Reflections A Collection of Short Stories

By H.K. Cole

Heather Cole Pablo Medina WR 490-01 Emerson College BFA Thesis 5 December 2016

Introduction

I have always found myself inspired by Manichaeism and psychological splitting. Instead

of an outward good and evil, I believe that we all face elements of duality within ourselves. We

may recognize it, we may not. Every day we struggle in the contradiction between what we want

and what we believe is expected of us. These stories explore the consequences of confronting

such conflicting impulses—of ignoring them, of acting on them—throughout different aspects

of life.

Duality in ambition. Duality in desire. Duality in beliefs. Duality in nature.

Duality in identity.

Only by looking inward will we see the longing reflected there.

Doppelgänger

Sandra sat in her usual spot at the café—inside, even though it was unseasonably nice

out; to-go cup, even though she always stayed; same drink, even though the coffee was shit.

Laptop resting on her knees, she kept the screen as dim as she could—not because she had any

particular secrets. Just the opposite, in fact.

A message from David appeared on Sandra’s phone: Thinking about pizza for dinner—

you in?

Of course he wanted pizza; it was Friday. She ignored the text. As she gazed out the

storefront window, Sandra found herself focused on one woman in particular. The stranger

wasn’t unusually beautiful, at least not from what Sandra could tell. Her face was hidden behind

a curtain of silky black curls, but there was something about her that held Sandra’s attention. The

woman sat at one of the outdoor bistro tables seeming relaxed. No hint of suspicion that someone

was watching. Her thoughts were entirely absorbed in the book held loosely between her fingers.

By squinting, Sandra could tell it was some sort of guidebook—probably Europe; women like

that always went to Europe.

The wind breathed through the stranger’s hair, stirring the twisted strands. Sandra

brought a hand to her own hair, trapped in a knotted bun atop her head. She wondered if David

ever wished that she would let her hair down. Her boyfriend of three years was never one to

complain, but Sandra could imagine a man wanting to run his fingers through the silky curls of

that woman. The thought made her irrationally envious.

As if she’d felt a shift, the woman suddenly glanced up from her

book and turned towards the window, finding Sandra immediately. Brown eyes meeting brown

eyes. A feeling of icy nausea settled into

Sandra’s stomach.

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Wait—

At that moment, a group of boisterous teenagers stopped directly in her line of sight,

masking the oddity outside. Sandra closed her laptop and slid it back into her bag, ready to

confront the woman. Or at least get a closer look—she wasn’t the type to walk up to strangers

and demand they explain themselves. But when the teenagers passed the woman’s table was

barren, as if no one had been sitting there at all. She was nowhere in sight down the street. Just

gone. The woman couldn’t have possibly run off that fast. Sandra’s pulse thumped in her ears.

She could have sworn they’d recognized one another.

Because…they looked exactly alike.

Sandra knew how insane the thought was. She didn’t have a twin, though she’d always

wanted a sister. No, it was probably just her eyes playing tricks. It had to be, she assured herself.

Her phone buzzed as she left the coffee shop: Pizza?

~

When Sandra returned to work, she couldn’t shake her bewilderment. Exchanging a look

with that woman had left her unsettled, filling her with a sense of trepidation. She let out a short

laugh and shook her head to clear it; she was being ridiculous and rather dramatic. Returning her

attention to the endless spreadsheet that still lingered from before her lunch break, Sandra

figured work would clear her head.

She really did try to focus. But her imagination had different plans. The more she stared

at the Excel document, the more her vision blurred. The numbers began to bleed into one

another, becoming unidentifiable symbols of boredom and doom. Her pupils dilated as she took

in the black against the bright screen. Nothing seemed the same anymore.

When it became clear that attempting to work was futile, she glanced over her shoulder to

make sure no one was watching. Opening a Google page, she typed “seeing your double.” There

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was an immediacy to the search results that might have been no more than a good Internet

connection. Or it might have been that some intangible force was pushing her to seek answers

she wasn’t sure she wanted. Phrases such as “imminent death,” “evil spirit double,” and “the

psychology of heautoscopy” stood out against the plethora of links. Sandra rolled her eyes at the

firsthand accounts she read about online. Coincidences and tricks of the mind—that’s all it was,

she assured herself.

Yet she had to wonder, what if there was another version of her? That woman probably

wouldn’t be stuck at a dull nine-to-five accounting firm. She would have some exotic job.

Perhaps she was a photographer; as a little girl Sandra had always dreamt of being one. She

couldn’t remember the last time she’d even held her camera, let alone snapped a picture. Her

double was the kind of woman who went after what she most desired: career, travel, men…

Her thoughts wandered to her boyfriend. She hadn’t been a believer in online dating until

she’d come to the conclusion that if she didn’t try it out she’d be alone forever. That’s how she

met David: her sweet, kind, boring David. She quickly admonished herself for using that word.

He wasn’t boring; he was stable. The kind of man who would always be there. The kind of man

who wore khakis and read spy novels, but never dared to imagine adventure for himself. The

kind of man who texted every Friday night to ask if she wanted to order pizza even though it was

their invariable weekly ritual.

An inadvertent sigh escaped her.

Sandra could picture exactly the life she hadn’t led; the one that the other woman did.

Their divergence started with smaller, insignificant differences in childhood. Instead of insisting

on being called a more serious Sandra, she would have been a free-spirited Cassie. Cassie

wouldn’t have been shy throughout grade school. She would have swallowed the social anxiety

and pushed herself to make friends. The smaller contrasts would have led to larger ones. Cassie

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would have had the confidence to show people her work, perhaps enabling herself to pursue

photography. She would’ve had her first kiss before the age of eighteen. In fact she’d have gone

through men like tissues until she found the one—the great passionate lover Sandra often

daydreamt about. Miguel from Portugal, or Amar from Malaysia, or Ivân—the most frequent

object of Sandra’s fantasies—whom Cassie likely met on her trip to Argentina.

She imagined how the two had found one another. Cassie had probably just arrived, only

stopping at her room to drop off her bags and unpack her camera. She wouldn’t have even

bothered to change her clothes, too eager to explore the streets of Buenos Aires. There would

have been children playing fútbol together, or a political rally or an impromptu Argentine tango

exhibition, which Cassie would have been capturing. She probably wouldn’t have noticed him

staring, too enraptured by the culture surrounding her. Eventually he might have caught her eye

or perhaps he simply dared to approach her, instinctually recognizing her fearless and open

nature. He might have been the most handsome man she’d ever seen, but she would’ve kept the

way he affected her well hidden. Their conversation would have bantered flirtatiously back and

forth in a tango of their own. And after that one afternoon, she would’ve known he was going to

change her life. He’d whisper “Sirenita” in her ear while he held her close. He’d kiss Cassie like

she was a flame he dared to touch. Long, languid—nothing like the quick pecks Sandra shared

with David. They’d feed each other adventurous foods in bed on sleepy

Sunday mornings.

They didn’t eat pizza. Ever.

Sandra returned to the lingering Google page. Deleting her previous search she typed

“flights to Buenos Aires” instead. The cheapest was $947. Still, an urge persuaded Sandra to

click on the link to the flight. For fun she selected a seat: 35E. She started filling in her

information too: Cassandra

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J. Loren. She got all the way to the credit card information, reaching for her purse, when reality

kicked in. What am I doing?

She couldn’t go to Argentina. Tucked away in the back of a forgotten drawer, her

unstamped passport probably expired years ago. What would she do when she got to Argentina?

Use that dusty camera? Did film go bad? An image of herself, scared and alone in a dingy room,

formed in her mind. Sandra would have spent the entire trip in the cheap hotel. And what would

she say to David—“Sorry, I can’t deal with your khakis and spy novels and pizza anymore”?

Could she just leave him like that? She glared at the taunting “reserve seat” button in the bottom

corner of the page and exited the website.

At 4:58 Sandra saved the spreadsheet and shut down her computer. Outside, the sky had

taken on that tangerine, magenta, and turquoise blend of dusk. The New England night air had a

perfect November crisp to it. Sandra began her short walk home folding her arms into herself.

Taking slow steps didn’t seem like a waste of time. She enjoyed the soft breeze that tussled the

small wisps of curls around her forehead that always managed to escape the entrapment of her

bun. The walk might have been her favorite part of the day. It was the stretch where her brain

shut off and she lost time, feet carrying her home by their Pavlovian GPS.

Normally her homeward trek would disappear in mindless automaticity, but something

caught her attention halfway there. A shock of familiar curly hair turned a corner merely fifteen

feet ahead of her. Sandra didn’t think. She sprinted, desperate to catch up to the woman and

fathom this second occurrence. Was she being followed? No, her mind chided, you’re following

her. Sandra turned down the path the other woman had taken.

But when she rounded that same corner she stopped short. The street was empty except

for a bus stop that led to the airport. Heautoscopy: the hallucination of oneself in the distance,

Sandra recalled. I’m going insane. Nobody was leading that life she longed for. At least not her

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“double.” She resumed her journey home, increasing her pace.

Sandra only felt her stomach untwist when she shut her apartment door and locked it. She

closed her eyes, took a deep breath. David called a greeting from behind, his voice soothing her.

She shrugged out of her jacket, rolling her shoulders to work out a kink that had formed at work.

Life would go on. She’d acted ridiculous for no reason, but everything would be okay. At least,

that’s what she told herself. “You’re home late,” David commented absently as she neared the

living room. Two pizza boxes, one large and one small, rested in the center of the coffee table.

She pointed out that he could have started without her, the “like you usually do” implicated in

her tone.

“I know, but I wanted to wait for you.”

Why?

Sandra kept the bitter question to herself. Her day was terrible and she didn’t want to take

it out on her unsuspecting boyfriend. She murmured thanks instead and sat down next to him on

their small couch.

“I got extra,” he said, nodding his head at the smaller box.

“Open it.”

She gave him a tight smile and complied, truly expecting it to be a small pineapple pizza.

David thought it was disgusting—he was mainly an extra-cheese, light-on-the-sauce kind of guy;

perhaps mushroom-sausage if he felt daring—but she thought he might have intuitively sensed

that she’d had a rough day.

The box was empty except for a smaller velvet box inside.

Sandra froze. Part of her wanted to turn to him and say, “That’s not what I think it is, is

it?” but there was no going back. David took the box and knelt next to the couch. This was his

idea of romantic, she

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realized. Pizza.

He grinned up at her and asked.

~

Standing before the bathroom mirror, Sandra brushed her teeth but kept her gaze averted.

She methodically circled the brush perceiving her movement as if she were underwater.

She wondered if her entire day had actually been

a mirage. It seemed like she would wake up, like she’d been observing the actions of a stranger.

Her eyes wandered down to the new addition on her left hand. Who knew a small diamond could

be so heavy? The ring was a perfect fit, if only a bit snug. She would never have to worry about

it falling off.

She spat out the minty mass and rinsed her mouth with lukewarm water. She finally dared

to look at herself in the mirror. The woman staring back at her was different. Her hair was free,

curled around her face. There was an element of knowledge in her eyes; an understanding that

could only be achieved by leaving the life you know and throwing yourself in the middle of

foreign experience. And her mouth…there was no perpetual frown. Her lips had a slight lift in

the corners.

This woman didn’t know what it was to be imprisoned.

In the mirror, an adventurous pair of brown eyes pleaded with Sandra. Go, they said, buy

that ticket—run away, start a new life. Her muscles tensed, preparing to sprint. A new life.

Perhaps she could be that photographer who lived out of a suitcase, who found the love of her

life. Fear clamped onto her heart. She wasn’t good enough to be a professional photographer.

She would run out of money fast in a foreign country. And she would never find her Ivân. She

took a step backward, staring into Cassie’s hopeful eyes.

“I’m sorry,” Sandra whispered as she flicked off the lights and exited the bathroom.

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Her feet dragged along the carpet in her bedroom. She felt numb, as if hovering just

above reality, the risk of floating away ever-present. On the small desk in the corner, she noticed

her camera. Hidden behind David’s stack of Ludlum novels, it lingered there. She thought about

picking it up just to feel its weight—to tether herself to something. Instead she pulled back her

comforter and collapsed into bed. Her body curled onto its side. She listened to her new fiancé

move about the room in a patterned nightly routine. David lay down next to her, snaking his arm

around her middle and pulling her tight to his chest.

Sandra knew then what she’d done. Her fate was sealed. She’d tumbled too far into a life

of complacence. Her stomach dropped and her eyes squeezed shut. She listened to the silent

pounding of fists on a mirror—begging for release. The resonance lulled her into a dreamless

sleep.

The Unshed

Time seemed to drag, as if caught in the ocean.

I could barely breathe in the only black dress I owned—one right at the edge of being too

short for the occasion. As I stood in line with his family I could feel an angry indent forming

around my waist from the black tights. Several spots along my feet ached after being stuffed in

heels all day. And there was a place around my sternum—just above my heart and lungs—that

felt torn, as if someone had ripped some immeasurable thing from my body that I didn’t register

until it wasn’t there anymore.

Ben was gone. Life didn’t seem real, though I supposed it rarely did in such a

circumstance. I couldn’t believe it. He didn’t feel dead to me. He was standing right next to me.

Almost.

Rationally, I knew Jack wasn’t my Ben. But I hadn’t been around my fiancé’s twin

enough to really know him. There were only subtle differences in the features of the two

brothers. When I’d first walked into the funeral home, I stumbled back at the sight of Ben. Only

a comment from my best friend Ashley—who’d been gracious enough to venture to Ben’s

hometown with me—drew me back into reality. “Wow, I almost forgot Ben was a twin.”

Standing next to him in the receiving line, I noticed a scar on Jack’s upper lip that Ben never

had. And his eyes were the slightest bit bluer than Ben’s hazel undertone.

According to what Ben told me, their personalities were at a stark contrast—had been

since for the past thirty years. I never met Jack before the funeral because he was always jetting

off. As a freelance journalist, Jack followed the stories whether they were in South Dakota or

South Africa. Jack wasn’t the family guy Ben was. He didn’t care that his mother missed him or

his father thought his profession was pointless. Ben, ever the sensible man I loved, trailed his

father’s path into banking. In fact, we met because I was in the market for a car loan. I’d also

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been told that Jack had a bit of a reputation with women. Sometimes I fantasized about his life—

knowing it couldn’t really be as glamorous as it seemed—and wondered if Ben had ever done the

same. Outwardly, he’d always been adamant to condemn Jack, but I recognized a hint of

jealousy. I used to imagine someday Ben would catch his brother’s instinct for the spontaneous

and whisk me away to Italy or Singapore.

I felt a hand on my arm. Jack looked at me with a question of concern that was far too

similar to the look Ben used to give me. I assured him I was okay and focused back on the

guests. A tension migraine ate at my temples and began to spread to the back of my neck. The

funeral condolences were predictable. Everyone said what they thought they were expected to

say, all starting with I’m so sorry for your loss. People were genuine in that sentiment, but

beyond it came the clichés. He’s in a better place. I hadn’t counted, but I’d estimate around

thirty people said those exact words as they passed by. When his Aunt Marge uttered them, I

resisted the urge to snap at her—Really? Is he? She didn’t know that Ben and I didn’t believe in

God or any kind of organized religion. His mother insisted on holding a proper Christian funeral.

He was such a good man, another popular phrase. It aggravated me. I knew he was; I was his

fiancée after all. Or maybe I wasn’t anymore—I wasn’t sure how that worked.

Then there were a few people who expressed the absolutely unexpected condolences.

Ben’s great uncle, a senile man I’d never met, assured me that I was lucky: I still had a good

figure and was of prime birthing age. The room went silent after that remark and Great Uncle

Don’s caretaker quickly ushered him away from the receiving line. If I hadn’t been holding back

tears all day, I might have laughed. I glanced over to Ben—no, Jack—who looked like he was

forcing down a chuckle himself, and he winked at me. That flirtatious gesture was entirely Jack,

the brother who had an affinity for the inappropriate. It brought a stark reminder that he wasn’t

Ben. Still, the wink sent my heart stammering. I rationalized that he wasn’t flirting. Jack was just

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trying to make me smile. It was nice. Everyone acted so serious. There was no celebration of

Ben’s life. The entire funeral was shrouded in a dreary atmosphere, exactly the opposite of the

man himself. But then funerals were like that, I guessed. I’d never been to one before.

“It’s time,” the pastor whispered to Ben’s mother, Maureen. The words sliced through

me. I heard her swallow gasp then sigh. She nodded, turning into her husband’s embrace while

Jack placed a hand on her back. The pastor announced that we’d be proceeding to the church for

the service. As people began to file out, I approached his casket. It was closed—it had to be after

the accident. I laid my palm against the smooth mahogany. Catching my lip between my teeth, I

bit down hard so the flashbacks would stop and the tears wouldn’t come. The migraine at the

base of my skull pulsed in protest.

“Ella?” Ben’s voice called behind me. I turned to see Jack waiting.

“We have to go.”

~

The funeral passed by too fast for me to really register it. Numbness crawled through me

during the service. I barely heard the words of the pastor. Soon enough we were back in the limo

heading towards the graveyard. His plot was a twisted mess of torn up snow and dirt. All around

me tears fell, but my eyes remained dry as they lowered Ben into the frozen ground.

~

After, I planned to find Ashley and leave, but the reception loomed. I didn’t want to go to

Ben’s childhood home. I’d only visited once before we got engaged. Still, the house would be

filled with memories of him. I wasn’t sure I could face them. I tried to ride with Ashley but his

family insisted I go in the limo. On the drive Jack sat close to me, opposite his parents. Being

near Jack was getting to be too much. I hadn’t spent enough time with the two of them to know

them as different people. Jack was a stranger, yet familiar all at once.

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When we got to the house, his parents went in, but Jack asked me to stay back with him

for a moment. “You doing all right?”

I nodded, “You?”

“I just,” he paused. “I always thought I’d go first. I mean, Ben was such a careful

driver…how did…”

“It wasn’t him,” I shrugged. “It was a horrible person who made a horrible decision.”

The night of the accident came back to me. I’d wanted to stay in and watch a movie, but

Ben had to take a new client out for dinner. I’d fallen asleep without realizing it, only waking up

when I heard my phone ring. It was three in the morning and I didn’t recognize the number on

my screen. “I’m sorry to tell you that your fiancé has been in a fatal accident…” I remembered a

strange sound coming from me. After hanging up, I was hit with a panic attack. I couldn’t

breathe, tremors running through

my fingers.

“Hey, it’s okay,” Jack said. I didn’t realize my hands were shaking in the limo too. He

put a hand on my knee—the same way Ben used to do. But the placement was a bit too high, a

bit too close to my inner thigh. I glanced up at him, breath caught in my throat. Was I having

another panic attack? No. It was something else. Jack was too close, his hand too warm. I wanted

to push him away. It wasn’t appropriate. We didn’t know each other. He shouldn’t have been so

familiar with me. I wanted to accuse him of flirting. But he isn’t, I reasoned. Jack was just trying

to comfort me, wasn’t he?

~

The house was filled with catered food. I wondered why everyone assumed that tragedy

induced hunger. I hadn’t eaten much in the week since Ben died. Food seemed dry and heavy

and unnecessary. Maureen asked me to stand with the family I wasn’t a part of again. As much

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as I didn’t want to, I complied. I stood stiffly next to Jack, still unnerved by the incident in the

car. The staggered arrival of guests allowed the wintry air to penetrate the house. A cool draft

swirled around the parlor and I wrapped my sweater tighter around me. The void in my chest was

unrelenting. Many people—a few who I knew, but mostly strangers—told me that the service

was beautiful. I wanted to say that I didn’t plan it—that if I had it wouldn’t have been religious

since Ben didn’t believe in God. Instead, I thanked them. I wondered if my inauthenticity was

noticeable to anyone except myself.

Eventually new guests stopped coming and I was released. Few people sought me out on

my own. I snuck away to a small sitting room and sank onto the couch. The empty space dulled

the sounds from the parlor. There, I could pretend that I was visiting for an engagement party—

that Ben was out there chatting with old friends. Ashley soon followed me into the room though.

Reality reappeared. She shoved a plate of carrot sticks into my grasp with an authoritative eat.

She sat down next to me and asked how I was holding up. I opened my mouth to speak, but no

words made it past my throat. “Oh Ella,” she said and pulled me into an embrace. I wondered if

she thought I was crying. I was supposed to be crying—wasn’t I? It was something I hadn’t done

since the accident.

When she let me go, I told her she didn’t have to stay. It was starting to get late. The

drive back was over an hour and she had to go back to work the next day. I was given a few

days. Ashley reasoned that she didn’t mind waiting for me. Her kindness ate at my heart. “Thank

you for coming with me,” I interrupted her protests, “I’ll be okay. This is why we took separate

cars.” She stayed for another half hour before agreeing that she should leave. I thought about

mentioning what Jack had done earlier, but stopped. It was nothing, I assured myself. Ashley

was worried about me enough as it was. My parents hadn’t been able to make it out for the

sudden funeral. Without Ben, Ashley felt compelled to make sure that I ate and slept. Mostly she

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made sure I wasn’t alone for too long. I didn’t know what she suspected I might do.

After she left, I felt restless. I moved the carrots around on the plate to make the pile

appear smaller, though no one was checking up on me. The couch scratched through my tights. I

tugged on the hem of my dress and wiggled until it appeared longer, though no one commented

on its length. My migraine continued to throb. Since the sitting room was tucked away from the

rest of the house, almost no one bothered me. Most of the guests were his family and parents’

friends anyway. I glanced around the tight space, noting the quilted throw pillows and tacky

floral canvases. Ben’s mother had terrible taste. The thought popped into my mind unwittingly,

and I chided myself for it. I could see Maureen in the other room hugging a relative. Ben was

near her talking to someone I didn’t know. He looked so handsome in a suit, I mused. Even

though Ben hated wearing them, the formal look stirred something within me.

No. Not Ben. Jack was talking to someone.

Tossing the plate of carrots onto the coffee table, I wrapped my arms around my middle

and bent forward. I couldn’t believe how many times my mind slipped into believing that Jack

was Ben. With every realization of the mistake I felt another blow to my gut. Ben was gone.

Really gone. Never coming back, in-the-frozen-ground gone. The weight of the ring on my left

hand was a constant reminder of what I’d never have. I wanted to curse God or some other deity

I didn’t believe in. I wanted to find the drunk who ran through the red light and kill him. I

wanted to scream at all of the people pretending that they really knew Ben—the way that I knew

him. I wanted to slap the next person who dared to pity me.

Breaths were coming out hot and labored. I forced myself to stop—swallow the grief.

Count backwards from ninety-nine, Ben’s voice whispered through my mind. I just wanted to

lean against him again, feel the comfort of his solidity one last time.

I thought about the last quiet night we’d spent together. Just after making dinner we sat

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together on the couch. The television played mutely in the background but I barely paid

attention. I don’t remember what show we were trying to watch, but I remember neither of us

focusing. My head lay against his shoulder as he stroked my lower back. I imagined him next to

me doing the same on his mother’s couch. It’s going to be okay eventually, he would’ve said,

ever the optimist. He would have kissed my forehead and tucked me into his side. The incessant

ache settled further into my chest. Against popular belief I did not believe he would always be

with me. I didn’t “feel” him, as some claimed of their deceased loved ones. He wasn’t going to—

“Ella.”

I shot up from my place on the couch. Ben’s mother stood before me, expression

hardened to hide her pain. The circles under her eyes told me that she’d probably gotten about as

much sleep as I had in the past week. I addressed her by her formal title because I’d always been

too afraid to call her Maureen aloud. She was a woman who demanded respect without a word. I

wasn’t sure if I should hug her—Ben never made her out to be the type of woman who hugged—

so I let my arms hang loosely. She asked how I was feeling. I lied, telling her I was fine and

inquired after her. She lied too. She stared at me before taking a deep breath.

“Look, there’s no easy way of asking this so I’ll just come out and say it. As you know

the ring you’re wearing has been in my family for many generations. It’s very dear to us,” she

paused. “I’d like to have it back.”

I froze, unsure if I actually heard her correctly. A reverberating thud flooded my ears and

my migraine exploded behind my eyes. She might have continued speaking, rationalizing, but all

sounds drowned away. Her request was pragmatic, I supposed. Jack could use the ring someday,

were he to ever settle down, though it was hard to envision him doing so. I wasn’t family, would

probably lose touch with Ben’s kin after a few years. Her argument appealed to the sensible side

of me. And usually, I was a sensible woman. But not in that moment.

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She stared at me, waiting for an answer that I wasn’t prepared to give—was there any

answer other than yes? Removing the ring was an action I wasn’t ready for, one I could scarcely

even conceive. Without a word I pushed past her. I would not cry in front of her. I hurried up the

stairs in search of the only room I’d recognize. Inside Ben’s childhood bedroom I slumped

against the door. The blue-tinted walls displayed posters of bands I’d never heard of.

Soccer trophies lined the top of a shelf that was filled with books I never knew he read. The

room reminded me that I’d never know everything about Ben. Tears stood ready to flow.

But a sharp rap on the door obliged me to compose myself once more. It was Maureen, I

knew, coming to demand an explanation for my conduct. I gathered what still remained of my

nerve and told her to come in. I faced the wall, though, knowing that if I looked at her, I was sure

to break.

“Ella?” Ben’s voice devastated me.

I turned and saw my fiancé standing at the end of an aisle. My surroundings were hazy—

we never settled on a venue. I held his gaze as I walked toward him. From his small smile I could

tell he loved the dress I never bought. I wore my hair down in loose waves because I knew he

loved it that way. With each step I could sense his excitement. We were ready for the next phase

of our life to begin—

“Ella,” Jack called again. “Are you all right?” I told him I was, but he didn’t seem to

believe me. I took a shaky breath and mentioned the conversation with his mother.

“She did that today?” I nodded and he released an exasperated sigh, explaining that she’d

mentioned it to him a few days prior. “But it’s yours,” Jack said. “You should keep it.”

I shook my head. What I was supposed to do with an unfulfilled promise? He didn’t

answer, brow furrowed in the same way Ben’s used to. I assured Jack that I would return the

ring, but I needed time. He stared at me for a moment before pulling me into him. I wanted to

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push away the comfort and wallow in my misery. But I realized Jack needed it too. He sought

comfort under the guise of giving it to me. So I returned the hug and that simple allowance began

to ease the ache. Jack’s fingers trailed along my back with an intimacy that unsettled me. Did he

know that Ben used to do that? I pulled back to ask, but lost my voice when he

leaned closer.

Similar lips, a familiar sigh of pleasure. I let my hands slide up his arms to grasp his

biceps. For a moment, I was transported to a world where Ben still lived. He felt like home. Until

he bit my lip just a bit too hard. I pulled a way with a slight ow, but Jack quickly focused on my

neck. He pulled my sweater away from the juncture of my shoulder. He latched onto that spot

with gruff affection. Ben used to criticize him as a womanizer, but understanding emerged in my

mind. I knew that if I’d allowed myself, I could have become lost in him.

“Stop,” I said, a whisper at first, but then again stronger. Jack pulled away with

reluctance and looked into my eyes asking what was wrong. I had to glance away—his azure

irises were familiar, confusing. “Us,” I said to the floor, “we’re wrong.” He sighed, resting his

forehead against mine, something Ben used to do.

“We both want this,” he said. I shook my head, closing my eyes. I wasn’t supposed to

want it. He’d noticed me staring at him all day, he told me. There was a longing in me that called

to him, he said. It was something he needed, that I needed—something we could find together.

His words compelled me. “Is it so wrong to take comfort in each other?”

I didn’t know how to answer, so I kissed him again.

~

After it was over, we didn’t speak. Facing the wall, I lingered in the small bed while he

dressed, my gaze held by superhero sheets. I felt him pause, perhaps expecting me to move, he

might have even said my name, but I was beyond hearing. He neared me and left a kiss on my

Cole 20

shoulder before closing the door and headed back downstairs. Ten minutes passed before I rolled

over and forced myself to stand. My clothes were left in a heap on the floor. In haste, I snatched

my tights and shoved my feet into them, nail catching somewhere along the thin nylon as I

stretched them up my legs. A long, angry run slithered down the side of my thigh. When I put

my dress on it seemed to taunt me in its absence of length. I thrust my feet back into my heels

and swayed.

Nausea gnawed at me. I dashed to the bathroom and hovered above the toilet for a minute

or two, waiting for the contents of my stomach to emerge. Then I remembered I hadn’t eaten all

day. I opted for splashing water on my face instead. Avoiding the mirror, I took special interest

in the faucet. My fingers slid through the cool stream. I’d never felt so hollow, never known such

anguish then at

that moment.

I left the bathroom and paused at the top of the stairs. Maureen was waiting for me to

give back the ring. The idea of facing Ben’s mother disgusted me. How could I look her in the

eye? Had she seen Jack follow me? Had she realized how long I’d been gone? My migraine

pounded. I needed to go home. I couldn’t go down and face Ben’s family, but I couldn’t leave

without giving the ring back. I glanced at my finger and held a breath. Removing it seemed like a

far-off dream, as if I was watching a stranger. I didn’t feel it slide off, but immediately sensed its

absence. I forced myself to take a step down the stairs. Then another.

I paused a few steps from the floor. If anyone noticed I was missing, nobody seemed to

think it odd. The funeral reception continued as if nothing had happened. Nobody noticed me

standing on the stairs.

I almost felt invisible as I walked through the parlor and out of the front door.

The bitter winter nipped at my exposed skin. I realized too late I’d left my coat inside, but

Cole 21

recoiled at the thought of going back to get it. Dirty snow had melted and congealed into a frozen

muck that spanned the ground. Teetering in my thin heels, I attempted to move across the

driveway. My car waited at the end of the street. The distance mocked me. Gripped tightly in my

fist, I knew I couldn’t let go of the ring. I’ll just mail it back, I thought, when I’m ready. Not

three steps towards my escape I slid, feeling my feet disappear beneath me.

I didn’t try to get up; my head hurt too much and I didn’t have the will. I curled into the

cold, thinking maybe I’d jut let myself drift away. In that moment, every weight of the day added

to the gravity that held me on the ground. And finally, I broke. The heat of my tears thawed the

ice beneath me, as sobs overtook my entire body.

I could have been there for hours. Or maybe it was just ten minutes. Tears ran down my

cheeks, following in a charted path. I cried for Ben, but I also cried for me. I hated that I pitied

myself. No one forced me to sleep with Jack. I’d betrayed Ben all on my own. Without him, I

felt lost within a shell of myself.

I cried until my eyes itched and my skin began to hum with the prospect of frostbite.

Stand up. The thought came from deep in my mind. Ben wouldn’t want you to be this

way. I sighed. It took a few tries, but I managed to get back on my feet. You know what you have

to do. Squaring my shoulders and lifting my chin, I carefully walked back to the house.

I must have been a sight re-entering the house, skin bright red from the chill of the ice

and clothes soaked. A few strangers gave me strange looks as I pushed through the crowd in

search of Maureen. I found her among a group of friends. Her eyes widened a bit when she saw

me, but she excused herself and followed me back into the sitting room. Keeping my gaze down,

I extended my hand wordlessly. Her delicate fingers lifted the ring from my palm and cradled it

in her own.

“Thank you, Ella,” she whispered, voice pinched. I nodded and turned to leave. “He

Cole 22

loved you very much,” Maureen said behind me. I glanced back. Her eyes shone and her lip

wavered.

“I loved him too. Very much,” I told her and noticed for the first time that Ben got his

smile from his mother.

Catharsis

Noah rolled off of me, collapsing in an exhausted heap by my side. I let my eyes slip shut

in the near-silence, only broken by the huffs of his labored breath. His sighs were of a much

more satisfied nature than mine. That’s how it always was with us. He took what he wanted and I

let him. Not that I didn’t want it. I was using him just as he was using me, only diverging in our

motives. I liked the comfort of having someone else to fill my bed. Noah and I had fallen into an

accordance of selfishness.

We met a few months prior through one of the many hook up apps. I couldn’t remember

exactly which one. He’d asked me out for coffee, but since I worked in a boutique coffee shop I

wasn’t too keen on dating in one. Noah brought a bottle of wine to my place instead. We talked

for so long that afternoon—probably had spoken quite so much since. He came over with the

understanding that I wasn’t going to sleep with him that day. But of course I did.

That was back when I saw potential in him. Lying beside him months later, I knew our

fling was headed nowhere. Things settled too quickly between us. I’d even taken up an interest in

someone else during our time together. But once the other guy turned out to be an ass, I decided

to continue a dead-end relation with Noah because there was no one else around. The thought of

not having anyone scared me more than the thought of being stuck with Noah. Not that he wasn’t

attractive—he could even be called handsome in the morning light. I supposed he was as plain as

I was. It was entirely hypocritical of me to judge him, I knew. I could afford to lose a few pounds

and I never bothered to put on makeup when we met anymore. We were equally not what the

other truly wanted. But that’s what I liked about us. No expectations.

No disappointments.

I felt his fingers glide across my sweat-slicked skin, coming to rest on my stomach. I tried

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not to squirm—I didn’t like that he could feel exactly how many pounds I needed to shed. “Your

roommate’s funny,” he said in that subtle Israeli accent. Right. I’d forgotten about Noah’s

fascination with my socialist roommate, Andrew. I wasn’t into politics, but it was Andrew’s

passion, and Noah hooked onto him. Honestly, I wondered if he came over for sex or arguments.

I didn’t have the heart to tell Noah just how much my roommate hated him. Most of my friends,

including the ones he hadn’t met, felt that way.

I turned to look at him, blue eyes meeting brown, “Yeah?”

He nodded and let his fingers move across to my hip. A held breath slowly slid out. I was

much more comfortable with my hips than with my stomach. His gaze focused on the smooth

expanse of my ceiling.

“It was really funny when he started talking about wage gaps,” he snickered, “as if those

exist.”

I pulled back. As if they existed? I asked him to repeat, sure I hadn’t heard him correctly.

He spoke the same words, adding that wage gaps were utter bullshit.

My eyes narrowed at his profile, “So you don’t think women or minorities make less than

white men?”

Noah snorted, not bothering to answer. That, right there—that was why my friends hated

him. His hand skimmed down to my thigh, but I drew my leg away and sat up. I asked if he was

kidding. He glanced up at me and smiled. Of course not—did I believe in them? I answered

without hesitance. He chuckled and patted my thigh. I removed his hand and deposited it on his

hairy stomach. I stared down at him—mouth smirked in amusement, nearly dozing, yet I was

wide awake. A spark of debate ignited in my chest—a rare manifestation for me.

I demanded he sit up.

Noah’s eyes flashed open, but he complied, much to my surprise. I folded my legs in a

Cole 25

childhood crisscross-apple-sauce manner. His eyes seemed vaguely intrigued, but there was an

element of mirth that undercut any earnest notion. I asked why he was such a non-believer. Yes,

he was a business major, but he was on a student visa—he was from Israel, where the wage gap

was huge no matter the job. It existed, he reasoned, but not in powerhouses like the States. I let

out a sharp laugh and shook my head at his logic.

He shrugged, reminding me that his mother was from Britain. “She’s never faced

anything like that,” he assured me.

But I had to wonder… they existed everywhere…right? Did I even know what I was

talking about? I recalled a class I took in my freshman year of college, prejudice psych or

something like that. Wage gaps existed everywhere, I reaffirmed. America, England—

everywhere. Then a tidbit of information came back to me.

“This is the same mom who you won’t let sell her own house?”

He rolled his eyes and re-explained the situation. Noah and his younger brother, Ariel,

owned part of his dad’s share of their childhood home. After the divorce their father didn’t want

any part of it. Together, the brothers owned a fraction of a percentage more than their mother.

They didn’t want to sell, even though she did. His poor mother didn’t even live in the house

anymore. It was just sitting there. Empty. No one was allowed to rent it either. Noah didn’t want

strangers sleeping in his bed or eating in his kitchen. I could almost understand. My family

moved when I was younger, and at first I’d been horrified by the idea that my room would

become someone else’s—that our presence would fade.

However, I was twelve at the time.

Noah’s scruples were those a twenty-four-year-old child. But I didn’t say anything. I

never criticized him. We didn’t share the kind of connection where I could express my true

opinion of him. He was perfectly honest with me, of course. And I let him say what he thought,

Cole 26

though his sentiments were often wrong. I never felt brave enough to contradict him beyond a

feeble “no” while I shook my head in playful disappointment. Noah was stronger at challenging

me whenever I dared to scrutinize him. I believed I was often more accurate than he gave me

credit for.

I didn’t tell him that I could sense the veneer he held over himself. But then I didn’t tell

him a lot of things. I didn’t tell him that I was a selective mute in kindergarten. I didn’t tell him

that my childhood restraint followed me throughout my adolescence. Sure, I started talking to

more people, but I only talked to them when they talked to me. Otherwise,

I concealed myself in the camouflage of social indifference. But I listened when people spoke. I

learned to understand beyond words. It was like a game. I won if I could interpret what someone

was actually conveying juxtaposed to what they said aloud. But I never dared to find out if I was

right. My anxiety crippled me into believing no one wanted to hear

my input.

Eventually I grew out of it, but the residual anxiety prevented me from speaking out. I

didn’t even have the confidence to ask for a raise. I practically ran the coffee shop, yet I was still

at minimum wage. Since my manager quit, I’d taken on extra responsibilities. I’d decided to

finally ask for the promotion the previous week. The day hadn’t been particularly slow, but when

the store owner entered I busied myself with cleaning. Jan approached me with a middle-aged

man I’d never seen before. She asked me to make her an iced red-eye and the man ordered the

cappuccino. I barely heard Jan over the screech of the steam wand, but her words averted my

plan. “This is going to be the new manager. I’m going to have you train him since he hasn’t

worked in a coffee shop before.”

I realized that I’d become lost in thought when Noah’s fingers began to draw lazy,

nonsensical patterns against my bare back. He’d lain back down, closed eyes veering toward

Cole 27

sleep. Did he think he’d won? I placed a hand on his chest and shoved him awake. “Women do

make less than men,” I said, “everywhere.”

He rolled his eyes. I told him he was wrong to which he simply replied, “Give me some

facts.”

I didn’t tell him about the inexperienced man who’d just been hired as my manager. I

wanted to bring out my computer and find my old psych notes on the wage gap. But I thought

that would somehow undermine my argument—seeming as if I wasn’t informed enough to have

the information readily available. I tried to recall everything from that class. I remembered that,

on average, a woman made seventy-eight cents to a man’s dollar. He asked if I knew where that

number came from, but continued before I could answer.

“The wage gap doesn’t signify anything,” he said, “these numbers reflect all men and all

women working different amounts of time in different places at different jobs. Most men get

higher paying jobs because they’re more qualified and they don’t have to stay home with kids.”

It took minor restraint not to slap him at that last comment. Men were more qualified?

Men and women made different choices in life, he explained indulgently. Women chose to

forego education and career opportunities for their children.

“That’s because men think they have zero responsibility when it comes to kids,” I

snapped.

He fixed me with a vexed glare, but I didn’t back down. I reminded him that from the

moment of conception women were viewed as more responsible for children. Before so, even. It

was her responsibility to be on birth control. It was her responsibility to make sure a guy wore a

condom. It was her responsibility to buy the morning after pill if something happened. My last

point was a punch directed straight at his gut. At least he had the decency to glance away

sheepishly. It’d happened twice. Both times he’d suggested I go get the pill just as he was

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leaving. Both times he forewent offering to pay for half.

“Men take responsibility,” he murmured. “We go and make money for our families.”

I told him it wasn’t the same. He didn’t understand the sacrifices that women were

expected to make. Men didn’t know the scrutiny a woman faced for leaving their children at

daycare because they wanted to have a career. I thought about my own mother, how much she’d

forfeited just to take care of my sister and me. I didn’t appreciate it as a kid. I was pretty awful to

her then. I took advantage of what she’d given up in my spoiled adolescence—back when I

thought I was so shrewd and intuitive. Maybe I’d call her in the morning to check in. I wanted to

ask Noah if he ever thought about what his mother had given up for him. But I feared that he

would think I was trying to get closer to him, form a deeper connection.

That wasn’t something either of us wanted. Right?

He propped up a pillow and held out an arm, silently seeking the comfort that I’d come to

assume only I wanted. After a moment I gave up and curled up next to him. I’d never felt so

distant from Noah. But then he kissed my forehead—something he’d never done before. The

gesture seemed too sweet for us, too caring. He placed another kiss to my ear. Then my neck.

Then my stomach, fingers gliding lower and lower.

Oh, I admonished myself for believing that Noah might have wanted a small moment of

repose. He only sought to distract me from our conversation. I let him. It seemed easier that way.

Our debate was over, though neither of us managed to change the other’s mind. We fell back into

our habitual routine of exploitation in seeking our individual desires. All the while, our

conversation replayed in my mind. Maybe if I’d told him what I was facing at work he would

have understood.

But then I doubted it would have made a difference. He didn’t appear to appreciate the

adversities women face…that I faced. My exasperated heart thudded while he kissed me

Cole 29

impassively. Despite our intimacy, Noah was a stranger. I didn’t know his last name. I doubted

he knew mine either. I asked myself who I was to this stranger, if I dared to imagine I was

anything more than an outlet of sexual need. For the first time, I didn’t feign satisfaction, but he

didn’t seem to notice. He moved like a madman seeking pleasure from an empty shell without

concern. When it was over he rolled off of me, collapsing in an exhausted heap inches away

from me. I turned onto my side away from him and shut off the light on my

bedside table.

~

It was no great surprise that our liaison ended.

We lasted longer than I’d expected, though. We never spoke of wage gaps or sexism

again. Both of us were too stubborn—too divided in our ideals and too unwilling to compromise.

But we talked about family again. A few months later, he was frustrated that his dad was

pestering him about not finding a job and spending too much money. I revealed that my mom

was doing the same to me. He expressed concerned for his little brother. I felt similarly about my

own younger sister. He told me he was afraid of the ambiguous future. I said I was terrified.

Things were different between us that night. We took time to explore each other. Kisses weren’t

so rushed, they were softer…done with more reverence. He didn’t leave ugly dark marks on my

neck. There were no residual fingerprints on my breasts the next morning. I didn’t feel used. We

were so similar, I finally realized. And for the first time when we slept together, I felt I truly

understood him.

I never saw him again after that. I didn’t call him; he didn’t call me. He graduated and

went back to Israel without so much as a message. Perhaps we’d become too real; our casual

understanding became something else, shattering the façade. We’d begun to connect, truly

connect, and allowed ourselves to feel for one another. Maybe, if we’d tried we could have been

Cole 30

something. Maybe we could have put in the effort to become something for one another. Maybe

we could have been more than an arrangement. And maybe it would have lasted for a little while.

But still we wouldn’t have been everything the other wanted.

Not really.

What Are You Capable Of?

Patrick was out for a midnight jog when he saw her.

Running in the dead of night wasn’t a normal occurrence, but he couldn’t sleep. Lately all

he could manage were a few sporadic hours. Perhaps exercise would wear him into exhaustion.

Music blasted through his headphones to drown out the eerie silence of the night. After an hour,

however, it seemed the exercise was only perpetuating his wakened mind. Resigning himself, he

turned for home when one of his ear buds slid out. He stopped to readjust by the local park just a

few hundred feet from his house. A slight breeze picked up and gently rocked the swing set with

a small creak, causing him to glance over his shoulder. The park wasn’t well lit, but he saw a

strange mass near the seesaw. He stepped closer to get a better look.

Patrick certainly didn’t expect to see a woman lying there with bruises around her throat.

He stood frozen for a few minutes, staring at her. She was pretty; her long dark hair was

sticky and matted with blood near the top of her head, but he saw past the ugliness she’d

endured. Her eyes—the color he imagined envy to be—were wide with expired fear. Patrick

knelt to check for a pulse he knew wasn’t there. He placed two fingers, careful to avoid the angry

red marks, on her branded throat. Nothing beat beneath her chilled skin.

He should call the police. That’s what people did when they

found bodies.

The woman’s empty gaze bore into Patrick. He reached to draw her eyelids shut, but they

were stuck in her final moment. The way she stared unnerved him; she’d been begging for help.

She still seemed to be. And he couldn’t do anything for her.

“Stop looking at me,” he hissed.

He turned the woman’s face to the side. It wasn’t enough. He could still feel her gaze on

him. She was too much of a reminder of Mother, who’d only passed a few short months ago. He

Cole 32

knew Mother blamed him, wherever she was. This woman did too, empty eyes seeming to plead,

Why didn’t you come for me?

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. You’re worthless, a shrill voice echoed from the depths of his

mind. You couldn’t save her. You’re weak. “Stop,” Patrick hissed, heart pounding. But it would

never stop, he knew. Death was his fault and the voice—was it coming from the woman?—

repeated the words over and over. Your fault. It was too much. He covered his ears but the voice

still came.

Desperate and distressed, he did something he hadn’t done in a long time. Seeking silence

in the only way he thought to find it, he gritted his teeth and brought his arm back. Patrick

hesitated for only a second before slamming a fist into the woman’s face. It felt good to hit

without the threat of repercussions. The surge of adrenaline thrilled him. He did it again. And

again. When he was finished her face was bashed in to an unrecognizable degree. Purplish-

brown skin swollen and mangled, sticky with the same coagulated blood that was smeared across

his right fist. Finally he didn’t feel her guilty gaze. He could breathe again.

Then reality pricked at the back of his mind.

What the fuck did you just do? The voice—Mother’s, he realized—resonated through his

head. “Shut up,” he replied in the empty night. It was difficult to think when she spoke.

The cops were going to assume he was the killer. His DNA would be all over her. He had

to do something. Finish the true murderer’s work. Along the edge of the park was a wooded area

that he could take to his backyard. Patrick dragged the body by its underarms, shuffling hastily

into the forest. He didn’t see anyone around—no one else should have been awake at that time of

night in his small, sleepy town—but he wasn’t willing to risk getting caught.

About halfway to his house, Patrick dropped the body and ran the rest of the way.

Slipping through his back door, he absentmindedly rubbed the back of his hand against his pants,

Cole 33

streaking stale blood across the fabric. Patrick crept slowly towards the kitchen sink. He

scrubbed vigorously at the incriminating substance under a scalding stream of water. When he

was certain that he’d removed all of the evidence—and a layer of skin cells—he turned off the

water and toed across the hallway. Anxious that his neighbor Mrs. Foulley could wake, he didn’t

turn on the lights. Placing one foot carefully before the other Patrick began to move towards the

garage. One particularly loose floorboard creaked as he stepped on it, screeching out into the

noiseless night. He inhaled and stood completely sure that he’d see the flick of a light in Mrs.

Foulley house. He didn’t move. Just stared out the window and waited. A few moments passed

before he dared to move again, chiding himself. No one was awake at this time. Not even nosy

Mrs. Foulley.

Patrick was cautious as he made his way to the garage. He retrieved a rusted shovel and

rushed back to the exposed body. When he returned to the woods he started digging. Sweat slid

down his forehead and stung his eyes despite the slight chill of the breeze. He’d considered just

burning the body, but the summer heat had dried out the forest. He couldn’t risk a forest fire or

Mrs. Foulley finding a burned patch on the ground. After an hour, the hole seemed deep enough.

He began to roll the body into the makeshift grave.

But he felt something on his neck. Goosebumps pricked his skin. He lifted his head and

glanced behind him. Someone was there. He surveyed his surroundings until he was positive the

paranoia was getting the best

of him. Resuming his work, he rolled the disfigured form towards the dirt hole. The body landed

face down—she would never guilt him with those wide eyes again.

~

The next morning, Patrick was exhausted. He’d gotten to bed sometime around three in

the morning, but he still had to go to work. It’d be suspicious if he called out sick. Not that the

Cole 34

police were going to catch on to him. He didn’t kill the woman. But if he stayed home that would

be suspicious, wouldn’t it? His mind shuffled between his options as he brushed his teeth.

They’re going to know what you did, Mother warned. “No they won’t,” he muttered. Fingers

curling into a fist, Patrick felt anger welling, threatening to boil over. But he clamped down on

the emotion, spitting out his toothpaste and walking back to his bedroom. He couldn’t lose

control again. He couldn’t hurt anyone else. All of his aggression was supposed to be purged into

that nameless body he disposed of the night before. Never again would he let his anger run

freely. Who knows what could happen, Mother sneered. He took a deep breath, flexed his fingers,

and readied himself for work.

Patrick drove an extra ten minutes to avoid going past the park that morning. The town

wasn’t very big, but there were plenty of winding back roads where he could avoid his

conscience. One question resounded in his mind: why? He should have just called the police.

He’d be a hero rather than an inadvertent accomplice. Patrick slammed the dash as he sped

toward his office. He wondered what made him that way. Everything, Mother hissed. He

remembered the lessons Mother used to inflict when he’d done something wrong. She’d get his

anger to go back inside. If only she were still alive to administer the lessons now. Maybe the

anger never would have come out. Without Mother he was lost. Except, sometimes she made the

anger worse, he recalled—words slamming him over and over until he wanted to punch her. Her

voice still lived within him. It still woke the emotion.

By the time he pulled into the parking lot, blood thudded through his veins. He wanted to

hit something other than his car. He wanted something that would hit him back. No, he told

himself, no more hitting, no more fists, no more anger. Patrick took a deep breath: in through

your nose, out through your mouth. He remembered the breathing techniques a therapist had

once shared with him as a teenager, back when Mother forced him to talk about his issues. A few

Cole 35

moments of steady breathing brought his pulse down and he was ready to go in.

It was a tedious day—the kind that would have bored him to sleep if he weren’t so on

edge. He kept to himself, mindlessly typing out numbers on a spreadsheet. Patrick was a drone

who computed expenditures at work, no one of importance. He sometimes wondered whether

anyone would notice if he didn’t show up, but he was apprehensive to actually try it. He was the

type to keep his head down. Patrick didn’t do anything to stir attention. At least, not until last

night. Stupid, worthless boy, Mother’s words slithered through his mind and down his back.

He was grateful for lunch that day, though he’d nearly missed it. The only clock in his

secluded office was the one on his phone. A weather alert was the only reason he noticed it was

noon. Patrick went out to escape the stale air and move around. His legs felt restless beneath his

desk. If the cops came into his office, he wouldn’t be able to escape. But they weren’t going to

come. Because she was buried in the woods, closer to the park than his house.

And he hadn’t killed her.

Patrick found himself at a coffee shop desperately seeking caffeine in hopes that it would

aid his sanity. The line was frustratingly long. His shook as he waited. Just need coffee, Patrick

told himself, just need to get through the day. He tapped a rhythmless pattern against his legs to

keep his mind occupied as his eyes wandered the small coffee shop. Nearly thirty people had

crammed themselves into the store, some staring intently at their smart phones, others gazing

into space. No one knew what he’d done. No one was ever going to find out. No one even knew

about the woman’s death; he’d thoroughly checked the newspapers when he got to work.

The only person who could ever reveal the woman’s fate was the murderer. He’d done the killer

a favor, he realized as the tension began to ease from his shoulders.

Until he looked out the window of the store.

It couldn’t be—

Cole 36

Same dark hair. Same heart-shaped face. Same green eyes.

The woman he’d buried hours ago was speaking into her cell phone right outside the

shop, expression annoyed and animated. Very much alive. He felt his heartbeat rapidly increase,

the damn organ wanted to escape his chest.

“Sir?” The voice of the barista startled him back into reality. “Can I get you something?”

“I—” Patrick looked back to the street. She was gone. Had probably never been there in

the first place. You’re losing it, Mother warned. Patrick abandoned his spot in line and ran

outside. He searched the area for the woman. But she wasn’t there. She wouldn’t have been—he

was hallucinating. Feeling guilty, of course. An uneasy laugh crawled out of his throat as he

realized how ridiculous he was being. He just needed to go home and get more sleep. Maybe a

beer or two would dull

his remorse.

~

For two weeks, Patrick waited for the doorbell to ring, waited for the police to show up.

But they never came. They’re going to find out,

Mother teased, but he locked her voice away in the back of his mind. Patrick forbade himself

from any more midnight jogs and barely went near the park, unwilling to tempt fate. He kept to

himself—going to work and going home. He didn’t go out unless it was absolutely necessary.

Mrs. Foulley was his only contact outside of work, but he rarely spoke to the old widow.

Three days after the incident, the news aired a missing person’s report. Patrick

immediately turned off the television when he’d seen the face appear on the screen. He didn’t

want to know her, didn’t want to see her family. He could imagine them—a grieving mother

sobbing while her husband comforted her from behind, perhaps there would be a younger sibling

or a family dog with them. They would stand on their lawn, to make it more personal should the

Cole 37

daughter have been kidnapped. They would plead for someone to come forward. If he saw their

sadness, he might have been tempted to leave a tip that revealed her location. But he doubted

those tips really were anonymous—if he led them to the body, they’d come looking for him. His

DNA probably masked the true killer’s. And the police probably still had his prints on file back

from his pre-therapy days. He couldn’t risk it. He had to keep the TV off, but it was worth it, to

appease his racing heart. No anxiety meant no anger. He could keep himself in control.

On a Saturday afternoon, Patrick began to relax. Things had returned to normal; he’d

avoided all news stories and stopped being so jumpy. The midmorning calm was only cut by the

sound of his buzzing mower. He took the warm breeze as an optimistic sign; perhaps the autumn

frost would hold off a little longer. He pushed the hand mower in perfectly straight lines across

the yard. When he finished, he wiped his brow with his white t-shirt and glanced at the sparse

neighborhood around him. Mrs. Foulley was out on the porch watching him, as the nosy woman

always did. There were no other neighbors taking advantage of the beautiful day. What a shame,

he thought. Except squinting, he noticed a figure standing near the park. A figure with long dark

hair.

He closed his eyes, refusing to believe in the hallucination.

Instead, Patrick walked back into his house and took a shower. He let the warm spray

ease him into the relaxation he felt earlier. He assured himself that his guilt was manifesting

again, just as it had at the coffee shop. Is it? Though Mother’s voice has subsided over the

weeks,

she grasped the strands of his returned agitation. Patrick clenched onto reality, reminding himself

of the facts. The woman was dead—buried in the ground, not standing in the park. He wished

he’d risked the fire and burned the body just to be sure. Somehow, her presence still lingered on

him. He scrubbed his hand, though any trace of the woman was long gone. Is she gone? Or is she

Cole 38

here just like me? Mother asked.

Patrick counted backward from thirty-five until her voice disappeared. Satisfied only once his

skin was rubbed raw, Patrick shut off the water

and stepped out.

After dressing, he dried his hair with a towel when the doorbell rang.

His heart stuttered, the tranquil effects of his shower vanishing. This was the moment

he’d been dreading. They’d found her somehow and figured him out.

Patrick nearly fell back when he opened the door.

“Hi, I’m so sorry to bother you.” He couldn’t respond, so she continued. “My name’s

Jenny Davenport. I’m looking for my sister.”

“Sister?” he repeated, voice barely above a whisper.

“Yes—my twin. Lauren,” she said. Patrick stared at her. Identical. Fucking. Twin. Her

hair fell in waves just past her shoulders, without blood at the crown. She wasn’t as pale either,

her eyes not frozen wide. This woman was real. Alive. And she was waiting for an answer. He

lied and asked why Lauren would be in his neighborhood.

Jenny sighed, “I’m just grasping at straws. She’s been missing for two weeks now. The

police have no leads. We used to play in the park down the street…I thought maybe…”

Patrick shook his head, he’d already been speaking with her for too long, “Sorry I can’t

help you.” He began to close the door, but she stopped him with a “Wait” and handed him a card

in case he saw Lauren anywhere. Patrick took it then slammed the door and secured the lock.

From the window he watched Jenny approach Mrs. Foulley’s house, then move on to the next

house after that. She didn’t know anything, he assured himself. She was just a woman looking

for her sister. Jenny’s card crinkled between his thumb and forefinger. He should have just

tossed it in the trash. Get rid of it, Mother demanded. But he ignored her, compelled to

Cole 39

hold onto it.

Patrick could understand Jenny. She missed her sister, just like he missed Mother. All

through the night he felt dawn to her loneliness. He thought of Jenny while he made dinner,

wondering if she was still out or if she’d turned in for the night. He carried her card around with

him as he moved about the house, placing it delicately on his nightstand before going to sleep.

Days passed, but Patrick could only focus on Jenny. How lost she must have been

without her sister. At work he spent his time researching the case rather than inputting numbers.

He found that Jenny was recently orphaned, just like him. With some minor digging, he

discovered that the sisters had been fighting over their inheritance when Lauren disappeared.

Poor Jenny, he thought—first her parents, then her sister. He and Jenny both had been abandoned

by the ones they loved.

When Patrick got home from work he felt resolved. Don’t you dare, Mother warned. “I

have to help her,” he whispered in response. “She

needs me.”

He reached for Jenny’s card, tucked safely in his pocket, and dialed the number. She

sounded surprised to hear from him. But she seemed to remember exactly who he was. Patrick

knew she’d recognized his compatible loneliness too. He told her that he’d been looking into the

disappearance and invited her over for dinner to help strategize a search plan. It didn’t matter

that he knew exactly where her dead sister was. That was simply something that led the two of

them together, he decided. Perhaps someday, after they became friends, Jenny would look past it.

Maybe he’d tell her and she’d be happy her sister got a proper burial. Of course, he’d leave out

the part about his anger. That would only upset her and it wasn’t

really important.

Patrick thought about this as the doorbell rang. This time he wasn’t filled with fear, but

Cole 40

anticipation. You stupid boy, Mother scolded. Don’t let her in. But he ignored her demands.

Jenny took a seat at his kitchen table. He offered her a glass of water while dinner cooked in the

oven.

Patrick drew a glass from one of the upper cabinets and brought it to the tap. The sound

of running water dispelled the awkward stretch of silence. He handed her the glass and took a

seat across the table. He asked her to tell him more about what happened. Jenny mentioned the

inheritance that he’d read about, “When she didn’t call for a few days, I figured she was just

mad. But then I didn’t hear from her at all. I went to the police last week and they still have

nothing. She’s missing, but they have no idea where she went.”

“Did she have a boyfriend or a friend she could be staying with?”

Patrick already knew she did and that the police suspected him.

“Did?” Jenny asked. Right, she still thought her sister was alive. Patrick corrected himself

to the present tense. After a moment of considering him Jenny confirmed, adding, “They broke

up a few months ago, but he’s a good guy. I can’t see him kidnapping her.”

He shrugged, “Sometimes people surprise you. You have no idea what people are capable

of until they do it.”

Immediately after saying it, Patrick knew how peculiar his words sounded. He felt

Jenny’s gaze as he stared off, pretending to be lost in thought. Did she suspect something?

Patrick wanted to bang his head on something. You shouldn’t have let her in, Mother insisted,

should have left well enough alone. He imagined Jenny silently dialing 911 under the table—the

flash of red and blue following moments later. Jenny would tell the police about the strange man

who contacted her—that he knew something, was probably the killer.

“And what are you capable of, Patrick?”

His eyes flicked to her. Her question was too blunt, too suggestive. Jenny was sitting up

Cole 41

straighter, her focus on him more attentive. Still, Patrick had to wonder, what was he capable of?

Murder? He didn’t think so. You’re too weak for murder, Mother scorned. Jenny’s knowledge

presented a problem. Get her out. He needed to ensure his survival in all of this. He wouldn’t go

down for someone else’s crime.

“I’m just a simple guy,” he lied.

Jenny tilted her head, considering him. “You seem like the kind of guy who’s good at

cleaning up other people’s messes.”

Patrick froze. He didn’t know how, but something in her tone told him she knew exactly

what he’d done. To his left, he eyed the butcher block sitting on the counter. He might be able to

reach the knife before she made it to the door. He tensed, awaiting her next move. The oven

buzzer rang out through the silent kitchen. Dinner was ready. After a moment, Patrick pulled out

the roast and placed it on the stove top to cool. He felt Jenny’s eyes on his neck. Goosebumps

pricked his skin. He extended an arm to the butcher block and drew out the chef’s knife. It

weighed more heavily than usual. Do it.

“Smells delicious,” Jenny commented from behind him. “But I’m not sure how long I can

stay.”

Patrick turned to her with a question in his eyes. “I thought I was going to help you.”

A ghost of smile played over Jenny’s lips, “You already have.” She gathered her purse

and jacket. He followed her to the door.

She placed a kiss on his cheek and whispered, “Thank you, Patrick.”

He raised his eyebrows, “For what?”

Jenny sighed, “For dinner.” Before he could counter that she hadn’t eaten, she opened his

front door and left. Patrick’s eyes followed Jenny until she disappeared down the road, unsure of

exactly what he’d done for her.

Anywhere, But Here

I knew something was about to happen. He never took me out anymore, except for

special occasions—to announce his promotion or for my birthday. Ted and I had entered the

phase of our relationship where niceties were rare. I’d been on edge the entire night, suspicious

of what he had planned. A proposal should have been obvious, but somehow Ted caught me off

guard. After our main courses were taken away, he fidgeted. He insisted on ordering dessert even

though he knew I was trying to watch my weight. I told him I was stuffed, despite having barely

touched my chicken parm. I kept the façade for him—to preserve the appearance of the perfect

girlfriend who could fit (barely) in a size four dress and balance in too-high heels on a nearly

empty stomach. There was an underlying expectation. I didn’t know if it stemmed from Ted, or

his Wall Street career, or society altogether, but it simmered in the back of my mind.

A server delivered a plate, and at first I didn’t notice anything. But there, drawn in a

chocolate decadence I wouldn’t be able to enjoy, laid the surprise I should have expected. The

ring sat in all of its spectacular extravagance at the center of the plate. It was beautiful, I

supposed. A bit much, maybe—did the diamonds need to cover the entire surface? I stared at,

waiting for something to happen. Ted was supposed to ask the actual question right? Or had I

mistook the proposal? I looked up at Ted, who sat there beaming. No, it was definitely a

proposal.

“I—”

The shrill tone of my phone rang across the restaurant. I was met with many irritated

looks—including one from my would-be fiancé—but relief washed over me. Normally, I would

have sent the call straight to voice mail, but I hesitated when I saw the +30 dialing code.

Excusing myself, I hurried to the restroom and answered.

Cole 43

The thick Greek accent of my estranged father came through the phone. I told him I was

busy and he’d have to call back later. Grigorov stressed an imperative need for me to visit. A

very unladylike snort

escaped me.

“Katalina, your grandmother is dying.”

~

After a hurried exit and an unanswered question, I called my mother and deliberated for

an hour. “Kate, you need to go. Say goodbye. They’ve been very good to you over the years,”

she reasoned. I reminded her about the catastrophic conclusion of my last visit. She promised

that things had been forgiven in the past five years. I doubted her blasé interpretation.

“You’re wrong, Kate. Your father always talks about how much he misses you.”

I retorted that she was far too chummy with Grigorov considering that I didn’t even speak

to him.

She ended the call by saying, “You know what the right thing is.”

So I ended up on an eight-hour flight to Zürich, followed by a two-hour flight to Athens,

and then a fifty-minute ferry ride to Santorini. During the exhausting trip, my mind flitted

through one anxiety after another. I’d be missing the preparation for a major advertising pitch

and my boss, Theresa, was not happy with me. Ted was also upset because he couldn’t come

with me. Non-immediate family emergencies were apparently not a priority on Wall Street, so he

was stuck with dropping me at the airport. Internally, I was glad. Ted in Greece would lead to

many inevitable complications. The unanswered question, in the form of a velvet box, sat heavily

at the bottom of my carry-on. He told me to take it—try it on, see how it felt to be the future Mrs.

McAllister.

I brushed away the thought as the ferry loomed closer to the crescent island. I attempted

Cole 44

to steady my breathing. Five years. A lot had changed. People were unlikely to remember what

happened last time. I shook my head; people were unlikely to mention what happened last time.

The latter sounded more accurate. Besides, I was only there for a short trip—a quick goodbye,

then I’d be gone.

I was reminded of Santorini’s beauty. Protruding from the Mediterranean, the isle seemed

almost majestic. Perhaps it was even more astonishing since I’d been gone so long. Per the

agreement of my parents’ divorce, I spent every summer of my youth with my father, Grigorov

Soukis. To most, Santorini was a dream destination almost never attained. For me, it was a

summer prison until I turned eighteen. By that final year, I’d finally grown to appreciate the

magic surrounding me, but then I wrecked everything. The ferry halted with a jolt as it collided

against

the dock.

My stomach plummeted when I spotted him from my seat on the ferry. In hindsight, I

supposed it was far too hopeful to avoid seeing Dimitri. Santorini was a small island in terms of

its social structure. But it was slightly cruel that Grigorov sent him to get me. He looked

different—definitely taller, and fuller in muscle—but I recognized his boyish smile. The

possibility of encountering him had occurred to me, but I wasn’t expecting him to be waiting at

the dock. What would I say to him? My hand absently lifted to my abdomen. Would he say

something? Was he very angry with me? It didn’t matter, I decided, it wasn’t what I was in

Santorini for. I reached down and tightened my grip on the small travel bag I’d taken. A quick

goodbye, I reminded myself.

Still, anxiety vibrated in my chest as I approached him. It was one thing to see an old

boyfriend. My situation was entirely worse. We’d been young—both about to leave for college. I

left the island allowing him to believe that we were in love and that I’d be back the next summer.

Cole 45

When my mom picked me up from the airport I burst into tears and told her I didn’t know what

to do. Cautious as I’d been, I’d sunk into the same fate she had—falling for a Greek boy and

becoming pregnant. She’d promised to support me, no matter the decision I made. I knew my

decision wouldn’t go over so well in Santorini. I only called Dimitri the day before my

appointment.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he’d demanded.

I bit my lip and pressed the phone closer to my ear. “I don’t know…I didn’t know how.”

“Gamóto, you don’t have to,” he said.

“Yes, I do.”

He began to protest, half in Greek, half in English. Tears rolled down my cheeks so I

whispered, “Syngnómi,” and hung up. I don’t know if he ever heard the apology. I didn’t answer

his phone calls after, and eventually they stopped coming. Grigorov called a week later to yell

about me for being so irresponsible. My mom must have told him though I asked her not to. Or

maybe Dimitri told him. I think Grigorov may have been angrier than Dimitri. I was sure rumors

of my abortion had spread through the small island. I’d brought shame upon the Soukis

household. So I’d vowed to never return—to never see Dimitri or my father again.

“Yiassoo, Katalina,” Dimitri’s smooth voice greeted when I reached him. I promised

myself that my heart stuttered only because I feared his reception of me.

“Actually I go by Kate now,” I told him, briefly wondering if he’d pursued that degree in

English. I’d certainly lost most of my Greek.

“Kate,” he tested the word, somehow it didn’t sound quite right. Dimitri’s eyes appraised

me, no doubt noting the same differences I saw in him. We weren’t eighteen anymore.

Desperate to dispel the awkward silence, I admitted my surprise to see him.

“Your father is in important meeting,” he told me.

Cole 46

“Still my father’s errand boy, I see,” I joked with a nervous laugh.

He informed me that he was actually an employee—the manager of my family’s hotel, in

fact. The news caught me off guard. I knew that most of Santorini relied on tourism, but Dimitri

had planned to escape. Five years ago, he was preparing to go to Athens to study English and

become an interpreter. I wondered what happened, but knew it wasn’t my place to ask.

“Come,” he said lifting my bag into the back of his robins-egg pickup truck and opening

the passenger door for me.

We drove straight towards the one part of Santorini I’d managed to block from my mind.

Right. The cliffs. There were few ways to reach civilization from Fira Harbor. Tourists amused

themselves by riding the poorly treated donkeys or attempting the six hundred steps themselves.

There were cable cars too. But locals opted for driving up winding cliffs, often with reckless

speed. As a child, I experienced repetitive nightmares about plunging to my death off the side of

the caldera. Santorini might have been beautiful, but I’d never understood why my ancestors

built their home into the side of a dormant volcano.

My fingers gripped the seat as Dimitri sped around a steep corner. Clearly my fear

lingered. I dared to glance out the side window and my stomach dropped at how far above sea

level we’d reached. I kept my eyes shut for the rest of trip, much to Dimitri’s amusement. The

drive from Fira to Oia was short. When the truck finally stopped, I was tempted to fling open the

door and hug the ground. I restrained the urge.

“Still fear highs,” Dimitri chuckled. Heights, I corrected him, I was still afraid of heights.

He smiled as he observed me. It was unnerving to be watched by him. I tucked my hair behind

my ear and asked where Grigorov was. Dimitri said he’d probably be in his office and offered to

take me there. I gazed around me, taken by the view of the thousands of small houses protruding

from the earthy cliffs. I’d missed that feeling of awe. I was stalling, I knew, the prospect of

Cole 47

seeing Grigorov somewhat daunting. I nodded to Dimitri and followed him.

The hotel contrasted its stunning setting. It seemed a lot dingier than I remembered.

Inside, paint was peeling of the walls in poorly hidden strips. In Greek tradition everything was

whitewashed—including the decor. There was no color anywhere. My critical eye, trained in

advertising, considered my surroundings. My family’s hotel definitely wouldn’t be the top choice

on Expedia. The furniture seemed to be on its last legs, threatening to fall apart if so much as a

throw pillow was added.

Dimitri led me through the small hotel, though it was more of a bed and breakfast, in my

opinion. There were only about five guest rooms and a small kitchen run by my grandmother. Or

it used to be—I wondered who’d taken over as a chef. It seemed miraculous that Grigorov kept

up with the larger boutique hotels in Oia.

We stopped in front a bright blue door—the only speck of vibrancy within the entire

hotel, I realized. The inside of Grigorov’s office was barren, however, holding little more than a

worn-out desk and an ancient computer. I wondered if the hotel had wifi.

“I thought he would be finished,” Dimitri said. “Let me find him.” He left standing in the

center of the room. I was too afraid to attempt the small antique chair in the corner.

Minutes passed before I heard echoing footsteps and a harsh Greek argument in the hall.

It amazed me how much I’d lost the language. Before, I’d been able to scrape by, but I barely

understood any of the shouts. Then one word stuck out—trapezá, bank. I leaned against the door

listening for other rudimentary words I knew. I couldn’t catch anything. They were speaking too

fast and the conversation was muffled. Then the door swung open and I stumbled forward.

“Sorry—I mean, syngnómi,” I apologized to the three men before me. One, a stranger,

appeared annoyed, while Grigorov and Dimitri seemed amused. They exchanged a few more

words, too fast and low for me to understand. The stranger left in a huff, seeming disappointed.

Cole 48

Before I could say anything, Grigorov wrapped me in an uncharacteristic bear hug and began

prattling on in Greek. I stood stiffly in the embrace and shook my head, “No, no Dad, I could

barely manage ‘I’m sorry.’ I can’t speak Greek.” He pulled away.

“Syngnómi, Katalina,” he said.

“Kate,” I corrected, a bit sharper than I intended.

He repeated the name, just as Dimitri had, the word sounding foreign in my father’s

mouth as well. But I wasn’t Katalina anymore—I hadn’t been her for a while. I wanted to ask

what the argument about the bank was, but I remembered I wasn’t privy to that sort of

information anymore. The two men in front of me were almost strangers. Instead I asked where

Giagiá was. Saying goodbye to my grandmother was my priority.

Grigorov said he’d take me to her. We walked in silence. I didn’t know what to say—if

he was still angry about the abortion or staying away for so long. I thought about Giagiá. When

he first called, Grigorov mentioned that she’d been diagnosed with bone cancer months ago. The

doctors had been hopeful at first since it had been stage two. But last week, they found more; it’d

spread to her lymph nodes. Before leaving for Santorini, I’d researched everything I could about

the cancer. It was bad—tumors, swollen joints, fragile bones, fatigue, weight loss. I prepared

myself to see my frail grandmother tucked away in her bed, awaiting death’s call. Which added

to my confusion as Grigorov brought me toward the kitchen.

There, teetering on an unstable ladder, stood Esma Soukis, the picture of heath.

I couldn’t prevent my mouth from falling open. “Katalina,” the small woman exclaimed

when she noticed me and began to climb down the precarious ladder.

I turned on my father, anger brewing. “I thought you said she was sick,” I uttered in a low

voice.

“She is.”

Cole 49

“You said she was dying. You lied to me,” I hissed.

“The doctors say she doesn’t have long,” Grigorov promised.

Before I could respond, Giagiá embraced me in familiar warmth.

I breathed in the grandmother I hadn’t seen in years. She still smelled of sea salt and

rigani. Giagiá held me as if she didn’t know what happened five years ago. Or maybe she didn’t

care. She was near the end. Supposedly. I wouldn’t have put it past the resourceful woman to

fake an illness just to get me to Greece. I recalled the schemes she and the other elder women

used to concoct to push Dimitri and I together. The memory seemed so distant, almost from

another life that I hadn’t ruined. As Giagiá held me close I wondered if she ever been as angry as

Dimitri or my father. Perhaps Grigorov never told her about the abortion. Or perhaps she’d

forgiven me. It didn’t matter. For the first time since stepping onto the island, I felt a sense of

home. So I returned Giagiá’s hug and didn’t bother mentioning that I went by Kate. For a

moment I forgot about Grigorov and Dimitri and Ted and the amount of work I was missing.

When she pulled away, Giagiá grasped my cheeks, kissing each one.

“I miss you so,” she said in broken English. I’d always appreciated the effort she made to

learn my language, even if she could only manage a few phrases. I wished I could return her

sentiment in Greek, but I’d forgotten it. I smiled instead.

In Greek, she asked my father how long I planned to stay and he translated the question

to me.

“Only a few days,” I told him.

When he relayed this information, my grandmother seemed offended. She began spewing

words at my father—too fast for me to recognize. It was almost comical to see the wrath of such

a small woman. Then I supposed she’d always exuded strength. Giagiá could scold anyone into

bright red cheeks. As she spoke I looked for hints of her illness. I hadn’t seen her in years, but I

Cole 50

thought she looked thinner than she used to. Her hands might have been a bit swollen. But other

than that, she seemed fine—energetic, even. I tried to ask how she was feeling, but couldn’t get a

word as she verbally berated Grigorov.

“Matera,” he warned with a stern look then turned to me. “She want you to stay. Until

she is gone.”

I widened my eyes at him and shook my head. That was impossible. I had to be back at

work in three days. Ted was at home waiting for

an answer.

“I can’t,” I began, but Giagiá refused my denial with a “Ba!”

“You stay,” she said and prodded me towards a guest room, declaring that if I got food

and some rest I’d agree with her in the morning. I didn’t know how to refuse her in that moment,

so I relented, deciding that I would argue with her later.

The guest room was small and simple. It, too, lacked color. In the center of the room two

small windows framed a white wicker bed. A nightstand sat next to the bed and a small bureau

was tucked into the opposite corner. It was entirely possible that my grandfather, who’d passed

away before I was born, had purchased the all of furniture in the room. Or perhaps my great-

grandfather, who’d first turned his house into the hotel. Blue curtains, I thought, or coral throw

pillows—the room needed something. I didn’t bother unpacking the few clothes and toiletries I

brought. Three days, I confirmed. My flight back was already booked with four layovers, just so

I could make it back for the pitch.

We ate an early dinner on the patio. Grigorov seemed distracted and the language barrier

with my grandmother kept the conversation short.

“How your matera?” Giagiá asked me.

“She’s good,” I replied.

Cole 51

“Pantreménos?” She must have seen confusion in my eyes because she pointed to her left

hand.

I shook my head, “Oxi.” My mother never married. She dated, sure, but men never stuck

around for long. She’d always claimed that I was the love of her life. Sometimes I wondered if

she’d left the love of her life in Greece. My parents’ story was entirely cliché. In college, she and

a few friends took a trip to Santorini on spring break. They stayed in my grandfather’s hotel, of

course, and apparently Grigorov was incredibly attractive. My still mom blushed whenever she

told me the story of their meeting. Across the table, my father now looked worn. Lines around

his eyes and gray hair at his temples betrayed his true younger age, but he was still handsome.

We had the same earth tone eyes.

“So Giagiá,” I began carefully when we’d finished eating. “I can’t—”

“Apapa!” She shouted, standing. She gathered her plate and stalked toward the kitchen.

Grigorov watched me, taking a sip of wine. “I can’t, Dad. I have a huge pitch coming up

at work.” He said nothing, disapproval written on his face. “Don’t look at me that way. If you’d

told me sooner—”

“E,” he interjected. “You would not come if I tell you before.” I started to protest. “Oxi.

You not speak to us for many years. Na peri i eyechi!” I stayed silent, shocked. I remembered

enough Greek to know when someone swore at you, but it was something my father had never

done to me before. Grigorov rubbed his eyes in frustration and sighed. “Giagiá ask for you. Be

with her. Then you leave.” He also stood and walked away. The patio was empty aside from one

family, the only other guests staying at the hotel. When I glanced toward them, the husband and

wife quickly glanced away and told their two boys to do the same. Wonderful, I thought, dinner

and a show.

Obviously, Grigorov hadn’t forgiven me—was struggling to be in the same room alone

Cole 52

with me. My heart ached when I thought of the man who was once proud to call me his kori. I

waited a few minutes before gathering my own plate and bringing it to the empty kitchen. A

strong urge told me that I should just leave the island. But deeper, I knew I couldn’t. I may not

have been their Katalina anymore, but I had to say goodbye.

I rushed toward the guest room, nearly colliding with Dimitri. He said something that I

didn’t hear while I righted myself, but the irritable nature of my night led me to conclude that he

also wanted to attack me. “Not you too,” I said walking away.

I thought about calling Ted. I’d messaged him earlier, but I wanted to hear his voice. My

phone illuminated displaying 20:27. Ted was probably on his lunch break in New York. He

won’t understand, a small voice inside me said. He wouldn’t, I supposed. Ted’s parents adored

him. Besides, I never told him about the abortion. He didn’t need to know about

that mess.

I messaged my mom promising to call in the morning and placed my phone on the

nightstand. Tomorrow, I thought. I’d take care of everything in the morning.

~

Giagiá left for the market before I woke up. My grandmother planned on hiding until the

day she died so that I wouldn’t leave. Grigorov explained that she was training someone to take

over the kitchen. Beneath that statement, unspoken words lingered. I thought back to Grigorov’s

meeting the day before. He suggested I visit old friends. I didn’t bother to remind him that any

past friendship were severed by my five-year absence. My only true friend in Santorini had been

Dimitri anyway. Other acquaintances faded into the background. Of course, our friendship had

been fueled by Giagiá’s hope that I’d marry a Greek boy. I knew that she didn’t approve of the

fact that my mother kept me in the States throughout my childhood. Grigorov had been too tied

to the family hotel to move. Giagiá wouldn’t have been able to run the place on her own—my

Cole 53

grandfather had died many years before I was born. Grigorov was the only family she had. I

suppose I was too.

With nothing else to do, I called Ted in the afternoon. He answered the phone in a rush,

too busy with work to devote time to a full conversation. He asked me general questions about

the trip—the kind where he could reply with singular words or grunts. I wondered if he was

really paying attention to what I said. I mentioned that I might have to stay longer. That certainly

brought him out of his distracted answers.

“Stay in Greece?” he asked. “For how long?”

“I’m not sure. Giagiá—I mean, my grandmother wants me to be here until the end, but I

don’t think I can.”

If Ted were a different person he might have told me that he’d miss me and wanted me to

come home. Instead he said, “Your boss is not going to like that.” I knew that already. I’d called

earlier to discuss the possibility and was met with a hard no. My attendance was mandatory at

the pitch, Theresa emphasized when we hung up. The job was beginning to wear

me out.

“You’re right,” I ceded. “Never mind.”

I let my conversation with Ted die out. After we hung up, I realized neither of us said “I

love you.” Next to my bed the small velvet box sat inside my bag. Biting my lip I opened it and

slid the ring on my finger. It was heavier than I expected. The diamonds sparkled, mocking me.

Some would find it beautiful, I supposed, and I didn’t doubt it was incredibly expensive—but

there was just so much. I couldn’t imagine spending the rest of my life with it on my finger.

A knock at my door startled me. I found Dimitri on the other side. I quickly shoved my

left hand behind my back.

“Kalispéra, Kate.” My name still sounded strange coming from him. I returned the “good

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afternoon” and apologized for what I said to him the night before. He smiled and told me not to

worry. “I thought you might enjoy to visit Santorini,” he said, the “like we used to” implied in

his tone. Part of me wanted to deny him; spending time together would likely lead to a

conversation I didn’t want to have. But his eyes compelled me

to go.

“I’ll be down in a minute,” I agreed and he left for the lobby.

Slumped against the closed door, I glanced at my left hand. That was close, my

subconscious declared. Dimitri didn’t need to know about Ted—it would only complicate things.

I returned the ring to its box and left it on the nightstand.

Hundreds of galleries and tourist shops lined Oia’s central square Nikolaou Nomikou. The

whitewashed buildings interrupted by a pop of pastel every now and then. I recognized a few

places from summers past, but most of my favorite stores were gone. The tourist-dependent

economy meant businesses that didn’t do well were removed to make way for more prosperous

ones. Conversation flowed easily between us; we kept it light. I learned that Dimitri had studied

English translation in Athens, but returned to Santorini to be closer to his family. I told him that I

worked for an advertising firm in the city. We stopped at a small restaurant packed with as many

tables as the room could hold. Dimitri whispered something to the hostess, who went to the

kitchen to retrieve takeout for us.

“We’re not eating here?” I asked. He shook his head, mirth in his eyes. As we continued,

I noticed we were headed in the direction of sharp red cliffs contrasted by the cerulean Aegean

Sea. Amoudi Bay. When I turned on him, Dimitri chucked, “Do not worry. No jumping.” I

relaxed a bit.

The area was scattered with tourists who wanted to experience Santorinian cliff diving.

The tradition had transformed into somewhat of a cliché. I thought they were all crazy. Dimitri

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led me a safe distance from the cliffs where we sat to eat. All afternoon I’d been surprised by

how easily we fell into conversation. There was no lingering tension between us. I didn’t

understand how he’d forgiven me. I should have been happy; I didn’t want to dredge up the past.

Still, my curiosity endured.

A lull had settled between us when I blurted, “Why don’t you hate

me?” Dimitri, who was leaning on his forearms against the rocks, peered up at me.

“I’m sorry, I don’t know why I said that. Never mind,” I backpedaled.

“Hate?” he asked.

I shook my head. “Don’t worry about it.” A strained silence persisted for a moment. No, I

needed to know. What I’d done was unforgivable in the Orthodox view. At the time, he’d been

adamant that we look at all of the options before I ended communications—yet Dimitri appeared

unfazed by my choice five years later.

“Why did you bring me here? Why aren’t you angry with me?”

He sighed and asked if I was happy with my life.

The answer didn’t come as readily as I thought it would.

I imagined a life where I hadn’t gone through with the abortion. Would I have stayed in

the States with my mother? Perhaps I would have moved to Santorini to be with Dimitri. We

might have both worked for my family’s hotel. I supposed neither of us would have gone to

school, but maybe advertising would have found me anyway. The hotel could certainly use it. I

thought about the little girl or boy that never was. I thought about the Katalina I used to be. She

wouldn’t have changed her name to Kate. She would have continued learning Greek—would

likely be fluent. But would she have been happy? Was I happy with a man who didn’t really

know me and a job that took more than it gave? I didn’t know the answer to either of those

questions. I could spend hours pondering about the past, but it’d already happened. Nothing

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could be changed.

Dimitri observed me expectantly. I nodded in response to his question because the word

yes refused to form in my mouth.

“Then I am happy,” he said. “How could I hate you?”

Before realizing I’d spoken, I asked if he ever thought about what might have been.

“Of course,” he replied. He told me that in every new relationship he looked for a piece

of Katalina Soukis. I hated to know that girl was gone. Ted wasn’t anything like Dimitri. He was

safe. Dimitri left me vulnerable.

He smiled and asked whether I wanted to jump, though he knew what my answer would

be. My fear of heights would never disappear, I informed him. I was much happier to be safely

on the ground.

We left the bay when the sun began to dip below the Mediterranean.

~

I sought out Giagiá when we returned to the hotel. It was time for the nonsense to end. I

needed to spend time with her before she could vanish to another errand and prolong my stay. I

thought about what I’d say, wondering exactly how a person said a final goodbye. In all of my

life, I’d never confronted death before.

I found Giagiá in the kitchen making what smelled like moussaka. I leaned against the

door, watching her. Since she was alone, she moved slower. Undoubtedly, pain radiated through

her fingers. Despite my original assumption that my grandmother was still well, I’d noticed how

weary she became when she thought no one was looking. The end neared. I was amazed that she

could keep such a front. But that was Esma Soukis—stubborn and strong. I wished I were more

like her.

After a few minutes, she felt my gaze and straightened. “Katalina,” she beckoned me into

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the kitchen. “Come. You try.” I tasted the moussaka and moaned, layers of eggplant and ground

lamb dissolving richly against my tongue.

“Kalá?” She asked.

I nodded, very good. Pleased, Giagiá she set the dish aside and boiled water. We were

content in silence while she brewed tea for us. She grabbed my hand, leading me out to the patio.

As we sipped at the black tea blend, she asked me a few question about my life that I tried to

answer as simply as I could. Of course, she asked if I had a boyfriend. Like most Greek

grandmothers, she pestered me about the details of my relationship. When she asked if I was

going to marry Ted, I didn’t tell her that he’d already proposed. It seemed wrong to get her hopes

up when I wasn’t sure I would accept.

Giagiá placed a hand on mine and smiled. “Here,” she said, “you take.”

I tilted my head as her right fingers slipped over her left. She slid her wedding ring off

and held it out for me. It was a simple silver band adorned with a small sapphire to reflect the

Greek Eye.

I shook my head protesting, “No Giagiá, I can’t—”

But she grasped my hand and placed the ring in my palm, “For you.”

I couldn’t speak, only closed my fingers around the ring carefully. Tears welled behind

my eyes. “Efcharistó,” I whispered my thanks after a moment. She smiled and lifted her palm to

cup my cheek.

“Watch your pateras,” she said. “He will be alone.”

I looked down. “He hates me.”

Giagiá scoffed, scolding me in rushed Greek. I only managed to catch the word poté—

never. I smiled, though I doubted she knew everything that happened.

“I’ll look after him,” I said. I wasn’t sure it was a promise I could keep. I placed my hand

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over hers. “I love you, Giagiá.”

“Se agapó, Katalina.”

~

The next morning, I woke early to pack. I’d have to take the afternoon ferry in order to

make my flight. Grigorov promised to give me a ride since Dimitri was busy. I set my bag down

on the bed and zipped it shut. Glancing around the white room, my eyes settled on the

nightstand. It was empty aside from the two rings—one, gaudy and excessive, the other, modest

and plain. Next to each other, they displayed two diverging paths. I pulled out my phone and

noticed several missed calls from Theresa, no doubt reminding me how crucial it was to be at the

meeting if I wanted to keep my job. Sitting on the bed I thought about calling Ted, but paused

when I got to his contact.

He wasn’t who I need to hear from.

“Hello?” My mother’s voice was laced with sleep. I’d forgotten the

time difference.

“Mom, I’m sorry I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“Don’t worry about it,” she said. The rustling of sheets told me she was sitting up and

turning on her bedside light. “What’s the matter?”

I asked why she thought something was wrong. In her silence, I could imagine the

dubious look she likely wore. I sighed, “I don’t…know what to do.”

“About what?”

Everything, I wanted to answer. Being back in Santorini revealed just how lost I’d

become in my own life. “Ted proposed,” I started. Until that moment, I didn’t realize that I’d

forgotten to tell her.

“Ted’s a good guy,” she said. I grunted my agreement. Neither of us knew what to say

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beyond that.

“How’s your grandmother?” She asked instead. I told her about everything that

happened, including the ring Giagiá gave me.

“She won’t take it back,” I said. “But I think I’m going to give it to Dad.” My mom’s

silence spoke volumes. “What?”

“She gave it to you, Kate, not your dad.” I shook my head, asserting that I couldn’t keep

it, especially if I was going to marry Ted. “Are you?”

The word yes lingered on my lips. Ted represented everything that I wanted, right? I’d

sought a life of security and comfort for so long. Ted could give it to me. I didn’t have to worry

about him hurting me. We’d be content together.

“I’m giving Dad the ring,” I said firmly. My mom sighed, relenting that if I was happy

then so was she. The similarity of her words and Dimitri’s struck me as we hung up.

I stood and picked up the two rings, placing Ted’s in my bag. It’s the right decision, I

assured myself. I slung the bag over my shoulder and grabbed my plane ticket. Guilt rose in my

stomach, though I didn’t understand why. I’d said goodbye to Giagiá. There was nothing else left

for me on Santorini.

Yet the feeling only grew as I approached Grigorov’s office. I found him hunched over a

thick stack of papers staring into an intense void. I rapped on the ajar door to stir him.

“Kata—uh Kate, please come in,” he said.

I entered, Giagiá’s ring in hand, but he seemed far away—too distracted to worry about

his mother’s wedding ring. I slipped it into my pocket.

“What’s going on?”

His lips formed a tight line that was supposed to be a smile and he stood. “Nothing.

Ready?”

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“Dad,” I implored stepping further into his office.

He remained quiet, eyes hardened. I wondered if mine looked the same when I acted

stubborn. A surge of frustration came over me.

“What’s that?” I asked nodding in direction of the document on

his desk.

“Katalina,” he warned, but I didn’t back down.

“Do you hate me so much that you won’t even tell me what’s wrong?” Grigorov’s mouth

fell open. Fueled, I continued. “I know I’m a disappointment. That you’ll never forgive me for

what I did. But please stop treating me like a child.”

My father stared at me, searching for something. “I do not hate you, Katalina,” he said

finally.

“Then why are you pushing me away?” I asked.

I barely heard his whispered reply, “Because you leave.”

Something inside me shattered.

Letting my bag drop to the floor, I stepped closer and wrapped my arms around him.

Grigorov hugged me back tightly. “I’m so sorry,” I whispered into his shoulder. There was a lot

we could have spoken aloud, but in that moment holding each other said more.

“Syngnómi, padai mou.”

When well pulled apart, I asked again what the document was. I noticed his eyes cloud

with reticence, then reconsider.

“The man you saw…he want the land.” Grigorov explained that the hotel wasn’t making

much money. The staff was limited and the building was falling apart. The stranger from before

was a vintner from Fira, hoping to expand his winery. “I don’t know how to tell your Giagiá. She

couldn’t…she can’t know.”

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I promised not to tell her worried the stress would be too much.

“But Dad, do you have to sell?”

He told me there wasn’t much he hadn’t tried. I thought about my own bank account,

wondered if my advertising experience would be any help. Resolve formed within me. I stepped

into the hallway pulled out my phone, first calling work. Theresa’s assistant put me straight

through.

“Are you on a plane yet?” She answered.

“No.” I told her I wouldn’t be flying back that night. She snipped that my absence was a

fireable offence. “Fine, I quit.” I ended the call before she could reply. Relief spread through me

with only a hint of uncertainty. I finally felt free.

I then called Ted. He didn’t answer at first, but picked up the second time around. When I

told him I was staying he reiterated his previous sentiments—that my boss would be angry. My

reply was met with a stretch of silence.

“You quit,” he repeated, as if the concept were inconceivable. I’d often spoken about

how much I hated my job, but had he ever listened?

“Yes.”

“Are you going to find a new one when you come back?”

He didn’t know me at all, did he? Or maybe he only knew the Kate I’d shown him.

Perhaps if he’d seen the real me from the beginning of our relationship things would have been

different. Or perhaps he never would have chosen to know me at all. Ted was drawn to my meek

indifference, I realized. For the first time in five years, I felt Katalina crawl out from within me.

It was time I stopped fearing everything and started

living vulnerably.

I sighed, “I don’t know when I’m coming back.”

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Throughout our relationship Ted rarely got angry with me. In that moment, frustration

radiated through his breaths. “Is that your

answer then?”

Saying no might not have been my intention when I’d called him, but it suddenly seemed

like the right time. “It is.”

The phone disconnected.

I rushed back into the office. “Don’t sign the papers,” I shouted to Grigorov. “I’ll stay

and help.” I explained my plan. I had money to help for a little while until the hotel started

producing revenue again. Grigorov started to refuse, but I ignored his protests. “We can’t let

Giagiá’s legacy die with her.”

My father regarded me for a long minute, considering my offer. I held a breath, waiting

before he finally said, “Okay.”

~

Weeks later, I stood at the edge of the cliff in Amoudi Bay. The urge to run bubbled

within me, but I stayed. After Giagiá’s funeral, I’d felt ready. Everything was changing. My

mom seemed torn when I told her I was staying for a while, but I knew she was proud of me.

She’d returned the ring to Ted for me since he refused to take my calls. Shipping the gaudy

jewelry off the island felt right. I couldn’t believe I’d almost been stuck with it on my finger for

the rest of my life.

Dimitri offered to come to the cliffs with me, but I declined. It was something I needed to

do on my own. Of course, I wasn’t really alone. Several tourists from a cruise group surrounded

me, hovering in the same anticipation. We were all waiting, feeding an unspoken question that

dared someone to go first. My bare toes curled into the coarse sand as a Mediterranean breeze

swept around me. A small part of me wondered if Giagiá was there next to me somehow. But

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then I remembered that she despised the Santorinian tradition. I smiled as I recalled how much

she’d berated Dimitri the first time he brought me to the cliffs. My heart weighed as I thought

about her. I wished I hadn’t stayed away for so long. I wished I’d spent more time with her.

“Mou lipis, Giagiá,” I whispered, I miss you so.

Breathing deep, I got a running start and let the world disappear beneath me.