Fifty Percent Closer to Okay

Content Warning: Grief, Loss of Loved One, Mental Health

The house was fifty percent emptier.

Fifty percent quieter.

Fifty percent less than everything it had been.

Ella locked the door behind her and dropped her keys in the little ceramic dish on the table by the door. She looked around as she stood in the foyer wondering if today was the day that she would start to feel alright again.

A moment later, she had her answer.

Nope. Not yet. Not today.

One step at a time, she told herself. It’s only been a few weeks. 

She walked farther into the house, into the silence, and opened the fridge to stare at the contents. The cool air washed over her as she looked, but did not see. Her mind was still back at the record company’s office, still hearing the words of their—of her producer—as he tried to walk a fine line between sympathetic understanding and let’s-get-down-to-business efficiency. After nearly an hour of listening to him talk, his hands clasped patiently on the desk in front of him, she had been able to whittle down the entire meeting into a couple brief sentences.

We’re sorry your wife died.

You are still under contract.

Ella shut the fridge and pressed her fingers into her skull, digging into that spot right between her eyebrows. Should she have expected something different? The label wouldn’t have had their first album without Abby’s lyrics. Shouldn’t they have cared at least a little bit? Shouldn’t she have rated more than a bouquet of tulips and a sympathy card?

Thunk went Ella’s head as she dropped it against the cool, stainless steel surface of the refrigerator.

“I can’t do it, baby,” she murmured. “I’m sorry. They’re going to have to sue me because I can’t do it without you.”

No longer able to even pretend to be hungry, Ella dragged herself to the bedroom, dropped down onto the half of the bed that had been hers for nine years, four months, and six days, and let sleep take her.

She woke suddenly, sure that she’d heard something. In the stillness of late evening, with the last of the sun’s rays dripping lazily through her window, she listened.

At first, nothing. Her own steady breathing and the thump of her heartbeat in her ears.

Then… something.

A strum.

A chord.

Music?

She’d never heard the neighbors play classical guitar before. Not that the sound was coming from as far away as a neighbor’s house. Ella could admit to herself that she could—very clearly now—hear someone playing a slow, soothing melody somewhere inside her own house. The thump of her heart in her ears became a staccato banging as she slid out of bed and followed the sound. A part of her knew before she even left the bedroom where she was going to end up. Down the hall, behind a door that had been closed for weeks—ever since Abby’s accident. Ella’s hand shook as she reached for the doorknob. She wasn’t sure she could bring herself to go in, not even now that she could tell with certainty that someone was definitely inside there, playing a tune on her guitar. She didn’t think she could bear to look at Abby’s things. Her desk. Her computer. Her “World’s Best Grandpa” mug that she used as a pen holder.

Ella’s hand twisted the knob, and she mentally pushed herself enough to push the door open. It opened, and she stepped inside, flicked on the light with her free hand out of habit. Leaning against the wall across from her, still settled snugly in its stand, was her guitar. The strings vibrated with the melody it was playing—it was playing. While Ella stared, her jaw slightly open, the strings settled and the last, trembling note tapered off into silence.

Then the strings moved again, just once. Very quickly. But instead of notes, she heard a single word.

“Hey.”

“What the fuck?” Ella breathed. Her hand hadn’t released the doorknob. She hadn’t finished crossing the threshold. And now she was stuck in place, unable to make herself move.

“Yeah, I know. It’s weird, right?” the guitar said. The strings vibrated again as it spoke, and this time Ella heard the notes quietly underscoring the words. “You wanna come in and talk? I come in peace. Promise.”

Not knowing what else to do, Ella forced her feet to move. She stepped forward, allowing her hand to fall to her side. She swallowed once. Hard.

“Abby?”

“No,” the guitar said, a note of apology in its voice. “I’m sorry. I know I sound a little like her, but that’s because she’s a part of me, too. You know who I am. She was the one who made you name me.”

“Bubbles.” 

It had been a laugh. A joke. Something she’d done for Abby because her wife had insisted all guitars needed to be named. It was right after they’d signed with the label, and Ella had bought herself a new guitar to celebrate.

“Cars, guitars, and swords,” Abby had said. “People name them. It makes them special.”

“That would make a good song title,” Ella had responded. “Cars, Guitars, and Swords.”

“Name your guitar and I’ll write it.” The cheeky smile was all Abby.

“Fine. Martin.”

“Brand names don’t count.”

“What? Martin’s a name.”

“Yeah, but it’s someone else’s name.”

The argument had continued for a bit until Ella had given in, stared at the instrument, and come up with Bubbles. Her favorite Powerpuff Girl. One of her favorite songs by Colbie Caillat… well, close enough. The song was “Bubbly.”

“Bubbles,” the guitar repeated now. “I need to tell you something.”

“Of course you do.” Since it was clear to Ella that she was not waking up from this bizarre dream anytime soon, she gestured to the guitar and added, “Go ahead.”

“Your grief is valid.”

Ella’s throat slammed shut, rendering her unable to speak as the aforementioned grief washed over her anew. It was a simple statement, and one that she had already logically come to understand. But inside her, she still felt that pressure to move on, to forget, to put one foot in front of the other. Then, suddenly, her guitar had decided to come to life and tell her it was okay to feel sad. Too tired to hold herself together, she allowed herself to cry.

Fifteen minutes later, she found herself sitting on the floor with her back against the wall and Bubbles resting in her arms. She occasionally strummed a chord the way someone might absently pet their cat if it had set up camp in their lap. Bubbles didn’t seem to mind.

“You could write about your sadness,” she—Ella had come to think of Bubbles as a she—offered. “People do that all the time, don’t they?”

“Yeah, but I don’t want to capitalize on Abby’s death.”

“Hm. So write something ridiculously happy.”

“Ha. Yeah. Also going to be a problem.” Ella let out a long sigh. “I don’t remember what it feels like to be ridiculously happy.”

But that was a lie. She did remember what ridiculously happy felt like. Images took shape in Ella’s mind. She was too emotionally raw to stop them.

Abby’s cheeky smile.

Abby saying lyrics out loud as she wrote them to test what she called the “mouthfeel” of the words.

Abby on their wedding day, outshining the sun.

Ella began to strum a tune. 

Then she hummed.

Then she mumbled some lyrics.

“Can you sing louder?” Bubbles requested. “I can’t hear you.”

“You shouldn’t be able to hear at all,” Ella replied testily. Then, feeling guilty for snapping at her guitar, she started over again.

The music washed over and through her. It was a sensation she’d forgotten, that she had allowed herself to forget in the wake of her loss. She’d never considered herself a lyricist. That had been all Abby from the very beginning. Now all she could do was hope that she came up with something that did her wife justice.

Fifty percent quieter

Fifty percent emptier

Fifty percent less everything I need it to be

You will always be the better half of me

Maybe. Maybe something there.

“I like it,” Bubbles said.

“So are you just alive now, or what?” Ella asked.

“Not alive, but aware for sure. Not forever. You need me right now.”

“How did you come to life? Or awareness?”

“I don’t know. I think there’s a spirit inside me. Not like a ghost or anything, but I think emotions can leave imprints, too. Does that make sense?”

“As much sense as anything else in my life right now.” 

Ella continued to strum and quietly sing half-baked lyrics as they came to her. She felt the weight of Bubbles’ awareness, her attention. After all the silence, the loneliness, it was nice to feel listened to.

She spent the next couple hours slowly resuscitating her love of music with her guitar’s quiet presence bolstering her every step of the way. A part of her knew what Bubbles had meant earlier when she’d said she wouldn’t be around forever. Another kind of grief welled up at the prospect of saying goodbye to this presence, this unexpected gift that had arrived just in time to drag her out of the lowest point of her life. But she knew without a doubt that Bubbles wouldn’t leave her until she was ready to hit that all-too-important stage of grieving—acceptance.

Acceptance. Maybe she didn’t have to sing about love or loss. Right now, she could just sing her truth and let that be good enough.

“This one’s for you,” she told the guitar.

“Oh, I’m excited!”

Strumming out a new tune, Ella sang quietly, allowing her emotion to pour into the words.

I’m not going to be okay today

Probably won’t be tomorrow

Next week is a big fat maybe

Next month is too far to tell

Might not be okay today

Might not be okay tomorrow

But with you

Now without you

Okay is a definite someday

It was two months, one week, and three days later when Bubbles went silent. Ella smiled sadly as her heart—still wounded, but healing—sang a solemn yet steadfast song of acceptance.