There are about two tons of
Stephanie's stuff lying around the apartment. Some of it is in boxes, some on
the table, some on the floor, and all of it will be part of my planned
"Steph Shrine" in the living room.
One of those possessions is
her cell phone, sitting on top of her pillows, in a box jammed full of stuff,
on top of another box full of stuff. Her phone rang today. It was eerie to hear
that familiar ringtone, and bonkers thoughts went through my mind.
My first thought was that
she's calling me, and I'd better spring out of my chair and answer the phone
before she decides I'm not home and hangs up. I moved quickly, believe me, but
such fantasies had already been dismissed before I was halfway to the phone.
As I reached for it, I was
asking myself whether I wanted to answer it or not. Do I really want to explain
to whoever's calling why Stephanie can't come to the phone? But not many people
have Steph's cell number (she preferred the landline), so I figured it had to
be someone she knew, or something important. I'm trying to honor her by being a
nicer man, so I answered it.
No, Stephanie does not want
to donate to Scott Walker's re-election campaign for Governor of Wisconsin, and
I'm flabbergasted that her number ended up on their list. As Governor, Mr
Walker has worked very hard to ruin the economy in Wisconsin, reduce health
care and generally make life miserable for poor folks, dismantle unions, oppose
the concept of civil rights except for gun nuts, keep prisons cruel and
overcrowded, keep marijuana illegal and keep state government as corrupt as
possible. He's the personification of the opposite of Stephanie's
politics, and my own. I donated a profanity instead, and then sent another $25
to the Democrat running against Walker.
*
* * * * * * * * *
For all our years together,
whenever I came home, if Steph was there she'd say "Doug?" as soon as
I'd opened the door and stepped inside. I miss that, but I'm no longer
expecting Stephanie to be at home when I get back from work or the grocery
store or wherever.
When I open the door and step
inside the apartment, though, I've continued being surprised that she's not
sitting at the desk, playing games on her computer or watching Judge Judy.
I reckon being disappointed dozens of times has let it start sinking in,
because lately I don't even have the brief fraction-of-a-second flash of
habitual optimism. Nope, I'm going to open the door and step inside an empty
apartment and spend the evening alone.
*
* * * * * * * * *
A couple of days ago, sitting
in the living room, I heard a noise that seemed to come from down the hall,
where the bedroom is. It was nothing – the
heat coming on, or the cat attacking a piece of fuzz on the carpet, or perhaps
a car passing on the street outside. But for a quarter of a moment it could be
her, and then, of course, it couldn't be.
*
* * * * * * * * *
Some nights, just before I
fall asleep, in that final fog before fading off, I think of something I'd like
to do with Stephanie. Or for Stephanie.
... We should go for a walk together.
... It's been too long since I bought some of the fancy ice cream she likes.
... Tomorrow I'll get up early and surprise Steph with some cookies from the bake shop. ...
... It's been too long since I bought some of the fancy ice cream she likes.
... Tomorrow I'll get up early and surprise Steph with some cookies from the bake shop. ...
Very quick, fleeting
thoughts, but absolutely present tense, as if she's still alive. For a fraction
of a second there's a tomorrow with Stephanie in it. Of course, it jolts me
wide awake, back to this tedious unwanted reality. It's a vastly overrated
concept — reality — and not my favorite place to be.
*
* * * * * * * * *
I dream about Stephanie quite
frequently, sometimes several times in the same night, crossing over to the
edge of sleep and back again before tossing and turning. Waking up from the
dreams is disorienting and depressing, but the dreams themselves are invariably
sweet. Honestly, those momentary glimpses of a little more life with Stephanie
are worth the sadness that comes with awakening.
In a dream the other night,
Stephanie and I were talking, and it was wonderful. I was in the shower, and
she came into the bathroom to use the toilet. Yeah, life was cramped sometimes
in our apartment. Then suddenly I remembered that she's supposed to be dead,
yet we were talking like everything's normal. I can't remember what exactly she
said in my dream, but she was talking about the cat. I was so happy and excited
to hear her voice, I yanked the shower curtain out of the way to see, and her
voice ceased, and I was looking at an empty toilet – in my dream, that is. I
was actually in bed, of course, but the dream left me rattled and unable to get
back to sleep.
Carl Jung, the Swiss
psychologist, said that dreams reveal more than they conceal. I dreamed of
Stephanie, and then she was gone and there was only a toilet. Nobody needs a
psychoanalyst to figure out what that means.