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The studio apartment. 11:47 pm ticking on the old analog clock. Connie, wrapped in Steven's bathrobe, sitting on the kitchen counter.
Dishes in the sink, that Steven would jump to clean on any other day.
But he stands there in the kitchen doorway, tiredness drenching his senses.
Connie's hands grip her phone as she holds it to her ear - it's warm against her face, but the heat brings no comfort. "Mom? What do you mean? Is Dad okay?"
There's that "pit in your stomach" feeling, that "I can't breathe mom make it stop" feeling, that Steven can't reach and Connie can't shake off. Something is horribly wrong. "Mom. Mom?"
Priyanka is on speakerphone now. Connie bites her nails. The clock ticks.
"Beta, breathe. Honey, I- ...I'm sorry. I- I don't know. I'm at the hospital now," The phone crackles in an unfriendly way. "They said it was hard to tell what happened, the truck just... it just hit him. It- it was raining. I guess it flipped, I.."
Dr. Maheswaran's voice was always this woody, courageous tone - certainty and confidence. Steven had never heard her quite like this.
Connie, staring at her phone.
"I don't know what happened, Connie, he was supposed to be home hours ago. I-... with the thunderstorms, with-"
Steven, eyes darting back and forth from the phone to his girlfriend, trying to piece it together.
"What do you mean? What did he say?"
Priyanka doesn't answer. She doesn't know what to say, what balm to put over this. Neither had Doug, blindsided by the headlights and the pouring rain.
Words leave Steven's throat in a jumble as he reaches for the Dondai keys. "Which hospital is he in? We can be there in twenty minutes. Tell me what room-"
Priyanka, on the other end, trying to breathe. "It-..." Her voice cracks pitifully.
"Mom," Connie, choking on her own spit. "No." Her face, stark against Steven's pink robe. Her hair, still muddled from sleep, spilling out over her shoulders.
"He's already gone, Chellam."
Nightbirds cooing in the trees as if nothing had happened, as if the world was unchanged. Rows of houses, sound asleep outside, streetlights blinking off, the Earth still spinning - the Earth unchanged.
"Connie?" Steven's voice, seeming to echo, a million miles away.
There was only the sound of the phone clattering to the floor, not eliciting any reaction from Connie.
The clock, ticking.
∘₊ ☆──────☆₊∘
"At least he's in a better place."
Steven didn't know who Aunt Marjorie was, but he wanted to punch her in the face. Didn't matter if she was an old lady with fake teeth, or even if she was trying to help.
He could tell that she wanted to be sick, but Connie smiled pleasantly at her aunt and nodded.
Connie looked elegant despite her grief, clad in black slacks and a wine colored satin blouse that Steven had bought for her weeks before, for a job interview. Such a beautiful top had not been meant for such a sad occasion, but Connie knew she would never be able to wear it again without thinking of her father.
There they sat, on the carpeted living room floor of Connie's parents' home, post funeral and four glasses of wine in. They seemed buried in a sea of old photographs.
Steven, in his own dark button down, itched at the uncomfortable collar. Connie leaned on his shoulder, holding one photo album and flipping through it with her overbearing aunt. Wine had been indulged so indiscreetly after the service that a dark purple smudge sat on her lips and teeth.
Aunt Marjorie pointed at photos, handed them to her niece, tsked at old memories. She was trying to raise morale, get her sister and her niece to remember Doug as he was, not how it ended.
She looked at her sister. Her sister did not look back. In fact, Priyanka stayed in the kitchen, looking at the boxes as if they were an affront to her very existence. A cold cup of tea sat on the table, next to a coffee cup which bore the words "#1 Dad." It sat patiently, with a week old ring shaped stain that was branded on the coffee table.
"Here's Doug in his tennis days!" Aunt Marjorie said it with a cheerfulness meant to be contagious but only falling flat. She held up a picture of a much younger Doug Maheswaran in neon shorts and a very vintage sweatband.
"I never knew he played tennis." Steven said, running a thumb over the picture. Doug was grinning at the camera, swinging a tennis racket in a silly pose.
"Yep. In college," Priyanka recalled.
"He taught me how to play really well. He used to make jokes on the court, pretending like he was on TV or something, looking into the corner like there was some paparazzi or a film crew." Connie smiled, really smiled, for the first time all day.
"Oh, he used to crack himself up." Priyanka chuckled tightly.
Connie laughed a little, but then her smile faded. Used to. The past tense.
She discarded the few pictures she had collected over the last few minutes - her mother and father in wedding garb and garlands, her father sporting a grin, a flashlight, and his security uniform, a three year old Connie riding a horse at some festival with arms wrapped around Doug and pigtails flying, Connie's high school graduation, with her father's proud face beaming next to her and her principal.
Steven put a comforting hand on her shoulder. "Let's take a break, yeah?" He said softly, helping her to her feet and brushing dust from the knees his blue jeans. "Why don't I make some tea?"
"I need air."
"O-okay. Yeah."
"I just don't get it." Connie said as the two of them stepped out onto the small porch. "He was just here."
"I know."
She lit a cigarette, not able to ignore that she held her dad's lighter in her hand. It was black, with cartoon cats all over it, smooth, finite. Easy to lose. Yet this was still here and her father wasn't. "I just keep thinking, this can't be real."
All he could do was nod, and kiss the hand that wasn't holding a Virginia Slim.
"And Aunt Margie. I know she's trying to help, I guess, but..."
"You're all affected." Steven said tenderly.
"I don't understand how someone can just go away." She flicked the ash over the side of the porch. Aimlessness was a new look on her, but he couldn't blame her. "He was just here." She repeated. "So full of life, laughing and breathing and telling me to call him more."
"Don't blame yourself for that, honey." He said very softly, watching her take another drag from her cigarette and look blankly at the potted aloe vera plant on the front steps. Its plump green arms outstretched to the dying sun, reaching also for something that was going away too soon.
"Aunt Margie said he's in a better place." Connie murmured. She sighed, looking out at the front lawn in front if them. The wine was making her sway only slightly, and the rush of nicotine warmed her against this chill that had remained in her bones. She brought the cigarette to her stained lips again, and there was another long moment of silence. And then suddenly, "Do you believe in God, Steven?"
Steven looked at her, a little shocked at the question. "Well, I don't know." He admitted. "I... I was never really taught about religion."
She shrugged. "There has to be some kind of... something after this."
"Well," Steven held her, watching the way she opened and closed her eyes. "I'd like to think so."
Connie leaned into him. "You can't just disappear. Human souls don't just.."
Steven felt phlegm rise in his throat. Human. Human souls.
"I have a soul." Connie pulled Steven's arms tighter around her. "You have a soul. We can't just..."
She stopped herself, looking back at him, the way his hand immediately flew to the gem on his navel. "Steven?"
"Yeah."
She paused, reveling in the way he touched her hair. She clicked her teeth disappointedly as she snuffed her cigarette out on the wooden railing. "Can I ask you something?"
He nodded, tracing the shape of her jaw with his hand. They stood on the porch together for another minute, as she gathered her breath, swiped the smell of smoke from her clothes. "Do you think you'll live forever? With your gem and all."
Steven remembered Pearl explaining shattering - that a gem could be there, and then just as simply, vanish into nothing. How gems, as an alien species, did not bleed or rot or pass away. Not really.
And then there had been Greg. Explaining death, explaining that people don't live forever like gems do, that they have a timer of sorts. That one must make the best of their lives, and seize the day, because we don't know how many we have. He'd never included what he felt, how he was raised. Only snippets of Olam ha-Ba, the World to Come, that his parents had taught him about, and the idea that religion punished wickedness or something.
"Don't worry about that too much," his dad had said. "You're a special case." And by that, he meant that no one was sure if the poor kid's gem would decide if he was human or alien on his deathbed. He'd never really thought of it at all, actually, until now.
"Forever is a long time." Steven whispered back, kissing her softly. "Let's not think about that now, Con, okay?" He sighed, pulling away at last.
In his own mind, he imagined that he would live a long time - three lifetimes, maybe, that his human mortality would be extended by the gem. He didn't say that to her, though. She was asking, but now wasn't the time. She needed comfort. "I'm choosing to believe there's something after this, and I'm choosing to believe your dad will be there." He smiled at her, albeit weakly.
Connie frowned. "Thanks." She squeezed his hand. "I guess we'd better go back inside."
Steven kissed her. She tasted like ash and wine."Go on. I'll be in in a minute."
Connie disappeared through the front door. Steven leaned on the railing, feeling the gem in his stomach press against the wood.
Forever IS a long time.