My Beloved Wife
By Karen

Rating: R
Disclaimer: Not mine (the characters, that is - the story is all mine )
Summary: Max is devastated by a loss in his life
Author's Notes: If you're the least bit sensitive to suicide references, please move on and read something else. Lyrics are from "Beloved Wife" by Natalie Merchant. Thanks once again to Lolita Behrbuns for my wonderful banner!

******************************************

Prologue

You were the love

For certain of my life

You were simply my beloved wife

I don't know for certain

How I'll live my life

Now alone without my beloved wife

I move as if in a dream.  None of these things around me are real.  My feet don’t touch the grass as I move toward the gaping hole in the ground.  My ears don’t hear the minister’s words as he sings the post-humus praises of my love.  My fingers don’t feel their damp lifelessness.  And I can’t feel the pain inside of my heart.

Faces come and go, blurry images of people I may have once cared about.  They pause before me, offering words I don’t comprehend, sad smiles of the uncomfortable.  My sister is here, beautiful like I remember her, though her eyes are red and puffy.  She says she’s sorry and that she’s worried about me – come by for dinner.  I’m not sure how dinner will make any of this seem more real or less real, but the offer seems to comfort her.  I also know that her concern is misplaced.  Don’t worry about me.  My path is set and I can’t change it.

Unafraid of mortality, I see Maria also, placing flowers atop the lonely wooden box.  She’s beautiful, too, in her own way.  I almost wish I could appreciate her beauty, could see her as being something to behold.  But she has held such a neutral position in my life for so long that all I can recall is her loyalty and friendship.  A friend to the bitter end.  If the end is bitter – I can’t really tell any more.

In the car, moving toward the Evans home.  Mom’s in the front seat, dabbing her running eyes and trying to be cheerful.  Dad is silent.  He’s uncomfortable with my silence, but there’s nothing I can do to comfort him.  Mom’s ordered food, so everyone can be together for a little while longer.  It doesn’t matter to me, but she seems to care, so I’ll carry out this charade for her.

More faces, some unfamiliar.  More sympathetic looks.  They tell me they understand how I feel, and I know they can’t possibly.  No one knows how I feel.  Not even me.

I can't believe

I've lost the very best of me

Michael, uncomfortable, eyes darting away.  He wants out of here.  I want him to leave, too, if only to end his suffering.  He offers help with anything I might need, then shuffles away, staring at his feet.  I only watch him go, without a word.

Now my suffering begins

My love is gone

Would it be wrong if I should

Surrender all the joy in my life

Go with her tonight?

Home.  Alone.  Our place is empty and cold.  I can still smell her perfume in the air, hear her laugh down the hallway.  But I’m standing here in solitude, looking for ghosts in the shadows.

The bathroom, where we showered together, laughed as we brushed our teeth. Her toothbrush is still in the holder, dry, unused.  I pick it up and hold it, imagining her small fingers circling it.  I can almost feel her there.

My love is gone

Would it be wrong if I should

Just turn my face away from the light

Go with her tonight?

The blade is smooth and sharp.  I don’t feel it pierce my skin; my only evidence is the bubbling crimson river that springs from my wrist.  For the first time in what seems an eternity, I can feel something and I smile.  I close my eyes and take in a deep breath, waiting for the time to come…

A depth so deep

Into my grief

Without my beloved soul

I renounce my life

Peace.

That’s the only word I can put to it.  I worry about nothing, I fear nothing.  I’m not hungry or tired or concerned about anything at all.  I’m happy, light, free.  I’m at peace.

I feel her before I see her, her beautiful spirit wrapping around me, warm and caring.  Then she’s before me, even lovelier than I remember.  Her cheeks are flushed, pink and healthy and her smile is the most welcoming sight I’ve ever seen.

I still move as if in a dream, but gone is all of my earthly numbness.  All I can feel is her love, greeting me into this new world with her.  Silent, her lips lay a whisper of a kiss on my lips and I know now that everything is going to be okay.  I want her to take me home, to show me the way.  I don’t feel lost because I know she’s here to guide me.  I’ll follow her wherever she wants.

But as she backs away, her eyes gentle, I can’t follow her.  Peace is replaced by panic as she gradually dissipates before my eyes.  Frantic, I reach for her, but my eyes have gone dark and I can no longer feel her around me.

My voice echoes in my ears as I release a cry of protest.  Everything around me is loud and white and bright.  My heart is convulsing in my chest and an electronic beep accompanies each beat.  Hands on my body, forcing me down.  A flash of long blond hair, hurried voices calling for aid.  Gone is my peaceful state – I’ve gone straight to hell.

Rectangular, industrial lights whiz past overhead.  Many voices, all foreign, assault my ears.  I hear phrases I don’t want to comprehend –

“Who brought him?”

“Someone help me hold him down!”

“Has the family been notified?”

“Get a sedative!”

“We’re losing him!”

I fight them, this new enemy I’ve found.  I want to be back in that peaceful place, so close to home.  I punch and claw and thrash, trying to get away from them.  I hear my voice again, a throaty cry, as something punctures my arm.  As the poison enters my veins, I fight that, too, until I no longer have the strength.

Floating.  Alone.

I look for her to reappear, to take my hand and kiss my lips like she loves me.  But there is no warm feeling, no sense of finding my way home.  I’m in darkness, alone, unable to feel anything…

I wake in a daze, not really sure where I am.  The room is clean, antiseptic, white.  There is a smell of disinfectant in the air.  Blinking, I stare at the wall, windowless.  Out of reflex, I try to move my arms and can’t – not because I lack the ability, but because someone is prohibiting me.  Same deal with my legs.

I’m imprisoned in a white room, once again.

My wrists ache so I don’t strain against my constraints for too long.  I feel parched, like I could swallow the sea.  Rolling my head to the opposite side takes effort, and I find Isabel sitting in a chair near the door.  She looks weary, drained of strength.  I know she is the reason I’m here and I never thought I could hate her so much.

“You had no right,” I tell her.

Her defense is simple.  “Neither did you.”

Part One

I answer all of their questions, play their little games, attend their “therapy” sessions just so they will let me go home.  Often, while I’m trapped in one of their soul-searching psychiatry hours, I think about the ironies of life instead of the message they are trying to convey to me – why is it that I couldn’t prevent Liz from dying, but I also can’t prevent myself from living?  Talk about failing on all levels.

Eventually, they let me leave, but I have no desire to return to the little house we called home.  Instead, I move in with Mom and Dad, mostly because they were warned I shouldn’t be alone.  Isabel tries to set up suicide watch in my head and I indignantly close my mind to her.  This, of course, prompts a long, heart-felt lecture on how selfish I was to try to choose my own destiny.  They all risked life and limp to spring me from the White Room and this is how casually I treat my chance at life?  I hate to inform her, but if Pierce had carried out his plans to dispose of Liz, I would have let him send me down the same path.  Without her, life is meaningless.

I still wear my wedding band.  I think it unnerves them.

Mom cries a lot, but not around me.  I hear her late at night, punishing herself for not seeing the signs of what was to come.  Dad’s response is grim – “Max has always been closed off, Diane.  Please don’t blame yourself for it.”

Blame.  Everyone wants to blame.  Isabel blames me.  Michael blames Liz’s death.  Mom blames herself.  I’m not interested in blame.  I’m interested in giving up.

Being an adequate handyman, Michael re-tiles the bathroom floor so I can sell the house.  I suppose he didn’t think it a good selling point to have alien blood all over the place.  I only go back there long enough to pack Liz’s things and grab some of my own – everything else, all of the furniture including the bed we shared, is sold at auction.  Maria helps me put Liz’s belongings into a cedar chest that belonged to her grandmother.  I know she’s sad, but she’s been the least judgmental of my acquaintances and she tries her best to be supportive.  She doesn’t even comment when I keep the most mundane of items – a clip Liz used to hold her hair out of her face when she jogged.

Before she leaves to return to her own home, she gives me a smile and a kiss on my cheek.  She hasn’t spoken of my attempt at an early exit, but as she’s wiping lipstick from my cheek, she says, “God wasn’t done with you yet, Max Evans.”

“I don’t believe in God,” I remind her.

“I know,” she says with a crooked grin.  “But maybe he still believes in you.”

Strange how time passes without your really being aware of it.  Hours turn into weeks, days into years.  Michael and Maria decide that their on-again/off-again relationship is off for good.  They part amicably, I think.  She moves away and he sulks around like the walking wounded.  Join the club, my brother.  I get an apartment of my own once the family feels comfortable enough to let me go and Michael often crashes on my couch, lost like the rest of us.

I think about a movie that Liz and I once watched, a made-for-cable flick with Michelle Pfeifer and that actor with the eyebrows – I never can remember his name.  Anyway, the movie is about a man whose wife died in an accident and his attachment to her alienates all of his friends and family.  If I remember correctly, he thinks she visits him and he spends his hours waiting for her to come to him.  Maybe I’ve become that man, only I never get the payoff of Liz reappearing before me.

I talk to her every day.  I tell her I’m sorry about the accident and that if I had been there, maybe I could have saved her.  I wait for her to accept my apology, but I never receive that reprieve.  I tell her I’m sorry I failed in my attempt to join her, but I guess she already knows about that – I know I saw her, that I was with her again…before Isabel ruined all of my plans.

Maybe one day I’ll forgive my sister.  But it’s been five long years now, and I still hold a grudge against her.  I try to be civil with her, even when she tries to pry into my business.  If she stops by my apartment, she always uses the bathroom and I can hear her opening the medicine cabinet.  It must make her happy to see the anti-depressants in there.  Little does she know that at the beginning of every month I fill that prescription – and at the end of every month I flush them down the toilet.  I don’t want to be happy.  I want to be sad.  She’ll never understand that.  She’ll never understand me.

I consider that maybe she hasn’t forgiven me, either.  Maybe there is a sense of doom hanging over her head, wondering if some day when I don’t show up on time to some family gathering it means I’ve succeeded in eliminating myself.  I feel a small wave of sympathy at the thought – even though I’m mad at her, I’ve never wanted to torment her.

I work at Dad’s law office for awhile, more as the office gopher/delivery-boy than anything else.  I don’t believe the other people there like me – I hear whispers behind my back and suddenly I’m back in high school, that uneasy, awkward weirdo that no one understood.  Funny how wounds that happened to you a decade ago can still be opened and able to hurt.  After about a year, I save Dad the discomfort of having to fire to and quit.  He acts surprised at my choice, but respects it.  If nothing else, Dad has always respected my decisions.

So, now what do I do?  I have money, thanks to my wife’s death, but I put all of that insurance settlement away, unable to bear using any of it for myself.  I always thought that maybe a cause would come up that Liz would have liked to have donated to.  Or maybe I’d open a scholarship for science students or something.  At any rate, if worse came to worse and I had to swallow away the thought of using blood money, I could always dip into the pool to support myself.  After all, Liz wouldn’t want me homeless and starving to death.

After a few weeks, boredom sets in.  I grow tired of looking at the same four walls of my apartment.  Isabel’s relentless phone calls start to irritate me – yes, I’m still alive, big sister, please go about your own life.  Mom stops by and drops off casseroles and brownies, always smiling and cheerful.  I really do love her, but I wish she’d just be honest with me and tell me that she feels responsible.  Then we could discuss what happened and I could help her let herself off the hook.  She can’t buy a pardon with tuna casserole and pastries.

Michael crashes on my couch for about a week and provides some entertainment before he disappears into the working world again.  I have to wonder why he didn’t do something more interesting with his vacation – he’s a free man and he could go wherever he wanted.  Why spend so much time with Mopey Max?

Just when I’m about two hours away from official cabin fever, I start clearing out my old desk, throwing away papers and bills I no longer need.  In the stack of letters, I find one in a pinkish envelope, the writing a girlie script.  One corner of my mouth lifts in a smile – Maria.  It’s the last letter she sent – three years ago now – telling where she’d moved and that she’d gotten there okay.  I remember when I received it that it smelled faintly like cologne, so I hold it to my nose, but the scent is gone.  I take the paper from the envelope and read over her cheerful words – and I know immediately what my path is.

I’m in my bedroom stuffing clothes into a suitcase when I hear my front door open and close.  There are footsteps, hard heels that sound like boots, and then I hear Isabel calling me.  When I don’t answer immediately, her voice becomes a little more frantic.  I imagine the same scene five years ago, with Isabel still grieving for Liz and then finding me bleeding to death in my bathroom.  I hate that she’s held onto that event for so long.  I hate that that is the one thing she will always remember about me.

“I’m in here, Iz,” I call, pushing down on a stack of pants to make them fit into the case.

She appears at the bedroom door, relief blatantly obvious on her face.  “Oh, there you are.”  Then her brow furrows as her eyes settle on the suitcase.  “What are you doing?”

“Packing,” I say, grabbing a wad of socks.

She crosses her arms over her chest, a defensive maneuver.  “Why are you packing?”

“Taking a trip.”  The game of fifty questions has started.  I could just explain myself to her, but that would be too easy.  I pretty much feel like I owe her no explanation for anything I do.

Her hand sneaks to her neck and toys with her necklace.  “What kind of trip?”

“Just to see an old friend.”

She cocks her head slightly.  She knows I can count my friends on one hand, that much hasn’t changed.  “Who?”

I straighten and turn to face her.  “Maria.”

She raises her eyebrows and falls silent.  After what seems an eternity, she clears her throat.  “Will you be coming back?”

That’s a good question.  I don’t even know the answer to that one.  I don’t know what the future holds for me anymore.  I shrug.  “Maybe.”

In a move I totally didn’t expect, her bottom lip quivers and she bursts into tears.  My mouth drops open slightly in disbelief as she covers her face with her hand.  Why the water works?  It’s not like I’m dying…

I don’t want to be supportive.  I want to be selfish and push past her to start my trip.  But I’m not an insensitive prick and her sobs touch me in places I’d forgotten I had.  Commanding myself not to cry with her, I cross the room and put my arms around her.  She falls into me, her body hiccupping with her cries.

“Hey,” I say over her shoulder.  “It’s not the end of the world.  I’m only going to Chicago.”

She pushes back and wipes at her cheeks.  “Weren’t you even going to say goodbye, Max?”

Because there was one other time when I didn’t say goodbye either…

“I’m sorry,” I tell her.  “I should have let you know earlier.  But yes, I was planning on calling you before I left.”  Not really, but I need to make her feel a little better.

“I don’t want you to leave,” she confesses. 

“I need to,” I tell her gently, rubbing her arm.  “I have to decide what I’m going to do.”  I have to decide what I’m going to do with this life she’s stuck me with.  “You have my cell phone number.  I’m sure Maria has a phone, as well.”

“But it’s so far away.”

I shake my head.  “Not really.  It’s only a few thousand miles.  We’ve traveled far more than that, Isabel.”  I allow myself a little smile as I glance toward the ceiling.

She coughs a laugh and puts her arms around me again.

“Water my plants?” I ask her.

She nods as she releases me and seems relieved.  If I haven’t sublet my apartment, it must mean my departure isn’t permanent.  At least to her it must seem that way.

To make her feel better, I bum a ride with her to the airport.  But only on the condition that she drops me off at the curb and doesn’t come in to weep while I leave.  I’m not sure I could stand that.  She weeps at the curb instead, but that’s okay because the traffic control person makes her move on shortly.

I sit and watch the people who will be getting on the plane with me.  Old people, young people, babies.  I smile at a dark-haired little girl with large dark eyes.  She looks so like Liz did when she was a kid that I can absolutely imagine this is what our daughter would have looked like.  I think about that lost opportunity often.  We’d decided to wait to have a family.  We’d never considered that “waiting” meant “never.”  How would things be different now if we hadn’t waited?  I’d have a little piece of her to tend to and I know that in itself would have kept me out of my depressive funk.  But that’s not the choice we made – and now I am alone because of it.  Liz was never a mother and I’ll never be a father.

The flight to Chicago is sparsely filled and I’m happy for that.  I have a row all to myself and once the plane is airborne, I spread out and make myself comfortable.  I press my face against the window and watch the world below get smaller and smaller.  Eventually, I can’t make out trees or buildings and I’m among the clouds, floating again.

I wonder what lies ahead.  Just as I didn’t call Isabel to tell her I was leaving, I also didn’t call Maria to tell her I was coming.  Maybe she doesn’t even live there anymore - maybe she’s moved.  I know nothing for sure and for the first time in an eternity, the uncertain is exciting.  I hope she’s still there because since I found her letter, I’ve wanted more than anything to see her again.

With a start, I realize that somewhere along the way I’ve come to look forward to something other than dying.

Part Two

I’ve forgotten about the time change and it’s dark by the time my flight arrives in Chicago.  O’Hare International is unbelievably vast and busy.  I can honestly say that I’ve never been to an “International” airport before and the myriad of accents I hear around me is astounding.  I catch myself staring in awe and realize I must look like quite the country bumpkin.

Act like you’ve been here before, Maxwell, I tell myself as I force my feet to move.  I seem to walk forever and never get anywhere.  It reminds me of walking in the desert – I keep moving, but the scenery never changes.

Eventually, I make it to the lower level and find the rental car companies.  It’s not so late yet that the desks are closed, so at least I can get a car.  I suppose I could stop and ask someone if one of the public transports will get me to Maria’s place, but I have a fear of getting stuck on a train and riding around lost for hours.  At least if I drive I will be master of my own demise.

Pickings are slim and I get the family vehicle – a Buick four-door.  I frown as I look at it, in all of its mundane glory.  But it serves its purpose, so I toss my bag in the trunk and head out of the airport.

Twenty minutes and ten thousand wrong turns later, I’m on the freeway.  The counter clerk gave me rough directions to Maria’s neighborhood, so I look for the exits she told me.  The woman was very friendly.  Too friendly.  It made me uncomfortable and I have to wonder if it’s been so long since a woman gave me attention that I can’t handle it any more.

I’ve had all of two dates in the last five years.  They weren’t by my choosing and neither of them progressed to date number two.  The first one was a blind-side by my parents.  I was to meet them at dinner one evening, maybe a year and a half after Liz died.  I thought nothing of it, showed up at the restaurant and found Marjorie waiting for me with my parents.  Marjorie was a few years older than me, full of teeth and giggles.  I’ve hated my parents ever since that night.

The second wasn’t thrust upon me unknowingly.  It wasn’t really a date at all.  After Maria left, Michael played the field a bit.  Okay, he played the field quite a bit.  Everyone has their own way of dealing with things – mine was suicide, Michael’s was promiscuity.  At any rate, he later claimed that he accidentally set up two dates on one night.  Christine came to my door looking for him (it was one of those times when he’d been parked on my couch) and looked so disappointed that he wasn’t there that I felt obligated to do something to help out.

I didn’t want to date.  I didn’t – and still don’t – want to be with another woman.  But Christine was pretty and sweet and unassuming in every way.  I took her to a movie and then we went for coffee.  After a bit, she asked about the ring on my finger and why I was out with her.  I couldn’t tell her that my wife was dead, so I just left it that I wasn’t really married any more.  When I dropped her off at her apartment, she kissed me, but I couldn’t kiss her back.  I didn’t want to hurt her and I somehow feel like she understood that because she didn’t act upset that I didn’t return her affections.  I never saw her again.

And that’s been it as far as romance for me.  I’m simply not interested.  Especially not in car rental agency clerks who probably hit on every guy who crosses their path.  I glance in the rearview mirror.  Maybe she was hoping I’d invite her to join me in that huge back seat.  I shudder and concentrate on the road.

An hour and a half and twenty thousand wrong turns later, I find Maria’s street.  I pull to the curb and take her letter from my pocket to get the house number.  Coincidentally, I’ve stopped right in front of it.  Well, that was easy.  I cut the engine and sit in silence, looking up at the front of the massive apartment building.  Apartment 518.  I wonder if she still lives there…

My eyes settle on the radio clock.  It’s after eleven at night now.  I have a bit of trepidation about knocking on her door so late, but I’ve nowhere else to go.  I leave my suitcase in the trunk and trudge up the steps to the building.

As I walk through the halls, I can hear various noises coming from within some of the units – televisions, conversations.  The walls must be as thin as paper.  I locate the elevator and take it up to the fifth floor.

518 is all of the way at the end of the hall.  I stop at the door, listening for activity within.  I hear a stereo or a radio, faint and think that maybe she’s still awake.  Suddenly I feel nervous and I don’t really know why.  This is just Maria, my friend.  I reach out and knock lightly on the door.

I pause and imagine the occupants looking surprised that they have a visitor.  Maybe this is a bad neighborhood and having someone knock on your door after dark isn’t a good thing.  Then I hear footsteps approaching the door and I brace myself.

There is no recognition in her eyes at first.  She’s wrapped in a thin robe that conceals next to nothing and I quickly avoid looking anywhere that might embarrass her.  I see the moment of realization pass her face and then she’s in my arms, screaming.  I’m sure the neighbors enjoy that.

“Oh, my God!  It’s Max!” she squeals right next to my ear.

I laugh and bring my arms around her.  She’s so thin.  I don’t remember her being so thin.

“Look at you!” she spouts as she pulls away. 

She’d been holding the robe closed when she’d answered the door and now that she’s touching me instead, it falls open slightly.  I see a glimpse of abdomen, a hint of thigh.  She glances that way and gives a little giggle.  Quickly, she covers herself and drags me into her apartment, letting the door slam behind us.  Yep – her neighbors hate her.

“Max Evans,” she says wistfully as she ties her robe around her waist.  She reaches for my hair and touches it.  “Look how long your hair is.”

I can feel my cheeks starting to burn from the attention.  I’m not used to that anymore.  Abruptly, she tilts my head down and starts picking through my hair.

“What are you doing?” I laugh.

“Looking for grays.  And there aren’t any!”

And she’s back in my arms, squeezing me so tightly that I see stars.  Her perfume drifts to my nose and I remember now how her letter used to smell.  She holds me for an uncomfortable amount of time, and when she pulls away she’s crying. 

I work my mouth and try to figure out what has brought this on.

“I’m sorry,” she says, dabbing at the corners of her eyes.  “It’s just that seeing you brings back so much.  You know?”

I shouldn’t have come here.  I know exactly what it is that has come back to her because it has been trying to come back to me as well.  I shake my head to will away the images, the feelings.

“No, I’m sorry,” I correct her.  “It was wrong for me to just show up here.”

I start to move for the door, but she grabs my hand. 

“No, please,” she says.  “I want you to stay.  I didn’t mean that in a bad way.”  Her lips curve into a small smile.  “I’ve missed you, Max.  I’m glad you’re here.”

I’m still contemplating the odds of getting a flight back to New Mexico tonight when I hear a voice come from the back of the apartment.

“Baby?  Who’s out there?”

She almost looks disappointed, like she’d forgotten that she has company.  Shortly, a man appears at the hallway entrance.  He’s medium height, medium build, and he’s dressed in a pair of jeans and nothing else.  His eyes and hair are jet black, his skin a light brown.  The reason for her being nearly nude is blatantly apparent - Maria has a Latin lover.  I’m sure I look surprised.

“This is Ramon,” she says carefully, trying to tell me with her eyes that everything is okay.  “Ramon, this is Max.  He’s an old friend of mine from New Mexico.”

Ramon steps forward and takes my hand in a firm grip.  He’s cordial without being friendly.

“Ramon was just leaving,” Maria stresses.

“Maria, no,” I protest.  “I can get a hotel room or something.”

“Nonsense,” she says.  I can tell from her tone that she’s made up her mind.  Some things about Maria haven’t changed.  “Ramon has his own home to go to.”

“It’s cool,” Ramon says, backing toward the hallway.  His words might indicate all is okay, but his eyes say otherwise.

Once he is gone, Maria turns a rather guilty expression to me.  Why the guilt?  She’s an adult, she has no ties.  She’s free to do whatever she wants, see whomever she wants.

“I should have called,” I tell her in an attempt to quell the uneasy feeling in the room.

She smiles and shrugs.  “You’re welcome here any time, Max – announced or unannounced.”  Seeming to just become aware that she’s barely clad, she looks down at her robe and motions to the bedroom.  “I’m going to go…make myself decent.”

After she leaves, I hear heated whispers from down the hall.  I should have stayed in New Mexico.  I’m having a hard time remembering why I came here.

While I wait, I wander around the living room, taking in Maria’s home.  She has some pictures on the mantel, most of them people I don’t know.  At the end, beside an often-burnt candle is a picture of Liz.  I’ve pretty much removed constant reminders of my wife and seeing this picture startles me a bit.

My heart stops as I look at her smiling face, taking in her every feature.  I settle on her eyes.  I always loved Liz’s eyes.  When I looked into them, I felt like I could see straight into her soul, like I knew exactly what she was made of, what she was thinking, how she saw me.  I never felt that with anyone before.  I doubt I’ll ever feel it again.

Gulping back a grief that is years old but still fresh, I reach out and touch the photo with my fingertips, as if the glass would give me just a hint of how soft her skin used to be.  I was wrong to come here.  I was wrong to dredge up anything from our past.  I’m already hurting again – I should leave before I hurt Maria as well.

I’m about to move for the door when I hear Ramon and Maria behind me.

“Take it easy, man,” he says, lifting his chin in my direction.

I tip my head in his direction as well and watch as Maria stuffs him out the door.  She’s wearing a pair of running pants and a T-shirt.  Closing the door, she turns a wide smile in my direction.

“That was Ramon,” she says, stating the obvious.

“So you said,” I answer, trying to smile in return.  “Are you two…?”

She shakes her head.  “Ut uh.  We’re, um, friends, I guess you could say.”  She gives a self-conscious chuckle.  She’s crossed the room as she was speaking, and she reaches down and picks up my left hand, her fingers toying with my wedding band.  “What’s this?”  Her lips are curved into a smirk.  “Someone new in Max’s life?” she teases.

I look down at the ring and find it impossible to tell her that the only time this ring has left my finger was in the nut ward when they refused to let me keep it.  But my expression must do all of my talking because she suddenly drops my hand as if I stung her.

“Oh,” she says, the playful tone gone from her voice.  She clears her throat, trying to clear the awkwardness.  Seems like there’s been a lot of that in the last ten minutes.  “So, you’re still on the market, eh?”

I can’t help but laugh.  That’s so Maria.  She always has known how to lighten the mood.  Laughing with me, she puts her arms around me more tenderly this time and holds me against her.

“Oh, I’ve missed you,” she says against my ear.  “So many times I’ve wondered how you are and what you’re doing.”  She pulls back but remains with her arms around my waist.  Looking into my face, her eyebrows draw together.  “You must be exhausted, what with the time change and all.”

I give a little shrug in agreement.  I’m not sure if I’m tired or stressed out.

“Then let’s go to sleep,” she suggests.  “I don’t have to work tomorrow – I’ll cancel all of my plans and you and I can just spend all day together.  How does that sound?”

I agree, then look around for where I would sleep.  I have a horrifying thought that maybe she insinuated I could share her bed.  I’m not sure I want to.  Partly because I know another guy just left it, partly because I don’t want to share a bed with any woman.

“I’ll make up the couch,” she says as she moves away, which relieves me. 

She retrieves some linens, shows me where the bathroom is in case I need it in the night, then stops before me, her eyes filling with tears again.

“I mean it, Max.  I’m glad you’re here.”

I believe her.

Part Three

In the morning, I awake to the smell of fresh coffee.  Stretching, I feel the effects of my travels yesterday – I’m tired and sore.  I guess I’m not as young as I used to be.

Lifting my head and looking over the back of the couch, I spot Maria sitting in one of two wicker chairs by her bay window.  Her gaze is fixed on something outside, her legs crossed Indian-style beneath her.  A thin tendril of steam drifts from the cup of coffee she’s set on the window ledge.  She appears to be signing softly to herself, though I can’t hear her – I can just tell by the way her lips move every now and then.

In daylight, I take the opportunity to study her since I didn’t last night.  She’s got a new hairdo – kind of like Meg Ryan’s in City of Angels – a short curly bob.  I never saw her with curly hair before and I kind of like it.  While her appearance is more mature, I can’t say as she’s really “aged”.  Maria appears to be more women now, while she seemed more girlish when she left Roswell three years ago.

Stifling a groan as my back protests its night on the couch, I sit up and stretch, reaching my arms toward the ceiling.  When I finally stand up and turn around, she’s smiling at me.

“Morning,” she calls.

“Morning,” I answer, circling the sofa and taking the chair opposite of her.

“Sleep well?” she asks, tongue in cheek.

I nod.

“Liar.”

My eyebrows shoot up in surprise and she laughs.

“That couch is anything but comfortable,” she explains.  “Sorry I don’t have another bed for you to sleep on – it’s a one-bedroom apartment.”

“It’s okay,” I assure her.  “I would have gone to a hotel, but you were nice enough to put me up – I’m not going to complain about the accommodations.”

She grins, then retrieves a cup of coffee for me.  I take a sip and smile internally – years of working at a café have taught Maria how to make a decent pot of coffee.  We sit and watch the outside world for awhile, both of us quiet and pensive when we awake.  I don’t feel uncomfortable sitting here saying nothing, and I don’t feel she does either.

“So,” she finally begins.  “What brings you to Chicago?”

That’s a good question.  I’m not even really sure.

“I was bored,” I finally answer.

Maria snorts an amused laugh.  “So one day the king of Antar just wakes up and says, ‘Ya know, I’m bored.  I think I’ll head several thousand miles east’?”

I can’t help it – I laugh.  It has to be the tone of voice she used.  “Sort of,” I say.  “I just needed to get away from Roswell, ya know?”

She rolls her eyes.  “Yeah, I know.”  She sighs.  “I might as well get it out of the way – how’s Michael?”

I can’t tell if she really cares, or if she’s just curious.  “He’s good,” I say.  “He’s working as a mason now.”

“A what?”  Her brow crinkles.

“A bricklayer,” I clarify.

The brow crinkles more.  I guess she can’t imagine her ex-lover doing that job.  I don’t want to tell her he’s been laying more than bricks.  I know they parted many years ago, but it still has to hurt a bit.

“And what about you?” she asks.  “What are you working as?”

I shake my head.  “Nothing.”

Her eyebrows arch upward.  “Nothing?”  I shake my head again and she laughs.  “I’m sorry, Max – I can’t imagine you being shiftless.”

One side of my mouth lifts in an ironic smile.  “I worked for my dad for awhile.  That didn’t work out so well.  So I quit and here I am.”

“Unemployed.”

“Unemployed,” I echo.

She grins.  “Good!”

This time it’s my eyebrows that rise.  “Good?”

“Yep!  That means you can stay longer.”

The mood is definitely lighter than it was last night.  Maria is so vibrant that everything around her glows.

“You’re still hot as hell when you smile,” she announces.

I will always hate that my ears betray me every time I’m a little embarrassed.  I can feel them now, beginning to burn.  Maria, however, delights in it.

“I knew it!” she laughs.  “The same old Max underneath it all.”

I dip my head and scratch my eyebrow, nabbed.  When I look up, her easy demeanor is gone and her eyes are fixed on my arm.  I turn it over so I can get a glimpse of what has her so entranced.  I’ve become so accustomed to living with the evidence of my self-mutilation that I had even forgotten the scars were there.

Reaching across the distance between us, she takes my hands in hers and turns both of my wrists toward the ceiling.  With her soft fingertips, she traces the still-fading marks, her face solemn.  She pauses with her fingers concealing the wounds and looks up to meet my eyes.

“Do you still want to die?” she asks.

That’s a hard question to answer.  Do I wish I’d succeeded five years ago?  Yes.  Am I willing to try it again?  Probably not.  I’ve become too much of a coward to try to take my own life these days.

“Some days I wish I were dead,” I tell her honestly, slowly.