I Was Dead – Chapter 2 – The Ring

The first thing I noticed was the chandelier.

Which was strange, because I was fairly certain I’d just cracked my skull open in a supermarket parking lot.

But there it was.

My mother’s ridiculous crystal chandelier.

The one she’d bought at an estate sale and spent the next ten years referring to as an antique, despite my father’s repeated attempts to explain that being secondhand didn’t automatically make something historically significant.

I was standing in my parents’ dining room.

There was music playing in the background. Someone was laughing in the kitchen. The table was set for six, with the good plates my mother only brought out when she wanted people to appreciate how much effort she’d made.

And I was warm.

No snow.

No ice.

No broken eggs.

I looked down.

Same jeans. Same sweater. Same boots.

No blood that I could see.

I touched the back of my head.

Nothing.

“Okay,” I said.

My voice sounded perfectly normal.

“Interesting.”

I looked toward the kitchen.

“Mom?”

No answer.

“Mom, if this is some kind of elaborate concussion treatment, I have questions.”

A burst of laughter came from the dining room.

I turned.

And saw myself.

Sitting at the table.

Wearing a dark green dress, with my hair curled and my left hand stretched out for everyone to admire.

There was a diamond ring on my finger.

A very familiar diamond ring.

Oh.

Oh, I knew this night.

Three years ago.

The night we’d announced our engagement.

I looked from the woman sitting at the table to my own hands.

Then back again.

“Well, that’s disturbing.”

I walked closer.

There was my mother, holding my hand and examining the ring for approximately the hundredth time.

My father was pouring champagne.

My fiancé was sitting beside me, smiling like a man who’d just won something.

And my younger sister was leaning forward across the table.

“Let me see it again.”

The other me laughed.

“You’ve seen it.”

“Not properly.”

“It’s still the same ring.”

“Just give me your hand.”

I remembered that conversation.

I remembered the dress.

The champagne.

The way my mother cried when we told her.

What I didn’t remember was standing in the corner watching the whole thing happen.

Because that would have been difficult to forget.

I stepped toward my father.

“Dad?”

He walked straight past me.

Not around me.

Through the space where I was standing.

I jumped backward.

“Jesus Christ!”

Nobody reacted.

My father placed the champagne bottle on the table.

“Right. Before your mother starts organizing the wedding without consulting either of you, I want to make a toast.”

“Too late,” I said.

Nobody heard me.

He raised his glass.

“To my daughter and her future husband. May you have a long, happy life together.”

My mother wiped her eyes.

My fiancé reached for my hand.

And the younger version of me said, “Can we add financially comfortable? I feel like that’s important.”

Everyone laughed.

My father shook his head.

“You’re impossible.”

“Yet here we are. Someone’s marrying me.”

My fiancé leaned over and kissed my cheek.

“Best decision I’ve ever made.”

I remembered that too.

And for a moment, I forgot how strange everything was.

I just watched him.

Three years younger. Same smile. Same little crease beside his left eye when he laughed.

He looked so happy.

So did I.

I was practically glowing.

It was embarrassing.

I had no idea I’d ever looked that pleased with myself.

Although, to be fair, the ring was gorgeous.

He’d proposed the evening before.

At home.

Which had surprised me, because he’d spent the previous two weeks acting suspiciously.

Not bad suspiciously.

Just weird.

He kept taking phone calls in another room.

He’d asked what I was doing on Saturday three separate times.

And he’d suddenly become interested in whether I preferred yellow gold or white gold.

I told him I preferred money in my savings account.

He hadn’t found that particularly helpful.

That Saturday, he’d made dinner reservations at an expensive restaurant.

I’d assumed we were celebrating something.

Possibly the fact that he’d finally fixed the bathroom door.

Instead, he spent the entire meal looking nervous.

Which was hilarious.

This was a man who could negotiate contracts worth millions without blinking.

But apparently asking me a question over dessert was going to kill him.

“Are you okay?” I’d asked.

“Fine.”

“You’ve adjusted your watch six times.”

“Have I?”

“Seven now.”

He’d laughed.

Then looked at his watch again.

I put down my fork.

“Are you about to tell me you’ve lost all your money?”

“What?”

“Because if that’s the case, I’d prefer to know before I order another glass of wine.”

He laughed so loudly that the couple at the next table looked over.

“No. I haven’t lost my money.”

“Good. Then stop looking like you’re being audited.”

He reached across the table and took my hand.

And suddenly he wasn’t laughing anymore.

“I’ve been trying to figure out how to do this for weeks.”

“Do what?”

“Ask you something.”

“That sounds unnecessarily complicated.”

He smiled.

“I know you don’t like big romantic gestures.”

“Depends. Does it involve a helicopter?”

“No.”

“Good. I hate helicopters.”

“I know.”

He rubbed his thumb over my knuckles.

Then he said my name.

Very quietly.

And I knew.

Before he even reached into his jacket.

I knew.

For once in my life, I had absolutely nothing clever to say.

He took out the ring.

Asked me to marry him.

And I said yes before he finished the question.

Which he reminded me of for the next three years.

Apparently I was supposed to let him complete the speech he’d spent weeks preparing.

I told him to write it down and send it to me.

Back in my parents’ dining room, my mother was already discussing wedding venues.

“There’s a beautiful place just outside the city,” she said. “I went to a wedding there last summer.”

“Mom,” the younger me said, “we’ve been engaged for twenty-four hours.”

“And?”

“And I haven’t even decided whether I want to wear shoes.”

“You’ll wear shoes.”

“See? Already making decisions without me.”

My fiancé laughed.

He’d draped one arm across the back of my chair. Every so often, his fingers brushed my shoulder.

My father asked about work.

They started talking about a new contract.

I stopped listening.

Not because the conversation was boring.

Well.

It was a little boring.

But something about the room was bothering me.

Everything was exactly as I remembered it.

The old curtains.

The little scratch on the dining table.

My mother’s blue serving dish.

Even the flowers in the centre of the table.

I’d bought those flowers.

I remembered stopping at a florist on the way over because my mother had complained that nobody brought her flowers anymore.

My father had pointed out that he’d brought her flowers the previous week.

She’d said those didn’t count because he’d bought them at a gas station.

I walked over to the window.

Outside, the driveway was covered in snow.

My car was parked beside my father’s.

The same car I’d owned three years ago.

I turned back toward the table.

“This is a dream,” I said.

It had to be.

I’d hit my head.

Maybe I was unconscious.

Maybe this was what happened when your brain decided it had nothing better to do than replay family dinners.

Fine.

There were worse memories.

At least nobody was making me relive high school.

My sister laughed.

I looked over.

She was sitting across from my fiancé, holding her champagne glass.

She’d come home from university a few months earlier.

Twenty-four, single, and still trying to decide what she wanted to do with her life.

My mother had been encouraging her to find a proper job.

My sister had been encouraging my mother to stop asking.

Neither was making much progress.

“So,” my sister said, “does this mean I finally get a rich brother-in-law?”

My father sighed.

“Can we please not discuss money?”

“What? I’m being practical.”

The younger me pointed at her with my fork.

“Get your own rich man. This one’s taken.”

My fiancé laughed.

“Apparently I’m a limited resource.”

“Extremely limited,” I told him. “Terrible resale value.”

My sister smiled at him.

“Well, congratulations. Seriously.”

“Thank you.”

She lifted her glass.

“You two are perfect together.”

My fiancé raised his glass toward her.

Then turned to me.

“She puts up with a lot.”

I narrowed my eyes.

“Careful.”

He kissed my temple.

“Wouldn’t change a thing.”

My mother made a noise that sounded suspiciously like another incoming crying episode.

“You’re going to make me emotional again.”

“Mom, you’ve been emotional since we got here.”

“I’m allowed.”

My sister reached for the champagne bottle.

“Anybody want more?”

My fiancé held out his glass.

“Just a little.”

She poured.

Then asked him something about his work.

I didn’t catch the question.

I was still trying to understand why I was here.

Why this particular evening?

Why not the proposal itself?

Why not something recent?

Why not the last time I’d seen my fiancé?

I tried touching the dining table.

My hand met solid wood.

I picked up a napkin.

It moved.

I dropped it.

Nobody noticed.

“Okay. So I can touch things, but apparently I don’t exist. Excellent. Very clear rules.”

I tried the doorway.

Walked into the hallway.

Looked at the family photographs on the wall.

There was one of my sister and me as children, standing beside a Christmas tree.

She was missing her front teeth.

I was wearing a dress I’d absolutely hated.

I remembered refusing to smile for that photograph.

My mother had bribed me with chocolate.

Some things never changed.

I turned back toward the dining room.

My fiancé was standing now.

He’d gone to the kitchen for something.

My sister was following him with two empty glasses.

“Need help?” she asked.

“Sure.”

They disappeared around the corner.

I stayed where I was.

There was no reason to follow them.

Why would there be?

My mother called after my sister to bring another bottle.

I heard the fridge open.

A little laughter.

Then my fiancé came back carrying the champagne.

My sister followed with the glasses.

Nothing unusual.

Nothing worth remembering.

I looked at the clock.

Eight forty-seven.

I knew what happened next.

In a few minutes, my father would suggest opening the good whisky.

My mother would object.

He’d open it anyway.

And I’d tell everyone that if they kept celebrating, I’d need to take tomorrow off work.

I smiled.

I remembered this part.

My father stood up.

“Anyone interested in something stronger?”

“There it is,” I murmured.

My mother gave him a look.

“Really?”

He shrugged.

“It’s a celebration.”

I laughed.

I couldn’t help it.

Everything was happening exactly the way it had happened three years ago.

Then my fiancé reached into his pocket.

His phone lit up.

He glanced at the screen.

Put it away.

And leaned over to whisper something in my ear.

The younger me laughed.

I tried to remember what he’d said.

I couldn’t.

Which was annoying.

If my brain was going to replay my memories, the least it could do was provide subtitles.

I stepped closer.

And the room changed.

Not gradually.

One moment, I was standing beside my parents’ dining table.

The next, the chandelier disappeared.

The music stopped.

The warm light vanished.

And I was somewhere else.

A large living room.

Wooden walls.

A stone fireplace.

Snow piled against the windows.

I knew this place.

We’d rented it for a weekend with friends a few months after getting engaged.

A beautiful cabin in the mountains.

Two nights.

Too much wine.

Not enough sleep.

I remembered that weekend.

I remembered laughing until my stomach hurt.

I remembered burning breakfast.

I remembered my fiancé carrying me upstairs because I’d fallen asleep on the couch.

I looked toward the fireplace.

There he was.

Sitting with a drink in his hand.

My sister was on the other side of the room.

And the younger me was standing at the bottom of the stairs, yawning.

“Okay, I’m done,” she announced. “If anybody needs me, I’ll be unconscious for the next ten hours.”

Someone laughed.

My fiancé stood up.

“Want me to come with you?”

“No. Stay. Have fun.”

He walked over and kissed her.

“Love you.”

“Love you too. Don’t burn the place down.”

She went upstairs.

I watched her disappear.

Then looked back at the room.

The conversation continued.

Someone turned up the music.

My fiancé sat down again.

I frowned.

Because I remembered going to bed that night.

I remembered waking up the next morning.

But I had absolutely no memory of what happened in between.

Obviously.

I’d been asleep.

So why was I still here?

And why wasn’t the memory ending?