A Stubborn, Persistent Illusion …Part 10 ...Elaine Alive Again.

Sometimes, when the stars are kind, we shudder, as if someone 'walked over our grave,' as if a memory suddenly was rescued from a place deep within us - the recognition of something we never knew was there, felt as a flicker or a shadow, whose ghostly form rises and passes back into us before we can see what it is.
― Alberto Manguel

Elaine

In the first part of The Divine Comedy, Dante encounters hell with its nine concentric circles of torment. His experience exactly parallels my own—nine years of suffering the flames of Elaine’s fiery death in a plane crash—reliving it every night in my dreams.

In my soul’s journey, now ten years in, I figure I’m stuck in the second state, namely Purgatory, where I have to make amends for my sins.

I’m hoping this phase of my suffering will be brief and I will finally arrive at Paradise, and spend eternity in Elaine’s arms.

This gives me hope, but all allegories limp and this one is no different.

Did I tell you that Dante’s love for Beatrice was unrequited? Well, that doesn’t bode well for the mission I’m about to undertake—again, pardon the grisly pun.

Nevertheless, I’m sitting on my now familiar bench across from our old house where I believe Elaine exists at this very moment somehow continuing her earthly life.

All of which leads to an overwhelming question, as Prufrock would say—but please don’t ask what it is.

I’m no theologian and I have no idea if souls persist on this earthly plane unbeknownst to those they love, or even themselves for that matter.

So what I think is of no consequence and will in no way alter the outcome of what’s about to happen.

I’m simply sitting here at my listening post watching and waiting like an actor anticipating a cue, but again, I don’t know what it is and I haven’t memorized my lines.

All I know is that somewhere this side of eternity I’m going to cross the street, ring the bell and when Elaine answers, step back into my old life.

And that, as Hamlet opined, would be a consummation devoutly to be wished. Mind you, he also was prone to melancholy like me and contemplated ending his life with a bare bodkin.

So much for damnable allusions.

It’s an overcast day, about three in the afternoon, and while I’m watching the basement flat, a light turns on in one of the windows.

A sign from heaven? Hardly. But a sure sign that someone’s home.

I arise from my contemplations, take a deep breath and for the second time in less than a week start across the street to confront my deepest fears and my great expectations.

I ring the bell and to my surprise, Elaine immediately opens the door, as if I were expected.

I’m totally unprepared for this—she’s even more beautiful than I recollected and I can sense the warmth of her skin, the softness of her hair and the powdery fragrance of her perfume.

“Yes, can I help you?” She asks smiling, in that same soft voice that verges on a whisper.

I’m totally overwhelmed and completely unable to speak. I keep staring at her expecting a response but she seems oblivious to any connection with me.

I must look mad or in great distress because she perceives my angst and reaches out a hand to steady me.

It’s a familiar touch, soft and warm, her poetry of concern, but curiously devoid of the current of passion I felt when Clare reached out to me.

“Are you feeling okay—do you need help?”

All I can do is stare at her in mute desperation, my eyes moist with tears and my entire body trembling.

”Let me help you inside,” she insists and comes along side and helps me into the small, familiar living room, furnished with the same sectional couch I inherited from my parents.

She guides me to the couch and helps me sit down.

“I’ll get you a glass of water,” she says and hurries out to the kitchen.

I sit there in our old front room staring at the relics I gave to charity and friends after she passed away. I couldn’t bear to see them and now here I am, seated among them.

Elaine returns with a glass tumbler filled with water and cubes.

“Take a sip of this,” she orders, and obediently, I do.

I’m not surprised she took me in—Elaine was always trusting of everyone—even strangers, which I suppose to her I am.

“Thank you,” I manage to croak, my voice still choked with emotion.

“What can I do to help you—do you need me to call an ambulance?”

“Oh no—nothing like that,” I manage to stammer, “it’s just… just—that you remind me of someone and I was overcome with shock.”

My explanation is truthful but I’m not sure I can carry the ruse further. And I’m desperate to know why she is so unaware.

© 2019, John J Geddes. All rights reserved

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