“How about Jenni’s?” It was some twenty-four-hour coffee place. On account of her condition Rachel knew lots of twenty-four-hour coffee places. “See you there in thirty minutes.”

I pulled on some clothes and ran out the door; I couldn’t wait in the apartment a moment longer. In the taxi I saw him walking along Fourteenth Street, but this time I knew it wasn’t him.

I arrived at Jenni’s far too early, ordered a latte, and tried to eavesdrop on the intense conversation which was taking place between a foursome of gaunt, good-looking men dressed in black. Unfortunately I only caught the occasional word: “…getting high…”; “…let go with love…”; “…a dash of teriyaki sauce, dude…”

Then Rachel arrived. “It’s a while since I’ve been here,” she commented, looking nervously at the boys. “I’m getting introspection flashbacks.” She sat down and ordered a green tea. “Anna, are you okay? Has something happened?”

“I dreamed about Aidan last night.”

“That’s normal, one of the things that’s meant to happen. Like seeing him everywhere. So what did you dream?”

“I dreamed that he was dead.”

Pause. “That’s because he is, Anna.”

“I know that.”

Another pause. “You’re not really acting like you do. Anna, I’m so sorry, but no amount of pretending that everything is the same will change what happened.”

“But I don’t want him to be dead.”

Her eyes filled with tears. “Of course you don’t! He was your husband, the man—”

“Rachel, please don’t say ‘was.’ I hate all this past-tense stuff. And it’s not about me, it’s him I’m worried about. I’m so afraid he’ll freak out when he discovers what’s happened. He’ll be so pissed off and scared and I can’t help him. Rachel,” I said, and suddenly I couldn’t bear it, “Aidan’s going to hate being dead.”

29

Rachel looked blank. Like she wasn’t listening to me, then I realized she was in shock. Was I that bad?

“We had so many plans,” I said. “We weren’t going to die until we were eighty. And he worried about me; he wanted to take care of me, and if he can’t he’ll go mental. And, Rachel, he was so strong and healthy, hardly ever sick. How’s he going to handle having died?”

“Er…um, let’s see.” This had never happened before: Rachel always had a theory on emotional ailments. “Anna, this is too big for me. You need professional help, someone who specializes in this. A grief counselor. I’ve brought you a book about bereavement, which might help, but you really need to see an expert—”

“Rachel, I just want to talk to him. That’s all I want. I can’t bear to think of him trapped someplace awful and not being able to contact me. I mean, where is he? Where did he go?”

Her eyes got bigger and bigger as the dismay on her face worsened. “Anna, I really think—”

The men in black were leaving, and as they passed our table, one of them clocked Rachel and did a double take.

He had a lean face, skin marked from old acne scars, tormented brown eyes, and long dark hair. He wouldn’t have looked out of place in the Red Hot Chili Peppers.

“Hey!” he said. “I’ve met you? The meetings in St. Marks Place? It’s Rachel, right? I’m Angelo. So how’re you doing? Still conflicted?”

“No,” Rachel said snippily, giving off such strong “this is so inappropriate” vibes you could nearly see them zigzagging through the air.

“So? You gonna marry the guy?”

“Yes.” More snippiness. But she couldn’t resist sticking out her hand for him to admire her engagement ring.

“Wow. Getting married. Well, congratulations. He is one lucky dude.”

Then he looked at me. A look of deep compassion. “Oh, little girl,” he said. “It’s bad, hey?”

“Were you listening to our conversation?” Rachel’s snippiness was back in force.

“No. But it’s sorta”—he shrugged—“obvious.” To me he said, “Just take it one day at a time.”

“She’s not an addict. She’s my sister.”

“No reason for her not to take it one day at a time.”

I went to work, thinking, Aidan is dead. Aidan has died. I hadn’t actually realized it until now. I mean, I knew he’d died but I’d never believed it was permanent.

I moved through the corridor like a ghost, and when Franklin called, “Morning, Anna, how’re you doing?” I felt like answering, “Good, except my husband died and we were married less than a year. Yes, I know you know all about it, but I’ve just realized.”

But there was no point saying anything, it was old news for everyone else; they’d long moved on.

We’d been on our way out for dinner, just me and him, and what was unendurable was that this was something we rarely did. Restaurants were for sociable nights out with other people, but when it was just me and him, we were more likely to snuggle on the couch and ring for takeout.

If we’d stayed at home that night, he’d still be alive. In fact, we almost didn’t go. He’d booked a table at Tamarind but I’d asked him to cancel it because we’d eaten out just two nights earlier for Valentine’s Day. But it seemed to mean so much to him to go that I gave in.

So I was waiting on the street for him to pick me up when, alerted by honks, beeps, and shouted expletives, I saw a yellow cab lurching across three lanes of traffic and heading in my direction. Sure enough, there was Aidan, making a scared face and flashing seven fingers at me. Seven out of ten. Nutter alert. Our personal scoring system for mental cabdrivers.

“Seven?” I mouthed. “Good work.”

He laughed and that made me happy. He’d been a bit low for a day or two: a few nights earlier he’d had a call—work—that had wrecked his buzz.

With a shudder, the cab stopped beside me, I hopped in, and before my door was even closed, we screeched back into the heavy traffic. I was flung against Aidan and he managed to kiss me before I was thrown back in the opposite direction. Eagerly, I said, “Seven out of ten? We haven’t had one of them in a while. Tell us.”