There are people who say they were close to Angela. Super close. People we used to know. They say her accident wasn’t an accident at all and the people who won’t accept this, can’t, because they aren’t strong enough.
They say we need to remember that this wasn’t the first time. There was also the time in high school.
They say there was nothing anyone could have done to change things.
There was also a time after Michael was born.
Not even if anyone was there with her that night.
And another time that no one else knows about.
But I was there. I knew she was still outside when I went to bed, and I knew how cold it was.
This is How You Freeze Time
The doctor says it would be impossible for those closest to Angela, especially anyone super close, to know her intentions. But if there was someone she was pushing away; someone glad to be pushed and who pushed away in return; someone who should have apologized before it got so late, that person would know the truth and they would have to live with it.
Angela’s mom suggests that I make a list of the things I am responsible for. It should be present tense. This will make me feel better. This is what worked for her.
I ask about her list. It’s not written down, so she had to recite it.
She folds her hands, looks at her feet and says:
Feed the cat.
Decorate Angela’s grave.
Start a foundation in her name.
Feed the cat.
Memorize the list.
She’s never been to the grave. She didn’t even go to the funeral. She was afraid that if she did go, she’d have to pay for the ceremony, and the ground, and everyone’s time.
I told her that’s not how it works. She tilted her head the same way Angela used to, and said, oh, you sweet, dumb boy. That’s exactly how it works.
Time Heals All Wounds, But Not All of Us
She asks me to come visit with Michael. She wants us to meet her new cat. She found it along the road a couple of days after the funeral. She took this as a sign. She named the cat Angela.
The next morning, before the ambulance and the police and waking up Michael, I found an empty can of Monster on the patio. Angela hated energy drinks. She had read an article that said they rot you from inside.
The thing is, I can’t say that her mom is wrong. I was there, and I did pay. I am still paying. I paid a big chunk up front and will be paying six dollars a month for as long I am around.
Angela and I weren’t talking much at that point; at that tiny, microscopic point. She said the whole duplex felt so small. That I made it so small. That’s why she had to go outside.
The can smelled of chemicals. Overripe berries. Cheap alcohol. Someone else had been out there with her, someone who arrived in the middle of the night.
This was the last person to leave her, but I was still the last to fail her.
I put the can to my mouth and tip it back. I imagine drinking the whole thing at once, then take it inside and bury it in the trash.
My list:
Answer questions like they’re about someone else.
Tell the truth like it’s a story.
Find a good title.
Michael asks if there’s a way to freeze time. I tell him yes, and I mean it, and what I mean is not yet, but for him, I will find a way.
He wants to know how it’s done so he can practice on things that don’t matter.
Practice on the Things That Matter the Most
He asks if time is frozen right now and how is he supposed to know the difference between what is frozen and what’s not.
He wants to know if people can still come back as ghosts months after they die, or if that’s something they have to decide right away. He wants to know why his mom didn’t come back as a ghost for him. He asks if his mom is a cat now can she be more than one cat?
Your Mother is Cats Now
I’ve read articles that say when you take a picture of something you’re less likely to remember it. According to my phone, I’ve taken eleven thousand pictures since Michael was born. Almost two thousand a year. So many I have to pay for extra storage.
Every month I get an email about the upcoming payment. It’s six dollars a month.
Michael is also six.
Work six into the title. That will be clever. Clever gets a lot of mileage. Being clever is almost as good as being forgiven.
Michael wants to know why there are no pictures of his mom. Did I delete them or never take any to begin with? He wants to know if this has anything to do with storage and living in the moment. I say they are here somewhere and make a show of scrolling back, looking for something that isn’t there, in a pile bigger than I’ll ever be able to get through.
The Past is Your Fault, Too
Before we moved in together and got married and had Michael, Angela and I spent a night together in my car. We sat in a Borders parking lot after they’d closed. We held hands, listened to music, and watched streetlights change in the distance. We were holding time.
It felt like we were doing something wrong, and we thought that was a testament to something bigger. Something that we thought would eventually fade away.
We thought we could wait forever.
I Thought We Could Wait Forever.
Nathan Willis (@nathanwillis.bsky.social) lives in Northeast Ohio. His stories have appeared in Split Lip, Swamp Pink, Pithead Chapel, Moon City Review, Passages North, X-R-A-Y, and elsewhere. His work has been nominated for Best Small Fictions and appeared in the Wigleaf Top 50 Longlist. He can be found online at nathan-willis.com.