Last Stay

II. Night Calls

But before I can answer, it stops ringing. The sound of my drumming heart echoes in my ears. I'd give anything to hear her voice again. Angela's last words replay in my mind on an infinite loop.

"I love you, and I'll see you later," she smiled, leaving a kiss on my lips before going to work that morning.

I'm still waiting for later.

I fumble around in the dark, searching for the light. As soon as I flip the switch, a door slams somewhere in the apartment. My eyes scan the room, searching for the source of that forceful sound.

The master bedroom is open—same goes for the spare bedroom, bathroom, and laundry room.

That leaves one other door.

I set the bag of food on the island, slide my shoes off, slip into the laundry room, tiptoe around the mess of beer bottles covering the floor in front of the overflowing recycle bin and grab the hammer.

And with my socks muffling my steps, I silently tread across the hardwood floor towards our bedroom, stopping just outside. I poke my head in and see light under the closed bathroom door.

My approach through the closet is careful and measured. A lump forms in my throat as I hear footsteps shuffling in the bathroom. In one fluid motion, I reach for the knob and throw the door open with the hammer raised in my right hand. But the room is empty. I exhale, turn off the light and leave the darkened room.

After returning the hammer to the shelf across from the washer and dryer, I unbutton my black pea coat, hang it up in the front closet and wander over to the kitchen. I pick up the bag of food off the counter and put it in the fridge next to the rest of the untouched take out.

I lean over the island, rubbing the back of my constricted neck and stare up at the windows atop the high ceiling before giving my neck a slight twist and hear a cracking sound.

That feels a little better.

My eyes drift over to the artwork, hanging over the fireplace, and I absentmindedly start walking in that direction, pausing just in front of the charming, wooden mantelpiece.

It's the sole painting we bought in Montmartre that day because it was the only one we could agree on. The painting depicts a scene from Paris clothed in freshly fallen snow. A bridge with three round arches runs across the Seine with glowing yellow lights reflecting on the still waters of the river.

In the background, the Eiffel Tower and Notre Dame look on as horse-drawn carriages leave ruts in the snow-covered streets. A leafless tree watches two lovers embracing near the railing overlooking the river. And in the distance, the setting sun paints the blue-grey clouds above the scene with its golden beams.

She was so happy when we were finally able to hang this up.

I reach into my pocket, pull out my phone, tap on the missed call notification and hit the green call button. And just like all the other times, it goes straight to voicemail.

But I never hang up because I get to hear her sweet voice in my ear, even if it's just a recording.

"Hi, you've reached Angela Márquez. I either can't come to the phone right now, or I saw your number and decided not to answer. Choose whichever option makes you feel better. Either way, leave a message after the beep."

I wait for the beep and leave the same message I've left since the day she didn't come home.

"Cariño, it's me. I love you. Please come home...I miss you."

A sombre sigh passes my lips when the call finally drops. My eyes drift away from the painting to the two portraits above the TV (those were done in Montmartre as well).

The black and white drawing hardly does my wife justice. But the artist did manage to capture a touch of her beauty. My memories fill in the missing colours. Her long, midnight-black hair rests on those graceful shoulders, contrasting against her pale skin. The expression on her face is that almost smile she wears when taking pictures, and there's a glint in her big, light brown eyes.

I miss waking up to those eyes staring back at me.

To the left of Angela's portrait hangs mine. In it, I appear more serious than I intended to. My dark brown hair looks stylishly unkempt (a result of the toque I was wearing before sitting down for the sketch).

My dark eyes look somewhat amused, as Angela kept making faces behind the artist, trying to get me to smile. I rub my chin, feeling my thickened beard brush against my fingers—in the drawing, it was nicely trimmed.

Angela would tell me that I could use a visit to the barber right about now, and she'd be right.

There's a burning sensation in my eyes as I look back at my wife's portrait.

Come back to me...come home.

I shouldn't linger here much longer, so I head to the bathroom, hoping a shower will help clear my head. And if that fails to do the trick, I still have some Cuban rum left in the cupboard.

***

Showering helps some, and at least this time, fewer tears flowed down the drain. I open the middle dresser drawer, take out my last clean pair of sweatpants and pull them on before walking over to the closet.

I stuff as many clothes as I can into the already full hamper and take it over to the laundry room. After running the washer, I decide to hold off on the rum, until I transfer the clothes to the dryer. Then I set a timer on my phone and head up to the loft.

After getting comfortable in my desk chair, I fire up the computer, reach for my headphones, throw on some Reggaeton, and try to lose myself in finishing up the documentation for next week's stakeholder meeting. Somehow, working always seems to help me forget how shitty things are.

Ten pages in and the clock's saying five after eleven, so I take a break to review the emails that came in after office hours. They're all milestone updates from other people on the various projects I'm leading. I update the completion timelines in the system before updating my personal, back-up Excel spreadsheets for each project.

As I'm about to respond to the last email, Outlook pops up with a notification, reminding me to contact my sister about going down to Colombia for a visit.

Fuck. The family reunion is in two weeks, but I have to be in Philadelphia that weekend for a conference. I'll just call Verónica tomorrow to let her know that I'll try to come after that. I don't need to see the whole family anyway, just her, Felipe and Mami and Papi.

The timer goes off, forcing me to save my work. I set another reminder to call my sister before jogging downstairs to deal with the laundry. Once the clothes are in the dryer, I head to the kitchen, pour the last of the rum over a couple ice cubes and wander over to the glass doors that lead to the balcony.

I don't know why I keep doing this every night; I'm not sure what I expect to see across the street. But just like the previous nights, Angela's old apartment is dark. I've checked the place a dozen times, and so did the police.

Nothing's there, and I know that.

But still, I stand here and watch, bringing the glass up to my lips. Just then, my phone starts ringing in my pocket. It's the song we danced to on the night Angela made me the happiest man alive.

As my thumb is about to hit the green button to answer the call, the light in Angela's old bedroom across the street comes on.