A Stubborn, Persistent Illusion …Part 4 ...Nothing Is What It Seems
become a poet to highlight your essence.
― Jolie wolf
I’m sitting in The Slye Fox with a beautiful ex-colleague telling her about my experience of seeing my dead wife.
Yeah, I’ve never really been good at small talk.
I simply waited for a break in the conversation when things got quiet and just dropped the matter in her lap.
As you might expect, Clare was taken aback and skeptical at first suggesting all the same possible explanations I invented to explain the impossibility to myself, but in the end she became reflective and somber.
I actually felt bad for inviting her into my craziness.
Just when I was thinking the night was probably over and she’d politely exit saying we’ll have to do this again, but meaning never, she took me totally by surprise.
“How can we test your experience?”
She said it softly and thoughtfully while gazing off into space trying to visualize some scenario.
I stared at her open-mouthed.
“You mean you’re actually taking this seriously and not running out of here like I’m deranged?”
She gave me a knowing look. “How long have I known you, Paul? If you’re deranged then nobody’s sane.”
I got a lump in my throat right then and wanted to cry. Until that moment, I didn’t realize how alone I really felt and how desperately I needed someone to really listen and understand me.
Clare was always that person—ready to drop everything and listen—and I mean really listen, weighing each word and asking all the right questions.
I knew that made her a good reporter, but I suppose I overlooked or was afraid to admit it also made her a very attractive person.
”You’re too close to the situation to be objective,” she said, “why not let me act as intermediary?”
“What do you have in mind?” I asked, suddenly wary that she might alarm the woman, especially if she wasn’t Elaine, and start her thinking that Clare was some weird stalker or something.
“Don’t worry, “ she giggled, “I’m not going to go up to her door and ask if she’s Elaine Turner,”
I nodded, “Yeah, that would be surreal.”
”I’ve got it!” She exclaimed, “I’ll use the pretext of looking for a friend who lived in the apartment before her.”
“That’s good—and if she doesn’t know the former tenant you could ask her to phone her landlord and call you back with the info—that way you’ll get to know if her name’s Elaine.”
Clare was flushed with excitement. “This will be perfect, Paul—we’ll be able to verify who really lives there, and hopefully, reassure you that you’re not going crazy.”
I got caught up in her enthusiasm too—exactly the way I always did.
“And if it turns out to be a case of mistaken identity, we may get a story out of it.”
“Well, I think we always collaborated very well,” she whispered.
My heart froze for a moment. I knew she was referring to more than our current adventure, and it made me feel we took up from where we left off five years before, except this time I was willing to give more.
We both agreed that Clare would drop by my old house on Thursday afternoon when she had some free time and try to meet Elaine, and then we’d meet back at the pub afterwards so she could update me on what occurred.
There was a moment in the parking lot when we parted, saying goodbye before we drove off in separate cars.
We hugged briefly but it felt like coming home—as if my mind may have temporarily forgotten how lovely she was but my arms remembered.
It took all my resolve to let her go with a smile as if I didn’t care when I was really eaten up with longing and desire.
A part of me was already hoping there’d be a mundane explanation for what I saw and Clare and I could get on with our lives—but that made me feel guilty as well.
One thing’s for certain—nothing is ever as easy as it first seems.