Housing, motor, blades, hub, fitter…
Housing, motor, blades, hub, fitter…
Ceiling fan parts.
Of all things, that's the mantra going through your brain.
Housing, motor, blades, hub, fitter…
Housing, motor, blades, hub, fitter…
There are more parts to a ceiling fan – you know there are, but that's all you can remember right now.
You know there are more because you and he took a broken one apart and put it back together ten years ago.
Ten years ago, when you were between jobs in the dead of summer at a hole-in-the wall motel and the AC was out and the ceiling fan was broken and you read off online tutorials about how to fix it while he tinkered and got air flowing again.
Housing, motor, blades, hub, fitter…
This is what you do.
When you're feeling lost and desperate.
This is what you do.
You find something, anything, to repeat – over and over again – so you don't have to think about the rest.
Sometimes it works.
Sometimes it doesn't.
You watch the blades go around and around as the mantra continues to vibrate through your skull.
You've been healed. Physically.
Your foot, your ribs… they feel like new.
That should be a good thing. You know it should.
But right now, as you try to wrap your mind around the fact that she's back and he's alive, you wish for that pain.
You wish for something to ground you, to make you believe that this is real.
Is it real?
Housing, motor, blades, hub, fitter…
It can't be real.
xxx
He comes by some time later.
To check up on you.
You knew he would.
[So it must be real.]
You wanted to have yourself together by then, but you can feel wetness on your cheeks.
"Hey," he says from the doorway. It's soft, but you can hear his voice echoing down the dark hall. "She go to bed?"
You nod, sit up a little and swipe at your eyes with your sleeve. "She's asleep." You'd made sure of it.
[Is she real?]
He licks his lips. "Think you can sleep?"
You huff quietly and shake your head. "You?"
He shrugs, looks down at his feet. "Long shot."
"Yeah."
"You need to talk?"
"Need to think."
[Need to believe.]
A beat.
"I'm going to stay."
xxx
He lets you breathe him in. Pulls you in close and lets you cling.
He's sitting to the right of you, but he's reached across to hold onto your left hand.
He presses his thumb into your palm.
Stone number one.
[He's real, he's real, he's real.]
xxx
He tells you what happened.
In the garden.
With Him and Her.
"That's how we got her back," he says.
The biggest blank.
But what if you lose her all over again?
[What if you lose him?]
C'mon, you know the drill.
xxx
"I feel sick," you say.
It's not out of the blue. It's been creeping up on you all along, ever since he climbed into bed, and now you feel hot under the weight of his arm.
"Okay," he says calmly. "You wanna move?"
You nod jerkily. You want [need] to quit staring at the damn ceiling fan.
xxx
When it's over and he's wiping the sweat off your brow with a cool cloth, you say, "I wasn't scared, you know."
He stops fussing, raises his eyebrows.
"Down in that basement. I wasn't scared at first." You swallow hard, tasting remnants of bile. "She wasn't letting me do right by you and I was mad. So livid that I couldn't even see straight."
He bites down on his bottom lip, is quiet as he hands you a glass of water. Makes you drink. Then he joins you on the tile floor, sits so close your thighs are touching.
Once you've swallowed you continue.
"I-I was supposed to b-be grieving but instead I was in t-that basement and I-I didn't know what t-they – she – wanted from me." You breathe deeply, can feel your heart pounding in your chest. "It was hell," you whisper meekly, and regret it instantly when he tenses beside you because it wasn't hell, it wasn't.
[Except it was worse than hell because your brother was dead.]
"You were supposed to be dead," you say brokenly, voice shot and shaking, trying to explain. "I thought you were dead and I-I can't…"
"You can," he counters, voice gentler than you've ever heard it. "You can believe. I'm right here. I'm right here."
He hugs you then; doesn't let go.
xxx
You let him hold you together.
And you try to believe.
Fin.