The Second Stage

Recovery

Two foggy days at the boardwalk defined the past decade for Meredith. What if, on either day, she had strode to the pier, the one with the single sailboat, and simply sailed away? 'Good Vibrations' might have faded as the waves slid under the bow. The wind might have flapped in the sails. Kyle might have nestled into her shoulder. Or perhaps, on that later day, she would have embarked alone. But she hadn't.

That first day, she watched Kyle with a coward's passivity until the monster took him. Every day she ran her simple motions, every night she dreamed, and every morning she rewound the dream, setting it by her bedside to play again the next evening. Not once had she acted.

And the second time, she walked right past the sailboat and off the end of the pier with a cinderblock. If not for the efforts of two divers prepping for a shore dive, Meredith might still be there.

She tried not to think of those days, especially now. There was time left for action. The life she lost may not be gone forever.

One basic question remained. The "who", "what", and "how" didn't bother Meredith any longer; they seemed purely scientific inquiries. It was still the "why" that bothered her, whether everything was a reality or illusion. Why was Kyle there? Why couldn't he leave? Perhaps his soul became entangled in that place. Why the hell was Meredith believing in souls?

She spent weeks scouring the internet for such phenomena, finding pranks and a half-baked attempt by a closeted hobbyist at a self-published scary story. The question preoccupied her for every second of every day. Surprisingly, it had little effect on her job performance after she transferred back to the ICU. They gave her menial tasks and stable patients—even more time to ponder.

And ponder she did, until she arrived at the final and most important "why": why bother?

Only one option represented something worth pursuing: that Kyle's soul was trapped, wanted to be saved, and could be saved. In that impossible combination of impossibilities, Meredith felt secure in abandoning the pursuit. Her life was calm. Her life was in front of her. Her life was about fixing and rebuilding others. Why not herself?

Meredith sent half a dozen unanswered apologies to Kiara; she had gone to long lengths to avoid contact. That wouldn't last. They shared a friendship for three decades and worked in Dr. Bloom's hospital since it first reopened. If they stayed together through that then an outburst seemed no more insurmountable than a stick in the road. Meredith even resorted to joining Kiara's church and to her surprise, went back for the church itself.

It wasn't about God—though she questioned her aloneness more each week—it was about habit. It was about believing in something. It was about having something. So she added other habits.

A stroll to the boardwalk before work eased her mind and every evening the same trip gave her hope for a better day tomorrow. And each trip, she sat there and watched the sailboat roll on the gentle waves. Her phone would play the Beach Boys as the Boardwalk blared 90s alternative and punk over the speakers. Even retro had moved on. Only one morning did the fog tumble in, and only on one morning did Meredith skip her routine.

Meredith bought a stationary bike and used it whenever she arrived home from the boardwalk. She did chores: dishes at night, sweeping in the morning, weekends for bathroom and tidying. In time, she had daily lunch with Kiara. The old habits came back too. She still got chills, still became nauseated, still spent a few hours holed away in this nook or that cranny. All the same, the structure helped the days pass.

The summer cooled into Fall then Fall sank into the earth to hibernate, leaving the trees brittle, the earth dry, and the ocean jagged, persistent, and famished for the rougher edges of the shoreline. Meredith had put the Second Stage behind her, concocting excuses for what she perceived as reality just months prior: stress-induced psychosis, desperation for a quick fix to an irreplaceable loss. Weather balloons? Sure, why not—and for that matter—why not God?