--Preface--
Once again, thank you all for your feedback and comments -- they are what motivate me to keep writing!
This one took a while to get across the finish line, so thank you for your patience (and encouragement!). This story has been percolating in my head for a while, and when I heard Paul Simon's
Graceland
on the radio one day, the lyrics helped me frame the plot. As with my other stories, the narrative builds slowly but surely, so a quick fix this is not. Lastly, a sincere 'thank you' to
Ripley
for being my capable and trusted counselor on this endeavor.
--Prologue (Nine Months Ago - September)--
Cal Warner sat slouched in the club chair, her head tilted back as she stared out of the patio door window. It was quiet. The branches of the lemon tree in the backyard swayed hypnotically. The parallel beams of a car's headlights swung across the corner of the yard and faded as the car made its turn and went on its way. She closed her eyes.
"Hey..."
Cal sat up, startled by the greeting. She thought everyone else was asleep. She looked around the living room.
Nothing stirred. The hospital bed stood quietly next to her chair, empty, stripped of its linens. There was no reason for Cal to be sitting here anymore, but this had been her spot for so long, it seemed comforting to return here.
"Cal."
"Becca?" Cal's heart was beating awfully fast. Cal pulled her knees to her chin and curled up into a ball.
Becca died a week ago. She's gone, Warner.
She squeezed her eyes shut, but the tears came anyway. Cal wondered if tonight was the night she would finally run out of them.
"Cal."
"Go. Away." Cal mumbled, "Unless you are my split personality and you look like Brad Pitt in Fight Club."
"Oh, you silly rabbit."
Cal's eyes sprung open. There, sitting cross-legged on the hospital bed, was Becca. It was the Becca before the illness. Before paralysis atrophied her legs, before the edema had set in from all the medication they pumped into her.
"I'm way hotter than Brad Pitt." Becca grinned, tossing her long black hair over her shoulder.
"This isn't real, right?" Cal choked out, her eyes desperately clawing at the vision before her.
Becca bit her lip and shook her head sadly, "No. It's not real. Kind of a half-dream."
"I miss you. I want to be with you... I'd rather be with you..." The last few words escaped in a whisper.
"Don't you dare, Callan Warner!" Becca pointed a finger at Cal.
"It's true..." Those two words stumbled, hopelessly, out of Cal's mouth.
Becca looked less solid now, still sitting on the bed, but more like an image than a three-dimensional body.
"No... don't go. Please, don't go," Cal pleaded.
"I have to," Becca said gently, "You know that. I just wanted to say goodbye... and to tell you that you need to live. You need to believe you can."
Cal shook her head. She didn't care if she had lost her mind to far-fetched hallucinations. She'd much rather have this pseudo-dream than anything else. She let out a sarcastic laugh, "You are haunting me to remind me to stick it out for the kids?"
Becca crossed her arms, "You are no good for the kids if you are half dead inside. But it's not just about them. It's about you. You need to live. Promise me you will."
Cal wanted to promise, but she couldn't. Becca glared at her, tears springing up, "Cal Warner. Promise me!"
Great. I've made a ghost cry.
"Fine, I promise," Cal surrendered. She rubbed her eyes, "Easy for you to say, by the way, you're dead."
When Cal looked toward the bed again, Becca was gone.
Cal looked around her, fully awake now. She groaned as she realized the trick her mind had played. "This fucking sucks," she said out loud, feeling suddenly oppressed by the misfortune the house witnessed. "We should go back to New York City," she told the empty room, "After the kids are done with the school year. Start new there."
She comes back to tell me she's gone
As if I didn't know that
As if I didn't know my own bed
As if I'd never noticed
The way she brushed her hair from her forehead
And she said losing love
Is like a window in your heart
Everybody sees you're blown apart
Everybody sees the wind blow...
Paul Simon
, "Graceland"
--Chapter 1: The First PT Session (Present Day - June)--
Annie felt Jason's hands on her upper back and took a deep breath. Annie exhaled as her colleague pushed downwards. A satisfying arpeggio of cracks filled the room as Annie's spine realigned.
"Fuck, yes!" Annie exclaimed. Jason chuckled in response, "Never gets old, that one!"
"I really needed that, thanks J." Annie slowly stretched into child's pose and lingered there. "You need an adjustment?"
"I'm okay, thanks," Jason answered, "And I have a client in five minutes so get your butt off my table."