I was caught in a love triangle with one dead side.
― John Green
Have you ever had a dream where you were trapped in a maze of streets?
Well, my life has been like that these past ten years since Elaine died, trying to escape the labyrinth and trying to console myself that at least dead ends weren't minotaurs.
But now I’m not so sure. Seeing Jake and having him ignore me and drive off was worse than learning he had died.
At least in dreams the dead talk and revisit you as if were the most natural thing in the world, but having them shun you hurts—it amounts to a cosmic rejection of everything your friendship ever meant.
Which leads me to another question—what if I get up enough nerve to ring Elaine’s doorbell and she answers but rejects me, just like Jake?
I don’t think I could bear that, not after all these years of grieving her loss and breathing life into her memory.
And here's another depressing thought—What if in the underworld Elaine succumbs to depression and takes to drink to forget—sipping from some mystical Lethe to erase the painful memory of our earthly life?
Would she not be just like me—self-medicating, not on Gordon’s gin, but sipping from forgetfulness in the hopes of having her memories erased?
The prospect is so bleak and daunting that I almost convince myself it’s true and want to bury myself in drink to the point where I never have to think or feel again.
It’s at that very moment that the phone rings and I mindlessly pick up and hear Clare’s voice on the other end.
“Paul, thank God! Are you all right? When I didn’t hear from you I got worried—you promised me you’d call after you met with Elaine.”
Her voice pulls me back to earth—grounds me and frees me from Hypnos’ Cave and the Siren call of Oblivion’s waves.
My throat is parched and I can barely speak.
“Clare,” I manage to croak, “I’m not doing well—can you meet with me at The Slye Fox?”
“Hang on. I’ll be there in an hour.”
I hadn't intended to touch base with her, and had no real thought of anything to tell the truth. I had no plan, other than a burning desire to bury myself in drink.
As I drove to the pub, I still had no idea what I’d say. I could picture Clare’s concerned face and it caused me great regret that I involved her in the chaos of my grief over my dead wife.
She deserved better than this—better than me—and what could I offer her anyway except more of the same?
I hated myself at that moment but Clare had stuck with me so far and deserved an answer— whether or not I was able to make sense of the craziness was another matter.
I arrived at the pub before her, so I decided to wait for her in the parking lot in hopes the fresh air would clear my head.
A few minutes later, she pulls up and when she gets out of her car and sees me, all her anxious foreboding overwhelms her and she runs to my arms.
As I stand there holding her, inhaling the fresh scent of her skin and hair, I realize two things—this girl has life in her, and whether I deserve it or not, she really cares.