The Ninth Life

The Story

I hit Snooze to have ten more minutes wrapped up in blankets next to him, just one more example in the string of times I had chosen time with him over my own life. I knew that this meant I would have to take my bike to work, since our commutes were in opposite directions, and he wouldn't have time to drop me off. But I didn't care, I felt his breath over my neck and curled up in his arms. The vibrations of his voice, deep and tired still, filled my chest as he said good morning. I wrap my legs around his and sigh out a good morning of my own, barely audible from grogginess. I felt him smile, his smiles always filled his body.

When the alarm rings again, I turn it off and we roll out of bed. We showered together that morning, "To save time," he had said, with that smile that he knew drove me crazy. We got dressed and brushed our teeth and I grabbed a Pop-Tart while he filled two Thermoses with pour-over coffee. As he handed me my Thermos, he shook his head at my breakfast before grabbing his wallet and keys out of the bowl on the counter. "You should start your day out right," he said playfully. 

"In what time?" I ask. He pulls me into a long, slow kiss before jumping at the sight of the clock. We exchanged one last peck before parting, he headed for the car and I got my bike out of the garage. That's the last thing I remember about my life. Because less than ten minutes after that moment, it ended, faster than snuffing out a candle. I didn't even get to see the truck that hit me.

The next thing I remember is a face. His face. Ashen and tearstained. My funeral. The sermon was a buzz about young love cut short too soon. I stop listening, it hurts me as much as it's hurting him to sit here and listen to this. I cover his ears and he closes his eyes. At my graveside service I meet my guide, whether he's a ghost or an angel he won't tell me. He informs me of my situation, of the choice I have ahead: I can stay, separated permanently from my body, for as long as I'd like, but when I choose to move on it will also be permanent. I choose him. I say I'll always choose him. My guide disapproves, but he leaves me. After the funeral, my funeral, I go home with my husband, but this time it's different. He thinks he's alone. He pulls over more than once to let the tears overtake him. I rub his shoulder, even though my guide said he might not always feel it. He goes to bed early that night. Lying in bed beside him, I've never felt further away. I realize that he may not want me here right now, that the ghost of his dead wife might disturb him, so I wait until he's barely conscious to be sure. "Do you want me here? I can stay if you do, but I don't want to haunt you. My hand is right here in yours. If you want me, take it." His fingers close around mine. I feel like I'm glowing from the inside. I slide against his chest and watch him breathe softly all night long. He never pulled his hand away.

We spent so many nights like this, so many days with me hovering just behind him. Never in corners or shadows or anywhere that would make him feel like he was being watched, but close to him. My hand on his shoulder, his arm, the small of his back. He kept all of my things exactly where they always were. He would take out my sweaters and bury his face in them, spray my perfume in the bedroom, even use my body wash. He was always a sensory person. He kept a diary, but instead of addressing his words to the diary itself, now all of the entries were addressed to me. And I answered him, in little ways. Mostly correcting small mistakes around the house or finding things he had misplaced. He would still cry until his head ached and he had to take painkillers, and I would go through fits where I felt like I would vomit if I had a body to do it in, but mostly it was business as usual.

Everything was fine until his mother set him up with her. Red hair. Short. Trendy, earth tone clothes. My exact opposite. Maybe my mother-in-law was thinking that there was no way in hell, heaven, or wherever I was that this girl would remind him of me. But I was in a volatile state and I took it as a personal affront. Katie. He wrote in his diary about her. "It's been three years, and I'm still not ready to move on, but Mom thinks it's time for me to get out of the house a bit. I doubt this will change anything, I still miss you like someone has taken out a vital organ, but time will tell."