This Place Only

Chapter One - Bells

Chapter One

Bells

Finally, there they were. I found them at the bottom of a wooden box lined with cream-colored linen napkins—two candles that had burned brightly before us on the table during our wedding reception. The Electric Light Orchestra played softly on the CD player in the living room as I carried my newfound treasure into the dark kitchen. The only light was a dim glow from a small utility lamp above the microwave.

Our small, round table was already set. Dinner was keeping warm in the oven. I thought of having our anniversary dinner in the dining room, but the kitchen (for us, at least) was much more intimate.

The last time we ate in the dining room was over two years ago. Our apartment was not large by any measure and the dining room had slowly become our beloved library. Books filled the room’s four tall bookshelves and leaned in organized stacks against an exposed wall. They covered a large, round table and sat comfortably upon the four chairs surrounding it. We seriously considered taking out the table and putting in a small sofa to relax on when reading. Our ultimate dream? A house with a large room dedicated only to our books. Slowly, we were nearing a point where we might be able to afford a house. Five years ago, Lauren’s mother, Katherine (who was living by herself in Orlando) had begun to show signs of Alzheimer’s. Soon thereafter, she moved in with us. It was a challenging and emotional three years before Katherine passed away. I missed a lot of work during that time and Lauren lost her job for missing twice the amount.

We wanted children of our own so badly. Katherine, in a way, had become our child. We cared for her and did our best to help her through it all. In the end, to make matters worse, the doctors discovered that cancer was aggressively spreading throughout her entire body. Almost two months after this, she truly did become a child in her basic needs. We did everything we could to make her comfortable. Her one true comfort was being read to. Her most requested book was A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, which Lauren and I took turns narrating. I think this remains the only book I’ve read five times aloud.

There was a palpable emptiness when she was gone. We knew, even more so, that we wanted a child of our own. Fate, however, leaned in the opposite direction.

I listened to the key in the apartment door as I lit the second candle. A moment later, there she was, standing in the entry of the darkened kitchen, exhausted from a day’s work in Radiology. Here was my light. I’d spoken with her at lunch and knew that her day at the hospital had been a hectic one. Two of the other X-Ray techs she worked with had called in sick and they couldn’t find anyone else to cover.

“I thought we were going out,” she said softly. Deep auburn hair. Soft, brown eyes. Full lips that always seemed to have a smile hidden in one corner or the other. “Please don’t tell me you tried to cook something,” she added and the hidden smile emerged.

I slid over to the oven and pulled the door open. Inside were two large, pewter dishes set with Chicken Parmesan and creamy pasta. Below them, tucked safely in foil, were a good many garlic rolls.

“You went downstairs to Mama Ippolito’s,” she said, walking into the kitchen.

“Of course! Who else could I possibly trust such an important dinner to but three greasy, overworked Italian cooks in a small, crowded restaurant.”

“You’re so romantic,” she said, leaning her tired body into mine for a hug.

“I told Mama Ippolito it was for our tenth anniversary and she threw a breadstick at me.”

“Good for her,” Lauren said.

“I think she felt sorry for me. She had her sons put extra parmesan on the garlic rolls.”

“Ah… the woman is a Saint. Are those the candles… from our wedding?”

I led my exhausted angel closer to the table.

“You’ll never guess where I found them,” I said.

“In the wooden napkin box in the left bottom drawer of the hutch?”

“Okay, so you knew where they were. I had to tear the place apart.”

“Tell you what. Give me ten minutes to shower and change. I’ll feel more presentable.”

“You’re aggressively beautiful right now,” I said.

Patting my cheek, she leaned to my right ear and breathed, “You’re the only man on this Earth who could say that with a straight face and mean it.”

I smiled.

“You can take that incredible dinner out of the oven. I’ll be back before you know it.”

Her lips fell onto mine. Such sweetness. Such full, unending promises of more to come. I returned her kiss and when we pulled slightly apart I told my wife that I wanted to stay just like we were forever.

“Capital idea, Will, but I stink. Hospital smells and all. Tell you what though, I’ll change my earlier estimate to nine minutes.”

Reaching into the bag slung over her left shoulder, she pulled out a large, manila envelope and placed it gently on the table.

“Don’t open it until I get back,” she said, moving backward into the hallway. “I mean it, okay?”

I nodded, looking more closely at the words written upon it in her distinctive handwriting:

For William

This Place Only

The longer I stared at the envelope, the more I realized it was not simply a greeting card or a letter. There was definite thickness to it. Lifting it quickly, it felt as if there might even be a small book inside. Curious.

Down the hall, I listened to the spray of the shower and remembered dessert. Or, rather, that I’d forgotten dessert in the car. I’d picked it up at the Monroe Bakery on the way home, but left the box on the floor in front of the passenger’s seat. It would only take a minute to run out and get it—I parked across the street because the back lot was full. With speed, I grabbed my jacket and raced out the door and down the steps to the sidewalk. The few remaining clouds now had purple on their bellies and were nearly burned out. The eastern sky was darkening and the strongest of stars made their debut. When I reached the car, I ran to the passenger side and unlocked the door.

Surprisingly, the cheesecake was not there on the floor.

The moment felt strange–I really cannot describe why. It was kind of like that moment before you fall asleep and your body relaxes and you take the fall. I looked up from the car, back across the street. The wind picked up, cooler now. The weather felt as if it had shifted from a mild September evening to a darker, end-of-the-year December night. Checking again, confirming that the cheesecake really wasn’t there, I locked the car and made my way back to our apartment. The number of stars above appeared to have doubled. Odd.

Lauren would probably just be turning the water off. I looked both ways and stepped out onto the street.

I probably put the cheesecake in the fridge and just forgot. This was my final thought as a car slammed into me, throwing my spinning body a fifty feet into the air, depositing me into the plate glass window of The Monroe Bakery.

I remember soft bells. Far away. A beautiful sound. I think I reached out to it, more with my mind than my mangled, useless arms.

The sound rose, as would a wave upon a beach, to a staggeringly complex moment of warmth and peace. There was no sadness or pain involved. Just the ting-ting-ting of mysterious bells.

And then, like the soft breath that takes the flame from a candle, I died.