Nathan. I want to ask, but not if it’s going to hurt you more. You want to talk, talk. I’ll listen.”
He humphs again, snorting into his whiskey, a narrowing echo of sound as he brings the tumbler to his lips through the snort. “You don’t know what to ask?”
“What not to, more like.”
He chews on the inside of his cheek. “Ask me about her.”
“What was her name? What was she like?”
“Lisa. Lisa Leanne Fischer. Thompson, originally. She was tiny. Five three in socks, a buck ten soaking wet. Somehow made short and lean look curvy. Blond hair, blue eyes. Firecracker. Girl was hell on wheels, man. All attitude and sarcasm. Funny as hell.” He sighs. “Most I’ve talked about her since she died. In therapy I tended to talk about how I was feeling, not her.”
“Have you…” I hesitate. “I dunno how to put what I’m trying to ask.”
“Just ask, Adrian. Won’t offend me.”
“How do you move on? Have you moved on?”
He shrugs. “I don’t think I have. I don’t know how. She was my first serious girlfriend. Dated for five years, junior year of high school to junior year of college for her, through my apprenticeship and journeyman carpentry programs for me. We eloped.” He laughs. “Her parents hated me. She was from money, like old South money. She didn’t want anything to do with it, so when they refused to bless the marriage, she said fuck ’em and we eloped. Drove to Vegas, got married by Elvis.”
“Legit?”
He snorts, laughs louder. “Yeah. Sober as a post, both of us. Then we got drunk and blew a couple grand at the blackjack tables and slot machines. Came home, got an apartment together, and that was life.” A long silence. “Then a semi driver fell asleep at the wheel, crossed the center line, crushed her little Camry like a can of Coke. Killed her instantly. She was on the way to meet me for dinner after work. Phone rang while I was sitting at our table, waiting.”
“Jeez, dude. I’m so sorry.”
He nods. “Thanks.” He shakes his head, then. “How do you move on, man? I went on a date, a few weeks ago. Girl I met at a coffee shop. I couldn’t handle it. How do you tell a girl you just met that you’ve got dead wife? When do you mention it? Second date? Third? You gotta explain why you’re so grumpy, closed off. But you tell her too soon, it freaks her out. Makes her think you’re trying to…replace her? I dunno. I think that, myself. How do I replace Lisa? I know in my head that I can’t, that I’m not going to do that. But tell that to my heart.” He throws back the rest of his whiskey. “It’s a tough row to hoe.”
“I…” I want to say this is valuable insight, but that would be crass and would open up a conversation I’m not ready to have with anyone. “I guess you’re right when you said I can’t imagine.”
“God damn but I hope you never have to, my friend.”
“Me too,” I whisper, but it’s lost in my tumbler.
I won’t have to. That’s the problem. I know, I know, there’s still a chance I’ll make it through this. The experimental chemo might work. I’ve been loathe to try radiation. Surgery’s out. But in my heart of hearts, deep down, I’m absolutely terrified because I don’t think I am going to make it through this.
And it’ll be Nadia sitting here, having this conversation with someone.
That’s when it hits me.
An idea, or rather the completion of the idea I had earlier.
I can help her.
No one knows Nadia better than me, not even her. I know how she’ll react—and predicting human behavior is what I do. It’s part of the magic trick of inventing people. I can help her, when I’m gone. But in order to do that, I have to start now.
“Tell me about your wife,” he says, apropos of nothing. “Nadine?”
“Nadia.”
We tended to stick to whiskey and westerns, old girlfriends, epic party stories. Macho bro-y stuff.
“Sorry, I knew that. I’m a little drunk.”
“It’s cool.” I sigh. Here’s a topic I can wax poetic about endlessly. “What do you want to know?”
“Whatever.” A pause, ice tinkling as he swirls it in the dregs. “What made you fall in love with her?”
“Oh, man.” I laugh, scrape a hand through my hair—wince when my hand comes away with loose hair stuck to it. Fucking chemo. “Honest answer? Her ass.”
He chortles. “You