Don't Question It

 Parking his burgundy clunker of a Civic against a log serving as a parking stop, Nate Mathews stepped outside to the sound of the breeze brushing through the park's pine trees; their needles not yet succumbing to autumn, it looked like the trees waved to greet him. He zipped up his windbreaker and fought to feel anything but melancholy today. For Gala's sake, Nate promised to come here. He just wished she could, too.

Gala's passing, her death, came on suddenly. Thank God, nothing violent, but a swift and terrible end nonetheless - a rare heart condition that the doctors couldn't treat in time. It felt like no one else mattered in the stale hospital when so many people swarmed her deathbed, all saying their goodbyes. For Nate, though, curiously, Gala feebly pulled at his sleeve to whisper in his ear, telling him he should take a stroll through the park where they launched all of those colorful air balloons and Chinese lanterns months ago for some festival or other. She told him to go a week after her funeral. And so, Nate came, and he kicked at the gravel. He kicked again and again and again until he began to stomp at the log. 

Grieving, Nate recalled how Gala tapped against the car window and asked Nate if they could detour to whatever the air balloon festival rattled in his head. He scolded her then, laughing that she had asked him to drive her to the city for her first big-time interview. 

Disappointed, Gala slumped in her seat and pouted for effect. She ended up nailing the interview. A month later, she died. 

Panting and now wincing in pain from his sore foot, Nate limped toward the open field where he googled the air balloons to have taken off from. He found himself alone, save for a few other cars - perhaps hikers and masochists who jogged the trails - and trudged up the dirt path ladened with roots poking out of the ground. He expected nothing to await him in the clearing, but he swore he heard music and laughing as he got closer. Deepening his scowl, Nate paused to listen. 

Yes, a joyous occasion livened the park with song and merry company. Nate soured and made to turn around but froze in place.

"Heya, Nate-Ma'Mate! Glad you could make it," Gala waved from a few feet downhill. 

Nate trembled, his hands moving on their own to reach out to the woman who looked identical to his best friend, to the only person who ever called him that horrible nickname. The woman sported the same choppy chestnut hair, head bobbing from side to side as she strutted about without a care in the world, her skin the same honey-sun-kissed complexion, but her smile threw Nate for a loop the most. The pearl whites shined and showed off the chipped incisor Gala earned after her third time throwing hands at roller derby tryouts. 

Gala - the imposter - skipped up the hill and tugged at Nate, "C'mon, slowpoke!" Like the roots in the ground, his feet didn't budge until she pulled. She was always stronger than she looked. God, it looked like her. She sounded like her, too, when her clear sing-song voice continued, "Are you okay, Nate?" She wiped away a few of his tears.

Nate nodded but couldn't say anything past the lump in his throat. Past the words left unsaid between them in life. He didn't at all register how Gala smiled sweetly past his sorrow. At that moment, all he cared about was locking his grip with hers so she would never leave again.

They entered the clearing, and Nate found a huge pole tent with a hundred-plus people dancing and waving at him and Gala to join them. Distantly, he thought of sirens and how they lured sailors to their deaths, but when Gala looked back to check on him, her flash of a warm smile melted any care for himself.

Finding his voice, Nate asked, "Who are they?"

Gala responded in a chipper matter of fact, "Friends, of course!"

The people dressed strangely as if they all came from separate conventions of different centuries - from groovy neon attires and fringed suede tassels to victory curls of the 1940s and skirt dresses meant for swing to the ungodly dresses they made women of nobility wear in ye olden days that needed metal frames to keep their shape. Every one of them, though, welcomed, rejoiced, and occasionally hurrahed at Gala's arrival. She smiled and waved, like a Queen making an appearance; only Gala took the time to say hello to each one of them, knowing their names. Nate squinted at curiously familiar facial features: an impeccable jawline here and there, nearly everyone had the same small nose and the same sheen in Gala's hair.

Gala never let go of Nate's hand. Nate loved her for that all the more.

They got in line for food - Nate presumed for food at first, given the smell and sizzle of barbecue - and Gala began swiveling her head as if looking for something in the party's crowd. Nate asked, "Is everything all right?"

Gala shrugged and replied shyly, "I don't know anyone here."

Nate shrank to half his size and whispered, "I thought you knew these people?"

Sheepishly, Gala smiled, "For some reason, I did, and I think I did believe I knew them, but now, no. I guess they're friends we just haven't met yet! Oh good, I'm starving!" 

Nate looked to grab a plate but found nothing set on the tables but polaroids strewn about haphazardly on the lime green - Gala's favorite color - linen. Instead of food, everyone took a photo from the table and then shouted and pointed with glee as if remembering the moment the memory was captured. But Nate knew better; he recognized all of these photos. They depicted many memorable moments in Gala's life. Some he knew were actual photos taken, others he felt almost certain were never photographed. 

Gala hopped and grabbed at one, "Oh, Nate! Look! Halloween; 2004! We were so cute!" She eagerly showed Nate the year they jointly dressed in Ghostbuster's attire - his glasses at the time nearly identical to Egon Spengler's, and with half a vacuum cleaner and a painted cardboard box, he didn't look too bad; Gala insisted on going as Slimer and stuffed herself inside a fluffed-filled trashbag she painted green and then - against her mother's warnings - poured slime over herself. 

Nate couldn't help but smile at Gala's toothy grin in the photo. He remarked, "Fashion icons, the both of us."

Gala laughed and quipped, "The industry wasn't ready for us." She feigned a hand to her forehead and spun, "Alas, for it just wasn't our time."

"So, where's the food?" Nate asked.

Cocking her head to the side, Gala chuckled, "What food?"

"I thought you said you were hungry!" Nate waved his hands to the table, but the tables disappeared. In their place, flowers of hundreds of different hues bloomed: tulips, hydrangeas, roses, tiger lilies, orchids, sunflowers, poppies, and - Gala's favorite - peonies teamed with life and fragranced the air about them with sweet nectar. Nate did a double-take when he noticed Gala's peony flower crown, and her outfit changed to a punk red leather jacket over a flowing green dress with the bottoms muddy from brushing against her sneakers. 

Gala spun in a circle and asked, "What do you think of me?"

Choking back his sobs, Nate thought that this was Gala. The quintessential, the epitome of who she is. Was. But he found the words and said, "You look terrific; I love it."

Curtseying for effect, Gala replied, "Thank you, Nate. Now, c'mon! Let's dance!" She pulled at his hand, which she never seemed to let go, and they bounced onto the dancefloor. 

Discounting Gala's presence, the next hour of dancing elated and worried Nate. As his body grooved to the music without a DJ or a band, he felt a separation between his thoughts and his person. Fully aware of colors blurring together into abstract shapes and shades and voices fading into a distorted, sweet melody, Nate suspected he was high. No euphoria this good could come from anything natural. And despite the warning bells of this to-good-to-be-true fantasy, he didn't care. So long as Gala smiled, he didn't care. 

Gala sang, tone-deaf, despite the lack of lyrics to a song that seemed to ring within the confines of Nate's mind. If he thought about it hard enough, he would notice that everyone at the party danced to nothing. But the realization would pass as soon as Gala changed her dance style, with the music following suit. 

They danced until twilight dawned. Gala then slowed her movements and offered her hand to Nate, "Stick around for a slower one?" When he eagerly took her hand, it seemed that the rest of the world dimmed when she placed his hands on her hips and rested her arms on his shoulders, gently embracing him. They swayed to jazz, or what Nate interpreted as jazz, upon hearing the rhythmic melodies of babbling brooks, crickets chirping, and the wind carrying bird calls.

Gala stole his attention, "Weird way to listen to music, huh? Yeah, I hear it, too, or at least I think it's technically hearing something. But it's more than hearing your own voice in your head; it's like there's a separate track to your brain playing it. Both not in your control but still entirely yours."

Nodding, Nate couldn't explain it either, "I can't explain any of what's happened today." And then his voice began to fail him, "What is happening, Gala? How are you here? Are you alive? Please tell me I was imagining you..."

"Dying?" Gala's lips nonchalantly pouted.

"Please tell me you're back," Nate pleaded.

"Heh, well, I don't think I ever really left." It sounded more like a question to herself. "I remember, well, I sometimes recall bits of my life and everyone else's here. Before I saw you walking up the hill, I was in a bed asking you to come here." She laughed, "And frankly? I don't remember why."

Nate shook his head, failing to keep up, "I don't understand. You sent me here without knowing what would happen?" He also failed to notice the party began to thin in numbers. People began to disappear into the growing mists surrounding their tent. 

"Sorry, but yeah. Well, I didn't know what would happen, but I knew that I wanted you here."

"But Gala, how are you here? With me!" Nate cried. "We buried you, Gala; God, we buried your body!" Gala's expression softened in pain, and she rested her forehead against his.

"I can't make heads or tails of it either, but when I closed my eyes for the last time and woke up for the first time here, I was happy. I knew I wanted to spend the day with you. Having fun. Is that okay?" Gala's nervousness crushed Nate. Of course, it was okay; he just needed to know if he was getting her back.

"I would trade anything for another hour to be with you, Gala."

Only a few people remained with them in the tent now, but Nate stayed oblivious to their growing isolation.

Gala sighed and smiled weakly, "Thank you, Nate. I know this isn't normal, but when was our relationship ever?" When Nate didn't comment, she nudged with a mischievous grin, "Y'know, I think we're past deathbed confessions."

Nate snorted, "That is not funny."

"Oh c'mon, that joke kills, ba-dum-tss!" Gala poked her tongue at Nate. "But seriously, something tells me that if we wanted to talk, now's the time."

Nate said immediately, "I miss you."

"I miss you too." Gala pawed at Nate's hair.

"All right, ladies first."

Taking a deep breath of the brisk night air, Gala said, "I wanted to thank you for everything but for a couple of specific things: for supporting me when I came out to my parents - you helped make the banners and got the sparklers and... Thank you for letting me stay with you when they couldn't accept me." She took a breath and wiped away a few shed tears on Nate's sleeve that he offered. "But I wanted to thank you for never making it hard, for being the best man in the world, for loving me and never making me feel guilty for not loving you the same way."

There it was. It took Gala's death for them to acknowledge it, but Nate's one regret in life reopened like a scar unraveling its tissue and renewing the pain. Raw and aching.

"You felt guilty all the same," Nate stated. 

"I did, and I feel silly about it both ways - I do love you, God, I love you. Honestly? I think I would have married you if you asked me, and I know that's a horrible thing to say after the fact. But I know that our relationship, how we treated each other, wouldn't have changed - kissing you would feel-"

"Like kissing your childhood best friend."

"Yeah, like that. It would've been a weird marriage, going out on dates but never holding hands, never making love to one another—just two people who enjoyed being in the presence of the other." Gala looked around and frowned, "Phooey, I didn't say goodbye to anyone. I'll have to apologize later when I see them again." Nate spun his head and found that they were indeed alone. The wind willing the mist to whisp about their feet now; Nate felt his toes burn, freezing in his shoes.

"You have to go now, don't you?" Nate asked.

Gala's carefree smile in the cold night prickled Nate's skin, "Can't say if that's the right question to ask, Nate-Ma'Mate, 'cause I'm not going anywhere. Not really, anyway." She tapped her finger against his chest. "I think I know why I asked you to come here today."

"Yeah, why's that?"

Taking both of Nate's hands in hers, Gala tugged at him to lean down so that she could kiss his forehead. She said, "I wasn't the only one who was quite ready to move on; we needed one more goodbye to do it. Shh, shh, it's okay, Nate. Where I'm going, I'll be fine."

His lips quivering and his voice tiny and shrill, Nate asked, "Where are you going? Can I come with you?"

"I'm going to be at peace."

"To rest. And no, not yet, at least. I'm adding some things to your bucket list, mister." Gala held up three fingers, "One: You are going to march right into the boss of your boss's office and demand that you get his job; she'll realize you're the more qualified and capable one. Two: Sign up for therapy, please. Or talk to someone, anyone! Maybe even the woman with a streak of blue hair and Star Wars tattoo that gives you extra whipped cream at Roaster's. It's okay not to be okay. But I want you to be happy. And three-" 

Gala closed the distance between them and hugged Nate, squeezing the breath out of him but filling him with bliss, life, warmth, and comfort. Her embrace felt like watching a Christmas tree twinkling and blossoming with spring flowers, listening to a hearth crackle and autumn rain gently fall on a tin roof. 

Gala whispered into Nate's ear, "Plant a garden for me? Tend to it, but let it run rampant. Have it upset the neighbors with bees, butterflies, and hummingbirds; let it teem with life. And whenever you're feeling blue, look out at it and let it heal you." Nate, sobbing uncontrollably now, could only nod. He would do it, all of it. "Thank you, Nate. Goodbye."