Eve

 The morning is black, I’m up before the sun again, with no cause or reason to do so. New Year’s Eve. I wake this morning with dread in my heart, frenzied. Because it has to be today, it can’t be any other day, it’s the last day of the year. I am destined to die this year, so this must be the last day of my life.

So what do I do? Normally I start the coffee pot, so I guess I’ll do that. Why not? I’ll do my normal meandering around my empty house, peer out from the blinds, check to see if there was any snowfall overnight. Despite knowing it doesn’t really matter now. It’s the last day.

You may wonder how I know. How I know I’m going to die. You wouldn’t believe me if I told you. But I learned my fate back in May. One day, this year, I will die. So it must be today. But what time? In five minutes? Stroke of midnight? After lunch? I haven’t much of an appetite for breakfast.

You know what? To hell with it. I have some of the fancy bourbon in my pantry, I’ll add a little to my coffee. What does it matter at this point? It would be shame to let this fine bourbon go to waste. I have to laugh, realizing I have likely, subconsciously been saving this bottle for New Year’s Eve, if I lasted long enough.

The aroma of bourbon overpowers the rich homely aroma of my French roast, but eventually they combine. I bring it to my lips. Bourbon before sunrise, how about that? It tastes pretty damn good. My coffee calms me enough to slightly dull my dread. Now what?

I meander to the den, my safe haven, to my writing desk. My typewriter. I always thought I was “hip” for writing on an old school typewriter. Ironically, no one comes over, I don’t have a way to show it off, prove how cool I am. I still love using it. It’s a full sensory experience, the sound, the touch, the smell (okay, well maybe not the taste).

You know, it’s a blanket solution and response to everything in life for me. Heartbreak? Write. Bliss? Write. Depression? Sonder? Write. Last day being alive? Hell, I can write about that too. But first I’ll get the fireplace going, it’s a bit drafty. My robe drags behind me lazily, like it doesn’t want to come along.

What do you write about on the last day of your life? I suppose it seems obvious, appropriate to reflect on your life. I’m hardly an old man, but I’m no spring chicken either. I would be 40 next month. Hardly a sage, hardly a dunce. Something in between.

In fact, that is what I will write about. Not to be vain or solipsistic. But a theme is emerging already. The word “halfway”. It feels so pervasive, so obvious. I mean, passing at 39 is roughly halfway.

Looking back, I didn’t always have a bad run of it. I had love, friends, a middle-class upbringing I admittedly took for granted. But oh, there were bad times, too. Horrible. I try to practice gratitude. Which has been crucial for me in recent years. Life hasn’t been kind lately, and I suppose I won’t live to see the upswing.

I’ll write about Eve, my late wife. I must include her. That’s a big part of my story, after all. What a story, perhaps. A life once bathed in golden and ethereal light. Our first kiss was on New Year’s Eve, after all. And I never wanted to kiss another woman ever again. My lips to meet hers at the beginning of every new year, my vow. A tender touch that led me to believe I could do and be anything. All with the simplest gestures of her hands, hips, lips.

I love days where I can think about all of the great things about Eve. Our first date, her boldness in initiating our first kiss. Calling me “handsome”. More intimate moments, her gaze penetrating mine, while gently whispering, “you are my star”.

Those are the best parts. I love talking about those. I could write a thousand pound book about our antics, inside jokes, impromptu adventures. But there’s the other part. Hemingway said that the sun also rises. Clever bastard. Sure as hell, it sets just as reliably, sometimes for a long time, leaving you cold, in the dark, alone.

If there’s a composer to this piece of music that is my existence, they have a sick and twisted sense of humor. No one deserves to die such a gruesome car crash, but especially not Eve and our unborn child. She was perfect. Had our son been born, he’d shine that same light, not even my half of him would’ve tainted his radiance. Maybe call it evil, bad luck, proof there isn’t a god… whatever explanation I choose to give to it, they’re gone forever.

Okay…. I’ll tell you what happened this past May. I’ve typed all my happy memories, and would rather just talk about the scary part. I don’t want to put it to ink. Somehow, Eve isn’t gone, and neither is our boy. Yes, she isn’t part of “this world” anymore, and I’m not the type to dabble in the supernatural. Ouija boards freaked me out as a kid. Seances are an exercise in make believe. But somehow, she found a way, through space and time, to talk to me. May 23rd. Our son’s expected due date.

I thought maybe I’d had too much to drink. Surely it was that. Who hasn’t had one or two too many? I do that now since Eve is gone. I’m very familiar with what that feels like. This was different. It was cold. It felt like the cold of not living anymore. Permeating and suffocating all of my senses, arresting the essence of my soul, forcing me to listen.

“Darling, don’t worry. For this year you leave this world to go to a new one. With me, and our son.”

I know I drink. It wasn’t that. It was Eve. Call me a drunk, a lunatic. I know what happened, and I’d swear it on my son’s life.

I’m not typing that, though. I just typed a beautiful retelling of our trip to Costa Rica prior to this. Before everything bad happened. That’s where the story should stop. If we couldn’t have our happy ending after that, I won’t write further. Days are short and the sun is about to set again. More wood for the fire and more oil for the lamp.

But what do I write now? I’ve painted myself into a corner. All I can think about is Eve, our son (she wanted to name him Lionel). I’ve been disarmed. I can’t write. My life is almost over. I’ve hours left. 

I’m out of ideas, I’m getting the bourbon out again. Something has to numb this. It’s too real. I’m not ready. I’m not ready to die. I miss Eve every day, and my heart breaks every day for Lionel. Most of all, my heart breaks for her, knowing she would never meet him as she took her last weak breaths.

I realize the panic makes time pass faster, it was just sundown seconds ago and we’re over halfway to midnight. I slow. The bourbon takes effect. I muse briefly about time, how I always felt it speed up throughout life, but never quite at this rate.

If I’m going to die, I’m going to die. You know? But how will it happen? I approach my fate with a touch more candor after the bourbon. Yes, bourbon is helping. My answer, when there is no answer.

If I’m going to die, maybe I can play myself out with a little music. I’m feeling the warmth of my drink, quite too bold to be respectfully facing death. I know, I’ll play mine and Eve’s song. I’ll drop the needle and parade around the den, dragging old robe in tow. 

Maybe I had a little too much fun reveling in my self medication. Maybe I could’ve done something better, more poignant. Sure I didn’t want to write about the “bad parts”. But there were other choices. I could’ve opened the photo album. I could’ve gone to the bedroom where I still snuggle her favorite blanket. Ultimately, it did not matter. A knock at the door.

You have to understand, no one comes here. Ever. Especially at this time of night. I’m prancing around my house in my robe like a drunk buffoon, trying to come to terms with my own mortality. Another knock, more urgent, accompanied by a child’s laughter.

Okay, now I’m freaked out. The bourbon can’t help anymore. I debate not answering. But then, a thunderous pound, like one you can’t imagine a human being capable of making. I actually felt more afraid of not answering. Whatever this is, it has the strength to knock in the entire side of my house. I take my time to approach the door, nervously unlocking the deadbolt. Pulling the door open slowly as cold air immediately fills my entryway.

I saw my visitor. I knew I was to die. My visitor wasn’t alone. There was another one, scampering along behind in the shallow snow. My boy. With her mother. 

I mumble inexplicably, my eyes water, my mouth hangs open. “Eve…”

Scary and indescribable as it all is, she’s still beautiful. And it’s the first time I’ve seen my son, just as I always daydreamed him to be. Beautiful. The same laugh as his mother, echoing out into the nothing. But… there’s something different. There’s a black to her eyes, and a gaze that lets me know my fate, I’m about to join them. She speaks, and I hear her smooth, alto voice once again.

“Take me into your arms again, what you’ve always wanted. Join me in an eternity of black mornings, days and nights. And endless sleep with no dreams, no waking.”

As I accept her embrace reflexively, as well as her kiss, my heart stops ticking like an old, broken clock. 11:59PM. Time’s up.