“I don’t care. Any one is fine.” My hair is barely towel dried, and water leaks down my back.
“Okay. We can go outside and see what direction we feel like going in.” He waves his phone at me. “The guy who gave us this hotel room wrote to make sure everything is good. Said we should order room service or whatever we want. If you’re hungry for breakfast in the morning—”
“Esben,” I say flatly. “It was very nice of him. Please thank him for me. But . . .” I take an exhausted breath. I barely have the energy to walk from this room, and I certainly don’t have the energy to engage in conversation. “I don’t want to talk. I’m sorry. Let’s just get this burger thing over with.”
He nods. “That’s all right. I understand.”
The pattern on the hall carpet seems to shout at me, and I look straight ahead as we walk. There are mirrors in the elevator, and I again think how totally unfamiliar I look. Esben also appears a virtual stranger. I know this is wrong, but there is no emotional impact from these revelations, just belief in the truth I’ve uncovered.
The entire world has changed. So, there we go. That’s all.
The short walk we take outside feels arduous, as though I am in the final mile of a marathon and not walking a mere few blocks. We order burgers and shakes, and I eat without tasting. Esben is quiet, and I’m grateful for that. Part of me recognizes that I am a zombie right now and that I’m acting strangely, but part of me wants to dive deeper into this nothingness.
The benches and table are hard and unforgiving. I crumple up wrappers, and the noise makes my ears pound. My fatigue hurts. “I’d like to go back to bed now.”
Esben looks sad and worried, and he’s probably at a loss for how to handle me. I wish I could tell him not to be any of these things. That I’m all right, because I am now half-dead myself and not feeling much of anything. But it would take too much to form these words. I’m not even sure how I’ll make it back into bed.
But somehow I do. I get into bed with my clothes on, and then I start neurotically smoothing down the bedding. I have not lost my skill sets. I can compartmentalize, shut down, and protect myself the way I always have. The alternative is surely a path to a whirlwind of grief, but I’m going to be okay, because I have managed to rebuild my walls in a matter of hours. This thought makes me smile. I am safe.
I shut my eyes and fall asleep immediately.
At five Sunday morning, I awaken and know immediately that I won’t get back to sleep. This is unfortunate, because sleeping is really quite a wonderful escape from life. Esben is out cold, and I hope he can sleep in. He stirs slightly when I kiss his cheek but, fortunately, doesn’t wake. I know I love him, and I wish I could feel that right now, but my current vacant heart is an inevitable by-product of my protective armor.
We need to somehow find flights home, and I might as well get a start on that, so I grab my phone and get online. To my relief, the airline strike apparently ended at midnight last night. Of course. A day earlier would have been goddamn nice. It only takes a quick search to find a number of flight options for this afternoon.
Although I still have countless people to thank on social media, the idea of going on Twitter or Facebook is daunting, so I drop my phone in my purse. In a haze last night, I asked Esben to post online and tell people it was over and that Steffi was out of pain. The replies will be too difficult to take right now.
Then I remember something.
I have Steffi’s phone.
Her nurse Rebecca gave it to me, I think. Robotically, I rummage through my purse until I find it. I’m grateful for the few seconds it takes to turn on, because I have an opportunity to breathe and prepare myself. For what, I don’t know. It’s just her phone, but it’s hers, and it feels monumental. I click on the Internet icon to see what she looked at last. It’s impossible not to laugh when I see an Amazon page confirming her purchases to be sent to the girls in her old apartment: a tube of small toy dinosaurs, some cooling hemorrhoid wipes, and a paperback guide to the back roads of Arkansas.
In her photo album are pictures from her trip to see me last fall, and I swipe through these quickly, because I will not drown in images of a life that no longer exists. Not now, maybe not ever. I lazily hit her text messages. I’m hoping she had supportive friends, that she hadn’t entirely closed herself off. My messages are at the top, and I swipe past what are clearly confirmation texts for doctors’ appointments, but then I stop, because something else has caught my eye.
A name. A name that is so familiar to me that I didn’t even see it at first.
Esben Baylor.
My heart pounds when I hit the text thread.
I scan the last messages from just a few weeks ago.
Are you sure she’s doing okay? Steffi wrote. You promise?
She is, really. This is all difficult still, obviously, but she’s honestly doing well. I know it took a while after the call, but Allison is tough.
I scroll up to an earlier point in the thread. From Christmas Day.
Is Allison’s Christmas fun? she asks him. Are you seeing her tonight? What did you give her? What did she give you? Did you love meeting Simon?
Esben answered with a long, detailed reply, telling Steffi everything she could possibly want to know about winter break until that point. He told her how beautiful I looked in the red sweater Simon bought me, about the trifle mishap, Christian and their dance, about our plans for New Year’s Eve . . . everything.
I scroll up again. There is a picture of the bracelet he picked out for me, and he asked Steffi if I would like it.
The words grow blurry in front of me, and I shut my eyes for a moment. When I open them, I scroll back until I reach the beginning of their conversation.
It takes me an hour to get through all of Esben and Steffi’s messages to each other. What I read rips out what’s left of my heart.
It’s after ten in the morning when Esben wakes, and I am still frozen in this chair. My anger and sadness have had hours to spread their venom into my heart.
“Hey,” he says hoarsely. “You been up long?”
Slowly, I turn to him. I cannot hide the pain on my face. I don’t want to. “Esben, what have you done?” My voice breaks, but I resolve not to fall apart.
He rubs his eyes. “What are you talking about?”
I lift the phone in my hand. “This.”
Esben shakes his head. “Your phone? What?”
“This isn’t my phone.”
It takes a second for this to sink in, and Esben drops his head and takes a big breath before looking at me again. “That’s Steffi’s, isn’t it?”
I nod.
He starts to stand, but I stop him. “No, stay there.” My voice shakes.