Here After

chapter eight

Sunday, June 17

PETER STOOD HUNCHED IN THE shower and tried to erase from his memory the image of Roger’s son drowning, staring up at him from two feet under, round face fish belly white and those vacant eyes, sky blue gone to black. It had been so vivid, so starkly real, the dark water green with algae, an arc of sunlight finding the boy’s lips, deathly purple against the pale of his skin.

And that lingering touch on his hand…

The steam. The steam was filling his lungs, making his head spin, and now he shut off the faucet and stepped out of the tub, popping a couple of curtain rings as he lurched for the door and swung it open, stumbling naked into the hallway to gasp for air. Standing in a puddle on the cold tiles, he leaned against the wall and pressed an open hand to his chest, trying not to hyperventilate, the swarming specks in his vision signaling a black out.

He put his head down and slowed his breathing. And when his vision cleared and his racing heart settled he went into the bedroom and got dressed. Then he dialed Erika’s number on the kitchen phone. He didn’t know what else to do.

Erika picked up on the third ring and said hello.

“Erika, it’s Peter Croft.”

“Peter, hi. You sound out of breath.”

“I had another dream…it’s difficult to explain over the phone. Can we meet?”

“Of course. Why don’t you drop by here? Say, half an hour?”

“Okay, thanks. I’ll see you then.”

As he cradled the receiver the phone rang, startling him. It was Roger.

“Roger, I’m glad you called, I wanted to—”

“Stop.”

The word was cold, final, and Peter did as he was told.

Into the tense silence Roger said, “I can’t do this anymore.”

“Roger—”

“Please, Peter, hear me out. I’m asking you as a friend to let it go. This whole thing…I can’t be involved in it anymore. It’s as simple as that. And if you don’t mind, it’d be better for me if you found another group. There’s a new one starting Tuesday at the hospital, so it’ll be handy for you. If you insist on going to the Thursday group—and you’re well within your rights to do so—tell me now and I’ll find something else.”

Peter felt a surprising weight of disappointment. “No…I can switch groups. Anything you want. I’m sorry you feel this way, though, Roger. I still think—”

“I don’t want to hear it, okay?”

“Alright.”

There was a pause, then Roger said, “Goodbye, Peter.”

Peter said goodbye and hung up, feeling ill, this new loss compounding his others, threatening to topple him. He leaned against the counter and hung his head, wondering why all of this was happening. His son was dead, wasn’t that enough?

But God, that feeling of him, present in the room, that ethereal touch…it was impossible to ignore. And if it was madness he was slipping into, then he’d embrace it. If his son was in its midst, even in spirit, he’d embrace it.

There was a drawing on the fridge Peter had decided to keep on display, something David had done in the second grade. It showed the Croft family all in a row—Dana, Peter and David—stick hands linked, round, Crayola faces smiling, the three of them standing forever joined on the beach in Barbados, a palm tree angling in on one side, the sun beating a yellow path across the breaking surf. It was David’s rendering of their favorite vacation spot, a private, beachfront home they’d rented for two weeks every year until Dana died. All three of them had loved the place, and he and Dana had dreamed of one day retiring there.