I'm Still Here By Jack Forbes

I’m Still Here

The first thing Emily noticed was the dead branches lain across his front yard. Cut down, the leaves stripped, racked in a stack. She opened the gate and walked up the driveway, passing the debris. Most of the leaves were frayed in shades of wasted greens and browns.
     The flyscreen door opened. Emily looked up. Horace, her one-time lover of more than 30 years ago, emerged in a worn gold dressing gown.
       Emily, he called, raising a hand.
    She smiled. She clutched her handbag, then her eyes fell to the driveway. Oil stains. Cracks. Pricks of weed spouting through the pavement.  
      Under the carport, Horace embraced Emily. She smelt stale nicotine. Dust. They retracted and he clasped her shoulders and beamed. My God, he said. It’s been forever.
       Yes, she said, lightly. Yes, it has.
       You haven’t aged a day, said Horace.
       She glanced in his eyes, these two tiny blue things behind glasses, dug into broad hollow sockets.
       He brought her into him again, he smelling more of old furniture than of a man.

Inside, the house was dim. It was hard to look at him. Tall and gaunt and fragile. As he showed her into the kitchen she saw splotches of varying sizes and colours dotted over the bottom of his gown. He dragged his slipper-feet over the floorboards. Wisps of his combover stood upright, catching what little light there was in the kitchen.
     Please, he said, removing a newspaper from the kitchen table. Take a seat.
     Thanks, said Emily. She drew out the chair and slung her handbag over the backrest and smoothed the front of her skirt and sat.
     A kettle was boiling on the kitchen bench. Two mugs beside the kettle. A small jar of milk beside them. Horace was leaning against the bench, smiling at her. When the kettle clicked he turned and poured the water into the mugs and Emily watched the plume of steam funnel up over his face. It didn’t seem to bother him.
     He tipped a little milk into his mug. Two spiderlike fingers pinching the jar’s handle. He then brought the mugs over and sat.
     Thank you, said Emily, as Horace’s frail hand gently slid the mug over to her.
     The tea was Earl Grey, strong, like a perfume.
     I remembered it was your favourite, said Horace.
     Emily smiled, lifted the mug and blew on it. She looked around the kitchen. Although the window blinds were open there was a darkness about the room. As if in all its long years the place had never gotten enough light.
     It’s a lovely house, said Emily.
    Yeah, said Horace, surveying the walls, the ceiling. He leaned forward in his chair. I’d always meant to have you and Jim over, but we never got around to that, did we?
     Before Emily answered, Horace said:
     How is Jim, by the way?
     He’s good.
     Still together, I hope?
     Emily nodded. Then her phone buzzed from inside the handbag. She took out the phone and when she swiped the screen open her face was momentarily blue. Horace watched.
     Sorry, she said, glancing up at Horace. She texted something, then laid the phone on the table.
     They were silent. Horace smiling warmly at Emily. The drone of a clock tick. Muffled bird chirpings.
     The phone buzzed again. Horace’s eyes darted to it. As Emily went to pick up the phone Horace said: I’m not keeping you, am I?
    Emily left the phone alone. No, it’s just – I don’t mean to be blunt, Horace, but when you called yesterday, you said it was about something urgent?
     Horace laid his palms flat on the table and closed his eyes. As if ready to recite prayer. When he opened his eyes, they seemed further inward his head.
     Jeanie died last week.
     Oh… Horace. I’m so sorry.
     He’d retracted his hands. They disappeared into his lap.
     Thanks, he said. It was expected, but…
     I don’t know what to say. It must be hard. I’m so sorry.  
     Horace lifted his mug, tested the rim with his bottom lip. He left the rim on his lip for some time. When Emily tested the mug on her lip, the rim was scalding. It hurt, but she set the cup down in a seamless motion, hiding the pain.
      Then Horace said: It just got me thinking, you know. About family and friends.
      Of course.
      And how when we get to our age you think about the people who have left you.
   Emily was aware of her body. Any movement she would make was somehow inappropriate. Wires of tension pricked within her shoulders.
     I just thought it would be nice to see a familiar face.
     Emily smiled, weakly, with him. She was going to say that familiar wasn’t the right word, but stopped herself. Then she said: How are, um, John and…?
     Diane.
     Sorry, Diane. How are they?
     They’re okay. They’re taking care of Jeanie’s stuff now. They said, Dad, you sit back and relax. We’ll take care of this.
     That’s good.
     They’re good kids. Well, adults now. With their own kids. But we still see them as kids, don’t we?
     Emily nodded. You’ve got grandkids?
     Yes, five altogether.
     Lovely.
     They’re going to miss their nan, though.
     Emily nodded again, gravely. Eyes down in the black of her tea. Without realising, she’d taken a large breath, then exhaled quietly. Now, she was more relaxed.
     In fact, said Horace, you should see this.
     Horace stood and lead Emily into the living room. He switched on a light. The room was packed up and near empty. Clear squares and rectangles where photos and paintings had been in places over the mustardcoloured walls. Boxes, some taped up, others half-full on top of a rugless floorboard. An armchair askew in the corner. The wide, shadeless window that let in the stark overcast of outside. Towards the back of the living room, in front of an empty mantel, was a teddy bear atop a baby’s highchair. Over the bear’s mouth was an X of duct tape. Tied around its body was a bungee cord, strung tightly across a number of times so that the bear’s fur was tense, spouting over the cord.
     This is hilarious, said Horace.
     Emily didn’t say anything. She looked at the bear’s lolled head, its black-button eyes.
     That’s Willy, said Horace. And he’s my hostage.
Horace laughed – dead echo in the living room.
    Diane’s daughter left it here the other night when they slept over. Diane rings me when she gets home, says, Oh Maddie won’t stop crying, she’s lost her teddy! So, I said I’d have a look for him. Found him under the bed and thought, I’ll have some fun with this. Thought I’ll tie Willy up, send a photo to Diane saying, I’ve got him held hostage, Maddie! You’ll never see him again.
     Horace kept laughing. Emily stared at the hostage bear, her mouth open ajar.
     Horace’s laughter slowed, and then eventually he was silent. Emily said: I hope she wasn’t too frightened.
     Oh, no. They loved it… I loved it. They’ll be here to pick him up tomorrow.
     From the kitchen, Emily heard her phone ring.
     Sorry, she said, and left the room to answer it.
    Horace folded his arms, staring at the bear. His face slowly lost the warm smile, then moulded to a deep frown. He then looked at the greyness outside the window. Slowly, soft rain began to fall.

    In the kitchen Emily was nodding quickly, the phone pressed to her ear. Horace glared at the tight scrunch of red earlobe under her thumb.
     Yep, sure, said Emily. No, that file was supposed to be deleted… the case finished last week. Yep… Right. No, thank you, Karen.
     And then Emily looked at Horace.
     Look I have to go, Karen… Yeah, sorry. Enjoy your weekend. Bye.
     Emily lifted her bag from the back of the chair and propped it on the table.
     Sorry, just work stuff.
     Can’t get away from it, huh?
     Emily shrugged.
     I thought you’d have retired by now.
     Planning to. Next year, hopefully.
     I never worked too hard, said Horace. Not really.
     They were silent again. While Emily pretended to adjust things in her bag she looked at the levelled circles of dried tea within Horace’s mug.
    Horace had moved from the doorway, closer to Emily now. She heard his old, faded breaths. She took a step back from him, slung the handbag strap over her shoulder.
     Would you like another cup? asked Horace.
     No, thanks. I should really be heading off.
    He nodded, glumly. Then he shivered. He touched things – the back of the chair, the table corner, a piece of his robe, massaged two fingers against his thumb.
     Horace, said Emily. Is everything okay?
     Horace pulled out the chair and sat. He said: Can you please stay a little longer?
     Emily’s phone buzzed again. She set the handbag back on the table and got the phone out and turned it off and put the phone back in the bag and drew out a chair beside Horace and sat.
     He reached out and touched her arm. His fingers gripped her shirt, the blunt nails scrunching up the material. His bottom lip quivered. Flared nostrils of a deep and languid breath. Slight whimper.
     Emily leaned in closer. How did she die, Horace?
     We were in the bedroom. She was drugged up, in and out of sleep. I was lying beside her, reading the paper. It was so quiet. Then she just blurted out: Horace, what’s it like outside? She’d lost her sight by this stage. I looked at her eyes. They were all grey and rolling about. I looked outside the window and it was just about to rain. All grey. Just like her eyes. Then I said: It’s golden. The sun’s falling warmly through the trees, and the garden’s full and healthy. I looked over at her, she had this smile. Weak, but… a smile nonetheless. And she said: Horace, can you take me outside, in the sun?
     I helped her into the wheelchair and rolled her outside, just out in the front garden, where all those dead leaves are now. Everything was still. It was a little chilly. I could see misty rain in the distance, over the top of the houses. She said: I can hear the street and the cars going onto the freeway. And the wind. I can feel it. I said to her: We’re in the sun, now, and she said she could feel that, too. Then she was asleep again.
     That night I slept beside her, which I rarely did towards the end. But something told me I should. When I woke up in the morning, she was gone. She was very cold, so it must have been somewhere in the night, long before I woke. God, she was cold. But her face was soft. Relaxed. I kissed her on the forehead and… That was it.
     The clock ticked heavily. Drumlike. Emily shifted in the chair, scratched a leg on the floor. Horace sniffed, rubbed his nose with the edge of his finger. Then he took off his glasses.
     At least you were there, said Emily.
     Horace sighed. Then he said: I didn’t have any thoughts. Everything was a blur. I paced around a bit, and then, for some reason, you came to mind and I felt safe. I knew I had to see you, Em.
     I’m touched you thought of me.
     I still think of you. Of us, together.
Horace, that was such a long time ago.
     But it’s time I can’t forget.
     I understand you’re grieving, Horace, but you can’t dwell on us. It was a fling a lifetime ago. We’ve moved on.
     But I’d think on it, day-to-day. Whether I was with Jeanie or not. Wondering if I’d been more of a man, I could have made a life with you.
     I didn’t want that.
     You didn’t?
     No.
     Why?
     We had a fling for a month, but that was all. I was building a life back then.
     You didn’t consider us being together?
     Emily shook her head. We had fun, really good fun. You were a charming man. But you weren’t part of anything long term.
     I can’t believe you felt that way.
     Emily looked Horace in the eyes and said: That’s what you said, too. That’s what you said at the start. Nothing of this is for the long term.
     Horace stared forward, a still, blank look. He rested his elbows on the table.
     I don’t recall that, he said, in near whisper.
     I do, said Emily. Very clearly.
     But if it did happen, I wish I hadn’t said it. I wish I’d said the opposite. Because if I did, you’d still be here.
     Horace –
     You’d still be here, and I wouldn’t be alone.
     Emily went to stand, composing what to say next, but she was cut off by the shrieking sounds of tires on the road outside that halted with a thunderous crashing sound of metal.
     Emily jumped a little, a hand over chest. Horace remained still, glaring forward at nothing.
     What was that? said Emily.
     I’m still here, said Horace.
     A woman screamed, and something large collapsed.
     Emily started for the door and opened it and peered down Horace’s driveway.
     Opposite Horace’s front lawn was a car with its front totalled into a streetlight. The streetlight had collapsed onto the slab of pavement which was cracked inward. A woman was knelt by the front door of the car. She wiped a shower of glass and blood from her face.
     Oh my God, said Emily. She went back into the kitchen, where Horace remained still.
     There’s been a horrible accident. Pass me my phone, quick.
     Horace didn’t move. I’m still here, he said.
     Emily took her phone from the table and turned it on. She paced behind Horace, waiting for the phone to boot up. Horace, she said, we have to help.
     Emily grabbed her handbag, sidled out of the kitchen, out the front door, down the driveway. Horace listened to her heels clack on the pavement in-between the wailing wauls of a woman, cars stopping, doors opening and closing, a siren hurling all around the open air.
     Then he stood and lumbered to the doorway and leaned against it. He pulled the flyscreen door in and locked it. He looked at Emily’s figure through the mesh of flyscreen. A strange distortion of a person meeting the random wrath of carnage. He said: I’m still here.
     He then swung the front door shut, and deadlocked it.    

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Bio: Jack Forbes is an Australian writer based in Melbourne. His short fiction has appeared in the Australian-based international journal, Tincture, and the University of Queensland's literary journal, LiNQ. ​