Letting You Go: A Short Story (2 page)

              That's how I met Ken. Shirtless.

              Fresh out of college, I took on freelance work to expand my portfolio. Memorial day was right around the corner, and a company wanted me to promote their guy jeans by using subjects who they deemed patriotic men. I pulled some favors with my gay modeling friends and had them pose as sailors and police officers while I snapped pictures.

              The editor shrugged when I showed her the negatives. She thought they were “ok” shots, but too “navy”. She wanted it redone with more color. “Think inspiration,” she told me. “People should be proud of being patriotic. Not blue. Close your eyes with me and think reds, yellows, oranges. Give me a little more...
fire
.”

              Firefighters. I'd completely forgot about them. I felt so stupid. I put an ad up on Craigslist titled, “Fit Male Model For Fireman Photo Shoot. 2 Years Experience Plus!”The resumes fled in from well qualified male models, some of them questionably gorgeous. I decided on a blonde guy named Pierre with stunning blue eyes and cute fluffy lips. God bless France. His thighs and legs were disproportionately short, but luckily, we'd be shooting from the middle up. All I wanted was that toned, firm, upper body. The rest could be airbrushed out.

              The night before Pierre's photoshoot, I received an email from a Mr. K. Allen, simply titled,
“I'll do it.”

              No resume. No summary of qualifications. No picture.

              I wrote back,
“Sorry, but I don't think you meet our qualifications. We're looking for someone with two or more years of modeling experience.”

              He responded within the hour.
“So seven years of firefighting experience doesn't count?”

             
“You do understand this is a modeling gig? You won't actually be fighting any fires.”

             
“Ya, I get that. I'm just trying to make some extra cash. Do you want me to come in or not?”

             
“You're welcome to come try out in our studio, but I can't make any promises.”

              He showed up the next morning. I knew from the beginning he wasn't what we were looking for. He was cute, but not front page material. His brown hair was too short. I wanted medium length and a lighter, highlighted tone. His eyelashes weren't as full as Pierre's, and he lacked the attractive almond eye shape. I kept thinking
puppy
when I saw them, bright and honey brown, like warm syrup on a stack of pancakes. They gave away the fact that he was a lighthearted kind of guy. All good things, I'm sure, but I had my heart set on Pierre’s blue seductive gaze.

              If K. Allen's eyes didn't get you, his personality did. He was sweet, or at least charismatic enough to keep our secretary engaged as he waited his turn. This was the type of guy you'd never get bored with. He had a deeper appreciation for life. That was probably due to his line of work. I had nothing against that. Not at all. It wasn't his personality that lost him the job. He just wasn't a model. Since he'd gone through the trouble, I let him have a few shots anyway. The zero modeling experience really showed.  He was a dork. He didn't take it as  seriously as Pierre did, which sealed his fate, but he was definitely fun to shoot.

              I couldn't use his photos and pass up models who'd obviously done more professional work. I ended up picking someone else, but I kept in contact. We remained friends for a while before he eventually asked me to dinner. It was then I learned that auditioning for the gig was actually a penalty assigned by his crew for losing a bet. They had his shots pinned on the refrigerator for months. His loss, my win. 

              We found the department store on the corner of Liberty and First. Kate charged for the shoes and lingerie. I wandered aimlessly in circles, keeping my eyes open for the owner or manager. There were more customers meandering around than staff. Figures. I ended up in the baby section, smiling fondly at the cute little tutu dresses, and the tiny baby girl onesies that read “Daddy's Princess”. Ken and I talked about having a baby in the near future. I wanted a girl.

              My eyes swelled up, and I rummaged through my purse to distract myself. My hand brushed against the cream colored envelope. I read it over again.
Meet me here
. It wasn't just one sentence. There was more writing on the flip side. I don't know how I missed that. I could then say with absolute certainty that it was Ken's handwriting. Who could have faked that?

             
Pieces of me that you've always kept. Physically and mentally. They will always be yours to smile back on, whether I'm here or gone.

             
“Megan, check these heels out,” Kate called across the store. I quickly put the letter away. Lethargically, like a ghost, I walked over to her. I didn't feel attached to my own body anymore. I felt some place else. Some place with Ken. And I saw things. I thought I saw him in the corner of my eye, playing hide and seek behind clothes racks. One minute he was there, the next he was gone. It was definitely unnerving.

              “I think we should go,” I told Kate.

              “We just got here,” she protested.

              “I don't feel comfortable in this particular store,” I said.

              “Oh.” Kate understood and nodded. “Let me just pay for these and we can go.”

              I decided to wait outside for her. I started for the door, thinking about all the pieces I'd kept of him, both physically and mentally. When Ken was alive, he supplemented his income as a firefighter by doing accounting and tax preparing on the side. He was so good with numbers. He developed a strong clientele, and got offered a position at a respected financial advising firm. He turned it down. His heart had always been with the fire department. But when we talked about starting a family, he reconsidered the offer and how he'd close his ties with firefighting for good. He was always trying to make me happy.

              I heard his voice, somewhere on the right side of the store, behind all the isles. That couldn't be right. I listened again and turned white. It was definitely Ken's voice. My heart skipped. I was both excited and terrified. I followed that voice like chasing salvation.

              “So you're a single mom with one child under the age of eighteen,” he said. “You don't make much from your part-time job as a tutor, so you will only get a tax return of about four hundred, plus roughly a grand in child credit for your son. A grand isn't much these days. It won't get you through nursing school, that's absolutely certain. What I can do is put you down for education credit. What that means is, since you're working and paying out of pocket for your own schooling, you're gonna get some of that money back. Not all of it, but a percentage. That should help you out.”

              By the time I reached the back of the store, I couldn't breathe anymore. There he was, sitting at a desk in the corner, his little office set up by the window, in exactly the same way he'd kept it when he was alive. A girl sat across from him holding her one year old son and signing papers. She looked real. Everything looked real. I knew if I walked up and touched her dark hair, she'd turn around and stare at me. Did she know what was going on? How could she not know she was talking to a dead man? Did I create that scene? Had I taken to heart the words in Ken's letter and somehow transcended the barriers of reality?

              Ken smiled at me, and held up his hand to gesture that he'd be done in a minute. He acted like we'd just seen each other this morning at breakfast. Like we'd only been separated for a couple of hours. He waited until his client finished. “Sorry to run off, but my wife is waiting for me. If you have any questions or concerns, you have my card. Don't hesitate to call.” He shook her hand, shook the baby's hand, and I watched her walk right pass me without looking up.

              Ken approached me. I nearly fainted, but he caught me just before I broke down. At long last, he was in my arms. He felt so real. The way he squeezed me. The scent of his cologne. The rise and fall of his chest. And he was so warm. The same warmth I'd found shelter in when we laid in bed together. The same gentleness that slid a ring on my finger. The same dedication that helped build our home. But not the same love, as I'd hoped. Our connection felt stronger. Love had taken deeper roots. Love had conquered death and tore down the barriers separating life and that unknown void life fades into when we take our final breath. Fire took my husband away, but fire had melted our relationship into something indestructible. Into something like steel. At that moment, nothing could break that bond. Nothing could separate us. I kissed him everywhere. His lips, his hair, his eyes, his nose. My tears left nothing untouched.

              “Ken, what's happening? What's going on?” I asked, looking him over and over. He was still dressed in his turnouts, but not as the monster who crept into my nightmares. He was the same Ken I remembered.  No ash. No burns. No scars. My hands shook as I touched his face. I still got that same shock of electricity. I still melted inside with the same affection and tenderness I'd swooned in since our first kiss.

              “Are you real?” I  whispered. “Am I schizophrenic? Is this really happening?”

              “Don't be scared. It's ok,” he assured me.

              But it wasn't ok. Something about it was off. I pulled my hand away and shook my head. “No, this isn't right. This isn't how things work. You died. You burned to death in a collapse three months ago. How is it you're standing here in front of me?” I was horrified. I turned to walk away, thinking I'd really gone over this time. I needed to get outside and get some air.

              “Please, don't shut me out, Meg,” he said. “I don't know how much time I have. I just needed to see you. I needed you to know I'm still here. I didn't mean for it to upset you. I know it's a lot to take in right now. I don't understand it myself, but bear with me. Don't go. Baby, please, just talk to me for a minute.”

              “I can't! It's impossible because you're
dead
,” I said firmly, more to myself than to him. “This is all just some sick twisted hallucination going on in my head. It's the medication. I swear to God, it's the medication. I'll close my eyes, count to three, and everything will go back to the way it should be. One...two...”

              I blinked. The only thing standing in front of me was the window. A taxi pulled up next to the curb. A lady walked by with her dog. A pigeon poked at a piece of bagel. Ken was gone. A tempest of emotion threatened to tear me apart. I buried my face in my hands, trying to get a hold of myself. I could still smell his cologne. It was all over my hands. I breathed it in deeply. “Oh my god,” I exhaled. “What's happening to me?” I was seeing my dead husband. How was I suppose to justify that?

              I wanted more. I knew I shouldn't. Whatever was going on probably wasn't anything good, but I couldn't help myself. To hell with logical. To hell with right and wrong. To hell with sanity. I'd trade anything in a heartbeat for him. I just wanted my Ken back.

              “Kenneth,” I whispered, carefully glancing over my shoulder. “I'm having a really hard time believing this. But if there's a small fraction of a chance that you're still here, show me some sign. Give me something I can go off of here. I won't shut you out. I just need more proof.”

              I felt his arms around my waist from behind, and he rested his chin on my shoulder. He sang softly, hardly above a whisper, the song I used to wake up to him singing every anniversary.

“My sorry name has made it to graffiti.

I was looking for someone to complete me.

Not anymore, dear.

Everything has changed.

We took the town to town last night.

We kissed like we invented it.

And now I know what every step is for.

To lead me to your door.”

              We strolled around that little department store again and again. I wouldn't let go of his arm, terrified that if I did, he'd evaporate through my fingers. We talked and talked. Not about death or what had happened to him, but about the normal things we use to talk about when he came home to me. A bittersweet reminder of how much he really added to my life when he was alive. How much I relied on him for stability in this twisted, schizo world. How my sanity slowly peeled away after leaving him in a silent grave. I like to think of myself as a strong woman. I'm an independent woman. I can take anyone down. I can survive anything. I get what I want. Yet my foundation, my backbone, and a good deal of my reason and accomplishment are due to the ongoing support and unconditional love of this man.

              So, of course, I was destroyed when he stopped abruptly and turned to look in my eyes. I fell apart. We both knew what was next.

              “Don't,” I said, trembling. I could hardly get it out. “Don't do this to me again. Don't leave.”

              “I can't stay here, sweetheart. I'm on borrowed time,” he said. “I have just enough to say what I'm about to say.”

              “Then don't say anything,” I kept shaking my head. “Don't tell me a word that's gonna take you away again.”

              “Just listen to me,” he said. “Baby, wait. Look at me. You know why you got that letter, right?”

              Tears stung my eyes, threatening to spill over. I blinked, trying to hold them back. I couldn't talk. I had a lump in my throat. He rested his forehead against mine and held both my hands. I couldn't hold it back anymore. My shoulders shook as I broke down in sobs.

              “Baby, you can't keep holding on to me like this. It's not good for your health,” he told me gently. “You have to start being the strong woman I fell in love with. I hate watching you suffer over this, especially when I'm happy. Ya, I'm happy. I'm at peace with myself because I know this is only something temporary between us. I'm here waiting for you. I'm working here to save up for a new place, and we'll never have to worry about fire or death or anything ever tearing us apart. You can't keep trying to kill yourself. That's not the right way of going about this. You got to understand I
need
you here. I need you with me, but when the time is right for you. I've done what I was suppose to do in life. I loved you. You still have so much to give, babe. Promise me you'll stick it out. You'll see this through to the end.”