I Was Dead – Chapter 3 – The Second Night
I had a problem.
Actually, I had several problems.
I was apparently unconscious in a supermarket parking lot, my groceries were probably being stolen by raccoons, and I was standing in a cabin I’d visited three years ago, watching a party I’d already left.
Also, I was beginning to suspect that none of this was covered by my health insurance.
The living room was exactly how I remembered it.
A massive stone fireplace. Leather couches. A wooden coffee table with a suspicious water stain that we’d spent the entire weekend pretending wasn’t our fault.
There were six people downstairs.
My fiancé, my sister, and four of our friends.
I was upstairs.
Well, the other me was upstairs.
Honestly, the logistics were getting ridiculous.
Someone had connected their phone to the speakers, and a song I hadn’t heard in years was playing.
My fiancé was arguing with one of his friends about hockey.
My sister sat cross-legged on the rug, eating chips straight from the bag.
Everything looked normal.
Which made the whole situation even more irritating.
If my brain was going to invent an elaborate near-death experience, couldn’t it at least show me something interesting?
Winning the lottery?
A tropical beach?
The winning numbers for next week’s lottery would have been especially helpful.
Instead, I was watching drunk people argue about hockey.
I tried walking upstairs.
The staircase was right there.
I made it to the third step before something strange happened.
Not a wall.
Not exactly.
More like trying to walk against a very strong wind.
The harder I pushed, the more difficult it became.
“Seriously?”
I tried again.
Nothing.
Apparently, I wasn’t allowed upstairs.
Fine.
I’d never been particularly fond of being told what to do, but I was willing to negotiate with the supernatural.
I returned to the living room.
By eleven thirty, two of our friends had gone to bed.
One had fallen asleep on the couch with his mouth open.
The other was still insisting he wasn’t drunk while attempting to open a bottle of wine with a spoon.
My fiancé took it away from him.
“Give me that before you lose an eye.”
“I know what I’m doing.”
“That’s what worries me.”
My sister laughed.
She was sitting on the kitchen counter now, swinging one foot.
“You’re such a dad.”
My fiancé looked over.
“Someone has to keep you idiots alive.”
“See? Exactly.”
He opened the wine and poured a glass.
She held hers out.
“Please?”
He filled it.
“Last one.”
“Yes, Dad.”
“Don’t call me that.”
She grinned.
“Why? Does it make you feel old?”
“It makes me feel like I should be charging you rent.”
I laughed.
It was funny.
Or it would have been if I weren’t standing three feet away, invisible, wondering when I was going to wake up.
One of our friends announced he was going to bed.
The other needed help finding his room.
My fiancé pointed him toward the hallway.
“Second door on the left.”
“That’s a bathroom.”
“Then third.”
“You’re a terrible host.”
“Goodnight.”
Eventually, the living room emptied.
Except for two people.
My fiancé.
And my sister.
I looked toward the stairs.
The clock above the fireplace showed 12:18.
I remembered going to bed around eleven.
I remembered waking up at eight.
Everything between those two moments should have been a blank.
But the room wasn’t disappearing.
The music had stopped.
The fireplace was burning low.
My sister slid off the counter and started collecting empty glasses.
“You don’t have to clean,” my fiancé said.
“Neither do you.”
“Someone should.”
She held up a glass.
“Your future wife would be very proud.”
“She’d be prouder if nobody spilled wine on the couch.”
My sister laughed.
“She’d probably send everyone an invoice.”
“With interest.”
“Late payment penalties.”
“Absolutely.”
They both laughed.
I smiled despite myself.
That sounded like me.
I would have sent an invoice.
A beautifully formatted one.
Then my sister set the glasses down.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“Do you ever get tired of it?”
He looked at her.
“Of what?”
“Being the responsible one.”
He laughed.
“I’m not always responsible.”
“Yes, you are.”
“Ask your sister. She’ll disagree.”
“She disagrees with everybody.”
“True.”
My sister leaned against the counter.
“I mean it. You’re always working, organizing things, paying for things, making decisions.”
“Somebody has to.”
“Exactly.”
She tilted her head.
“Doesn’t it get exhausting?”
He considered that.
“Sometimes.”
“See?”
“See what?”
“Nothing.”
She smiled and looked down.
He watched her for a moment.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re doing that thing.”
“What thing?”
“Where you ask a question and then pretend you didn’t mean anything by it.”
She laughed softly.
“Maybe I just think you deserve to have somebody take care of you for once.”
He didn’t answer immediately.
I rolled my eyes.
Oh, please.
My sister had always been good at that.
She could make asking someone to carry her shopping bags sound like she was offering them a life-changing opportunity.
Usually, it worked.
I once watched a man carry her suitcase up three flights of stairs while she explained how independent she was.
A remarkable performance.
My fiancé picked up another glass.
“Your sister takes care of me.”
“I know.”
“She does.”
“I didn’t say she doesn’t.”
Something about the way she said it made him look at her again.
Then he shook his head.
“You’re drunk.”
“A little.”
“Go to bed.”
“Bossy.”
“Very.”
She smiled.
And instead of going upstairs, she moved closer.
Now, I’m not stupid.
I know what flirting looks like.
I’ve done it.
Successfully, I might add.
But this was my sister.
And my fiancé.
So when she reached out and straightened the collar of his shirt, my first reaction wasn’t suspicion.
It was confusion.
What the hell was wrong with his collar?
It looked fine.
He glanced down at her hand.
“You don’t have to do that.”
“I know.”
She smoothed the fabric anyway.
Then stepped back.
“There. Better.”
He looked toward the stairs.
I followed his gaze.
Nothing.
Just the staircase.
The empty hallway.
The bedroom where I was sleeping.
When he looked back, she was still watching him.
“What’s going on with you tonight?” he asked.
“Nothing.”
“You’re acting strange.”
“Am I?”
“Yes.”
She shrugged.
“Maybe I had too much wine.”
“Probably.”
He started toward the sink.
She caught his wrist.
Not hard.
Just enough to stop him.
“Wait.”
He turned.
“What?”
She hesitated.
For the first time that evening, she actually looked nervous.
“I think I should apologize.”
“For what?”
She let go of his wrist.
“Forget it.”
“No. For what?”
She laughed, but there wasn’t much humour in it.
“Sometimes I think I flirt with you.”
Silence.
I stared at her.
Excuse me?
My fiancé stared too.
Then he gave a short, uncomfortable laugh.
“You’re drunk.”
“I know.”
“Go to bed.”
“See? You’re doing it again.”
“Doing what?”
“Acting like I’m a child.”
“You’re my fiancée’s little sister.”
“I’m twenty-four.”
“I’m aware.”
“Then stop talking to me like I’m twelve.”
He put the glass down.
“Okay. You’re twenty-four. And you’ve had too much to drink. Better?”
She looked at him.
“Not really.”
He exhaled.
“What’s this about?”
She moved a little closer.
“I just wanted to know if you’ve ever noticed.”
“Noticed what?”
She smiled.
“Me.”
Oh.
Oh, no.
I looked at my fiancé.
He didn’t smile this time.
“Don’t.”
One word.
Quiet.
Firm.
I felt a little better.
Good.
Excellent.
Conversation over.
Everyone upstairs.
Let’s all go to bed and never discuss this again.
But my sister didn’t move.
“Don’t what?”
“You know what.”
“Maybe I don’t.”
He rubbed his forehead.
“You’re putting me in a really uncomfortable position.”
“I’m sorry.”
She looked down.
And there it was.
The sad little expression.
The one I’d seen a thousand times.
The one that usually ended with somebody buying her something or apologizing for a problem they hadn’t caused.
“I shouldn’t have said anything,” she whispered.
He sighed.
“Hey.”
She shook her head.
“No, it’s fine. Forget it. I’m embarrassed enough.”
“Don’t be embarrassed.”
“I just thought -“
She stopped.
He waited.
She looked up at him.
“For a second, I thought maybe you liked me too.”
I stopped breathing.
Or whatever I was doing instead of breathing.
My fiancé didn’t answer.
He looked at her.
Then toward the stairs again.
Then back.
And that was the first moment I felt something genuinely wrong.
Because he should have laughed.
Or stepped away.
Or said something.
Anything.
Instead, he stood there.
Thinking.
My sister noticed.
She’d always been very good at noticing when someone was about to give her what she wanted.
She took another step.
He didn’t move.
“Tell me to stop,” she said.
He swallowed.
“This is a bad idea.”
“I know.”
“Your sister -“
“I know.”
He looked miserable.
Good.
He should have looked miserable.
He should have looked absolutely fucking terrified.
I moved closer.
“Then walk away.”
Neither of them heard me.
“Walk away,” I repeated.
My sister touched his chest.
He caught her hand.
For one beautiful second, I thought he was going to push it away.
Instead, he held it.
I stared.
No.
No, no, no.
This wasn’t happening.
It couldn’t be.
He loved me.
We were engaged.
We’d been together for years.
He’d spent weeks planning the proposal.
He’d cried when I said yes.
Actually cried.
I’d teased him about it for months.
My sister lifted her face.
And kissed him.
Just like that.
No warning.
No dramatic music.
No hesitation on her part.
She kissed him.
He froze.
Then he kissed her back.
I felt something drop inside me.
Not my stomach.
Something lower.
Deeper.
Something I didn’t have a name for.
I stepped toward them.
“Are you fucking kidding me?”
They didn’t hear me.
I reached for his shoulder.
My hand went straight through him.
I tried again.
Nothing.
“STOP!”
He pulled away.
Finally.
My sister looked at him.
He stared at her as if he’d just woken up.
“Fuck.”
She smiled nervously.
“I’m sorry.”
He stepped back.
“No. No, that can’t happen.”
“I know.”
“That was -“
“A mistake?”
He looked toward the stairs.
“Yes.”
She lowered her eyes.
“Okay.”
He dragged both hands over his face.
“Jesus Christ.”
I wanted to hit him.
I’d never wanted to hit anyone so badly in my life.
Not even the man who’d once told me to smile more during a business meeting.
And that had been a very close call.
My sister picked up her glass.
“I should go to bed.”
“Yeah.”
She started toward the stairs.
Then stopped.
“Can I ask you one thing?”
He closed his eyes.
“What?”
“Are you going to tell her?”
He looked at her.
For a long moment, neither spoke.
Then he said, “No.”
One word.
No.
My sister nodded.
“Okay.”
She went upstairs.
He stayed in the kitchen.
Alone.
I stood in front of him.
Watching.
Waiting for him to do something.
Call me.
Wake me up.
Come upstairs and tell me what had happened.
Anything.
He picked up his phone.
Looked at the screen.
Put it down.
Then sat at the kitchen table and buried his face in his hands.
I almost felt sorry for him.
Almost.
“Go upstairs,” I whispered.
“Tell me.”
He didn’t move.
“Tell me, you coward.”
The fireplace cracked.
The clock ticked.
Somewhere upstairs, a door closed.
And he stayed exactly where he was.
I don’t know how long I stood there.
Five minutes.
An hour.
Time didn’t seem to work properly in this place.
I kept looking toward the stairs.
Waiting for myself to come down.
Waiting for something to interrupt this.
Because I remembered the next morning.
I remembered waking up beside him.
He’d brought me coffee.
We’d gone downstairs together.
My sister had been making pancakes.
Someone had burned bacon.
We’d laughed.
Packed our bags.
Driven home.
Nothing had been wrong.
Nothing.
I remembered kissing him in the car.
I remembered telling him I’d had the best weekend.
He’d smiled.
Squeezed my hand.
And said he had too.
I stared at the man sitting at the kitchen table.
“How?”
My voice sounded strange.
Small.
I hated it.
“How did you look me in the face the next morning?”
He lifted his head.
For one ridiculous second, I thought he’d heard me.
But he was looking toward the stairs again.
Then he stood.
Turned off the kitchen light.
And went upstairs.
To our bedroom.
To me.
I followed him as far as the staircase.
This time, I could climb it.
I didn’t want to.
But I did.
At the top, he stopped outside our bedroom door.
His hand rested on the handle.
He stood there for a few seconds.
Then went inside.
I heard the bed creak.
A quiet voice.
My voice.
“Everything okay?”
He answered immediately.
“Yeah, babe. Go back to sleep.”
And that was it.
That was how easily he lied.
I stood in the hallway, staring at the closed door.
I wanted to believe I’d misunderstood something.
That this wasn’t real.
That my brain was inventing a particularly cruel nightmare because I’d hit my head.
That any second now, I’d wake up in a hospital bed and laugh about the whole ridiculous thing.
I’d tell him I’d dreamed he kissed my sister.
He’d look horrified.
Then we’d make fun of my concussion together.
That was what I wanted.
I closed my eyes.
“Please.”
When I opened them, the hallway was gone.
I was standing in our kitchen.
Our real kitchen.
The one in the house we lived in now.
Except the walls were a different colour.
The old barstools were back.
And there was a suitcase beside the front door.
My sister’s suitcase.
I recognized it immediately.
She’d stayed with us for a few weeks while looking for an apartment.
That had been almost three years ago.
I heard footsteps upstairs.
Then my own voice.
“Goodnight, guys. Don’t stay up too late.”
My fiancé answered from the kitchen.
“Night, babe.”
My sister was sitting at the counter.
Wearing one of my oversized T-shirts.
She waited until my footsteps disappeared.
Then looked at him.
“Are you still pretending that kiss never happened?”
He stopped wiping the counter.
I stared at her.
Oh, fuck.
It hadn’t ended at the cabin.