Chapter 2: The Words Wouldn't Come
How long could he stand before he admitted defeat and carried himself back to the emptiness of his apartment to what was slowly becoming the emptiness of his life? When did commitment to the dead become fear of the living, when did loneliness no longer stand as testament to a life long love now gone and become fear, a fear of moving on, a fear of forgetting what was. Claire was not coming back, Claire would understand, Claire is not hurt by your loving again, no matter how many times he said these words to himself, no matter how many times these words rang in his head, reverberating along the insides of a thick skull, Mac still refused to fully hear. He heard the idea of it, he even understood the logic of it, and yet he stood frozen to this spot where all his hopes had tumbled down, where everything he ever had swallowed a final breath. It was just that, everything he ever had, it was something long gone, now he had something else, something beautiful that his stagnation was breaking down and destroying. He was sabotaging his new love, relegating himself to the ranks of those who walked through life not living it but going through the motions until death called their name, he was again becoming a space filler. In the days, after the search had ended he often thought he was a ghost a figment of someone else's imagination he walked the walk of the dead and almost expected to find himself amid the wreckage and rubble. Where was he going? Where had he been? What did he want?
He wanted life, he wanted to keep breathing the sweet intoxicating air of tender love that Lindsay brought to his everyday. Lindsay told him he could have it, his for the taking, with the simple demand that he love her, that he hear her, that he see her, and he did, with a quiet zeal, with a cool passion. Mac turned to walk away to try again tomorrow, he told himself he would keep trying until he succeeded, but he knew Lindsay wouldn't wait as long as he was willing to take. As he turned towards home, you could see the faintest outline of a woman with her hands outstretched and a cloudy tear perched at the corner of her eyes as her mouth moved, but Mac couldn't hear her because when his back was turned there was nothing there.
Lindsay stood in Mac's kitchen with salty trails streaking the rosy unblemished skin of her cheeks while her mouth drew in silent gulps of air and her hands wrapped themselves around her still flat middle. She didn't here the door open or sense Mac standing behind her, she was absorbed by her growing apprehension, her developing grief, and he silently joined her and let her have and own this moment.