A Walking Shadow

1. Partner

"Tell me about your wife," I say.

Tsald's long, blue eyebrows rise, and she leans back slightly in her chair. "Really? New coverage on that, after all this time?"

"I'm not a journalist."

"That was more than thirty years ago."

"That doesn't mean the story isn't interesting to me."

She sighs. "If I'd known you were going to ask about that, I'd just have you read some of the interviews from right after it happened. There were, maybe, four or five."

"I've read them."

"And you want to know more, I suppose."

"The articles didn't cover all the details."

All four of Tsald's eyes are narrowed, and she studies me with no less scrutiny than I'd expect. "What makes you think I'm going to give you more details?"

"Because I'm not the press. I'm not a journalist. I'm not going to put the story on five different interplanetary newsfeeds for hundreds of thousands to read."

She knows it's true. I signed a contract. She knows that I'm recording the conversation, but she also knows that only two people, other than herself, are ever going to listen to it.

"All right," Tsald says finally, "I'll tell you about the last night I saw my wife."

*

Her name was Laarik, and she was the most vivacious person I had ever met. There wasn't a party or social gathering she didn't drag me to. She would talk for hours on end. And she couldn't bear to part with me for more than a few days at a time.

So, imagine my surprise when she went out shopping one day, leaving cheerily with an "I'll be back in twenty minutes!" —and didn't come back.

I should explain that Laarik had a rare disease that only affects Elnath like herself and me. Usually it just meant that she sometimes had trouble breathing, but very occasionally it has been known to cause seizures and death. Ten years before this story occurs, Laarik had a horrible seizure and needed to stay in the hospital for a couple days. For weeks afterward, her skin was still tinged with unhealthy pink blotches. The doctors put her on medication and assured us it wouldn't happen again. Since then, her breathing had mostly been normal, save a few minor instances.

I was incredibly worried that something might have happened to her. I searched all around, called everyone I knew—you know the drill.

Two days later, Laarik returned, in the middle of the night.

I heard her footsteps from my room, and immediately rushed to greet her at the door. Her skin was a sickly pink color, and there were very few patches of the normal dark blue.

"Are you okay?" I asked at once. She didn't answer. She wouldn't look at me.

I stepped closer. She was still wearing the clothes she had worn two days earlier.

"Laarik...?"

The seconds passed. Then finally: "I'm sorry."

"For—for what?"

"It's—" Her voice faltered.

"For not coming back earlier? It's okay; I understand; you had a seizure—we should get you to the hospital—"

Laarik pushed past me, collapsing onto the bench at the far end of the room. There she sat, eyes fixed on a spot on the wall, obviously traumatized. I cautiously lowered myself down beside her, placing a hand on her shoulder. She didn't respond.

"It's okay. You've been through a lot. We can go to the hospital tomorrow."

"I'm not going to be here tomorrow."

I froze. Laarik's face had not changed.

"Why not?" I whispered.

"I just... I can't deal with this."

"With—?" A sudden thought came to me, and it filled my stomach with dread. "You're... you're not considering suicide, are you, Laarik?"

"No," she replied, and she sounded convicted enough that it eased my terror somewhat.

"I'm glad to hear that," I said.

She said nothing.

"Will you tell me what's wrong?"

"Something... happened."

"Is it something I did?"

"No. It's something I did."

"Can you tell me about it?"

And just like that, Laarik started sobbing. I'd never seen her this way before—yes, she'd been sad, and yes, she'd had breakdowns, but nothing so spontaneous or momentous. I wrapped my arms around her, and she leaned into my embrace, tears cascading from her eyes.

"I'm sorry for ruining your life," she finally managed to choke out.

I pulled back slightly, looking her in the eyes. "What do you mean? You haven't—"

"I have." She sounded so sure of it. "I'm leaving tomorrow and I'm not coming back. You're never going to see me again. It's no one's fault but my own. I can't explain. I can't." Now she was rocking back and forth, covering her face with her hands as if she never wanted anyone to look at her again.

I felt my eyes getting wet as well. "Laarik—you can't just say that—you can't say something like that and not explain—"

"She wasn't dead!" Laarik shrieked, and now she wasn't even talking to me anymore; she was screaming at herself. "She wasn't dead, and I killed her! I killed her! She could have lived a long and happy life! It wasn't supposed to happen like this!"

My hands were shaking as I stroked Laarik's back, a futile attempt to calm her. "Who did you kill? Tell me??"

"I thought she was dead. I was so sure. She was on the ground. She wasn't breathing. Her skin was as pale as death. She could have been dead. But she wasn't—I should have known—"

And just like that, she was completely silent and still. A second passed. I didn't dare breathe. Then she blinked, sat up a little straighter, and turned to me.

"I'm sorry," she said, completely emotionless, "I shouldn't have let myself get out of hand like that. Hormones, you know."

She looked at me as if expecting an answer. I didn't have one to give.

"I'm sorry for your loss, Tsald," Laarik told me, almost matter-of-factly. "I really am. I made a mistake, but now there's no going back."

She stood, walked to the door. My eyes followed her, but my feet did not. I was paralyzed.

"Please, don't repeat anything I said here. I've made many mistakes in the past few days. Coming back here was one of them."

And she turned around, and walked out the open door.

True to her word, I never saw Laarik again.

*

Once finished with her tale, Tsald sighs, squeezing her eyes shut tightly. "I haven't thought about that night for a long time. It's not a pleasant experience to relive."

"I'm sorry that happened to you," I reply.

She opens her eyes, leans forward. "So? What do you make of it?"

"It's certainly... interesting." I'm not sure what else to say.

"Any insight as to why Laarik was acting like that?"

"I have some ideas," I respond, "but I don't know."

Tsald's eyebrows rise again. "Interesting."

She doesn't ask for elaboration, and I don't give any.