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“ When I think about the town without me, I feel a sense of relief. I want to go far, far away. ”
— “Kayo Hinazuki,” in the manga Erased by Kei Sanbe.
I don’t associate the days of the week with the days of my life anymore. For some reason, it just doesn’t feel right. Mondays feel like Wednesdays, and every spare second I used to have bleeds into my Tuesdays and Saturdays. Time has no real structure for me anymore. Maybe I got too used to being able to handle the clock. Pressures of the privileged, I guess.
I find myself avoiding mirrors more than I used to. Sometimes I get afraid of who I might see when I look into them. Will it be the same Max Caulfield it was before? No, it won’t be. The one I am now is older, and — wiser would be generous. Just older. Greyer, in a sense. I bet she misses me. God, I miss her too. I miss being her. But she feels like another lifetime in another skin. A skin that doesn’t belong to me anymore.
She exists now only in memories I will never be able to share with anyone.
I pilfer through my clothes now like I’ve never seen them before. I touch them like they’re brand new in some store, like I’ve never worn them. I worm myself into a black dress, and it slinks down to my knees. I stare at it in the mirror, desperately trying to avoid my face. It seems paler than before, and I feel like a ghost. My feet seem to crawl into my shoes more so than wear them. I take my old sweater and try to force it around the mirror before I leave the room.
“Are you okay?” It’s up for debate today. Warren tries and I give him credit for that much. He’s a good person. But sometimes the quiet seems much better than having to wrestle with my feelings or just say yes to avoid an awkward conversation. I’d hate for him to have to console me.
“For now, yeah,” it feels like a slip of the tongue. If only I had some way to fix that . He looks at me for a second, and I can tell that he’s thinking of what to say. I look at him, and I just wait. But words don’t follow and I’m left with how nice he looks in his suit. It’s just too bad what it has to be worn for.
His car seems to hum when it parks. His hand is holding the gear shift a second or two longer, with his finger tapping. Anticipation seems to kill him, even if he’s the one creating it.
“I’m here, Max,” he says finally, without looking at me, “I’ve got you.” He’s a good person.
I say small thank yous and for a second I think about putting my hand over his. But he takes my thank yous as some cue, and gets out of the car.
The weather is good today. No clouds, but no heat. All the breezes float down on our crowd as we walk across the bridge and into the cemetery. I think of small apologies and quiet pardon mes as we walk over some of the others who are buried here.
Chloe’s gravesite doesn’t sit at the very top, but it overlooks the bay as if it does. Her coffin sits in the plain air, waiting to be put down as the sermon narrates her next move. In real time, Joyce sinks with the coffin. Her body moves away from David, and she presses into the ground. Her knees dig into the soft dirt, and her torso seems to shake with quiet cries. Her head dips, and her hair seems shiny and smooth.
For some reason, I don’t seem to cry. I look away in hopes I don’t seem so heartless. I want to cry for her, every single version of her that I may have taken from each and every version of her family. Each and every Joyce, each and every William, and each and every David. But I don’t. I look away, and feel everything sinking into my stomach from a pit that I didn’t even realize was in my chest. I have no way of undoing any pain anymore.
I have no way of saving anybody anymore, and all it does is make me feel sick. Was I even a hero in the first place? I could have chosen to rip up that stupid picture and kept her. But I’m not God, and I don’t get to choose who lives, and who dies. I get to live with who lives and who dies.
“I’m sure glad you’re here,” Joyce doesn’t know about every second of lost time together. She only knows me from five years ago, and how I never got around to seeing Chloe again. Her hand curls around my back, and she looks at me with longing eyes. I’m some piece of her daughter, in a way. I’m all she has left, a living, breathing extension of Chloe.