Parts of the Whole — Part 5: After

When I showed Steve my past Audrey was everywhere. I had all the photo albums, all the home movies, all the relics from our life together. I could smell her conditioner, taste her favorite mixed drink, hear her screaming voice at the myriad clubs in the area. She was so goddamn real to me.

There's a polaroid in the third album: the two of us outside Old Point, arms around each other, neither of us looking at the camera. I'm mid-laugh. Audrey's got this look she always had when she thought she'd said something brilliant — chin up, one eyebrow raised, completely sure of herself. She'd been sure of me long before I was. That's the thing about Audrey. She always got there first.

Scrapbook after scrapbook passed under our noses. Crappy digicam movies played over youtube. Yet every image, every movie, every perfect Audrey smile drew a blank in Steve's eyes. "Whoever she was," he said to me, "she was a beautiful lady. Real fag hag, y'know?"

My face fell.

Steve hugged me tight. "But those are the best kind."

Hope, they remembered. The pictures ran in the papers. The revival spread like a shockwave, a new ministry of rainbows and foxtails. Even my mother, bent out of shape as she should have been, kept calling to ask what I saw, who she was, and when Steve was going to come over for lunch. "I'd like to get used to him," she said, and I laughed politely in return.

I hugged Steve close and snapped a picture with my camera. It was a cheap shot, sure, but Mom just wanted a look at his face. It'd do for the wedding, I told myself. "She got us together," I said. Steve cuddled close. "Remember? The bar? She pulled you over to the table to chat. Invited you over. Everything."

He looked into the distance for a moment. "Nope. Nothing. Drawing a blank."

As if she never existed, I thought to myself. That's some spiritual bullshit.

I wanted to explain. I tried — with the albums, with the movies, with all of it. But it was like showing someone a key and being told the door didn't exist. Everyone who'd been at the revival remembered Hope: the light, the fox, the wind through the tent. Nobody remembered the girl who'd dragged me out of my own apartment to walk in the sun on Mass Ave. Nobody remembered the one who'd ordered me nachos and put them on my tab. The papers ran her picture and called her a miracle. I kept the photo albums and called her my best friend and didn't know what to do with the difference.

"Look," he said to me. Suddenly he was pushing away, standing in my kitchen in little more than his boxers, hands extended. "I'm sorry about all this. Let me make it up to you; ever go to the riverboat?"

"No," I said. My fingers traced over handwritten notes. She'd left them everywhere — tucked into books, folded under coffee mugs, stuck to the fridge with a frog magnet she'd picked up at some gas station in Ohio. "I support you," this one read, and then her signature in big looping letters, and then below that, underlined twice: Always.

I stood there with it for a while.

"It's a little geriatric, but I tell you what: drinks are cheap and the slots play loose. Let's get lost for a night, kay? My treat."

"I couldn't—"

"Nonsense. My parents have a little cabin out that way – we could stay there after we're gambled out. It's no big deal. Come on! Your mom just came around. We have to celebrate!"

"Celebrate." I nodded. Audrey'd have it no other way. "Okay."

"That's my boy!" He ran over and gave me a little peck on the lips. "Now come on. Throw together a quick bag. We're heading out right now."

We packed, and we played, and we giggled, and we hugged. When he said "I love being with you" I let it wash over me like spring rain; it felt so good to be dating, let alone with such a cute guy. My hand reached for my wrist out of habit but there was nothing there.

There would never be anything there again.

With our bags packed Steve made a break for the door. I followed as quick as I could, but my eyes caught a glint by the sink as I turned out the lights. Usually I'd have passed it up for a splash of water, or some spot of food, but I approached it, slowly, carefully.

A small trinket – nothing special. But I didn't keep trinkets. It sparkled with sterling silver-sheen: two fox-tails, wrapped in a braid, like a long, trailing waterfall. Cute, I thought to myself, and I picked it up.

I heard her voice, felt her hands, smelled her perfume. My hand felt as if it had been plugged into a socket.

"Always with the last laugh," I said to the room. Steve was long gone. The lights were off. Yet from the kitchen table I heard Audrey giggling that stupid-gay-boy giggle she loved to hold over my head. And hell, this time I even laughed alongside her for a few moments, I put the trinket around my neck.

Steve honked the horn and the voice went quiet as I ran to him.