Erik braced himself for a bereft depression after they were gone. Truly Miles had been his closest friend. Perhaps, he had to admit, his only friend. But instead, time went into one of its surreal elastic phases. Erik was busy. He was now working full-time at the playhouse.
Besides doing set and lighting design for the seasonal productions, he was the mastermind behind a partnership with the public school districts, devising a student theater program. Classes and workshops ranged from elementary through middle grades, with internships for high school students.
Erik taught lighting, set design, basic stagecraft. He coached basketball at the Y, gave guitar lessons, played piano at a few watering holes. He had a few girlfriends. Nothing serious, just females to keep company with. He kept his thoughts and feelings at bay. Most of the time. Occasionally he went through cycles of depression and anxiety but he did his best to ignore or tough out the dark spells. On a couple of bad nights he toyed with the idea of going for counseling. Inevitably the light came back around and the need for help was dismissed.
Time left him alone. It passed quietly if he didn’t pay too much attention.
Two years passed. And one April night, Daisy called.
She hadn’t reached out by phone in a long time. Long enough to make him relax the vigilance on the caller ID, plus he was distracted tonight, too much on his plate. Getting home late from a rehearsal, combined with burning dinner, no clean gym clothes, and a broken shoelace making him late for a basketball game. The phone rang and he didn’t check the little box, he just picked up.
“It’s Daisy.”
While the calls had tapered, the written communications stayed steady—little notes, a scribble on his birthday. A Christmas card. When her return address changed abruptly from Philly to New York City, he opened the envelope to read about her new gig with the Metropolitan Opera Ballet. Then he chucked it.
“Are you there?”
He was caught off guard by her voice. Usually it was tentative and submissive. Laced with apology. Tonight it was soft, but confident. Conversational.
“I’m here,” he said.
“Hi,” she said.
Say hello, he thought. It won’t kill you.
“Hi,” he whispered.
“It’s the nineteenth,” she said. “I was thinking about you.”
The nineteenth of April, the fourth anniversary. “That’s right,” he said. He slid his fingertips along the side of his nose, his face melting into his palm. Eyes closed, he tested his memory. Was it still there?
Yes, it was still there.
She was still there—rolling on top of David with her hair a tangle.
“How are you?” she asked.
Shattered, he thought, one helium balloon rising above the bunch crowding his mind. “I’m fine and I have to go,” he said. “I’m late for a game.”
“Erik,” she said. “It’s been almost three years. Are we ever going to talk about this?”
Three years and she was still linked to David in his mind. He couldn’t even have a conversation without seeing them in bed. It was ruined. He couldn’t do this. Without another word, Erik hung the receiver back up, and went to his game.
Days later, UPS knocked on his door, needing him to sign for a large box. The return label read D. Bianco with a Manhattan address.
He slit the tape with a kitchen knife, and opened the flaps to find a veritable time capsule of his belongings. Things obviously left in Daisy’s room at Jay Street.
My necklace, he thought. It’s in here. She had it.
He unpacked the box, stacking everything carefully, sure the next item retrieved would be his lost treasure. He took out a pair of jeans, two button-down shirts, and his Mickey Mouse T-shirt. All the clothes were folded nicely and smelled of fabric softener. Daisy must have washed them. Next he found his Leatherman and Swiss Army knives, a plastic baggie with a capo, guitar strings and picks, another baggie with his ring of allen wrenches. His hardcover book of Swedish folk tales, his zippo lighter.
He unpacked it all and the box was empty. Taped to the inside was an envelope with a note. Not a card, nor her nice stationery, but a scrawl on half a piece of loose-leaf paper: