Disclaimer: That '70s Show copyright The Carsey-Werner Company, LLC and Twentieth Century Fox Home Entertainment, LLC. The fictional band Degenerate Matter, their albums Vagabondage, Ultrarelativistic, WIMPs and MACHOs, Frozen Stars, and all the lyrics contained therein copyright to the author of this story (username: MistyMountainHop, maker of Those '70s Comics).

CHAPTER 35
TANGIBLE APPARITIONS

January 8, 1995

Rochester Hills, Michigan

The Cherry Blossom Inn

…

Hyde waited for Jackie in the lobby of the Cherry Blossom Inn. He was sitting in a wingback chair, with his winter coat slung behind himself. The place was decorated in a French country style, and he knew this because Sherry Chambers wasn't only Degenerate Matter's bassist. She was the band's resident interior design junkie.

He had no idea whether his room upstairs was similarly decorated. He'd checked in twenty minutes earlier, dropped off his crap without looking around, and come back downstairs. The front desk called Jackie to let her know he was here. They'd planned to meet at three. But if her preparation time was at all like when they'd dated, he'd be waiting a while.

She'd arrived in Rochester Hills, Michigan yesterday. He offered to stay elsewhere, but she'd insisted that staying at the same inn was fine. Her trust in him seemed to be growing, but it could also be fleeting. He hadn't learned yet how she processed changes. They might be screwed in permanently, like a bridge to the body of a guitar, or break like guitar strings and have to be replaced regularly.

If her process was the latter, they'd have a problem.

He pulled a piece of gum from his jeans pocket. He'd smoked more over New Year's than he'd anticipated or wanted. Sharing uninterrupted time with Ro tended to erode his self-control. Unlike him, she wasn't cutting back. Her half of their deal, to reduce her nicotine intake, wouldn't start until he fulfilled his half: another year of privacy, of being engaged in secret to most everyone they cared about.

Not that he minded privacy. The inn's concierge treated him like any other guest, and the other guests ignored him. The only person who recognized him was Jackie. She was climbing down the lobby stairs, just a few minutes after she'd been called. Her thick winter coat shushed with ever step. A thermal knit hat covered her hair, and a smile brightened her face when he gave her a little wave.

He stood and shoved his still-wrapped gum into his back pocket. The move made his winter coat slip off the chair. He picked it up from the floor, and Jackie was in front of him.

"Hi, Steven," she said, as if his presence had warmed the frigid air outside. She reached for the fingertips of his right hand. They peeked from the folds of his coat, but he freed his right arm so his whole hand was available to her.

She grabbed hold without hesitation. It wasn't quite a handshake. More like a hand-squeeze that lasted only a second, but it was enough. The change between them hadn't broken.

"Hey." He tried not to grin like a little kid who'd won a prize at the carnival. "You have a good New Year's?"

"If ringing in the new year with your mom at a charity event is good, then sure."

"Any part of the night not suck?"

"I spoke to Betsy for a few minutes, but congratulations!"

"On what?

"'On what,'" she repeated, as if it were obvious, but she lowered her voice. "On the GRAMMY nominations."

His stomach fluttered. The nominations had been announced a few days ago, on Thursday. He and Ro had been in Grimentz then, a village in Valais, Switzerland. No TV. No American newspapers. He'd hopped on a plane to the U.S., to Michigan, and had no time to catch up on the news.

"You didn't know?" Jackie said, likely reacting to the expression on his face. "How—never mind. Do you want me to fill you in?"

He rubbed his jaw. If the GRAMMYs mattered to him at all, it was negatively. Awards that ascribed one song more value than another struck him as wrong. But on the business side, he needed to be prepared. The press would come calling if Degenerate Matter had been significantly nominated.

"Give me the bad news," he said.

"Bad? Steven, Degenerate Matter was nominated for—" she appeared to do the calculations in her head— "six GRAMMYs."

His stomach went from fluttering to quaking. "Six?"

"I stuck the article on my fridge, so don't judge me for remembering all of this. 'Cranial Deformity' is nominated for Best Hard Rock Performance. 'End State' is up for Best Female Rock Performance Vocal. 'Singularity' is up for Best Rock Performance by—" she peered up at the lobby's ceiling, as if the article were written on it—"a Duo or a Group. 'Massless Particles' got nominated for Best Rock Song, and WIMPs and MACHOs is up for Best Rock Album."

"Shit." He ran through the songs in his mind. He'd written or co-written the lyrics on all of them. Lee must've been in the throes of a week-long hate-marathon, smashing guitars, griping at Ro, at his sister—who was also the band's manager. When "Point of No Return" had been nominated two years ago, Lee punched a hole through a wall. He couldn't understand why the only song nominated off Ultrarelativistic had to be co-written by Hyde. He thought it was a corporate plot.

"You're not happy?" Jackie said.

"I'm … neutral."

"If that's neutral, then I'm scared to tell you the song nominated for Best Male Rock Performance."

Hyde's stomach threatened to shake apart. "Don't freakin' say it—"

"'Spark'. You're up against Bruce Springsteen and Neil Young." Her eyes widened slightly as her awe became apparent. "Steven, that's incredible."

Incredible was the right word. He couldn't believe it. He'd been the one to submit the band's music to the Recording Academy. Angie had helped him be strategic about it, advising which category each single should go, but "Spark" hadn't been on that list. Someone else had submitted that one. Angie, maybe, at Ro's behest.

Ro. She had to have learned the news by now, called his room. Left messages that would draw him out of Rochester Hills, if not in body then in mind.

"Do me a favor," he said and pulled on his coat, "for today, let's pretend it didn't happen."

"The nominations?"

"I don't want this crap taking anything away from you, all right?" He meant taking himself away and looked at the front door of the inn, but he wouldn't tell her that. "Or from what this day means for you."

"I can't see how it would," she said, "but okay."

"How'd Betsy sound on New Year's Eve?" he said, offering a change of subject. He fastened his coat over his sweater, concentrated on the buttons. "When did you call her?"

"Around six or seven. She sounded mostly fine. A little uncomfortable, but Michael was there—"

"That's what I thought, too." He removed his gloves from his coat pocket, and Jackie did the same from her shoulder bag. "She was cagey with me, like she didn't want to talk. But I called her a few days later, and it wasn't different."

"That does seem strange—and unlike her. Did you talk to Brooke?"

"Yeah. She said the kid's been havin' more attitude than usual. More defensive. Maybe telling her about my engagement's got her all wound up."

Jackie put on her gloves. "I spent a few days with her before Christmas, and she was all giggly about it. She showed me that picture you gave her..." A faint laugh peppered her speech. "She kissed it before returning it to her safe, so I doubt the engagement's the issue."

"So what the hell is it?"

"Maybe she has a boyfriend or girlfriend, and she's afraid to tell you. She is fifteen. That's the age I started dating."

"If it were up to me, she wouldn't start dating 'til she was thirty." He led the way to the inn's front door. Betsy's bisexuality was a fact she wasn't shy about, at least to the people she trusted. "Gonna make a visit to Chicago real soon. See what's up."

He grabbed the doorknob, and Jackie's gloved fingers landed on his wool-covered wrist, light as a butterfly. They departed just as quickly, but the moment sank past his bones. A significant shift was occurring inside her, whether or not she realized it.

"Don't act like Mr. Forman," she said. "Or, worse, Donna's dad. You don't want her thinking she's 'dirty' because she's hooking up."

"Hooking up. Freakin' new slang's got the word hooking in it."

He opened the door, and he and Jackie were shoved backward by a wall of wind. She yelped, but he wasn't deterred. He got in front of her, shielding her body, and moved forward. The resistance was bewildering, and when the wind died down, he stumbled forward a few steps.

"That's ridiculous!" she shouted behind him.

"You're tellin' me. This weather's—" his breath caught at the cold air— "fucked up." He flipped his coat's hood over his head. Fifteen degrees wasn't fit for living in, yet he'd always lived in towns that had cold winters. "How far away is the cemetery?"

"A three-minute walk," she said, "but that's not what I meant." She caught up to him, and her coat sleeve brushed against his. "Have you become a prude?"

"Just protective." He'd expected her to keep more space between them as they walked. She was either pushing herself or thought he expected closeness from her. "You okay with this?" He gestured in front of their bodies. "Road's wide. I can walk by the trees."

"It's fine." She looked left then right before speaking again, but they were alone. No one else was insane enough to brave this weather. "I want to tell you how my dad died, before we get to his grave."

He scanned their surroundings himself, making double-sure they were alone. She didn't share such information easily. One stray voice, one distracted glance from a stranger could clam her up. But the neighborhood houses were obscured by an army of leafless trees. Few cars drove down Orion Road, and even the pale blue sky had no clouds.

"How'd he die?" he said.

"A blood clot. It was in a coronary artery."

"Heart attack."

"Yes. I used to live around here with him." She waved to a random house, probably a representative. "For four years, I lived with him. And for four years, he kept his health issues to himself. But we got … we had similar coping mechanisms." She patted her stomach over her coat. "We both ate. He was never thin, but he became obese. And—and one afternoon we were sitting together on the sofa. I left him for two minutes, Steven. Two. I had to use the bathroom—"

The stone walls of the cemetery had become visible, but they were still a minute's walk away. A fresh blast of wind lengthened that time, forced him and Jackie to move slower.

"He was on the floor when I came back," she said once the wind weakened. "I know CPR. I tried. I tried..."

The cemetery gates were in view. Sunlight gleamed off their metal, and she stopped walking. "I called 911, but he was already gone." Her voice was tight, but she wasn't crying. "The worst was waking the next morning, opening my eyes and staring at my room … into the nothing. The one person I needed most was the one I couldn't have."

Her eyes were glassy, as if she were staring into that void again. "I went to the living room. Sat on the floor in the exact spot where he died. And I couldn't cry. It was stuck." She pounded her chest. "It was stuck."

"But not anymore?" he said, aching to wrap his arms around her, but they were a long way from that level of trust. A touch at the wrong time could cause more harm than good.

"Not anymore," she said and started for the cemetery gates. She wasn't walking but skipping. Her whole demeanor had shifted, from heavy to light. "Your music, Steven."

He took big strides to keep pace with her. "My music?"

"It's helped me more than any pill ever has."

They reached the front of the cemetery. Its name was written in a wrought-iron arch above the gates: St. Stephen's Episcopal Church and Cemetery.

"St. Stephen's?" he said.

"Interesting coincidence, right? It used to make me mad whenever I visited, but—"

"Not anymore.

"Not anymore." She pulled a folded piece of paper from her coat pocket. It was a map of the cemetery's plots. "He's buried with other members of my family, in section R."

She grasped his hand while they went through the cemetery gates. She led him from one burial plot to another, not letting go, but a trembling kind of anguish twisted through his body. In his nightmares, she was a crumbling corpse. A bodiless wisp floating over tombstones.

His muscles tensed, in anticipation of her disappearance, but she was still alive. She was still with him.

"You okay, Steven?"

In the past he would've offered a deflecting excuse, like the cold had stiffened him up. But he owed her better than that. He owed her the truth. "Just glad you're here."

"In a cemetery?"

"No—here." He squeezed her hand.

"Oh." She said nothing else, but he caught the doubt in her eyes before she looked away.

Dad was buried next to his parents, Jackie's grandparents. His gravestone was inscribed with his name, the years of his life, and an epitaph Jackie had chosen. A simple marker for a complex life.

The trees lining the cemetery walls were skeletal enough for burial themselves. Pile up enough bones though, and air had trouble getting through. So it was with the wind. Trees, as bare as they were, protected her and Steven and the pages of her books from the gusts. She'd brought Dickens's A Tale of Two Cities, Malory's Le Morte d'Arthur, and Saint-Exupéry's The Little Prince.

Steven remained quiet as she removed the first two books from her shoulder bag. At The Little Prince, however, he pointed to the pale blue sky and said, "Your dad's back on his star."

She raised The Little Prince closer to his eye level. "You've read this?"

"To Betsy, when she was little. Some things stick with ya."

"They really do."

Dad had read the book to her. She'd read it on her own many times since, and she smiled now while reading it aloud, even as her voice broke and tears rimmed her eyes. Dad would appreciate the words more than flowers. She hadn't brought a bouquet.

"The gamble is worth it," Steven said in response to what she'd read. "Got to let in the good, or all you've got is loss."

"That's what I've been learning, but it's tough." She tugged on the lapel of his coat, and her affectionate move didn't harden his face. So far, he hadn't rejected her little touches. Attempting them was frightening, but living without that connection frightened her more. His own touch reflected the nature of his soul. It was gentle and meant no harm. After years of forced contact and deprivation, her body yearned for what he offered.

She crouched to her dad's gravestone. "I'm almost done."

"Take as much time as you need," Steven said. "I'm honored you're lettin' me share this with you."

"I'm honored you want to."

Her fingers swept over the gravestone's epitaph: Loving and Beloved Father. In the end, that was his proudest accomplishment. Not the businesses he'd founded or the court cases he'd won. She was his greatest gift to the world, he'd said after Dale Fischer almost destroyed her, when she'd considered finishing the job herself.

"I love you," she whispered to his grave. The ground was a cold mess of patchy grass, and her teeth began to chatter. "And I m-miss you, and I wish you were here. I'm sorry I couldn't get Mom to show up. I d-did my best, but you know how she is.

"At the New Year's Eve party, sh-she tried to hook me up with another man. Like her first arranged marriage for me worked out so well." She ran her finger down the curved bridge of her nose. The pain of her ex-husband's punch had faded, but the memory never would. "Anyway, I d-didn't let her, and most of l-last year we were fighting. A lot. B-badly. But lately, we've been okay. Either she's st-starting to respect me, or—" she peered up at Steven— "she's after something."

Steven rubbed his gloved hand over his mouth, like wanted to speak, but he stayed silent.

"But this d-day isn't about me." She cupped the corner of the gravestone, as she would her dad's shoulder. "It's about you, Dad. Or maybe about us. I brought this with me." She plucked a folded-up drawing from her coat. She flattened the paper out, and drawn on it were a castle, a king, and his little princess. She and Dad had drawn it together when she was six.

Above the castle was a night sky full of swirly yellow stars. "You t-told me each of us has our own light in the sky." she said. "I'm going to try to f-find yours tonight."

She folded the drawing back up. Then she recounted the story of how he'd taught her the constellations, how they'd lie down in the grass behind their house, and star-by-star the galaxy would reveal itself.

"Damn it." Her nose was running, and her eyes were wet. She could've easily blamed the cold, but... "I wanted to celebrate you," she said, crying. "And now all I can do is mourn you."

"Jackie," Steven said above her, "the two go together for the dead."

She stood up on shaky legs. "You think so?"

"Yeah, man. It's normal." His hair whipped around as the wind broke through the trees. Strands lashed his cheeks and forehead, but he didn't put on his hood. "Edna crawled out of the woodwork in the early '80s. Can't say I was miserable seeing her—until I learned what she wanted."

"Your dad's money?" Jackie grabbed a pack of tissues from her bag and blew her nose. She must've resembled a swamp hag, but she wasn't with the Blonde Brigade. Steven wouldn't judge her for having red and puffy eyes. He never had.

"Bingo," he said. "What she was willing to do to get it caused me a whole lot of grief. Considered her dead ever since."

"Is she actually...?"

"No clue. Haven't looked her up. Don't plan on it."

She stepped closer to him, shivering. Always shivering. Living in California gave her an excuse, but she carried the chill inside her. "I'm sorry she hurt you."

"Got a song or two out of what she did," he said. "Hope she's never heard 'em, but today's not about that. Sorry for bringing you there—"

"Don't apologize." She slid her arms around his back and shut her eyes against the terror pounding in her chest. He could pry her off him, shove her away, but a light pressure landed on her back. It was him, his hands, and he drew her closer.

She shook against him. Her emotions were more than her body could contain, but his cheek slid against her temple. His hands remained a steady, stabilizing force on her back, and he gave no signs of needing to be released.

Holding Jackie wasn't like coming home. Hyde had demolished his home long ago, pulverized it with his fists and set fire to the debris.

Having Jackie in his arms was a privilege. Like traveling to a country where he'd never been and having a profound, life-altering experience. Not because of any particular moment or encounter. It came from deep inside the land itself. Indescribable but no less felt.

Every minor move she made reached him through the thickness of their coats. Her hands were knotted tightly at his back. She rose on her tiptoes then lowered again. Her body started to shiver less. The warmth between them might've been the cause, or she was numbing out.

"You still with me?" he said.

"Yes. Why did you ask me that?"

"Just making sure."

"No, how did you know to ask me that? To phrase it that way?"

"I had a habit of disappearing during intense emotional situations … as you might remember."

Her grip on him loosened. Her palms glided along his coat sleeves as she backed off, and she grasped his wrists. "I remember."

"Sometimes I still disappear."

"I haven't experienced that with you." She pushed his gloved hands together in a muffled clap. "Then again, I also haven't experienced you in an intense emotional situation."

"If you're thinking what just happened means less to me than it does you, you're wrong."

"It wasn't just a hug to you?"

"Not even close." He tried to keep her gaze, to communicate with his eyes some of what he felt, but she glanced at the surrounding tombstones.

"Will I be able to do it again sometime?" she said.

"Hug me at a cemetery?"

"Anywhere." Her gaze roamed the patchy ground and paused at his feet. "There are times I really need it, to be held. There hasn't been anyone I've..."

"Whenever you want," he said, and she finally looked at him. Her eyes showed the same doubt as earlier. "I'm not bullshitting you, Jackie. Not gonna push you off, and I'm not expecting payment in blood, all right?"

He offered her his hand, as a physical confirmation of his statement. She reached toward it but stopped short of grabbing hold. "What did you mean before, that you're glad I'm here?"

A pack of cigarettes was stashed in his coat pocket. He imagined lighting up, but this cemetery had enough bones. It didn't need his.

"You're fighting to be corporeal, to stay corporeal." He spoke fast. The edge of time was scraping over her life, poisoned by the past and sharpened by possible futures. "You're not buried in the ground. Your pulse is fuckin' strong, whether you realize it or not."

"I don't get you—" she jabbed her thumb at her dads tombstone— "or him. He used to say similar things to me, and—"

A bitter gale of wind forced her and Hyde apart. He put his back into the blast and hunched over, but she shouted over the roar of air: "I don't understand why you care so much!"

"Quit tryin' to understand it!" He didn't intend to yell, but the wind and his fear had infected his voice. He angled his head to get her in his vision and yanked his hood over his head. "You exist. You're you! That's enough."

"You still don't know me that well, Steven!" The wind was dying down, but she continued to shout. "And once you've helped make my corporeality—or whatever the hell you called it—permanent, then what? I'll get a stray post card from you? Hear about you through Donna or MTV?"

He dug his fingers into his hair, pushing off his hood. Anger was coiling in his muscles, but not at her. She'd been stranded by him before and by others who were supposed to love her. She had no reason to trust it wouldn't happen again.

"Look," he said and unbuttoned his coat. He pulled it off before she could protest, pulled off his sweater, too. The cold air seeped through his T-shirt, froze his blood, but she had to see. He extended his left arm toward her. "Look, Jackie."

She fought the remaining wind gusts to get closer to him, and her gloved hand cupped his wrist. "My bracelet. You're wearing it."

"You're opening back up to joy, man. Takin' risks. W-won't lie and say I'm not trying to help y-you do that." He grunted and stamped the ground. "Fuck, it's freezing! Can b-barely talk, but I'm gonna want to hang out w-with you no matter what, long as it's—it's what you want."

Her glove was warm on his icy skin. It slid over the underside of forearm, over the long scar that was still too bright and pink. "What happened? Wait—" She snatched the sweater from the gravestone he'd draped it on and put it over his head. "Before you die of hypothermia."

He managed to get on his sweater but had trouble buttoning his coat. She took over for him and brought his hood over his head. Then, to his surprise, she eased herself into his arms. "For warmth," she said.

He held her, shivering the way she had during their first embrace. "Didn't give m-myself what you have trouble g-givin' yourself."

"You're being obscure."

"P-purposely."

She rubbed his back with both hands, at a speed that generated heat. "I had a roommate in college who used to self-mutilate. Some of her scars looked like that—"

"Didn't c-cut myself," he said, but Jackie had just revealed a part of her history without him. He didn't know where it belonged in the tapestry of her life, so he filed it away. "I let myself b-be cut."

"By who?"

He considered telling her, but his relationship with Ro was complex and defied explanation. A person had to be inside it to understand. "It's n-not happening again. That's all you need to know."

"Why did you let it happen at all?" She hugged him tighter. "My roommate was severely depressed. I tried to help, brought her to the college counselor, but she ended up in the hospital. I visited, but she had to take a break from school. The pressure had had gotten to her."

"I was disappearing," he said quietly. "The cut was s-someone's attempt at bringing me back."

"There have to be better ways."

"Not arguing."

Her cheek pressed into his hood-covered ear. "Don't let it happen again."

He struggled to tamp down his shivering. "Got no plans."

"Don't let me push you away, either."

He laughed as relief broke him open. She'd recognized her own behavior, was self-aware. That part of her hadn't been carved out. He tightened his grip around her and said, "Got no plans."