Flowers

August 7th, 2023

Answering an unknown phone number is always a risk, but I felt drawn to answer this one. And it was the worst call of my life. To date, at least. 

“Hello??” I ask. 

“Ma’am, this is Officer Thompson. Is this Ms. Ransom?”

“Yes…” I whisper. 

“We just found a car at the bottom of Eagle Mountain. The registration states that it belongs to a Ms. Ransom. The belongings found inside the car belong to a, uh, Seth Johnson. And… And I… Well, we believe him to be deceased. Is he a friend of yours?” 

“He…. he is my fiance” I force out. Feeling my heart beat increase as the seconds race forward, I feel myself begin to unravel. “What do you mean, we believe him to be deceased? He wasn’t planning to go to Eagle Mountain today. What is going on? Where is he?” I start questioning him, trying to rationalize what I have just heard. 

“Well, erm, Ms. Ransom? We haven’t found his body, but this car of yours, it’s totaled. His belongings that were recovered include: a wallet, cellphone, hiking pack, and other miscellaneous items. You should probably meet me at the station so you can collect what you–” he says. 

“OK” I say, cutting him off and panting like a thoroughbred running in the Kentucky Derby. My vision starts to blur and I don’t register that I have dropped the phone on the ground. I keep opening my mouth to speak to the officer–who is now yelling from the phone that is on the ground–but, as I watch myself fall to the ground, in one of those out of body experiences you hear people talk about, I only distantly hear the officer screaming at me, asking if I am okay–as if his brusque delivery of the news of my fiance’s accident didn’t just gut me. 

***************

September 8th, 2025

I step out into the city streets of New York City. I am a year and a half into climbing the corporate ladder at my prestigious law firm on Broad Street. I have worked my way up from an inner cubicle to a cubicle that looks out at the East River. 

Moving here after the death of my fiance, Seth, kept me busy. Working 70 hour weeks was my life line. After experiencing a tragedy, I needed something to keep myself in a rhythm so I didn’t flatline. Those first six months after his accident, I was paralyzed. I kept waiting and hoping and wishing for him to walk through the door. 

I would have these dreams, where he would dramatically burst through the door looking like a disheveled hobo. Proving he had fought tooth and nail, moved mountains and gone through hell just to get back to me. Why can’t I get the storybook ending? It wasn’t until I opened the mail on Valentines day containing his official death certificate that my soul was fully ripped in two. So I did what any sane and rational human being would do. 

I fled. 

I ran as far across the country as I could go. I packed my belongings into my Subaru Turbo and drove. I drove until I couldn’t drive anymore. And that is how I wound up in New York City. I, by the luck of all the fairy godmothers, landed the first junior associate job I interviewed for at Cromsgate and Sheraton. Now, a year and a half later, in the city that never sleeps and I only have a decent, at best, apartment to show for it. I mean, at least I am alive right?  That thought plagues my mind, almost daily. 

I make my way to my weekly happy hour with my work bestie, Jennie. She hounded me for months before I finally gave in and met her for drinks. I really don’t know why I avoided this budding friendship with her. I also don’t know how I avoided her this long. She is like English ivy, just invading areas of my life. I didn’t realize how much I missed genuine human connection. I was a walking shell of a human–just going through the motions–not actually living. The crater-sized hole of lost connection has been slowly filling up and I find myself looking forward to our weekly ritual. I am starting to feel alive again. 

I started waking up with a purpose other than to just survive. I began to find more meaning to life. It started slowly, going to work out classes. Then walking through central park, the only thing close enough to the outdoors here in the concrete jungle that I now call home. I even joined Bumble (pretending to be mildly interested in dating again). 

After progressing through the natural ebbs and flows of a night out for drinks with Jennie and I decided to excuse myself to the restroom while she takes care of our tab. Tonight, like every other night out with Jennie, was rapidly progressing into a bar hopping adventure that wouldn’t stop until after midnight. I needed to find reprieve before the night got away from me.

Walking through the dark, ever shrinking hallway to the single room water closets, I abruptly come to a halt when I slam straight into the back of a broad shouldered man. When he turns around to face his assaulter, my eyes meet all to familiar copper flecked, brown eyes. 

Seth? I almost blurt out. I feel my head start to spin and my mouth drops open in shock. 

He looks at me curiously, as though he can see I am struggling to find the right words.  “Are you OK?” He asks. 

“Oh my gosh… I am so sorry. I didn’t mean to… I don’t know how… I am so sorry,” I say. Embarrassed that I have so carelessly assaulted a complete stranger. And now I am fumbling for the right words because he is identical to my dead fiance. It’s not like it can be him–Seth. It can’t be him. I mean, when I really start to look–his hair, bone structure, height and build are all the same. So, maybe? This is crazy. Get it together… I have a death certificate. They said there was no way he could have survived the crash. They said it wasn’t uncommon for bodies to disappear into the ravine. Ya know, wildlife. 

He’s still just, looking at me, assessing my every move. “Do you know what a doppelganger is? Because you are an identical twin to someone I used to know.” I say. Feeling myself rambling because I'm so uncomfortable. “Your resemblance has me a little off balance. I am sorry, again,” I explained. 

Cocking his head to the side, like a dog trying to figure out what you’re saying,

“Well, this person you know must be a lucky guy” He asks. 

“He died. So I don’t know how lucky he is,” I replied quickly. 

“How did he die?” I hear him ask. 

“Supposedly, he drove our car off a mountain pass,” I say numbly. 

“You don’t believe he died in the crash,” he says with an appraising look. 

“I, I don’t know. The death certificate said his cause of death was undetermined. And there was no body in the wreckage. Just a mangled car. Why would he fake his own death, ya know? We were going to get married in a month. Exactly a month to the date of his crash. It’s why I am out with my friend tonight. Tomorrow is my own d-day of sorts,” I say quietly. Realizing how crazy I must sound to be questioning the death of my fiance and how uncouth it is for me to be oversharing it with this stranger in line for the restroom.

He remains silent.  Processing the information I have just overshared. Fuck, I am an idiot… no man in line for the bathroom wants to hear this, I think.

“You miss him,” he says thoughtfully. 

Looking down at the ground, as the grief floods back in, tearing down every barricade I built around my heart. “ Yes. Every single day,” I respond quietly. 

“I’m sorry,” He nods and disappears into the mens restroom without another word. 

It isn’t until I am alone in the women's restroom washing my hands that I realize how bizarre our interaction was. I am doing the standard female over-thinking thing, where I replay our entire conversation in my head… cringing at the word vomit I gave him and over analyzing things he said.

After making my way back to Jennie, I start giving her the run down of my bathroom encounter as we gulp down our last dregs of wine. Jennie is only half listening to my awkward encounter when all of the sudden she looks at me and says, “Wait… he asked how he died?” she finishes in a worried tone.

Hearing it repeated out loud to myself makes me feel crazy. “I know, you are right. It is crazy. I am going crazy,” I say. 

Jennie gives me a sympathetic look before saying, “ I was just going to say he could be a creep and that you probably dogged a bullet. I wouldn’t overthink it. Tomorrow is a tough day for you. Let’s just keep the drinks rolling and have a good night.”

Covering my face with my hands I peek between my fingers and ask, “Can we forget that happened and  go for more drinks?!” 

******

Groaning at the sound of my door buzzing, I wrench open one eye to see that it is only 9:58AM. Ughhh. I was planning to sleep this day away, I say to myself. This day, my would-have-been 1 year wedding anniversary. 

Heaving myself out of bed and allowing a moment of acclimation as the weight of last night's drinks comes crashing down on my head, I make my way to the door intercom and find a delivery guy waiting to be let up. After a minute of arguing over the fact that I don’t have any deliveries, etc. etc. I buzz him up under the pretense that he will drop the delivery at my door and leave, immediately. No one needs to see my hot mess express attire. 

When I open the door I find a small bouquet of white daisies and lavender. My favorite flowers?

A pairing no flower shop would have put together, because why would you? It is a weird combination. I like both of the flowers for different reasons and putting them together is something I started doing out of convenience…not because they looked good together. 

After staring at the flower bouquet now, proudly stationed on my kitchen table, I reach for the camouflaged card tucked inside the green stems of the daisy bouquet. My heart starts racing as I see a familiar script come into view. Bracing myself, I sit on my mediocre sized couch and stare at the card in my hand. 

It reads:       I AM SORRY. 143.

What the fuck? My mind is racing. This has to be a mistake. This isn’t a common shorthand abbreviation. These can’t be my flowers... Right!? Who else knows what 143 means?