“You look like your thoughts weigh a thousand pounds,” Tag said, his voice rough with sleep, and the French doors to my left closed quietly. He eased down into the deck chair next to mine and faced the sluggish sunrise, his eyes trained forward. He held a cup of my coffee in a mug between his big hands and sipped at it like heaven came in mouthfuls of caffeine.
“Well, well, well,” I said, and I felt my lips twist up in a smirk. I had told myself I wasn’t going to give him any grief about being holed up with Millie for a solid sixteen hours. And here I was, giving him grief the moment he set foot on my deck.
He didn’t smirk back or tell me to shut up. He looked tired. But he looked good. Amazingly enough, he looked good. Content even. I still wasn’t used to his buzzed hair. It looked a little too skinhead for my taste, but Tag worked it. He had the jawline to pull it off, irritating as that was.
“You look like shit, Tag,” I lied, just because it was our way with each other.
“So do you, Mo,” he said amiably.
“It’s your fault,” I said, just like I had in the hospital. I immediately felt bad and wished I could take it back. It was his fault. But it wasn’t his fault.
He didn’t respond and took another long draw from his coffee.
“Do you ever think about Montlake?” I asked him, sipping the surface of the coffee, not going too deep. Kinda the way I was doing now, dipping my toe into a conversation that felt a little like a cauldron.
“All the time,” Tag answered, tipping his mug again.
“I do too. All the time. Especially lately,” I said.
We sat like two old men, sipping away, time slipping away, yet not in any hurry to fight it. Funny how that was. Old folks knew their days were numbered, and yet they rarely rushed to fill them.
“Those were some dark days, Mo,” Tag said softly.
“They were dark. But we had nothing to lose,” I said.
“And now, we’ve got everything to lose,” he said.
“Now we’ve got everything to lose,” I repeated.
“I dreamed about Dr. Andelin’s wife,” Tag said suddenly, inexplicably, and I was distracted from where I was leading the conversation.
“What?” I gasped.
“Remember that counseling session when you saw her?” Tag insisted, his green eyes sharp. “When we met?”
“That time you wanted to kill me?” I tried to laugh, but couldn’t gather enough mirth. My laugh just sounded like I’d been punched in the stomach, which was strangely fitting, because Tag had done just that. I’d asked him about Molly, and he’d punched me in the stomach, slapped me across the face, and knocked me to the floor. And I’d welcomed it and fought back.
“How did you know?” Tag said, his eyes on mine. The din around us quieted slightly. “How did you know about my sister?” The orderlies pulled us off the floor and let us sit, but Dr. Andelin pressed me to answer.
“Moses, do you want to explain to Tag what you meant when you asked if anyone knew a girl named Molly?”
“I didn’t know she was his sister. I don’t know him. But I’ve been seeing a girl named Molly off and on for almost five months,” I said.
They all stared at me.
“Seeing her? Do you mean you have a relationship with Molly?” Dr. Andelin asked.
“I mean, she’s dead, and I know she’s dead because for the last five months I’ve been able to see her,” I repeated patiently.
Tag’s face was almost comical in its fury.
“See her how?” Dr. Andelin’s voice was flat and his eyes were cold.
I matched his tone and leveled my own flat gaze in his direction. “The same way I can see your dead wife, Doctor. She keeps showing me a car visor and snow and pebbles at the bottom of a river. I don’t know why. But you can probably tell me.”
Dr. Andelin’s jaw went slack and his complexion greyed.
“What are you talking about?” he gasped. I’d been waiting to use this on him. Now was as good a time as any. Maybe his wife would go away and I could focus on getting rid of Molly once and for all.
“She follows you around the joint. You miss her too much. And she worries about you. She’s fine . . . but you’re not. I know she’s your wife because she shows you waiting for her at the end of the aisle. Your wedding day. Your tuxedo is a little too short in the sleeves.”
I tried to be flippant, to force him out of his role as psychologist. I dug around in his life to keep him from digging around in my head. But the savage grief that slammed across his face slowed me down and softened my voice. I couldn’t maintain my attitude against his pain. I felt momentarily shamed and looked down at my hands. Then Dr. Andelin spoke.
“My wife, Cora, was driving home from work. They think she was blinded—temporarily—by the sun reflecting off the snow. It’s like that sometimes up here on the bench, you know. She drifted into the guardrail. Her car landed upside down in the creek bed. She . . . drowned.”
He supplied the information so matter-of-factly, but his hands shook as he stroked his beard.
Somewhere during the tragic recount, Tag lost his fury. He stared from me to Dr. Andelin in confusion and compassion. But Cora Andelin wasn’t done—it was like she knew I had the doctor’s attention and she wasn’t wasting any time.
“Peanut butter, Downey fabric softener, Harry Connick, Jr., umbrellas . . .” I paused because the next image was so intimate. But then I said it anyway. “Your beard. She loved the way it felt, when you . . .” I had to stop. They were making love and I didn’t want to see this man’s wife naked. I didn’t want to see him naked. And I could see him through her eyes.