. I move slightly and just give her a detached, “Hi.”

The emcee for the night steps onto the stage and introduces the first act. There’s a smattering of applause as a young man takes the stage. His voice is okay, nothing that will ever get him even as far as Star Search, and the crowd more or less disregards him. I find that somewhat insulting, but I guess it’s better than them booing him.

Vivian is staring at me, waiting for something. I don’t really look at her other than from the corner of my eye to see if she’s given up yet. She hasn’t.

“Why don’t you buy me a drink or something?” she asks.

At the exact same time, the emcee is back on the stage. “Now, ladies and gentlemen, returning for yet another performance is our own little songstress – Maria Deluca!”

I thank whoever is in heaven for letting that introduction overlap Vivian’s request for a beverage. I clap and whistle and realize that I’m not the only one who is doing so. She may not have made it as a singer yet, but Maria’s got quite the following here at Casper’s. She glides onto the stage and when the lights hit her, I see her in a way I never have before.

The room goes quiet as she grips the mike, her eyes cast downward. Her voice comes out strong and full of pain as she sings out the words to “I Can’t Make You Love Me.” Her version is more that of Prince, the song’s creator, than of Bonnie Raitt, the person who made it popular. Maria pours more soul into that song than I knew she even possessed and I find my eyes filling inexplicably with tears. By the end of the song, people are actually cheering and standing. Oh, I pity the person who comes onto the stage after her.

As she waves to her fans and exits the stage, I watch her go in wonder. Eventually, I realize that Vivian is looking rather irritated now.

“How about that drink?” she says through clenched teeth.

I look at her, the smile Maria put on my face still firmly in place. “What?”

Vivian cocks her hip and rolls her eyes. “She beds every guy in this place, you know,” she says, waving toward the vacant stage.

I know about Ramon, but the Maria I know wouldn’t allow her bedroom to be a revolving door – she has more respect for herself than that. This woman’s words are just vicious, in my opinion.

She sidles up against my arm and I nearly shudder. I never thought I could find female breasts disgusting.

“Why don’t you let me take you home instead of her?” Vivian coos, trailing her fingers along my arm.

I dig in my brain to try to find some polite way to escape this awful person but come up empty. But there’s no way I’m leaving with her. If I have to be rude, then I will.

“Oh, there you are!” I hear Maria’s voice approaching us.

Relief floods my body as my eyes settle on her in her sparkly red dress. Vivian’s face shows shock, then scorn as Maria practically pushes her out of the way. Standing on her toes, she grabs me by the ears and kisses me – hard.

I have no single description for the feelings that run through my head at her boldness. Confusion, surprise, guilt, curiosity. I’m a mess in there.

But when she pulls away, she directs her attention at my assailant. “He’s mine, ho bag – go find your own.”

Maria waits, her arms still around my shoulders, as she watches Vivian storm away in a huff. Then she releases me and lets out a growl.

“Christ, I hate that bitch!” she snaps, obviously furious.

I’m still staring at her in disbelief, my lips tingling. Behind us, the emcee has announced the next act and another young man takes the stage.

“What?” she asks, laughing lightly, possibly at her little tirade or the expression on my face. “Oh, you think we don’t look like a couple?” She turns me around so we can see ourselves in the mirror behind the bar. “Look at us – there couldn’t be two more beautiful people!”

She is pretty, I don’t argue that. If I’m attractive, I’m not sure. I seem to attract my share of “ho bags” – but maybe that just means I look easy. Maria is blond and pale. I’m dark in every way. We couldn’t be more opposite.

Liz and I were alike.

The unwelcome thought comes out of nowhere and I don’t appreciate its presence one bit. When I look down at Maria, she looks horrified and I can’t tell why at first.

The next singer is performing the Goo Goo Dolls’ “Iris” – which is about a man giving up forever to be with the one he loves. I want to tell her it’s okay, but she looks so aghast that I can’t find the right words. The singer eventually delivers the line “and you bleed just to know you’re alive” and she can no longer meet my eyes.

Reaching over, I lift her chin so that she’ll look at me. I give her a smile. “You were incredible tonight,” I tell her.

She tries to smile back, and gives a little nod of her head, but I feel like there is now a damper on her small victory.

Inside, I feel guilt overtaking any joy I had allowed myself to experience. The people I love will never stop paying for my actions.

tbc

Comments will follow. Flashback is in italics


Part Four

The walk back to Maria’s apartment is uncomfortably silent. We hung out at Casper’s just long enough to hear a friend of hers perform and then we were out of there. The night air is cool, cooler than I had expected it to be. But this is the Midwest and September evenings are cooler than those in New Mexico. Maria walks with her arms wrapped around her midsection. Once I try to put my arm on her back as a peace offering or something, but my clumsy attempt at reassurance only causes her to move farther away. She doesn’t do it abruptly, but I get the hint.

At her apartment, she flips on some lights, then uses a grill lighter to light the candle by Liz’s picture. She stares at the likeness for a long moment. I hover near the doorway, still uneasy. I should go…

When Maria turns around, I see a shine in her eyes that wasn’t there before. I don’t want to see her cry. I haven’t seen her cry since Liz died.

“I’m sorry for the way I reacted,” she says. Her gaze is steady but her voice is quivering slightly.

I don’t know what to say, so I suck my bottom lip into my mouth and say nothing.

“I don’t know if you can understand,” she continues. Her shoulders are slightly stooped, as if in defeat. “I lost both of my best friends, Max.”

As the words leave her mouth, I have the thought that maybe that’s why she left Michael – to avoid another loss. Maybe that’s why she has throw-away boyfriends like Ramon in her life.

“I know,” I reply to her.

She works her mouth and the wetness of her eyes becomes more prominent. “I lost Alex in a bloody mess,” she says. “Then I lost Liz in a bloody mess. And – and when I saw you…” Her voice trails off as she covers her mouth and looks away.

I should go to her, hold her, tell her everything is going to be okay. But I don’t even know how to comfort my own pain – how am I possibly going to help her? So I stand impotently, watching her cry silently.

“Maybe I should leave,” I finally say.

She meets my gaze and gives a short nod of her head. I’m not surprised at her agreement – we’ve been fooling ourselves all day that we could act like normal friends again, like we didn’t share a common devastation, a suffocating grief.

Maria clears her throat. “You don’t have to go tonight,” she says, reaching for a tissue. “It’s late. You can stay here for now.”

I nod my thanks and continue to hover uncomfortably.

She looks at me for a long time, then lets out a heavy sigh. “Good night, Max,” she says, then disappears down the hallway.

I get ready for bed, then lie in the dark and listen to her cry for a good hour. She does a good job of stifling those cries, but I have super-human hearing and I can tell what’s going on down the hall. Her cries and talk of “bloody messes” bring back images and memories that I hadn’t ever planned on visiting again…

When I open my eyes, the first thing I see is Isabel, hovering over me. Next to her stands Maria, her eyes unbelievably red. The room is intrusively bright and there is an odd smell in the air –it smells like biology lab.

“You’re okay,” Isabel says, putting a hand on my shoulder to make me lie back down.

My gaze shifts to Maria, who can no longer look at me. Her hand is covering her mouth as though she wants to throw up. I then notice that her body is shaking – she’s sobbing uncontrollably.

I look quickly to my sister. “Liz?” I choke out.

Isabel’s eyes are red, too and she swallows visibly.

“Where’s Liz?” I ask, more desperate, pushing past her hand and sitting up quickly.

“Max, there’s something you need to know…”

Oh God. She doesn’t need to say the words – I already know. But I don’t believe it. I don’t have a scratch on my body. There’s no way I walked away from that accident and Liz didn’t.

“Where is she?” I demand, my gaze shifting back to Maria.

Maria glances at me, shakes her head and turns her back on me.

“Isabel?”

“Max, please lie back,” my sister says, trying to ease me to the mattress.

“No!” I protest, slapping her hand out of the way. “I want to know where she is!”

“Max…” Tears flood her dark eyes in such a rush that I’m reminded of a flash flood after a dam break. “She didn’t make it, Max.” With that, her face contorts and she starts sobbing.

Her cries only make Maria cry harder and the room is filled with the sounds of their sorrow.

“I’m sorry,” Isabel says, placing a hand on my arm. Then she retreats from the room, running away to grieve in private.

I look to Maria, who is covering her whole face with both of her hands.

“How long have I been here?” I ask.

She continues to sob and my patience snaps.

“How long!” I demand.

She jumps slightly and drops her hands and I almost feel guilty for yelling at her. “Thr-three hours,” she sputters between hiccupped sobs.

Pushing the blankets back, I jump from the bed. Maria recoils as though she thinks I’m going to attack her. I’m barely off the bed when I feel a stinging sensation in my arm. Angry, I rip the IV tub from my arm and jerk the heart monitor leads from my chest.

As I’m moving quickly down the hallway I hear Maria’s footsteps behind me. I barely register the surprised glances I receive from the hospital staff and various patients wandering the hall.

“Max!” Maria calls, her voice a hoarse croak. “Where are you going?”

I don’t answer her – I owe her no explanations. I find the stairs and take them instead of the elevator. I will be less likely to run across someone in the fire exits than I will in the lifts. I can still hear Maria’s boots behind me, struggling to keep up with my pace. I spiral down the flights of steps, all of the way to the bottom floor.

The basement is just how I imagined it would be – dark and deserted. No one down here but the dead. I pause momentarily, pondering which way to go. In that amount of time, Maria has caught up to me.

“Max,” she says breathlessly. “What are you going to do?”

I ignore her and decide on taking a left. My intuition pays off and I’m soon standing at the morgue door.

“Oh, Max, no!” Maria cries. “Please don’t do that!”

Forget it, Maria. You know damned well I’m going to try. Of course, I don’t speak those words to her, I just push through the door and enter the hall of the dead. Strangely enough, I’ve finally gone somewhere she will not follow.

I look around for a moment and think that the floor is unbelievably cold on the bottoms of my bare feet. What must it be like to work here all the time? My eyes settle on a row of drawers along one wall. Liz is in there, in one of them. I walk over to them and start opening them – I don’t even care that I may have to open all twelve of them before I find her.

Most of the bodies are simply covered with sheets – probably patients who had perished at the hospital. A lot of them are old. But then I come across a body that is not covered in a sheet – it’s encased in a black body bag instead – and my hopes fall to my toes. I know this is her. I know that she died at the scene.

Swallowing back my dread, I reach for the zipper and pull it down. Nothing I have ever been through has prepared me for this sight. I gazed upon a dead friend once, also inhabiting a body bag, but even that wasn’t as bad as this. I know it’s Liz because I recognize her clothes. But if it weren’t for them, there would be no indication that this is my wife. I know there is nothing I can do to help her. I know there is nothing I can do to bring her back.

And it’s at this very moment that I feel myself go numb…

I don’t get any sleep. I lie on Maria’s couch and listen to the ticking of her mantle clock. I watch the sun come up and as soon as it’s somewhat daylight, I silently get ready for my departure. I know Maria’s finally asleep because I can hear her steady breathing through her bedroom door. I’m glad she could find some rest. I’m sorry I’ve brought her so much pain.

On the street, I’m tossing my bag into the trunk of the Buick when I hear her voice behind me.

“Hey,” she calls, her voice throaty from her sleep.

I turn and find her standing on the top step of the apartment building. She’s wearing that flimsy robe she had on when she came to the door the other night, but she’s lost the cover of darkness – the sun shines straight through it and I kick myself for looking. In her hand, she has the telephone.

“Isabel’s on the phone,” she says.

Internally, I sigh. I can only imagine what this is about. I climb the steps and take the phone from Maria.

“What’s up, Isabel?” I say in greeting.

I can practically hear her sigh in relief. “Oh, good, you’re there.”

“Yes, I said I would be,” I remind her.

“You, um, forgot something…” Her voice trails off as if she’s just realized she’s said something she shouldn’t.

“What did I forget?” I glance at Maria, who is staring into space in a post-slumber haze.

“Your, um…medication.”

Ah ha! Proof that she snoops in my medicine chest!

When I don’t respond immediately, she hurriedly explains how she found out about the pills. “I came to water the plants and I had a really bad headache. I went to get something…and I found them…Do you want me to mail them to you or something?”

I can’t play this charade any more. “It’s not necessary, Iz.”

There’s a pause and I mentally picture her brow furrowing. “Don’t you need them, Max?”

I glance at Maria again and she’s looking at me with curious eyes.

“I don’t need them because I haven’t been taking them,” I explain casually.

There’s another pause, but it’s just the calm before the storm. “What do you mean?” Isabel spouts. “Max, they prescribed them for a reason! If you don’t take them –“

“Isabel,” I say calmly. “I’ve never taken them.”

“What?! Max, how could you be so irresponsible –“

“Goodbye, Isabel.” I push the OFF button on the phone and hand it back to Maria. “If it rings again immediately, don’t pick it up. She’s pissed off now.”

I walk back down the steps and slam the trunk of the car. I open the driver’s door and I’m about to climb in when I realize Maria has followed me down the steps. She looks a little lost.

“I don’t want you to leave,” she reveals, glancing away self-consciously.

“I think it’s best for both of us,” I answer. “I shouldn’t have come here like this. I don’t know what I was trying to do, but whatever it was was wrong. I’m sorry for that.”

She shakes her head, blond curls bobbing. “I don’t think it was wrong. I think we just got off on the wrong foot. You’re my last friend, Max.”

I raise my eyebrows. Certainly someone as vibrant and caring as Maria has a ton of friends in this city. I can’t imagine she’s alone.

“I mean, from then,” she clarifies. “You’re the only one who knew me when I’d never had a boyfriend, had never been kissed – when I used to wear silver bobbles on my head when I worked.” She gives a little laugh at the memory and I have to smile, too. “Please come back upstairs. Let’s try this again.” She holds out her hand to me.

Seeing Maria has dredged up feelings I haven’t wanted to deal with. But maybe spending a little more time with her will bring to the surface memories that aren’t so bad – like girls wearing silver bobbles on their heads as they wait tables. Maybe everything in life deserves a second chance.

So I close the car door, take her hand and follow her back into the building. I try to avert my eyes from her sheer robe, but some things in life also deserve a second glance.

tbc

Thanks to everyone for your comments and compliments! It's nice to know a depressing little GZ story can find a corner on this board and be read! Thanks very much!

Jeez...I cried while re-reading this before posting it Not saying it will make you cry - just maybe I need some Midol or something

I promise it will be less despressing after this part...


Part Five

Maria blows lightly on her cup of coffee and takes a delicate sip. Since we came back upstairs, she’s gotten dressed and we’ve made breakfast; now we’re sitting by her bay window again. I get the feeling this is her favorite spot.

We haven’t talked much, other than as a function of preparing food. I dread what lies ahead. I know if I am to stay here and we are to bury some skeletons, we’re going to have to have a long talk and I don’t want to. I don’t want to talk about all of those things I’ve spent so long burying.

“I miss her,” Maria finally says, her lips curved into a sad smile. I nod in agreement. “Lizzie was my best friend, you know? I knew her all of my life, practically. There aren’t many people you can say that about.”

That’s true. Outside of family, I can’t think of anyone I’ve known that long. I didn’t even know Liz as long as Maria did.

“And even though she’s been gone for so long,” Maria continues, “I still wonder what she would do in certain situations.” She sighs and sets her coffee cup down. “When I really needed someone’s advice, I would always ask Liz. She wouldn’t tell me something just because it’s what I wanted to hear – she’d tell me if I was being an idiot.”

I snort a little laugh. That she would.

Maria looks down at her cup. “And now that’s gone. I don’t know who to ask. I haven’t known for five years. I’m just on my own.” She lifts her eyes and looks at the picture she keeps on her mantel. “She had so much potential, you know?”

I swallow, guilt very near the surface. “Yeah, I know, Maria. I’m sorry.”

She’s looking at me curiously. “What are you sorry for?”

I feel a flash of heat start at my neck and make its way to my ears. My well-kept secret, something I’ve never revealed to anyone. Maria obviously sees that I’ve said something I shouldn’t have as her expression turns anxious.

“What, Max?” she asks, her voice tinged with anxiety.

“Nothing,” I say quickly, taking a sip from my coffee. It’s too hot and it burns my lip.

“It’s obviously not nothing,” Maria says. “What are you hiding, Max?”

I can’t look at her. I can’t tell her that her grief was my doing. I can’t even tell myself that.

“Please, Max, what do you know?”

I finally meet her eyes. In my own eyes, I feel the unwelcome sting of tears. I haven’t dealt with this, not even during my “therapy” sessions at the hospital. To say it out loud is to admit it to myself.

Maria reaches across the distance between us and takes my hands in hers. When she speaks, her voice is gentler than it was a moment ago. “It’s okay,” she says soothingly. “You can tell me anything.”

I shake my head. “I can’t.” Inside, panic is starting to run rampant. I subconsciously look for the door, for a way to escape, though I know there is no way to escape myself.

“Why not, Max?”

“Because,” I finally manage, my body trembling with the revelation. The truth tumbles out in a rush. “It was my fault, Maria. Oh God! It was my fault!”

We’ve been married eighteen months to the day. As a treat, we booked ourselves a short vacation – just a trip down to Carlsbad to do some cave exploring then a couple of nights in a posh hotel. I can’t wait to be alone with Liz, without the outside world intruding on us for a whole weekend.

In the seat beside me, Liz is holding up the road map. We have far to go before we even need to consult the map, as we’ve just left Roswell and will follow 285 South most of the way to our destination. But my Liz is a planner – she likes to know what lies ahead.

“It looks like we’ll stay on 285 for quite awhile,” she says, turning her head to the side to study the map. She drops it slightly and looks at the raindrops splattering on the windshield. Her lips turn down into a frown. “I hope this doesn’t last.”

“It never does in the desert,” I remind her, unable to keep the smile off my face. I love her so much I physically ache.

“I hope you’re right,” she says, dipping her head to the map once again.

I glance at her, then the map. I want her to put the map down and pay me some attention instead. Reaching over, I bump my fingers on the back of the map, making her lose her spot. I see her peek at me from the corner of her eye, but she’s smiling instead of scowling. She clears her throat and straightens the map, resumes her study.

Well, that didn’t work at planned. My next tactic is to brush across her breast with the back of my hand. At that she drops the map to her lap and meets my gaze.

“Watch the road, Maxwell Evans,” she chides, but her tone is playful.

As she again returns to the map, I plan my next assault. She has a sensitive spot right below her arm pit, against her ribs. I reach over and tickle her there. She squeals and squirms, trying to get away from me. But I’m relentless in my attack and as she’s pushing away from me, the map flutters to the floor. I have to laugh as she struggles against her seat belt to retrieve it – Liz is short and will never get it while confined.

“Now look what you did!” she complains half-heartedly as she unsnaps her seat belt and leans forward to corral the lost map. As she stoops, the back of her jeans separate slightly from her body and I get a clear shot of her underpants.

Smiling, I slide my hand into her jeans. Still bent over, she looks up at me from beneath a veil of dark hair, her eyes creased at the corners with her smile. Pinning my hand, she sits back up with the map. My wrist is now twisted at an uncomfortable angle and I have to wrench my hand free.

“Serves you right,” she says.

I raise my eyebrows and start tickling her again. She laughs uncontrollably and wiggles over against the passenger side door.

In an instant, almost too quickly for my mind to register, Liz’s shrieks of laughter become shrieks of terror. Beneath me, I feel the car start to fish-tail and all too late I realize that the road is partially washed out – I’ve driven us straight into a large water hole. The car spins uncontrollably as I wrestle with the wheel. I see the horizon go around many times until finally I see a tree approaching quickly on the passenger side.

Then there’s nothing but silence.

I’m sobbing uncontrollably, like I never thought I would again. My world shrinks to the sound of my cries, the aching pound of my heart and the clench of my fists. The numbness that once dominated my being is now gone, replaced with one horrific truth – I am responsible for my wife’s death.

My mind races – Maria has every right to kick me out of her apartment, to disown me, to tell me she never wants to see me again. But instead I feel her soft hands on my arms, trying to pull them away from my face.

“Max, sh!” she says, her voice forceful.

I pull away from her grasp, shaking my head. “No, Maria! Don’t touch me.”

She doesn’t listen. She keeps fighting me until she’s got her arms around my shoulders. Her perfume drifts to my nose as she wraps me tightly in her embrace.

“It’s okay,” she says against my ear.

“It’s not!” I choke out. “I killed her, Maria!”

“No, Max. It was an accident.”

I shake my head vehemently. “If I’d’ve just watch the road…if I had just left her alone…if I…if…” My words catch in my throat, lost in the newest wave of tears.

Maria’s hands are in my hair, soothing me. “Sh, Max,” she says, her voice softer this time. “It’s okay. You’re okay.” She’s rocking me gently and I feel some of the tension leaving my arms and legs. “Yes, you’re okay now.”

I fall into her soft voice and the gentle swaying of her body as an unbelievable exhaustion takes over…

I awake in an unfamiliar room. For a moment, I think that Isabel has somehow swept in and had me committed again. Then I realize that this room is not white and sterile – this room is pretty and feminine. There is a beaded curtain hanging over the closet door. I’ve seen that curtain before – in a different room, in a different city.

I look toward the window – the sun has already shifted and I can only guess that it’s sometime in the afternoon. I blink a couple of times to clear my eyesight, then I become aware that I’m not alone. Rolling over, I see Maria lying on her side facing me, her hands folded beneath her cheek. She’s watching me silently, her green eyes tentative.

“How’d you sleep?” she asks, her voice cautious as well.

Sleep? I don’t even remember coming into this room. But I feel exhausted, depleted. In an unwelcome rush, I remember our conversation from earlier this morning and feel a hood of depression settle over me. From the look on Maria’s face, she’s concerned about my mental well-being…I wonder if she hid her razors.

“Okay,” I answer, settling on my side and meeting her gaze. I have no idea where this is heading. I wonder if she’s going to ostracize me for playing a major role in Liz’s demise. “Did you sleep?”

She shakes her head, then one corner of her mouth turns upward. “But I didn’t need it as much as you did.”

Sighing, she snuggles closer to me and I force myself not to recoil – I’m not used to being close physically with anyone, let alone on their bed. But her actions are chaste as she reaches down and takes one of my hands in hers. She draws it up between us, the fingers of her free hand tracing the scar on my wrist.

“I understand,” she says softly, meeting my gaze. “I know why you did this. But it’s not what Liz would have wanted, Max. She would have wanted you to live on, to have a life and to be happy.”

I look away from her. Would Liz have still felt that way if she’d known that I was the cause of her death?

Maria’s fingers are on my cheek, soft, comforting. “She would have forgiven you,” she says, as though she could read my mind. “She would have known it was an accident.”

I want to believe that. I really do. But I have a hard time understanding how Liz could forgive me when I can’t forgive myself.

I feel soft lips on mine and I’m somewhat startled at the sensation. The kiss is quick, over before I really register it happened. This is the second time Maria has hit-and-run kissed me.

“We can heal,” she says, her voice a whisper, her fingers over the scar on my wrist. “Both of us, together, Max. We can heal each other.”

tbc

This part is sketchy, but it's meant to be

Part Six

The weekend passes in a blur. Day becomes night, night becomes day, the cycle repeats. We stay in Maria’s apartment, locked away from the world, pouring out five year’s worth of grief in two days. When we get hungry, we order delivery – pizza one day, Chinese the next. We turn off the phone when we’re done ordering – neither of us wants to deal with the real world.

There’s some laughter and a lot of tears. We cry ourselves to sleep in one another’s arms. We sleep together not out of attraction but out of the need to not be alone. We talk about anything and everything.

“Do you have boyfriends?” I ask her.

She nods. “I’ve had many boyfriends.”

“Have you been…intimate with them?”

“Some of them. Not all.” All of her answers are that honest.

We lay on her bed and she takes my hand again, her fingers tracing my scar. “Did it hurt?”

I try to remember that day, but it is somewhat a blur. I barely remember Liz’s funeral and the events that occurred that night. “Yes,” I answer.

“What did it feel like?” Her eyes are inquisitive. “Not bleeding, but being that close to death?”

That, oddly enough, I remember. I search for words to explain it to her. “Peace,” I say simply. “I was at peace. Nothing hurt, nothing mattered. I felt relieved.”

She works her mouth. “And when you came back?”

She has been honest with me and I will be honest with her. “I was angry. I was so angry.”

“Why?”

“I thought I was close to being with Liz again, which is what I wanted more than anything. Then I felt like I was being ripped away from her. I was angry that I wasn’t going to get my way.” In my mind, I can still see Isabel sitting in that chrome and vinyl chair by the hospital room door. “I was mad at Isabel.”

Maria’s eyebrows lift quickly, in surprise. “Why Isabel?”

I shrug. “I blamed her for saving me.”

A tear shines in her eye and soon she’s crying again. I don’t tell her to stop. This weekend is all about exorcising the demons.

“Why are you upset?” I ask her.

“Because,” she says, reaching for a tissue and blowing her nose. I think soon her skin is going to be raw from all of the wiping. “You don’t realize how much you mean to others, Max. Having you taken away from us would have been as bad as losing Liz.”

I know that once upon a time that didn’t matter to me. Standing in our bathroom with a razor in my hand, I didn’t care about anyone except Liz. Not even myself. I didn’t think about how my death would affect my parents, Isabel, Michael…even Maria. Now, many years later, I feel the first stab of guilt for that action.

I won’t tell her to stop crying, but I’ll be there while she cries. I put my arms around her and pull her close to my body. “I’m sorry,” I say against her ear. “I’m sorry, Maria.”

Later, Maria retrieves a photo album from the depths of her closet. We look at the pictures, taken in our youth, and find more joy in them than sorrow. We laugh at our haircuts – man, I was a dork! Maria groans at her “punk” stage, when she’d cropped her hair close to her head and rarely combed it. There are pictures of Liz there, naturally, but instead of wallowing in sorrow, we share memories of times we spent together. That’s not to say that we aren’t sad because that would be a lie; the act of leafing through the book is bittersweet. Maria pulls a photo of the three of us from its sleeve and props it up against her lamp on the nightstand. Then she turns a satisfied grin to me and I have to smile back.

After some cashew chicken from the Golden Dragon, we lounge on her couch, each of us claiming an end. She sips a glass of red wine; I wish I could taste wine without losing control. I nurse a Pepsi instead.

“Do you date?” she asks.

I lift one corner of my mouth in a half-smile. “I’ve had two dates.”

She raises her eyebrows, waiting for the scoop.

“They were both…uh…accidents.”

At that, she howls. “How can you have an accidental date?”

I tell her about the set up my parents pulled on me, but I have to be delicate about the night Michael double-booked himself. I don’t know if knowing Michael is such a floozy these days will hurt Maria. So I fib, changing some details of just how I ended up on that date with that girl.

“And that’s it?” she asks. “No more than two dates in the last five years?”

I shake my head.

Her eyes wander down my body and I feel a little self-conscious. “What a shame,” she sighs. Then her eyes pop back to mine. “I’m going to get you some dates.”

I hold up my hands. “Maria, please, no.”

“It’s time,” she insists. “We agreed we’re going to heal each other and I think I can heal you best by fixing you up. You deserve to be social, Max. You deserve to enjoy other people.”

I’ve never quite heard it put that way. I’m not sure I’ve ever looked at being around others as “enjoying” them. But, then again, when you’ve spent your entire life being afraid that other people are going to kill you or experiment on you, it’s hard to enjoy their company.

As night falls, we make popcorn and make beds in front of the TV with pillows and blankets from Maria’s bed. There is a B-movie marathon on TCM, wonderful old black and white movies with really bad special effects. I never knew Maria liked those kinds of films, but here we are sharing a common interest.

“Why have you been away from Roswell for so long?” I ask her during commercials. “Or did you come home and I didn’t know it?”

She shakes her head as she chews and swallows her last handful of popcorn. “I haven’t been back.”

“Why?”

She shrugs one slim shoulder. “Too many memories, I guess.”

“Michael?”

Her eyes crease a bit as she smiles. I think she realizes that maybe I know her better than she thought I did. “Maybe a little.” She sighs. “Just everything, ya know? When we were in high school, I couldn’t wait to get out of there. Everything about Roswell – the people, the town, the tourist trap – bothered me.” She looks away for a moment. “I think once Liz was gone and Michael and I were over, I knew there was no reason to stay.”

“Do you ever regret it?”

She shakes her head. “No.”

“Would you ever go back?”

She thinks for a moment. “I can’t see that happening, but I guess anything is possible.” She smirks. “Are you here on a mission to drag me back to New Mexico?”

I laugh. “Are you kidding? I’m not even sure I’m going back.” Until those words tumble out of my mouth, I don’t even realize I’m feeling that way.

We watch movies until the early hours of the morning. Maria falls asleep first, her curly head resting on my chest. I watch her for awhile, watch her head rise and fall as I breathe. I’ve learned more about her in the last couple of days than I ever did in the ten years I knew her prior to her leaving Roswell. She’s an interesting creature, and it’s not hard to see why Liz loved her so.

In the morning, I awake alone save for a nice back ache. Groaning, I roll onto my side and shield my eyes from the sun streaming through Maria’s curtains. She’s standing at her answering machine; she’s wet and wearing that revealing robe again. Somehow she managed to get up and shower without disturbing me.

I study her for awhile, watching her movements as she jots down messages we missed while having the phone off. The machine eventually beeps several times in succession and she picks up the pad she’d been writing on. Turning, she jumps slightly to see that I’m awake.

“Good morning,” she says, plopping down on the couch.

“Morning,” I mumble.

“Isabel called,” she announces. “Six times.”

I sigh in disgust and roll over onto my back.

“Max, she’s just worried,” Maria says, obviously trying to give Isabel more credit than I’m willing to.

I rub the sleep from my eyes. “She clucks after me like a mother hen,” I say, irritated that my day is starting out this way. After the two days we’ve spent together, now I have to deal with this?

“She’s just worried,” Maria repeats.

“Of what?” I ask, dropping my hands. My voice comes out a little harsher than I’d intended. “I’ve lived alone for four years, Maria. If I had wanted to off myself, I had plenty of chances.”

Silence on the couch eventually draws my attention. I’m more than a little surprised to see tears in Maria’s eyes. Was I really that harsh? I sit up, reaching for her hand.

“What’s wrong?” I ask her. I can’t imagine my frankness is what has upset her – we’ve talked about far worse than this over the weekend.

“I know why you’re mad at Isabel,” she says, her words measured and even. “You’ve already explained that.”

I nod in agreement, urging her to continue.

She works her mouth. “But did you ever stop to consider that your anger might be misplaced?”

With that, she jumps up from the couch and disappears into the bathroom. I watch her go, my mouth open in confusion. My anger is misplaced? What did she mean by that?

In a quick flash of painful memory, I recall being wheeled into the hospital, the sounds, the smells – and a flash of long blond hair. I had always assumed that hair had belonged to my sister, that she had been the one to call the paramedics and save my life.

The air rushes out of me as a wave of nausea crashes over me. It wasn’t Isabel at my side. It wasn’t Isabel who found me lying in a pool of my own blood.

It was Maria.

All of these years, I’ve hated the wrong person.


tbc

Part Seven

I have no idea how to feel.

That’s new to me as my last five years have been spent pretty much without emotion. I avoided intimacy, loving anyone, allowing myself to be hurt. I’ve blocked out every emotion possible.

Except for the hatred of my sister.

And now I know that I shouldn’t have been hating her. For obvious reasons – she was the reason I’m alive (or so I thought). And for not so obvious reasons – my existence isn’t her fault.

I try to recall those early days after Liz’ death. I try to remember if Maria ever came around much. I was a zombie then, only playing the game so I could pass their silly psychological tests and get released, and I didn’t pay much attention to day to day activities. I think Maria came to the hospital only once – and that was shortly before I was released. I don’t recall that she was anxious or anything. I don’t recall much about it at all, other than she was there.

But I know now that it was she who found me in mine and Liz’s house. It was she who rode in that ambulance with me. And I don’t know how to feel about that.

I’m not angry, and that’s puzzling. Why was it so easy to hate Isabel? Was it all due to timing? I had thought that Isabel prevented me from being with Liz again – is that why I hated her so much so instantaneously? Has time healed a wound and I no longer have it in me to hate Maria?

I glance over at the couch and see the pad on which Maria had been taking phone messages. There is a list of names, with Isabel’s sprinkled throughout. I look at the times she phoned – all hours of the day. Deep inside, I feel a stab of remorse. All of these years, she hasn’t understood my hostility toward her. It wasn’t like I got in her face and screamed at her to let me die. The cold shoulder treatment was what she got. She must be so confused. I’m an ass.

I hear a sniffle from down the hall. Oh, poor Maria. I push myself to my feet and walk cautiously down the short hallway. The bathroom door is ajar and I lean around it to take a peek. She’s sitting on the closed toilet lid, her head in her arms, crying.

“Maria?” I say softly.

She raises her head, her face a mask of tears and pain. “Do you hate me?” she asks.

I shake my head and try to give her a little smile. I push the door open and go to kneel before her. “No, I don’t hate you,” I tell her. “I didn’t know - why didn’t you tell me?”

She grabs a Kleenex from the back of the toilet. “What was I supposed to do? Just walk up to you and blurt out that I found you in a puddle of blood?” Her sarcasm is dulled by a sob.

No, I don’t suppose that would have been the correct way to bring it up. Come to think of it, how does one bring up the fact that they found you dying on your bathroom floor, a victim of your own grief? It’s easy to see how Maria let this detail slip all of this time.

“Tell me,” I coax her. Maybe talking about it will be a relief for her.

She wipes her nose and draws in a shaky breath. “I was worried about you, Max. So I went to your house that night. I still had a key that Liz had given me. When you didn’t answer the door, I let myself in.”

I picture the scene in my head, as though I am watching a movie.

“I walked through the house, trying to find you. I hoped that you’d just fallen asleep or something, but I noticed that the bathroom light was on.” Maria’s face contorts and she talks as though her throat has constricted. “There was so much blood, Max. So much. In your hair, on your clothes, splattered on the shower curtain…” She can’t look at me.

I reach out and put my hand on her knee, willing her to continue. I’m morbidly fascinated, as if she’s telling me a story that happened to someone else.

“I couldn’t tell if you were breathing,” she continues. “So I reached to feel for a pulse. I – I wasn’t thinking…I grabbed one of your wrists…” She stares down at her hands, as if she can still see the blood on them. “I could feel the life slipping out of you!”

I swallow hard. “It’s okay,” I tell her. “You don’t have to say anymore.”

She meets my gaze, hers tearful. “But I do. Ever since that day, I’ve been waiting for the call that you’ve gone through with it, that you’ve finally succeeded. When I was with Michael, if he called at the wrong time of night, I’d think that someone else was dead and my first thought was always that you’d killed yourself.” Unable to maintain her grief any longer, she covers her face with both of her hands and sobs. “That was so unfair of you, Max!”

Oh God…she’s right. I had no idea of the pain I have put her through.

She drops her hands and sniffs back the latest tears. “Then I wondered after I broke up with Michael and moved away if anyone would call me if something happened to you. Sometimes I’d wonder if you were still with us and I’d almost call you – but I had no excuse for calling you so I didn’t.” She dabs her nose with the tissue. “And then you showed up at my door…”

I touch her face, feel her smooth, soft skin. “I’m sorry I’ve hurt you,” I tell her. “I didn’t know.”

She snorts and looks away briefly. “How can you not know, Max? How can you not know that hurting yourself would hurt everyone who loves you?”

I can’t meet her eyes anymore – because she is right. When you’re hurting and only looking for a permanent escape, you don’t consider the hearts of those around you.

Abruptly, she stands up and wipes her cheeks with the heels of her hands. “I have to go to work – I have a salesman coming in at eleven. I’m already late.”

With that, I’m evicted from the bathroom. I sit on the couch and stare into space, listen to the sound of a blow dryer down the hall. I’m still confused, not sure how I should feel. I think about Maria’s days away from Roswell and the fact that they were littered with the unknown, that they were marred by thoughts of me.

I know the act I committed against myself was horrific, but I never had to witness it. I saw the first streams of blood leave my body, but then I closed my eyes and waited to join Liz. What Maria saw had to have been unbearable. I can’t imagine it, I can’t imagine if the roles were reversed and I was to walk in on her in the same condition. The experience would haunt me for life.

I look down the hallway as I hear the blow dryer stop running. Is she haunted by that image? When she closes her eyes, does she see what she described to me? I know what it’s like to be haunted by something so horrible; guilt weighs heavily as I realize that my act of self-destruction may have been an act of mass destruction.

The phone rings on the sofa table behind me. Leaning over, I see a New Mexico number on the caller ID. It has to be Isabel. For some reason, that fact no longer annoys me. I take the liberty of answering the phone.

“Hello?”

“Max,” she breathes in relief. “I’ve been trying to call.”

“I know,” I say patiently. “Maria and I went away for the weekend.” There’s no way I can tell her we were ignoring her and everyone else in the world. I’ve hurt her enough.

“Oh. Where did you go?”

My mind works quickly. “Just some festival upstate.”

“Oh. Okay. I, uh, just wanted to check in and see how things were going.”

“They’re great, Iz.” I try to infuse some cheer into my voice, trying to sooth her sense of worry. “We’re having a great time.” I don’t know how I manage not to choke on those words.

“Good. I’m glad.” Mentally, I can see her smile. “You stay there as long as you want, okay? I brought in the mail and I’ve watered the plants.”

“Thank you.” I can’t tell her that it’s not a matter of how long I want to stay but rather how long Maria wants me to stay.

“Okay, well, I better go,” Isabel says.

I stop her before she can hang up. “Iz?”

“Yeah?”

I want to tell her that I love her. But I haven’t told her that since before Liz died and if I suddenly pop it on her, she’s going to think I’ve lost my mind. “I…uh, thanks for calling.”

There’s silence on the other end and I can now picture her brow furrowed in confusion. “You’re welcome, Max.”

I hang up the phone and continue staring into space. Maria emerges from the bathroom wearing a trendy suit and a pair of impossibly high heals – the perfect picture of a fashion buyer for an up-and-coming clothing chain. She’s clean and polished and hardly resembles the trembling waif who was perched on the toilet lid twenty minutes ago. I watch her silently as she retrieves her coat and purse.

“I’ll try to be home by six,” she says, glancing at the clock. “That might be tough since I’m late, but I’ll try.” She pulls on her coat and slings the purse over her shoulder. “There’s a spare key in the tea pot on top of the fridge – feel free to come and go as you please.”

I nod mutely. She seems so calm and collected, like she hasn’t just relived a nightmare from her past – a nightmare that I induced.

“Alright, see you later,” she says as she moves for the door. She hovers there for just a moment, her eyes sad, then she disappears.

The apartment is eerily silent in her wake. There is no blow dryer, no clack of high-heeled shoes, only the hum of the refrigerator and the sound of my own breath.

I’m alone…with nothing but the jumble of emotions inside of my head.

For one moment, I feel panicked. Odd that I’ve lived alone and wanted to be alone for so long and now I’m anxious about it. Jumping to my feet, I pace a path between Maria’s couch and her bay window. I wish that once she makes it down to the street, she realizes that she wants to be here with me instead and come back to take away my paranoia. But she has her own worries – it’s not all about me.

It’s not all about me…

I stop my pacing, the anxiety slipping away. If the sun could dawn on me to highlight that revelation, it would. All of my actions have been about what I want to do, how I feel. The accident that claimed Liz happened because I let it. I tried to kill myself because I was miserable.

For five years, I’ve been mean and nasty and unforgiving to my sister, when in reality she deserved none of it. She’s taken it all in stride. She’s taken all of my abuse without understanding why.

For five years, Maria has been living with the image of my bleeding body and the knowledge that I didn’t care enough about others in my life to keep on living. Who knows what kind of tortures she’s endured? Have there been sleepless nights? Nightmares? Trips to the same set of doctors that I dismissed so easily?

All of that adds up to one unsettling thought. I suddenly know how Isabel may have felt over the years. I’m full of uncertainty and dread and insecurity. But when I do the math, when I add up all of the factors, when I think of all of the trauma I’ve put her through, there is only one conclusion I can come to.

How can Maria not hate me?

tbc

Ugh! Transitional chapters are so hard to write :mad: I've re-written this part so many times, I think I've worn holes in it

Comments will follow


Part Eight

I take advantage of Maria’s spare key and leave her apartment. I drive out to the airport to return the Buick, as I had only rented it for the weekend; from our outings on Friday, I feel confident enough to take public transport back to the apartment. If I want to return, that is…

At the airport, I sit on a bench near the ticket counters for a long time. I could leave now – I could just get a ticket, get on a plane and leave Chicago, Maria and her pain behind me for good. I seriously consider it for quite a while, several times almost working up my courage to go through with it.

But for some reason I feel more uncertain about leaving here than I did about coming here. Mentally, I call to Liz, something I haven’t done since I left Roswell. What am I supposed to do? Should I stay here or should I flee and leave this conflict behind?

As a break from my thoughts of flight, I watch people pass me by – people from all walks of life. Middle-Easterners, Europeans, Americans from every corner of the country. These people are all going places – maybe they’ve all been places. Where have I been? Where am I going?

I realize I have no answer for either of those questions. If Liz were still alive, where would we be right now? Would we be like that young couple over at the Air Australia gate, obviously taking a much-anticipated trip for two? If Liz had lived, would we have conquered the world together?

I have to think that we would have. We were both adventurous and athletic. I imagine the two of us skiing in the Swiss Alps, mountain-climbing in Nepal. It makes me sad – Liz missed out on so much.

I think back on the events of the last five years, not personal events but world-wide events, and I realize that there is so much she never knew about. She never knew about the success of the Mars rover or all of the advances in cancer research. She never got to see any of the movies nor hear any of the music that has come out since her death. I wonder what her opinion would be on certain things that she never got to enjoy. Even in my gloom, I’ve still experienced things I’ve liked, movies that made me laugh, songs that touched me – Liz missed out on all of those.

And that’s when the epiphany hits me. If I had cashed out three days after Liz did, I would have missed out on all of those things, too. In a sense, my extended period of zombie-hood has already robbed me of some of those experiences. I could have gone to Australia, or Sweden or Nepal. Nothing was holding me back from any of those things. Nothing except for myself.

Because I’ve just been waiting to die.

I look down at the scars on my wrists, bitter reminders of a blind act. I failed in my attempt at self-elimination. But maybe that’s the wrong way to look at it. Maybe it wasn’t a failure – maybe I was given a second chance at life. Maybe Maria gave me a second chance. And I’ve done nothing with it.

Without another thought, I get up from the bench and leave the ticket counters behind me. If I were to return to Roswell, I’d be returning to the same pitfalls I left behind. I would return to sitting in my apartment and wasting my life away. I’m not going back to that place – mentally or physically. If I were to return to Roswell, I’d never know if Maria hates me for my actions. I feel for certain that Liz has answered me, that she has pushed me toward the right path.

I take various modes of transportation to get back to Maria’s apartment. Along the way, I make a mental list of things I need to correct. I’m like an alcoholic who’s seeing his first spark of lucidity in years – I know whom I’ve hurt and where I need to make amends. Maria is first – Isabel is not far behind.

I pick up groceries for dinner and a bouquet of fresh flowers from the market on the corner. It might look like a pitiful plea for forgiveness, but I’ll accept that as long as I get the chance to talk with Maria and try to make things right again. I haven’t a clue how to do that. How can I possibly erase five years of uncertainty? How can I possibly convince her that I want to live, that I’ve left my will to die behind?

Wine and flowers isn’t going to do it. But maybe they will be a way in which to open the door with her. I’ve caused her so much grief, so much agony – maybe simple gestures will be enough to sooth her wounds just a bit.

For the first time in what seems like a decade, I’m excited about cooking for someone else. The last person I cooked for was my wife. Recently, “cooking” meant pizza delivery to me and Michael. But tonight I’m going to do it for real.

I set the table with some dishes I find in Maria’s cupboard. I’m even lucky enough to find a glass vase, into which I place the flowers. I set them in the middle of the table and hope my desperation isn’t as obvious as I think it might be.

Then I spend the next couple of hours dicing and slicing. I can’t bake – there’s no hope for me in that category – so I walk to the bakery and pick up pastries for dessert. Then it’s back to Maria’s apartment to tend to the roast I bought. I find some candles in a drawer and place them strategically on the table and in the living room. As I pass the mantel, I pause to look at Liz’s picture; I feel like she’s smiling directly at me. Looking at her doesn’t hurt as much now and I have to smile back.

I watch the clock as six comes and goes. Inside, I deflate slightly, but she did say that she might be running late tonight. So I baste my roast and try to wait patiently. With my superhuman hearing, I can detect her shoes in the hallway as soon as she gets off the elevator. I don’t know why I’m nervous.

There’s a jingling of keys and the door creaks open. As she steps through the door, her eyes shift first to the candles, then to the flowers, then to me. I’m waiting for some reaction to my efforts, but the reaction I get is not what I expect.

In an instant, her eyes flood with tears and she drops her purse, her coat and a shopping bag to the floor. “You stayed!” she cries.

I’m confused for a second – is that a good thing or a bad thing? Then I realize that she knows me better than I know myself. Maria knew I was going to get to the airport and want to flee. In fact, she was certain I would go through with it.

I reach her in a few short steps and pull her close to me as she cries.

“I can’t believe you stayed!” she cries into my shoulder, her hands clutching my back.

I don’t want to have the heavy conversations we’ve been having the last few days – I want this night to be about forgiveness. I want us to relax and just be friends again. I make myself smile. “See?” I say. “I’m full of surprises.” And not all of them are unpleasant.

She chokes a laugh and steps back, wiping her eyes with the sides of her forefingers. “Look at me,” she jokes. “I’m such a baby.”

“You are,” I agree lightly, taking her hand in mine and leading her to the kitchen area. “But not so much of a baby that you don’t deserve having a nice meal cooked for you.”

Maria clears her tears and takes in my efforts of the afternoon. “You did all of this?”

I nod as I pull her chair out for her. “You must be tired,” I say, considering our late-night movie fest. “You have a seat and I’ll do all the work.”

She lets me serve her and I’m thrilled. Maybe there is hope for us. Maybe for the first time there’s a bandage over the wound. I wait on her hand and foot, happy to do so.

Our conversation is cautious at times, but hardly stilted. As I’m retrieving dessert, she goes back to the front door and picks up the bag she’d dropped upon entering. I watch curiously as she pulls out a couple of pieces of cloth.

“What are those?” I ask, setting the plate of pasties on the table.

“Skirts,” she explains.

Skirts? They’re no bigger than a man’s handkerchief. Were they made for baby dolls?

She catches my expression and gives a little laugh. “They’re miniskirts.” She holds one against her body and I guess it might cover her ass...maybe. “The salesman that came in today brought them for me as a gift.” She eyes the skimpy material. “Huh…I wonder what he’d have done if I had been a sixty year old grandma…”

I give her a smile as she returns to surveying her gifts.

“Do you like them?” she asks.

I turn my head a couple of different ways, trying to decide. Finally, I point at the one in her left hand. “I like that shiny black one.”

Her attention shifts to it and she gives me a grin as she slides back into her seat to eat dessert. “Great. I’ll wear that one to Casper’s on Friday then.”

After the pastries, I clear the table and do the dishes. Maria goes to take a hot bath while I clean up. My chores done, my belly full, my soul calmed, I sit down at the end of the couch and close my eyes. I’m tired, too. The last three days have been exhausting. So much drama, so many deeply-rooted pains pushed to the surface. I just want to rest, only for a moment.

I’m jarred from my retreat as I feel Maria’s weight on the couch. My eyes sting as if I have just awakened – had I fallen asleep? A smell of jasmine drifts to my nose as I feel soft hands on my arm. Maria slings my arm over her shoulders and slides in beside me, her shoulder against mine. She’s dressed in a pair of white sweat pants and a pink T-shirt; her body is warm.

“Thank you,” she says tiredly. She weaves her fingers through mine.

“No,” I say, serious. “Thank you.”

She cranes her head and gives me a surprised glance, then turns her attention back to our hands. She turns mine over, the scar only inches from her face. With my free hand, I reach for the scar, ready to remove it.

“I can get rid of that,” I tell her, measuring her response.

“You could,” she agrees. “But that doesn’t change the past, Max. You can’t change what has happened by covering it up.” There’s no malice in her tone, only simple truth.

She’s right. I drop my hand and study her blond curls for a moment. I have to ask, if only to clear the air. “Maria, do you hate me for what I did?”

She shifts her body this time, releasing my hand. As she shakes her head, her expression is solemn. “No, Max. I’ve never hated you.”

“I only wanted to hurt myself, not anyone else,” I tell her honestly. “I’m sorry.”

Two simple words. Shorter even than the three most precious words. But they seem to have done a world of good. She breaks into a smile and puts her arms around my shoulders in a tight embrace. As she pulls back, her long fingers trail a path down my cheek; she follows them with a kiss. I know that saying I’m sorry doesn’t erase all of the pain and totally reforge our friendship, but maybe it’s a start.

Like a weary cat, she lays her head against my chest and slides her arm across my waist. I pull her tighter to me and lay a kiss against her hair.

“I’m so tired,” she sighs, her voice muffled.

“It’s okay,” I tell her. “You rest. I’ll be right here.”

I think maybe she falls asleep instantly – her breathing levels out and she goes limp against my body.

The apartment is silent and I feel drained. I look down at Maria’s blond curls and for the first time in many years I feel a glimmer of relief. There is still so much road to go down, so much damage to repair, but it doesn’t feel like a daunting task. Maria and I have a lot of things to deal with. One roast and a bouquet of flowers isn’t going to heal everything. But it’s a start.

Lulled by the warmth of Maria’s body and my own exhaustion, I lay my cheek against the top of her head and close my eyes. I feel sleep invading quickly, but not before I have one remaining cognitive thought –

Four days ago I got on a plane and headed east without really knowing why. Now I think I know exactly why I’ve taken this trip – the healing begins here.

tbc

*yawn* Sleepy...will post comments tomorrow. Now I have to go watch Viggo on Letterman


Part Nine

I awake with the unbearable urge to pee. It’s not the usual morning urgency – this feels like someone dropped a bowling ball into my crotch. I blink my eyes open and look down for the source of the discomfort. It’s not a bowling ball – it’s Maria’s head.

I suppose I should have been a gentleman and found a way to maneuver us out of this compromising position before she awoke, but I can’t help the snort of a laugh that escapes my lips and it’s too late for being a gentleman. She lifts her head, blinking incoherently. Then she looks down into my lap and sits up abruptly. Her cheeks turn pink – a shade of pink more closely related to embarrassment than the peaceful blush of slumber. It’s an odd reaction for someone who has had “many boyfriends” and has been intimate with more than one of them.

I, however, haven’t had many girlfriends and have been intimate with only one person. My ears can always be counted on to burn immediately.

“I, uh…” she stammers, wiping the sleep from her eyes.

“Sleep well?” I ask, lifting one corner of my mouth into a smirk. I slept well – but now that I’m awake I ache from the position I slept in.

“I, uh…” she repeats, then finally gives up and gives a sleepy giggle. “Yeah. Yeah, I slept well.”

I want to keep picking on her because it’s fun to watch her squirm, but her excessive pressure on my bladder has made getting up and finding the bathroom a priority. See, you apologize to a girl – and you wake up with her face in your lap not eight hours later.

Maria gets ready for work without mention of our position at awaking. I think we both take it for what it was – funny.

After she leaves, I quickly shower and dress. I can’t wait to get outside, to go somewhere I’ve never been before. I grab my wallet and my jacket since autumn mornings are brisk here and head for the street. I walk for a long time, just looking up at the buildings and taking in the busy sights and sounds of rush-hour Chicago.

I pass a coffee shop, turn around and go back to treat myself to a fresh cup and a pastry for breakfast. I sit at a window seat and watch the commuters bustle by – men and women in suits carrying briefcases. I wonder where they’re going, what their lives are like. I take my time finishing my coffee, but when I’m done, I’m on the move again.

I pick up a pad of paper and some pens at a drug store. Then I hop on the transit and go to the art museum. I wander its depths for hours, staring in amazement at the things artists can do with canvas and a brush. These were mortal, human men and women and the things they’ve done are extraordinary. This is being “gifted” in human terms – and it seems so much more wonderful than being gifted in alien terms.

After I’ve exhausted the paintings and sculptures, I find a bench in the garden and take out the pad and one of the pens. I want to see everything, do everything – I’m afraid I’ll forget, so I make a list. It’s laughable, really, but writing everything down makes me unbelievably excited to see the world.

I list the simple things first – books I want to read, movies I want to see, plays I want to attend. Then comes the rest – the places I want to go. I want to see Mount Rushmore. I want to go to Gettysburg and Williamsburg and Pittsburgh (just so I can visit Heinz Field). I want to go to New Orleans during the Mardi Gras and Daytona during spring break. I want to go to Alaska and climb Mount McKinley. I want to go to Paris and Rome and Pompeii. I want to travel to China to see the Great Wall and to Cairo to see the Great Pyramid. I want to go everywhere – I want to do everything.

I feel eyes upon me and I look up to see a couple of amused onlookers watching me with grins on their faces. Looking down, I see that I had started writing rather quickly and that my writing is somewhat fierce. I can only imagine that I looked like a mad composer leaning over his piano while I wrote. I give my audience an embarrassed grin, which they seem to appreciate.

By the time I return to Maria’s apartment, it’s dark, past dinnertime. When I enter, she doesn’t look anxious or worried – she’s sitting on the couch writing on a large pad of paper. I find the coincidence of that amusing. A pair of reading glasses is perched on her nose. I don’t remember her wearing glasses when she lived in Roswell – either her eyesight has changed or vanity used to prevent her from correcting it.

“Hey,” she says looking up. She doesn’t ask me where I’ve been.

“Hey,” I say, excitement from making travel plans still flowing through my veins. “What are you doing?” I point to the pad as I sit on the chair beside the couch.

Maria turns the pad around – she’s sketching something. I raise my eyebrows in question.

“It’s an evening dress,” she says.

Oh! She’s designing clothes.

“It’s a hobby of mine, just a fantasy,” she sighs as she turns the pad back to her chest. “One day someone will walk down the red carpet at the Oscars and tell Joan Rivers that they are wearing a vintage Deluca.” She punctuates the thought with a laugh. Then she points at my much-smaller pad of paper. “What have you been doing?”

I look down at it sheepishly, then hold it up – because it’s show-and-tell time at the Deluca house. “Creating my own fantasy.”

Maria takes the pad from me and flips through the many pages I have scribbled. She raises one eyebrow and hands the pad back to me. “Very ambitious of you, Mr. Evans. So, planning on doing all of that in one day?”

“Hell, no!” I laugh, sitting back in the chair. “Then what would I do tomorrow?”

She giggles and shakes her head. “You’re a funny one, Max.”

We spend the rest of the evening watching television and chatting. When it comes time for bed I get ready to crash on the couch, but Maria takes my hand and leads me to her bedroom instead. We slept there over the weekend, but at the time we were both clinging to one another for support. Now we’re a little more stable and the “excuse” seems to be gone. But, she takes me there nonetheless. I would be lying if I said I wasn’t wondering what her intentions are, but it’s soon apparent that she has no intentions – she just likes having me there.

And I like being there. I forgot how comforting it is to share a bed with someone, how nice it is to curl up next to another person who feels safe and caring.

We fall into a bit of a routine. I feel less like a guest and she treats me less like one. We sleep together, eat breakfast together. Sometimes I’m home for dinner, sometimes not. Same with her. And all the while I feel us becoming closer. When we lived in Roswell, we were always friends but never companions. We were never buddies. But now we’re moving past the friends stage and into the companion stage.

Thursday morning, a week after my arrival in Chicago, I’m finishing my breakfast while Maria puts her plate in the sink. She’s already ready for work – all that’s left is a touch-up of her lipstick and she’s ready to go. As she turns around, she eyes my clothes and wrinkles her nose.

I swallow my last forkful of breakfast and meet her gaze. “What?” I ask.

“Did you bring any other clothes with you?” she asks.

I look down at my shirt. I had packed lightly – only a few changes of clothes. I shake my head. “No, why?”

“Well, you’re coming to hear me sing at Casper’s tomorrow, right?”

I nod.

“So, you might want to get something new.”

Something new? I’ve already been to that bar a week ago and what I wore that night seemed to have been okay. I raise my eyebrows in question.

“Since you have a date and all,” she concludes.

The eyebrows travel higher. “A date?”

She nods. “Yep. Mae-Ling. She’s another buyer at my company. She’s Chinese. She doesn’t mind if you call her Mae – we all do.”

“Mae-Ling?” I echo, still floored that I’ve been set up without consult.

Maria sighs and crosses her arms. Is that a defensive maneuver? “I have a date with Ramon Friday,” she announces. “We set it up long time ago, before you came here. I didn’t want you to feel left out.”

“Oh.” I can’t come up with anything better than that. It’s not that I mind having a date – it’s just unexpected. But what’s more unexpected is that I didn’t mind having a date until I found out that Maria also had one. That’s interesting and confusing all at the same time.

“You’ll like her,” Maria says, her voice a little less certain than when she’d first announced her plans. “She’s pretty. And smart.”

I give a shrug of acceptance. “Okay.”

She smiles, glad I’ve agreed to her plans. Then her eyes drift downward and she bites her lip. “There’s one more thing,” she says.

I raise my eyebrows in the silent question again.

Maria walks over to the table and picks up my left hand. Gently, she tugs my wedding band from my finger; I watch it slide off and try to ignore the naked sensation I now feel. The skin beneath the ring is discolored, lighter than the rest of my finger. I look up into her eyes, which are very serious.

“It’s time, Max,” she says.

With one last meaningful look, she deposits the ring in the teapot on top of the refrigerator where she keeps her spare keys. She grabs her purse and heads for the door, but not before giving me a pat on the shoulder in passing.

I sit for a long moment, staring at the teapot. I could get the ring and put it back on my finger. I have every right to…but maybe Maria is right. Maybe it’s time to move on with my life. Maybe that ring was an anchor holding me down. I’m supposed to have a new attitude now, an attitude that I won’t let anything hold me back.

So I get up from my chair and go shopping for new clothes for my date, leaving my ring and part of my past behind.

Friday night comes and Maria gives me the thumbs-up on the clothes I bought – dress slacks, a nice shirt and a causal jacket. I’m in the living room finishing up getting ready when she emerges from the bathroom wearing that shiny black skirt she brought home at the beginning of the week. She’s also wearing a thin black shirt that clings to her in all the right places.

“What do you think?” she asks, looking down at her body.

“You look great,” I say, smiling.

She grins in return and heads for the refrigerator to grab a bottle of water. “You know,” she says as she jerks open the door. “I think tonight is going to be a special night, Max. I think I’m going to have the performance of a life time. I think…what are you staring at?”

Am I staring? Of course I’m staring. I’m a guy and any guy would stare. The brighter lights of the kitchen have turned her pretty black shirt transparent – and she’s wearing nothing underneath.

“What?” she asks again, snorting a laugh.

“The light,” I say stupidly, pointing toward the ceiling.

She glances up. “What about it?”

“Your, um…shirt.”

She glances down, then meets my gaze and shrugs. “What about it?”

Jeez, this is so hard. But I can’t let her get onto a brightly lighted stage at a bar and show the whole world her nipples. “I can see your, um…” There go the ears – bright red.

Maria’s mouth drops open. “You can see through this?”

I nod.

“Jesus Christ,” she mutters, not even embarrassed. She stomps off down the hall, mumbling something about a bra ruining the line of the shirt.

I blink a couple of times. Why is she so much more unabashed about her nudity than I am?

My musing is cut short as there is a knock at the door. Assuming Maria is busy hunting down the cursed undergarment, I answer the door and find Ramon on the other side. I give him a smile but receive none in return. He brushes past me, his eyes locked on mine. Tough guy, this one – if only he knew I could flatten him with one blast.

“Maria,” I call. “Ramon is here.”

“Oh – send him back,” she says, her voice vague from the other end of the apartment.

Ramon gives me one last glare and heads down the hallway. Within seconds, I hear hushed, strained voices coming from the bedroom. I can’t tell what they are saying as they’ve both slipped into speaking Spanish, but I know they are arguing and that they’re arguing about me. I sincerely hope that my being here doesn’t become a problem in Maria’s love life…

“Are you Max?”

I jump, startled, and look back to the door – I’d left it wide open in the wake of Ramon’s entering. In the doorway is a breathtakingly beautiful Asian girl. She’s not what I expected – she’s tall, almost my height, and her English is flawless. She may be of Chinese descent, but she is all American.

“I am,” I say, smiling and extending my hand. “You must be Mae-Ling?”

She returns my smile and takes my hand. Her skin is soft and warm. “Call me Mae.”

“Okay, Mae. Come in.” I step out of her way and shut the door behind her. “Maria and Ramon will be out in a minute.”

She continues to smile. Ah, awkwardness. But she’s hardly bashful – her eyes are glued on mine and she appears to be trying to stare straight through me. She might not be awkward, but I sure am.

“Maria was right,” she finally says. “You do have interesting eyes.”

“Thank you,” I laugh and feel my ears start to burn. I wonder what else Maria told her…

We exchange a couple of nonsensical comments, then Maria emerges from the bedroom, Ramon closely behind. Their expressions are impatient and irritated, respectively. When Maria’s gaze falls on Mae though, she breaks into a grin and rushes to embrace her friend.

“I love your outfit!” Mae says, checking out Maria’s new clothes.

Maria pulls at her shirt, frowning. “I couldn’t go braless with this,” she pouts. “Max said he could see my nipples.”

“Pity,” Mae says matter-of-factly.

Ramon is staring daggers at me. This is going to be a fun night.

“Let’s go,” Maria says without consulting her date. She grabs her coat and the four of us head out to the street.

As we walk, Mae slips her hand through my arm comfortably. I look down at it, her perfectly polished nails against my jacket, and realize that I don’t hate it. I don’t mind this stranger, this beautiful woman touching me. Maybe this night won’t be so bad.

But then I look at Maria and Ramon walking ahead of us and think that her body language is not what it usually is. She’s taking quick, long steps, like she’d rather be away from him. Her arms are wrapped around her body, as if to ward off the cold. But it’s not that cold tonight and I know she’s upset about something. I wish I could have understood what they were saying in the bedroom.

Then I tell myself that it is none of my business – Maria might not want me to know what they were discussing.

As I turn a smile to my date, something rather amusing dawns on me: Together, the four of us represent three continents and two planets - we look like the Warhol version of “It’s a Small World”.

tbc