ghost from a wishing well, part 4

December 24, 2083 - Matt Watts is 32, Leila is 28, Felicity is 5, Hunter and Flint are 2.

* box of tissues warning *

Soundtrack: "If You Could Read My Mind," as performed by Johnny Cash.

Matt always loved the fireplace. When Felicity was a baby, this is what he and Leila used to do, light a fire and spend the night sitting in front of it. He thought they both enjoyed it. She would talk, and he would listen, and now he's sorry that he never had anything to say back to her. But it was enough for him, the timbre of her voice, lyrical and clear, the crackle of the fire, the rustic smell of wood burning, as close to the earth as it gets. It was all he ever needed.

One night, in one of those first tumultuous weeks after it all came out, they were sat in front of a fire just like this. The silence between them was almost comfortable, the way a fight fades and loses momentum, the way anger dissolves into apathy. So they sat in front of the fire, trying to summon a conversation but finding so little to talk about beyond what their children did that day. He tried to reach to her, and at their contact, she jumped back like a shiver.

After a minute, he tried again. He reached out to her, and this time, she eased into it. And so did he. He pulled her close, and for a moment they settled there. Until he caught a glimpse of her eyes - behind the reflection of firelight on their glassy surface, underneath, they were lost and full of so much despair. It gutted him. He couldn't stand the sight of it, so he pulled her cheek to his shoulder and forgot it was there.

Matt isn't a stupid man. Even if he isn't as worldly or well-studied as she is, he's never felt stupid. His intelligence is a very rigid thing. When he was in college, he studied accounting. There is no exploration of ideas there. There's no abstract. There's fact and rule and process. And now what Leila wants is discussion and debate and exploration and wide open ideas. He isn't built to give her that. He never was, and he never will be.

It's not like he doesn't know what she needs. It's not like he hasn't tried to be these things before. He has tried, and it drains him. He is not a bold and opinionated man. He never wanted to be. And what he is isn't something she's looking for. What he is isn't this man she's fallen in love with.

After it all came out, Matt wanted to know every last detail about him. Who is he? What does he do? Is he tall? Is he smart? Does she find him attractive? Does he believe in God?

She told him everything. He's a teacher, passionate and well-traveled. Yes, he's attractive, fairly tall, very smart. But what on earth does God have to do with this?

"Does he love you?" Matt asked.

"I think so," she said.

"You think so? You mean, you don't actually know? All this, for you think so."

On some level, he knew it all along. She fell in love, and he watched it happen. He felt her going, and he never knew how to stop it. There was never a choice for him to make. He'd almost rather she just fucked him, because at least then he could forgive her for something.

But instead there was nothing to forgive, and no way to fix what's broken.

It's Christmas Eve, and the season's first thick snowfall covers the fields in white. The trees have gone into hibernation, the land is frozen over, sleeping for the winter and so very still. He could crack the surface of the lake to fish if he needed to, but their freezer is already stocked full of fresh vegetables and fish. They don't need anything. He's always made sure they had plenty.

And with the harvest all finished, with the excess of his crop all sold off, all there is to do is spend time with his family, play with his children in the snow, and sit with his wife in front of the fire. He's always cherished these cold and cozy months.

"Come look, Daddy," Felicity shouts, her little voice filled with excitement.

She's built a snowman with her mother, and the neighbor boy from down the street. Matt should be beaming, but instead, he can't feel anything. The falsehood of this life, for months, for years, has become maddening. But he's learned to do what his wife does. He puts on a smile for his daughter. He plays his part.

Life goes on. That's the problem.

Leila's whole life changed last summer, right in front of his eyes, and there was nothing he could do about it. Her whole life changed, and his stayed exactly the same. And now there are parts of her he can't reach - in honesty, there were parts of her he could never reach. She lived in her head, in her books, on the sidelines of his life, coming to meet him occasionally.

He could never match her in passion or intensity. How Matt loves is like a rock, and what he needs is a woman who will be as devoted to him as he is for her. And Leila can't be that for him. Maybe she couldn't be that for anyone. She lives with a passion that lights up the world. It's too much for him.

But it's also what drew him to her in the beginning. At a time when his life was dark, she burned with the heat of sunlight. And that was what he needed then.

She was the only family he had when his parents died. He can hardly remember them sometimes. He was away at college when he heard about the accident. That was the first time the whole reality of his life was wiped clean. And maybe it was his fault too they rushed into this marriage so fast. All he had of his family was gone. He was alone, and he just wanted something real and stable to hold on to. And she seemed so willing. So he took her, and he held her, and he kept her, and he took care of her. He loved her, in his own way. And in her own way, she loved him too.

He thought they could be happy. And for a time, they really were. And now it's not enough.

Were his mistakes so unforgivable that he deserves to have his whole future wiped clean?

The weight of it is unbearable, hanging over him like a guillotine, heavy and glinting in the cold winter light.

***

He pours himself a whiskey, he swallows it and pours another, his throat still burning from the first. The burn feels good. Because in reality, it's Christmas Eve, and she's in their living room, wrapping their children's presents for the morning. It's almost scenic, how the firelight glows on her skin, and the complete falsehood of this family is just too much for him to take.

When she looks at him - every time she looks at him - there's a smile on her lips but her eyes are full of so much despair. At some point, it became too late. He wonders when it was they crossed that line, or if there was ever really a line at all. He can't stand the sight of her eyes anymore; they feel like death.

He sits down on the couch, across from where she sits on the floor.

The full reality of this despair fills his mind, and the ring of silence in his ears is deafening. "Just say it."

She seems to know exactly what he's talking about. "It's Christmas Eve," she says.

"It doesn't matter," he says. "Just say it. I'm not going to sit here for six more months while you decide how to chop it apart. Just do it. I need you to say it now."

She breathes slowly. "Okay," she says. "I'm sorry. I can't be your wife anymore."

There. A whole union, the promise of a whole future, cut clean in one swipe. There's a swell in his throat. He can't speak, but he's listening.

Her voice is calm and resolved. "I never wanted to hurt anyone like I have. But I can't keep doing this. And I hope you'll believe that it wasn't your fault, you didn't do anything wrong, and you're perfect exactly the way you are."

"But not perfect for you."

She shakes her head. "I'm not perfect for you either. And you know it."

He takes and exhales a quick breath. "You'd take my kids?"

"No," she says. "I would never. We'll raise them together, I think we could still, or I hope. I'd want to be nearby. And we both still need to work, so you can see them every evening if you want, just like we've been doing. I hoped we could stay friends. Because right now, we're friends, right? For a long time we've been just friends."

"Friends," he says. His laugh is sharp, and she flinches at it. He just doesn't know how to be her friend right now. Not when every idea he ever had for his future is being wiped clean. Not when he's almost thirty-three and starting over from nothing. "You're right though," he says. "I know I already lost you. I knew it when it happened."

He stands then. Her eyes are fixed on him as he comes closer. As he stands over her, he takes off his wedding ring - this isn't the first time - and he drops it to the floor where she's sitting. "Fine, it's done," he says.

He taps one of the gifts with his toe, the toy inside giving off a chime. "You finish these. I need some air."

Really, she's starting to cry, and he doesn't want to see it. He can't stand the illusion anymore. She was never coming back to save their marriage; she only was coming back to bury it.

That first night, after it all came out, as they were sitting together in front of the fire, it was already there. That first time he tried to touch her, it was already over. There was never a chance to be had. There was nothing to be done. There was death in her eyes, and he knew it. He couldn't bear to see it, so instead, he pulled her head to his shoulder, and she cried, leaving his shirt wet, but making no sound. There was only silence, and him and her, and the cinders in the fireplace, sputtering softly before they died.

*******

(footnotes: the living ghost // the panic // the reasons)