Night Breeze

Whirring fan blades insulated my ears from the cacophony of cars and late-night dog walkers beneath my bedroom window. Curled up under silky sheets with a thick, fluffy duvet tucked tightly around me, I unwound the events of the day in my head and felt myself slowly drifting off.

But sleep would not come so easily that night, for, just as my mind quieted and my muscles relaxed, a strong gust of wind blew across my face and into my ear, making its way quite painfully all the way down to my eardrum.

“What the hell?” I wondered, immediately shooting upright, grabbing my ear, and trying to process what was happening.

Is there a window open? No. It’s too cold outside for me to have left a window open.

Did the heater just cycle on with a burst of air gushing from the vent? No. The heater isn’t running.

Did someone just break in through the front door?

I turned the fan off and sat very still, listening for the telltale din of a burglar rummaging and ransacking. But there was only silence. Then the sound of a car engine revving down the street followed by a dog barking in the distance.

Finally, I was cognizant enough to process what happened and let out a loud sigh – equal parts relief and outright annoyance.

“God damn it, Remy. Leave me the fuck alone!” I shouted, slamming my head back down onto the pillow and pulling the covers over my head.

You see, Remy is my ex-husband, with whom I’d had a long and arduous seven-year relationship. And people are never what they seem. I never truly knew who Remy was. Even Remy didn’t seem to know. Or maybe he knew, but just didn’t care.

On the surface, Remy was charming. Some might even call him charismatic. His friends, if pressed, would probably refer to him as honorable. That’s what they saw. Because that’s what he wanted them to see. But there were secrets, if not downright mysteries, buried deep beneath his outer core.

Remy was born into a troubled childhood. His father stood outside every evening after dinner, chain-smoking cigarettes, while his mother beat the very offspring she bore in her womb. Pots and pans were launched at children’s heads. A leg broke after a shove down a flight of stairs. All things too horrible to imagine a young child witnessing, much less experiencing.

This upbringing did not serve Remy well. What he equated with love were litanies of accusations, lies, manipulation, and rage. He cornered his prey and unleashed his frustrations, then in due course, acted as though it had never happened. And I was his prey.

Days or weeks could pass between Remy’s outbursts, but you always knew they were coming. The minute you started to relax, it was time to mentally brace yourself. You were overdue.

“What is he really so angry about?” you’d ask yourself, knowing there wasn’t, nor would there ever be, a good answer to that question. He was just angry. And you were nearby. Therefore, it was your fault. What, exactly, was your fault didn’t really matter or even always make sense. It was just your fault.

He would pace the house, back stiffened, in silence. And you’d wait. Is today going to be one of those days? Or would he take one of his long naps and maybe his brain would reset whatever it was that was grievously displeasing him this time? You’d fragilely sit there hoping it was the latter.

His oft-repeated pattern would be an outburst, followed by not speaking for up to an entire week, then pretending nothing happened and acting completely civilized, if not cheerful.

“Look, we have a den of baby foxes in the backyard!” he texted me, along with a picture of a tiny fox, after not having spoken to me in days.

I had long since learned that the most advisable behavior on my part would be to play along.

“So cute!” I responded, thinking, “I guess this battle is over for now.”

Then Remy was diagnosed with cancer. His good-guy persona raced back to the forefront, at least temporarily. He was the focal point of everyone’s attention. “Poor Remy,” they’d say, “He’s such a good guy; he doesn’t deserve that.”

But that persona quickly vanished when I dared to suggest that he go get some rest the afternoon after his first chemo treatment. “Go lie down. Let me do the dishes,” I coaxed, attempting to be compassionate and loving.

 “Stop treating me like an invalid! I can do the goddamn dishes!” he snarled, just hours after he had repeatedly appealed to me to wander the hospital on his behalf to bring him snacks and drinks.

I had lost all ability to predict what he wanted and when he wanted it. He became more volatile, erratic, and wildly unpredictable. His rage escalated. I locked myself in a room when he frightened me; he picked the lock repeatedly. I was not to seek refuge. It would not be allowed.

Divorce came in time and I no longer had to live my life on high alert. Remy, gifted in the art of deception, was still a man of honor to everyone who knew him. And, to them, I was the person who had abandoned him. But they didn’t know Remy the way I did.

Years later, to my shock and surprise, Remy succumbed to cancer. And within months of his death, while initially troubling, what followed was much less shocking than the actual news of his passing. Remy began to visit me.

I had once shared with Remy stories about my gift – the ability to connect with the spiritual world, just as my grandmother had done in her lifetime. I recalled Remy listening with an incredulous smirk on his face and knew he was never going to be a receptive audience.

But now Remy was on the other side. And he knew exactly how to contact me. He also knew I would recognize him. A bright white light in the corner of my bedroom the size and shape of a 6’ tall man. A handprint left on my bathroom mirror that no human had touched. A hard shove in the shoulder late at night. A gust of wind so strong it couldn’t come from any natural source within my home.

And while I will never know who Remy truly was, I know in my heart that his visits are just Remy expressing love the only way he knows how.