“Well, I feel okay now. I really like Janie—and Howie, actually. And I see a lot of Kevin and your parents. I go to Boston to see them, or they come here.”
“It’s weird how stuff turns out, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
We sat in silence and I couldn’t think of anything more important to say than “I love you.”
“I love you, Anna, I’ll always love you.”
“I’ll always love you, too, baby.”
“I know. But it’s okay to love other people, too. And when you do I’ll be happy for you.”
“You won’t be jealous?”
“No. And you won’t have lost me. I’ll still be with you. But not in a creepy way.”
“Will you visit me again?”
“Not like this. But look for the signs.”
“What signs?”
“You’ll see them if you look for them.”
“I can’t imagine loving anyone except you.”
“But you will.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I’m privy to that sort of info now.”
“Oh. So do you know who it is?”
He hesitated. “I shouldn’t really…”
“Oh, go on,” I cajoled. “What’s the point of you visiting from the dead if you don’t give me some juice?”
“I can’t give you his exact identity—”
“Meaner.”
“But I can tell you, you know him already.”
He kissed me on the lips, placed his hand on my head, like a benediction, and left. Then I woke up, and moving from sleeping to waking seemed like nothing at all. Deep, joy-filled calm sat inside me and around me and I could still feel the weight and warmth of his hand on my head.
He’d really been here. I was certain of it.
I sat without moving, my blood flowing as slow as molasses, and felt the miracle of my breath, moving in and out, in and out, in the circle of life.
And then I saw it: a butterfly.
Just like in all the bereavement books I’d read.
Look for the signs, Aidan had said.
This one was beautiful; blue and yellow and white, decked out in lacy patterns, and I took it all back about butterflies only being moths in expensive embroidered jackets.
It flitted around the room, landing on our wedding photo (I’d restored all pictures of Aidan to their rightful places), my framed X-rays, the Red Sox banner, everything that had meaning for Aidan and me. Cocooned on the couch, mesmerized as a stoned person, I watched the show.
It touched down on the remote control and fluttered its wings very fast so that it looked like it was guffawing. Then, with a touch I could barely feel, it landed on my face; on my eyebrows; my cheeks; beside my mouth. It was kissing me.
Eventually it moved to the window and sat on the glass, waiting. Time to go. For now.
I opened the window and the noise rushed in; there was a great, big world out there. For five or six seconds, the butterfly hovered on the sill and then off it flew, small and brave and living its life.