Page 13 of Past Lives
I tell her I’m tired but happy, though I don’t mention that I feel thinner, as if the city or a look back from a window took something important from me.
Blair texts me too, probably during a break at the animal shelter. She sends a photo of a kitten wrapped in a towel. “Jealous?” she writes.
I reply with a row of hearts and a skull. Then I add, “I met a billionaire,” on a whim.
“Billionaires are a disease,” Blair replies. “But maybe this one is hot? Hot billionaires are a gray area.”
I’m about to reply when my phone buzzes with Heath’s name. I almost drop it. His texts always feel like they go straight to my chest.
Hope you got in safe.
I stare at the blinking cursor for almost a minute. I want to say something sharp, something that will leave a mark. Instead, I type:
Still thawing out. Hope your calls went well?
Barely survived. Are you free for breakfast tomorrow? Or have I scared you off permanently?
I laugh, the sound coming out high and too loud in the quiet room.
9 a.m. at Black Medicine. If you’re late, I’m posting the lighthouse selfie.
He replies right away.
A fate worse than death. See you at 9.
There’s a pull here, maybe a signal or a challenge, or just the simple thrill of being noticed. I put the phone down, unable to sleep. I get up, undress, and run the bath.
The water is lukewarm and slowly turns a faint brown from the Edinburgh pipes. I sink in until just my eyes and nose are above the surface. I close my eyes and pretend I’m floating in the sea at the world’s edge. I picture the cold, the waves, and kelp brushing my ankles. I wonder what it’s like to wait for someone who never comes home.
The ache is strong, but it’s familiar. I fall asleep in the bath, the water now lukewarm, my skin covered in goosebumps. When I wake, an hour has passed, or maybe more. I dry off, put on my only clean pajamas, and get into bed.
Sleep is difficult tonight. My dreams are full of storms, sirens, and open doors.
In my dream, I’m back in the lighthouse. Maybe I never left, and the city was just a pause between storms. The spiral staircase seems endless, winding up past memories. I carry a lamp that barely lights the steps. The wind seems to come from inside. Each window fogs with my breath; sometimes I see my reflection, other times a woman with long hair and a hollow face.
I want to call her Moira, but in the dream, names disappear before I can say them.
I keep climbing, the lamp flickering. My bones ache as if I’ve climbed for years, keeping watch every night. My hands, now wrinkled and marked with age, tremble as they always do in the dream. I reach for the locket at my neck, feeling its weight. Inside is his face: young and unchanged, while mine has softened from waiting.
Finally, I reach the lantern room. The sea circles me, both my prison and my hope. I polish the brass and trim the wick, though I know the routine by heart. The room has only my table, where I’ve eaten every meal alone since he left. I touch the locket again. The face inside looks like Heath’s somehow, with those same clear eyes that promised to return.
I walk to the window and press my hand to the cold glass. "When?" I whisper, my voice rough from years of shouting at the sea. Suddenly, I feel dizzy and wake up, almostfalling out of bed. It takes me five minutes to remember I’m in my hotel room, not the lighthouse, and to remember who I am.
The hotel room feels cold, and so do I. Tears are on my cheeks. I taste salt and, for a moment, believe the dream followed me home.
Outside, I hear delivery trucks in the distance as the city slowly wakes up, feeling like it has more ghosts than people. I hold my phone, half-expecting another text.
There are none. I am completely alone.
But I’m not untouched.
By 8:00, I’m outside Black Medicine, the wind already cutting through my coat even with all my layers. I watch the city wake up, seeing all the anonymous faces, and wonder how to act after a night like that. Blair would tell me to fake it. My mother would say, "Own it." I think Heath would rather I say nothing.
I order a double espresso, but the barista, brisk and unsmiling with a lip piercing and messy bleached hair, gives me a free brownie instead.
“You look like you could use it,” she says, not unkindly.
I don’t ask what I look like. I eat the brownie in three big bites. By the time Heath arrives at 8:58, I’ve convinced myself I look like someone who wants to be noticed.
