THE DEAD DO NOT GET WET

THE DEAD DO NOT GET WET.

Time does not heal all wounds, it merely helps in forgetting.

That is the only explanation for my shaking hands and quivering lips, for the shattered cup and spilt coffee, and the erratic beating of my heart. Of all the places I imagined, of all my twisted fantasies I never expected it to be this way.

He was just right there, right in front of me, staring at me with the same crooked smile I see when I dream. My eyes, brimming with tears, roamed down his form, rewriting and correcting everything that was faded in memory. I reached out to touch him, hoping he would still be my anchor just like back then. His hand clasped mine and he pulls me into him. 

“How?” I whispered more to myself than to him.

“Later, for now, let’s go home” his fruity voice replied chuckling, taking my hand in his as he leads us home.

He utters nothing during the journey and my eyes on him, scared that if I look away for even a moment he would not be there anymore. My mind is whirling, swirling, with theories on how he could be here. Did the government lie to cover up a secret project they used on military officers? Did he just captured by a rebel group and get tortured over the past years? I gave him a once over but I did not see any scars. Or did he get severely injured and have a local girl rescue him, tend his wounds till he fully recovered, only to realize he was in love with her and get married and have kids?

I was pulled out of my thoughts by his hand tightly squeezing mine. We were home. We were home. I continued to watch him as he stood at the entrance of our home, examining the interior. He had a smile I could not place, and a look I could decipher.

“It looks exactly like I remember, nothing has changed,” he observed, walking through the house, with me following close behind. After a while, he finally turned to focus on me. It was then I saw his eyes glistening with tears.

“I tried to move on, but I just could not bring myself to change any of it” I reply.

“I have missed you Ma, not a day went by that I did not think of you” he admitted, his voice hoarse with emotion.

It was like my body could not hold it in any longer, it was having a difficult time catching up with reality, my knees buckled as I fell to the ground. It was all too overwhelming, having him here in the house, it was as if nothing and yet everything has changed.

“I-I don’t understand, th-th-they told me you died.” I stuttered uneasily. “We had your funeral, they gave you an honourable discharge… Everyone was there, I…I still have the flag I was given, I even hung it in your room.” I said through my sobs.

“It doesn’t matter now, none of it matters. We are together now, forever”. He replies, squatting down and pulling me up with him.

“You know what?” I sniffle out as I wipe my tears, “This is a miracle, and I am going to put aside the logic of it. Let’s just celebrate!” I shout.

A brilliant idea then dawns on me.

“Let me cook you your favourite meal, I bet you’ve missed your mama’s cooking” I chuckle as I walk to the kitchen.

“It has been five years too long,” he says, laughing along, and following me.“So, fill me in on what has happened since I left.”

“Well,” I start, as I grab a pan and start cooking “After we heard that you died, your father and I tried to stay together and seek comfort in each other but it just got worse. You see, each person deals with grief. Your father shut himself up in his office and hardly ever came home. Whenever I brought you up, he would just get up and leave, or stare straight ahead like he was in another place, maybe a place where everything was different and you were still with us.”

I stopped to take a breath. Just another proof that time does a very terrible job at healing. After I take in a deep breathe I continue.

“After a few months, he turned to alcohol. He would come home drunk, sit on the couch and just keep drinking until his body gave in and he fell asleep. This continued for months, I didn’t know how to help-he had completely iced me out- he barely said any words to me. One night, while he was drunk, he went up to your room, lay down on the carpet, curled up into a ball and screamed, when the scream came to an end he would take a deep breath and scream again. Eventually exhaustion knocked him out and he fell asleep in your room. The next day when I came downstairs, his things were all packed, he told me he had to leave, that everything reminded him of you and that it hurts. He was leaving the country. It pained him to walk around and see people unaware of what you did for them. He said to me ‘I lost just so they could continue their normal lives. Nothing has changed, so I need to change’ and then he left. That was two years ago.” I give him a small smile to make him worried.

“That’s it? He just left? And you understood?”

“You don’t have to understand to forgive,” I say, as I serve him and myself. It was true. Standing here, recounting everything that had happened, everything I kept inside, it made me feel free, like I had finally let go.

I decided this was the opportune time to ask the question that’s been bugging me. “And where have been cooped up all these years.” 

His shoulders tense up and he freezes for a split second. His eyebrows furrowed, like they usually did when he was in deep thinking. After what seemed like minutes, he got up and put his plate in the sink.

“I think it would be best if I show you”

“Wait!” my voice becoming louder, “So you have been here this entire time? And you are now showing up!” I was full-on shouting now, but I could not be bothered. I felt betrayed, and he was just standing there, quiet.

“Say something!”

“Please follow me, mum. It would be best if you see it yourself” he looked at me. His eyes silently pleading with mine. I gave a little nod and motioned towards the door.

                            . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

The sound of thunder rumbled, dark clouds were forming and the wind picked up, but that seemed to be the least of my worries.

“I don’t understand, why are we here?” I turn to look at him puzzled.

We were at the cemetery, staring at his tombstone.

Dean Winters

1985 – 2015.

Beloved son, friend and hero to the nation. 

Something was not right. I didn’t know what exactly but I was scared. This was the last place I wanted to be. I wanted us both back at home. I wanted to rewind time to an hour ago, I didn’t want anything to change. I could finally breathe, I was happy again. Why couldn’t it just last?

“Mum” he whispers.

I don’t respond. I close my eyes and try to block him out. I don’t want to hear what he has to say.

“Ma” I feel his hands grab my arms. “Ma, please” he whispers. I open my eyes to search his.

“I am dead”

“That’s not possible, I can see you. I can touch you too” I try to reason with him. “You must be very tired. Come. Let’s home go. A storm is approaching.” I take his hand and pull him along.

“Mum” he calls out. 

I ignore him and continue walking. 

“Mum” he calls out again. 

“Mum!” and this time he pulls me to a halt.

“What now!” I shout. 

“You are dead too”

As if on cue, the rain starts to pour, but instead of hitting me, it goes through me. Then it dawned on me, the dead do not get wet.