"Where He Went" by Denise S. Robbins
In the last moments of my boyfriend’s life, lying on the ground on the West Side Highway, his spirit exited his body. And who was there to capture it?
I found the army medic ten years after he tried to resuscitate Andrew. He was seventy and I thirty-two, but he was strong enough to lift me with one hand. He served in Vietnam and thought he left his gory days behind. I didn’t want to know the details. I just wanted to know about Andrew’s spirit.
“What’s it like, having two minds in one body?”
“More than two,” he said. “It’s crowded in there.”
He told me over coffee that his mind split into a dozen pieces when a bomb hit his hospital way back when. And each piece split ten times more when he was deployed to front-line assistance. Mind weakened, it soaked in the spirits of everyone he tried to save. Many voices relived all the worst parts. Other voices were quiet. But now, with Andrew, one more voice was strong and certain.
“What does he miss most?”
“He says ‘getting steezy.’”
Definitely Andrew. My hands went cold. “Can you ask him to be more specific?”
“He’s giving me a dream. Driving his Audi a hundred miles an hour, top down, electronic music coming from the sky, it’s terrible, he launches onto a snowy mountaintop, lands on his skis, on a trampoline, five backflips, perfect landing, his family is watching, you are too, and he says something, ‘slay that pow!’”
“That’s not real.”
“He says, ’who says it’s not real.’ I told him it was you. He’s mad, but he told me not to tell you he’s mad, because when he gets mad you get madder, ope, he heard me tell you that, now he’s quiet.”
We met again for coffee the next month, and the month after that. I asked Andrew for advice, although the army medic sometimes gave me his opinion.
“I’ve had a sore throat for four months. Do you think I have cancer?”
“He says ‘probably, and when you die make sure this guy is around.’ If you ask me, you should check the humidity of your apartment. Dry air can do real damage.”
“My boyfriend doesn’t want to have kids. I might be changing my mind. What should I do?”
“He says ‘dump that asshole.’ You probably want to talk it through with him first.”
“If I do have a kid, would it be weird if I named it after you? Andrew, or… Andrina.”
“He’s still saying ‘dump that asshole.’ Maybe don’t bring up the boyfriend. I think Andrea is the feminine version.”
This continued for years. He always met me for coffee once a month, on the first Sunday morning. He walked slowly, with a cane, and a hunch that lowered every time we met.
“What would you have made of yourself if you didn’t die?”
“He says ‘live life freestyle.’ I get the sense he doesn’t know. He’s grumbling. He died and you’re asking about his career?”
“I mean, what meaning would you seek?”
“He’s quiet. Maybe stick to the easier questions.”
“What’s it like, life after death?”
“He doesn’t feel like talking anymore.” The medic coughed into his elbow.
I sighed. During the following visits, I asked him that question again. I tried to slip it in between simple ones.
“Should I order a scone or a croissant?”
“He says ‘Croissant, eff those dry effers.’ I agree.” He left his own croissant untouched.
“What cake should I order for the wedding, yellow or chocolate? And what’s it like, life after death?”
But every time, the question made him quiet. So I asked the medic instead. “What do you think it’s like in there? Are they happy? Are they growing? Or are they stuck in place?” It had been twenty years now since Andrew had died. Was he still twenty-two in an old man’s body? Or was he maturing through the life of the elderly medic? I didn’t know what was worse: keeping him stuck, or letting him die all over again.
“Sorry, won’t answer for him. Ain’t right.”
I was relieved.
One day, the army medic didn’t show. I called his cell; his daughter picked up. “He’s in the hospital. He won’t eat or drink anything. But I mentioned your name and he asked you to come.” I went there right away.
The army medic was tiny in the hospital bed with tubes in his stomach and wrists. A heart rate monitor beeped slowly and the window opened to birdsong. His daughter hugged me and thanked me for coming so quickly. Then she left the room.
“Time’s up,” he said weakly. “I gotta go.”
“Can’t you stay?”
“I thought you’d want to say goodbye to Andrew.” His voice was a wrinkled whisper.
“I… okay.”
I pulled a chair to the hospital bed and held the medic’s hand. His skin was dry as a scone and his pupils were wide.
“Where are you, Andrew?”
“Right here.” Andrew’s voice was clear as day.
“What would you have made of yourself if you’d stayed alive?”
“I don’t know.”
“Is this pointless?”
“Perhaps.”
I kneaded the medic’s feeble fingers. My own hands grew cold. “How long until you moved on?”
“From what?”
“From me.”
“You’re right here.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I see you.”
He never thought past the present. Not then, not now. The coldness came to a shudder in my spine.
“How is life after death?”
He didn’t respond.
“Please. Is there anything you can tell me?”
“Are you happy to be alive?”
“Yes. But that’s not new.”
“But are you so fucking happy?”
I lost the feeling in my toes. I banged my feet to get it back. “No. Not enough. I keep thinking I’m going to die. Or I should already be dead.”
“You want to know about life after death?”
“Yes. Please. Anything.”
The medic’s thumb jerked forward.
“I do, too. So tell me about your life.”
Denise S. Robbins is a Wisconsinian living in Washington, DC. Her stories have appeared or forthcoming in Barcelona Review, Gulf Coast Journal, Jabberwock Review, and more. She has a novel and short story collection in the works. Find her work at www.denisesrobbins.com
