The Secrets Between Us

“This is the way the world will end: not with a BANG! But with a whimper.”

--Dean Koontz, The Book of Counted Sorrows

Today, I have a date with Death. For twelve long years—or maybe thirteen, I no longer remember—I smugly believed I outran the inevitable day he would hold me accountable for my past crimes and my good works. But I was a fool.

Other than the occasional purring of the air conditioner and the hum of the overhead florescent lights, the office building remains silent. Yet, I know he stands behind me; his strange magnetic force pulls at me across the otherwise empty space. The Reaper’s unnatural yearning curls around my body in a light embrace and beckons me to join him in the darkness. The final grains of sand gush through the hourglass of my life.

I imagined this moment hundreds of times over the years. The shock, the fear; the shaking of my hands; the irregular rhythm of my heart. The tremble in my voice as I beg to hold on to everyone I would give my very life for. Every potential reaction but this--the desire to simply succumb.

“Hello, Phee.” The rich, velvety baritone of his voice, smooth as fine silk, breaks the silence as it caresses my aching mind and washes over my tense body like hands of an aroused lover. My head, too heavy to hold up, cascades to my chest. Every muscle in my spent body lets go in a strange combination of defeat and acceptance.

Unperturbed, my eyelids droop closed.

I perch on the sidewalk outside the employee entrance. Bundled in a houndstooth jacket, I lean against the side of the utility company’s building. Smoke waddles from a menthol cigarette in my hand; the crisp January air teases my loose auburn hair…

I remember this scene.

Boiling tears scorch my eyes as I crush their weighted lids together. For the first time since Death arrived, I struggle.

As a movie viewer anticipates the imminent danger coming and vainly attempts to warn the unsuspecting target on the screen, I will my younger self to drop the cigarette on the pavement, to reel my body toward the door. Desperate, I implore myself to accept the handle’s offer of refuge. But my body doesn’t respond to my present panic.

This is, after all, a memory.

No desire exists in my mind to recall the first time I laid eyes on Death, nor to relive the devastation he brought with him. Yet the memory plays on…

The moment our eyes meet, the world shift on its axis and my legs threaten to give out under me. The most intense magnetic force I experienced holds me upright. Matching the tempo of my heartbeat, it pulsates through my veins and focuses all my senses on him. My vision blurs. The wind changes direction, shoving my hair behind my shoulders.

Fearful of smearing my mascara, I dab the corners of each eye on one of the tissues in my pocket. Feet cemented to the concrete sidewalk, I inspect him as he strolls toward me in even, calculated strides. His eyes, locked upon mine, never break their sultry gaze.

Now ten yards apart, the exclusive scent his cologne cavorts on the breeze and captures my concentration. Masculine and woodsy, yet light and spicy, the true oxymoron of its uniqueness lies in its familiarity I can’t grasp. Perhaps a base of cedarwood with a note of ginger. Or maybe frankincense; I’m not sure. Regardless it’s something seductive. Something I long to lose myself in forever.

He passes me with a smile just wide enough to expose a hint of his blinding white teeth. With a wink of his left eye, he enters the building.

Without a doubt, my life is about to change forever.

My eyes dart open. I find myself in my office, still seated in my chair. With a vacant gaze, I stare at my hands, which remain folded in my lap. Surrendering to the electricity thrumming through my veins, I forget why I fought this in the first place. With a sensuous whisper, I greet my unannounced guest by his name. “It’s been a long time, Jordan.” Drowsy eyes sealed again I inhale from my soul. His exotic scent fills my nostrils as I salaciously smirk. “Far. Too. Long.”

Entranced by his allure, my eyelids flutter, just for a moment. Like a feather floating on a gentle breeze, I glide my chair around, to demand nothing more than to offer my life to Death as I once did so many years ago. But the action halts, cut short by the flash of the first of two premonitions. In this vision, Jordan and I perch on a fire escape surveying a fairground. Sunshine warms my skin while the hint of a mild wind runs its fingers through my now shoulder length hair. The sky is clear, save the occasional fluffy cloud drifting past. By the position of the sun, the clock reads four in the afternoon on this perfect summer day.

Becoming aware of myself, I discover I dressed in a florescent yellow t-shirt with the company’s logo printed above my left breast. The pair of low-rise jeans I stow in my field bag for unexpected site work grip my hips. The gray and pink steel toe sneakers I employ on summer jobs complete my ensemble. The odd scream of thrilled excitement marks crescendos in the circus music as it wafts around us. The bustle and whir of carnival rides sustains the steady tempo.

Below us, I sense the masses of people on the fringes of my peripheral vision, though all I view is the occasional shoe. The ground appears hardened, as though it hasn’t rained in several days, or perhaps the area where they congregate has been compacted by years of regular foot traffic. Then my mother and her sister Mallory come into focus. Huddled together in conspiratorial fashion, they devour Mother’s favorite fair food, a funnel cake dusted in confectioner’s sugar.

Only as Death asks me for an introduction, do I come to my senses. “We’re on a job, not a social call,” I snap, more curtly than I intend. Inhaling from my feet, I count to ten. “Introducing you to my family will make this personal. And I refuse to cross that line with you again. Once was enough.”

In a flash of white light so bright my mind almost doesn’t register it, the fairground, my mother, my aunt—all gone.

In their place, the second premonition saturates my mind’s eye. A huge window towers over a city; robust alabaster buildings scrape the sky. Jordan and I lie together in a queen-sized bed under a white comforter. My left arm stretches across his broad, hairy torso, my head rests on his left shoulder. His right arm’s propped under his head, his left wrapped around my shoulders, his face contemplative. Even from this distance, our afterglow is unmistakable.

Greased lightning splits the heavens; rage sears my entire body. My limbs, flaccid only moments ago, tremble with adrenaline. A seasoned judoka, I throw the spectacle from my mind’s eye and hoist myself with distinguished determination. Making my peace with the Universe, I eddy to face Death one final time. With deliberate cadence, I deliver the last words I will ever speak; the last he will ever hear. “I regret to inform you: We. Have. Died.”

I bolt upright. Hair slicks to my face; the sweat-soaked oversized white t-shirt clings to my body cooling in the night air. I rubberneck over my left shoulder and exhale in relief. Despite my vision, I never left my bedroom. My husband slumbers, oblivious to my nightmare, just as I hoped. The last thing I desire is to trouble him with this issue.

I glance over his head and scrutinize the digital display on the alarm clock. The bright red illuminated numbers exhibit the time: 3:33 a.m. Of course it is, I bristle. Following a guttural inhalation, I release my breath out through my nose, and thank Jesus it’s Saturday morning. Unlike yesterday, I plan to sleep in rather than get up in just over an hour to do a workout. I peel the cold, wet t-shirt over my head and wipe away the remaining perspiration on my chest and back.

Bare chested, I slide between the sheets and wrap my right arm over Angelo’s back and under his own. As I grip his wrist in my hand, I grasp what triggered this drama. Dewdrops of perspiration bead upon my body as my temperature rises with this revelation. Jordan Gray is still as crazy as a shithouse rat. No sane man waltzes back into his ex’s life thirteen years after he leaves her. Then has the balls to ask her husband—not just a second, but a third time—to step out of the way and let them pick up where they left off more than a decade ago.

God bless my poor husband. He handled himself well, though his decision to disclose this at the dinner table last night wasn’t one of his better ideas. But we all have our limits. As I adjust my breasts against his unclothed back, I kiss Angel’s fuzzy shoulder. With a heart-wrenching exhale, my tensed body sinks further into the embrace. Remorseful tears sting my eyes before they slip over my nose. What right do I have to blame Jordan for this mess? The reality he and I share is far stranger than fiction, the last thought I remember as my husband’s heartbeat sings me to sleep.

“So, as those who have been chosen of God, holy and beloved, put on a heart of compassion, kindness, humility, gentleness, and patience.” --Colossians 3:12

As I prepare the bed, stripping the remnants of last night’s Hell Fest off the most sacred space in my home, I focus on Angelo’s singing. This morning, as most mornings, my beautiful husband prepares our breakfast and serenades me with his off-the-cuff love ballad du jour:

“I know you’re the one for me

Can’t you see?

My momma doesn’t like you

She met you when she planned a stag party for her brother

She knows you’re not the one for me

Even though we met at a strip club

And you were putting dollar bills in my G-string

She knows you’re not the one for me

Yeah, she knows you’re not the one for me”

What possesses him to broadcast shit like that I don’t know. Shrouded by his song, last night’s premonition slithers into my consciousness. Tears flooding my eyes, I rake my shaking hands through my unbrushed hair. Exhausted from the weight of so many unspoken truths, I plop down at my writing desk and with one last cleansing breath, I conclude the explanation I began so many moons ago. A letter, if I intend to remain married, my husband must never see. The last time I spoke with Jordan, Angel threatened to break our engagement.

This time, he’ll divorce me without a second thought.

My Dearest Jordan,

If you are reading this, I regret to inform you: we have died. Though alive and well in our memories, the Jordan and Phoenix we remember endure in this world only as restless ghosts, each in search of a separate peace. A lost cause if ever there was one, you pursue reunion. And just as inevitable, I seek the forgiveness we never offered one another.

Over the thirteen years we waged this senseless war, I rewrote this letter at least as many times. Within these pages lays every truth, lie, and thought I left unsaid between us. I want you to discover what I learned in real time so you may know my mind. I hope you experience my joys, my triumphs, my confusion, and my heartbreaks so you might know my passion and my trauma. I want you to witness others as I viewed them so that you might understand how their words and behaviors affected my own. I need you to hear my every thought so no secrets linger between us in whatever future exchanges we may share, if any at all.

Only you know my mind and heart inside and out. In your absence, I am alone. With these things now said, I remember I never thanked you. Thank you for your belief in me before I even believed in myself. For the record, you compelled me to accept what I am and what I’m worth. You inspired me to find happiness, despite the tragic fact we may never find it with each other again. But true atonement demands we accept responsibility for the damage we inflicted upon each other. It dictates one talks and the other listens without interruption or judgment. We need to comprehend how our words and actions affected the other’s. Despite the honesty my memoir both expresses and encourages, the one thing it can never convey is how my soul illuminates a little more every time we speak. If I accept our destiny, I fear nothing will remain of my marriage but an echo.

In the rare moments I forget to pretend I despise you I wonder if God tipped the bottle the night He bonded the souls you and I embody. Lord knows, we don’t make the best decisions when we’re three sheets to the wind. Maybe He doesn’t either. Unlike my usual blasphemy, I believe God brought us together for a reason. Maybe, just maybe, the answer to my prayers for our purpose lies in the scriptures. As I recall, Christianity supported your faith, and much to your chagrin, Buddhism upheld mine. So, in fairness, I applied verses from both the Holy Bible and The Dhammapada to every major event we shared in the hope God’s plan for us might come to light.

Know I love you and always will; that I am aware your feelings for me never changed. But Fate is a cruel mistress. As formidable as our bond may be, it may not save us from her wrath. Yet I believe the truth will set us free.

--Phoenix